02 Avalanche Pass (16 page)

“Guess there’s one way to find out,” he said, and jerked his head toward the sheriff’s department Jet Ranger. “You up for a sightseeing flight?”

Together they walked back down the road toward the chopper, passing the trailers that were being deployed, setting up a mobile
command and communication post. A group of army six-by-sixes snarled up the hill from Salt Lake City, their diesel exhausts staining the evening sky. Colby saw fresh young faces peering curiously out from under grim kevlar helmets. National Guard, he thought. A state trooper was signaling the lead driver of the convoy, directing him to park a little farther along the road where there was still some space left. With a cliff on one side and a sheer drop on the other, that was becoming a precious commodity.

As they walked, Lawson caught the chopper pilot’s eye and made a circling gesture with his right forefinger. The pilot took the hint and Colby heard the high-pitched whine of the starter, saw the big two-bladed rotor begin to turn slowly.

Then as the revs came up and a thin haze of burnt JP4 blasted out of the jet’s exhaust, the wind began whipping his long-skirted Burberry coat around his legs. He remembered that his feet were still cold and decided it was too late now to start looking for boots. Instinctively bowing his head a few inches, he moved under the spinning rotor and hauled himself up into the rear seat. Lawson took the seat next to the pilot, stuffing his Stetson behind his seat and cramming an intercom headset on. Colby looked around the rear seat, saw another headset on a hook by the window and donned it.

“Where to, Sheriff?” the pilot was asking. His uniform marked him as deputy in the Wasatch County sheriff’s department. The bone dome crash helmet he wore was emblazoned with a deputy’s star on its front.

“Let’s take her up the valley, Gus,” Lawson’s voice rasped in the headphones. The deputy did a slight double take.

“Up to the lodge, Sheriff?” he asked and Cale nodded.

“Less you got somewhere else you’d like to go, son,” he replied evenly. The pilot pursed his lips.

“Aaah… Sheriff,” he began uncertainly, “I heard tell they’ve got missiles up there.”

Lawson settled back into the left-hand seat more comfortably and turned a thin smile on the pilot.

“Heard much the same thing, Gus. Now let’s pull pitch and go find out.”

The deputy swallowed and his hands fell to the controls. The chopper quivered slightly, then rose a few feet from the ground, slewing around to head up canyon.

The sound of the blades whacking the air changed to a less frenetic note as the pitch changed and the little aircraft transitioned from the hover and began moving forward, nose down, with increasing speed.

On the rear bench seat, Colby shifted position so that he was peering between the two men in front, giving himself a less restricted view out of the front windscreen. He guessed that, as the man in charge, he could have taken the left front seat instead of the Sheriff. But hell, he shrugged, it was the sheriff’s department’s chopper and there probably wouldn’t be a whole hell of a lot to see anyway. Lawson and the pilot, with the added advantage of the clear view panels in the front floor, had the best view of the ground rushing by below them.

“Follow the road, son,” Lawson told the pilot, adding, “There’s no need to get up too high. Keep her below the ridge line as much as you can.”

The road below them was still a tumble of rock and snow where the landslide had cut it. Then, after a couple of hundred yards, the black ribbon showed clear again. Looking at the mass of rubble blocking the way, Colby realized that the sheriff’s estimation had been right. It would take weeks to clear that mess—and a whole peck of heavy equipment to get the job done.

The chopper twisted and turned, following the snake-like track of the road. The pilot needed no second urging to keep low. He wanted to stay masked behind those hills as long as possible. Unfortunately for their peace of mind, that wasn’t going to be for much longer. The valley started to widen out as they approached Canyon Lodge. They rounded a ridge and saw the lights of the massive hotel building a quarter mile away.

“Hold it here a moment, Gus,” Lawson said, and the whacking of the rotor blades returned as they went into a hover. “Keep the nose on ’em,” he added, and Gus worked the pedals, reducing power to the tail rotor momentarily to slew the nose of the chopper around
so that it faced the building. Lawson glanced back over his shoulder at the bear-like FBI agent.

“Those Stingers are short range. And they need a clear look at the heat signature from the tailpipe,” he said conversationally. “Figure this way we’ll fox them a little.”

Colby grunted, then replied, “Good thinking, as long as they haven’t got any men on the peaks behind us here.” He saw the quick, nervous glance that the pilot flung over his shoulder at him. The distraction caused him to let the chopper slew a little to one side and he hastened to correct the movement as Lawson growled a warning at him.

Colby leaned further forward between the two seats and focused a pair of night glasses on the hotel. Things seemed normal enough, he thought. There was no sign of movement. No sign of any trouble.

“See anything?” Lawson’s voice rasped in his headphones.

“Uh-uh,” he replied. Then he noticed something moving on the roof, and a light blinking at them. “Wait. Someone’s signaling…”

“Jesus!” gasped the pilot and threw the chopper into a sideways, skidding dive as a twin line of yellow streaks reached out to them from the roof of the hotel. Colby, who had released his belt to gain a better view, was tossed sidelong on the rear bench seat. He saw streaks of light passing close to the perspex canopy of the helicopter, then impacting the rock face behind them before bouncing high into the air and eventually disappearing.

“Get us out of here, Gus.” Lawson’s voice was tight. The chopper dropped to a bare twenty feet off the snow as the pilot twisted the throttle wide open, heading for the shelter of the narrow pass once more. The three men were silent as they raced for the narrow gap, fully aware that at any moment the fiery trail of a Stinger missile might reach out for them, homing on the hot gases of their exhaust.

There was a sigh of relief from all three of them as they reached the shelter of the solid rock. Lawson turned to face the FBI agent once more. He pursed his lips reflectively.

“Well, don’t know about Stingers,” he said, “but they sure as hell have some triple-A up there.”

“We heading back down now, Sheriff?” the pilot asked nervously.
Colby grinned to himself, although no sign of it showed on his set features. It was pretty clear which way the pilot wanted them to go.

“Might as well, Gus,” Lawson told him. “They ain’t going to let us see anything more tonight.”

The chopper whack-whacked its way back down the canyon, the pilot bringing it to a landing beside the huddle of sheriff’s department cars. Colby noticed how each organization present—sheriff, state police, national guard and FBI—had staked out their own territory. As he stepped down from the Jet Ranger, a state trooper ran forward, holding his Smokey the Bear hat on against the down draft of the rotor.

“Agent Colby?” he shouted and when Denton nodded confirmation, the man gestured to the comms trailer some fifty yards away.

“They’re on the line,” he said. “Want to talk to whoever’s in charge.”

Denton nodded and jogged after the man toward the trailer. There was no need to ask who “they” might be.

T
he emergency council rose to their feet as President Gorton entered the room.

He glanced around the assembled faces, angry and annoyed, his face flushed. He’d been awakened from the nap that he took every day at this time and he resented it—all the more so when he read the details of the demand that had been passed on from the terrorists at Canyon Lodge.

“Where’s Traill?” he asked. The homeland security director was absent.

“General Traill will receive full minutes of these meetings,” Benjamin told him, “but he has a pretty full plate at the moment.”

The chief of staff leaned forward and spoke in a low voice.

“There’s that Florida thing he’s been working on, sir,” he told the president. Gorton grunted. A series of massive storms had hit the Florida Keys over the past month, leaving tens of thousands of people stranded and at risk. Traill’s people had their hands full getting people out, finding temporary accommodation, discouraging looters and ensuring the safety of those left suddenly homeless.

“Damn if we haven’t got problems coming out our asses these days,” Gorton said, annoyance obvious in his voice.

The annoyance deepened as he recognized a face that hadn’t been here before. Truscott Emery smiled back at him as their gazes met. Angrily, Gorton wondered who’d told the special adviser that this meeting had been called. He suspected Benjamin. He knew the
bureau director admired Emery’s scholastic, analytical mind. As far as Gorton was concerned, Emery was simply another annoying leftover from the previous administration and he couldn’t wait for the day when he could get rid of him. To his surprise, his own advisers had counseled against it, so he’d decided to bide his time until his position was stronger.

In the meantime, he had compensated by taking Emery out of the loop as far as possible, excluding him from planning sessions and the cabinet meetings to which he’d been privy under President Couch.

Emery was an interesting study in the politically seething atmosphere of the Capitol. He was an academic, a professor emeritus with Harvard Business School who, prior to his Washington appointment, had spent his time lecturing to short-term students from high-paying corporations around the world. He was also a very practical thinker and his ability to add insight into the most complex of problems had been valued beyond diamonds by Couch. He had secured the services of the professor as a special adviser, with a free-ranging brief to comment on anything and everything that went on in the Oval Office.

But specifically, Emery had been retained for situations such as these: confusing, dangerous emergencies where a clear, incisive mind might cut through the overlying complications and see to the core of a problem, and the beginnings of a possible solution.

Gorton knew that all the other Couch appointees treated Truscott’s opinions with deference and respect. That was another factor that annoyed him. To Gorton, he was simply another annoying reminder that too many people in the USA still thought of this as the Couch presidency.

Still irritated by the sight of the smooth-shaven, smiling face, Gorton gestured at the room to be seated. He slapped the report onto the table in front of him as he took his own high-backed chair.

“You all read this?” he demanded. He had skimmed through the report as he dressed. The others all had copies, and he received a chorus of assent from the group.

“Well?” he rasped, his angry gaze sweeping them. He wanted advice. He wanted suggestions. He wanted someone else to commit himself first. Benjamin shrugged slightly.

“Fairly typical first contact, Mr. President,” he ventured. “They’ve shown their hand at last. The ransom demand proves that. The usual threats: Don’t try to use force or we’ll kill them all and ourselves. We’re not afraid to die for our cause. All pretty standard.”

“What about this last piece—about no more helicopters?” the president asked. Benjamin looked around. He guessed it was his part to answer once again.

“Apparently, our agent in place took a chopper up the canyon for a look-see,” he said. “The response was some very accurate triple-A fire. Agent Colby reports that the terrorists claim to have radar-directed machine guns on the roof as well as the Stinger missiles they mentioned earlier. He’s not inclined to doubt them.”

The president scowled at his bureau director. “What the hell sort of agent have you put in charge up there, Benjamin? He some sort of cowboy that he’s going to take risks like that? Goddamn it, there are close to a hundred hostages in that hotel and I’m not going to have them put at risk by this grandstanding Rambo of yours.”

There was a moment’s awkward silence. Then Benjamin replied, stolidly, “Denton Colby is one of my best agents, Mr. President. The risk in flying up there was to himself, not to the hostages. He held back at a safe distance. His stance was non-threatening. He received a warning-off and now we know a little more about the situation up there.”

“Such as?” The president was looking at the bureau chief but it was General Barrett who answered this time.

“We know that what they say about their defenses is accurate, Mr. President,” he said. “Linus’s agent has established that we can’t try to bust in there with any airborne assault.”

Gorton locked gazes with the Air Force General. The ex-fighter pilot met his eyes steadily. In a career that spanned two major conflicts and a lot of brushfire wars in between, Barrett had seen more frightening sights than a frowning, posturing politician. Realizing
that the general wasn’t going to submit, Gorton switched his angry glare to the table in general.

“So, what do we do? I want suggestions, gentlemen. That’s what you’re here for.”

Tildeman cleared his throat prior to speaking. “Linus might correct me on this, Mr. President,” he began, “but I feel the best course now is simply to maintain contact—and to stall them on their demands.”

He glanced at the bureau chief for consent or disagreement. Benjamin was nodding. “I agree, Mr. President. In these cases, time is our ally. If we continue to speak with them, we have the chance to negotiate—and to find out what’s behind their demands.” The president raised his eyebrows at the last words, so the bureau chief expanded the thought a little.

“Who they’re working for. What their grievances are—that sort of thing. It all gives us a better idea of how much we can negotiate with them.”

Gorton sniffed distastefully. “You’re saying I should just sit on my hands and do nothing?” he asked. “While these ragheads dictate terms to me. Is that it?”