No Man's Dog (34 page)

Joe returned to the storeroom. He filled his pockets with grenades and, slinging his H&K across one shoulder and the shotgun across the other, he lugged three RPG launchers outside. He laid them down in the brush, then made a quick tour around the exterior of the hill. On the far side there was an open Jeep with a .50-caliber machine gun mounted on a stand in the back. Two Huleys were sitting in the front seats, smoking cigarettes and talking.

He doubled back to recover his RPG launchers. He was almost there when every light in the place went on. Huge floodlights lit up a cleared area. Machinery began to grind and whine and the massive doors of the face of the hill began to part and roll back, obviously running on heavy tracks buried in the earth. The lights created virtual daylight before the vast maw of the opening hillside. Joe raced for cover.

In the end, he decided to simply scramble up the grassy hill itself, until he was perched, breathless, among some pine saplings near the top. He’d had to drop one of the RPGs, but he still had two. This spot, at the very crest of the hill, provided an excellent view. He could see inside the now opened hangar, where the men were busily running out the mechanically driven telescoping track that bore the plywood-sheathed landing platform. On the other side, he could see the Jeep start up, someone standing in the back to man the cannon and another pulling forward to a position from which the gunner could cover the landing zone.

Overhead, he could hear the approaching
whomp, whomp, whomp
of the chopper. Then its landing lights went on, and the bird came whirling down out of night sky. The ground crew walked forward, one of the men brandishing the twin red-light torches of a wing walker, gesturing toward the landing platform. Another had pushed out a small cart on which was mounted a tall, flexible pole bearing a wind sock, positioning it to one side but well illuminated for the benefit of the pilot.

The chopper came in very fast, very adroitly, and settled onto the platform. The pilot cut the power and the rotors began to slow. The men rushed forward to apply hand clamps to the skids of the chopper. Almost immediately the doors of the chopper flew open and Luck dropped to the platform. Two other men, one of them clutching an arm, hopped out the other side. The third man was wearing a suit. Joe assumed that was Echeverria. He held a white hat down on his head and stooped, skipping nimbly off the platform to the ground. One of the Huleys helped him dismount. Another helped the wounded man down. Echeverria and the wounded man—Joe assumed from his stature that it was Hook—walked together into the shelter of the hangar.

Luck was bellowing, “Get ‘er inside, quick! Quick! On the double! Get those doors closed!”

Everybody ran to comply. The huge doors began to grind shut even as the track bearing the chopper on its platform started to retreat. The blades had stopped. A man was clambering up to restrain them.

Joe thought, This won’t do. He squatted on his perch, armed his weapon, took aim at the track, and fired. The angle wasn’t good, too steep, but he’d corrected for it. The rocket whooshed through the night, struck the front of the platform, and exploded. The blast dislodged the helicopter, which tumbled sideways, off the platform, despite the restraints. Joe tossed the launcher over the side and it tumbled down inside the hangar.

He snatched up the other. The doors were continuing to close but, of course, now they wouldn’t be able to close, because the retractable launchpad was stopped. One side of his brain considered what would happen when the powerful motors driving the doors ground up against the pad. The other side of his mind was concerned with the Jeep and its heavy machine gun.

They knew he was on the roof, of course. The Jeep swung out into the clearing, slewed around, and faced the opening of the hill. The man on the gun was peering up into the darkness of the top of the hill, where Joe was. Joe gave him something to aim at: he fired his second RPG at the Jeep. It didn’t hit it but it did not miss by much. The cannon thundered, spraying bullets wildly, as the driver tried to evade any further RPGs. Joe unslung the H&K, racked it, and began to descend.

The back of the hill was quite dark and covered with saplings. Joe slipped down rapidly. He could hear a lot of shooting going on from out front. By the time he was halfway down, he’d decided that he was outgunned here. Now was a very good time to take to the woods. Still, a notion struck him. He recalled the PVC ventilator tubes he’d noticed in the vault ceiling. He began to search about for the point where they would exit in the hillside.

It took too long to find. The Huleys were rapidly moving about the perimeter of the hill, trying to trap him. But then they began to take fire from Helen and Roman, who had separated and were firing from the woods. The Huleys were forced to respond. In the respite that provided, Joe finally stumbled on a weathered wooden box with louvered panels. This must be the covering for the ventilator tubes. Joe tried to figure out how to remove it, to get at the tubes, but it was securely anchored. At last, he simply kicked in the louvers. The framework gave way and he kicked the whole thing aside.

He pulled the pins on three hand grenades and dropped them, one after the other, down the pipe. Then he scrambled down the hill, tumbling in his haste and tearing his clothes, even his cheek, on the branches of saplings, in order to get the hell off that mini-mountain before it blew. In the event, he got to the ground and reached the perimeter road before it went.

He didn’t hear the grenades themselves, or at least he didn’t think he did. But whatever blew up inside there was pretty impressive. The hillside bulged, chunks of dirt flew, finally a crack opened in the earth, more explosions rocked and reverberated, and finally a spectacular ball of fire spewed out of the side of the hill, caught the trees on fire, and was followed by a thunderous, growling, crackling, rumbling blast that knocked Joe down.

He was on his feet in a flash and began running. He had no idea of the direction at first. Then he began to arc through the woods, his way lit by the flames behind him, headed toward the river. He caught up to Helen and Roman before they reached the cabin.

They could hear sirens somewhere beyond the trees behind them. They ran through the woods to their vehicles. “Follow me,” Joe yelled, leaping into his truck. The other two pushed the old Cadillac at a lunging pace along the river road, following the leaping and bounding pickup truck. When they got to the highway they still didn’t stop, driving on to Manton. There was a bar open there.

Over a cold beer, Joe advised his companions, “Let Mul sort it out. Who’s dead and who’s not. I don’t care. For now.”

M
ulheisen was describing the layout of Luck’s place to Wunney—the guards, the gate. They had no idea how many guards Luck might have, or if they’d put up any resistance.

Wunney didn’t think they would. “From what I’ve seen of the reports on Luck’s activities, most of his supporters are local sympathizers, not ‘soldiers.’ Obviously, if we’re right and the operation at your house was engineered by Luck, he’s got some guys who are willing to trade fire, some kind of trained grunts, but not overly bright from the looks of it. Those aren’t the ones who are listed as members of his patriot group. He’s probably got no more than a dozen grunts, is my guess, and at any time he might have only half of those around him. But he’ll be on his toes. He knows we’re bound
to react to this strike at your house. He’s got to figure we’re on to him. So there could be resistance. I just don’t think a bunch of backwoods guys playing soldier will offer much. I could be wrong, though. We sure as hell don’t want another Ruby Ridge or Waco.”

Mulheisen pointed out that there was a major difference here: Luck had initiated the violence with his strike. Still, it was obviously important to minimize the potential for explosive reaction.

Mulheisen wondered if it didn’t make sense to come in the back way, from McVey’s cabin. They debated these and other possibilities as the plane rushed through the night, high above the clouds. It seemed the plane had hardly leveled off at cruising altitude before they felt it tilt to descend.

Wunney remarked, “It musta been kinda weird hanging out with Joe Service, eh?”

Mulheisen had tried to put Service out of mind, not very successfully. He thought about him now, wondering what he was up to. Joe could take care of himself, he thought, and he’d have to, because there wasn’t anything Mulheisen could do for him.

“Joe’s got his own agenda,” he said.

“We’ll have to do something about Service when this is over,” Wunney said.

Mulheisen didn’t think that likely, but he didn’t say so.

“I’m sorry about your study, Mul. But you’ll be able to rebuild. You had insurance, didn’t you?”

Mulheisen thought it would be covered under his existing home insurance.

“It was lucky you hadn’t moved anything in it,” Wunney observed.

“You know, I’m thinking,” Mulheisen said. “Maybe I ought to get a place up north. A fishing cabin.”

“That’s the spirit,” Wunney said. “All right, buckle up. We’re going in.”

“I can’t help feeling there’s more to it,” Mulheisen said, as the aircraft turned on final.

“What do you mean?” Wunney asked.

“From what I’ve learned about Tucker, he’s a devious, complicated man. This operation has the earmarks of that kind of thinking. I have a feeling he was after something bigger, all along. He protected Luck, but he may have just been using Luck to get to somebody else.”

“Now you’re thinking like Tucker,” Wunney said. It wasn’t clear if he meant that approvingly. “Anyway, we’ll soon find out.”

A half hour later they were standing on a county road, watching the combined volunteer fire departments of eight townships battle a small forest fire with the help of the Forest Service. They seemed to have it well under control. No buildings had been burned; even the tinderbox barn had been saved. But ground zero could not be approached yet. There were still occasional explosions and isolated rounds of ammunition were firing off.

Wunney conferred with one of the agents, Dinah Schwind. When she left, he said to Mulheisen, “We’ve got what’s left of the hill cordoned off, and the buildings. Special forensic crews are coming in. They’ll start sifting the ashes as soon as the embers cool. But it doesn’t look like anybody got out of the bunker, or whatever it was, that blew.”

Mulheisen left Wunney to coordinate with these details and he wandered off into the woods, where firefighters were still dousing small fires. He wore his “Homeland Security” jacket and hat for identification. When he had the opportunity, he’d question a firefighter about the possible presence of individuals whom they couldn’t identify. The men working—felling trees, directing equipment, clearing fire lanes—were mostly young and exuberant. They didn’t get much of this kind of action and they enjoyed demonstrating their techniques, which they had learned and practiced for years.
But no one could recall seeing any odd personnel wandering about, or fleeing.

A first-aid station had been set up at Luck’s house to deal with injuries to the firefighters. They hadn’t seen any survivors of the horrendous explosion and subsequent fire. Old doctor Hundly was there, bandaging burns and sprained ankles. He nodded to Mulheisen but they didn’t converse.

Mulheisen skirted the ground-zero site and wandered toward the river. As he’d expected, there were plenty of cops at the river road and near Charlie McVey’s cabin, which was unharmed. McVey himself was standing on the deck, surveying all the activity.

“By golly, Mul,” Charlie exclaimed, “looks like ol’ Imp has bought it this time! I wouldn’t of wished it, but damn, he went out with a bang! C’mon in and have a drink. I seen you left some good stuff for me.”

He admired Mulheisen’s jacket. “I knew you was somebody,” he said.

Mulheisen stood with him in the kitchen, sipping scotch. He affirmed McVey’s supposition that no one had apparently survived. He asked if McVey had been aware that Luck had been flying a helicopter out of the area.

“Well, you know, folks talked about hearing a chopper,” Charlie said, “but no one took it seriously. The Forest Service and the Fish and Game use ‘em, and the Coast Guard comes in and out of the area all the time from the station in Traverse City. Their route takes ‘em over this way if they’re headed for Frankfort or Lake Michigan. So no one paid it too much mind.”

“Did you imagine that Luck might have all those explosives in there?”

“Well, he was all’s doing something with Cats and stuff, working on his place. I never paid no mind. I don’t think anyone did. But lord, he must have had a regular ammo dump in there!”

“He did, apparently,” Mulheisen said. “Some of the agents who know about these things said he must have stockpiled tons of explosives. They estimate the blast was bigger than Oklahoma City. But tell me, have you searched this property?”

McVey hadn’t. He’d been at home when he heard the blast, as far away as Summit City. He had tuned in his scanner and heard the fire departments responding, so he’d hustled straight over to the cabin. “They was cops here when I came in,” he said. “State police and the sheriff’s. They let me on in. No one’s been in the house. No damage a’tall. I was afraid a window might of been broke on the woods side, from the blast, but they was all okay. The door was unlocked,” he added accusingly, “but no harm done. Tell you the truth, I was more worried about them big windows in the front. Them puppies run a purty penny.”

“Let’s take a tour,” Mulheisen said.

A quick tour of the interior didn’t reveal anything. Charlie picked up the bottle of scotch and led him outside. They walked around the house. There were three windows on that side, all of them intact and locked, except for the bathroom window, near the back.

“The bathroom window was open,” Charlie said. “But you know how it is, a feller goes in there and sometimes the fan don’t quite clear it out, so he opens the window. Must of forgot to close it when you left.”

“I confess I didn’t close up the place,” Mulheisen said. “Joe, my, ah, associate, did. I should have stopped and checked it. Sorry.” It occurred to him that Joe had reentered the cabin, at least following the takeoff of the helicopter—he’d talked to him on the phone from there. Presumably, he’d left too abruptly to bother closing up again, probably following the blast. Mulheisen didn’t say anything about that to Charlie.