Uncertain Justice

The little hollow where he sat was a few hundred feet below the crest of the ridgeline behind him to the east and shielded by thick underbrush around the compass from north to south through which no one could approach quietly. Over the ridge, his packhorses were munching their way around a small meadow with rope hobbles on their hooves. They couldn't roam far even if they had any inclination to do so.

In front of him, the jagged stump and rotting remains of an old blowdown provided decent cover on the more open western side of the depression. Sitting cross-legged, only his head and a little of his shoulders were thrust above the level of the decaying log every so often to scan his surroundings. Only from a position high on the bluff far to the west could even these momentary glimpses of the fugitive be seen.

This afternoon would finish the final bit of sewing on the right sole of his spare set and that would be it. He'd have two good pair of moccasins again. He punched the awl through the stiff hide and drew the leather string through the hole. One, no, two more stitches and he was done. His fingers would appreciate the relief.

Zeb gestured toward the bluff that lay a good mile to the west. It was the southern-most ridge of a mountain that connected with an immense peak back up to the north. He wanted Miles to be careful about something in the higher reaches, right along the tree line. Some odd flashes of light up yonder, he said. Better take a caution.

Miles couldn't see a thing worth worrying about and shrugged his shoulders. He concentrated on the moccasins. One more stitch and he'd go round up the horses so he could get on with the trip back to the valley of the People.

§

The team had been trucked in on barely passable forest roads the week before. Taking note of the previous sightings of the fugitive that suggested he might be following a regular route that ran north and south through the mountains, they'd been inserted across a possible path. If the man was working his way south along this route, they'd have him.

If not, one of the other teams would get him. Since they'd been dropped off, they had hiked across the region, scouring the valleys and mountains to find the federal fugitive.

They were four men sent to find one in hundreds of square miles of dark forest where little of the terrain was even approximately horizontal. The other teams were working other promising areas in this chain of mountains but they might as well have been on another continent for all the coordination they could achieve between them.

Where the slopes were low enough, scrub brush and tough grasses choked the spaces between trees. Higher up, steep climbs alternated with deep canyons and gorges to make quick travel impossible. But sometimes you just get lucky.

Gunnery Sergeant Clay Walker hissed softly to get the team's attention.

Lance Corporal Peterson jerked his head around to see what Gunny wanted. A chagrined expression splashed across his features when he realized what he'd done. He knew ... he knew ... not to make quick movements in the field; such things brought unwanted attention.

Walker was pointing at the ridge almost due east of their position and probably five hundred feet lower. Peterson checked the angle of the NCO's finger and pulled the big Barrett M-107A1 sniper rifle into alignment. He peered through the scope to see what had caught the Gunnery Sergeant's attention.

The FBI agent someone had decided should go along on the mission crawled past the tree trunk that blocked his view and lifted his camouflaged field glasses. Jack Randall was clearly not comfortable in the dirt and rocks. He flicked away a bug that landed on the back of his hand.

The fourth member of the team, Cal MacPherson, sat idly watching the agent and the marines. MacPherson sat against a comfortable tree trunk well back from the brush screen with his legs comfortably crossed in front of him.

MacPherson was three-quarters Nez Perce. He was a guide during the summer and fall, helping rich folks from back east bag a big dear or elk in the Bitterroot National Forest of south central Idaho. This wasn't the right season though and money was scarce up there.

He was a man known to the National Forestry Service ... one who had tracked and found many missing hikers and lost children in the northern Rockies. Someone had passed his name to the Department of Justice when asked for a reliable guide. He didn't know who his benefactor was but he appreciated the referral, what with the slow year and all.

When the FBI man came knocking on his door he took the proffered check and set out with them to the mountains of southern Colorado to find the guy they called Underwood. He was marginally concerned that he didn't know the trails or terrain down here but he didn't expect there to be much of a problem finding him.

They had stopped any number of hikers on established hiking trails carrying huge packs ... plus three women and one man trying to pedal bicycles through the mountains. They'd even found a few hunters who shouldn't have been there at all. But so far as Cal could see, they hadn't even gotten close to the man they sought.

At one point, Cal had begun to wonder if Underwood actually existed. The young FBI agent had shown him a folder of information, though, so maybe he was a real person. MacPherson looked at the Marines and FBI agent and sighed.

All three of his companions in today's observation post were wearing individual sets of camouflage they called Ghillie suits. Each cloak covered a prostrate man from head to foot--or it would if the FBI guy didn't keep pushing a hand outside from time to time. Ghillie suits are designed to disguise the silhouette of the individual wearing it and allow him to blend into the background. Some of them would also absorb body heat so the wearer was hidden even to those using infrared systems to detect intruders. Cheap Ghillie suits could be made by sewing scraps of green and brown burlap to a rectangle of netting but MacPherson understood the government versions were more intricate ... and far more expensive.

Cal grinned behind an impassive face as he watched the trio in front of him. The green and black camouflage cream both Marines wore on their faces gave them an appearance much like his ancestors when they were ready for a fight though they wore it for a different purpose.

His great-grandfather, several times removed, had fought the blue-coated soldiers to a standstill many years before, ambushing them time after time; even the whites remembered Chief Joseph. But that old warrior had never heard of a Ghillie suit--nor would he have wanted one of the heavy, hot things.

Cal snorted, forgetting to smother it. The older Marine ... the one with all those blacked out stripes on his shirtsleeve ... glanced at him in irritation. Cal laughed again, careful this time to keep it silent.

§

Miles finished the moccasin repair and stuffed the footwear and his tools away in the cavernous backpack. He inspected the pack, wondering if he really needed anything this big. Last year, he'd carried a lot of jerky and smoked meat as he wandered. He'd needed the carrying capacity then. This year he was eating more off the land as he traveled and didn't really want or need it. Also, he was tired of the yellow color. Even though it had faded a little over time, and was stained and trail worn, he still felt like a damn bumblebee wearing it.

It was time he got rid of the darn thing, but that would have to wait--he needed a replacement first. He'd been in only one outfitter's store in the past year but that had been with Linda in a tension filled trip over to Boise one weekend and he hadn't thought to look over the smaller packs they sold there. The woman distracted him ... that's all there was to it. Miles took a last look around to make sure he hadn't left anything behind. Satisfied, he started out of the hollow. Standing, he pulled on the pack, fastened all the buckles, and began the adjustment of the myriad of straps.

Across the valley, Gunnery Sergeant Walker's eyes caught the movement. He brought up his binoculars and brought the lens into focus on the little hollow at the same time Miles stood up. Before the fugitive could step back into the shadows, Walker had a good fix on him.

§

The BORS mounted on the rifle scope said it was nearly 1,700 meters across the valley. As close to a full mile as made no difference, but still well within the effective range of the heavy rifle Lance Corporal Peterson was easing into position. The twelve-power scope brought the man into clear focus. He was visible only from the waist up but that was plenty.

Gunnery Sergeant Walker was peering through Corps issued binoculars and comparing the image with a picture of the fugitive he'd pulled from a breast pocket in the forest green BDU's he was wearing. Agent Randall was doing the same thing, peeking through high-powered glasses and then at his copy of the picture. Something like contentment shown on his face.

"Target confirmed," whispered Gunny Walker. "That's our man."

"Agreed," replied Randall, showing the picture to Corporal Peterson before stuffing the picture back into his shirt pocket.

Peterson didn't have a picture of his own. He didn't have any binoculars either ... but the riflescope was okay with him. Peterson nodded when the FBI agent flashed the pic at him. He settled himself behind the rifle again and adjusted the sights a fraction. He clicked off the safety without Gunny noticing.

"Target confirmed," he whispered. He made a minute shift to bring the cross hairs to the middle of the target's chest ... right on a big plastic buckle ... and gently squeezed the trigger.

Gunnery Sergeant Walker and Special Agent Randall were startled by the ear-splitting crack and ducked away instinctively. The Nez Perce guide had been watching the trio without comment, not even considering the possibility anyone was going to shoot. When it became obvious the big Marine was going to fire, Cal opened his mouth to object. He was too late.

The M-107A1 Barrett rifle fires a .50 caliber cartridge, the same bullet used in heavy machine guns supplied to both the Army and Marine Corps since World War II. The Barrett can hit a man-sized target at better than 1,830 meters--well over a mile away--and when it hits, the slug pulverizes a target. If an armor-piercing cartridge is fired, the round will smash its way through light armor.

At twenty-six pounds, the Marine Corps considered the weapon too heavy for a sniper rifle, but it was a descendent of the venerable M-82A1 the Army Rangers had used effectively in the Somalia debacle, the two wars in Iraq and in Afghanistan. The rifle had gained some notoriety.

Now someone in the new administration was doing a McNamara, wanting to make sniper weapons standard across the services. It would reduce waste, they said.

Marines Walker and Peterson had been chosen to test the thing and see if a sniper team could carry the darn thing for days on end in a wilderness environment. They were to work the test around the Department of Justice's request for assistance from a Marine Reconnaissance team.

A recoiling barrel and effective muzzle brake made the sniper rifle very user friendly for the shooter. A twelve-gauge shotgun firing double-aught buck shells has more kick. Unfortunately, sound and flash suppressing were relative terms. Agent Randall and Gunnery Sergeant Walker, not expecting the weapon to be fired and not wearing ear protection, almost jumped out of their skins.

Peterson was almost as surprised as the others. Shocked at the violent reactions he could see from the corner of his eyes, the marksman involuntarily pulled the trigger twice more before he could release it. The Barrett rifle was semi-automatic and had a ten-shot magazine while Peterson was used to the Marine bolt operated sniper rifles.

The third round was on its way down range before the first had arrived.

§

Stepping to the lip of the hollow, Miles hunched his shoulders to settle the pack comfortably. Preoccupied with a strap that had managed to twist itself around another, he lost control of his hiking stick. Bending down and to his left to recapture it, the downhill slope and weight of the pack made him lose his balance. What pissed him off was that he could have sworn Zeb had shoved him aside just as Miles caught sight of a bright flash high on the bluff across from them. What the hell was the old man doing? And what was that flicker of light up on the ridge?

The top three inches of the stump a few inches from Miles' face exploded into a shower of splinters. With his knees already bent and his body leaning forward, Miles pushed off into a headlong dive over the remains of the tree trunk and down the hill. Ducking his shoulder into the dive, he rolled head over heels several times going downslope and finally crashed into some underbrush substantial enough to slow him down.

On the last roll, he used his momentum to get his feet under him and transform the fall into a lurching run down the steep slope. Not really under control, he dodged heavier trees the best way he could and plowed right through lighter brush in his charge down the slope.

Several hundred feet down the hill, and deep in some trees that gave excellent cover, Miles skidded to a stop and sank to a knee behind a fir tree. His chest heaving in an attempt to catch his breath, his eyes darted in all directions trying to find the man who had shot at him.

Sound waves travel outward in concentric circles from the source at approximately one thousand, one hundred and fifteen feet per second, give or take tiny variations for air temperature and humidity. At the range the bullets had been fired, the sound took almost five seconds to reach Miles and by then he'd been fifty yards downhill in deep cover and still moving as fast as he could go.

He was surprised to hear three separate reports; he'd been aware of only the one bullet strike. He decided they were a couple of additional shots and assumed he'd missed the sound of the first bullet fired. For sure, these last two rounds had not impacted anywhere near him.

The bearing of the firing seemed to be from the tall bluff to the west of where he'd been holed up. Until now, he'd assumed the shooter was on the same ridge he was--maybe even somewhere up behind the little hollow he'd used for concealment. Surely his hiding place had been out of range from the other side of the valley. Evidently NOT, he grumbled to himself.

Where he stopped running and gone to ground, he couldn't see much in any direction and certainly nothing up on the bluff from where the shots had apparently come. He was deep in the trees and overgrown thickets, thoroughly concealed from all angles and if he couldn't see out, no one could see in. In his mind, he marked a point high on the opposing ridge in the general vicinity of where the man who had taken the shot would be.

He rose and began to move down the mountain at a slow pace to avoid giving away his path through the woods, circling the place where his enemies were hidden. He aimed to go wide and get behind them. When he came to a place where the mountain's rocky mantle thrust through the soil, Miles finally began to make a serious attempt to hide his trail. He stepped cautiously across the rocky outcrop, careful not to disturb pebbles and sparse vegetation and making sure his moccasins left no smudges in the dust by which he could be tracked.

Leaving the rocks, he was careful not to brush against any bushes that might snag clothing or pull a thread loose to mark his path. Setting his feet gently on the forest floor, he made sure not to disturb leaves or needles from evergreens whose disturbance would give him away. He came across a gully deep enough to hide him if he bent over a little and he jogged silently down the dry wash as it wound its way south and west.

As he ran, he wondered who had taken a shot at him. And why? He began to seethe. Every once in a while his hands shook as he thought of the tree stump shattering beside his head. He had to ruthlessly suppress the memory to keep his whole body from trembling with rage. His right hand never strayed more than a few inches from the butt of the big pistol.

§

The fugitive wasn't the only one who wanted to know why he'd been shot at. Rolling away from Peterson and the rifle's heavy report, Gunnery Sergeant Walker was beside himself with anger.

"CEASE FIRE!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, hoping the familiar words from Marine firing ranges would penetrate through to the Lance Corporal's brain ... what little there was of it. He finally saw the shooter lift his finger from the trigger and turn to face the senior NCO.

Walker twisted back around to his front to see if he could find the man Peterson had fired on but he wasn't there. The field of view in the powerful binoculars was severely restricted and Miles had tumbled a considerable distance in just the first few seconds of his fall downhill. By the time Walker got the glasses focused again, Miles was a long way from the place where he'd last been seen and the Marine never caught sight of him again. Walker got to his feet, tossing the Ghillie suit in one direction and the binoculars in another.

"WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, MARINE?" The senior NCO stepped close to Peterson who rose to a standing position also. Though taller at six feet and four inches and far heavier than the Gunnery Sergeant, it was clear Peterson was thoroughly cowed.

"I ... it just went off ... I din't mean to shoot three times." Lance Corporal, soon to be Private Peterson, stammered as he tried to explain. He was under the impression Gunny was upset because he had fired more than once. "I'm sorry Gunnery Sergeant."

"WHY THE HELL DID YOU SHOOT? DID YOU HEAR ME GIVE THE COMMAND TO FIRE? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, LANCE CORPORAL?"

The FBI agent and guide watched the confrontation in silence. The Special Agent was massaging his right ear, hoping the ringing would go away soon. Cal MacPherson just watched. He'd never heard a man yell as loud as Walker was.

"But Gunnery Sergeant, you confirmed the target ... so did Mr. Randall." Walker stared at the younger man and blinked. The terminology he and Randall had used was close to the procedures a spotter and shooter used when deployed on a mission, but surely ... surely this idiot hadn't thought ... but it was obvious he had.

"Peterson, what in the name of God made you think we were supposed to kill that man?" Walker's voice had moderated substantially. It was almost plaintive as he tried to figure out what his young subordinate had done.

"Sarge, I...." muttered Peterson. Encouraged by the lower volume of the sniper team leader's voice, he'd used the diminutive he knew Gunny didn't care for. He saw the spark in the sergeant's eyes.

"Gunnery Sergeant," he corrected quickly. "The Lieutenant explained it to me when he told me how I was volunteering. He said we were to find this guy and then get him." His eyes lost focus for a moment as he belatedly wondered about his interpretation of the mission brief provided by their platoon leader last week.

For a long minute, Walker looked at the man who'd fired on the fugitive. He shook his head in disbelief. How in hell had this idiot managed to get through basic training? He swung away, suddenly tired as the adrenalin drained away.

"Get your rifle and let's go see if we can find him," Walker ordered. "I didn't say take it apart!" His anger flared anew. "Move out, Marine." The rifle was an awkward load to carry around in the brush. Built to be dismantled with nothing but a strong man's fingers, the barrel could be collapsed into itself, making it less of a burden. Fully extended, the long barrel made movement much harder and Walker knew it. He didn't care. The big Lance Corporal would have to deal with it.