65 Below (8 page)

Standing out from the assortment of shoe prints at the door were two matching sets of patterns that bore the company logo of Sorel Mukluks impressed in the snow. The edges were sharp and crisp, indicating the boots were fairly new, or at least seldom worn. As she ran her light along the ground at the side of the hut, the imprints of those two sets of boot prints continued on toward the left of the tiny building. Lonnie pulled out her digital camera and snapped a couple of quick pictures. The flash exploding in the night briefly put a dancing array of spots before her eyes.

After taking the pictures, she followed the footprints around the building to the large steel electrical structures behind the hut. The footprints stopped in the snow about five yards behind the hut. The snow was packed in front of a large, squat, cubicle transformer. The prints didn’t go any further, but followed the same way back out from the deep snow. The wearers of the Sorels had only been interested in the one piece of equipment that hummed in front of her now.

Her senses leaped to full alert. Lonnie froze in her tracks. She had the uncanny feeling that eyes were staring at her. Her hand slid to the pistol at her side. Her own eyes widened reflexively as they tried to take in all the available light, to find the source of her sudden wariness before it found her.

To her right, a flash of movement exploded from near the transformer box.

She whipped the 9mm Glock service automatic from the leather holster on her hip, and in one smooth motion, raised, aimed, and clicked off the safety. The Maglight’s beam illuminated figures moving fast across the substation grounds.

“Freeze!”

Two tall, thin snowshoe hares stopped in their tracks. White fur bristled all over their bodies, and their long ears poked straight up into the cold night air.

Lonnie felt heat flush over her face, and she was very happy that Bannock had not decided to accompany her to the substation. She shook her head at her own jittery behavior.

“Okay, Bugs Bunny and friend…carry on.”

The two hares watched her for a moment longer, then ducked under the fence and disappeared into the woods.

She ran the beam of the flashlight up the side of the structure where the footprints stopped. An area of frost had been disturbed on the steel casing inside, which buzzed a massive magnet wrapped in high-voltage copper coils. A twelve-by-twelve-inch square about five feet above the ground was discolored, slightly but noticeably in the beam of the Maglite. It looked like something hot had been pressed onto the metal, causing it to bake.

Toward the bottom of the transformer, the square edge of something metallic stuck up through the snow. She reached down and picked up a hollow metal box, about two inches thick and one square foot in size, with a sign plate on one side identifying the company that had manufactured the transformers. It fit the singed square spot on the side of the transformer. There were no screw holes or weld marks on either the box or the transformer. The panel seemed to have been attached by some sort of adhesive. The box Lonnie held in her hand was not discolored, as the transformer was.

She put the box back on the ground where it had been, then snapped several pictures of it, the transformer, and the square burned area. She made her way back to the cruiser outside the fence. Exhaust billowed from the rear of the car in a white cloud that stood out against the darkness.

It was 10:40. The Salt Jacket General Store closed at 11:00. Lonnie needed to get over there if she hoped to talk to Linus about what he had seen. She pushed the close button on the keypad at the gate, and the large metal fence slid itself shut. She lifted her car’s remote control from her jacket pocket and pressed the button with the padlock icon. The lights on the vehicle flashed in response, followed by the audible click of the locks releasing. She opened the cruiser door and climbed in. Lonnie took a deep breath of the warm interior air, gave one last looked around through the windshield, then picked up the radio handset and pressed the talk button.

“Dispatch, 7-23” she said into the microphone, then released the talk button.

“7-23, dispatch. Go ahead.”

“I’m en route to Salt Jacket General Store.”

“Copy, 7-23 en route to Salt Jacket General Store. Twenty-two forty-two.”

“7-23 out.”

“Dispatch out.”

She put the radio handset back in the clip on the dashboard, then put the car in reverse and pulled a backwards U-turn in the parking area. Once the vehicle faced Johnson Road, she put it in drive and moved out toward the Richardson Highway.

Ten minutes later Lonnie parked her cruiser in front of the Salt Jacket General Store. She got out of the car, pressing the record button of the digital recorder in her pocket as she moved. Her boots clomped noisily on the hollow wooden step in front of the door. Lonnie opened the door and went inside. The bell jangled the announcement of her entry.

Linus was leaning into a mop that he dragged from side to side over the floor at the far end of the store aisles. He turned around at the noise.

“Good evening, officer. You’re just in time. We close in five minutes.”

“I know, Linus. I’m here on business.” Trooper Wyatt removed her hat.

He straightened and squinted across the length of the building. “Lonnie?”

Linus stood the mop against a rack of shelving and moved
toward
her, wiping his hands on a clean white towel that hung out of his back pocket. “Lonnie Wyatt?” A welcoming smile spread across his face as he drew closer and verified that it really was her.

“Two members of the Wyatt clan in a single day. We really are lucky. I only just heard you were back. You’d been stationed in Galena until recently, right?”

“I was,” she replied. “I had put in for Fairbanks last year and finally got it two months ago.”

“Well, welcome home. It’s kind of weird that you drew patrol out here tonight. We were just talking about you a couple hours ago.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” He shifted his feet uncomfortably, realizing his mistake too late. “Marcus is back. He’s retired from the Marines.”

“That’s part of why I am here.” At the mention of his name, her stomach quivered. She found herself trying desperately to maintain a professional demeanor. “I need to talk to the two of you about some customers you had earlier this evening.”

“You mean the Tangos?” he replied.

“Tangos?”

“Tango. It’s what we called them in the Army. T for terrorist.”

“I see. Could you please tell me what happened, and how they interacted with you and Marcus?” She spoke with a cold voice that was all business. “By the way, I am recording this conversation.”

“Well, here’s the way I remember it.” He related to her the story of what happened and that Marcus had been able to understand what they said in Albanian.

Lonnie made a show of listening intently as he spoke. Behind her hard exterior, her thoughts dissolved into a scattered cacophony of memories as images of Marcus again poured into her mind. She barely heard Linus speak. She would have to rely heavily on the recording when she got back to the office.

“That’s all I have about them,” he said as the narrative ended.

“Thanks, Linus. Did Cara see them?”

“No. She was in the back with the kids.”

“All right, then, no need to bother her.”

“I assume you’ll want to talk to Marcus as well.”

“Yeah, I do. Where’s he staying?”

“Back at his granddad’s cabin. But I don’t think he’s home. While he was here earlier, he got a call from a friend in Moose Creek who was repairing his granddad’s old hunting rifle and made a trip out that way. That was about seven o’clock. He probably won’t be home till pretty late. The friend over there has a little brewery going, and Marcus is a stickler about not getting behind the wheel if he’s even smelled alcohol. Then he’s taking off into the bush early in the morning. He’ll be running a trap line for some Air Force friend of his who got a permit to trap along the back of the Eielson training area. It’s going to be at least Wednesday before he gets back, and that will be after two days and a night sleeping in the bush.”

“Does he have a cell phone?”

“Nope. He doesn’t even have electricity at his place.”

“If you see him, tell him a trooper will be contacting him when he gets back. Don’t mention me, because I don’t know if I’ll be the one to come back out.”

“I’ll pass the word,” Linus said. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

“I will.”

At that, she turned and walked out of the store. Her body grew tense as she climbed back into her cruiser. She made the trip to Marcus’s cabin and pulled into the driveway.

Memories flooded her mind when she saw the small log house. A wisp of smoke slowly curled up from the chimney, lit by the moon that peeked through the clouds. As a teenaged girl, she had fantasized about marrying Marcus and living in this tiny house in the woods. It had been their private hideaway as youths, a place where they planned and schemed and let their hearts indulge in one other’s dreams. Now as she looked at the squat structure, shadowy and dark, she hoped only to get out of here with that same heart still intact.

The house looked empty. It was nearly 11:30. A snowmobile sat parked beside the house, but there was no other vehicle. While he didn’t have a phone, she was sure he had a car. She got out of the warm police cruiser and walked to the door of the cabin.

Lonnie rapped loudly on the door with her gloved knuckles, but there was no response. She took out her Maglite and repeated the knock with its metal handle. After several seconds, there was still no movement in the house. In the center of the door was a small corkboard with half a dozen thumbtacks stuck randomly in it, Marcus’s low-tech version of an answering machine. She pulled a notepad and a felt-tip Sharpie pen from her pocket and scrawled a brief note.

Mr
.
Johnson
,

Please contact AST as soon as possible.

Re: suspects you encountered @ store 12/17

She didn’t sign it. Instead, she wrote the AST direct phone number on the bottom of the note, then tacked it to the corkboard and left.

1. Chapter 6
   

Flashback

Thursday, May 7th, 1998

Stonehouse Barracks

43 Commando

Her Majesty’s Royal Marine Corps

Plymouth Naval Base, England

“All right, you lot! On your feet!” bellowed Colour Sergeant Reggie Smoot in a thick Scots accent as he entered the NCO’s lounge room of the Royal Marines Stonehouse Barracks at Plymouth Naval Base. The sergeants and corporals of 43 Commando rose from their various leisurely activities as the Colour Sergeant continued. “This is Gunnery Sergeant Marcus Johnson, United States Marine Corps, 2nd Force Recon. He’s going to be with you all for the next twelve months on an exchange duty. He is a real Sea Daddy, with a dozen years in. He did a complete pass out of the Commando Course back in ’89. He earned a right to the Globe & Buster, so don’t give him no shite or you’ll get a beasting you won’t forget. Understood?”

“Yes sir!” came the stout reply from the twenty-some men in the room.

“Oh!” he added as an afterthought, “and don’t try to confuse him with none of that Eastender gash! He is also a linguist with about thousand languages in his noggin, and he just got back from Bosnia, serving alongside a bunch of hooligans from 3 SAS. You won’t get nothin’ by him!” He paused melodramatically, raised his eyebrows, and shouted, “Understood again?”

“Yes sir!” came the second stout reply, this time with a few grins.

“Good! Now get your arses over here and be sociable!”

The first man to approach Gunnery Sergeant Johnson was a tall, athletically trim man of about thirty, with sergeant’s stripes on his epaulets. He reached out his hand and spoke in a comfortable public-school accent. “Well, your experience with the SAS should certainly reduce the language barrier for us all. Last Yank we had in our midst spent the whole time scratching his head and saying ‘What the hell?’ every time we asked him a question. I’m Sergeant Barclay. You can call me Bill.”

“Great to meet you, Bill,” Marcus replied with a friendly smile. The others all streamed toward him with mostly warm and friendly handshakes and welcomes.

After brief introductions, CSGT Smoot called out, “All right, you lot! It’s closing time for duty! First round is on the new guy!”

Everyone smiled largely and clapped Marcus on the shoulders as they filed out the door into the hallway.

“Uh, was this something I was supposed to know about?” Johnson asked the colour sergeant.

“I dunno if you should’ve, but you do now. Tradition, you know!” He nudged the gunny in the ribs and said, “Best way to get to know these blokes is to take them to a pub and get pissed with them. In the morning at PT, everyone will have groggy, yet fond, memories of how great a mate you are, and all will be well.”

“I see,” Marcus answered. “The problem is, I haven’t had a chance to get any cash yet.”

“Not a problem there, mate!” The large Scot smiled. “The lovely Miss Alison at the Red Dog will more than willingly let you start a tab. Don’t worry—it won’t put you too far behind. Just a single round of ale is all you’re expected to cover. If they really want to get minged, they’ll have to pay for their own hangover.”

The Red Dog Public House, two blocks west of the main gate of the Plymouth Royal Navy Base, was a regular hangout for Royal Marines both current and former. Anyone was welcome, even civilians—as long, that is, as they said nothing derogatory or defaming about the Royal Marines and could tolerate the loud, crude humor of a hundred or more commandos whose spirits soared on beer and whisky.

A single round of drinks for the boys meant that Marcus bought the promised one pint of ale for everyone in the company who showed up that night—which, as it turned out, was all of the one hundred and twenty men of Mike Company, 43 Commando. At a cost of two British pounds a pint, $3.35 American, the tab grew considerable quite fast.

Near midnight, the company filed out, except for Johnson, Sergeant Barclay, and Colour Sergeant Smoot. The three of them sat at a table in the back of the pub and chatted over the vast commonalities they shared. Barclay, a single man who enlisted in the RMC the same year Marcus had in the USMC, had been in Norway at the same time as Marcus in the late eighties, and although they had never met while there, they did both know many of the same people and places.