Chapter 11

The helicopter had been hit; the pilot lifted and spun away to altitude and made a "mayday" call for help from the sheriff's department. He reported he would make an emergency landing at the primitive May airstrip, a short dirt field.

The sheriff's office dispatcher had just contacted the sheriff to report the mayday call when her telephone began ringing with reports of continuous gunfire from May residents. They said a small war was being fought at the mountainside springs. She relayed that to the sheriff who was already enroute. He ordered a callout of all available deputies and the local hospital ambulance and EMT crew.

"Sherry, I have no idea what we'll be going into up there, but if a helicopter has been knocked down, and we're getting calls of that much gunfire, it must be big. Call the Idaho Falls hospital and see if their medevac chopper can be put on standby. Better yet, tell them I'm requesting that they get it in the air and headed for the May airstrip. I've got a bad feeling about this, and if one of our people gets hurt, I want the fastest response possible. Okay?"

"Sure thing, Sheriff. I'm right on it. I'll radio as soon as I get an answer from them."

"No, call Jason with that info. He can handle the backup details. I'm going to have my hands full trying to get a handle on that gunfight."

"10-4, boss. Dispatch out."

Sheriff Saunders raced ahead. He hated running these river canyon curves at high speed. There were tourists and fishermen and rancher's pickups pulling heavy fifth-wheel livestock trailers, and even a few logging trucks. All of it is slow-moving traffic and damned hard to pass safely on the narrow, blind-curve highway. He accelerated and weaved his way through the heavy summer traffic, blue lights and siren going, while he tried to imagine whatever the hell might be going on in his otherwise peaceful county.

Barringer burst out of the cabin with his service automatic in hand and dashed from scene to scene, grimly checking each body to determine if any could be a possible threat. None were; most were obviously dead, judging from the slashed throats, massive head wounds, and shredded, blood-soaked bodies. While Barringer checked the bodies, Rhys dashed to the area where Michael went to take out the shooters by the outhouse. He found what he feared: Michael was down and bleeding. He checked for a pulse. It was weak but steady. He leaped to his feet and ran for his rig and the industrial first-aid kit he always carried.

"Agent!" he bellowed. "Michael is down; gunshot wounds. Tell those on-coming sirens we need medic assistance immediately!"

Rhys grabbed the kit and ran back to Michael. He started cutting away clothing to get at his wounds.

"Jeezus!" he exclaimed, seeing the thick coating of blood and mud all over his face, neck, hands, and the obscenely thick mat of blood plastering his hair down on his head. His clothing reeked of blood and urine. No matter! He forced his eyes to focus on the wounds, three of them visible to his trained eye.

Shoulder wound, no bone visible, exit looks clean. Bleeding, but no arterial spurting.

He sliced Michael's shirt open and peeled it away, rolling Michael gently to examine the exit wound where a bullet had torn through his side. More dark venous blood; we've gotta get a pad tight here, try to restrain the flow. Looks more like a glancing hit just above the lowest rib. Nicked a lung? Hope not.

Just as quickly he sliced through Michael's trouser leg, down to the cuff, and laid the two halves outward to expose the entire leg. Shit! Broken bone, right below a freshly-healed injury. That explains his limp. More bleeding. No bone splinters; maybe a clean fracture. Okay, pads here, pads on his side, pads on his shoulder. I'll need help holding some of these until the medics get here.

"Agent, I need some hands over here!"

The first county sheriff's car had slithered to a bouncing halt well down from the scene, its siren silenced but its cannon lights strobing brilliant light bursts. A man in tan uniform studied the scene, assessing the situation. He spotted Barringer and yelled out, "You, there, toss your gun away and hit the ground, NOW!" He pulled his sidearm and, half-crouching and using his vehicle door as a shield, had it leveled on Barringer.

"I've got a badge!" Barringer yelled, lowering his gun and reaching into his back pocket for his badge wallet.

"Drop the damned gun and walk three steps forward, NOW, and then go face down on the ground, spread-eagle NOW, or I will fire!" the sheriff shouted in return.

Barringer did as ordered. While the Sheriff cautiously approached, noting that another unit had just slid to a stop beside his, Barringer yelled up at him again, "I'm a federal agent! My badge is in my back pocket. We've got a man down, and I don't have time for your games, Sheriff!"

"We'll play it my way," the Sheriff growled, circling behind the sprawled agent to put a knee into Barringer's back, not gently. Barringer grunted and growled back, "Fish that damned wallet out of my back pocket and see for yourself, Sheriff!"

Noting the wallet outline in the man's casual slacks, Saunders increased his pressure against the man's back to keep him pinned. Using his left hand he pulled it free and flipped it open. There was a badge and an identification card. Agency! he swore. Shit on a stick! What the hell is a spook doing in my county? And in the middle of a gunfight!

"Lift your head, slowly, and turn it to the side so I can see you better," Sheriff Saunders ordered. Barringer did so. The sheriff compared what he saw with the photo ID.

"Ok, get up. I'll keep your gun, so don't reach for it. I think you'd better start explaining what's happened here and if you give me any 'national security, we can't talk about it' bullshit, I promise that it'll take you three weeks to walk back to town from where I'll have you dumped. This was a peaceful valley full of quiet people until all this happened, and I want to know what the hell is going on and why you're involved in it. Got it?"

"Yes, Sheriff, I get the message. But first, we've got a man badly hurt who needs a medic. I'll explain what I can after we see to him."

Saunders spun and saw his chief deputy standing beside his car, microphone in hand. He could hear more sirens far down the valley, coming fast.

"Jason, it seems we have a federal man here, and he says he's got a man down. Is that ambulance far behind?"

"Coming now, Sheriff. I think that's them we hear coming now!"

"Tell them we've got an emergency. Gunshot wounds. Come right up to the cabin, no delay!"

The Sheriff nudged Barringer. "Show me the man that's down; then you'd better start talking. What the hell are all these vehicles scattered around? And I'm seeing bodies scattered behind them. Everybody down? No shooters left?"

"No shooters, Sheriff. It's clear. Nobody left alive to shoot."

Barringer jogged to Rhys who was tending Michael. Pads were taped in place on his shoulder and side. Rhys pressed several thick pads against the leg wound, careful not to lift or disturb the fracture.

"How's he holding up?" Barringer asked, going to his knees beside Rhys.

"Weak but steady pulse. Bleeding from three gunshot wounds, but nothing immediately life-threatening. Broken leg, a clean shoulder wound, and a slug through his side. Clipped the lower rib, I think. He's out, and I hope he stays out for awhile. Where's that medic?"

"Coming now," the Sheriff interceded. "An EMT crew and ambulance from the Salmon Hospital."

"Good, but I think you better get something in the air to take my friend to Idaho Falls Regional. I think the ER doc at Salmon will decide to do that, so let's save the delay, okay?"

"I've already called to get their medevac chopper." He yelled at his chief deputy, "Jason, what's the status on that Idaho Falls medevac chopper?"

"Enroute, Sheriff! Should be here in twenty minutes."

"Okay. I know you, don't I? Aren't you Rhys Jacobs, with that mining company that holds the Lemhi Pass claims, above Leadore?"

"That's me, Sheriff. And this man is as close to a brother as I'll ever have, and we need to get him some help, fast! We'd all be dead if he hadn't gone Rambo on those Russians. I got two, I think the agent here got one, and Mike got the rest. Damn fool forgot to duck, though. That big asshole laying dead over by the outhouse managed to hit him with some of what he squeezed off when Mike blew him away."

Just then the big 4WD modular ambulance slid to a hard-braking stop at the corner of the cabin. Doors started slamming as the driver and EMT crew rushed out, bringing their gear.

They had him well stabilized and most of his external bleeding staunched, an IV plasma pack to replace lost blood volume hooked up, and an inflated air-splint holding his leg immobilized. They'd just gotten Michael strapped to a backboard when the medevac helo landed. He was transferred and enroute to the regional ER within minutes.

The Sheriff held Rhys back: "You can't do him any more good than you've already done, and that appears to be one helluva a lot, getting that bleeding under control. Now, you and Agent 'Spook' here have got some show and tell to do! Nobody's in danger of dying on us now, so let's go inventory the carnage and you tell me what the hell happened here, okay?"

For the next hour, the ambulance crew cleared their gear and returned to Salmon; a deputy was dispatched to the May airstrip to help secure the shot-up helicopter and take the pilot down to the Sheriff's office to give a statement; and the chief deputy called the County Coroner to come pronounce death and clear the bodies for transport to what passed for a morgue at the Salmon hospital.