Crossing Savage (9 page)

The first two shots had been poorly aimed, but the third shot connected and the driver's side-view mirror exploded. Peter jumped and almost lost control. He steadied the wheel, every muscle in his body tensed.

Jim unzipped his jacket and calmly removed a large semiautomatic pistol from a shoulder holster—a Paraordinance Super Hawg .45 auto.
This should even up the odds
.

Peter glanced over and saw the weapon. “What the hell? Where did that come from?”

“Let me introduce you to Karl—I never leave home without him.”

“You named your gun?” exclaimed Peter.

“Well, we spend a lot of time together.” Jim climbed into the back seat and opened the sliding rear window. He raised the Super Hawg and took aim, firing carefully. The report inside the cab of the truck was truly deafening, and Peter's hearing was reduced to the ringing in his ears.

The pursuers suddenly dropped way back. Jim was pretty sure he had missed the driver, but was pleased that the show of force had pushed them back. “Keep it moving, don't slow for anything!” he shouted

The sedan continued to hold back and Peter cleared the next hairpin-turn and entered a long stretch of mostly straight highway. The road was still climbing, maybe another three or four miles until they reached the summit of Tombstone Pass. The truck was still accelerating—fortunately nothing critical had been shot up.

The sedan began to close the gap again. “They're coming up on us! Try to hold steady and I'll see if I can slow them down again!”

Jim was trying to get a steady bead on the front grill of the sedan. The car was about 60 yards distant—just a little closer, Jim thought. It closed to about 40 yards and Jim was putting pressure on the trigger.

BABABAP! BABABAP!

Jim ducked at the unmistakable sound of automatic fire. He raised his head and again…
BABABAP!
He fired off three quick shots, not having time to aim carefully, hoping for a little luck.

Peter yelled, “What's that? That's not what it sounded like before!”

“They must have dug up a machine gun! We're gonna be in a world of hurt if they get lucky or close!”

Peter was approaching a fork to the right. It wasn't a marked road; it wasn't even paved. But Peter knew the road—NFD245. It was one of many national forest roads that crisscrossed the mountains—a legacy of the logging industry that used to be the bread and butter of so many Northwest families. Peter slowed to make the turn.

“What are you doing? Keep going! They're getting closer!”

“We can't outrun them on this grade! Our only chance is to change the playing field!” Peter turned sharply right and left the paved highway.

Skinny had the MP5 submachine gun in his grip and was taking aim as he leaned out the passenger window when the truck suddenly braked and turned sharply right. The driver followed, and his maneuver almost caused Skinny to drop the gun. Skinny regained his balance, but he could no longer lean out the window because of the uneven road surface, pitted by frequent pot holes. They kept following the Hummer truck, eating the dust it kicked up from the dry gravel road.

Peter continued forward, but the rough road forced a much slower speed. Without the threat of gun fire, Jim reached for his cell phone. “I'm calling in backup—this has gotten too serious.”

He pushed a button to unlock the screen. “Crap! No signal. I guess we're still on our own.”

“I could have told you that. Dark zone, man—no cell coverage for miles.”

“Great,” said Jim. “Okay, time for plan B.”

“I didn't know you had a Plan A, let alone a Plan B,” said Peter.

“I do now. When you see a road to the right, take it and stop as fast as you can. That should leave me in position to take these guys out.” Jim had climbed back into the front seat.

“Up ahead… looks like I can turn off to the right. Are you ready?”

“As I'll ever be.”

Peter took the turn and slammed on the brakes, spinning the Hummer around so that Jim's side of the vehicle was facing back at the gravel road. Even before the truck had come to a complete stop Jim was leaning out his door, firing at the sedan. Unfortunately, the dust from sliding on the gravel made it almost impossible to see the sedan, and he couldn't get off any well-aimed shots. He slammed the door shut as the gray sedan continued on down the gravel road to get past the ambush.

“Get us out of here—back to the highway! I think I might have got them, but let's not wait to find out!”

Peter shoved the transmission into reverse and floored it. The trucked screamed backwards and then slid to a stop as Peter spun the wheel, shifted into drive, and punched the accelerator. They left a shower of gravel and dust behind as they hastily headed back to the highway. Peter turned right onto Highway 20 again. He smoothly accelerated to the speed limit. Jim rammed home another full magazine into Karl—his last.

They had only covered about a mile when their pursuers appeared again, gaining quickly. “Man, these guys just won't quit! And they're beginning to piss me off!” hissed Jim.

Peter pushed the accelerator to the floor; the truck again picked up speed, but not as fast as the sedan. They entered a left curve and Jim couldn't get a clear shot off. But Skinny had no problems and fired two short, controlled bursts from the MP5. He knew what he was doing, thought Jim. A cluster of bullets hit the tailgate of the truck. Then there was a different sound, a sort of a poof—“Shit! I think they hit the tires!” said Peter.

“Oh man, that's bad.” And then a moment later Jim added, “How come we aren't slowing?”

“I swapped out the stock tires for run-flat all-terrain rubber. Never thought I'd test them this way!”

They approached a right curve as the truck neared the summit. Peter was driving very fast, but the sedan had gotten close. Good, thought Jim. Just a little closer. Peter entered the right curve and Jim found his opening. He leaned out the right window as far as he could balance and had a clear view of the sedan. He could see Skinny raising the MP5 and getting ready to shoot.

“Hold as steady as you can… I'm going to end this right here!” He pulled the trigger.
BOOM!
Again and again.
BOOM! BOOM!
Jim fired off six aimed shots within two seconds. Skinny and the driver of the sedan were close—at twenty yards Jim could hardly miss—and he didn't.

The H3T came out of the turn and covered the remaining 50 yards to the top of the grade—Tombstone Pass. The road made a gentle but significant sweep to the left here. Peter took the turn, not slowing for a second. The gray sedan, however, did not. It veered to the right and slid on the gravel shoulder. The driver couldn't pull out of the slide and the car slammed sideways into a tree, coming to a stop.

Jim sighed and his shoulders slumped as he leaned his head back. He put the large Super Hawg on his lap and engaged the safety. “I think they're done,” he said. “Saw them hit a tree sideways. That car isn't going anywhere.”

Peter leaned back in his seat and relaxed his grip on the wheel, allowing his fingers to regain their natural color. He slowed back to the speed limit, braking as they came down the grade. It was still another hour to Sisters, the nearest city. Jim holstered his gun. “When will we have cell coverage again?”

“Not until we get to Sisters. The run-flat tires should hold until we get there, if I take it easy.”

“I don't think we'll have any more problems. Those guys are done, and I didn't see a backup team. I'll call this in when we get to civilization.” And with that Jim leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, running through the day's events over and over, trying to put it all together, but too many pieces were still missing.

An hour later, the red Hummer drove into Sisters and stopped at Bronco Billy's Saloon at the Sisters Hotel. Jim and Peter got out, stretched, and conducted a cursory inspection of the truck. It had absorbed almost a dozen rounds, mostly high on the back left quarter panel and tailgate. Jim figured they were very lucky indeed that no one was hit. The left rear tire was also shot. Peter lowered the spare and together they replaced the rear tire. Miraculously, none of the bullets had hit the spare or punctured the gas tank.

“The whisky is pretty good here,” said Peter. “I don't know about you, but I could use a drink.”

“No arguments from me,” said Jim as they walked into the saloon. The Sisters Hotel was right out of the Old West, with a classic western exterior. The second floor had the hotel rooms, and the ground floor was mostly saloon and restaurant. The floor was wood, of course, and the bar just to the right of the entrance was made of highly polished mahogany with a large mirror behind the bar. A half dozen dining tables were arranged across the large open floor. In keeping with the western theme, the tables were small, designed to seat four at most, and covered with white-and-red checkered table cloths surrounded by bent-wood chairs.

They took a table, and Peter immediately ordered Buffalo Trace bourbon for himself and Jim—straight up. Before the drinks arrived, Jim had his phone open, dialing. He got up and walked to the door, stepping out onto the covered wooden porch where he could speak in relative privacy.

Peter finished his drink just as Jim walked back in. “I just briefed my boss, Colonel Pierson. He wasn't too happy, especially about the rolling gun fight. Said he would contact the state police and take care of the paper work. I've been ordered back immediately—we have a lot of work to do. Seems like our suspicions were well founded.”

“Do you think we'll learn anything from those two goons?”

“The guys in the car? No, they're long gone; they're pros. By the time the state police arrive at the scene, they'll find a car that has been professionally cleaned—no personal items, wiped of finger prints.”

The waiter appeared and Peter ordered another shot. He felt the whiskey helping to calm his nerves.

“Why were they trying to kill us?” asked Peter.

“I'm not sure. I can only guess that our conversation this morning with your father is right on target—someone is trying to interfere with his work, to silence him.”

“So why the attack on us?”

“Simple—whoever is behind this is trying to eliminate loose ends. That would be us. Your father also—so he will be under 24-hour protection. I only wish we could have convinced him to cancel his field trip to Alaska.”

“Dad has always been rather stubborn.”

“And you're going, too?”

“Yes. After all that's happened today, I have to. If Dad needs help, I'm going to be there.”

“And where, again, is ‘there'?” asked Jim.

“Chernabura Island, in the Aleutian Island chain just south of Sandpoint. That's where I have my cabin. If all is quiet, maybe I can spend some time hunting bear.”

Jim looked hard at Peter.
All right. Like father, like son
. Some of the best and bravest soldiers Jim knew were like Peter—stubborn, committed to ideals, and above all, loyal to the end. He knew he couldn't change Peter's mind. He knew that Peter would die trying to protect his father and his colleagues. What really annoyed Jim, though, was that he couldn't fault Peter. He knew what logic dictated, but if the roles were reversed, he'd do exactly the same thing.

“After we finish dinner, can I talk you into dropping me off at the Bend airport? Someone will be by in the morning to take care of my rental car. They will also want to debrief you tomorrow. Here's my card.”

Peter took the card and read it aloud. “James Mellakis, Importer & Exporter, Vexsus Trading Company. You're joking, right?”

“In my business, you don't advertise. The phone number will ring directly to my cell.”

Peter nodded. He thought these protocols existed only in spy novels and movies, but then he had never met anyone from the intelligence community. At least as far as he knew.

“Don't talk to anyone who is not from my office. And ask for identification before you let anyone in. Okay? Don't take any chances, is that clear? There will be an armed guard outside your residence by the time you get home tonight.”

“Thanks,” said Peter, not really sure what else to say.

Chapter 6

September 24

Chernabura Island, West Side

The journey to Chernabura Island
began with a commercial flight from Portland to Anchorage. Except for food, almost everything else they needed—clothing, personal gear, and scientific instruments—had been checked onto the flight. But there was one critical item they needed to buy in Anchorage—explosives.

If they were to conduct an adequate geological survey, they needed seismic charges to map the underlying strata. Since it was impossible to get the explosives on board a commercial flight, they planned to arrive in Anchorage early and allow a full day to take care of any last-minute details as well as purchase the seismic charges. Professor Savage had made arrangements in advance to make sure that he could get what they would need and that it would be ready to go, packed in a locked steel chest. He also hired a bush pilot to take the team the 570 miles from Anchorage to Sand Point. The last leg of their journey would be by boat.

The professor's careful planning did not escape notice. The sales clerk who packed the seismic charges made a brief phone call to an anonymous receiver. He was promised 1,000 dollars for simply confirming the date and time that anything was sold to a Professor Ian Savage or any academic team from Oregon State University. The clerk never questioned why the information was requested; after all, he was only confirming a sale. What harm could come from that? Besides, it was good money.

The pilot landed his float plane in the harbor at Sandpoint and taxied up to the dock. After the aircraft was tied off to two cleats, the team unloaded their gear, piling it on the dock. The weather was good with only high, thin clouds and the air temperature was cool albeit still well above freezing.

Professor Ian Savage was wearing a lightweight jacket to ward off the chill. He removed a sheet of paper from the inside pocket and read the name of the charter boat,
End of the Rainbow III
. The other team members were all milling about the large pile of duffle bags, backpacks, and one padlocked chest painted red.

Professor Savage approached his friend and colleague, Kenji Sato. “Why don't you stay here? I'm going to find our boat. It can't be too far from here.”

The professor didn't have to go far before a deckhand washing down a fishing boat pointed him to a nearby slip. Squinting his eyes, Ian looked in the direction the deckhand was pointing. “The green and white boat?” he asked, just to be sure. The deckhand nodded, then went back to his work.

He briskly walked the short distance and examined the name on the stern—
End of the Rainbow III
was proudly painted in bold black lettering over a white hull. Most of the top side was painted British racing green. The professor examined the boat, noting some patches of rust, but overall it appeared to be well taken care of. A large stack of steel traps was lashed down to the deck, so clearly this was a working boat during the crab season.

As Ian Savage was scrutinizing the vessel, a bearded head appeared through an open window in what he assumed was the bridge and called out, “Looking for something?”

“Yes, and I found it. I'm Ian Savage. I have a charter contract with you.” Less than a minute later the man exited a hatch at the rear of the super structure and strode across the deck before walking down a gang plank onto the dock.

He introduced himself as the captain and suggested that Professor Savage and his academic team haul their gear over from where it was piled on the dock. They would sail in just under two hours to travel the final 53 miles to Chernabura Island, and Ian still needed to purchase groceries. He left his students to rest on the charter boat under the supervision of Professor Sato, and accompanied by his son, hired a taxi to take them to the main grocery store. Sandpoint was little more than a village connected to a fishing fleet, so there was only one store to purchase food, but if they had been looking for a bar there would have been many to choose from.

Finally, with their supplies loaded onboard,
End of the Rainbow III
made the journey in just over four hours. The sea was moderately rough, not bad at all for this time of year the captain explained, and no one got motion sickness. So far, they were off to a good start.

The charter boat pulled into a cove on the west side of the island. The surf was gentle there, and it was very easy to shuttle their gear to the beach in an inflatable skiff powered by an outboard engine that continually expelled a cloud of blue smoke.

One of Peter's first jobs after leasing the hunting cabin had been to erect a large storage shed at the beach. In addition to a couple of tarps and some basic tools, he also stored two 4x4 ATVs and ten gallons of gas.

Once on the gravel beach, the crates, duffle bags, boxes, and other provisions—including the red steel locker containing the seismic charges—were transferred to the ATVs and driven inland to the cabin. It was only three-tenths of a mile to the cabin, but it took several trips to shuttle all the equipment and supplies there. It was hard work, even with the mechanized assistance. Although the charter boat had arrived at about 2:00 in the afternoon, it was approaching dark by the time everything had been transported from the boat to their temporary home. Then came the chore of unpacking and settling into their rooms.

There were a total of nine in the party: six academics plus Peter and two U.S. marshals—present on the orders of Colonel Pierson. Professor Ian Savage was the team leader—he had organized this expedition. Professor Kenji Sato from the Tokyo Institute of Technology was an accomplished mathematician and long-time collaborator with Professor Savage. Sato-san had invited his postdoctoral student, Junichi Morita, to join the expedition. Junichi had jumped at the occasion, since mathematicians seldom had such an opportunity for fieldwork.

Rounding out the academic team were three students from Professor Savage's group. Harry Martin and Daren Colton were both postdoctoral students. Harry received his Ph.D. in chemical engineering from Tufts University and Daren graduated with a Ph.D. in chemistry from the University of Colorado, Boulder. The final team member was Karen Bailey, a graduate student who had received her B.S. degree from Georgia Tech.

The two United States marshals—Troy Davis and Jack Murphy—were stationed in Anchorage. They joined the group the day before and had spent some time talking to everyone on the team to gain a better understanding of the people they were protecting. Davis and Murphy had been briefed by James Nicolaou and understood that Professor Savage's team was present on Chernabura Island to conduct seismic surveys and gather geological samples.

Troy Davis and Jack Murphy had both served honorably in the military prior to becoming marshals. Davis was a marine sergeant and Murphy—Murph as he was known to his friends—was army airborne. Both men had served in the first Gulf War.

The two men met following the war, when they were training to become marshals, and quickly became good friends. They had worked together for the last nine years and had learned to anticipate each other's actions. That, combined with their military training and combat experience, made them an accomplished team.

Working out of Anchorage, they covered a large portion of Alaska—nearly all of it, in fact. Most of the time, their case load consisted of suspected smugglers—usually vodka, cigarettes, and drugs from Russia—and locals growing marijuana on Federal land during the long summer growing season. The plots were constantly moved from one area to the next. With so much wild land and so few people, hiding the marijuana plots was fairly easy. And even if a field was found, it was even harder to determine who was tending it and obtain a conviction.

Murph liked to retell one case, a couple years back, when he and Davis had hiked into a marijuana plot roughly ten miles off the nearest forest service road. The terrain was demanding, made even more dangerous by the occasional booby trap. The plants were dispersed amongst evergreens, making them more difficult to detect by air. When, with guns drawn, they surprised the caretaker, the guy seriously tried to convince Murph and Davis that he was growing hemp for rope manufacture, not smoking. He gave up the sales pitch when Davis ordered him to drop the 12-gauge scattergun slung over his shoulder.

Later that day, Murph and Davis were considering the bust when Murph asked, “I wonder if a four inch length of hemp rope would make a good joint? You know, wrap some paper around it and light it up?”

“I'd say it's the wrong variety,” replied a dead-pan Davis. “But to be sure, you could ask the experts. George Carlin would know, but he's dead. Are Cheech and Chong still around?”

Chernabura Island is roughly oval in shape, just a bit fatter at the southern end. It's 5.1 miles long, north to south, and averages 2.3 miles wide. Like all of the Aleutians, the island is volcanic, formed from the collision of the Pacific Plate with the North American Plate. The Pacific Plate drops off into a deep subduction zone immediately south of the island chain. As the rock and sediment, combined with layers of accumulated organic waste from thousands of years of sea life, is pulled down into the Earth's mantle, it is heated to the point of melting. This newly formed magma is filled with incalculable volumes of superheated gases—formed from the thermal decomposition of the accumulated organic matter and the water that was an integral part of the sediment covering the ocean floor.

All of this gas, combined with the fluid magma, relentlessly seeks out weaknesses—cracks or vents—in the miles of overlying crust. When it does find a path to the surface, the release of pressure results in extremely violent eruptions.

Peter's cabin was located on the northern end of the island, close to the western shore. An ancient volcanic peak about one-half mile northeast of the cabin rose to 1,070 feet. A short ridge of similar peaks crossed the midsection of the island roughly east to west. As far as Peter knew, that topography of Chernabura Island had never been named.

The cabin was situated in the valley formed between the ridge to the southwest and the peak to the northeast. Two freshwater lakes in the valley provided abundant fishing opportunities. The entire island was National Forest land.

Peter Savage had purchased a 99-year lease on the old cabin a few years earlier. He had found the island beautiful and obviously secluded, which meant he seldom encountered another human. It offered a reasonable amount of game to hunt—black tail deer and both black and brown bear. Although he had yet to see a moose, occasionally he came across tracks. Maybe the odd moose sometimes swam over from neighboring islands. The lakes were deep enough that they held ample populations of trout. Why the lakes didn't freeze solid Peter could not say; maybe they were spring fed or had hydrothermal vents.

The cabin itself was a classic design. Built maybe a century earlier, probably by a grizzled trapper or hunter, the cabin was constructed entirely of logs. Whole logs formed the walls and support beams; split and hewn logs made the gables and interior walls. The roofing was split shakes, and Peter had spent about a month during the summer a year earlier removing the old roof, splitting new cedar shakes, and then applying the new roofing material. He figured this would be good for at least twenty years, with luck a little longer.

The summer after Peter bought the lease he had spent a tidy sum to ship in new kitchen appliances—marine-grade diesel stove, microwave, and built-in luxury espresso machine. Since getting deliveries to the remote island was unbelievably expensive, Peter opted for electric appliances. This led to the next phase of the cabin upgrade—a hybrid solar and wind generation system backed up by a large diesel generator. With plenty of storage batteries to capture power from the solar and wind generation, he seldom had to run the generator.

Fresh water was no problem—the island had plenty, and it was easy to run a flexible irrigation pipe from the closest lake to a pressurized storage tank in the root cellar. To avoid freezing pipes during the long, cold winters, Peter only had to shut off the water and drain the supply pipe and cabin plumbing. So far, these precautions had worked well.

In addition to a dining area off the kitchen, the cabin had a large main room complete with a stone fireplace that was large enough to stand inside. It would accept logs up to five feet long and, when the fire was blazing, it radiated an enormous amount of heat into the cabin and continued to release heat all night from the massive stone structure. Three bedrooms equipped with bunk beds shared a single bath. Having only one bath was not really convenient with a large group, but manageable. Besides, there was always the original one-hole outhouse behind the cabin if someone couldn't wait.

After unloading the ATVs and storing the groceries, gear, and scientific instruments, everyone was ready to collapse. Soon, Peter had a roaring fire warming the room. Dinner was a do-it-yourself menu comprising of cold cuts, cheese, and salad. With full bellies and warmth from the fire, the students surrendered to fatigue one by one. Even Sato-san excused himself to retire to his bunk.