Walt caught up to the snowmobile. Inspected it. Righted it. Dug it out of a snowbank and used its engine to help lift it back to the track. He climbed on.
Called out on his radio so Brandon could hear. “I’m on the snowmobile. Please copy: I’m riding the snowmobile into the compound.” He waited for the acknowledgment.
Waited some more.
“ Brandon? Copy?… Brandon?”
No reply.
“Alpha,” Walt called out over the airwaves.
“Alpha,” came a male voice he identified as Andy Cargill.
“Give me five minutes. If I haven’t checked in, contact Beta and Delta and begin your advance on the compound.”
The team leader acknowledged.
Now all that stood between Walt and the compound were a few hundred yards of snow.
64
BRANDON PICKED UP A WHITE GLOW OF A HEAT SIGNATURE in his goggles and ducked behind a tree. Human, not elk or deer. Close: fifty yards or less. The shape was coming straight for him, moving with a surprising quickness given the deep snow.
Brandon quietly slipped the M4 assault rifle in front of him. He set the trigger to fire in three-round bursts and touched his chest subconsciously to remind himself the vest was in place. His heart sped out of control, and, while he was hungry for a firefight, he was also terrified.
“Aker!” a male voice cried out from across the field.
Brandon couldn’t believe the man had called out.
“I’ve got the wrong end of a thirty-aught-six aimed at that tree you’re hiding behind.”
The sheriff’s voice interrupted, and Brandon yanked out the earpiece.
“I know you’re there, and you know you’re there, so why don’t you come out and show yourself? I’d really rather not shoot you, but I will if I have to. We’ve got food and water, and the cabin’s warm. I know you’re there and I know what you want. So what do you say?”
Mark Aker had escaped. It was the only explanation. The information so surprised Brandon that he gasped, then tried to process what the hell was going on.
“I’m not showing myself until you do, Aker. And if you don’t come out from back there right now, then I’m going to have to make you, and I’d rather not do that.”
Brandon considered his options: for the moment, he retained the element of surprise; the longer he dragged this out, the worse his position. But was the man wearing night vision goggles? If so, he’d spot Brandon ’s weapon and start firing. Was he too wearing a vest? How good a shot was he? How powerful was the flashlight he must be carrying?
He tried to lose the snowshoes, but he was strapped into them and they weren’t coming off. He’d have to bend over to unstrap them and that would mean exposing himself beyond the protection of the tree, unless…
He turned his back to the tree to lessen his profile. He quickly swatted and loosened the straps of both snowshoes and stepped out. He had to make himself shorter by sinking into the snow-he had six inches on Mark Aker. He slipped the M4 around his back so that only its strap would show. With his feet on firm ground, he had a practiced move, a perfected move-a sudden twist-that could throw the rifle around his body and into his grip. But in snow, and with bulky clothing in the way, he wasn’t sure he could pull it off. He stuffed the gloves into his pockets, wearing only thin liners.
His hands were shaking, either from the cold or from nerves. He had to regain control; adrenaline had gotten the better of him.
“Aker, don’t be stupid,” called out the voice.
Closer.
The man had moved nearer. Twenty, thirty yards away, Brandon guessed.
Then, well beyond the man, the distant whine of a snowmobile. It took a second or two to determine it was drawing closer.
“Water,” Brandon croaked at the man. He was ready now. He had only to step out into the clear and yet every aspect of his training forbade him from doing so.
“I told you,” the voice answered. “We got water and food. Warmth. A woodstove. Hot coffee. All you got to do is show yourself. Come on.”
Knowing he might get popped, Brandon took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the tree.
65
WALT STEERED THE SNOWMOBILE TO FOLLOW THE EXISTING track, passing a pair of trees where the trip wire had been taken down and pulled to the side. An extension of the same perimeter warning system that Brandon claimed to have tripped.
Passing this point, he crossed into the enemy camp, driving one-handed. His other hand held the M4, hidden behind the snowmobile’s front panel.
He slowed. The track curved to the right and rose to meet what was likely a dirt road in the summer. This road showed much more travel than the track he’d just been on, reminding him how outnumbered he likely was. Bracing the weapon at his side, barrel out and ready, he slowed even more as he caught sight of a cabin in his headlight. Behind it, two, possibly more, outbuildings.
Smoke rose from a stovepipe in the roof. Three windows-two in front, one on the side-bled a pale yellow light. He’d so prepared himself for a conflict that he nearly fired on what turned out to be nothing more than a shadow cast by his own headlight.
He stopped and shut off the snowmobile and spun a full circle as he climbed off, fully expecting to see a muzzle flash. He shook off his nerves as he realized that the snowmobile’s return must have been expected. It was the only explanation he could come up with to explain the lack of a reception. He darted off into shadow, the only light the pale wash from the cabin. He crept closer, the night vision goggles raised onto his forehead, eyes flickering in every direction.
He single-clicked his radio com.
His earpiece sounded with three distinct clicks, silence, then four clicks. Walt tried again: a single click.
Silence, followed by three and then four clicks. Two clicks was Brandon -still not reporting. Three and four were Alpha and Beta.
Brandon was AWOL, injured, captured, or dead.
He ducked low and crept forward in a long, strong shadow cast by a wall of the cabin. He reached near enough to see a window shade was not just pulled down but sealed-with Velcro?-to the sill and jamb. It was a patch job, and a small amount of light escaped the effort, accounting for the dim yellow glow.
He forced himself to breathe. He didn’t want to attempt taking the cabin without Brandon, without some backup. But Brandon ’s silence necessitated action. With his back to the cabin-possibly only a matter of inches away from Mark Aker-Walt slipped quietly toward the front, wondering what would come next.
66
ROY COATS ATTEMPTED TO SORT OUT THE EVENTS OF THE past few minutes, his mind racing. He had little to go on beyond a single gunshot and, minutes later, the tripping of the perimeter wire.
Had he checked with Gearbox after hearing that gunshot? He couldn’t remember. His brain had just about lost its wheels, the pain too great. He squinted and tried to recall what had happened.
He remembered speaking with Newbs about the perimeter wire. And just now the snowmobile-that would be Gearbox-had returned to camp.
There was a loud, uninterrupted ticking going on in his head. The top of his mouth itched. He had to relieve himself.
Had he talked to Gearbox or not?
He picked up the walkie-talkie and called out for his man. Waited. No answer came.
Why such a long time between the return of the snowmobile and Gearbox knocking on the door?
“Gearbox?” Coats shouted loudly enough for his voice to carry through the walls. “Get your ass in here and explain-”