Walt wanted the straightest approach possible. He consulted a handheld aviation GPS, premarked with the lat-long identified by Crabtree. He had one shot at the snowfield a half mile behind the compound. It would be an ugly landing at best. If he missed the field entirely, there would be no second chances. It was all trees and mountains past that one field-a jewel of flat in a narrow valley situated between the tall spines of two ranges. He hadn’t told Brandon any of this, only that they were using the glider to approach silently. Eighteen deputized men were by now waiting on the far side of two different passes, some of whom had begun to advance on foot; the rest would follow by snowmobile on Walt’s command.
The logistics of the strike were as complex as they were dangerous. A week of preparation would have been preferable to a matter of hours.
“I think I’m going to barf,” Brandon said from the seat behind.
“There’s a bag in the seat pocket. Just remember to remove the oxygen mask.” Walt smiled. Some things were worth the wait.
His radio crackled and a male voice called out his tail numbers. Walt confirmed. The man introduced himself as “a friend from the east,” reminding Walt that they were on an open radio frequency that could be monitored by pilots and ground stations alike.
FBI, Walt thought.
“We have confirmed heat signatures,” the voice said.
Walt processed the information: the FBI had tasked a satellite capable of infrared and had obtained a heat signature from the compound. It was active, not shuttered for the winter. People were down there.
“Three bogies,” the voice said.
Good odds, Walt thought.
“Roger that,” Walt said. “Thanks.”
“Was that what I think it was?” a distraught Brandon inquired.
“We’re going in,” Walt said. He eased the joystick forward and the nose of the glider tilted almost imperceptibly. He had one chance at a landing.
In the dark.
In the mountains.
“When I say, ‘Brace for impact,’” Walt schooled, “lean forward and clutch your chest to your thighs. Don’t attempt to look out or sit up until we’ve come to a complete stop. It’s going to be a hard landing.”
“Why does that not sound promising?” Brandon interrupted himself with another spout of vomiting.
“We’re going in,” Walt said.
59
THE ANNOYING AND ALL-TOO- FAMILIAR SOUND OF A SNOWMOBILE roused Mark Aker from a deep and unintended sleep. Even as he drew himself from his slumber, he could tell the vehicle was moving toward him, not away. His back was to the hibernating bear. The cave no longer smelled bad to him, which informed him he’d been there a long time and had slept much longer than he’d intended.
The bear had wedged itself into the cave’s extreme recess, with little space between the rock, root, and caked mud that it was backed up against. Mark lay in front of the bear, facing the mouth of the cave. His watch face had lost its luminescence. He had no idea what time it was but was guessing evening. He was hungry and thirsty and had to relieve himself, but didn’t dare move for fear of disturbing the bear. The experience of cozying up to a hibernating bear might have once been a grad school dream of his. Now it seemed surreal. He wouldn’t have believed such a story if he’d heard it himself, and yet here he was…
Dogs. Barking.
The snowmobile had gone silent. What he heard now sent a chill through him, for he knew Roy Coats owned and trained hunting dogs. Scent dogs. Dogs that could follow a mountain lioness for miles- days-into the wilderness. The handler tracked and followed the dogs by radio collar to the prey, which was typically pinned up a tree. Mark was now convinced that he was the prey; he was the one pinned.
The barking grew louder and more ferocious. The dogs were on a scent-his scent, more than likely. And whereas a human being on a snowmobile might not make anything of a dark shadow that turned out to be a cave entrance, the dogs would follow their noses straight to it.
Mark had been around animals all his adult life. As a vet in Idaho, he’d seen cases that would have never made it into medical school textbooks and would not have been believed if they had. He was more exposed to animals in the wild, or the results of confrontations with such animals, than an average vet. And because of this, he could foresee the events of the next few minutes. They played out before his eyes on the darkened walls of the cave, as if a projector were running. And he didn’t like what he saw.
As if reading his thoughts, the bear stirred as the barking drew closer.
Mark had a decision to make, and neither choice was viable. If he stayed where he was, the bear would shred him when coming awake; if he fled, the dogs would either tear him to pieces or tree him.
But if he could climb over the bear, getting away from the animal’s keen sense of smell, then the noise and the scent of the dogs might hold the waking bear’s attention. The hungover animal would be far from alert as it awakened. Bears did not see well. With the bear facing the mouth of the cave, Mark thought it just might work: what the animal first saw and heard as it awakened would become its focus.
The barking, incredibly close now, lifted the hairs on the nape of Mark’s neck: the dogs were charging up the hill.
Coming right for him.
60
THE GLIDER WAS TOO LOW, BUT THERE WAS NOTHING TO do about it now. With no source of thrust, only the wind and its forward momentum kept it aloft. The lower he flew, the darker it got. He’d circled once above the narrow field, just to the north of the small frozen river, spiraling down toward the treetops, over a sea of gray-green spires accented by the white carpet at their feet. It felt as if a cloak had been thrown over the narrow valley; the sun had left here hours before. And where the sky still glowed a pale blue, the earth beneath it was giving up on twilight.
There was no such thing as a missed approach, no second chances at a landing. He got one chance and this was it.
As he reached the near side of the field, Walt eased the joystick back, lifting the nose while avoiding a complete stall. For a moment, the glider seemed to stand still, its tail actually brushing the very tops of the tall pines.
“What was that?” Brandon panicked as the sound of the contact reverberated through the frail frame.
Walt’s focus remained on the field before him, a gray wash of indiscernible length, its surface impossible to read. If he judged this wrong…
The beauty of the glider landing in snow was that there’s no superstructure supporting the wheels; a glider lands on a very small nosewheel recessed in the frame and an even smaller wheel below the tail, meaning it is well streamlined for a landing in snow.
“Brace yourself,” he called out.
Walt held the nose up as long as possible, then eased the glider down into the snow with a lunge that rapped both their heads against the Plexiglas dome. His feet automatically pushed both pedals forward, attempting to brake, but it was his right hand on the joystick controlling the flaps that served that purpose. Snow streamed over the nose, blinding him. The right wing struck something, turning the glider sharply. The glider bounced and groaned and barely slowed, Walt convinced its light frame would come apart.
It submarined and then jumped up, actually lifting fully off the snow before smashing back down and finally grinding to a stop.
“You okay?” Walt said.
“Shit… shit… shit…” Brandon managed from behind him.