AK 239: The Enemy Is Already Here

New York Hotel

^{Ketchikan, Alaska}

^{Christmas Eve Morning}

As is usual for Ketchikan, it’s raining outside.

The rain had followed me from Portland to my hotel last night. I hadn’t seen the sun for a month, except on Mt. Hood last week. The sun had also peaked out on the flight to Ketchikan when we flew above a thick layer of rain clouds.

Snow was on the mountains but an unusual warm spell, 45 degrees today, had washed away all the snow in town.

The rain was so gentle on my window that it couldn’t even be heard over the TV.

A local news show from Anchorage, Alaska Today, is on and the anchor said:

I was not paying any attention.

Guess I should have been.

My flight in was unremarkable. I always loved this quirky little airport. The airport is, in fact, on a separate island across The Tongass Narrows from the quaint little town. To get to town you must be ferried across The Narrows.

Ah, Alaska, what an adventuresome place!

My room at the ‘New York Hotel’ was built at the turn of the last century. The room had authentic wood doors, beamed ceilings and hand quilted bedspreads!

The street wasn’t really noisy but the room did come equipped with ear plugs, just in case.

I’m a night owl and generally go to sleep around 2am. However, four or five hours of sleep was all I needed so it wasn’t a big deal.

The café downstairs would have great local musicians and comedians perform on weekends.

Ketchikan was a small town, filled in spring and summer with mostly cruise ship tourists wandering up and down Creek Street. Creek Street is a fun place, built entirely over a creek filled with thousands of salmon during spawning season. I overheard a tourist there once say:

“Why are we taking a boat fishing, I could just fish here!”

I thought, “What’s the fun in that?”

In season, thousands of tourists, dodging the rain, would buy all sorts of crazy, worthless, Chinese made trinkets, from a variety of brightly painted little shops, pretty much all owned by the cruise lines!

At a glance, about all there was to see in Ketchikan were tourist traps, rain and totem poles!

When I get back I’ll probably walk downstairs to the New York Cafe and celebrate Christmas with all the other lonely drunks. The guy I met last night worked at about the only jewelry shop left open in town. The jeweler was in bright, ruby red shoes. He was very depressed that he hadn’t convinced anyone “in days” to purchase a “top quality diamond” from him.

I wish the Great Alaskan Lumberjack Show was playing down by the dock.

Log rolling!

Those were the days.

The Willamette River in Portland, Oregon in July. Doug Meyers! What a jerk! He would cut a log lose from a pack then would dare me to knock him off the log. He and I would run on the floating logs to see who’d hit the river first. I think I held the neighborhood record.

Of course, Doug might have a very different version of this story.

Nothing much floats in the Willamette River today other than house boats, dead fish or dead bodies.

Anyway, my hotel room was upstairs just across Stedman Street where I could see the docks and the cruise ships. But since this is winter, no cruise ship is in port. I was so close to the water that I could literally walk across the street and fall into the Gulf of Alaska.

Technically, it’s the Thomas Basin but hey, it’s the same body of water.

I’d gone to Ketchikan on fishing trips in the past but this was business.

I’d volunteer for any dangerous job but this one was “supposed to be” boring and routine.

Ya, it was Christmas Eve.

Ya, I’d be spending another one on the road but I didn’t have anything better to do.

I had no family in Oregon and if this is George Ruddy, there would be no better Christmas present to innocent citizens, anywhere he was, than to put this guy behind bars.

I had no plans for tonight anyway.

However, this night I would never make it back to Ketchikan.

Little did I know that the next two days would change my life forever.

I was to rendezvous with another FBI Special Agent out of the Juneau office and arrest a felon by the name of George Ruddy. Now George had managed to convince the local Sheriff’s office in Clackamas County, Oregon that he was dead, not a small feat.

The Oregonian ran his obituary and his, girlfriend, “beneficiary” was just about to cash a two-million-dollar life insurance policy on George.

However, my forensic team looked into the case and found good old George had fooled just about everyone. Just about everyone but us. I sent what was left of “George” for biometric DNA analysis to our FBI lab in rural Virginia.

George was burned in a house fire so badly that very little of him was “allegedly” left. Since he lived in a rural community no one noticed the fire for hours and hours. But for a body to be this decomposed the Oregon forensic specialist said he’d have had to have been soaked in heating oil, and set on fire for hours. His beneficiary said that’s exactly what happened.

The beneficiary was conveniently away for the weekend and there was a leak in the 200-gallon heating oil tank in the basement.

As the story went, he was trying to plug a hole in the tank when, talking on his cell phone to his girlfriend he dropped it, causing a spark and catching him on fire.

It all sounded very “fishy” to me from the get go.

All that was recovered were teeth and bone fragments, that were, in fact, George’s. But the huge mistake the couple made was to incinerate the body of another person. The second DNA sample that my team personally took turned out to be partially George’s “friend,” Albert Tuck.

Pseudocide is not very common, except maybe in novels but my team found out George, while looking common and uneducated, was anything but.

George received his undergraduate degree in mathematics from Harvard and his Ph.D. from the University of Michigan. He then taught upper division mathematics at Harvard University.

George was, clearly, no dummy. He had managed to fool the Clackamas County Medical Examiner and a forensic pathologist of the Oregon State Police. Had it not been for my team, this case would have been closed months ago.

But George’s Oregon Trail had grown cold. A local journalist with a big mouth and a penchant for making a name for himself spilled the beans about the FBI results and the beneficiary vanished.

No one could positively identify her and no picture of her even existed, which was highly unusual. No fingerprints in the burned house or car turned up any woman at all!

The only thing everyone said about her was she had fair skin, bright red hair and was drop dead gorgeous.

No offense to Oregon but there just isn’t that many unidentified, drop dead gorgeous women living in the woods!

An avid reader of the Oregonian saw George’s picture while on vacation fishing in Ketchikan. The witness swore he had spotted George on these docks getting on a boat!

The owner of that boat told the Ketchikan police that a man, fitting George’s description, paid cash and asked to be taken to Prince of Wales Island.

It seemed very suspicious. There are fishing lodges over on the west side of the island in Craig but George was dropped to very specific GPS coordinates on the uninhabited south east side.

Now Alaska is made up of over 3,000 islands with only about 1,500 of them named.

Prince of Wales Island is huge.

It’s the size of the country of Ireland and slightly larger than the state of Delaware!

The island is the fourth largest in the United States, with a coastline of approximately 1,000 miles!

That’s right 1,000 miles of coastline.

Roughly the distance from Los Angeles, California to Portland, Oregon! The sheer vastness of this one rugged island alone would be the perfect place for someone to disappear.

Standing in my hotel room, the show, Alaska Today, is discussing President Obama’s nuclear speech in Japan from 2016:

I just didn’t really pay much attention to global politics.

Again, looking back, I should have.

The phone rings so I turn off the TV and answer the phone,

“Denning.”

For agents that didn’t know me, I used only my last name, as sometimes that was the only name on my reports.

“Ya, okay, I’ll be right down.” I hung up, grabbed my trusty, black drab, parka, and handcuffs, holstered my Glock 23, .40 Cal, and headed out the door.

Outside the rain had stopped but looked like it could pour at any time, typical of Ketchikan and Portland.

Feels like home.

Sitting at the dock across the street from the New York Hotel was a fifty-eight foot Northern Jaegar.

His “boat” had barely squeezed into the Thomas Basin, boat moorings and docks. Our ride had managed to back his fishing boat right up to the Stenson Bayside Float which I could see from my hotel window.

The crazy guy has red and green Christmas lights all over his boat.

It seemed there were more Christmas lights on the boats than on the businesses and homes!

But I did see a Totem Pole with Christmas lights.

So I walked across the street to the docks. As I walked toward the boat the captain was standing on the dock, which had the smell of creosote. The captain had the smell of diesel and alcohol.

The captain was talking with who, I hope, is my partner for the day. She looks much better in person than her mug shot in the FBI database.

Her black hair looks to be tucked in a tight bun and well hidden.

She stood out like a sore thumb. A beautiful woman, all dressed up and talking with this crusty old fisherman with a cane.

I sure hope she isn’t a tourist but instead is my Profile Softening Partner (PSP) for the day.

The PSP was an acronym I made up that spread throughout the FBI like wildfire. In my Navy SEAL days with Black Squadron several operators, both men and women, had been paired so as to not stand out in surveillance and espionage. Black Squadron is the only SEAL unit that currently has women.

I quickly slap myself back to reality as I introduce myself.

“John Denning, Special Agent, Portland FBI.”

Jennifer shook my hand and replied, “Jennifer Tavana, Special Agent, Juneau FBI and this is Jack Tanner and his partner, Mike Gardener, is on the boat somewhere.”

I then say, “So you guys didn’t have anything better to do on Christmas Eve either?”

Jack ignores my insult saying, “Three hours out. Three hours back. Assuming the weather holds.”

I’m a bit concerned, “And if it doesn’t?”

“The weather across the Clarence Strait can turn on a dime. If I see the line of death, I’m not crossing. The swells can go from nothing to 25 feet or more in no time.”

“I’ve looked at a map. Isn’t that side of the island protected from the Gulf of Alaska?” I ask.

Jack smiles, “That Strait acts like a funnel. When the tide is going out and a storm is coming in wave frequency is amplified. On the other hand, I looked at the weather, we’ll be back before dark, right Lieutenant-Commander?”

Jack is looking at Jennifer and I now realize that I read about this woman when I was in the Navy.

She’s the first woman to command a U.S. submarine!

Girls shouldn’t be doing some “men” things (As you’ll see, this philosophy will come back to bite, torture and nearly kill me!)

For now, I’ll pretend not to know. The Navy Times said, “Lieutenant-Commander Jennifer Tavana wasn’t just the first woman to command a U.S. submarine, she also made it to commander in the shortest amount of time.”

Great, I thought, now I’m seeing the face of political correctness.

The girl probably slept her way to the top.

I realize everyone is staring at me.

Jennifer and I both notice the strong stench of alcohol (From the crusty captain), creosote from the wood on the docks and his diesel exhaust.

We both back away from the eye-watering fumes seemingly emanating from him that had engulfed us.

I try making a joke of it all,

“Ah, nothing like the smell of creosote and diesel on the open waters!”

Nobody reacts to my bad joke so I shut up.

Jennifer Tavana’s Diary

Great! These boys probably think I’m too girly and have no idea who I am or what I’ve done. Toughen up soldier girl!

I’m getting to the bottom of this story: This drunken idiot thought he saw a “sub!”

Probably only after a 5^th of Jack Daniels too!

The only reason I’m taking this drunk’s boat is to get to the bottom of this fish story that’s been going all over Southeast Alaska.

These sub sightings have gone on for the past five years. And the fish stories are only growing. “Captain Jack” isn’t the only moron that claims to have seen a sub. Seven Alaskans now swear they’ve seen a sub too. What makes me think they might have some credibility is:

They all describe the exact same type of boat without any pictures, diagrams and none have any naval experience or know each other.

Impossible!

I’m the only one, on my own time, who’s gone out and interviewed all seven people. If I told the FBI what I was doing I’d probably no longer be an agent.

While most people are wonderful here in Alaska, there are also a few crazy people that give us all a bad name.

Now everyone is staring at me, the girly girl!

My Diary

After the awkward moment the captain welcomes us aboard.

I’m thinking: That was weird!

We all just stood and stared at each other.

Maybe they all have PTSD!

Jennifer tosses her bug-out bag to Mike before stepping aboard.

Mike looks in the bag and starts taking inventory, “Four, aluminum space blankets, four lighters, freeze dried food, reindeer jerky, a first aid kit stocked with gauze, bandages, tape, scissors, a personal ELT and Celox.”

Mike looks at Jen, “What the hell is Celox.”

I’m already impressed with this “girl.” She’s definitely Ex-Navy. Anyone with a little military experience knows that Celox is an over-the-counter coagulant used to quickly stop bleeding.

Jen looks at me and I smile, probably the only other one on the dock, who gets it!

Mike continues in his ignorance: “Oh and a big frickin bottle of hydrogen peroxide.”

I smile again thinking, Cheapest sterilization and disinfectant around!

Jennifer’s Diary

My dad was a stickler for hydrogen peroxide.

I never want to hear my dad’s voice going off in the middle of nowhere.

Could have used a bottle of peroxide now, couldn’t you?

My mom fled Iranian when I was just five. We had to leave dad behind. He was a doctor in Iran and the government wouldn’t let him leave because he was considered “necessary personnel.”

My dad helped her and me flee the oppressive, totalitarian government to give her and me a better life. My mom found out my dad was jailed, tortured and killed by the Iranian government in 1990.

My mother enlisted in the Navy and studied nursing and was transferred to a Navy hospital ship. Women weren’t allowed on any other types of ships in those days.

When my mother got out she went to the University of Alaska and got an engineering degree. She met a nice Aleut native on campus and before she left school they married and had their first child, my sister.

Again, this Denning guy looks handsome but he probably thinks I’m all beauty and no brains, which is exactly what he looks like.

I’m embarrassed with all of these gross men staring at me.

Mike tosses the ropes onto the ship and hops aboard.

I notice “Captain Jack” is trying to cover a very distinct limp.

As our crusty old fishing boat creeps away from the dock I made my way to the bridge.

I knew I might not have another chance to talk with the captain about the sub.

“I know there’s been a lot of talk around town about your tall tale, wanna tell me?”

Jack deflected, “Which one?”

I smile, “The one about the sub.”

Jack shrugs, “Oh, I was drunk. Don’t believe every story you hear.”

I pause before asking, “So you made the whole thing up?”

Jack ignores me saying; “I gotta get us out of the Basin.”

“Fair enough,” I respond.

With that, Jack shows off his talents, by maneuvering slowly out of the Basin.

As we sputter down the Tongass Narrows, Jack is outside the bridge. I notice an old book casually sitting on the captain’s chair.

I open it and realize this is the captain’s own personal diary. As I thumb through the pages I see Jack, outside, is busy yelling at Mike.

I rifle through ’til I come to this page:

I’m thinking, this is definitely the rantings of an alcoholic who likely saw something!

Jack is heading back to the bridge and, I don’t know why, but I put his diary in my pocket and walk off the bridge.

My Diary

Mike and I join Jack and Jennifer on the bridge.

“Where we headed?” I ask looking at Jennifer.

Jennifer pulls out her cell phone,

“Our witness dropped the suspect alone at Kendrick Bay. Here are the co-ordinates.”

Jack pulls out of his pocket an old Garmin hiking device and proceeds to put the co-ordinates into something that looks like it was purchased at Radio Shack in the late ’90s.

So I ask Jennifer, “This is now what we’re tracking criminals with?”

“Hey, it’s my trusty satellite device. It will pinpoint right where you want to go,” says Jack.

I then say, “Isn’t that for hiking?”

“Ya but isn’t that what you might be doin’?” says Jack.

I say, “I have a better program on my phone.”

“But there’s no cell service in that area,” says Jack. Then after a long pause, “Just as soon as it finds the satellites we’ll be in business.”

Jennifer reacts to me as if we may be a bit ill prepared.

I return the feeling but cover my thought by saying,

“This is why I volunteered: A nice Christmas Eve hike in the Alaskan wilderness.”

Jack, clueless to all of this, reacts excited,

“Okay, I know right where we’re going. Your man was let off on the east side of Prince of Wales Island.”

Mike chimes in, “Looks like the south side of Kendrick Bay?”

“Ya, looks like it. That whole side of the island is uninhabited.” says Jack.

I volunteer, “Sounds like the perfect place for a guy who wants to stay dead.”

Jennifer, “So three hours, right?”

Jack, “About.”

At this point I’m very concerned saying, “Shouldn’t we go back now and get some proper equipment?”

Jack says, “Like what?”

I say, “Oh I don’t know, like maybe a good map!

Jennifer, ignoring the sarcasm, “I’ve flown over this area. There’s a barge on the south end that’s occupied by only one person. Older man. The sat images look like our suspect but I can’t positively identify.

Jack says, “Parts of Kendrick Bay is over 900 feet deep! Out in Clarence Strait the water can be as much as 1,600 feet deep. Glaciers carved out deep water around many of these islands. The Navy used to test sonar submarine equipment around here ’cause the water’s so deep.”

I’m clueless as to all of the red flags that should’ve been going off in all our heads.

Jennifer now whips out a detailed map,

“Okay, so this is where we’re going. A Russian mining company holds claims to all these parts of Bokan Mountain and has built a dock here. We can walk right onto the beach from that dock.”

I now have slightly more respect, “So we’re just lost fishermen?”

Jennifer looks to Jack, “Did you bring them?”

Jack looks at Mike who’s not paying attention.

Mike, “What? Oh ya.”

Mike opens a drawer and pulls out some neon red overalls and some cheap things that look more like all you can eat bibs from Red Lobster!

I volunteer, “I’m not wearing target rich, school crossing jackets.”

I then think, I’ve seen this disaster before:

On the slopes of Mt. Hood.

Jennifer enthusiastically throws a jacket to me saying,

“Today, we’re fishermen.”

“You mean, fisher people!” I disgustingly add.

Jack then tries to help, “Or fishers.”

Jennifer now disgusted too,

“Whatever!”

Jack then breaks the tension, “If you need to use your phones, you have about ten minutes before you won’t have a signal.”

So I walk to the back of the boat and pull out my phone.

Ketchikan can now only be seen from the back of the boat in the distance. Ahead: Nothing but water and islands of rocks and trees.

It’s peaceful and beautiful. On the other-hand I thought,

“Maybe I should’ve updated my will.”

About two hours later I am looking at another, beautiful, Alaskan picture perfect shot. I snap a couple of shots on my phone of waterfalls gently gliding off of tall rocks and into the Narrows. The sun began to peek from between the clouds in a, rare, December appearance.

All four of us idiots now look like fisher “men” as we all have on neon gear, including the biggest target on the ship:

ME!

Jennifer has been talking up a storm on the bridge with Jack.

Mike walks toward me and jokingly says, “There! Now, you look like a fisherman!”

“I feel like Ken in a Barbie commercial! What’s so important on the bridge?”

“Oh they’re talkin’ ’bout that stupid submarine thing,” says Mike.

I think Mike is kidding, “What stupid submarine thing?”

Mike, “My boss thinks he saw a submarine out here. We’re lucky this boat didn’t sink and the Coast Guard didn’t fine us or take Jack’s boat for fishing where we weren’t supposed to be fishing. Personally, I think my boss is crazy. I’m sure you’ll be ‘briefed’ by your partner.”

Jennifer motions us to come to the bridge.

As I walk inside the bridge I see they’re looking at another map and sarcastically say,

“So, you found a real map?”

Jennifer ignores my sarcasm.

As I walk to the table I see a very detailed, military grade, satellite picture of Kendrick Bay and think: Okay, so she had another map all along and was just toying with me.

Jennifer says, “Ok, we’ll be entering the bay from here. Kendrick islands are here, here and here. We’re going into the West Arm of the bay toward Bokan Mountain. I’ve had a satellite pass over multiple times and there is only one person on this barge at the end of this dock.

This latest picture was taken yesterday afternoon.

“As you can see the barge is sheltered here on the south side of the arm by the dock. Jack will take us here alongside the barge. Any questions?”

“Are you sure they’re no other people on that barge?” I ask.

Jennifer says, “I’ve had this barge watched for days. Only one man gets on and off.”

I’m not convinced as I pull my firearm, “You better be right, ’cause I only got a Glock.”

Jack, opens a drawer and pulls a shotgun saying, “I got your back.”

I sarcastically answer, “Just don’t shoot me in the back.”

I notice Jack has been limping around, favoring one leg.

I think, great backup if we get in trouble: A guy that can barely walk.

I point to the radio above the window saying, “I hope that thing works.”

Jack grabs the microphone, “Just push this and you’ll be talking to Coast Guard Ketchikan on VHF.”

Mike now disgustedly stands to leave,

“Ya, they all know who he is. Captain Jack and The Black Pearl.”

As we draw near to Kendrick Bay my phone vibrates.

I check.

It’s a text from FBI Portland that Mohammad Al Aqsa (MAA) is flying to Ketchikan!

I can’t believe this, so I jokingly think:

Maybe MAA is now tailing me.

Another text arrives from Robert Stone, Police Chief, Ketchikan:

FBI, Portland just notified us of MAA.

I can pick up your suspect and hold him for you. What charge?

I type a text back saying, No charge. You must tail him until I return tonight. This is already against the FBI’s new six-month rule but I’ll just create a new file.

The police chief answers: This isn’t Portland. NO resources.

So I text, where is he now?

He texts: His plane lands in one hour.

I text back: I’ll call you as soon as I get back. In Kendrick Bay. No service.

Thank you, he responds.

I guess I was very lucky to get any texts as my iPhone 7 suddenly shows: No Service.