Uncertain Justice

"Don't care, huh?" He snorted.

"Alright, troops ... the camp is in that direction." Miles motioned helpfully with his M-4. "If y'all get moving," he drawled, "you should be able to get there by dinner time." He stopped, wishing he could retract what he'd said.

Knowing when dinner was served was a clear implication he'd been watching them for some time. Anyone who realized he'd been observing the encampment might begin to wonder if Miles was watching from the big mesa loom of to the west. He shrugged--he couldn't do anything about it now. A new resolution to watch what he said was chalked up beside all the others in his mind. It was just that he did so little talking out loud to someone else these days. He hadn't had to be careful about what he said for a long time.

None of the men had budged. A couple of them edged closer to the piles of clothing, stopping in their tracks when Miles raised the muzzle of the rifle to cover them more directly. Raising his eyebrows and cocking his head inquiringly, he locked eyes with the one he thought was the senior officer. For a long moment, nothing happened.

After gauging the hardness in Miles' gaze, the leader grunted shortly to call the attention of his fellow officers back to him. Facing the group, he made shooing motions with his hands.

"Come on, let's go," he ordered. "Don't talk ... MOVE!" That smothered the half-hearted protests from several of the men.

While the man-hunters marched off through the forest, walking gingerly in their bare feet, Miles exchanged one of the walkie-talkies for the one he'd appropriated the other night. The battery was running low on the one he had. He disconnected the batteries from two more of the radios and pocketed them as spares for the one he was taking with him.

He'd lost most of his ammunition somewhere while he'd been out of his head, so he replenished his supply with a dozen fresh magazines. Some of the men had been carrying MRE field rations and some had stashed candy bars in their pockets. He took some of the former and as much of the latter as he could carry. There were few opportunities to satisfy an urge for sweets in the wild.

He tossed the other radios and remaining ammunition clips on the clothing and knelt to use a small plastic cigarette lighter to ignite the soon-to-be pyre. Increasingly uncomfortable in the comparative openness beside the spring-fed pool, Miles walked well into the cover of the forest before he stopped and turned back to watch as the fire took hold. It was soon hot enough for even the boot leather to burn.

When the clothing was burning hot and flames began to lick at the rifles and pistol belts on the top of the heap, he began a slow jog to the south. The ground-eating pace would put him miles away before the crew of naked officers was found.

As he ran, Wolf Clan brothers streaked past him, some running in circles around him in good-natured mockery. They still hadn't gotten over the bigger man's comparatively slow foot speed. All laughed at the great fun they were having. Jogging up the second steep hill, the mocking ceased as the brothers tried to stay with their friend who had more long distance stamina than they.

A short time after he left the spring, the ammunition in the weapons he'd left on the burning heap began to explode as the gunpowder reached the critical temperature. Miles expected the detonations to ruin the weapons and ammo clips in which they were stored. It wasn't much, but every little bit of harassment was worth the effort.

It was a military axiom that good generals studied tactics and great ones studied logistics. And logistics were a real bitch in the deep mountains.

Pausing for a breather in dense cover just after the ammo began to cook off, Miles switched the radio on low volume and listened with his ear pressed against the speaker. It appeared two choppers were in the air already and instructions were being given to all patrols in the vicinity of ... they gave some coordinates ... to concentrate at the point from where it appeared a firefight was in progress. The voices got frantic as it became clear one group was not answering anyone's call. Miles turned off the radio and began running again. In a while, he turned west.

A chopper flying north passed a few hundred feet over Miles' head. Minutes later, a group of five law enforcement officers clumped by in the same direction on the same trail he was using. They were only a few yards from where he lay on the ground behind a patch of heavy bushes but not a single head in the chopper or the patrol ever turned in his direction. They'd been in too much of a hurry.

In a couple of hours, after a cross-country run that left him tired and breathless, Miles came close to the secluded clump of trees where he'd spent the last few nights. It took a while for him to recover. Even though his wounds had healed, his conditioning was still suffering. He walked a huge circle around the campsite to see if anyone had come upon it while he'd been gone but he found no tracks--not even his own.

Once inside the trees, he moved north through them for a distance and then worked his way back close to the east to make absolutely certain he hadn't been followed. Just inside the tree line, he could see down the slope for nearly a half mile around a hundred and eighty degree arc from north to south.

There was large field of boulders and rocks behind the trees. Years of icy water expanding in cracks had scattered pebbles and shards of stone among the rocks, making any approach from that direction a noisy affair.

This outcrop of granite offered cover for a quick escape up onto the flat-topped mesa should he need one. Nearby canyons that cut right across the top of the mesa were an avenue through which he could disappear if searchers came too close.

Satisfied there was no pursuit, he walked a couple of hundred yards to the north to the only creek in the vicinity to refill both canteens. Returning to his camp, he spent a long while quietly watching the open area again from just inside the cover of the trees and listened to the walky-talky he'd appropriated from the U.S. Marshal's team--for it appeared he was still in charge.

From the length of time it took to find them, Miles assumed the naked patrol was almost at the camp before being located. There was a tone of suppressed amusement in the voice announcing they'd been found.

Miles relaxed and set about gathering a meal in the fading light. The tiny fire he built in a hole dug for the purpose couldn't have been seen two steps away in any direction. The dry wood burned with almost no smoke and what little was generated was dissipated through the branches of the surrounding trees before it could climb into the sky.

The wild onions and mushrooms he found added welcome variety and flavor to the dry smoked venison entrée. Wild roses made an aromatic tea when boiled a few minutes in water from the creek.

Extinguishing the fire before the sun was down, he settled in for the night, well satisfied with the first day of the war.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"We begin this evening with a request from the U.S. Forestry Service and the Colorado State Police. They are asking for your help in locating retired Army Special Forces Lieutenant Colonel Harry Kehoe. Kehoe told relatives he was going hunting in the Rocky Mountains west of Salida, Colorado on or about 15 June and he hasn't been seen since.

"A black SUV belonging to Mr. Kehoe was found three days ago parked at the end of an access road leading into the San Juan National Forest but there was no sign of Kehoe. If you have seen Harry Kehoe or know where he is, please call the Colorado State Police hotline at the number shown at the bottom of the screen." The anchorman paused to collect himself and swiveled his body minutely to face the camera directly.

"World Information News Network, our parent company, is reporting the Justice Department has spent more than one-hundred and forty-three million dollars in an attempt to apprehend fugitive Miles Underwood but they are no closer to that goal tonight than they were when they started.

"Information obtained through Freedom of Information Act requests shows the administration has already poured vast amounts of taxpayer money into the effort to capture Underwood and it appears likely the cost is likely to mushroom in the near future with the addition of dozens of additional law enforcement officers to the two hundred already hunting for Underwood."

KSPG Channel Four

"Late News Wrap Up"

Jul 23

§

The encampment settled back into a familiar routine. For a few days after Miles' declaration of war, it had buzzed busily but the high level of activity wasn't sustainable. With many officers becoming exhausted, there had been almost no patrolling today. Only one helicopter swung in lazy figure eights over the forest.

The clanging sound of an iron triangle being struck energetically announced the noon hour. The food was prepared and served by civilian contractors and the chief cook liked to pretend he was on a ranch bringing in the 'hands' for their meals. Because he was a damn good cook, the camp commander and everyone else put up with the jarring racket three times a day. Miles idly watched the sudden activity across the parade ground in the encampment below.

Miles set out his own lunch on top of the camouflaged rucksack, and settled back against a stump to enjoy the meal. Below, some of the personnel straggled over to the food tent. When they finished, they dispersed throughout the compound, apparently for mid-day siestas. One group huddled near the food tent and then broke out into a football formation.

Miles watched through his field glasses as a tall officer made a professional quality pass to a companion speeding across the parade ground. The ball was intercepted and returned by a skinny young man who skipped around in a victory dance before spiking the ball at the quarterback's feet.

Sighing, Miles put the binoculars down to retrieve the chunk of meat he'd been chewing on before he was distracted. He couldn't find it at first. It had fallen from the pack onto the patch of delicately flowered chickweed growing in the shade. He dusted it off and bit off another section, chewing steadily as he reviewed his options for causing mayhem and misery to the football players and the other officers below.

For his next step, he needed something he was pretty sure was still in the stone house--something that hadn't been mentioned on the news broadcasts Linda had relayed to him and Cal. He just wasn't sure the time was right to retrieve it.

§

Two days later, Miles decided to take advantage of the decreased surveillance and slipped north, deep into the valley he'd called home for more than a year. Finding a hiding place on Needle Mountain well before dawn, he watched the old stone house across the valley from the lower slopes of the eastern mountain ridge for most of the day.

There was no foot traffic and no helicopters disturbed the quiet. At sundown, he scrambled down to the valley floor and made his way to a point near the river ford he'd used so many times.

Afraid to cross the open space between the trees and the river directly across the ford from the cavern, he delayed until full dark. He moved cautiously. If he was discovered working his way back up the rocky slope, he would be truly trapped. What had worked the first time to escape could not possibly work again. This time he would be starved into surrender. But he needed something from the cave. It might still be there and if it was ... well, it was worth the gamble.

His jaw clinched tight, he moved downstream to a place where the trees came nearly to the river's edge and slipped in with only the smallest of splashes to mark his progress. Walking and crawling along the bottom of the stream, swimming where the current had cut deeper trenches, he moved at a diagonal upstream. Lifting his nose clear of the water only to breathe, he slowly made his way across.

He pulled himself up the other bank into the darkness offered by the heavy brush and trees. He lay flat, trying to control his breathing while he listened for unnatural sound ... but there was nothing he couldn't attribute to nocturnal creatures scurrying about on their nightly business. Though his heart continued to pound with the tension, he gradually calmed himself.

Rising to a crouch, he worked his way close to the cliff wall and followed it around the point until he was below and just north of the cavern. He sank to one knee and listened again. This was not a good place. Had he been fully of the People, he would have marked it taboo. The last time he'd been here, he'd been bleeding badly and already weakened by shock and loss of blood.

When a cloud obscured the moon, he shook off the bad memories. Taking a deep breath, he got to his feet and ran up across the slope toward the south corner of the cavern. Once there, he scrambled up onto the ledge and he ran back to his right, racing for the cover of the stone building.

He vaulted the wall around the tiny courtyard and threw himself to the ground. Switching ends convulsively, he peeked over the wall while he willed a pounding heart to slow. He tried to look in all directions all at the same time, certain there was a pursuer out there somewhere. If only he could see better....

As the cloud passed, the moonlit river and expanse of ground on the other side of the water were exposed in stark shades of gray and black. There was no movement save the steady flow of the stream--no sound but the gurgle of rolling water. Without rising to reveal himself to an unseen watcher, he crawled through the open door of the house and sat with his back against the front wall. He rested.

When his eyes adjusted to the deeper darkness of the cabin, he felt his way to the northeast corner, ducking as he passed the open space where one of the windows had been. He found Zeb's old bearskin coat and was bundling it up to take with him when his fingers found a number of holes in the old garment. Annoyed, he tossed it aside, wondering what had happened to it.

The fur blanket he'd made from the grizzly he'd killed last summer was under the heavy table. The table was itself thrown halfway across the room for some reason. The robe seemed to be whole. Folding the voluminous mass of fur as best he could, he dropped it beside the doorway.

The opening he'd hacked in the north wall was barely visible in the gloom. Walking toward it, he stumbled over one of the used tear gas canisters thrown inside by the assault team a few weeks earlier. Sent flying, it smacked into the far wall with a horrendous metallic crash that seemed loud enough to wake the sick officers miles to the south. He stopped dead, torn between rushing back out of the cavern and an equally urgent need to retrieve what he'd come for.

Zeb came inside from his listening post at the far end of the cavern wondering what the tinkling sound had been. Disbelieving at first, Miles decided the noise couldn't have been heard far beyond the walls of the building. He hoped.

Reorienting himself, he crawled through the opening in the wall and into the small space between the adobe wall and the living rock of the cavern. Here, there was not even a single ray of moonlight to reflect from the clouds or river below and penetrate the inky darkness. Deciding to take the risk, Miles pulled out a small plastic cigarette lighter--this one was a transparent blue--and flicked down on the ignition tab.

The rasping sound of the rotor raking against the flint was loud in the confined space and when the flame was lit, it was intolerably bright. He cupped his left hand around the flickering light, shielding it as much as possible from the front of the cave. He worked quickly to shorten his exposure to outside observation.

Crawling beside the building wall toward the front, he found the heavy Barrett sniper rifle lying where he'd tossed it weeks earlier and a hurried examination showed no apparent damage. The partially full ammunition magazine was still inserted in the receiver and he held the lighter close to make sure the weapon was on safe.

He had to search for the spare magazines. Two he found quickly against the building wall but the other had fallen into a crack in the cavern's rock floor and was nearly invisible. He spent a long three or four minutes and any number of mumbled curses freeing it. The lighter had grown increasingly hotter ... it was too hot now and he let his cramped thumb slip off the tab. The darkness was all that much deeper when the flame was extinguished.

Working by touch, he examined the rifle again but could find no nicks in the barrel or stock of the Barrett rifle. The magazine seemed to have survived as well. Designed for use by soldiers in the field, the equipment was tough--built for abuse.

He could see a glow at the front of the wall as reflected moonlight came through the break he'd made in Stone House's wall. The light galvanized him into action. Putting the ammo clips in a pocket, he dragged the weapon by its sling into the house. With the moon shining brightly through the open door, it seemed much brighter inside little stone structure this time.

§

U.S. Marshal Owens stabbed the off button and held it down to turn off the battery power to the satellite phone. The man on the other end had already broken the connection after delivering a cold, harsh order to have a helicopter at Pueblo tomorrow morning. Owens wasn't sure which was worse--the formally worded order or the shrilly screamed imprecations that had preceded it.

He looked around, making aborted motions to gather his belongings together before giving in to the need for rest. He'd have to do the gathering early in the morning though, because there would be just this one additional night in the tent.

It was the only private sleeping place in the entire camp and Deputy Attorney General Carl Brady would sleep here tomorrow night.

§

A weapon left unused is valueless, and Miles hadn't taken the risk of returning to the confined space of the valley for nothing. It remained only to determine the best use for the massive sniper rifle. He explained to Zeb that he was going to announce his return to the conflict with a big bang. The old mountain man, unimpressed with Miles' wit, allowed as how talk sure was cheap these days. He'd wait and see.

Careful reconnaissance showed the compound had been reinforced with more officers. Additional tents had been erected anywhere there was space, marring the tidiness of the initial setup. It seemed there were more packed into each sleeping tent also. At a guess, he was facing twice as many men and women as he had at first and they were patrolling aggressively over an even greater territory than before.

There were still many ways he could attack the camp though, and he wasn't going to wait very long before he made use of one. This was war.

§

"We're right here," said the tall U.S. Marshal. He pointed to a small black square on the National Geodetic Survey map. "While we stay here, we prevent Underwood from getting back to what we think he considers his home in the valley north of our position.

"That's the only explanation we can come up with to explain why he's making no attempt to leave this part of the mountains. With us here, we also block access to the mountain passes to the east. That leaves Underwood limited to this region and the San dryer Juan Mountains to the south." His hand swept across a region of wilderness that seemed small on the map but actually encompassed several thousand square miles, most of it designated as wilderness.

"Every morning, we put groups of officers on all established trails in the region. They set up checkpoints and actively walk the primary trails looking for tracks and anything else we can find that might lead us to the fugitive. These are where today's primary checkpoints are." As he spoke, he extended the tip of a collapsible pointer to indicate a half-dozen red ticks on the map and then waved it over the entire region to show his listeners there were many more sites left unmarked.