Ken Goddard - Double blind

"What took him so damn long to check in?" Smallsreed demanded impatiently when the sky remained free of birds. The entire episode made the bloodlust flow through his veins, and he could hardly wait to kill something too.

"SOP." Rustman continued reading the paper that one of his employees had surreptitiously delivered to the blind earlier that morning. "You make the hit, go to ground, and pop back up in a remote location, twenty-four to forty-eight hours later, after the follow-up hunt dies down. Standard hunter-killer recon procedure."

"That's assuming there actually is someone out there looking for them," Tisbury commented. "We don't know that yet."

"There's always a follow-up hunt," Rustman replied without taking his eyes off the text. "You hit somebody as bad as Wintersole and his people did, you'd damn well better count on it. And don't forget, we went after federal agents," he reminded them.

"Federal agents aren't any different," Regis J. Smallsreed dismissed Rustman's comment indifferently. "They get in the way, they either get moved… or removed like everyone else. Simple as that."

"Did Wintersole say anything about the tape?" Tisbury voiced his primary concern.

"No, just sent a coded message. Standard phrases. But I don't think you have to worry about First Sergeant Wintersole." Rustman looked up from the paper calmly. "He's a professional soldier who knows exactly what he's doing. That's why we put him in charge of the field aspects of this operation."

"Yep, that's exactly it," Regis J. Smallsreed agreed, bobbing his massive head vigorously. "You want something done right, you go out and hire yourself a professional… 'cause when you do, everything always works out just fine… including that out there." The congressman's eyes glittered greedily as he pointed toward the far horizon.

"What've we got?" Tisbury asked, readying his shotgun.

"Looks like a bunch of cans, if my old eyes are any judge." Smallsreed glanced over at his host hopefully for confirmation.

"Wouldn't be a bit surprised." Rustman smiled briefly as he glanced toward the horizon, then reluctantly put his paper away. "This is a good spot for them."

Silently, the three men crouched in the blind and watched as the formation of migratory birds announced their low-to-the-water approach with intermittent quacks, long necks extended forward as their powerful wings sliced through the chilled morning air in precise, synchronized strokes.

"Yes, by God, cans!" Smallsreed whispered as much to himself as the others in the blind.

Caught up in the pure sensory pleasure of the moment, Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed uncharacteristically allowed his hunting companion to take the first shot.

Moments later, the concussive roar of Sam Tisbury's shotgun shattered the moment into illusionary fragments as the lead Canvasback tumbled in an explosion of feathers, tissue, and blood.

The shock wave had barely registered on the gun-wary instincts of the remaining birds when nine more blasts erupted from the blind, sending nine more tight patterns of lead pellets streaking upward in intersecting paths with the left and right sides of the rapidly separating formation. Nine more bloody explosions sent nine more lifeless Canvasbacks plum-meting into the water.

Which left one Canvasback — severely wounded by the stray pellets from the pattern that had obliterated his wing mate — veering off in a desperate, zigzagging effort to escape the deadly barrage.

Regis J. Smallsreed stood with an open mouth and an empty shotgun, and watched in anguished disbelief as the crippled bird somehow remained airborne — desperately quacking and flapping its wings as it tried with every ounce of strength it could muster to reach the weed-choked sanctuary of the far-distant shoreline.

He wore that anguished look because Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed remained as greedy as ever.

As always, he desperately wanted to kill them all.

Lt. Colonel John Rustman took one look at the directional vector of the duck's erratic but determined course, cursed silently, and activated the small radio transmitter on his belt.

"Wintersole," he whispered tersely into the mike. "Take it…"

But then he remembered. No Wintersole. Not today.

Or at least not yet, anyway.

Sorry, duck, you'll just have to suffer. Rustman shrugged as he automatically glanced at his own empty pump shotgun in the VIP blind's gun rack. Must not be your day.

The congressman was still standing there, clutching his empty shotgun and glaring angrily at the out-of-range Canvasback — his Canvasback — a good eighty yards away and slowly gaining distance with each feeble wing stroke, when two dark-hooded figures suddenly stood in the adjoining blind with. 223 Mini-14 semiautomatic rifles in their hands.

A moment later, a single sharp, explosive crack echoed across the water.

Ninety yards away, the terminally injured bird suddenly spun in midair, its bloody feathers momentarily fluttering protectively over the splash points created when its carcass struck the water.

"Holy shit!"

As Sam Tisbury's astonished exclamation rang out across the water, Lt. Colonel John Rustman and Regis J. Smallsreed wheeled and stared openmouthed at the dark-hooded figures in the adjacent blind.

"Who… the hell is that?" Sam Tisbury's face still bore an absolutely astounded look.

"That, I believe, is First Sergeant Aran Wintersole, reporting for duty as ordered," Lt. Colonel John Rustman replied, unable to keep the supervisory pride out of his voice.

However, it did occur to him as he spoke those words, that the figure wearing the purple scarf around — her? — throat had made the shot. Wintersole just stood there with the Mini-14 held comfortably in his arms, watching the female Ranger with what Rustman guessed was an equivalent amount of pride.

He started to say something to that effect, to explain to his companions in the VIP hunting blind how meaningful that demonstration of faith had been. But the appearance of a small plane coming in low over the horizon suddenly caught his attention.

As Rustman, Tisbury, and Smallsreed watched in silence, the erratically flying float plane stalled, recovered, then stalled again as it suddenly veered in their direction.

"My God!" Sam Tisbury gasped. "He's going to crash right into us."

"What?"

Simon Whatley staggered desperately to his feet and stared in horror, with the other three men, at the oncoming plane.

"Oh, shit!" he whispered.

"GODDAMN IT, HE'D BETTER NOT…!" Regis J. Smallsreed screamed, but it was too late.

Before the congressman could say or do anything else, the pilot seemed to regain control at the last moment, powering the small aircraft forward in such a manner that the two floats mounted beneath the plane hit the water hard about twenty feet in front of and just to the right of the four helpless duck hunters… sending a huge spray of duck- and goose-shit-infused water flying in the air that literally drenched them, and generated a huge swell that surged toward the blind.

Blinded by the spray, Simon Whatley staggered backwards, bumped into Smallsreed, then grabbed onto him for support just as the swell struck and nearly upended the anchored blind… effectively sending both desperately flailing men catapulting through the open doorway and into the freezing water.

Just as Smallsreed and Whatley came up for air, the congressman livid with rage and screaming himself nearly hoarse, the pilot of the more-or-less-landed aircraft made a sharp right-angled turn and cut the engine… generating another series of waves that choked off Smallsreed in mid-scream as his white-haired head disappeared beneath the surging ice-cold water.

In the brief moment before the plane slammed into the anchored blind, federal wildlife agent Wilbur Boggs and FBI supervisory agent A1 Grynard managed to exit hastily the rear seats of the aircraft and make it out onto the floats. The impact sent Rustman and Tisbury tumbling to the floor, while Boggs and Grynard held on to the wing struts for dear life.