“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
