Michaels shone a beam from his flashlight and called out to the troopers as they approached. “Hello, AST! 492nd Scouts coming in to your area!”
“Who?”
“State Defense Force!”
One of the troopers turned a spotlight in the direction of the voices. “How many are you?”
“Four,” Michaels replied as they continued walking forward. “And we are armed. We’ve been on an exercise for a couple days.”
“Michaels?” called one of the troopers.
“Yeah,” Michaels replied. “Who is that? I can’t see you with that light in my eyes.”
“Sean Brady.”
“Oh! Hey, Sean, what in the world are you guys doing out here?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you. We’re here because we were ordered to be out here, but what about you? I thought you guys were a coastal unit.”
Trooper Brady and Staff Sergeant Michaels had gone through a specialized SERT training course together earlier in the year. Michaels was the first ASDF member allowed to actively train with state SERT officers. During the training, he had made an impression on the commander. He offered Michaels a stand-by position on the Anchorage SERT Team. He would have accepted, had his wife not threatened to divorce him if he took such a dangerous side job.
“We are a coastal unit,” Michaels answered, “but there have been some deployments of other troops north of the Yukon, and I figured that if my boys were going to participate in any paid call-ups I’d better make sure they were ready for it.”
“Yeah, well, it looks like you got more than you bargained for, eh?”
“You can say that again,” Barnes said. “It’s friggin’ colder than my mother-in-law’s stare out here.”
The other trooper, James Bartlett, replied, “Sixty below, according to the weather station report as of ten minutes ago.”
“What kind of tyrant ordered a checkpoint at these temperatures?”
“Commander Stark in Fairbanks. Actually, I guess I can tell you guys this. It’s a cover for an APB. We’re looking for a couple of guys who have a warrant.”
“Sucks for you guys, then,” Michaels said. “I’m going to start my truck so it can warm up. Do you mind if the guys sit in your cruiser for a while to warm up their bodies while we wait? We’ve been in the field for three days.”
“Yeah, sure, go ahead,” Brady replied. “Both cruisers are running and warm. Just take off your gear so you don’t scratch my seats.” Trooper Bartlett nodded in agreement.
Michaels walked to his Suburban parked in the turnout fifty feet away. He hoped it would start after three days in the freezing cold. At minus fifty degrees, motor oil turns to gel. When the gelled fluid is forced into the cylinders, the engine block can crack if it is unable to thaw the oil fast enough. He had recently switched to a new synthetic motor oil that advertised to be fluid at up to seventy-five below zero, but Anchorage never got that cold, so he didn’t know if it would work.
He turned the key. The engine screeched in loud protest as the cold parts wound their way around. “Come on baby, get going for Daddy.”
After several torturous seconds, the engine fired up.
“Excellent, I’ll have to buy stock in that brand.” He adjusted the heater controls and waited for the engine temperature to climb. The headlights of an oncoming vehicle appeared in the distance.
Troopers Bartlett and Brady moved into position on either side of the vehicle as it approached. Corporal Jones leaned against a barricade next to Brady’s cruiser. He smoked a cigarette while the other two soldiers sat in the backseat warming up. They left the door ajar so as not to lock themselves in.
The vehicle, a maroon Ford Explorer, slowed as it approached. Michaels watched as Brady and Bartlett approached. He couldn’t see the men inside SUV from his angle.
Once certain that his Suburban would stay running, Michaels climbed out. Its engine was still whining in protest of the icy chill, the frozen pistons scraping noisily against the metal cylinders, begging the oil to make its way around the moving parts. As he stepped out of the vehicle, several loud cracks yanked his attention toward the highway.
Trooper Bartlett stumbled backwards. He landed flat on his back on the shoulder of the highway. The passenger door of the Explorer swung open.
Michaels stared at the scene, blinking rapidly in stunned disbelief. His friend Sean Brady had been on the other side of the vehicle, but now was nowhere to be seen.
The man who stepped out of the driver side of the SUV pointed a weapon at Corporal Jones and fired three quick shots. Jones slammed back into the barricade, knocking it over as he toppled to the ground.
Michaels jolted into realization. He scrambled for his MAK-90, a civilianized version of the ubiquitous AK-47, in the space between the seats of his Suburban. The two militia soldiers in the cruiser tried to climb out through the one door they left open. Neither they nor Michaels were fast enough to stop the occupants of the SUV as they fired a barrage into the open door. Barnes and Phelps jerked like puppets whose strings were randomly being yanked by a malicious little boy. Their riddled bodies slumped back into the seat.
Michaels swung his rifle across the wide hood of the Suburban and opened fire on the two assailants. The one who had exited the driver’s side of the SUV was flung back as several rounds slammed his torso. The other man returned fire and ran to his fallen comrade.
What Staff Sergeant Aaron Michaels witnessed next shocked him even more than the events he had witnessed thus far.
Using the engine compartment as cover, Michaels aimed his rifle to take another shot at the last man. Before the staff sergeant could squeeze off his shots, the passenger of the Explorer turned his weapon on his partner and shot him square in the head.
Shocked, Michaels just stared. He didn’t know what to do. The shooter ran to the driver’s side of the Explorer, firing toward Michaels. The militia soldier ducked behind the engine. Bullets plunked into the metal of the large vehicle as the assailant jumped into the driver’s side of the Explorer and weaved through the bodies and the barricade.
Michaels popped his head up to take a shot at the vehicle, but the driver of the SUV opened up with an automatic weapon through the open passenger side window as he passed.
The staff sergeant stayed under cover as the SUV passed. The sound of the vehicle faded into the distance. He leaped from behind the Suburban and ran to the cruiser to check on his men.
Barnes was dead. Blank eyes stared into space, mouth gaping. Jones was dead as well. There was a large, dark, wet pit in the side of his skull, as well as several holes in his uniform, from which blood oozed onto the pavement where it froze almost instantly. Phelps was still breathing, but unconscious and bleeding profusely.
“I’ll be right back, buddy. Hang on.”
Michaels ran to the two troopers and found both in bad shape. Bartlett was alive. His breathing was wet and labored. Bright white tufts of stuffing puffed like cotton blossoms from four jagged holes in the center of his jacket. There was no blood coming from the wounds. His vest had stopped the bullets.
Sean Brady was not so lucky. He lay flat on his back, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. His legs were straight and his arms flared out from his sides, as if he had fallen asleep preparing to make a snow angel on the road.
Trooper Sean Brady was definitely dead. Two clean wounds pierced his throat, just above his protective vest. A pool of freezing blood formed a morbid halo around his head. A large, unrealistically white piece of vertebrae lay on the pavement just beyond his head. A round gray ball of lead jutted from where it had lodged in the bone.
Staff Sergeant Michaels wretched violently.
His body’s reaction to the horrifying scene was interrupted when he heard a voice from Brady’s radio.
“7-63, do you copy?”
A pause, then, it repeated.
“7-63, do you copy?”
Michaels forced his body to control the urge to keep puking. He picked up the radio hand mike from Brady’s body and pressed the talk button.
“Uh,” he said, his voice shaking uncontrollably, “There’s been a shooting.”
“Who is this?”
He composed himself and went on, “This is Staff Sergeant Aaron Michaels, Alaska State Defense Force. I’m here with Troopers Brady and Bartlett at the checkpoint. They are both shot, and so are three of my men. Most are dead, except for Trooper Bartlett and one of mine, but neither of them looks good. One of the guys who did it is also dead, but the other got away.”
“Stay there, Sergeant. We’re sending backup and ambulances immediately.”
“I’ll start first aid oen the two survivors, but hurry up. I don’t think they’ll make it long in this cold.” Tears welled up in his eyes. He struggled for control.
“We’re on the way. Just sit tight.”
“Hurry up….dear God…..hurry up.”
He dropped the radio and went over to Bartlett. The trooper was still breathing and had a pulse in his wrist, so Michaels dragged him over to the Suburban. He opened the tailgate and flattened the backseats to make a large, open area.
He pulled the trooper up onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He laid him as gently as he could into the back of the long vehicle and closed the door. The interior of the large SUV was warming up already, and now Bartlett was out of danger of freezing before the ambulance arrived.
Michaels then ran back to check on Phelps. He slid Barnes’s body out of the vehicle and laid him on the ground beside the cruiser. The staff sergeant then got into the vehicle to check on the corporal. He felt for a pulse in his wrist, but couldn’t find it. He moved his fingers up to Phelps’s neck and could feel a pulse there, but it was weak.
“Come on, buddy! Hang in there don’t die on me!” Michaels placed his ear above Phelps’s lips to listen for a breath, but couldn’t hear or feel anything. He started CPR chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth breathing.
“One, two three, four, five…breathe….breathe….one, two, three, four, five….breathe…breathe.”
It’s just a dream, a bad dream.
After fifteen minutes of compressions, bright lights flashed on the horizon. The red and blue lights of the ambulance spun and sparkled in the distance. It was two more minutes before he could hear the sirens wail.
He didn’t break the rhythmic pumping and breathing as he labored to keep his friend alive. Four minutes later, an ambulance crew ran to the cruiser.
“The Suburban!” Michaels shouted. “Trooper Bartlett is in the Suburban! He was breathing on his own when I left him there.”
Two medics ran to the SUV and two others took over the CPR. Other troopers and policemen, as well as a second and third ambulance, arrived moments later.
Movement in the back seat of the cruiser stopped. One of the EMT’s looked up from Phelps. He turned to the staff sergeant and shook his head. “I’m sorry. He’s gone.”
Michaels stared in stunned silence.
Parks Highway
Sunshine Checkpoint
20 December
04:07 Hours
A sudden flurry of traffic on the radio drew both Lonnie and Marcus’s attention. She turned up the volume.
“Officers down! Repeat, officers down! All units lock down the Parks Highway and all side roads from Healy to Trapper Creek. Suspect was last seen south-bound on the Parks in a maroon Ford Explorer, license plate CNYR43. Be advised—he is armed and dangerous. Airborne units are en route.”
Wyatt’s cell phone rang. She answered. “Wyatt.”
“This is Stark. You hear that APB?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The guy took out two troopers and three ASDF militia who happened to be on site. One of the militia guys managed to get a shot off and killed one of the bad guys, but the other got away. Where are you?”
“At the Sunshine check point.”
“Is Johnson with you?”
“Yes, sir. He’s right here.”
“Let me speak to him.”
She handed the phone to Marcus. He put it up to his ear. “Johnson here.”
“Johnson, you and your boys have got to stop this guy. The bio people here tell me that even if this stuff gets into a river or lake up there in the middle of nowhere, it could eventually cause just as much damage as if it went straight to Anchorage. I have the deputy director of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security here. He wants to pass on an order.”
The voice on the phone changed. “Master Sergeant Johnson, can you hear me?”
“Yes, sir, I can hear you.”
“Master Sergeant Johnson, this is Torrence Hall, Deputy Director of the Department of Homeland Security. You are hereby reinstated to your full rank and position and are ordered by the President of the United States, with the assistance of Master Chief Petty Officer Harley Wasner and the SEAL team members under his command, to locate, engage, and render harmless any and all remaining members of the terrorist team designated NK-ALPHA. Do you understand and agree with this order, Master Sergeant Johnson?”
“Yes, sir, I understand, agree, and will comply.”
“Get it done, Top!”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The voice changed again. “This is Stark. Give the phone back to Wyatt.”
Marcus handed Lonnie the phone and swung open the door of the truck.
“Wyatt here, sir.”
“Johnson and Wasner are in charge of getting this guy now, ordered by the President himself. I have already informed the post lieutenant down there of this decision and he is to give any assistance Johnson or Wasner request.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Stark out.”
“Wyatt out.”
Marcus called for Wasner on the radio headset.
“Wazzy, get back here with the guys. We’re moving up. The tango is on the way, last seen twenty minutes ago north of Healy. He killed four people, and lost one of his own. We’ve been given presidential orders to render him harmless.”
“Holy flying frog flippers, Batman! I love orders like that! Let’s go, boys.”
The three Navy SEALs left their positions and ran back to the truck. As soon as they were in, Wyatt gunned the accelerator and punched north up the Parks Highway.
“While you were outside, a report came in, stating a sighting by a trooper helicopter passing through the position just north of Cantwell. The suspect blasted his way through the barricade with a machine gun. If we hurry, we can cut him off at Broad Pass.”