Ridley Pearson - Killer View

He trained the light from side to side, working progressively deeper into the narrow hole, picking up the sharp lines in the frozen mud, immediately knowing he’d guessed correctly. What he was about to attempt was suicidal-and few knew that better than a vet-but his choice had been made and he wasn’t going to turn away from it. He carefully dug into the snow blocking the hole, removing as little as possible, not wanting to draw attention to the hole or the small cave it now revealed.

He pushed the pack through and followed, twisting and moving his body to delicately slip between the gap he’d widened. The stench increased exponentially. He was on his knees now, his head tucked down. The space was small, the air thick enough to gag him, a combination of rancid bacon grease and scat. Still holding the syringe, he put his left hand over the flashlight’s lens to soften its beam. He ran the diffused light across the cave’s wall, holding to where the mud floor rose to meet it. Even after two decades of working with animals of every kind, his heart fluttered as he discerned the bear’s coarse brown hair. It was a big black, perhaps six hundred pounds, curled into an enormous mound of slowly rising and falling fur. Its head was tucked beneath its front paws, like earmuffs. The paws themselves were the size of a kid’s baseball mitt, ending in mud-caked, curled black three-inch claws.

Hibernation was not unconsciousness; a bear’s heart rate drops from fifty to ten beats a minute during hibernation, yet the animal retains its senses and can awaken-though slowly-if threatened. By now, the bear had smelled him, was aware of the intruder. Aker had from two to eight minutes, no more than ten, before the bear would rise to defend his den.

He’d misjudged the dose significantly, not figuring on such a large animal. He scrambled with the pack to fill the syringe with an additional 30 ccs, emptying the vial; all or nothing. The bear’s paws slipped off his head and his sad eyes popped open. Awake but barely conscious. Still, the ferocity in those eyes terrified even someone as comfortable around animals as Aker. The scratch marks in the frozen mud and on the rock were warning enough.

He had to squat and finally lie down in the cave’s tight confines in order to reach the animal. One of the bear’s legs twitched. Its eyes blinked open wider. It was late fall; the animal wasn’t yet fully settled into the metabolism that would carry him through the long winter. He was coming awake far more quickly than Aker had anticipated. A giant paw lunged out, though awkwardly and with dull reflexes. Aker tucked into a ball, rolled, and plunged the needle deep into the thick fur coat. He depressed the plunger, emptying the syringe. He left it stuck in the animal, rolling away toward the mouth of the small cave.

The bear blinked behind heavy eyelids. Its front leg twitched, the massive paw clawing the air where Aker had just lain. Several long minutes passed, Aker not knowing if his plan had worked. The bear blinked once again before his eyes eased closed. A hibernating bear maintains a body temperature of over eighty degrees Fahrenheit. Aker rolled, and he pushed his back up against the mass of the sleeping animal. Within a matter of seconds, his back began to warm. Then his legs. Soon his whole body responded, shaking at first, then steadying, as the cold was gradually overcome. The drugs would keep the bear out for several hours. In a state of hibernation, despite its enormous body mass, it might remain unconscious for a day or more.

For the first time since his escape, Aker felt almost safe. He doubted the cave would be discovered by Coats or Gearbox. The chance to rest would strengthen him. Though the cave was foul-smelling, he’d found both shelter and a heat source. He could remain here for at least four hours, possibly longer. At first, he fought off sleep, focusing his attention instead on the mouth of the cave and listening for the sound of the snowmobile. Encouraged as he was, he knew his survival ultimately relied upon Walt Fleming’s efforts to find him. If some form of help didn’t arrive soon, Aker would be forced back into the elements, back into the hunt, where the odds were against him.

A FLIGHT OF MIGRATING SANDHILL CRANES APPROACHED OFF the glider’s right side, a ballet of slowly beating wings and outstretched necks easily mistaken for geese or swans from a distance. But, seen closer, they were too elegant for the former and too large for the latter. They moved as a black arrow, an undulating wave, like a single organism against a backdrop of a once-royal-blue sky now flaming out in resignation to a setting sun.

Walt pointed out the formation to his passenger, appreciating her hand then tapping him on the shoulder in acknowledgment, secretly enjoying the brief contact. She seemed to understand this was not a moment to raise one’s voice above the roar of the wings. He liked her all the more for it.

The V drew nearer, as if drawn by curiosity or mistaking the glider for one of their own. The cranes flew close enough that Walt could briefly make out not only the delicacy of their individual feathers rustled by the steady wind of their efforts but the beady stares of their unflinching eyes. They passed, and, like a curtain opening, revealed not the expanse of the desert below, simmering in the blush of dusk, but the menacing, insectlike form of a military helicopter, obscured until that moment.

Startled by the sight, Fiona jumped in her seat, bumping her head against the Plexiglas canopy.

It was a jet-assisted chopper-what Walt thought of as a gunner ship-capable of both tremendous speed and aerial agility. Both men in the cockpit looked like insects as well, as the copilot pointed to the bulbous black headphones mounted over his Air Force helmet.

Walt had purposely changed radio frequencies to avoid being contacted by Air Traffic Control and ordered out of the restricted airspace prior to Fiona taking the pictures. He had forced their hand, necessitating the scrambling of an intercept. But he acknowledged the request with a gesture and quickly reset his radio. He checked in with ATC, announced himself, and was told to immediately switch to yet another frequency, where he could communicate directly with the helicopter pilot.

The anticipated warning was issued with authority: Walt had violated federal airspace; he would land the glider at the Arco/Butte County airport, a tiny strip where the towplane now waited. He could expect to be boarded and detained. The standard “boarded” line brought a grin to his face: the glider’s cockpit barely fit its two passengers; no one would be boarding his aircraft. But the mention of detention was more significant. He planned to withhold his trump card-his status as law enforcement-until reaching the ground. But the carefully worded caution implied the government would exercise its right to search.

“They’re going to look at your equipment,” Walt shouted back to Fiona. “If they find we’ve been spying instead of joyriding, we’ll be in some serious trouble. I don’t want that for either of us. You’d better erase anything of the INL site. Keep the landscapes; we need to justify the gear.”

“How long do we have?”

“They’re escorting us. I need to land right away.”

“But how long?”

“Five, ten minutes. I’ll need to come around for the wind. They’re not going to shoot us out of the sky or anything. Why?”

“Can you make it more like ten?”

“How long does it take to erase some photographs? I would have thought-”

She interrupted. “Walt, I got some terrific shots of that construction site. I’d hate to lose them.”

Ten minutes earlier, they’d flown over an area of excavation, busy with large earthmoving machinery, the hole being dug alongside one of the bunkerlike buildings. The area was a beehive of activity, especially given the late hour: past seven P.M. The overtime work suggested an intriguing urgency. He’d circled the excavation, possibly putting him onto radar. Fiona had run off dozens of shots, including some of the Pahsimeroi Valley to the northwest. Walt wanted time to study the shots, but not at the expense of arrest.