Chapter 22

CHUCK – DAY 15 – Monday - Seattle and the North Cascades National Park

Last night, Lisa and I were having a last beer in the nearby bar when to our surprise, our old friend and Senior Deputy Marshal colleague, Sam Nightfox walked in.

His face was gray and drawn, and he didn't say anything until he'd swallowed half the long neck I put in front of him.

"I hoped I'd find the two of you here," he remarked.

"Why?" Lisa asked.

"Someone is killing Deputies," he replied.

"I'm up here with the Strike Team on another anti-terrorist operation, but this thing worries me even more."

He took a further pull on his beer, and I signaled for another.

"Two days ago, one of our longer serving Deputies, Stuart Burt, was found shot in his car outside his apartment," he explained. "Then yesterday another Deputy, Dick Taylor, was discovered by some kids with a bullet through his head. He'd apparently been on his way home when it happened. The Station was alerted when his wife called to ask where he was – they were supposed to be going out to celebrate their wedding anniversary."

"That's not good," I remarked, "But are you still having terrorist problems up here? I thought we got all that sorted out last year."

Sam shook his head as if to clear some cobwebs, but he was one of the clearest thinking men I knew – it was proof of how worried he was.

He glanced round, checking that we couldn't be overheard, and gestured for us to pull our chairs up closer.

"I need to give you some background," he began. "Earlier this year, our Special Forces carried out a deep penetration raid on an Al Qaeda training base deep in the Somali mountains. The Arabs never expected this to happen, and we were lucky to catch them completely by surprise. They fought to the last man, but our men managed to wipe them all out. We even got three of their top men who Intel had placed up in the Karakoram Mountains.

"The important thing is that we found a bulletin board with a complete rogue's gallery of photos of both the staff and the trainees in their headquarters hut. But when we did a body count and matched faces with the photos, we were missing sixteen men; two instructors and those we believed to be in the class that had just graduated. There were no clues as to where they had gone.

"Since then, everyone has been anxiously waiting for any hint as to where they might be heading. There were indications that it might be North America, but that was all."

He paused to take another sip from his beer.

"I also must tell you about something else that was thought to be entirely separate, and that has only become part of this operation in the last couple of days.

"The radar operators out at the Lewis-McChord joint military base just down the road from here have been getting some unusual interference on their screens for the past few weeks. This one signal only occurs twice a week, and is spread over a period of about 30 seconds. Anyway, one day, one of the operators started playing with the signal recordings, and decided to try to slow them down. It was actually similar to a transponder squawk, but was a regular message speeded up into a quick sound burst. All it said was "Ready, Ready" repeated over and over again in Arabic.

"After that, the Intel operators have monitored the frequency 24/7 and have been unable to get a fix on the transmitter's location, except to say that it could be anywhere within 200 miles of the base. Anyway, they had no luck until three days ago, when they recorded an apparent reply. The analysts decided that it was in an obscure Arabic tribal dialect, with a number of obvious code words, but the last few words were in clear "Praise Allah. Your turn comes."

Lisa looked at me rather confused but before she could speak, Sam held his hand up.

"No, wait. Hear me out.

"We've known ever since we wiped out those Golden Gate raiders that they still favor the Washington State forests as an entry point to the West Coast. The Canadians are not happy about this and the RCMP provincial police in BC are closely cooperating with us. We've distributed copies of the Somali photos to law enforcement agencies on both sides of the border, and we got lucky two days ago. An RCMP patrol out of Hope, BC, traveling south along the road into the Skagit Valley, saw two Middle-Eastern looking men acting suspiciously about ten miles from the border. They ducked back under cover, but the policeman got a good look at one of their faces and being sure this was one of those on the station bulletin board, he called for backup. They set up a checkpoint, and reported that they were being watched.

"The DC Strike Team was due for more field training as most of the experienced men have been rotated out, so I brought them up here. I got them dropped in to the Hozomeen Ranger Station up by the border using Army Black Hawks from Fort Lewis. Just before I left the station this evening, the leader reported that he was pretty sure they were in time, as there was an observer over on the Canadian side. The RCMP team had withdrawn, but there were a lot of tourists around. He was going to spread his men across to the shore of Lake Ross, and try to force the terrorists across to the other side which was clear of vacationers. I'd gotten the Army to drop some men over there, so he thought they were well prepared."

Just then Sam's cell called, and he had to go outside to take the call.

"I wonder how he wants us to help," Lisa remarked.

"I suppose we could try reviewing the case files the two dead Deputies had worked on together," I replied, "But they must already have someone doing that."

I saw Sam returning, staring at his silent cell phone as he came.

"That was the Station Chief," he told us, "He thinks the murdered Deputies case has been solved. Dick Taylor's wife walked into their local police station an hour ago, and has apparently confessed to killing him. The detective who interviewed her says she claims that Burt had raped her. I'm told that he thought he was a real ladies man; then she shot her husband because he refused to believe her or do anything about it. What a messy situation.

"But our other case seems to be getting worse by the minute. We set up a series of patrols along Route 20 through the park using over-flights by the State Patrol's FLIR equipped Cessna 206s. The last one this evening has just reported that they surprised a group of about five men on the road between the Diablo and Ross Lake overlooks. They bolted across into cover, but the observer says that they were clearly armed and carrying heavy packs. It was well after dark, but he was able to see them clearly using the aircraft's infrared equipment. Following their orders, the crew continued straight ahead as if they hadn't seen anything and immediately reported in when they were back in radio range of their base."

Sam took a map out of his pocket, showing the Cascades National Park in great detail.

"We have to assume that this is another group, probably from that Somali base," he remarked. "The Patrol suggests that this party probably crossed the Ross Dam soon after dusk, as they were right here." He pointed to a place on the map. "The Ruby Mountain area south of the road looks good for a hideout."

He paused, deep in thought, and we let him think the problem through.

"What worries me is that there currently are only two men on the Strike Team with combat experience," he mused, half to himself. "We need more men anyway.

"Your NSA teams are still in Tampa, aren't they?" Sam asked.

I nodded.

"I think we could use your dogs too. There hasn't been any rain in the park for three days, so they can hopefully track this second party into the forest away from the road. Is it possible to get them all up here in time to start first thing in the morning?"

It should be possible, I thought, looking at my watch, but I couldn't get any answer from Buster's cell. Steve called Hap's night duty supervisor in the trailer park and Buster called me ten minutes later.

He said that he could get the whole team in the air within the hour, but they would have to stop in San Antonio to pick up the dog teams on the way since they hadn't left Lackland AFB yet. He figured that the combined distance was about 2,750 miles, but they still should be with us around 0530 Seattle local time. I told him to go for it.

Sam woke us up at 0400, and the car he'd arranged took us to our 737 at Tacoma Narrows first, so that Lisa and I could get our equipment and change into our dark gray combat suits and protective vests. We were on the apron at McChord when Buster's aircraft landed. I was surprised that he wasn't one of the pilots, but agreed with his reasoning; he was now free to leave as soon as his men deplaned.

The twenty-four NSA men were the first ones off, all dressed in the same dark gray that Lisa and I were wearing. They had their duffle bags and weapons cases with them. They were followed by someone I was not expecting; Siggy Haraldsen, but who better to lead the dog teams, I thought to myself. Next were the twelve dog handlers and their animals, whose gleaming coats looked magnificent. They quickly divided into teams of threes.

An Army Captain led us into a large crew room, and the men all left their bags and the equipment they wouldn't need in an Army truck.

When everyone was settled, Sam called for their attention. He quickly introduced himself, ran through all the details of what was happening, and why they were here. Then he turned to me.

"They are your men," he said, "So give them their orders."

But we were interrupted before I could begin. The door behind me opened and a three-star Army General entered, accompanied by three other officers, one of whom wore the distinctive Ranger beret.

Sam went over to talk to them, and he waved me over after a couple of minutes. The General shook hands with both of us.

"If either of you needs anything, let me know," he told us. "I've put Capt. Dickson of the 2^nd/75th and his Ranger Company under your command until further notice."

Then he was gone. The Captain saluted, and shook both our hands with a smile. He didn't say anything, so I turned to the job at hand.

"OK," I began, "I didn't expect that we would be officially activated so soon, but I want to welcome you dog handlers. This is an operation where you and your animals will almost certainly play an important role.

"We will be dropped off in three groups along the road here by Army UH-60 Black Hawks. The first group, composed of Bill Hammond's number two team and three dog handlers, will land by the Diablo Lake overlook. They will work their way east along the south side of the road searching for signs of the terrorists. Wim Maazell's number three team, with another three K-9s, will be dropped off at the Ross Lake overlook and work their way back westward towards the place opposite the dam where the rest of us will be landing. If either of these two groups comes across any traces, they are to follow them up; however the odds are that the center group will find the trail of the known terrorist group, and you will then follow us into the forest, acting as rear guard. Be alert at all times.

"It is important that nobody alarms the opposition until we have found their base, but when we do, you are not to risk taking casualties. If anyone has a drawn weapon, you are to use headshots whenever possible."

When I said that, I felt Capt. Dickson stiffen. I guess he had never heard shoot-to-kill orders given so explicitly.

Nobody had any questions, so we filed out to the helicopters that would deliver us to our destination.

Fifty minutes later, we were being dropped to the north of route 20, close to the dam.

I sent Siggy with two dog teams across the road to see what they could find, and he very shortly waved to me to join him and the obviously excited dogs.

"We're in luck," he told me, "A party carrying explosives crossed here and after apparently milling around in that area there, they headed out into the trees on a bearing close to 180 degrees."

I told him to lead with one dog team, and the rest of us followed. Lisa and I stayed about twenty yards behind Jackie Faulkner and her all-female number one team who were on the point.

We had hardly gone a mile when Maazell reported that they were turning into the forest to follow us, but this was shortly followed by a message from our other team saying that their dogs had found a trail and that they were going into the forest to follow it up. Hammond said that this was about half a mile west of the place where we'd been dropped. I debated about putting a patrol out in that direction, but decided not to. Luckily, I was to be proven right.

Our direction soon changed so that we were traveling more to the west, and had covered a distance of about three miles when we found Jackie and Siggy waiting for us

"We can hear the noise of a river up ahead," she told us. "There is nothing marked on the map, but the dogs are really restless, and the senior handler says he thinks our quarry is close, maybe only a hundred yards away."

Lisa and I looked at our map. There wasn't any river marked on it either. The one that fed the southern part of Diablo Lake must be well off to our right, since we hadn't reached the trail that ran along it to the south, or the one that branched off and climbed up to Fourth of July Pass.

At that moment, a dog handler came back and started whispering in Siggy's ear. He turned to me.

"This man's dog is one of the explosive sniffers," he told us. "The animal is getting excited, and he thinks that there may be a cache of explosives quite close over there on the right."

I called Baker and his number four team over, and told him to go with the handler and investigate. We all waited for them to report back, and I took the opportunity to wet my mouth from my water bottle.

Baker returned by himself twenty minutes later, looking pleased. He reported that there was a cave full of explosives about a hundred yards away, along with small arms, a lot of ammunition, and even a big 3" mortar like the British weapon they had trained with out on the USAF ranges near Tampa. The handler added that he was sure that nobody had visited the place for a few days.

While we were digesting this information, Jackie Faulkner came back with the news that we had almost certainly located the terrorists' hideout.

The river we could hear widened out just below and about 120 yards away from where we were. There was an island covered with aspen and scrub oaks mid-stream, and someone had built a 30 foot long log and plank bridge across the current to provide access. She had seen a couple of strings of demolition charges on the supports, and there was some wire running from them back to the island. It also looked as if the middle plank could be pulled back like a drawbridge. All was quiet; if they had sentries, she couldn't see them.

Buster then came up to tell us that the other two teams had joined our group. Hammond said that the trail he'd been following merged with ours about 400 yards back. I figured that we had at least ten Al Qaeda terrorists to deal with, and they were probably all on this island.

I went forward to scout our objective with Lisa and Buster.

It was immediately obvious that any attempt to swim across was out; it would clearly be suicidal since the current was really fast and a lot of rocks betrayed their presence by throwing spray up. An approach by air or across the narrow bridge was also impossible unless we could cause a major diversion.

"Were there any smoke bombs with that mortar in the weapons cache?" I asked.

Jackie went to check, but she was soon back with the news that the only shells there were high explosive, and there was twenty-five of those.

"Couldn't we set the mortar up back in the clearing over there, then lob some shells over on one end of the island," she asked.

We discussed this, but since none of us could see any alternatives, I told her to go ahead.

The heavy base-plate was positioned first; below a clear piece of sky. Nobody wanted our first shell to hit a branch and explode just over our heads. The barrel was positioned next, pointing up in the air, and the other piece, a support with adjustable legs and an aiming telescope, was used to prop up and position the barrel.

It wasn't long before the women's team leader reported that they were ready, but I first had Buster line the bank with three teams, leaving the fifth and the dogs behind to watch our backs.

I told Jackie to try and drop three shells, or bombs, as I remembered to call them, over on the left side of the island. After trying to measure the range by eye, she set it on the sights, and one of her team dropped the first bomb down the barrel. They all ducked like in the best war films.

The mortar gave a "cough" as it fired, and it seemed ages before we heard the explosion and saw a column of water rise in the air above the trees.

"Over," I muttered.

There was no obvious reaction from the island, but when the next bomb exploded among the trees, the place came alive with men, clearly unsure about what was happening.

None of my men fired, despite the many targets, but the third bomb changed everything.

There was a flash and a really big explosion that rained wood and rock chippings down on us all. When I could clear my head, I looked up to see the whole island was desolate and looked like a World War One battlefield. There was silence everywhere, except for the crackle of burning wood. What on earth had happened, I wondered, but then it came to me. The recent arrivals, the fools, must have taken the explosives they carried directly to the island and our third shell had ignited them.

"See if we have any casualties," I instructed Buster.

While he was doing this, Lisa, who was still covered in mud like the rest of us, gingerly got to her feet and walked over to the bridge, which by some miracle, was still standing. Jackie and her team moved up to cover her with their MP-5s, and I somehow watched her slowly cross over without yelling at her not to do such a stupid thing.

But nothing happened and she was soon walking around poking at things with a large stick she'd picked up. It wasn't long before she returned to the bridge, and after freeing the two strings of explosives that had miraculously not exploded with everything else, she returned to our side of the river and sent Team One across to thoroughly check the island out.

"There's nobody alive over there," she told me.

Buster then came back to assure me, that while just about all our men who had lined the river bank had cuts and bruises, those were the extent of our casualties; that was a great relief.

I radioed Sam with the news, and he was overhead in a helicopter, followed by three others loaded with Rangers, twenty minutes later.

"Let the Rangers take over here," Sam told me, after I had reported what had happened. "You can use these Black Hawks to get you all back to Seattle; there's nothing more for you to do here."

I looked at him, but he went on before I could ask.

"I sent three squads of Rangers up to the border to reinforce the strike team, but they only got there in time to mop up. The third Al Qaeda team tried to force their way through on the western side of the lake as expected, and were completely wiped out, although we have three men who were wounded.

"I know the Marshal will personally be thanking you, but I want to say that my confidence in you and your men has been totally justified. Thank you."

Lisa had been taking Capt. Dickson around, showing him and his Sergeant the weapons cache and the island. When they got back, I thought the Captain looked a little green.

"What do we do about cleaning up the mess over there?" Lisa asked. "We can't just leave it to the bears. I think we need some Secret Service cleanup squads."

"Yes, that's a good idea," I replied, and turned to Sam. "Do you want to call it in, or shall I?"

"I think that's my job," Sam said. "Did you really do this without any of your men firing a shot? Remarkable! Go on, get your men back to Fort Lewis for some R&R; they deserve it and thank you again."

Back at Joint Base Fort Lewis-McChord, Buster canvassed the men to see who wanted to have a meal, then sleep on the aircraft that would take them to their permanent locations. The LA team (Silvio Bargoni's #5) would deplane at The Junction, then be flown over to LAWest in one of Mac's helicopters. The Hawaiian team (Bill Hammond's #2), with the attached dog teams, would come on the aircraft with us when we flew there tomorrow. Lisa arranged some rooms at Dewey's hotel for them.

"They have all done a good job," I told Buster, before he boarded the aircraft. "However, you'd better get your dog handlers properly armed like the Guard Force men they will be operating with, but give them MP-5s rather than M-16s."

Lisa and I were also going to the hotel to get a few hours of sleep before catching up with what the others had been doing. I quickly called Steve's cell to let him know what had been happening and that we would meet them for an early supper...

STEVE – Seattle

It was a fine morning when we got up, and I was anxious to see that Dewey was properly set up in his new aircraft adventure before we all left for Hawaii.

There was a message from Chuck waiting for me at the desk. It said that he and Lisa were off on their government business, and that I should get everything cleared up so that we were ready to leave when they got back. He would go along with what I decided.

Jimmy and Joy wanted to spend more time checking maintenance schedules in the Masterton hangars, so I got Dewey and Jennie, and we all took a Suburban taxi over to Tacoma Narrows.

Jennie had her laptop with the special software with her, and she was soon busy loading data from Oleg's records, while the three of us talked about the current conditions in the industry.

"I've loaded all the data from here, as well as an update from the Cray in Tampa," Jennie soon announced. "It looked interesting even before I put in the lower fuel prices."

She showed us some printouts that had Oleg practically speechless.

"I heard you talking about the local prospects, but the computer has some suggestions for you to consider," she went on. "First, you should buy two rebuilt Hueys to do the medium-lift work in support of your Skycrane. There is clearly a good local market for these services.

"Second, you could approach the logging companies, and any others who have to patrol the forests, like the electric power people and the Fire Services; you could offer either a backup service, or to take over and run their existing helicopters.

"Third, you should get the firefighting conversion for your Skycrane and the proposed Hueys and bid for the many Government and State contracts that are available. This really looks like a promising area for you to pursue.

"Fourth, the computer suggests that it would be worth canvassing all the small airfields around, even those in the adjourning states, to see what helicopter services might be provided locally. It says here that committing an aircraft for a few hours a week at each location might be both profitable and really good publicity."

She sat back, leaving the rest of us to wonder what else this software could do.

As she was printing this extra list out, I saw Bill looking thoughtful, then get his cell out and talk to someone called Gunter, about some internet ads for post-1945 vintage aircraft. Aah, Star's new Aviation Museum, I thought.

Just then, Bill Masterton poked his head round the door to ask when we were coming over to see him.

Oleg clearly wanted to study Jennie's new recommendations, but he came with us.

As we crossed to Bill's office, a helicopter landed nearby and Joe O'Connor climbed out.

"Can I join you?" He asked, "There's a lot to discuss."

Oleg almost immediately waved his printouts in Joe's face as he told him and Bill about what Jennie had proposed. She looked smug, then turned to wave at an old Honda that a woman was driving towards us. After the car parked beside Bill's hangar, the driver got out and she and Jennie hugged.

"This is my friend and old rival, Susie Billington, from the charter agency where I used to work. They tried to get her to sign an exclusive contract after I left, and when I called her earlier today, she called in sick and here she is. She'd make a good charter manager for your new company, Dewey."

Dewey looked interested, and Oleg greeted Susie like an old friend and immediately started telling her about his new super rotary operation.

When we were all seated in Bill Masterton's conference room and had been served coffee, Dewey and Oleg promptly asked Jennie to load the data for the fixed-wing freight operation. This she proceeded to do, but kept asking Susie questions as she did so. Susie's face looked awestruck when Jennie entered the new fuel prices, and she gasped when she saw the bottom line. Billie Masterton did too, when he looked at the printouts of the results.

"So," Dewey asked, "What conclusions does the computer have now?"

He had to wait until the laptop communicated with the big Cray again.

"Actually, there are only three," Jennie began. "It recommends that you extend your regular feeder service into Montana, Oregon, and British Colombia.

"Second, that you try and undercut Larry Jones on all his freight services; that's interesting. Did you realize how slim his margins are, Susie? This thing is encouraging us to try and push him out of business."

Her friend shook her head, looking a bit bemused.

"But this third recommendation is the interesting one. Given our new operating margins, we should try underbidding on all the package feeder operations into Seattle and Vancouver, but it says to ignore the FedEx operations; I wonder why that is."

"I can answer that one."

Bill Bates had been quietly sitting in a corner, taking everything in.

"A friend of mine is a minority owner in a FedEx feeder. FedEx supplies the aircraft for the feeder operators; they are really locked in."

As the others digested Jennie's latest results, Joe O'Connor went to look over her shoulder.

"If I get my CFO to fax my latest operating statements to you here, can you do the same thing for my airline?" he asked.

She smiled and nodded, and I decided that these results might be even more extraordinary than those we'd already seen.

Joe's accountant was quick in sending the figures, and in no time, Jennie was accessing the Tampa Cray once more.

"OK," she began, "Here are the revised operating statements for the last six months, assuming the new fuel prices were in place all along."

The printer started spitting pages out, which were grabbed as soon as each one hit the tray.

Joe looked very thoughtful as he studied his.

"What are the recommendations," Dewey wanted to know. Jennie was staring at her screen where a new message had appeared.

"The Cray has sent a follow-up message," she announced, "It says that Jerry Kuntz may be open to offers."

She looked at Oleg.

"Jerry's got what? A Beech Jet, two Cessna Mustangs, and three Pipers - two Meridians and an Arrow, I think."

"Go and talk to him tomorrow, Oleg," Dewey told him. "Now, what are the recommendations for WashingtonAir?"

Jennie couldn't resist delaying her reply to increase the suspense.

"It lists three recommendations," she began. "First, you should extend your local passenger services to the towns in Montana and Oregon that you are not already covering.

"Second, you should institute alternate daily services to Anchorage and Fairbanks, preferably using pure jet aircraft.

"Third, and this is the interesting one; as the Air Canada Jazz subsidiary's Canadair 705s cannot fly direct from Vancouver to Montreal and Ottawa, you should start a weekly direct service using Embraer ERJ-195ARs. There is an additional note that given the new margins and assuming ticket prices a little lower than Air Canada's, the pay-back period on three second-hand aircraft will be just over two years."

"You could use the Embraers on the Alaskan route also," I noted, "And maybe run a mid-week service across Canada calling at all the larger towns, as you do now as far as Edmonton."

There was silence, broken by the putt-putt of a small scooter. Bill's secretary stuck her head in the door to say that the Airport Manager, Ms McLachlan, was here, asking for Steve Sharp or Chuck Johnson.

After a nod from me, Bill Masterton went to the door and brought a lady in wearing a smart business suit. I judged that she was probably in her late thirties.

Bill introduced us all, but she concentrated on Joe after being given a seat and some coffee.

"I'm Marie, and you're Wilma's husband," she began, "I've seen you with her at receptions. She called me this morning, and after commenting about our current political problems here. She suggested that it might be worth my while to come over and speak to the owners of CS&S."