“Where’d he go?” Wasner shouted. “Forth, Clark, can you see anything?”
Forth looked through the night vision scope on his Barrett .50 caliber rifle. “There’s a turn out up ahead with a truck and snowmobile on a trailer. He’s trying to start the snowmobile!”
A moment later, they heard the high-pitched scream of a performance snowmobile pierce the night in the distance.
“He got the machine off and is headed into the snow!”
“Shoot him!” Marcus shouted.
The target was a mile and a half away. Not impossible, but not easy. Forth took aim and fired at the snowmobile. As the firing pin struck the bullet, the snowmobile disappeared into a dip in the snow and vanished. The shot exploded into the darkness, but the bullet only spent itself on open air, landing harmlessly in the snow three miles away.
In the back of the F250, a long track snowmobile sat under a black nylon tarp. Marcus called to Lonnie, “Do you have the keys to that thing?”
“They’re on the keychain in the ignition.”
Marcus ran to the truck and disconnected the quick release on the keychain that dropped the snowmobile key into his hand. He grabbed the helmet from between the front seats. He spun back outside, put his hand on the bed of the truck, and thrust himself up and over into the back, where the snowmobile waited to be put into action. Marcus yanked the tarp off the machine, slid his balaclava up to cover his face, then pulled on the helmet. Wasner lowered the tailgate as Marcus jumped onto the seat of the snowmobile. The machine started on the second attempt.
He let it warm up for only a moment before he punched the thumb lever throttle and accelerated like a rocket out the back of the truck bed. The machine landed at high speed on the snow and shot across the surface in pursuit. Marcus half-stood above the seat of the machine, letting the hinge of his knees swing with the force of the ride and leaning his body against tight turns and bumps as he careened across the mountain tundra in search of his target.
The North Korean’s snowmobile briefly crested a small hill off to the east. Marcus saw it and was on his trail. The speedometer on the machine pegged at 110 miles per hour. The snowmobiles headed due south, parallel to the road. He can’t possibly hope to make it all the way to Anchorage on that thing. He cut across the plain at an angle, hoping to intercept him.
Wasner called out to the others, “Get back in the truck and head south! Let’s try to catch up to them. He’s got to get back on the road some time.”
Lonnie, Wasner, Clark, and Forth piled into the truck. Lonnie straightened it back up in the lane, then took off to the south.
Out the driver’s side windows, they saw the headlights of the snowmobiles bob up and down as they bounced across the frigid surface. The temperature had dropped to negative sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit. The air itself had become deadly.
Chapter 43
Parks Highway
Blueberry Flats
20 December
04:45 Hours
Lieutenant Shin was cold.
When he took the snowmobile off the trailer, he found no helmet in or around the truck. Shin knew that he would need protection from the wind created by driving one of these machines. He had hoped that the small Plexiglas wind-shield that rose from the cowling would have provided more protection than it did. He had pulled his balaclava up to cover his face, and tightened the strings of his parka’s hood to reduce the amount of air that entered the opening as much as possible without restricting his vision.
All his efforts, as it turned out, did not do much to keep him warm. In spite of the heavy wool pants over which he had pulled a pair of insulated Carhartt bib coveralls his entire body was freezing.
Carhartt bib coveralls are the most commonly seen winter clothing in Alaska and are typically worn along with the ubiquitous bunny boots. The coveralls come in three different levels of insulation: uninsulated, medium, and heavy. The medium and heavy insulation levels are visibly distinguished by the color of the inner shell—medium being red, and heavy being black.
The red insulation can maintain relative comfort at ambient air temperatures as low as –20, not accounting for wind. The heavy black insulation could maintain the same comfort level in ambient air temperatures as cold as –70, likewise not accounting for wind.
Lieutenant Shin’s Carhartt’s liner was red. Icy fingers of air forced their way through the tightly woven flap inside the zipper that sealed the lower part of the legs beneath the knees. A painful stripe of frostbite steadily grew along the upper calf of his left leg. He regretted not having purchased the thicker clothing. Icy tentacles of excruciating pain grasped at his right knee as the frigid air pressed through the not-quite-thick-enough liner and penetrated the wool trousers to find his skin.
In addition to the inadequate thickness of Shin’s clothing, the speed of the race made him aware of every loose flap and open end in his parka. The windshield did nothing to stop the swirling currents of one hundred-plus plus mile-per-hour air from rushing up the sides of the open bottom of his parka. What had been a temperature of –65 was now presenting itself with a wind-chill factor of nearly two hundred degrees below zero on any exposed skin.
The most exposed part of Shin’s body was the area around his eyes. That was the only place that did not have at least some protection by a layer of parka or cloth. He had tried to keep his face behind the windshield as much as possible, but every bump thrust his
