Brad Thor - The Lions Of Lucerne

Amanda was on the verge of tears, her pride hurting more than anything else.

“That’s not funny,” she said, sniffling.

“I’m sorry. You’re right; it’s not funny. Are you okay?”

“What do you care?” she said, wiping the snow from her face.

Scot started to laugh.

“It’s not funny, Scot. Cut it out!”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, Mandie. You were really flying, though. You looked good. Right up until the point you biffed. You know, we should have tagged your gear before you decided to have a yard sale.”

“Stop it!” Amanda managed before breaking into a fit of laughter.

“Oh, so that was a mistake? There wasn’t supposed to be a yard sale today? Whoa, then I better gather up the merchandise before we upset any of the neighbors.”

He told Amanda to sit still and joined Secret Service agent Maxwell, who was uphill gathering her equipment. When Scot reached Maxwell, he saw that he was staring into the distance at the presidential party making their way down Death Chute.

“Glad I’m not on that detail,” said Maxwell as he handed Scot one of Amanda’s skis.

Scot dusted the snow out of the binding, checking for damage as he waited for the next ski. “Maxwell, the reason you’re not on that detail is that when it comes to skiing, you suck.”

“Fuck you, Harvath,” said Maxwell as he shoved the other ski at him, confident he was out of Amanda’s earshot.

“No, seriously. I heard that Warren Miller was looking to shoot a little footage of you for his next ski film. It’s going to be a spin-off of that movie Beastmaster, only worse. He’s going to call it Biffmaster. Nothing but your wipeouts-”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m not kidding. Nothing but three hours of wall-to-wall Maxwell face down in the snow.”

“Fuck you.”

“There’ll be some of those trademark Maxwell-fully-geared somersaults, some awesome face plants…I think you could be up for an Oscar, my friend.”

“Harvath, which part of fuck you do you not understand? I mean, I’m good to go on explaining either of the two words to you-”

Scot laughed as Maxwell lost his balance reaching over to pick up one of Amanda’s ski poles.

Looking off toward Death Chute, Scot, too, could see the president and his detail still making their way down. The detail was doing a good job of keeping up with him. Everybody was right on the money. As he turned to take Amanda’s gear back to her, he glanced once more at Death Chute, just in time to see the president’s group near the trees and two Secret Service agents wipe out.

Maxwell had already recovered and gone down to Amanda. He was handing over her poles when Scot skied up.

“Well, Maxwell, it looks like the heat will be off your skiing at dinner tonight.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I think I just saw Ahern and Houchins bite it going into that part of the chute with the trees. But, with all the snow falling, it’s hard to tell.”

“At least I’m not the only one who bought it this afternoon,” said Amanda as she got to her feet and dusted the remaining snow off her jacket.

“I told you,” said Scot, “the end of the day is when most wipeouts happen. You’re more tired than you think, and some people push it a little too hard.”

Agent Maxwell took the skis from Scot and let Amanda lean on his shoulder for balance as she put them on. “I hope nobody hit a tree,” he said.

“That’s a good point,” responded Scot as he engaged his throat mike. “Sound, this is Norseman. Do we need to send the Saint Bernards and schnapps down for Ahern and Houchins? Over.”

Scot’s radio hissed and crackled. There was no response. He tried again.

“If either of them blew their knees, I’ve got a buddy here who’s a great surgeon. Tell Ahern and Houchins I’ll split the commission with them if they use my guy. Over.”

He waited longer this time, but there was still nothing but static.

“Sound, this is Norseman; we saw two agents go down. Can you give us a sit rep. Over?”

Sit rep was short for “situation report.” The president had probably pushed his guys just a little too far and just a little too fast for the end of the day. This really was the most common time for wipeouts. Ahern and Houchins were probably all right, but as head of the advance team, Scot felt responsible for every agent and wanted to know for sure.

“Sound, this is Norseman. Let’s have that sit rep. Over.”

Nothing.

Scot decided to change frequencies to the direct channel with the Secret Service command post. The blowing snow was beginning to pick up again. “Birdhouse, this is Norseman, come in. Over.”

“Scot, I’m getting cold,” said Amanda as she snapped into her bindings.

“Quiet a sec, Mandie.”

Scot pressed the earpiece further into his ear, but all he got was crackling static.

“Birdhouse, repeat, this is Norseman, come in. Over.” Scot waited.

“Birdhouse, repeat, this is Norseman. Can you read me? Over.”

More static.

Agent Maxwell looked at Scot, who shook his head to indicate he hadn’t made any contact.

“What do you think?” said Maxwell.

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to cry wolf to the rest of Goldilocks’s detail just yet. I’ll try my Deer Valley radio. If that doesn’t work, then we harden up.” Harden up was the Secret Service term for immediately closing ranks and body-shielding their assignment from any potential threat.

Scot tried three times to raise Deer Valley’s ski patrol and then tried Deer Valley’s operations station. There was no response. All of the radios were completely down. Scot let out a loud whistle, catching the attention of the rest of the detail agents, and gave the harden up command by waving his gloved index finger in a high circle the wagons motion above his head.

In a matter of seconds, Amanda’s protective detail had her completely surrounded. There was an incredible array of weaponry drawn, from Heckler amp; Koch MP5s to SIG-Sauer semiautomatics, and even a modified Benelli M1 tactical shotgun. The men’s eyes never stopped surveying the area as Scot explained that he had seen two of the president’s detail agents go down and all radio communication was dark.

There probably was a simple explanation. Ahern and Houchins could just have wiped out, and the radios had been acting up all day, with the weather the most likely culprit, but that was not how the Secret Service was trained to think.

Operating procedure dictated that they take the fastest and safest route back to the command center immediately. With the loss of radio contact, Birdhouse would already have scrambled intercept teams to recover both details as quickly as possible. But they were still a long way off. It was time to move.

Amanda saw her chance to break in and asked, “Scot, what’s going on?”

“Probably nothing, Mandie, but we need to get you back down to the house as quickly as possible,” said Scot. “You’ve done an awesome job today. I’m really proud of you. Your skiing is red-hot. Now, the normal way we go home would take us a bit too long. If we ski through the bowl, I can have you sipping hot chocolate by the fire with your dad in fifteen minutes. What do you say?”

“This is about him, isn’t it? Has something happened? Is he okay?”

“I’m sure he is, and the quicker we get back, the quicker you’ll see for yourself. Do you think you can do the bowl with me? I’ll be right next to you.”

“I don’t know. I think I can handle it.”

“Good girl.”

Scot smiled reassuringly at Amanda and gave the order to move out. The detail dropped over the icy lip into the steep bowl. The wind grew more fierce and sent sharp blasts of snow into their faces. Amanda was slow, but at least she was moving forward. It was terrifying for her, but to her credit, she was doing everything Scot had taught her-weight on the downhill ski in the turns, leaning forward into her boots, and keeping her hands out in front as if she were holding on to a tray.