Hunting Savage Read online

  “No, sir. I understand, sir. This is an urgent matter—life and death—and I don’t have time to explain now. The Commander needs air support ASAP!”

  Stephens crossed through the doorway and quietly closed the door. Hearing Lacey’s strained voice, she took a chair at the desk.

  “You know I can’t authorize that,” Pierson replied. “Even if I could, it would take hours for armed aircraft to get there by the time the request went up the chain of command and back down again.”

  “Sir, there has to be something—”

  Pierson cut her off. “Lieutenant. There’s nothing I can do to get Jim out of this pickle, whatever it is.” And then he added, almost as an afterthought, “I wish I could.”

  Lacey was not surprised by the response or the brevity of the call. It was an unsanctioned mission. The rules about military undertaking action on U.S. soil were very clear—and sacrosanct. In time of emergency, the state governor could call up the National Guard. But unless the Guard was federalized, they remained under state authority.

  “That’s it,” she murmured. Lacey pointed at Stephens. “Get on the phone to the governor of Oregon. Tell her it’s urgent—terrorism or whatever. Just get the governor. We need her to authorize the Air National Guard to send an F15 to intercept an attack helicopter shooting up our men. You have the coordinates.”

  “Armed?” Stephens asked.

  “Wouldn’t be much use otherwise. Now go!”

  She reported back to Jim. “Sorry sir, Pierson wouldn’t authorize a sortie. His hands are tied since the mission is off the books.”

  “Understood Lieutenant—”

  The rapid staccato of the 20mm gun swamped out Jim’s words.

  “Sir,” Lacey added. “We’re working on a solution. We might be able to get the governor to authorize the Guard to intercept.”

  “Get on it. We don’t have anything to take down that helicopter.”

  She left the connection open and searched for a contact number for the base commander of the Oregon Air National Guard. She knew the 142nd Fighter Wing flew out of Portland, knew they had a pair of F15 Eagles on alert standby 24/7. She dialed, and after three transfers was connected to the base commander.

  “Colonel, this is a priority request. It is a matter of national security. An unknown terrorist group is attacking personnel in the Cascade Mountains near Broken Top and South Sister.” She gave the coordinates. “There is a State Police and Sheriff search underway near that location. We have reports that automatic weapons are in use, backed up by an attack helicopter.”

  “What?” the Colonel replied. He had never heard of military aircraft being used in terrorist actions. “Who did you say you were with?”

  Lacey rolled her eyes, she didn’t have time for this. “The Strategic Global Intervention Team. We are associated with the DIA.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Look, sir. With all due respect, I have eyes on the ground. Trained and experienced combat soldiers. If they say an attack helicopter is shooting at them, that’s what it is!”

  “Look, Lieutenant. My pilots and aircraft serve under the authority of the Oregon governor. If she says to launch a pair of Eagles, my pilots are ready. Until then, I don’t see how I can help you.”

  Lacey wasn’t ready to give up, not yet. “I understand the chain of authority, sir. I also understand our duty to our brothers and sisters in uniform. Right now you have a couple dozen men and women on the ground in that section of wilderness with nothing more than small arms against a fully armed, military gunship! Sir.”

  For several long seconds there was no reply. When the Colonel spoke his voice was even. “I’ll phone the governor and relay this information, requesting we send a pair of Eagles to investigate. But mark my words, Lieutenant. If this is a hoax, I’ll see you are busted all the way down to private.”

  “Thank you, sir. This is not a hoax. My people—they need help now. There must be something you can do. Are there any aircraft already in the air?”

  Again the line was silent while the base commander considered the request. “I have two Eagles on a training exercise, logging hours. They are over water, near the coastline. I’ll have them do a flyby. In the meantime, I’ll call the governor.”

  “Thank you, sir!” She hung up and returned to the satellite phone.

  “Commander, are you there?”

  Her ear was filled with rapid gunshots and a very deep boom that she knew was an explosion.

  Boss Man heard the tinny voice and picked up the sat phone. “I hope you have good news.”

  “Maybe. The Guard is vectoring a pair of Eagles over your position for a flyby.”

  “We need more than a flyby!”

  “Understood, sir. Working on getting approval from the governor for an armed sortie. Don’t know how long that will take.”

  What Lacey heard was an explosion so loud she thought it was in her office.

  The satellite connection went dead.

  Chapter 38

  Eastern Drainage of Broken Top

  April 22

  The second missile detonated very close, showering Boss Man, Homer, and Vashal in rocks and dirt. Jim had dropped the satellite phone as he ducked and shielded his head. It landed hard, breaking the internal electronics.

  “Let’s go!” he ordered. The pilot had pinpointed their location. They couldn’t hang around with high explosive missiles raining in.

  The three men dashed for another stand of trees as the Battlehawk flew overhead. Jim wanted to be far away by the time it turned and came back.

  They ran hard and fast and made it to the protective cover before being spotted. The Battlehawk fired another missile obliterating their former position.

  “Those missiles are pretty accurate,” Homer observed.

  “Must be guided. Nothing that I know of—maybe experimental.”

  Jim turned to Vashal. “I lost the satellite phone. Do you still have your radio?”

  The Deputy produced it as proof.

  “Good. Brief your commander. They will have heard the 20mm gun and explosions. Tell him to call the governor. We need air support, and it can only come from the Air Guard under the governor’s authority. Do it now!”

  While Vashal was on the radio, Homer and Boss Man fired again at the helicopter as it passed, trying to further distract the pilot from opening up on Peter’s hide.

  It worked, and the pilot looped around, showing less fear of the damage the small arms might inflict on his aircraft. He came in slower, and stopped to a hover at the far range of the rifles.

  Boss Man and Homer fired anyway, the muzzle flashes gave away their location. The pilot aimed the 20mm gun at them and fired. Jim dove to the side and Vashal and Homer ducked, trying to become one with the earth. A line of dirt geysers raced between them.

  The SGIT soldiers came up shooting from behind two thick trees. Bullets pinged off the nose and chipped at the reinforced polycarbonate windshield but didn’t penetrate. A flash of white light and a smoke stream marked the launching of another guided missile.

  “Incoming!” Homer shouted.

  The explosion was deafening as the missile detonated 10 feet up on one of the trees, cutting it in two. The top portion toppled over. Wood fragments—some large enough to impale a man—rained outward and down.

  “Are you okay Vashal?” Jim shouted, his hearing just about gone, replaced by constant ringing. The deputy was sitting with his back to the tree, arms folded over his head.

  “Vashal! You okay?” This time he turned his head and nodded. His lips moved, but Jim didn’t understand what he said.

  The Battlehawk stayed on station, hovering, watching for signs of activity—of life—but saw none and concluded the targets had been destroyed. Slowly, the helicopter turned, pointed to the large stone outcrop where Peter had been last seen.

  A deep double boom arrived a fraction of a second before the pair of F15 Eagles. Jim and Homer both looked up just in time to see the sleek, gray aircraft swe
ep overhead. The leader and his wingman had been redirected from a maritime interdiction exercise just off the Oregon coast near Florence, being briefed on the new mission inflight. With afterburners on, traveling at Mach 1.2, they reduced throttle and dropped altitude as they came even with South Sister Peak just west of the Tam McArthur Rim. For the pilots, it sounded like another phase to their training. A dry run at an air intercept.

  As the Eagles passed the coordinates at 200 feet above ground level, the roar from the engines was incredibly loud.

  “Looks like the cavalry has arrived!” Homer shouted as he raised a victorious fist in the air.

  The Battlehawk shook violently from the turbulent air in the wake of the high-speed fighters.

  “What was that?” the copilot asked.

  “An empty threat. Stay on task,” the pilot replied.

  The F15s banked into a tight turn, gaining altitude and bleeding off speed for a second pass. The leader radioed his flight command. “Blue leader. We are turning for a low-speed pass.”

  “Roger, Blue Leader.”

  Peter still cradled his rifle, pressing has back against the hard stone. He didn’t know how he could defend himself against the helicopter and missiles. At least the enemy was also staying put.

  He wedged most of his body into the cleft in the stone, shielding Diesel as best he could. Peter’s spirits lifted when the two jet fighters raced by, but then sank again as they passed, the roar of their engines replaced by the high-pitched whine of the Battlehawk’s twin turbines. He cautiously peered around the side of his stone shield and saw the helicopter hovering, pointed at him. He saw the flash as two missiles were fired, and he ducked back, pulling Diesel in tight.

  The explosions were deafening. Peter couldn’t hear anything for several seconds. Not the whine of the engines, not the thumping of the rotors, not the gunfire. Nothing. Then the silence was replaced by ringing.

  He seemed to be engulfed in a cloud of dust. Gravel and fine dirt rained down, but the rock barrier held.

  The two laser-guided missiles had impacted the soft earth a couple of feet in front of the stone outcrop, dampening the explosive force of the warheads. Seeing the cover still intact, the pilot started to fly the Battlehawk around to the far side.

  Boss Man and Homer opened up again, but the pilot was no longer dissuaded by the impotent threat.

  The black, menacing machine slowly came into view to the side the boulder. Peter had sensed its approach. As his hearing gradually returned, he noticed the changing pitch and tone of the rotor thump and engines. And he was ready.

  The pilot came in close, wishing to end the mission. The arrival of military aircraft was a bad sign. It would not be long before reinforcements arrived, and he still had to escape.

  As the cockpit came into view, Peter raised his .340 Weatherby. Aiming for the crew, he fired. He cycled the bolt, and fired again.

  Unlike the assault rifles used by the Guardians and the SGIT soldiers, Peter was shooting a large caliber, heavy bullet. Intended to dispatch the largest, most dangerous animals on the planet with a single shot, at close range the bullets smashed through the thick Plexiglas canopy—both rounds striking the copilot.

  The pilot veered away. Cursing his lack of caution, he would use distance to his advantage, and terminate the target.

  Blue Flight completed their turn and was approaching when the missiles exploded.

  “Blue Leader. We have live ordinance here: missiles, small arms fire. Unidentified attack helicopter is firing on ground elements. Personnel only, negative on vehicles or heavy equipment. Request instructions.”

  Flight command came back immediately. “Say again. What are the markings on the attack aircraft?”

  “Repeat, no markings. Looks like a Black Hawk but is heavily armed. Aircraft is unidentified.”

  “Affirmative. You are instructed to harass that bird. Try to drive it off.”

  “Roger. Be advised that Blue Flight is unarmed. Will try to shake off unidentified aircraft, but suggest command launches the alert aircraft ASAP.”

  “Affirmative, Blue Leader. Inbound alert flight on its way. ETA five minutes.”

  Blue Leader and his wingman completed their flyby, attempting to raise the Battlehawk pilot on standard military frequencies. They got no response, and he showed no indication of breaking off his attack. The helicopter had circled to the opposite side of the stone monolith and suddenly retreated.

  “Making another pass,” Blue Leader announced to his wingman. “I’ll get a radar lock, see if he’ll bug out.”

  The Eagles came in again, low and affording ample time to get a lock on the nearly stationary aircraft. If they’d been armed with missiles, either heat seekers or radar guided, it would have been an easy kill shot.

  Inside the cockpit of the Battlehawk, the pilot’s senses were inundated with a shrill warning of missile lock. His training took over, and he advanced the throttles to the stops, ejecting flares and chaff as he maneuvered his aircraft away. The closest route of escape was over the edge of the Tam McArthur Rim.

  Peter watched with relief as the black helicopter fell out of sight.

  “Vashal! Get on the radio. Tell your captain we need backup. Have him get everyone here!”

  He nodded, and spoke frantically, relaying what was happening. At the command base, they could hear the sounds of the battle but had no ability to see the confrontation. Captain Sheffield had already recalled the hounds and other search teams upon receiving the first message from Deputy Vashal about the attack helicopter. His men were already assembled.

  They had rifles and plenty of ammunition. His briefing was direct. Everyone would be armed with a rifle as primary weapon. They would be facing a paramilitary force. No, not Peter Savage—apprehending him was no longer the priority. At this moment their job was to save Deputy Vashal and the two soldiers he was with.

  Dispatch relayed the message to the field teams. They would catch up as soon as they could.

  A parade of vehicles departed their base camp and headed south, single file on the gravel road. They traveled fast and covered the few miles quickly. Sheffield was in the lead, and he abruptly pulled off into a meadow. This is where they would continue on foot.

  Now the sounds of battle were much louder: explosions. Gunfire. And then the roar of jet engines as two aircraft flew over at low altitude.

  Sheffield swore he could even see the pilots.

  Chapter 39

  Eastern Drainage of Broken Top

  April 22

  Like a Phoenix rising from the ashes of death, the black machine climbed above the edge of the cliff. It kept rising vertically, the dual weapon platforms aimed at Peter.

  The F15s circled back when they saw the helicopter had been spooked but didn’t flee. “He’s probably figured out we’re not armed,” Blue Leader said to his wingman.

  The Battlehawk was lining up on Peter, working to gain enough elevation to ensure a clear flight for the missiles.

  Blue Flight started their pass. “Let’s see if this guy wants to play chicken,” Blue Leader said.

  “I’m on your six,” replied his wingman.

  The first Eagle came screaming in from behind the Battlehawk. Blue Leader had to get his approach right. Too close and a mid-air collision was the likely outcome—too far away and the turbulent jet wash would have negligible effect on the helicopter. Blue Leader got his line and held the stick expertly, pulling up and applying throttle as he passed over the Battlehawk. His wingman was right behind, also pulling up.

  The helicopter shook violently and was shoved up and down, side to side. At the moment the first Eagle streaked passed, the pilot pressed the fire switch. But the guidance lock had been broken during the severe turbulence. The missiles detonated short.

  If the helicopter pilot had not been extremely skilled, he may not have regained control of his aircraft. As it was, he struggled with the cyclic and collective until the air stilled again. He maneuvered back into position, knowing i
t would take time for the fighters to circle back. And when they did, they would likely approach head on.

  “Blue Lead to Blue Two. What’s your fuel status?”

  “Maybe another five minutes.”

  “Okay Blue Two, let’s buzz this guy again. I’ll try to shave it even closer.”

  The two Eagles lined up and came in again, one behind the other as before.

  The pilot of the Battlehawk doubled-checked his weapon systems. Still plenty of 20mm rounds, and the targeting reticle was functioning. He held his ground in a stationary hover, allowing the jets a clear shot at the flyby.

  He was ready.

  He wanted it.

  The lead Eagle came in—straight, level flight. The Battlehawk pilot lined up the sight, suppressing the urge to fire. He was calculating the distance, the speed of approach… waiting for the pilot to be fully committed… Now! He depressed the button and a stream of 20mm shells lanced out like a tongue of fire. The rounds punched holes through the middle and rear of the lead F15, destroying fuel and hydraulic lines, shattering turbines blades. The two massive engines ground to a halt, black smoke streaming behind the aircraft.

  Blue Two saw all this, knew what had happened, and cursed. He pulled up and to the right, evasively escaping the same fate.

  “Blue Leader is hit! I see a chute. Aircraft is lost. Aborting mission. Confirm, over.”

  The reply came back over the radio. “Aborting mission. Confirmed. Clear the area, return to base. Will dispatch a recue bird. Tracking beacon is reading strong.”

  As Blue Two gained altitude and turned north, he tipped his wing to improve the view below and to the west. A billowing cloud of smoke and yellow-orange fire marked the location where his flight leader’s aircraft had slammed into the ground near the base of South Sister. He just glimpsed a parachute fluttering into the forest canopy before he lost sight of the crash scene.

  Blue Two returned his attention to the pale blue sky, wondering what in hell was going on, just as a pair of Eagles rocketed passed his aircraft. And these F15s had Sidewinder missiles hanging under their wings.