Chapter Six
The gathering group of men, machines, horses and equipment more resembled a military expedition than the supposed cover of a hunting party.
They met Mr. Chase at the small airport some two hours outside of the reservation. He had arrived in an impressive Lear jet that looked out of place on the small runway next to Piper Cubs and Beechcraft yet it brought no raised eyebrows as corporate jets landed there all the time on company retreats and millionaire estates in the Backwoods
The drive out to pick up horses and men took them only to the helicopter pad where they boarded a black and white helio that dropped them off a half hour later and a hundred miles away at a ranch funded as a training facility for covert ops. Four hours brought them to the small house on the plateau and they set up camp.
Mr. Chase looked every bit as intimidating in person as he had sounded on the phone. He was six foot three inches with long hair pulled back in a ponytail, cold brown eyes and scars buried in the wrinkles of his face. He wore blue jeans, flat soled Ropers, flannel shirt, down vest and Carhartt jacket with a worn Stetson in Silver belly. All of it used and not Rexall new. Or dime store cowboy. On his hip, he wore a Glock .40 in a custom made holster and in his luggage was a handsome rifle scabbard of worked saddle leather, the straps worn from use. The rifle was not the typical hunting gun; this one was larger barreled and held CO2 cartridges underneath the trigger.
Aiken said, “Trank gun?”
Chase looked at him with cold dead eyes. “I don’t believe we want the child dead or injured do we, Sergeant Aiken?”
“No, sir.”
“Don’t you have something you need to do, Sergeant?”
Aiken swallowed and nodded, leaving Chase to commandeer the master bedroom and transform it into an Op-Center. He installed an upload link directly to the satellite and opened his laptop with a secure connection to the mainframe computers at Langley where he reported to his boss.
Her image appeared on his screen. Gray hair cut short and styled, black granny glasses perched on her nose, a severe frown that was at odds with the designer suit and pearl necklace. She was thirty pounds’ overweight, the image of a typical Washington matron but she held a position of power that belied her appearance. Head of one of Washington’s most covert agencies, she answered only to the director of the NSA and the President. And only if the NSA Director told her to inform the President. Right now, she was overseeing 57 covert black ops that were classified ULTRA, 29 deemed SUPRA and 15 that only a handful of which had clearance. It was this group into which Dr. Cameron’s research fell.
“Dir. Hamilton,” Chase greeted and she brayed her signature laugh. Her voice was jarring and screeching.
“Chase. Did you capture the asset?”
“No. We’ve just arrived on site and I have Cameron’s GPS program. The icon is stationary, at an elevation of 12, 350 feet northwest of here. We will be heading out in an hour to track them.”
“Them? I was under the impression that the boy was retarded.”
“He lives with his grandfather and it seems he fooled both the doctor and the testing equipment,” Chase answered.
“Keep me informed daily. Do you want access to the facility in DC or one of those closer to the reservation?”
“DC. I want control close to where I am.”
“I’ll see to it,” she logged off without saying goodbye, her manner as rude as ever and for which she was known.
The men were ready to leave by the time Chase exited the house; they had the horses saddled and packed. He studied the medium-size range bred animals and picked out the largest, a chestnut gelding. Strapping the scabbard on the off side of the horse, he mounted in one easy movement. He carried a backpack that he hung off the horn. In it, he carried the handheld GPS tracker, a portable 2-inch one that was as powerful as a mainframe and connected via satellite to the mainframe back in Washington and a satellite phone. He designated two of the men to remain behind at the house and the protocol for updates and reinforcements if necessary. With that said and done, he moved off with ease of a man who knew how to ride. They headed up the plateau for the tree lines, following a faint trail and scattering the sheep and chickens still wandering loose.
One of the men left behind went to the barn, gathered up feed and enticed the animals back into their pens. He fed and watered to the amusement of his partner.
“What?” He said defensively. “I grew up on a farm. Besides, who wants to step in chicken shit?”
“You think they’ll find him?” The other man named Parks asked.
Meaders shrugged. “There is a lot of acreages out there, all of it in their backyard. We’re just visitors here. Even with GPS, it’s not so easy to travel here. People get lost in here every year and are never found in this preserve. Planes go down and they never find the wreckage. They’re still looking for DB Cooper.”
“Maybe they’ll find him too.” He walked the perimeter not expecting to see anyone this remotely removed from town and the only thing he did see were some coyotes slinking through the brush below the sheep corrals.
For the first few hours out, the group followed a narrow trail up into the forest and as it petered out, it was Aiken that took over finding sign where the others saw nothing. Chase pulled out the tracker and pointed up and to the right. They stared at a sheer wall of rock that would’ve challenged a mountain goat.
“They went over that?” Andrews was aghast and Chase said yes.
“Or around it. They headed up and so can we.” Aiken scouted around and found a faint trail shaking his head as a thought of a small boy and an old great-grandfather riding in the dark of night on what was a hairy trail during the daylight hours. That the two had attempted it at night reinforced the desperation of the pair.
“Will we go on until we find them or stop and make camp?” He asked Chase.
“We’ll set up a base camp if we don’t find them by noon tomorrow. But I don’t expect them to be hard to locate, they don’t know he’s micro-chipped. They’ll only have run as far as a day’s ride, and stop where they’re comfortable.”
He looked around at the vista of rocky cliffs, deep forest and small open areas on the slopes of the mountain. They were following deer trails because the animals used the easiest and most economical paths to maneuver the terrain. They spooked deer and other wildlife and one of the men swore he spotted a cougar to which Chase nodded. “They’re showing up everywhere, they are the top predator in these woods. You have to look out for bear, too.”
“I’d rather not,” the man said frankly. “I’ve hunted bear before and we don’t have a rifle powerful enough to take one down.”
“I have bear repellent spray – industrial grade mace. It’ll knock a bear on its ass and Murphy will gut it with his K-bar,” Chase shrugged. “He’s crazy enough to do it. According to my calculations, the boy is no more than a few hours away. Maybe 10 more miles.”
“Ten miles in this terrain could be days,” Aiken argued. “Especially if you don’t know the best route. I can plan one by the map but unless you’re looking at it – well, maps ain’t always the truth of what’s out there.”
“Should I call in a chopper?”
He hesitated. “I don’t think so. Mountain searches are tricky and they’d hear us coming long before we’d spot them.”
Chase stared at the tracker and cursed as the blinking icon simply vanished. He turned it on and off, swept it in four directions yet saw nothing.
“Stopped working?” One of the men asked.
“Or he went underground,” Chase returned. “Are there any mines on the maps?”
Aiken rolled his eyes. “This is Colorado, Mr. Chase. There are abandoned mines everywhere. Some are recorded but most are not.”
“What’s northwest of here?” Aiken checked and found two, both owned by the Anaconda Mining Company and closed up since the 1940s. Another three were of equal size but further south towards the town Ouray, population six. Both had warnings of toxic gas and not to enter.
Two hours of hard riding brought them to the face of one cave and from the sight of a dead sheep lying in front of the entrance, they knew it was not a safe place to enter. Aiken could find no tracks entering the shaft and also spotted signs that it was flooded.
A small mountain of tailings layoff to the steep side of the slope and nothing grew on the arsenic and cyanide poisoned rock slide. The air was heavy with a thick chemical smell that lingered in the back of one’s throat triggering a gag reaction.
“Let’s get out of here,” Chase ordered. “He’s not here.”
Andrews asked, “any more movement on the GPS tracker?”
Chase looked but the signal had not reappeared and it was more than obvious that they could not be here. He gestured and the men kept following a well-defined old road leading downhill. The further they traveled on it, the more signs of occupation they encountered. Old rusted sluice parts, mining cars, and wooden timbers were scattered on both sides of the road. Warning signs promised trespassers would be shot and sported bullet holes. At the end of the road was a dilapidated chain-link fence, the gates hanging open and pulled apart as if by a vehicle. A lone sign hung from the center, ANACONDA MINING. It too was bullet-pocked.
“According to the map, there’s a small town near here called D’état,” Aiken stated. “Population 530. I doubt that’s where they’re headed, from what I’ve seen I think they went deep into the wilderness. Where they can lose us.”
“I think you’re right, Sergeant,” Chase admitted. “We’ll go here.” He pointed to a spot about a mile further out that was a flat area with cliffs on the west side of a small valley between two ridges. It would provide shelter, had water and was a good place to camp. High enough so that they could signal a chopper yet far enough away from the last reported position so that their quarry could not hear it approaching.
It was closer to three hours before the group reached it and wearily, they dismounted to set up camp.