“I’ll be right back, buddy. Hang on.”
Michaels ran to the two troopers and found both in bad shape. Bartlett was alive. His breathing was wet and labored. Bright white tufts of stuffing puffed like cotton blossoms from four jagged holes in the center of his jacket. There was no blood coming from the wounds. His vest had stopped the bullets.
Sean Brady was not so lucky. He lay flat on his back, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. His legs were straight and his arms flared out from his sides, as if he had fallen asleep preparing to make a snow angel on the road.
Trooper Sean Brady was definitely dead. Two clean wounds pierced his throat, just above his protective vest. A pool of freezing blood formed a morbid halo around his head. A large, unrealistically white piece of vertebrae lay on the pavement just beyond his head. A round gray ball of lead jutted from where it had lodged in the bone.
Staff Sergeant Michaels wretched violently.
His body’s reaction to the horrifying scene was interrupted when he heard a voice from Brady’s radio.
“7-63, do you copy?”
A pause, then, it repeated.
“7-63, do you copy?”
Michaels forced his body to control the urge to keep puking. He picked up the radio hand mike from Brady’s body and pressed the talk button.
“Uh,” he said, his voice shaking uncontrollably, “There’s been a shooting.”
“Who is this?”
He composed himself and went on, “This is Staff Sergeant Aaron Michaels, Alaska State Defense Force. I’m here with Troopers Brady and Bartlett at the checkpoint. They are both shot, and so are three of my men. Most are dead, except for Trooper Bartlett and one of mine, but neither of them looks good. One of the guys who did it is also dead, but the other got away.”
“Stay there, Sergeant. We’re sending backup and ambulances immediately.”
“I’ll start first aid oen the two survivors, but hurry up. I don’t think they’ll make it long in this cold.” Tears welled up in his eyes. He struggled for control.
“We’re on the way. Just sit tight.”
“Hurry up….dear God…..hurry up.”
He dropped the radio and went over to Bartlett. The trooper was still breathing and had a pulse in his wrist, so Michaels dragged him over to the Suburban. He opened the tailgate and flattened the backseats to make a large, open area.
He pulled the trooper up onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He laid him as gently as he could into the back of the long vehicle and closed the door. The interior of the large SUV was warming up already, and now Bartlett was out of danger of freezing before the ambulance arrived.
Michaels then ran back to check on Phelps. He slid Barnes’s body out of the vehicle and laid him on the ground beside the cruiser. The staff sergeant then got into the vehicle to check on the corporal. He felt for a pulse in his wrist, but couldn’t find it. He moved his fingers up to Phelps’s neck and could feel a pulse there, but it was weak.
“Come on, buddy! Hang in there don’t die on me!” Michaels placed his ear above Phelps’s lips to listen for a breath, but couldn’t hear or feel anything. He started CPR chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth breathing.
“One, two three, four, five…breathe….breathe….one, two, three, four, five….breathe…breathe.”
It’s just a dream, a bad dream.
After fifteen minutes of compressions, bright lights flashed on the horizon. The red and blue lights of the ambulance spun and sparkled in the distance. It was two more minutes before he could hear the sirens wail.
He didn’t break the rhythmic pumping and breathing as he labored to keep his friend alive. Four minutes later, an ambulance crew ran to the cruiser.
“The Suburban!” Michaels shouted. “Trooper Bartlett is in the Suburban! He was breathing on his own when I left him there.”
Two medics ran to the SUV and two others took over the CPR. Other troopers and policemen, as well as a second and third ambulance, arrived moments later.
Movement in the back seat of the cruiser stopped. One of the EMT’s looked up from Phelps. He turned to the staff sergeant and shook his head. “I’m sorry. He’s gone.”
Michaels stared in stunned silence.
Chapter 42
Parks Highway
Sunshine Checkpoint
20 December
04:07 Hours
A sudden flurry of traffic on the radio drew both Lonnie and Marcus’s attention. She turned up the volume.
“Officers down! Repeat, officers down! All units lock down the Parks Highway and all side roads from Healy to Trapper Creek. Suspect was last seen south-bound on the Parks in a maroon Ford Explorer, license plate CNYR43. Be advised—he is armed and dangerous. Airborne units are en route.”
Wyatt’s cell phone rang. She answered. “Wyatt.”
“This is Stark. You hear that APB?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The guy took out two troopers and three ASDF militia who happened to be on site. One of the militia guys managed to get a shot off and killed one of the bad guys, but the other got away. Where are you?”
“At the Sunshine check point.”
“Is Johnson with you?”
“Yes, sir. He’s right here.”
“Let me speak to him.”
She handed the phone to Marcus. He put it up to his ear. “Johnson here.”
“Johnson, you and your boys have got to stop this guy. The bio people here tell me that even if this stuff gets into a river or lake up there in the middle of nowhere, it could eventually cause just as much damage as if it went straight to Anchorage. I have the deputy director of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security here. He wants to pass on an order.”
The voice on the phone changed. “Master Sergeant Johnson, can you hear me?”
“Yes, sir, I can
