Chapter 9
“Your wife got the message.” Russ had heard the whine of a snowmobile coming into camp, but he still hadn’t gotten a grip on how and why they were used. He made a mental note: urgent communications.
“Did she say anything?”
The driver hooked his helmet under his arm and gave him a look. “We’re not a dating app. You want to expound on your feelings, go write a letter, like your buddy, Mr. Pussy-whipped.” He thumbed toward Kevin, who was heading downslope, balancing two heavy buckets. Latrine duty.
Two things had become clear since yesterday morning: he wasn’t going to get anyone’s name, aside from Austin and Dillon, who were still getting disgusted looks from the captain.
And he wasn’t going to be allowed any time alone with Kevin.
It wasn’t like he’d been told it was forbidden.
It was just that every time the two of them were in the same space at the same time, someone else came along.
The militia members were a mix of overenthusiastic wannabes, like the two who had captured him, and worryingly competent men.
The captain had mentioned one guy who had done four years in the infantry, and there were several who were skilled enough in woods craft to be rangers or certified guides.
Russ had spent most of yesterday sitting near the kitchen tent, trying to look bored while committing faces, hair, and height to memory.
Twenty-four hours later, he was confident he could report accurate descriptions back, and he had reached the limit of usable intelligence he could get from hanging out at the canteen. He needed the chance to look around.
He and the captain had had another talk over breakfast—a mix of old army stories, recruitment, and a reeducation session—but once that was done, everyone went to work: patrolling, cleaning, readying the next meal, and whatever was happening inside the old WWII-era tent.
There was another, more modern rig beside it, large enough to serve as a mobile platoon office.
Russ had seen the captain go in about a half hour ago.
No one was obviously assigned to guard him, but when he got up and strode toward the tent, the cook dropped his peeler, wiped his hands, and followed.
Russ stopped outside the flap. “Captain? It’s Van Alstyne. ”
The captain emerged without his parka, and as he pushed aside the fabric, Russ saw he had been right—he caught a glimpse of a table with a lantern illuminating papers. The captain glanced over Russ’s shoulder and waved the cook away. “What can I do for you, Chief?”
“Give me a job. I’m about to fall asleep sitting up, I’m so bored.”
The militia leader quirked a smile. “You don’t like time alone in the woods?”
“If I’m hiking. Or hunting. Sitting on my ass while everyone else is busy isn’t my style.”
“Hmm. You remember the two men who brought you in.”
“Dillon and Austin? Oh, yeah.”
The captain winced. “They’ve been tasked with retrieving the brass and shell casings from our range.”
“After a snowstorm?”
The captain smiled thinly.
“Punishment detail, huh?”
“Let’s just say it’s not a dream assignment. If you want to help them, you can.”
Russ pretended to think about it for a moment. “Okay. It’s not the best thing for my back, but if you’ve got some ibuprofen, I’ll do it.”
“Oh, don’t worry. We’ve got a fully stocked medical kit.
Can’t risk somebody’s splinter going septic.
” The captain ducked back into the tent and said something.
Another man emerged, pulling on his coat.
“Get Chief Van Alstyne a couple Advils and take him out to the range. He’s going to assist collecting the spent bullets.
” Russ’s escort nodded. “And Van Alstyne? Dillon and Austin may not be our brightest and best, but they can still shoot you down if you make a run for it.”
The first aid kit, which did, indeed, look large and well-stocked, was on a tray table in the kitchen, the standard spot for an encampment with no designated medical tent.
The captain was definitely army, and definitely doing things by the book.
The cook handed him the pills along with a bottle of water from a pallet-sized stack.
As he and his escort set off for their destination, Russ turned over transportation possibilities in his head.
They had to use utility snowmobiles for hauling all this gear and supplies.
Maybe a smaller, faster model for the communication runs.
But unless they were older, he wasn’t going to be able to start one with the ignition wire trick.
He’d have to find the keys, which, going by the book, were undoubtedly secured somewhere only the captain or his XO had access to.
If he left on foot, his best chance would be in the middle of the night, with just a couple men on guard.
Of course, that would mean bushwhacking his way through a snow-covered forest in the dark. Not his top choice. Maybe—
“Here it is.” His escort pointed. The range was well away from the camp, sited sensibly with the shooting line slightly downslope, and targets backed against a small hillock rising from the forest floor.
The trees had thinned out here; the snow concealed whether it was natural or due to more illegal cutting.
It added some challenge to the practice—Russ bet they’d be digging some bullets out of wood.
As they approached, he could see Dillon and Austin clearing the ground near the shooting line with brooms.
“Hey, you two. Captain’s sent you some help. Van Alstyne’s on duty.”
They looked unenthusiastic. Dillon shifted and stretched. “What are we supposed to do with him? Teach him how to find brass?”
“He was a cop, you idiot. And did twenty in the army. He knows a lot more than you do about collecting shells.” The man nodded toward Russ, who tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Bring him back when you’re done.”
When he had headed back to the encampment, Dillon thrust his broom toward Russ. “Here, smart-ass. Let’s see if twenty in the army taught you to sweep snow.”
“Hey!” Austin glared at his partner. “How come you get to hand off sweeping?”
“Clearing the snow away and finding shells here is the easy part.” Russ gestured from one end of the firing line to the other.
“All the ejectable materiel is going to be within a foot or so on either side of the firing line. The tough part is going to be determining what might have missed that berm you’ve got there and gone over the top or to one side or another. ”
“Nobody shoots that wild. The casings are going to be here, and the bullets are in the berm. We do daily cleanups, and nobody’s ever searched anywhere else.
” Dillon gave him another resentful look.
“It’s your fault we’re doing this in the snow anyways.
They woulda cleaned up after practice like usual if you hadn’t shown up and sent everybody out on patrol. ”
Russ held up his hands. “Fine, buddy. Have it your way. Not a single shot has ever grazed a tree and gone off trajectory. Nobody was ever startled by a bird or a branch cracking and shot off-kilter. In the entire, what, four weeks you’ve been up here.”
Austin looked at Dillon. “He’s got a point.”
“What, you’re on his side, now?”
“No! I just mean … Captain wants us to get everything. What if there are bullets out there?”
“If we were supposed to check there, don’t you think Cap’n woulda said something?”
“He’s never been out here for cleanup. How’d he know?”
Dillon got a constipated look on his face.
Russ assumed that meant he was thinking.
“Okay,” he finally said. “You can check around the berm, but you gotta stay where we can see you. And you still gotta do the rest of the cleanup at that end. We’re not gonna help you out just ’cause you want to take extra time. ”
Russ decided a little resistance might be useful. “Forget it, then. I was just pointing out what you all have been missing. There might not be anything there. I don’t know.”
“Oh, no way you’re getting out of it now, asshole. You’re going to do that search and the berm and Austin and I are going to drink coffee and keep an eye on you.”
Russ put on a resentful look and slouched away toward the end of the range. He passed the target butts and began climbing the steep hillock fingers-and-toes style to keep his balance.
“What the hell are you doing?” Dillon yelled.
“I need to figure out the sight lines!” Russ was descending into pure bullshit at this point. “Unless you two want to walk all the possible ricochet angles.”
He kept climbing while the pair argued. The only phrase he could make out was “Well I ain’t never heard of it!
” He paused at the top and made a show of catching his breath while slowly surveying the landscape around him.
The hillock didn’t surmount the nearby trees, but in this bare-leaf season they didn’t obstruct his view.
If he squinted, the far edge of the camp came in view; disappointingly, there was no sign of the snowmobile trail from here.
“Hurry it up!” This time it was Austin who yelled.
“Give me a break, you guys! I’m old enough to be your father.” Perish the thought, as Clare would say. He stretched upward, then flexed his arms back and forth as he turned toward them.
That was when he saw it. A wide clearing, due west of the range, with a blackened scorch mark the size of a mattress in the center. Whatever had burned there had been so hot the snow hadn’t been able to accumulate; the few patches that hadn’t melted couldn’t hide the ugly charred earth.
Could be a bomb, he heard Clare saying, as she handed out tea and cookies in their dining room. Acetylene and silver nitrate. You add some metal shavings. You can use the torch canister, so it’s pretty small.
“Enough slacking off, Grandpa! Get to work.”
Russ nodded, and half skidding, half walking, came down off the berm. He bent over the nearby ground, but his focus wasn’t on spent ammunition. How much acetylene and silver nitrate could they find in that large tent? How many improvised explosives? What was their target?
He spotted a bullet alongside the berm, just as he had expected. He bent to pick it up.
“Find anything?”
Any brass he could sequester was potential evidence. He eased it into his jeans pocket. “No, but I’ll keep looking.” I’ll keep looking. And then I need to get the hell out of this place.