“Master Sergeant Johnson, this is Torrence Hall, Deputy Director of the Department of Homeland Security. You are hereby reinstated to your full rank and position and are ordered by the President of the United States, with the assistance of Master Chief Petty Officer Harley Wasner and the SEAL team members under his command, to locate, engage, and render harmless any and all remaining members of the terrorist team designated NK-ALPHA. Do you understand and agree with this order, Master Sergeant Johnson?”
“Yes, sir, I understand, agree, and will comply.”
“Get it done, Top!”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The voice changed again. “This is Stark. Give the phone back to Wyatt.”
Marcus handed Lonnie the phone and swung open the door of the truck.
“Wyatt here, sir.”
“Johnson and Wasner are in charge of getting this guy now, ordered by the President himself. I have already informed the post lieutenant down there of this decision and he is to give any assistance Johnson or Wasner request.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Stark out.”
“Wyatt out.”
Marcus called for Wasner on the radio headset.
“Wazzy, get back here with the guys. We’re moving up. The tango is on the way, last seen twenty minutes ago north of Healy. He killed four people, and lost one of his own. We’ve been given presidential orders to render him harmless.”
“Holy flying frog flippers, Batman! I love orders like that! Let’s go, boys.”
The three Navy SEALs left their positions and ran back to the truck. As soon as they were in, Wyatt gunned the accelerator and punched north up the Parks Highway.
“While you were outside, a report came in, stating a sighting by a trooper helicopter passing through the position just north of Cantwell. The suspect blasted his way through the barricade with a machine gun. If we hurry, we can cut him off at Broad Pass.”
“We don’t want him to stop in the mountains themselves—too much cover,” Johnson said. “Let’s allow him to get south of that area, down to the blueberry flats at the south end of Broad Pass. There will be no place to hide there.”
“What are the blueberry flats?” Wasner asked.
“A huge, open tundra flat at the top of the mountain range. At least, it’s the top as far as the road is concerned. There are no side roads, and it’s nearly twenty miles of flat land in every direction. Tons of blueberries grow up there in the late summer. This time of year, it’s normally filled with snowmobilers, but at these temperatures, there should be very few people, if any.”
As they started north, the radio sounded again with a frantic voice. “Dispatch 7-44! We are under fire! Repeat—we are under fire. He….oh, shit! Man down! Man down!”
The radio went silent. Then another adrenaline-laced voice came over the airwaves. “Denali Highway checkpoint has been overrun! Two troopers are down!” The voice was frantic. “He rammed through the barricade, firing an automatic weapon. The son of a bitch tossed a hand grenade at us! Suspect is headed south at high speed.”
Wyatt pushed the truck up the highway as fast as it would go. A pair of headlights flashed on the horizon. The trooper F250 dipped into a small gulley and lost sight of the other vehicle. As they topped the next rise, it appeared again briefly before going down another sloping valley in the road.
“Turn off your headlights!” Marcus called out. “So he doesn’t see us come back up this hill and do something crazy.”
Wyatt did as he said. The pale light of the three-quarter moon and the stars reflected off the snow, illuminating the road.
She hurtled on at more than seventy miles per hour toward the oncoming vehicle. Their bellies jumped in ticklish flutters as the big truck rolled up and down the rises and dips in the road.
Coming over the last rise, they rounded a curve that brought the road up to the wide-open expanse of the blueberry flats. It was a massive, practically treeless area of smooth, white snow. It stretched for miles in every direction, just as Marcus had said.
In the distance ahead, the Explorer barreled down the road toward them. They would be meeting in minutes.
“Stop the truck here!” Marcus said. “Turn it sideways across the road. Make a roadblock right in the middle. Everybody else, get out.”
Lonnie stopped the truck, and the others immediately climbed down into the frigid night. She turned the truck sideways. The twenty-sixe-foot-long F250 nearly covered the whole width of the pavement, leaving less than two feet on either side before the roadbed vanished in snow of unknown depth.
Wasner called an order to his men. “Sniper positions on each side, thirty feet out. Verify the license plate, then Forth, you take out the engine with the fifty when he gets about a hundred yards out. You and Clark be prepared to take out the driver as needed—just make sure it’s not some unlucky grandma with infinitely bad timing.”
The two men stepped into their snowshoes, took their weapons, and bounded across the snow. They dropped into firing positions ten yards on either side of the truck.
The Explorer drew closer.
“When he gets about two hundred yards from us, hit your lights, Lonnie,” Wasner said. “We don’t want to have him ram the truck by surprise. As soon as you hit the lights, hightail it out of the cab and off the road. He still may not stop.”
A mile away, the Explorer’s headlights dipped violently and came to an abrupt halt. Shin had seen the truck’s shape glint in the moonlight across the road. He paused, then turned around and drove back about half a mile. Three sets of flashing police lights flashed on the horizon about ten miles away as more troopers made their way toward the SUV.
“Excellent!” Marcus shouted. “He’s boxed in. We’ve got him now!”
Brake lights glowed bright red in the distance
