Crossing Savage (14 page)

“Ortiz! Search the woodshed and the other outbuildings.”

“Yes, General.” Ortiz left for the woodshed located 50 feet to the left of the cabin. In addition to holding firewood, the shed housed the diesel generator and tools for cutting and splitting firewood. A large electrical cable connected the generator to a small service panel on the exterior wall of the cabin.

Ortiz searched the woodshed but did not find any weapons or, for that matter, anything of interest—only a stack of split firewood, a seven-kilowatt generator, some fuel cans, and hand tools. He turned his attention to the old outhouse. Upon opening the door, he was hit by the strong ammonia-like odor; it was empty save for two rolls of toilet paper.

Completing his circle around the cabin, he returned and reported to General Ramirez. “There are no other outbuildings. No weapons, other than two chain saws and three axes in the woodshed.”

“Are you sure, Ortiz?” asked Ramirez.

Ortiz understood the implications of that brief and simple question. The general would not tolerate any more mistakes. “Yes, sir.”

“Very good. And the root cellar?”

“The door is secured with a heavy steel bar and lock. We could probably shoot it off, or maybe the hinges.”

Ramirez thought about this but decided to reject the suggestion. It was very likely that the seismic charges and detonators were locked away in the cellar, since they had failed to find them elsewhere. But it was also highly probable that some of the bullets would pass all the way through the wooden door. He could not risk a stray bullet striking the detonators.

Professor Savage had regained his composure, even though his head hurt like hell. He still did not fully comprehend what was transpiring. “What do you want from us?” he asked.

“I want to know where you are keeping your seismic charges, Professor,” replied Ramirez.

The professor was jolted at how much these men knew about his team. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he lied. “Our objective is to gather geological specimens.”

“Come now, Professor. You must realize by now that I know very well what your mission is. You are conducting a series of seismic surveys of the underlying strata, in addition to collecting your specimens.

“Now, I will ask again, where are the explosives?”

Sato-san's face remained expressionless, hiding his growing fear. The students—Karen, Junichi, Daren, and Harry—were bordering on shock, having witnessed so much physical violence and murder.

Davis was regaining his strength. The swelling of his left eye had ceased; fortunately it had not swelled completely shut. He drew strength from his training—that and his determination to avenge the brutal murder of his partner and friend. He stayed close to Professor Savage—waiting, watching for an opening.

Professor Savage gritted his teeth. “I don't know what you are talking about. We don't have explosives.”

“Ortiz, Kwok, Smith. Did any of you find a crate of explosives during your searches?”

All three men shook their heads no. “No, General,” said Ortiz.

Ramirez was showing signs of losing his patience. He sighed deeply and walked up to Professor Savage, stopping inches away from him. He locked eyes with the professor, and neither man blinked. “I like to think I am a fair man. I know all about your mission here. I know you purchased 50 pounds of seismic charges; our agents in Anchorage confirmed this. Now, I want those explosives. I think they are in the cellar. Is that where they are?”

“You are nothing but a murdering bastard,” replied the professor.

“True, but beside the point,” said Ramirez. “Give me the key to the cellar.”

“You can go to hell.”

“Ortiz! Search the professor and the rest. Bring me their keys.”

Professor Savage handed his keys to Ortiz and then raised his hands as he was patted down. Davis, Professor Sato, and the students did the same.

Having quickly sorted out car keys, Ortiz was left with only six remaining keys that could possibly fit the lock on the cellar door. “Take these and see if one opens the lock,” ordered Ramirez.

Ortiz ran off and returned a minute later. “None of the keys fit the lock.”

Ramirez took another deep breath, exhaling slowly, still focused on Professor Savage. Then he turned and walked to where Karen Bailey was standing. As Ramirez approached, Karen looked to the ground as if ignoring his presence would make him go away. He stopped, and Karen began to cry.

With the Glock pistol in his right hand, Ramirez grabbed a handful of Karen's hair with his left hand. She winced in pain, but she still could not look at him. Again he spoke. “Perhaps the young lady knows where the key is hidden?” He continued to pull on her hair and she was twisting her head in response.

“I don't know anything,” she pleaded. “I'm just a student. I… I just joined the group. This is my first field expedition. Please… I don't know!”

Ramirez let her go. He moved to Junichi. “And you… you can tell me where the key is?”

Junichi was more terrified than he had ever been in his life. His mind was very close to locking up, and he was having difficulty translating the words from this terrible man. He stammered in very heavily accented and broken English, “I not work for Professor Savage. I work for Professor Sato. I am a mathematician. I have never been in cellar. I not know where key is!”

Ramirez decided to change tactics. He knew what method would give him the answers he wanted. It always did.

“Professor, I have tried to be reasonable and hoped you would cooperate, but you have refused. You leave me no choice but to present you with an ultimatum.”

“I told you, Ramirez, there are no explosives.”

“So you have.” Ramirez motioned to Smith with a quick flick of his hand. Smith responded with an evil smirk. “Unless you tell me where the key to the cellar is, I will have one member of your team shot every five minutes until they are all dead. Is that what you want, Professor?”

“You can't do that, Ramirez!”

“Oh, but I assure you I can… and I will. Where is the key?”

Professor Ian Savage had never come close to experiencing anything like this. He wanted to believe that this was all a hoax, but Murph was dead. It was real—far too real.

“I don't know where the key is. It may have been lost. I don't know,” he repeated quietly.

“Pity,” said Ramirez. “Mr. Smith. The marshal, please.”

“With pleasure!” replied Smith.

Professor Savage was desperate. He had no idea what Ramirez wanted with their seismic charges, but he knew it was not good. He was also certain that once the bargaining was over, he and his colleagues would be killed anyway. Their only hope, as slim as it was, was to stay alive and look for any opening, any chance that presented itself. He must prolong the negotiation with Ramirez.

“General, please… you must understand. Marshal Davis has nothing to do with this. If you are going to shoot someone, make it me. I am responsible here.”

“Yes, I know you are. And like any good leader, your death is meaningless to you. But you will find it uncomfortable to watch as my men execute your team members one by one. Especially since you know you can prevent it. Just tell me where the key is, and you and your team will be freed.”

“Even if I could tell you—and I can't—what guarantee do I have that you will honor your side of the bargain?”

Ramirez laughed. How could this man be so naïve? “Why, Professor, I offer no guarantee at all.”

And with that reply, Professor Savage knew they were all as good as dead.

“Last time, Professor. Where is the key to the cellar?”

Professor Savage did not answer. He continued to glare at Ramirez, wishing with all his might and soul that he could somehow stop this mad man.

“Mr. Smith. Shoot the marshal.” Ramirez had again locked eyes with the professor, looking for some hint of a reaction. What he saw was a mix of fear and loathing.

“Wait! Okay, I'll tell you where the key is.” Professor Savage was defeated. He couldn't resist any longer.

“Please, Professor, continue. I am, as you Americans say, all ears.”

“It's behind the left shutter at the front window.”

“Ortiz,” commanded Ramirez, and his soldier trotted off, like a well-trained bird dog.

The cabin was built with external shutters that could be folded over the windows. The shutters were stoutly made—heavy wood planks secured with steel straps—to keep bears from breaking in, searching for food when the cabin was vacant. Now, with the cabin temporarily occupied, the shutters were swung open and fastened to the wall. Ortiz ran his hand along the lower edge of the left shutter and soon found the magnetic key box fastened to the steel strap, which he promptly delivered to Ramirez.

Upon opening the box, Ramirez removed a brass key. It was shiny, not a spot of tarnish, and had traces of graphite lubricant, suggesting that the key was new and mated to a well-maintained lock.

“I trust the explosives are in the root cellar?” prodded Ramirez with his attention directed at Professor Savage.

The professor nodded in silence. He had been beaten and was filled with despair. The key had been his only bargaining chip, and he had just lost it.

“Where in the cellar? I am through playing games.” Ramirez had an edge to his voice, his patience drawn razor thin.

“In the big red locker labeled ‘Danger—Explosives',” replied the professor bitterly.

“Henri, check it out.”

Henri took the key. The lock opened easily and he entered the root cellar. He was only in there for two minutes, and then he reemerged. Reporting to Ramirez, he shook his head. “The steel locker is there as he said, but it's empty.”

Professor Savage couldn't believe what he just heard. “That's impossible. That locker was packed with 50 pounds of seismic charges. I locked it myself!”

“You think I am a fool? Very well, Professor.” Ramirez then turned to Smith. “Shoot the marshal, Mr. Smith.”

Brad Smith smiled and leaned close, his foul breath washing over Davis. In a low, menacing voice he said, “First your boyfriend, and now you. It's not often I get to waste two marshals before lunch. It must be my lucky day.”

He was slowly applying pressure to the trigger, the gun tight against Davis's head. Professor Savage didn't know what to do. His mind was racing. Everything dissolved into slow motion.

Then, suddenly, a sharp explosion—the crack of a gunshot.

Professor Savage nearly collapsed. My God, he thought, I've let them kill Davis
.

Chapter 12

September 26

Chernabura Island, West Side

Earlier that Morning

Peter awoke to his alarm at 3:30 A.M
. He liked to be out of the cabin and into position at least an hour before sunrise on a hunting day. Leaving that early allowed him to move quickly, without concern for spooking game. Upon reaching the location of his stand, he would have plenty of time to settle in and get comfortable well before there was sufficient shooting light.

In the dim light of a battery-powered lamp, Peter began dressing in layers, taking care not to wake his father, who was snoring in the adjacent bunk. The outermost layer was printed in a woodland camouflage, which made him almost completely invisible in the forest. He stashed a pair of rolled-up lightweight rain pants in one of the cargo pockets of his camo pants. Although it was not too cold yet, the weather could change quickly and bring a driving, frigid rain.

Peter stepped out of the bunkroom without a sound, softly closing the door before entering the kitchen.

“Heading out early?” whispered Davis as Peter quietly prepared a cup of coffee, not wanting to disturb the other marshal sleeping on the sofa.

“I have some distance to cover and want to get there well before sunrise.”

Davis nodded as Peter proceeded to load his pack. In one compartment he placed dry salami, dried fruit, jerky, and cheese. In another, he stuffed two water bottles. Then came the compact 60 power spotting scope, extra batteries, and his survival essentials. He was very much at ease in the forest, and he could easily stay out a few nights.

Not that he expected to need it, but he also stuffed extra ammunition in a separate pocket—a cheap insurance policy—if you have it, you won't need it. But in an emergency, it could mean the difference between life and death. Many an injured hunter had summoned help through the repeated firing of three successive shots to attract the attention of others in the area.

But however familiar the morning routine was, Peter was not preparing for a normal fall hunt—not this time. The car chase and shoot-out in Oregon had convinced him that his father's life was truly in danger. And although Peter believed the two U.S. marshals were capable law enforcement officers, he wasn't sure that he would feel comfortable even if a Marine force-recon platoon was protecting his father and his colleagues.

Hoisting his pack on his left shoulder, Peter grabbed his rifle and shotgun, and went to sit on the front porch. As he was walking out the door, Davis seemed to sense Peter's concerned attitude. “What's the scattergun for?”

Looking back over his shoulder, Peter answered, “Backup.”

“You know, I don't buy your excuse that you're here to hunt bears.”

Peter didn't take the bait—he just stared blankly at Davis.

“Just don't do anything stupid. Let Murph and me do our jobs. I know what happened back in Oregon, and if a situation arises here we can take care of it—we've got the training and the experience. Okay?”

Peter didn't find any comfort in Davis's words. He nodded politely and then closed the door, leaning the rifle and shotgun against the log wall. Davis didn't follow him to the porch.

As Peter drank his coffee, his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and his body adjusted to the cold temperature. Binoculars hung from a harness around his neck. Part of the morning coffee ritual on the porch was to allow the optics—both the riflescope and binoculars—to equilibrate with the cool air temperature.

His favorite rifle was leaning against the log wall of the cabin—a 340 Weatherby topped by a Leupold VX-III scope. Peter had used this rifle and scope combination often, and he shot it well. The powerful, high-velocity cartridges with heavy bullets were ample medicine for big bears, even from a distance.

A Mossberg 12-gauge riot gun was his secondary weapon. Wishing to carry as much firepower as possible, Peter removed a holstered .44 caliber Ruger Super Blackhawk revolver from his pack and strapped it to his right thigh. Generation III night-vision goggles completed his outfit. These allowed him to negotiate the terrain quickly as he made his way through the forest.

He finished his coffee, set the cup down on the table next to his chair, and stood to stretch. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the crisp, fresh air. Placing a dirt-brown Stetson brimmed hat on his head, Peter left the cabin behind and began his hike. His ultimate destination was to the southeast, but this morning he elected to take a circuitous path to get there.

Traveling through the forest quickly but quietly, Peter hiked to the northeast until he arrived at the gravel beach, and then turned toward the south. He wasn't searching for anything specific, just looking for anything out of the ordinary—his instincts told him to be cautious and wary. He continued moving south, staying at the transition edge between beach and forest for about a quarter mile when he arrived at a fallen old-growth tree. The root system was plainly visible and massive.

Peter would have kept hiking, keeping up the pace, but off to the side, hidden in brush, he saw what he had feared. A chill ran down his back, and Peter turned and immediately began jogging back to the cabin.

Without resting, it took him close to 30 minutes to get back to his hunting lodge. Peter was winded and sweating, but he had no time to waste. Removing a key from his pocket, he entered the cellar and quickly found what he had come for, stuffing it into an overloaded backpack. To make room, he took out everything save one water bottle and the spotting scope. On his way out, he grabbed an extra box of rifle ammunition from a shelf by the cellar door, then he secured the lock and returned the key to his pocket. With sunrise rapidly approaching, Peter entered the forest again, but this time he was moving quickly toward his destination.

Peter wanted to be away from the cabin, positioned at a secluded hide roughly 1,000 yards from the log structure and backed up against the short range of mountains to the south and east. The hide—a jumble of fallen trees, scrub pine, and manzanita bushes—would provide seclusion from curious eyes. Peter also wanted the rising sun behind him as he kept an eye on the cabin. From this position he could set up his spotting scope and there would be no glare, while anyone looking from the west toward his position would be looking into the sun.

If his worst fears materialized, he could offer more support to Murph and Davis from outside the cabin, where he could use the familiar forest and terrain to his advantage. And if he was wrong, if his instincts were off mark… well, then he'd just watch another peaceful sunrise.

About a half hour before sunrise, Peter arrived at the hide, winded and sweating, his clothing damp from perspiration. As he settled in, he removed the spotting scope from his pack and set it up on a fallen log, aiming the scope in the direction of the cabin. He unzipped his parka to cool down and removed the binoculars so they too were ready for use.

He planned to sit tight and watch the cabin as the sun rose. He knew Troy Davis was planning to take the first watch this morning while Murph remained at the cabin with the team as they assembled to go into the field. Murph and Davis would then split up, and one marshal would accompany each of the two groups. Peter planned to shadow his father's group all day—staying close but out of sight at all times.

For now, Peter had a comfortable seat leaning against a large pine tree. He left the shotgun slung over his shoulder but cradled his rifle on his lap and settled in. The sun rose on another beautiful day, displacing the gray horizon with a reddish hue which, in quick succession, gave way to golden rays of sunlight. The commencement of dawn brought the chatter of squirrels announcing their territorial claim. This was soon followed by birds chirping and the rapid tapping of flickers and woodpeckers digging into tree bark for beetles and grubs. The air was still, heavily scented with pine and a pervasive musty smell of earth and decaying wood.

Peter especially loved sunrise with its tranquility and promise for a new beginning. But this morning was different. Instead of calm, he was inexplicably filled with dread.

With the start of dawn, Peter was able to focus the spotting scope on the cabin. At 60-power magnification, he could clearly see details as small as the hinges on the door. The Leica rangefinder binoculars were more comfortable for long-term glassing, so he left the spotting scope alone after getting it set up. Every ten minutes or so he would lower the binoculars and scan more broadly while resting his eyes from the strain of focusing through his optics.

A large grassy meadow opened up in front of him. The cabin on the far side of the meadow was just inside the tree line. In the meadow were a few scattered trees, clumps of manzanita, and an occasional large boulder; sometimes granite but mostly basalt. He was in a good position to observe the approach to the cabin.

Peter was glassing the cabin through his binoculars when Brad Smith casually strolled across the grassy meadow toward the cabin. Peter immediately leaned forward, his heart beating faster. This was very odd. Only rarely had he encountered other hunters or fishermen on the island. It was simply too far away from Sand Point, and the island was too small to attract much attention. He let the binoculars hang around his neck and moved to the spotting scope so he could make out more detail.

He intently watched the blond man walk up to the front door, making no effort at all to conceal his approach. He was wearing jeans and a light jacket, but strangely, no rifle and no fishing gear. Peter turned his attention to the perimeter of the cabin.
Is there anyone else? Could this be a trap?
His pulse quickened and his breathing became shallow and rapid. He willed himself to take a deep breath and relax.

The door opened, and he saw Murph standing there. Through the high magnification of the spotting scope, he could see the visitor's head moving like he was talking. Murph was looking at the man and did not seem to be concerned. Murph's sidearm was still in its holster.

Maybe this is just a lost hunter
?

Just as that thought was passing through Peter's mind, he saw the visitor smoothly move his right hand to the small of his back. He wrapped his hand around a pistol, pushed the gun against Murph's chest, and fired. Peter clearly saw the look of surprise and disbelief on Murph's face in the instant before he fell to the floor. About three seconds later the muffled report of the shot reached Peter.

He was already in motion when he heard the shot. Leaving the spotting scope on the log, he jumped to his feet and was running toward the cabin, using vegetation and terrain as cover, rifle in hand. He needed to get to the cabin quickly, but his advantage lay in the element of surprise. Hopefully Davis would be reacting and have this blond nut-case down.

But Peter knew that there was more to it. And now he also knew that his discovery just a couple hours ago had ominous meaning. This was the opening move in an attack on the team of scientists—and his father.

He had covered maybe 100 yards. Breathing hard, Peter stopped behind a clump of manzanita bushes about four feet high. He pulled up his binoculars, drawing in deep breaths as he tried to slow his racing heart. It was hard to hold the binoculars steady, but he managed to see one man clad completely in black fatigues holding a gun and standing on the porch. He was moving his head from side to side—scanning for something.

Probably making sure they're secure
.

How many men were there, and did they know Peter was out in the forest?

He pressed the button on his rangefinder binoculars that fired an invisible infrared laser beam. It was aimed at the front wall of the cabin and immediately a digital number appeared superimposed on the magnified image in the binoculars—780 yards to the cabin. He had to get closer.

Up again and moving fast in a low crouch, Peter continued his zigzag path using any cover he could. Every 50 to 80 yards he would stop to catch his breath and glass the cabin, ranging the distance at the same time.

The black-clad man on the porch remained on post. Peter couldn't tell what was going on inside the cabin. He continued to close the gap. But as he did so, the risk that he would be seen or heard increased. Peter drew on all his skills and experience as a hunter to stalk closer.

He made it to a shallow dry creek bed that served as the overflow channel from the larger of the two fresh-water lakes in the valley. Moving along the dry creek bed in a crouch so low he had to place his left hand on the ground for balance, he continued to advance on the cabin. Only now he had to stop often because of the muscle strain from scurrying in this awkward, almost crab-like crouch.

Peter stopped to rest for a moment. His back was burning from bending over, and his leg muscles were beginning to cramp up. He lay just below the rim of the creek bed and raised the glasses. The range read 393 yards. He could make out several people through a large window—his father's students—sitting around the kitchen table.

That's a good sign
.

The dry creek bed would bring him closer to the cabin but then it angled away. He planned to follow the depression to the closest point.? He didn't know. And then what

Painfully, Peter resumed his crab-like scurrying, staying low, below the ridge of the dry creek bed. Carefully placing his feet and one hand on the loose rocks so as not to make an alarming noise, he kept moving, holding his rifle in his right hand. He had to get closer.

Then Peter's fortune took a turn for the worse.

The creek bed widened and at the same time became shallower—much shallower. The bank was very low here, only twelve inches. If Peter was going to use this for cover, it would be risky, and he would have to crawl slowly on his belly to avoid detection. There wasn't time for that sort of approach. Looking cautiously over the bank, he spotted a stump surrounded by several manzanita bushes in front and to the right. Not a lot, maybe five or six bushes two to three feet tall. The stump was from a small tree, probably a foot or so in diameter. It may have been one of the trees originally cut down for building the cabin.