Another aerial photo showed several buildings in a row near a large structure.
“Those must be old mining buildings and the Kurtz mansion,” Hawkins said. “Pretty far off the beaten path. From what Sutherland said about these guys, they’re expecting black helicopters to drop in any day. Anyone got any ideas on how to gain entrance without getting shot?”
Abby said, “Could you go back to the aerial with the topographical overlay?”
Hawkins clicked the mouse and the screen showed the camp and surrounding terrain with contour squiggles and elevation numbers.
She studied the screen. “I think I know a way.” Abby described what she had in mind. “I know it’s not the perfect plan, but it could work.” She paused. “Then again it might not.”
Calvin laughed at the disclaimer. “The possibility of a monumental failure is SOP for us special ops guys,” Calvin said. “You should have joined the SEALs, Abby.”
“I didn’t like that yucky green stuff you had to smear on your face,” she said. “Well?”
Hawkins stared at the screen, mentally working out each step of the plan.
“A thousand things could go wrong, and back in the day I would have tossed a plan like this into the shredder. Only one detail makes it worth the risk.”
“What’s that?” Abby said.
“Sutherland.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Exactly one minute before the appointed time Sutherland rode up to the gate of the Kurtz camp. She was glad to see that the Dobermans were not there to greet her.
At the stroke of eleven, her ears picked up the sound of an engine. A khaki-colored World War II Jeep with two men in it drove up to the other side of the gate. Both men were dressed in camouflage. Aviator sunglasses shaded their eyes. The driver wore a wide-brimmed fatigue hat and the other man had a do-rag tied around his head Rambo style.
The Rambo impersonator got out of the car. He had a thick muscular body and his black hair was cut close to the shiny white scalp. A droopy mustache emphasized the downward tips of his unsmiling mouth. Sutherland’s eye went to the pistol holster and hunting knife at his waist.
Rambo pressed the button on a remote control. The gates swung open and he gestured for her to come inside. When she had ridden in, he closed the gates behind her and said: “Follow the vehicle.”
As she trailed the Jeep, she couldn’t help thinking how her poker-playing father used to say, “In for a dime, in for a dollar,” an adage meaning that if a hand was worth a little bet it was worth a big bet.
The road sloped gradually through thick piney woods. About a mile from the gate the forest ended and the road ran between a dozen or so one-story wooden buildings that looked like worker housing. They sported a fresh coat of white paint and seemed in generally good condition.
The Jeep kept on going past the buildings and stopped at a guard house manned by two armed men in camouflage. The driver jerked his thumb at Sutherland and the guards waved them through. The driveway went through a patch of dark pine woods and led to a two-story brick Victorian mansion with a black mansard turret and roof. The lawn that surrounded the mansion was overgrown with weeds.
The Jeep stopped and Rambo got out. “Go around back. General’s waiting for you.”
Sutherland slid off the Harley and went to use the kick-stand, but Rambo grabbed the handlebars.
“Hey, what are you doing?” she said.
“Just putting your pretty bike away for safe keeping. General’s in his shooting range. Follow the gunshots and you’ll find him.”
Her eyes smoldered with anger as she watched Rambo wheel the bike toward a five-port brick garage next to the mansion. Then she shouldered her pack and walked toward the pop-pop-pop sound coming from behind the mansion. She rounded one end of the house and saw a line of targets set up in a field.
A man wearing a fatigue hat and a matching desert camouflage uniform was firing a rifle at the targets which depicted a mean-faced man holding a pistol. The letters ATF printed in big letters across the chest identified the target as an Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms agent.
The shooter had the M-16 rifle on automatic, firing methodically in bursts of three. As soon as he shredded one target, he moved on to the next and repeated the process.
Sutherland waited patiently. The man stopped before shooting at the last target, and turned around as if he knew she had been standing there all the time. He lowered the rifle and gestured for her to come over. He took off his safety goggles and ear protectors, handed them to Sutherland along with the rifle then pointed to the last target.
Sutherland hadn’t fired a gun in years, but her army training asserted itself. She slipped on the ear protection and goggles, put her arm through the sling and felt the rifle stock snug naturally against her shoulder. She clicked the safety off, squinted through the telescopic sight, curled her finger around the trigger, ripped off three shots and clicked the safety on.
The man pushed a button and the target moved toward the firing station along a track. He thrust his forefinger through one of the tightly clustered holes in the target’s forehead.
“You didn’t go for the easier heart shot.” He had a low, gritty voice.
“I like a challenge, sir.”
“You learn that in Iraq, Corporal Sutherland?”
“I learned a lot of things in Iraq, sir.” She smiled. “The first thing I learned was never to give up control of my weapon.”
Kurtz gave Sutherland a sly smile. He took the rifle back and with the other hand he patted the holster at his belt.
“Had my eye on you every second, corporal.” He made sure the weapon was unloaded and broke the action. “C’mon up to the house and have something cold to drink.”
Kurtz walked with a John Wayne swagger as if he’d just gotten off a horse. He led the way toward a raised veranda that took up around a third of the back side of the mansion. He directed Sutherland to a white painted cast-iron table and chairs and went through the French doors into the house, returning a minute later with two cans of pre-sweetened iced tea. He gave a can to Sutherland, popped the other and plunked in the chair across the table from her.
He removed his hat to reveal steely gray hair in a flat top military cut. “Hope you weren’t expecting anything stronger. I don’t allow alcohol here at the encampment.” He smiled, raised the can in the air. “Skaol.”
Kurtz took a sip that was almost dainty for a man who seemed to emanate a boot-camp macho masculinity. Then he knocked down the contents of the can, set it on the table and stared at Sutherland with deep-set amber colored wolf eyes under a straight brow.
Rather than challenge his piercing gaze, Sutherland glanced around as if she had been intimidated.
“I didn’t expect to find a place like this way out here in the woods.”
“Quite the little shack isn’t it?”
“I grew up in a coal mining town. This is like a palace to me, sir.”
He twitched his lips in a quick tight smile.
“Call me General Hak. I’m named after my grandfather Hiram who built this place and lived here while he developed the mines. It’s fine for my purposes, but it could use a little work.”
The place could use a lot more work, Sutherland thought. Bricks were missing, concrete trim was cracked and the panes in one of the tall windows had been replaced with plywood. The chairs they sat in were rusted where the paint had flaked off.
She simply nodded in agreement.
“I was surprised to get your email,” he said. “We get a lot of queries, but not too many drop-ins.”
“Like I said, sir — I mean General Hak — I was riding through the mountains. Not even sure where I’d land next.”