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To keep up the injured man’s morale McChord patched the sheriff right through to the communicator on the wizzo’s lifevest so that the sheriff could encourage the airman as they came nearer and nearer.
The Washington National Park Service opted for Major Duval. They had experience and to spare; every year they had to pull out the occasional camper
who slipped and fell. They knew every road through the Park and, where the roads ran out, every trail. They went in with snowmobiles and quad bikes. As their man was not injured, a full stretcher service would hopefully not be necessary.
But as the minutes ticked by the body temperature of the airmen started to drop slowly for Duval but faster for Johns who could not move. The race was on to bring the two men gloves, boots, space blankets and piping hot soup before the cold beat them to it.
Nobody told the rescue parties, because nobody knew, that there was another man out in the Wilderness that day, and he was very dangerous indeed.
The saving grace for the CIA team at the shattered Cabin was that their communications had survived the hit. The commander only had one number to call but it was a good one. It went on a secure line to the desk of DDO Marek Gumienny at Langley. Three time zones east, just after four p.m., he took the call.
As he listened he went very quiet. He did not rant or rave, even though he was being told of a major Company disaster. Before his junior colleague in the Cascades Wilderness had finished, he was analysing the catastrophe. In freezing temperatures the two corpses might have to wait a while. The three injured needed urgent casevac. And the fugitive had to be hunted down.
‘Can a helo get in there to reach you?’ he asked.
‘No, sir, we have cloud right to the treetops and threatening more snow.’
‘What is your nearest town with a track leading to it?’
‘It’s called Mazama. It’s outside the Wilderness but there is a fair-weather track from the town to Hart’s Pass. That’s a mile away. No track from there to here.’
‘You are a covert research facility, understand? You have had a major accident. You need urgent help. Raise the sheriff at Mazama and get him to come in there for you with anything he has got. Half-tracks, snowmobiles, off-roads as near as possible. Skis, snowshoes and sleds for the last mile. Get those men to hospital. Meanwhile, can you stay warm?’
‘Yes, sir. Two rooms are shattered, but we have three sealed off. The central heating is down but we are piling logs on the fire.’
‘Right. When the rescue party reaches you, lock everything down, smash all covert comms equipment, bring all codes with you and come out with the injured.’
‘Sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about the Afghan?’
‘Leave him to me.’
Marek Gumienny thought of the original letter John Negroponte had given him at the start of Operation Crowbar. Powers plenipotentiary. No limits. Time the army earned its tax dollars. He rang the Pentagon.
Thanks to years in the Company and the new spirit of information-sharing, he had close contacts with the Defense Intelligence Agency, and they in turn were best buddies with Special Forces. Twenty minutes later he learned he might have had his first break of a very bad day.
No more than four miles from McChord Air Force Base is the army’s Fort Lewis. Though a huge army camp, there is a corner off-limits to non-authorized personnel and this is the home of the First Special Forces Group, known to its few friends as Operational Detachment Group (OD) Alpha 143. The terminal ‘3’ means a mountain company, or ‘A’ team. Its Ops Commander was Senior Captain Michael Linnett.
When the unit adjutant took the call from the Pentagon he could not be very helpful, even though he was speaking to a two-star general.
‘Right now, sir, they are not on base. They are involved in a tactical exercise on the slopes of Mount Rainer.’
The Washington-based general had never heard of this bleak pinnacle way down south of Tacoma in Pierce County.
‘Can you get them back to base by helicopter, Lieutenant?’
‘Yessir, I believe so. The cloud base is just high enough.’
‘Can you airlift them to a place called Mazama, close to Hart’s Pass on the edge of the Wilderness?’
‘I’ll have to check that, sir.’
He was back on the line in three minutes. The general held on.
‘No, sir. The cloud up there is right on the treetops and snow pending. To get up there means going by truck.’
