Prey

Chapter Thirty-Four

In reaching to grasp the top edge of the shale outcropping so that he could pull himself up, Henry Lightstone almost put his forehead right in the cross hairs of Arturo Bolin's extremely accurate rifle.

But the deafening roar of the Cessna Skywagon's single engine as it passed over caused Lightstone to drop back at the last second. He took the packset radio from Sam Jackson.

"Woeshack, can you read me?"

There was a long pause, then Thomas Woeshack's excited voice came over the air.

"Ten-Four, I think I saw something!"

"Where?"

"Hold on, I'm coming back around for a better look!"

"Woeshack, what the hell did you see?" Lightstone demanded.

No answer.

"Woeshack!" Lightstone yelled into the radio mike, but it was already hopeless. He could see the small orange floatplane coming around in a tight turn just barely above the treeline, the roar of the powerful engine increasing as the special agent-pilot fought to maintain his precarious altitude.

"Jesus Christ, I think he's going to crash!" Sam Jackson whispered.

"Goddamn it, Woeshack, get your ass back up in the air!" Lightstone raged into the radio as the Cessna Skywagon appeared to stall but then recovered as Woeshack banked the wings of the floatplane and opened the throttle to maximum power.

"I can see-" Woeshack yelled into his mike.

At that instant, the resounding overhead roar of the airplane completely overwhelmed the survival instincts of the Kodiak bear's surviving cub and it broke from the shelter of the dense scrub brush.

Roy Parker reacted out of pure instinct, triggering a quick burst of 5.56mm rounds that threw fountains of dirt, rocks, and twigs into the air as the multiple impacts of the high- velocity bullets sent the frantic cub tumbling back into the brush in an explosion of dirt, torn hair, and blood.

"What the hell!"

Enraged by the agonized cries of the horribly wounded cub, Sam Jackson started to scramble up and over the shale outcropping and was immediately thrown backward as a 7.62mm copper-jacketed bullet tore through his upper shoulder and blew a bloody hole out the back of his down vest.

Henry Lightstone dropped the packset radio, reached for his hip-holstered. 357 Magnum and lunged forward against the protective surface of the shale outcropping. He took a quick, cautious look over the edge, then pulled himself up fast to trigger off three concussive rounds with his short- barreled. 357 revolver. Sensing that he hit the first crouched figure, Lightstone then whirled to his right and fired the last three rounds at the barely visible figure that lay prone, a sniper rifle pointed at the dead cub.

Using a pistol with only a 2-inch barrel at a distance of over a hundred yards, Lightstone had little hope of making a hit. But that didn't concern him, because all he really wanted to do was to keep everybody down long enough for him to get to Sam Jackson.

After firing the last shot, he ducked down behind the outcropping and only narrowly avoided the second bullet that exploded in a stinging shower of lead, copper and shale fragments just a few inches above his head.

Cursing to himself, Lightstone crouched down with his back against the rocky cliff, quickly dumped the empty casings out of the stainless-steel revolver and fed one of the six-round speed-loaders from his jacket into the open chambers. Then he scrambled down to the lower ledge to where the bearded refuge officer was sprawled out on his back, with his blood-covered left hand clenched tightly against his upper right shoulder, his eyes glazed in shock.

"Henry, can you read me?" The voice of Special Agent-Pilot Thomas Woeshack was muffled because Jackson's radio was facedown in the brush.

Ignoring the discarded radio, Lightstone knelt down and gently pulled Jackson's trembling hand away from the bleeding wound. He used his folding knife to cut and peel back the blood-soaked layers of vest, shirt and long underwear.

After taking a brief look at the exposed entry point, Lightstone tried to gently move the refuge officer's severely injured shoulder so that he could examine the exit area, and then winced inwardly at the sound of shattered bone ends grinding against each other as the refuge officer groaned in agony.

Lightstone began to use his folding knife to cut the cotton lining out of his own jacket.

"What-" Jackson whispered.

"Trying to keep you from getting the refuge all messy," Lightstone said, glancing up and listening for the sound of anyone moving in their direction as he began to tear the jacket lining into long strips.

"Hurts like hell," Sam Jackson mumbled.

"Yeah, I bet it does," Lightstone muttered as he began to pull handfuls of the synthetic fill from the lining of his thick jacket. "You're losing a lot of blood out the back, but I think I can get it stopped. Looks like a straight through-and- through punch, no expansion. Must be using ball ammo."

"Military?" Jackson whispered weakly, blinking his eyes in response to the pain of each shallow breath. "Nobody… uses that stuff out here anymore."

"Henry, this is Woeshack. Can you read me?"

"Yeah, well, somebody is today. By the way, you're not going to like this next part, but I've got to do it." Lightstone held chunks of the synthetic fill on either side of the wound. "You ready?"

"Yeah, sure," Jackson nodded, blinking his glassy eyes as he looked up at Lightstone. "Hurry up, get it over… Oh, shit! '" he screamed. Then his eyes rolled back into his head and he went limp as Lightstone used the tips of his fingers to jam the filler material deeper into the gaping wound.

"Yeah, hell of an idea. I'd faint too if it were me," he muttered to himself as he quickly used the strips of cotton lining to tie the blood-soaked filler in place.

Lightstone scrambled back up to the top edge of the outcropping, the. 357 Magnum back in his hand, just in time to watch the man in shredded-rag camouflage gear kneel down beside his prone partner. He set the bipod-mounted sniper rifle in place, dropped the ammo belt with the extra 7.62mm clips next to the scoped weapon, slipped into the green nylon harness rig that held eight extra thirty-round magazines in snap pouches, and then picked up the 5.56mm Colt Commando automatic carbine.

"Oh, shit," Lightstone whispered.

"Henry!"

Cursing, Lightstone scrambled back over to the clump of brush where he had dropped the small packset radio. In the background, somewhere off to his right, he could hear the echoing roar of the Cessna Skywagon's powerful engine as Woeshack circled the floatplane high over the center of the huge lake.

"This is Henry, go ahead," he said, bringing the radio up to his mouth and keying the mike as he cautiously peered around the edge of the outcropping and saw the figure with the short-barreled automatic weapon start to move forward from tree to tree in their general direction.

"Jesus, I thought you-What's going on down there?" Woeshack demanded.

"Couple of shooters about a hundred yards south of us," Lightstone explained, watching as the rag-camouflaged figure proceeded to move in closer, covered by his wounded but still very functional partner, who had taken over the sniper rifle.

"They're both wearing military cammo gear." Lightstone spoke into the radio mike again. "One of them's armed with an automatic weapon. The other one's got some kind of bipod-mounted rifle with a scope."

"You mean they're soldiers?"

"Sure as hell look like it to me," Lightstone muttered.

There was a momentary pause.

"I thought I saw one of you guys go down," Woeshack said hesitantly.

"You did. Sam caught a round through the shoulder."

"Is he okay?"

"He's alive, but he's out cold and losing blood pretty fast," Lightstone said as he continued to watch the still-distant but rapidly approaching figure, not happy with the idea that the man really did look and act like a soldier.

"What about the suspects?"

"The one with the automatic weapon's heading our way right now," Lightstone said in a cold voice. "The other guy's staying in place with the rifle. Looks like I might have hit him. Can't tell."

"Jesus, what the hell are they-"

"Listen," Lightstone interrupted, "we're going to need some help down here. Can you contact Anchorage on that radio?"

"Sure, if I get up high enough."

"Then get up there and try to get ahold of Paul," Lightstone ordered. "Tell him to get us some backup out here, pronto. After that, come back down and help me keep track of these guys."

"That's what I was trying to tell you," Woeshack said. "I spotted Paul's plane down by that island. It's tied up in the cove on the northwest side."

"Can you see him?"

"No. I tried to raise him on the radio, but there wasn't any answer, and there's nobody back at the office."

"Shit," Lightstone snarled.

"What do I do?"

"Get ahold of the tower. Tell them to call the FBI or the Coast Guard or the goddamned Boy Scouts, for all I care," Lightstone growled into the radio mike, watching from the protective shale edge as the rag-camouflaged figure cautiously moved forward another seven or eight yards. "Just get somebody out here."

"Christ, those FBI guys are way downtown at the Federal Building. It would take them a good two or three hours to get here."

"Well, tell them to fucking hurry!"

Lightstone listened to the changing pitch of the Cessna's engine as Woeshack sent the floatplane climbing up and around the back of the island.

"Okay." Woeshack's excited voice came back on the air in less than thirty seconds. "I got ahold of the tower. They're calling the FBI and the-Hey, what's that?"

"What's the matter?" Lightstone demanded.

"Just a second. I thought I saw something," Woeshack exclaimed excitedly and then went off the air as he brought the dark orange floatplane down in a sweeping low pass across the far north side of the island.

"Woeshack, what the hell are you doing?" Lightstone demanded.

"There's somebody down-Oh, shit!"

The roar of distant gunshots almost blocked out Woeshack's panicked scream. From his position below and behind the shale outcropping, Lightstone could hear the roar of the straining engine and see the dark orange overhead wings of the Cessna wobble frantically as Woeshack sent his aircraft almost straight up in a desperate effort to escape the ballistic onslaught from the ground.

"Woeshack, get the hell out of there!" Lightstone yelled into his radio.

"Two bodies!"

"What?"

"Two- Jesus, I've been hit!"

"Woeshack, what the hell-"

Dead silence.

"Woeshack!"

"… okay… not hit… airplane's been hit," Woeshack managed to stammer out. "Jesus, they shot this thing full of holes!"

"What about the bodies?" Lightstone demanded, watching the rag-camouflaged figure carefully because he was almost close enough now.

"I saw two bodies on the ground, in a clearing near the spit," Woeshack answered in an audibly shaken voice. "I think one of them's McNulty."

"You assholes!" Lightstone whispered.

Then, after one last glance to make sure he had the approaching figure positioned correctly, Lightstone lunged out from behind the protection of the shale outcropping, dove to the ground and then rolled behind another smaller mound of rocks and brush as a jackhammering stream of 5.56mm rounds tore up the surrounding landscape.

Rolling quickly to his left, Lightstone fired two rounds in the general direction of the rag-camouflaged figure, then dove forward on his hands and knees to the relative security of a nearby spruce just split seconds ahead of a second burst of wildly ricocheting copper-jacketed slugs.

Working hard to control his breathing, Lightstone tucked himself in tight against the moderately protective tree trunk as a third burst of the small but deadly 5.56mm bullets shredded brush and tree branches all around his new position.

Then the much louder crack-pow! of the sniper rifle echoed through the trees, and Lightstone threw himself flat and rolled to his right across rock and moss and lichen- strewn ground as a 7.62mm rifle round tore a huge chunk of wood out of the tree trunk less than two inches over his head, sending sap-filled fragments flying in all directions.

Lightstone brought the short-barreled. 357 Magnum up in an instinctive point-shoulder position and fired two rounds at the running figure just as it disappeared behind a tree. Then, eyes fixed in a murderous rage on the concealing tree, Lightstone remained in his dangerously exposed, extended- arm position for two more heartbeats as the other man faked a move to his right with his back against the tree. Lightstone triggered the last two rounds at center-chest level just as the man came back around to his left with the Colt Commando automatic carbine firing in the full auto position.

Henry Lightstone had less than a second to enjoy the sight of the rag-camouflaged figure staggering backward from the double wallops of the mushrooming hollow-point slugs when the glancing impact of the 7.62mm copper-jacketed bullet knocked the. 357 Magnum out of his hand.

The fourth incoming bullet from the 7.62mm sniper rifle, deflected by a mass of spruce and birch-tree branches, still had enough power to rip through the front panels of Lightstone's jacket and leave a shallow, bloody gouge across his chest in its wake.

Staying as close to the ground as possible as he retrieved his pistol, and then fumbling around in his jacket pocket for one of the remaining speed-loaders, Lightstone frantically crawled and twisted away from the explosive sprays of metal, wood, and rock fragments. He heard the crunching sound of boots moving quickly through downed tree branches and dry brush… and then the metallic click of the Colt Commando carbine's bolt as it ejected the last expended casing and snapped into the open position against the spring- operated feeder of the empty thirty-round magazine.

He's wearing a vest, Lightstone told himself.

Functioning now on pure training and instinct, and driven by a blinding and mindless fury, Lightstone rolled over to his side, hurriedly fed the six rounds into the empty chambers of the. 357, released the speed-loader, slapped the cylinder shut, and came up firing alongside a much too narrow birch tree. He sent three rounds at the rag- camouflaged figure-who had instinctively lunged toward a much larger tree while reaching for another loaded magazines-and then three more at the wounded sniper. He reflexively dumped the expended. 357 casings from the hot pistol one-handed while he reached into his jacket pocket for his last speed-loader… and found nothing.

Blinking in shock, Lightstone started to look around on the ground for the lost speed-loader. But then, hearing the metallic clack of a carbine bolt nearby, he dropped the useless. 357 and scrambled desperately for the shale outcropping.

"Henry, he's coming, behind you!" Thomas Woeshack yelled unnecessarily, and then sent the unarmed floatplane diving down in a low, strafing run.

But Woeshack's heroic maneuver was still effective because it caused Arturo Bolin to duck down long enough for Henry Lightstone to throw himself forward over the edge of the outcropping. He landed hard on his side against the rough-surfaced shale and was scrambling toward the sprawled body of Sam Jackson when the sound of oncoming boots and Woeshack's static-filled voice warned him.

"Henry!"

Diving forward, Lightstone was reaching for the holstered. 357 on Sam Jackson's hip when the rag-camouflaged figure of Arturo Bolin appeared over the top of the outcropping.

Laughing maliciously, the professional mercenary stepped forward to the edge of the rocky cliff with the intention of immediately triggering a fatal burst of 5.56mm bullets into Henry Lightstone's exposed back when his boot came down on a loose rock.

Lightstone heard the cold laughter, the clatter of dislodged rock, and then the grunt of surprise as Arturo Bolin winced in pain, trying to regain his balance. Lunging forward, Lightstone wrapped his fingers around the black rubber grip of Sam Jackson's pistol, pulled the weapon loose, rolled onto his back, and instinctively fired three rounds up at the greenish-brown blur. Then he twisted desperately away from the jackhammer roar of the automatic carbine and stared up wide-eyed as the lifeless body of Arturo Bolin pitched forward and struck the rocky base of the outcropping.

Gasping for breath as he lay on his back, Special Agent Henry Lightstone tried to blink the sweat and dirt out of his eyes. Then, straining to listen over his own labored breathing, he heard a strangely quiet and muffled voice coming from… somewhere. It took him almost thirty seconds to locate the commset that had been knocked loose from Arturo Bolin's bleeding head. He picked up the still-functioning earphones, wiped off some of the blood, and listened for a brief moment to the voice of Roy Parker, who first demanded to know what was going on, then called for additional backup in a distinctly cold, furious, and professional voice.

Jarred by the prospect of more assailants, Lightstone took the nylon harness containing the loaded magazines for the carbine from Arturo Bolin's lifeless body and snapped it around his own aching chest. He scooped up the automatic weapon, loaded it with a full thirty rounds, and confirmed that a round was in the chamber and that the selection switch was set to auto.

Then he reached over then and picked up Jackson's scarred but still functional radio.

"Woeshack, can you hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear you!" the shaken special agent-pilot answered. "Jesus, I thought you guys were-"

"Good. Pick us up at the water, by the cove," Lightstone interrupted. "Right now."

"Is Sam-"

"He's still alive, but he isn't going to be much longer if we don't get him out of here."

"I'm on my way in," Woeshack said quickly. "But listen, there's another plane heading our way that won't answer my calls. And there's a boat-"

"Woeshack, I don't give a shit if the fucking Spanish Armada is out there. Get that plane down on the water and meet me at that cove!"

"Ten-Four, on my way."

Muttering to himself, Lightstone fit the radio into one of the empty ammo pouches, then slung the Colt Command over his shoulder. He reached down, scooped up the limp, unconscious Sam Jackson in both arms and started to carry him down through the brush toward the distant cove.

From way out to his left, he heard an airplane engine and saw a flash of blue metal low on the horizon. But Lightstone didn't care about other planes right now. He was determined to get Sam Jackson into the Cessna Skywagon and out of the area as quickly as possible.

Halfway down to the rocky shoreline, Lightstone thought he could hear voices near the outcropping. He propped Jackson up beside an uprooted birch tree and paused to listen. But the echoing roar of the Cessna Skywagon's single engine prevented him from hearing anything as Special Agent-Pilot Thomas Woeshack banked the floatplane around in his approach for a water landing.

Lightstone scanned the wide overhead expanse of rocks and trees and brush, searching for any sign of movement. When he didn't see anything, he reached down and picked up Jackson one more time, then stumbled the rest of the way down to the rock-strewn cove, where he found Thomas Woeshack, waiting for him on shore, and Marie Pascalaura.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Lightstone demanded in a voice that was hoarse and fdled with disbelief. Shaken by his narrow escape from death, and nearly exhausted from his awkward and painful descent down the cliffs, Lightstone could only consent as Woeshack and Marie ran forward and took the still-unconscious refuge officer from his aching arms.

"I heard you call for help on the radio, so I got in the boat and came back," Marie said matter-of-factly as she and Woeshack put Sam Jackson down on the rocky shore. Then Marie looked at the blood that had soaked through the front of Lightstone's torn jacket.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Lightstone rasped, looking back over his shoulder at the surrounding cliffs. "But-"

"Well, Sam's not," she said firmly. "We've got to get him to a hospital."

"The controllers at the Kenai Tower picked up my call to Anchorage," Woeshack said, looking up. "They're sending a paramedic team and state troopers from Soldotna out to the docks right now."

"Okay," Lightstone nodded weakly as he forced himself to start moving again. "Then let's hurry up and load him in the plane. We've got to get out of here before-"

"Uh, I think we've got a problem," Woeshack interrupted.

"What's that?"

"I don't think we can take off with four people on board."

"There're four seats in the damn thing. Why the hell not?" Lightstone demanded, looking over his shoulder again as he slid his right index finger over the trigger of the automatic carbine.

For a brief moment, he thought he'd seen something move near a large bolder up on the cliffs, but now he wasn't sure.

"We got a bunch of bullet holes in the floats, and some of the chambers are filling up with water," Woeshack explained. "The plane's still floating now, but if we don't-"

Crack-pow!

Lightstone had just turned around to look at the bullet holes that seemed to pockmark the dark orange floatplane when the 7.62mm bullet whipped past his head and exploded through the right-side bubble window of the Cessna Skywagon.

"Shit!" Lightstone cursed as he triggered a long, piercing burst of 5.56mm rounds into the trees surrounding the boulder where he'd sensed movement. Expended casings flew over his shoulder, and Marie Pascalaura screamed and dropped to the rocks. Woeshack rolled to the ground and fumbled for his shoulder-holstered. 357 Magnum.

"Get that prop going!" Lightstone yelled at Woeshack. Then he and Marie dragged Sam Jackson over to the water and up into the boat.

"What do I do?" Marie Pascalaura yelled as she fumbled with the starter and got the outboard running, while Lightstone spun around and emptied the rest of the carbine's magazine in the general direction of the distant boulder.

"You still have the radio?" he asked as he turned to push the open aluminum boat out into the water.

"Yes."

From behind his back, Lightstone heard the Cessna Skywagon's starter whine as Woeshack tried again and again to kick the engine over. Finally the floatplane erupted into a loud, rumbling roar.

"Then go like hell for the dock, and let them know you're coming. State troopers should be on their way," he yelled over the deafening sounds of the plane and the outboard motor as he replaced the short-barreled carbine. "We'll meet you there."

"But-"

"Get going!" he ordered as he aimed and fired another short burst at a sudden movement of green camouflage next to the distant boulder and then ran toward the plane, vaguely aware that his lower legs had started to turn numb in the icy water.

Lightstone pulled himself into the front passenger seat, yanked the door shut, and began to put on his headset when the sharp crack of a high-powered rifle echoed across the water once again. He started to duck down, but then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a broad splash of water about ten feet to the far side of Marie Pascalaura's rapidly accelerating patrol boat.

"Goddamn it!" Lightstone screamed. "Those sons of bitches are shooting at her!"

Then he turned to Woeshack, his eyes widened with rage.

"Get this thing between her and that boulder, right now!" he yelled as he pulled himself into the narrow backseat area, braced himself against the right side of the plane and used both feet to kick out the left-side rear Plexiglas window.

As Special Agent-Pilot Thomas Woeshack throttled the dark orange floatplane forward, Lightstone switched the Colt Commando carbine over to single shot, aligned the open sights of the short-barreled weapon as best he could inside the bouncing and vibrating plane, and began to methodically fire round after round at the pair of cammo- clad figures barely visible on one side of the tree-covered boulder.

He completely ignored the loud clatter of torn metal as an incoming stream of 5.56mm bullets ripped into the floatplane's left pylon, and the loud clang! as another 7.62mm bullet punched through the thin-skinned aircraft in the space equidistant between Lightstone's stomach and the back of Woeshack's pilot's seat.

Thomas Woeshack continued to accelerate the bouncing and rattling floatplane in an effort to keep up with the rapidly moving patrol boat. He had to leave the Cessna's wing flaps locked in the full-up position to keep the plane down on the water.

But all too soon, the forward speed of the plane, the bullet damage to the waterlogged floats, and the counteracting force of the wind against the torn metal fabric started a rattling vibration that threatened to tear the small plane apart.

"Feels like the left pylon is going to tear loose any second now! Either got to go up or slow down!" Woeshack shouted over his shoulder.

"She's clear. Go up!" Lightstone yelled as he set the smoking carbine aside and reached for the headset in the back of the plane.

"Can you hear me?" Woeshack asked as he readjusted the wing flaps and started the Cessna up into a steady, roaring climb.

"Christ, I think I'm deaf," Lightstone muttered, the headphones making him aware for the first time of the high-pitched ringing in his unprotected ears.

Marie Pascalaura waved her hand and continued to accelerate the small patrol boat toward the distant western shore.

"You sure that was Paul you saw on the ground back there?" Lightstone called loudly into his mike.

"Yeah, pretty sure," Woeshack acknowledged. "He had on that red-and-yellow vest that his wife made for him. Real easy to spot."

Lightstone didn't say anything for a long moment.

"You get to know Paul very well?" he finally asked.

"Well enough," Woeshack said, his voice taking on a bitter tone. "He got me through flight school when everyone else was trying to have me grounded."

"Then what do you say we go back around, then come in low over that goddamned boulder?" Lightstone said in a cold, deadly voice as he wrenched another loaded magazine out of the nylon harness and reached for the carbine.

Woeshack looked back at Lightstone for a moment. Then he smiled. "How low do you want it?" he asked, banking the vibrating aircraft around to the right.

"Low enough that if I miss, you get to take them out with the prop," Lightstone replied as he loaded the automatic carbine and set the selector back to automatic. He waited with cold, murderous patience for Woeshack to bring the aircraft to an altitude of about twelve hundred feet.

"You ready?" Woeshack asked.

"Absolutely." Lightstone set another loaded magazine between his legs.

"I'm going to go up high and then drop us in fast. I don't think they're going to be expecting something like that."

"Good."

"Okay," Woeshack nodded. "Here we go."

True to his word, Woeshack put the Cessna in a steep dive that caused the no-longer-streamlined airframe to shake and rattle and vibrate all the way down, leveling out just in time to clear the trees as Lightstone held the trigger down and sent all thirty 5.56mm rounds streaking into and around the boulder area.

Chunks of trees and dirt and rocks went flying in all directions as one of the camouflaged-dressed men spun away and then tumbled down the cliff, while the other scrambled for the safety of a narrow ditch.

"Nice job, Woeshack," Lightstone whispered into his mike, not caring that his hands were shaking as he released the empty magazine and let it drop to the floor. "One down and one running."

"I think he's running for that plane that landed over by Paul's," Woeshack said. "You want to cut him off?"

"Damn right I do," Lightstone said evenly as he reloaded the carbine, ignoring the dozens of empty casings that were rolling around on the floor of the aircraft. "Take her around again, and we'll see if we can get an ID on that plane while we're at it."

"Okay, but don't forget we've got gas tanks in our wings," Woeshack reminded.

"Why, did we take any hits there?" Lightstone asked, never having thought-much less cared-about where the gasoline was stored in a Cessna Sky wagon.

"I think we caught a bunch more in the floats, and at least one in the left wing flap that I can see," Woeshack said as he banked the plane in a long, looping turn. "Doesn't look like we're leaking any gas. Long as they don't hit one of the control cables or us, we're probably okay," the Native Alaskan special agent-pilot shrugged.

"Wonderful," Lightstone muttered.

"Hey, there's another one!" Woeshack suddenly yelled into his mike as he banked the plane to the right.

"Where?"

"Off to the right side."

Lightstone quickly shifted over to the right rear seat, suddenly aware of an all-too-familiar queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Can't see him."

"There were two of them. Both in the same cammo gear. Come back up front, you'll have a better view," Woeshack advised.

Lightstone forced himself to ignore his growing nausea and climbed back over into the front seat as Woeshack brought the small floatplane around in a tight circle.

"See, over there." Woeshack pointed over to the right. "Two of them. Looks like they're going for the plane, too."

For a brief moment, Henry Lightstone saw a flash of white hair, and what looked like a gun. He was starting to bring the automatic carbine up for a shot through the shattered right passenger window when the right front cowling of the plane was suddenly hit with three successive thunks. Black smoke started to pour out of the engine on Lightstone's side, effectively blinding his shot and causing him to choke and cough as a thick fog began to fill the cockpit.

"We're hit!" Lightstone yelled into his mike.

"Yeah, no kidding," Woeshack grunted as he reached down between the seats for the fuel shutoff valve and then used the stick to nose the plane down into a moderately steep dive.

"What are you doing?"

"Gotta maintain air speed or we'll stall out."

"Yeah, but we're going to crash."

"That's right," Woeshack nodded. "Listen, there's a couple of sleeping bags in the back with the survival gear. Can you get them?"

"Sleeping bags?"

"Yeah, I think we're gonna need them real bad in about thirty seconds or so. Better hurry."

As Lightstone scrambled back over the front passenger seat again, this time fighting the force of gravity, Woeshack quickly switched over to the 121.5 standard emergency frequency, keyed his outside radio transmitter, and then spoke calmly into his mike. "Mayday, Mayday. Kenai tower, this is November Six-One-Four-Seven-Seven. We've lost our engine and we're going down, eastern shore of Skilak Lake. Do you copy?"

"November Four-Seven-Seven, we copy that you have lost engine power, going down, eastern shore of Skilak Lake." The Kenai tower controller came on the air immediately as Lightstone scrambled back into his seat clutching both sleeping bags. "Help is on the way."

"Kenai tower, advise Foxtrot Bravo India that we need immediate assistance. Suspects escaping in a — Oh, shit!"

The Cessna shuddered and seemed to start to fall backwards in the air, which forced Woeshack to quickly concentrate on his flying and increase the angle of the dive. From Henry Lightstone's horrified point of view, the ground seemed to be coming up at them at an incredibly fast speed. Then it suddenly occurred to him.

"Hey, you're aiming for land. What about the lake?"

"I can't swim," Thomas Woeshack said. "Besides, it feels like that left float is starting to go. We hit the water like that, we're gonna break up and then probably freeze to death before anybody can get to us."

"But-"

"You got that safety belt on tight?"

Lightstone quickly fastened his belt and shoulder harness, trying not to look at the mass of trees coming up at them fast now.

"Yeah, it's as tight as I can get it."

"Okay, put your hands in through the sides of the bag and hold it up in front of your face," Woeshack said as he grabbed the other sleeping bag and put in in his lap.

Then he waited until the last moment before pulling the stick back and dropping the wing flaps to send the orange Cessna plummeting floats-first into a dense clump of spruce trees, looking for all the world like a huge orange eagle flaring its wings as it swooped in to grasp its prey with its talons.

The initial impact of the crash was absorbed by the two floats as they buckled and then crumpled up into the cross pylons. But all Henry Lightstone knew at the time was that the front windshield was suddenly filled with tree branches, and the safety belt tore into his body, and his head was slammed forward toward the instrument panel, with the sleeping bag absorbing most, but not all, of the impact.

Barely conscious, Lightstone was vaguely aware of the plane starting to shift in its precariously wedged position in a clump of broken spruce trees about ten feet off the ground.

He was trying to reach for the seat-belt release when he felt a hand pulling on his arm and a sharp knife blade sawing through his safety harness. Then somebody pushed him out the door and he tumbled to the ground through what seemed like a thousand broken spruce branches that smelled like a curious mixture of fresh pitch and gasoline.

Then he and Woeshack ran as fast as they could until the concussive force of the plane exploding knocked both of them off their feet and into the darkness.

Even after he regained consciousness, it took Henry Lightstone several seconds to recover to the point that he could turn his head and throw up.

Then, after what seemed like an eternity of gasping and coughing, he finally found the strength to crawl over to where Thomas Woeshack was lying on his back, using his cut and bruised forearms to block the sun from his bloodied face.

"You alive?"

"Must be," Woeshack mumbled after a moment. "My whole body hurts."

"Good sign." Lightstone nodded weakly as he slowly rolled over on his back and lay next to the sprawled-out pilot.

"Well, you finally did it, kid," he said quietly after a few moments.

"Did what?"

"You finally figured out how to fly just like one of those goddamned birds."

"Yeah, you really think so?" Woeshack smiled through his split and bloody lips.

"Absolutely. No question about it."

It was only then, as the two special agents lay there in the rock and spruce and lichen-covered clearing, bruised, bleeding, and covered with black soot, that they first heard and then saw the large blue floatplane that appeared overhead at an elevation of about a thousand feet.

"You read the number?" Lightstone asked.

Woeshack tried to focus his blurry eyes on the moving blue object and then slowly shook his head. "No."

"Me neither."

"Maybe they'll try to land."

"Yeah," Lightstone smiled. "That'd be nice."

The plane made three complete circles over the crash site. Then, apparently satisfied that his team had caused sufficient damage to their unexpected adversaries, a tired, blood-smeared and mildly irritated Gerd Maas directed the pilot to rock the wings of the plane in a mock salute before turning away.

For a long time, neither agent spoke, until finally Woeshack said: "They just gave us the finger, didn't they?"

Henry Lightstone continued to watch the large blue floatplane until it finally disappeared off in the distance. Then he nodded his head slowly. "Yeah, I'd say so."

Woeshack thought about that for a few more seconds. "So what do we do now?" he asked.

Then Henry Lightstone turned his head to stare straight into the dark, questioning eyes of his thoroughly bruised, battered, and bleeding partner, and said:

"Find us another airplane."