Chapter 11

"In our 'News 6 Update' segment tonight we revisit the case of Miles Underwood, accused killer and rapist of a young San Antonio coed. You probably remember the first trial for the ex-Army NCO resulted in a hung jury. However, before he could be retried, he slipped out of town under cover of the worst series of storms in South Texas history.

"A Bexar County Sheriff's spokesperson says before he left, the accused assaulted and shot District Attorney Carl Brady. Then he chased Brady from his own home and set fire to it. Authorities say Underwood fled to Colorado where he disappeared into the mountains after a confrontation in which Mr. Underwood allegedly killed a police dog.

"Jonah Trenton, Mr. Underwood's attorney, disputes the official version of events, pointing to a complete lack of any physical evidence that would show his client has ever been in Mr. Brady's home at any time. Mr. Trenton quotes a fire investigator's report that casts serious doubt on a conclusion of arson, saying the fire appears to have been an accident. Additionally, Mr. Trenton has asked the court to compel the prosecution to reveal any evidence they have leading to a conclusion that Underwood shot Mr. Brady."

KSAA Channel Nine
San Antonio Texas
March 30

The General Counsel for the Department of Defense looked over the file folder. It contained the request forwarded from the Department of Justice, asking for DOD assistance in locating an escaped fugitive out west. It looked like they wanted some aerial surveillance or something like that somewhere in the Colorado mountains.

Since the passage of the Posse Comitatus Act in 1878, American military personnel had been forbidden to interfere in civil matters within the fifty states. On occasion though, with Presidential approval, some assistance could be provided. The waiver for that was attached to the request.

The counselor tilted his head back to peer at the neatly printed sheets through his half-frame glasses. The package appeared to have been forwarded through DOJ channels and sent to the White House Counsel's office for approval there already.

Usually they came here first, but he wasn't going to fall on his sword complaining about the circuitous routing. Someone doing someone else a favor, he guessed ... a big one because the date of the request was only last Friday.

He tapped his pen on the desk pad and contemplated the portraits of past general counsels on the far wall. Might be worth finding out who had enough horsepower to get this thing moving so fast and, by the way, all the way to the White House before it came to his office. Never hurt to know things like that. He'd put someone on it; no telling what a few discreet inquiries might turn up. Leaning forward, he scribbled a signature on the document that would forward it to the Operations Directorate in the Joint Chiefs of Staff for them to decide who could best provide the requested service.

When the request came back from the Joint Chief of Staff's Deputy for Operation's desk, it had a hand-written yellow sticky attached to the front. "Sounds like a job for? " and the General's initials. The young Air Force lieutenant correctly deduced the general wanted some recommendations for the correct service to task with the assistance. The job could be done with Air Force assets, of course, but it could also be done with satellite surveillance.

The Navy might even be able to handle it. The FA-18 had been reconfigured lately for a lot of missions it hadn't been originally designed for. He couldn't remember if aerial recon was one of them.

He tucked the folder under his arm and walked over to his boss's desk to ask who had last been tapped for something like this. The Marine Corps major took the folder absentmindedly and told the lieutenant he'd get back to him right after lunch. He put it on the top of the stack of things he had to get to today and continued reading the newest situation reports from CENTCOM's forward deployed headquarters. The situation in Syria was thoroughly screwed up and was probably going to get worse.

The major was a little distracted ... the lieutenant colonel board results were scheduled for release this afternoon. He knew a promotion to light colonel this early in his career, well 'below the zone', would kick his career into a higher gear and he also knew his last Officer Efficiency Report had been a glowing one; it had been endorsed by the Director of the Joint Staff.

There was a good chance ... an excellent chance, really. Visions of silver oak leaves kept overlaying the report and he had to keep dragging his attention back to the subject at hand.

When the fire alarm rang, the entire office went into a controlled panic. They shoved classified documents into safes en masse and made sure the vault door was locked securely. In the rush, some folders and documents fluttered to the floor and were scooped up on the fly. No one noticed that some information sheets from a proposed television documentary on a small Marine organizational element had been shuffled into the FBI request by mistake.

Everyone ran for the exits. Since 9-11, no one blew off an alarm. It might or might not be an exercise but even if it was, exercises were recognized as practice for the real thing now. They ran hard for the nearest exit.

When the all clear was sounded it was a while before the office returned to its routine. It took time for everyone just to get back through the security checkpoints and walk the crowded halls back to their section. When he got back to his desk, the lieutenant found the folder had been returned.

The major had forgotten why it had come to him in the first place and could only recall it was the lieutenant who'd given it to him. When the lieutenant opened the file, he found the Marine Corps documents. Surprised, he rose to go make sure the major meant it. Marine scout/sniper platoons weren't exactly in the same category as the aerial reconnaissance option he thought was the better choice.

If the newly assigned ensign from the Navy component on the JCS staff hadn't leaned in to see if he wanted to go to lunch, he might have made it all the way to the major's desk. She was so cute though ... those dark eyes got him every time.

The lieutenant dropped the file on his desk and grabbed his flight cap. The Metro would get them to Crystal City in five minutes for a more private lunch than the cafeterias on the second floor of the Pentagon could offer.

When he came back fifteen minutes late, all thoughts of the folder were washed completely from his mind. The Army sergeant charged with making the distribution run had retrieved that file, along with the entire stack of folders on that corner of the desk, but the lieutenant didn't notice its absence. He did notice the pretty ensign passed by the outer door twice more that afternoon. She waved both times.

An impromptu promotion party for the major--soon to be lieutenant colonel--just before quitting time ensured the incident would never be recalled.

When the General saw the documents inside the folder, he wondered why the United States Marine Corps had been suggested for this exercise. He trusted his people though. Maybe there was some reason for this.

Certainly, using a few Marines would be a lot cheaper than the Air Force getting a U2 in the air ... and he didn't even want to think about getting the boys at Fort Myers to reposition one of their satellites. Sounded like a plan, he decided.

He initialed the request, checking the box that said 'Approved' and dropped his note in the trashcan. He called the corporal in from the liaison section and asked her to send the folder to the Commandant of the Marine Corps. He opened the next letter in the never-ending chain of correspondence he had to read today.

He forgot the request for assistance from the FBI. It had been handled.

The folder for the TV documentary found its way back to Public Affairs asking for further documentation. The polite note from the Air Force master sergeant regretted the General would not coordinate on the request until all the forms and accompanying draft recommendations were in the package.

The lieutenant commander made copies of the necessary documents and put everything into a new distribution packet to Operations. Jerks, he thought ... they'd loose their friggin' heads if they hadn't been screwed on real tight.

"We got 'im!" announced Special Agent Jack Randall as he walked into his father-in-law's office. He allowed himself to be distracted by the view of the mountains out the big picture windows. His tiny cubicle didn't have any windows ... or doors, for that matter.

He shifted his attention back to his boss. Pat Reilly had turned away from the computer screen where he'd been reading the last of his email and was looking quizzically at his subordinate.

"Who?" Reilly groused. He wasn't at his best until he'd had his second cup of coffee and that one was still in the Mr. Coffee machine in the outer office. The open door policy he'd implemented for easy communication with his personnel might need reconsideration too. Some people were abusing the privilege ... too early in the morning.

"Us ... the Department of Justice ... Underwood." replied the junior special agent--one of the most junior, in fact, in the Bureau. Assistant Director Reilly's pained expression intensified and his eyebrows arched higher in query. The word 'junior' might become more a permanent rank rather than a description if Jack didn't get on with it.

"Miles Underwood--fugitive out of San Antonio, Texas--wanted for flight to avoid prosecution from there ... suspect in an arson case and a shooting there and wanted for questioning in a kidnapping of two police officers in southern Colorado.

"We chased him for a couple weeks last spring ... we're pretty sure it was him ... near Monarch Pass on U.S. 50 and points south into the mountains. State Troopers and a bunch of sheriff deputies along with four of our agents from Pueblo chased someone down there for a while but he gave them the slip--but not until he killed a dog they were using to trail him. Since then, no one has seen him. An abandoned pickup with Underwood's fingerprints in the interior is all we ever found."

"Okay." Reilly frowned as he dredged up the details of the case from his memory. "The unlawful flight and kidnappings are the only Federal warrants, right?"

"Correct ... yes, sir ... so far, anyway. Most of the others are out of the District Attorney's office in Bexar County Texas. The complainant is the District Attorney himself. Colorado has some out on him for assault and some other minor offenses."

"Got it ... so what is this we got him?"

"Well, I just finished a conference call from Marshal Owens's office in DC. Six weeks ago, a National Park Service Ranger reported seeing Underwood, but then he disappeared into the woods. Brazen devil though ... he evidently told the ranger exactly who he was though. He didn't try to hide it at all."

Jack paused and looked up from his notes. Damn, he sure would like a window--with or without a view--in his cubicle. The faded tan room dividers that formed the walls of his own tiny domain couldn't compete with this. He sighed, careful to keep it to himself. He glanced back down before meeting the senior FBI agent's eyes once more.

"Twelve days after that, a little north of where the ranger saw him, someone who matches the description of Underwood damn near killed a big ... and I do mean big ... football player from some college back east. Couple of the boy's friends got him down some hiking trail to civilization in time to save his life, but he lost his right leg below the knee." He looked up at his boss.

"Something's not right about their story," he said confidingly. "The local sheriff told me he's hunting a couple of women who were seen up there right about the same time the college boys were there. Some deep scratches on the injured man's face are suspicious. Anyway, the description the guys gave matches Underwood to a "T."

"Then, three days ago, here in our own office, we got an anonymous phone call from Boulder saying that Underwood was staying with a Denver business woman in her country home. A couple agents from the local office went to interview her and she admitted he'd been living with her in a house she owns up in the mountains south and way west of the Springs ... said he took off last week but doesn't have any idea where he went. She was adamant about that ... said he specifically would not tell her where he was going.

"Our guys tried to develop more information but she laughed at them when they mentioned obstruction and harboring a fugitive. She said if the agents wanted to play games, the interview was over.

She quit talking and had a couple of hard-case lumberjacks escort our guys to their car and put them off the property. Their report says it isn't likely the woman will ever cooperate with an investigation. They've already had a call from her attorney ... from a firm of attorneys, actually.

"But ... anyway ... we think we can catch him before he can disappear again if we hurry, boss. Owens wants me to head up one team of agents to deploy out into the mountains to cover some of the trails and try to intercept Underwood. They think he's heading south over some of the less used passes in route to ... somewhere.

"They don't know exactly where yet but we're getting some kind of help from the military. I'm going down to Pueblo this afternoon to help the local office organize, if it's alright with you." He looked at the senior agent inquiringly.

"You're our representative on the DOJ taskforce, Randall," replied the Assistant Director a little testily. "You do what you need to do." He paused for a moment and Jack got ready to head for the door. He knew a dismissal when he saw one coming.

"Alright." Reilly slapped his desk pad lightly and his eyes lost their focus on his junior agent. "Keep me in the loop. Let me know what happens, okay?" He cautioned the younger man. He returned to his email. In a little bit, he was going to get himself that next cup of coffee.

Jack nodded and lifted a hand in casual salute though he knew the boss was no longer looking. He made his way back to the bland, uninteresting cubicle he called home to call his wife. She would pack him a suitcase for the afternoon's trip.

Drifting south through the mountains, Miles was beginning to ... not recover, but ... accept the separation from Linda. They'd both known from the moment when the partygoers arrived at the secluded ranch he would have to leave. They couldn't ask everyone in the company to keep quiet about him. Even if they'd been asked, someone would blurt out the information eventually ... and somebody else would take notice.

They made the cut clean instead of dragging it out until their nerves were scraped raw waiting for the knock on the door. The company satellite phone she'd given him had been used a lot in the first week, but the battery was dead now. He'd have to go down from the mountains to find a place to recharge it and he wasn't ready to do that just yet.

A young deer he killed had dressed out at just under a hundred pounds and replenished his supply of meat four days ago. He didn't expect to have to hunt for a couple of weeks though he probably would have to just before going over the first western pass that led to the valley.

The hide performed another service after Miles had stretched and dried it. Moccasins wore out like other footgear and he had to sew on new soles or replace the whole moccasin every so often. In the shade of the tall cottonwoods, he'd enjoyed a satisfying lunch of jerky and some wild onions. A patch of wild strawberries had topped off the meal.

The little hollow where he sat was a few hundred feet below the crest of the ridgeline behind him to the east and shielded by thick underbrush around the compass from north to south through which no one could approach quietly. Over the ridge, his packhorses were munching their way around a small meadow with rope hobbles on their hooves. They couldn't roam far even if they had any inclination to do so.

In front of him, the jagged stump and rotting remains of an old blowdown provided decent cover on the more open western side of the depression. Sitting cross-legged, only his head and a little of his shoulders were thrust above the level of the decaying log every so often to scan his surroundings. Only from a position high on the bluff far to the west could even these momentary glimpses of the fugitive be seen.

This afternoon would finish the final bit of sewing on the right sole of his spare set and that would be it. He'd have two good pair of moccasins again. He punched the awl through the stiff hide and drew the leather string through the hole. One, no, two more stitches and he was done. His fingers would appreciate the relief.

Zeb gestured toward the bluff that lay a good mile to the west. It was the southern-most ridge of a mountain that connected with an immense peak back up to the north. He wanted Miles to be careful about something in the higher reaches, right along the tree line. Some odd flashes of light up yonder, he said. Better take a caution.

Miles couldn't see a thing worth worrying about and shrugged his shoulders. He concentrated on the moccasins. One more stitch and he'd go round up the horses so he could get on with the trip back to the valley of the People.

The team had been trucked in on barely passable forest roads the week before. Taking note of the previous sightings of the fugitive that suggested he might be following a regular route that ran north and south through the mountains, they'd been inserted across a possible path. If the man was working his way south along this route, they'd have him.

If not, one of the other teams would get him. Since they'd been dropped off, they had hiked across the region, scouring the valleys and mountains to find the federal fugitive.

They were four men sent to find one in hundreds of square miles of dark forest where little of the terrain was even approximately horizontal. The other teams were working other promising areas in this chain of mountains but they might as well have been on another continent for all the coordination they could achieve between them.

Where the slopes were low enough, scrub brush and tough grasses choked the spaces between trees. Higher up, steep climbs alternated with deep canyons and gorges to make quick travel impossible. But sometimes you just get lucky.

Gunnery Sergeant Clay Walker hissed softly to get the team's attention.

Lance Corporal Peterson jerked his head around to see what Gunny wanted. A chagrined expression splashed across his features when he realized what he'd done. He knew ... he knew ... not to make quick movements in the field; such things brought unwanted attention.

Walker was pointing at the ridge almost due east of their position and probably five hundred feet lower. Peterson checked the angle of the NCO's finger and pulled the big Barrett M-107A1 sniper rifle into alignment. He peered through the scope to see what had caught the Gunnery Sergeant's attention.

The FBI agent someone had decided should go along on the mission crawled past the tree trunk that blocked his view and lifted his camouflaged field glasses. Jack Randall was clearly not comfortable in the dirt and rocks. He flicked away a bug that landed on the back of his hand.

The fourth member of the team, Cal MacPherson, sat idly watching the agent and the marines. MacPherson sat against a comfortable tree trunk well back from the brush screen with his legs comfortably crossed in front of him.

MacPherson was three-quarters Nez Perce. He was a guide during the summer and fall, helping rich folks from back east bag a big dear or elk in the Bitterroot National Forest of south central Idaho. This wasn't the right season though and money was scarce up there.

He was a man known to the National Forestry Service ... one who had tracked and found many missing hikers and lost children in the northern Rockies. Someone had passed his name to the Department of Justice when asked for a reliable guide. He didn't know who his benefactor was but he appreciated the referral, what with the slow year and all.

When the FBI man came knocking on his door he took the proffered check and set out with them to the mountains of southern Colorado to find the guy they called Underwood. He was marginally concerned that he didn't know the trails or terrain down here but he didn't expect there to be much of a problem finding him.

They had stopped any number of hikers on established hiking trails carrying huge packs ... plus three women and one man trying to pedal bicycles through the mountains. They'd even found a few hunters who shouldn't have been there at all. But so far as Cal could see, they hadn't even gotten close to the man they sought.

At one point, Cal had begun to wonder if Underwood actually existed. The young FBI agent had shown him a folder of information, though, so maybe he was a real person. MacPherson looked at the Marines and FBI agent and sighed.

All three of his companions in today's observation post were wearing individual sets of camouflage they called Ghillie suits. Each cloak covered a prostrate man from head to foot--or it would if the FBI guy didn't keep pushing a hand outside from time to time. Ghillie suits are designed to disguise the silhouette of the individual wearing it and allow him to blend into the background. Some of them would also absorb body heat so the wearer was hidden even to those using infrared systems to detect intruders. Cheap Ghillie suits could be made by sewing scraps of green and brown burlap to a rectangle of netting but MacPherson understood the government versions were more intricate ... and far more expensive.

Cal grinned behind an impassive face as he watched the trio in front of him. The green and black camouflage cream both Marines wore on their faces gave them an appearance much like his ancestors when they were ready for a fight though they wore it for a different purpose.

His great-grandfather, several times removed, had fought the blue-coated soldiers to a standstill many years before, ambushing them time after time; even the whites remembered Chief Joseph. But that old warrior had never heard of a Ghillie suit--nor would he have wanted one of the heavy, hot things.

Cal snorted, forgetting to smother it. The older Marine ... the one with all those blacked out stripes on his shirtsleeve ... glanced at him in irritation. Cal laughed again, careful this time to keep it silent.

Miles finished the moccasin repair and stuffed the footwear and his tools away in the cavernous backpack. He inspected the pack, wondering if he really needed anything this big. Last year, he'd carried a lot of jerky and smoked meat as he wandered. He'd needed the carrying capacity then. This year he was eating more off the land as he traveled and didn't really want or need it. Also, he was tired of the yellow color. Even though it had faded a little over time, and was stained and trail worn, he still felt like a damn bumblebee wearing it.

It was time he got rid of the darn thing, but that would have to wait--he needed a replacement first. He'd been in only one outfitter's store in the past year but that had been with Linda in a tension filled trip over to Boise one weekend and he hadn't thought to look over the smaller packs they sold there. The woman distracted him ... that's all there was to it. Miles took a last look around to make sure he hadn't left anything behind. Satisfied, he started out of the hollow. Standing, he pulled on the pack, fastened all the buckles, and began the adjustment of the myriad of straps.

Across the valley, Gunnery Sergeant Walker's eyes caught the movement. He brought up his binoculars and brought the lens into focus on the little hollow at the same time Miles stood up. Before the fugitive could step back into the shadows, Walker had a good fix on him.

The BORS mounted on the rifle scope said it was nearly 1,700 meters across the valley. As close to a full mile as made no difference, but still well within the effective range of the heavy rifle Lance Corporal Peterson was easing into position. The twelve-power scope brought the man into clear focus. He was visible only from the waist up but that was plenty.

Gunnery Sergeant Walker was peering through Corps issued binoculars and comparing the image with a picture of the fugitive he'd pulled from a breast pocket in the forest green BDU's he was wearing. Agent Randall was doing the same thing, peeking through high-powered glasses and then at his copy of the picture. Something like contentment shown on his face.

"Target confirmed," whispered Gunny Walker. "That's our man."

"Agreed," replied Randall, showing the picture to Corporal Peterson before stuffing the picture back into his shirt pocket.

Peterson didn't have a picture of his own. He didn't have any binoculars either ... but the riflescope was okay with him. Peterson nodded when the FBI agent flashed the pic at him. He settled himself behind the rifle again and adjusted the sights a fraction. He clicked off the safety without Gunny noticing.

"Target confirmed," he whispered. He made a minute shift to bring the cross hairs to the middle of the target's chest ... right on a big plastic buckle ... and gently squeezed the trigger.

Gunnery Sergeant Walker and Special Agent Randall were startled by the ear-splitting crack and ducked away instinctively. The Nez Perce guide had been watching the trio without comment, not even considering the possibility anyone was going to shoot. When it became obvious the big Marine was going to fire, Cal opened his mouth to object. He was too late.

The M-107A1 Barrett rifle fires a .50 caliber cartridge, the same bullet used in heavy machine guns supplied to both the Army and Marine Corps since World War II. The Barrett can hit a man-sized target at better than 1,830 meters--well over a mile away--and when it hits, the slug pulverizes a target. If an armor-piercing cartridge is fired, the round will smash its way through light armor.

At twenty-six pounds, the Marine Corps considered the weapon too heavy for a sniper rifle, but it was a descendent of the venerable M-82A1 the Army Rangers had used effectively in the Somalia debacle, the two wars in Iraq and in Afghanistan. The rifle had gained some notoriety.

Now someone in the new administration was doing a McNamara, wanting to make sniper weapons standard across the services. It would reduce waste, they said.

Marines Walker and Peterson had been chosen to test the thing and see if a sniper team could carry the darn thing for days on end in a wilderness environment. They were to work the test around the Department of Justice's request for assistance from a Marine Reconnaissance team.

A recoiling barrel and effective muzzle brake made the sniper rifle very user friendly for the shooter. A twelve-gauge shotgun firing double-aught buck shells has more kick. Unfortunately, sound and flash suppressing were relative terms. Agent Randall and Gunnery Sergeant Walker, not expecting the weapon to be fired and not wearing ear protection, almost jumped out of their skins.

Peterson was almost as surprised as the others. Shocked at the violent reactions he could see from the corner of his eyes, the marksman involuntarily pulled the trigger twice more before he could release it. The Barrett rifle was semi-automatic and had a ten-shot magazine while Peterson was used to the Marine bolt operated sniper rifles.

The third round was on its way down range before the first had arrived.

Stepping to the lip of the hollow, Miles hunched his shoulders to settle the pack comfortably. Preoccupied with a strap that had managed to twist itself around another, he lost control of his hiking stick. Bending down and to his left to recapture it, the downhill slope and weight of the pack made him lose his balance. What pissed him off was that he could have sworn Zeb had shoved him aside just as Miles caught sight of a bright flash high on the bluff across from them. What the hell was the old man doing? And what was that flicker of light up on the ridge?

The top three inches of the stump a few inches from Miles' face exploded into a shower of splinters. With his knees already bent and his body leaning forward, Miles pushed off into a headlong dive over the remains of the tree trunk and down the hill. Ducking his shoulder into the dive, he rolled head over heels several times going downslope and finally crashed into some underbrush substantial enough to slow him down.

On the last roll, he used his momentum to get his feet under him and transform the fall into a lurching run down the steep slope. Not really under control, he dodged heavier trees the best way he could and plowed right through lighter brush in his charge down the slope.

Several hundred feet down the hill, and deep in some trees that gave excellent cover, Miles skidded to a stop and sank to a knee behind a fir tree. His chest heaving in an attempt to catch his breath, his eyes darted in all directions trying to find the man who had shot at him.