“I hope not, but everything Jack said has happened so far. The United States Supreme Court is the obvious next step. I can’t see Congress or the president sending us a
Chapter 21
Sierra Nevada Mountains
Northern California
May, 2012
A light tan Pacific Gas amp; Electric service truck moved slowly up the dirt and gravel road toward a remote mountain cabin in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The driver and his passenger were vigilant and, although it would not be apparent to anyone who might view their approach, apprehensive. After the truck came to a stop in front of the cabin, the passenger got out, walked around to the back of the truck, and removed a gas detector and two breathing masks. The driver shut off the engine and came around to the front of the truck, taking one of the gas masks from his partner.
Approaching the cabin, the driver knocked on the door and called out, “Anybody home?”
An older teenage boy answered the door, barely cracking it. “Yeah?” he replied.
“PG amp;E. We got reports of a gas leak down the road to your neighbor’s place. The line runs about two hundred yards behind your cabin. You smelled anything?”
“Nope,” the kid responded, wary of the strangers.
No other vehicles were present, and while the brief conversation was in progress, the other serviceman moved around back of the cabin to check the rear.
“Mind if I come in and check your stove and hot-water heater?” he asked the kid.
“Well, I’m not really-”
“Just take a minute, son. No bother, really.”
“All right, but make it quick. My ma says I got things to do.”
“Right,” he said, entering the cabin and scanning the main room and the one adjacent, which held the kitchen. A woman in her late thirties was in the small kitchen, holding a two or three-year-old child on her hip while feeding an even younger infant in a highchair.
“I thought we was on Propane,” the teenage boy said, following the serviceman into the kitchen.
“You are, son,” the driver said, turning with a pistol in his hand. “Get on the floor, kid. Who else is here?” he said to the woman.
Frightened, the boy lay down on the floor as the second serviceman came in the back door, gun drawn and ready.
“Whada’ya want? We ain’t got nothing here,” the woman protested, her voice thick with a smoker’s rasp.
“Shut up!” the driver said as he handcuffed the boy and motioned again for the woman to sit at the kitchen table. “Check the cellar, Jack,” the driver said to the second man.
“I did. The entrance is behind the cabin. Full of weapons, just like we thought, but no one else seems to be around.”
“Then I guess our intel was straight. It’s about time one of these raids went off without a hitch. Call it in.”
“Right,” he said, exiting the front door and heading for the truck. Reaching through the passenger door, he grabbed the mike on the radio and keyed the transmitter, generating a blast of static. “Bugle Base, Bugle Base, this is 205.” More static followed, and he adjusted the gain.
“205, this is Bugle Base, go ahead.”
“Bugle Base, 205 in place. Gold strike, I repeat, gold strike. No resistance, target secure, two suspects and two young children in custody. Over.”
“Roger, 205, I copy gold strike. Strike team
“Bugle Base, 205. Copy, out.” He replaced the mike and went back into the cabin. “Forty minutes. I’ll start the inventory, and you check for documents.”
“Right. Slam dunk, but where’s the man of the family?”
“Well, we got the weapons, and maybe one of ’em will match the hit pieces from the ambush.”
“Not a chance. They’ve ditched those long ago.”
“Yeah, probably.”
Four civilian models of the military Humvee and two Chevy Suburban 4x4s occupied most of the rear section of the interstate rest area. They were surrounded by twenty-two agents of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. Signs closing the rest stop were posted at the entrance. The irony of the agents coordinating their final assault plans in the area marked with a sign that read “Pet Rest Area — Please Pick Up Leavings” had not occurred to anyone in the group.
“Okay, listen up,” Agent-in-Charge Claude Riker said, gathering his men together for the final briefing. “The point team has arrived and secured the area, with two suspects, a woman and a boy, plus two kids in custody. Air One reports no ground activity nearby. A weapons cache is confirmed. I repeat, gold strike is confirmed.”
A chorus of cheers went up from the gathered agents, releasing the frustration that had built up over weeks of intelligence gathering following the two daylight attacks and the murders of their fellow agents.
“It appears as if our tips were legit, and this time we’ve got the animals. The point team marked the turnoff with orange markers on two trees, either side of the road. Let’s hit it. Keep your interval and stay sharp. The rest of this group could show up at any time. But I think we caught these guys with their pants down. Alison, you lead in your Suburban, the Humvees in the middle, and Juan, you bring up the rear.”
Twenty-five minutes later, after exiting the interstate into the Lassen National Forest, the caravan reached the orange-marked trees and turned northwest. After traveling two miles up the road, Riker, in the second vehicle, turned to check the trailing vehicles. At that moment, an explosion shattered the stillness of the forest road. Jerking back to the front, he watched in shock as the lead vehicle rolled over from the blast, coming to a stop in a drainage ditch on the right side of the road. Instantly, Riker got on the radio, set for the local net.
“Ambush! Ambush! Back up,
The second car had come to a halt, but the five other vehicles closed up like an accordion within ten yards of each other following the blast. Agent Middleton, driving the last car, began to spin his tires in an effort to back up, but another, smaller detonation occurred just off the road, and a large tree fell solidly across the dirt trail behind his vehicle, effectively blocking the convoy’s exit. Small-arms fire commenced from the hillside to their left and began to impact the driver’s side of all the vehicles.
Air One, which had been shadowing the convoy in a Bell helicopter, tried to contact Riker by radio, but the occupants of Riker’s car had exited the passenger side, away from the firing, as had the occupants of the other vehicles. Those in the overturned vehicle who were able rapidly scrambled out the driver’s window while under fire from the hillside.
In the process of switching frequencies to report the attack to central communication in San Francisco, Air One never saw the Stinger missile, fired from an eight o’clock position. The pilot was killed instantly by the impact and spared the sensation of falling from six hundred feet as his aircraft disintegrated around him. His spotter was less fortunate and went screaming to his death.
Small-arms fire continued against the left side of the stalled vehicles, all empty now, with the seventeen remaining agents lying protected for the moment, shielded by their vehicles and the shallow ditch into which they had scrambled when the shooting began. Riker motioned to his second in command, about ten men down the line in
