Killer View (26 page)

“Fuck the dogs!” An idea hit him. “Okay,” Coats said, his anger briefly subsiding. “You remember that time we lost the cat over in eastern Oregon?”

“Sure,” Gearbox said, nodding.

“We’re going to do it like that: a pattern search. All we’ve gotta do is cross his tracks at some point. He can’t be far.”

“Okay,” Gearbox said. He didn’t sound convinced.

“I’ve got to keep that meeting with her. Are you listening? If she delivers that drum like I asked, within a week there’s not one person on this planet won’t have heard of the Samakinn. They’ve got, what, ten thousand of those drums stored out there? Twenty? All containing ‘low-level waste,’” Coats said, making finger quotes in the air. “You think they’re going to miss one? It’ll be the first time it’s ever been done. Shit, that kind of thing doesn’t make news; it makes history.”

He couldn’t stop the grin from finding its way onto his face, but, this time, the accompanying agony was well worth it.

MARK AKER’S BEST CHANCE TO OUTRUN HIS PURSUERS WAS to find a river, someplace he wouldn’t leave behind tracks or a scent to follow. He used the trees effectively, dodging under the umbrella of green branches that reduced the accumulated snowfall to a dusting. He would cut across the base of a tree, dragging a sprig behind him and erasing his tracks as he went. When the trees were positioned closely enough together, he could make it fifty yards or more without tracks to follow. But eventually he was faced with deep snow again, forcing him to reveal his route. In summertime, he would have been nearly impossible to follow, he wouldn’t have been battling the elements, and he would have had an abundant source of water and food. As it was, he was sweating, cold, hungry and thirsty, and still trying to hold off using any of what he’d stolen from the cabin for as long as humanly possible.

Then came the sound he’d been outrunning all day: the distant whine of the snowmobile. It wasn’t that they were close; it was their determination that ate away at his confidence.

What he saw next intrigued him: a low, inverted semicircle amid a rock escarpment, fifty yards to his right. The formation began low and grew into a collar that wrapped around a small hill. Seeing the rocks rise out of the snow, and that small semicircle of dark in particular, gave him another idea. If he could reach the windblown rocks, he’d leave no trail to follow.

He spent fifteen minutes creating a fake route south to the edge of a copse of trees, before carefully backtracking and returning to where he’d started. Then he worked his way below a cornice where the snow was only an inch or two deep, again dragging an evergreen limb behind him and brushing his tracks away. The effect was outstanding: there was no way to tell he’d headed toward the rocks. He climbed through the escarpment. The farther he made it, the more confident he was that he’d created an effective diversion.

He approached the dark inverted curve, just above the surface of the snow, cautiously, the vet in him having identified the cave from a distance. He crept quietly to the opening, stuck his nose to the hole, and sniffed the air. Excited by the dank, sour smell, he searched the backpack for the concoction Coats had used to subdue him and liberally charged the syringe. With the syringe in his left hand, he shined the flashlight through the hole, daring to stick his head inside.

He trained the light from side to side, working progressively deeper into the narrow hole, picking up the sharp lines in the frozen mud, immediately knowing he’d guessed correctly. What he was about to attempt was suicidal—and few knew that better than a vet—but his choice had been made and he wasn’t going to turn away from it. He carefully dug into the snow blocking the hole, removing as little as possible, not wanting to draw attention to the hole or the small cave it now revealed.

He pushed the pack through and followed, twisting and moving his body to delicately slip between the gap he’d widened. The stench increased exponentially. He was on his knees now, his head tucked down. The space was small, the air thick enough to gag him, a combination of rancid bacon grease and scat. Still holding the syringe, he put his left hand over the flashlight’s lens to soften its beam. He ran the diffused light across the cave’s wall, holding to where the mud floor rose to meet it. Even after two decades of working with animals of every kind, his heart fluttered as he discerned the bear’s coarse brown hair. It was a big black, perhaps six hundred pounds, curled into an enormous mound of slowly rising and falling fur. Its head was tucked beneath its front paws, like earmuffs. The paws themselves were the size of a kid’s baseball mitt, ending in mud-caked, curled black three-inch claws.

Hibernation was not unconsciousness; a bear’s heart rate drops from fifty to ten beats a minute during hibernation, yet the animal retains its senses and can awaken—though slowly—if threatened. By now, the bear had smelled him, was aware of the intruder. Aker had from two to eight minutes, no more than ten, before the bear would rise to defend his den.

He’d misjudged the dose significantly, not figuring on such a large animal. He scrambled with the pack to fill the syringe with an additional 30 ccs, emptying the vial; all or nothing. The bear’s paws slipped off his head and his sad eyes popped open. Awake but barely conscious. Still, the ferocity in those eyes terrified even someone as comfortable around animals as Aker. The scratch marks in the frozen mud and on the rock were warning enough.

He had to squat and finally lie down in the cave’s tight confines in order to reach the animal. One of the bear’s legs twitched. Its eyes blinked open wider. It was late fall; the animal wasn’t yet fully settled into the metabolism that would carry him through the long winter. He was coming awake far more quickly than Aker had anticipated. A giant paw lunged out, though awkwardly and with dull reflexes. Aker tucked into a ball, rolled, and plunged the needle deep into the thick fur coat. He depressed the plunger, emptying the syringe. He left it stuck in the animal, rolling away toward the mouth of the small cave.

The bear blinked behind heavy eyelids. Its front leg twitched, the massive paw clawing the air where Aker had just lain. Several long minutes passed, Aker not knowing if his plan had worked. The bear blinked once again before his eyes eased closed. A hibernating bear maintains a body temperature of over eighty degrees Fahrenheit. Aker rolled, and he pushed his back up against the mass of the sleeping animal. Within a matter of seconds, his back began to warm. Then his legs. Soon his whole body responded, shaking at first, then steadying, as the cold was gradually overcome. The drugs would keep the bear out for several hours. In a state of hibernation, despite its enormous body mass, it might remain unconscious for a day or more.

For the first time since his escape, Aker felt almost safe. He doubted the cave would be discovered by Coats or Gearbox. The chance to rest would strengthen him. Though the cave was foul-smelling, he’d found both shelter and a heat source. He could remain here for at least four hours, possibly longer. At first, he fought off sleep, focusing his attention instead on the mouth of the cave and listening for the sound of the snowmobile. Encouraged as he was, he knew his survival ultimately relied upon Walt Fleming’s efforts to find him. If some form of help didn’t arrive soon, Aker would be forced back into the elements, back into the hunt, where the odds were against him.

A FLIGHT OF MIGRATING SANDHILL CRANES APPROACHED OFF the glider’s right side, a ballet of slowly beating wings and outstretched necks easily mistaken for geese or swans from a distance. But, seen closer, they were too elegant for the former and too large for the latter. They moved as a black arrow, an undulating wave, like a single organism against a backdrop of a once-royal-blue sky now flaming out in resignation to a setting sun.

Walt pointed out the formation to his passenger, appreciating her hand then tapping him on the shoulder in acknowledgment, secretly enjoying the brief contact. She seemed to understand this was not a moment to raise one’s voice above the roar of the wings. He liked her all the more for it.

The V drew nearer, as if drawn by curiosity or mistaking the glider for one of their own. The cranes flew close enough that Walt could briefly make out not only the delicacy of their individual feathers rustled by the steady wind of their efforts but the beady stares of their unflinching eyes. They passed, and, like a curtain opening, revealed not the expanse of the desert below, simmering in the blush of dusk, but the menacing, insectlike form of a military helicopter, obscured until that moment.

Startled by the sight, Fiona jumped in her seat, bumping her head against the Plexiglas canopy.

It was a jet-assisted chopper—what Walt thought of as a gunner ship—capable of both tremendous speed and aerial agility. Both men in the cockpit looked like insects as well, as the copilot pointed to the bulbous black headphones mounted over his Air Force helmet.

Walt had purposely changed radio frequencies to avoid being contacted by Air Traffic Control and ordered out of the restricted airspace prior to Fiona taking the pictures. He had forced their hand, necessitating the scrambling of an intercept. But he acknowledged the request with a gesture and quickly reset his radio. He checked in with ATC, announced himself, and was told to immediately switch to yet another frequency, where he could communicate directly with the helicopter pilot.

The anticipated warning was issued with authority: Walt had violated federal airspace; he would land the glider at the Arco/Butte County airport, a tiny strip where the towplane now waited. He could expect to be boarded and detained. The standard “boarded” line brought a grin to his face: the glider’s cockpit barely fit its two passengers; no one would be boarding his aircraft. But the mention of detention was more significant. He planned to withhold his trump card—his status as law enforcement—until reaching the ground. But the carefully worded caution implied the government would exercise its right to search.

“They’re going to look at your equipment,” Walt shouted back to Fiona. “If they find we’ve been spying instead of joyriding, we’ll be in some serious trouble. I don’t want that for either of us. You’d better erase anything of the INL site. Keep the landscapes; we need to justify the gear.”

“How long do we have?”

“They’re escorting us. I need to land right away.”

“But how long?”

“Five, ten minutes. I’ll need to come around for the wind. They’re not going to shoot us out of the sky or anything. Why?”

“Can you make it more like ten?”

“How long does it take to erase some photographs? I would have thought—”

She interrupted. “Walt, I got some terrific shots of that construction site. I’d hate to lose them.”

Ten minutes earlier, they’d flown over an area of excavation, busy with large earthmoving machinery, the hole being dug alongside one of the bunkerlike buildings. The area was a beehive of activity, especially given the late hour: past seven P.M. The overtime work suggested an intriguing urgency. He’d circled the excavation, possibly putting him onto radar. Fiona had run off dozens of shots, including some of the Pahsimeroi Valley to the northwest. Walt wanted time to study the shots, but not at the expense of arrest.

“Not worth it.”

“They’re stored on an SD chip. The thing’s the size of a fingernail. You really think they’re going to search us that thoroughly? I could put it in my bra or something. They are
not
going to strip-search us.” When Walt failed to respond, she added, “Are they?”

“This is the U.S. military. Who knows what they’ll do? But if they find that chip, especially hidden on you, we would be in the deep stuff. These people don’t mess around.”

She was quiet for a moment, as she considered their options. “What if I encrypted them? I can password-protect the camera.”

“Child’s play for them. Besides, the more we look like we’re trying to hide something, the more heat we’re going to draw. We don’t need that. Erase them. I’ll buy you the ten minutes.”

“And if I can save them?”

“I’m telling you, it’s just not worth the risk. They’ll find them.”

“Not if I e-mail them
before
I erase them. My phone’s a PDA, Walt. It takes the same SD chip as the camera. You buy me enough time and I can switch out chips and e-mail at least a couple of the shots. They’ll be in cyberspace by the time we land. Keep your eye out for a cell tower. If you see one, try to stay close. I can do this.”

For the next ten minutes, Walt juggled stalling the air patrol’s increasingly heated demands he land the glider with Fiona’s run-on narration of her progress. She switched out the chips and had started e-mailing out the photographs, but the transmission speed of the photographs—all large-graphic files—was incredibly slow over her mobile phone.

Walt landed the glider a little hard—a little out of practice—causing Fiona to yelp from behind him. He rode the momentum off the strip’s lone runway and onto the first of three ramps. The helicopter set down just ahead of them, so close that the wind from the blades pushed the glider around like a toy, driving it back several feet and nearly damaging the tail. The chopper pilot killed the engine, and, as the blades slowed, two white SUVs with federal decals on their doors sped out to meet them.

“Where are we?” Walt called back to Fiona.

“I need more time,” she called out anxiously.

“Forget it. Just erase them.”

“The chip’s out of the camera; there’s nothing to erase. But I can’t erase them off the phone until they’re done sending and it’s taking forever.”

A uniformed officer pounded on the Plexiglas.

“Pocket the phone,” Walt instructed her, as he bent down low to make it appear he was busy shutting down the glider.

“OPEN UP!” the officer hollered.

“They’ll focus on the camera, not the phone,” Walt said, softly enough that the officer wouldn’t hear him through the cockpit dome.