Brad Thor - The Lions Of Lucerne

Scot looked up at Hollenbeck. “Have you called Washington yet?”

“Yeah. They told me we’re authorized for anything we need.”

Dr. Trawick cleared his throat, indicating that he was through with his examination. Scot and Agent Hollenbeck both turned to look at him.

“There’s no question that you took quite a beating. I am still amazed that, all things considered, you didn’t break anything. In light of what happened, your injuries are relatively minor.”

“Good, then I can-”

“Hold on a second. I’m not finished. When I say your injuries are minor, that doesn’t mean they aren’t serious. While nothing appears to be broken, you may have a few cracked ribs. I want to wrap you with an Ace, ice the bruised areas, and then get you into my office for some X rays and probably a CT scan. Until then, you are to stay in bed. I am going to keep you on the IV for another twelve hours and monitor you. What I am most concerned about is your head trauma. So, for the time being, you are staying put.”

“Thanks all the same, Doc, but I plan on going back out there to help in the search. They need every live body they can get.”

“You’re welcome all the same, but you’re not going anywhere. Your body is of no use to anyone in this condition. You go out there like this and they’ll end up having to waste time carrying you right back in again.”

“I doubt that-”

“And, beyond the total fatigue and exhaustion you have suffered, there’s also some frostbite and mild hypothermia. Any average person probably would have died out there. Your survival says a lot about your training and will to live. I repeat, you are one lucky S.O.B.”

“Are you finished now, because I’ve got stuff I’ve gotta do?” said Scot as he tried to raise himself off the bed.

“Lie down,” barked Hollenbeck. “That’s an order! Harvath, why do you insist on being such a jackass sometimes?”

“Tom, with all due respect, I was head of the advance team. The safety of the presidential party as well as my fellow agents was and is my responsibility. You need my help.”

“Not in this condition I don’t. Forget it.”

“I’m not going to debate this with you, Tom.”

“You’re damn right you’re not. You are staying in that bed until Dr. Trawick or Dr. Paulos says otherwise. You got me?”

“C’mon, Tom. Be realistic.”

A crackle, followed by Hollenbeck’s call sign over the CB radio clipped to his belt, prevented him from arguing any further with Scot, and he raised his hand for silence.

“This is Birdhouse. Over.”

“Birdhouse, this is Hermes. We’ve got something. Over.”

“Copy, Hermes. What’s the situation? Over.”

Despite the effort, Scot sat straight up to listen to the exchange.

“Birdhouse, it appears as if we have recovered two agents from Hat Trick’s detail. They are extricating them as we speak.”

Thank God, Hollenbeck thought to himself. “What’s their condition? Over.”

“Still extracting, hold on a sec…I’m moving over to get a better view.”

“Roger that. Birdhouse is holding.”

Several seconds passed.

“Birdhouse! Birdhouse! Hat Trick’s agents are down! Unnatural causes. I repeat, unnatural causes.”

Hollenbeck couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Scot strained forward to take in every piece of information. He knew that there was absolute pandemonium on the face of Death Chute right now. All of the agents would have their guns drawn, feeling vulnerable in the dark, not knowing if the threat was still present or long since gone.

“Hermes, this is Birdhouse. Tell your team to sweep and reap. I repeat, your team is to sweep and reap. Do you copy? Over.” Sweep and reap was the command to scour the immediate area for hostile targets. If any were encountered, the threat was to be neutralized by taking the perpetrators into custody or by punching their tickets as quickly as possible.

“Roger, Birdhouse. Hermes’s team will sweep and reap. Over.”

Hollenbeck had four CAT teams outside, and he got on the radio and mobilized them next. Two headed off toward Death Chute, and the other two took defensive positions around the house. As he completed his commands, he turned back to see Scot trying to get out of bed. This was more than he needed to handle. He turned to Dr. Trawick. “Sedate him. Now.”

“We can’t do that. Not in his condition.”

“Fine. I want a guard on this door tonight. He doesn’t leave.”

Harvath was only able to squeeze out a couple words of protest before Hollenbeck grabbed his parka and ran out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Scot knew he was licked, at least for now.

Miner once again looked at his watch. Everything was still going according to schedule. Every phase of the operation brought with it new challenges and potential pitfalls. The greatest risk Miner and his team were running right now was in transporting their precious cargo, but even in that, he had plotted for every eventuality.

Wasatch Front Ambulance Service had a fleet of fifteen vehicles that, in one of the fastest growing counties in America, were always in demand. Drivers performed routine inspections of their rigs, as they called them, before each shift. With them driving so many steeply graded mountain passes every week, their brakes were of the utmost importance to them. When the driver of ambulance 17 had come on duty yesterday and found brake fluid pooled on the ground beneath his rig, he immediately notified the dispatcher.

As Wasatch’s mechanic was overwhelmed with a string of mysterious problems on four other rigs, the dispatcher called to have the rig towed to a local garage, where it could be repaired by an outside mechanic.

When the tow truck arrived and picked up ambulance 17, the groundsman had been waiting across the street in a nondescript gold Ford Taurus to take down the name, address, and telephone number of the mechanic’s shop stenciled in bright green letters on the side of the tow truck. A simple call from his cell phone to Grunnah Automotive verified what Miner had told him to expect in the land of Utah. After closing early on Saturday, the garage would not open again until Monday.

The alarm system at Grunnah Automotive was more for show than anything else. The groundsman had it deactivated in no time. He spent the next half hour repairing the ambulance and helping himself to Cokes from the refrigerator in Mr. Grunnah’s office. He then slipped into dark blue trousers and a dark blue shirt with official-looking patches on it, drove the ambulance out of the garage, being careful to close the roll-down door behind him, and rendezvoused with the Deseret Industries eighteen-wheeler, into which he loaded the ambulance.

Eighteen hours later, as the stolen ambulance rocketed down Provo Canyon, passing the Sundance Resort, Miner phoned the pilot of his chartered MediJet plane.

He spoke with the urgency of a doctor transporting a patient in very serious condition. The wail of the sirens and the clipped British accent he affected dovetailed perfectly with what the MediJet crew had been led to believe was their assignment.

The refinery fire in Magna, Utah, two weeks prior had been one of the worst the industry had ever seen. The blaze had burned uncontrollably for several days, and the smoke had been so thick that it had shut down all but two runways at Salt Lake City International Airport. Before the flames had been extinguished, environmentalists from several groups had flocked to the scene with their banners, decrying the continued pollution of the environment by big business, particularly the oil and gas industries. Several media outlets had run stories about the mounting toll oil and gas disasters were taking on the planet. On television, scenes of the Kuwaiti oil fields aflame during the Gulf War competed for time alongside images of dead oil-soaked seabirds being plucked from the shores of Alaska following the Exxon Valdez disaster. The Magna refinery fire was worldwide news.