Sam Donaldson felt things slipping out of his control.
It was an uncomfortable feeling for him. He had been brought up in a household where independence was not only encouraged, it was demanded. He'd learned from an early age to wash his own clothes - he'd even had to make his clothes once he was old enough - how to prepare and cook his own food, and how to care for his body. But more importantly, he'd always been taught to be independent in his thoughts, accepting other's points of view only after strict interrogation and lengthy evaluation. It's what made him such a excellent detective - he was able to analyze things from all aspects, putting the pieces together slowly, methodically, and thinking like a criminal would. The trouble always came - as it was coming now - when too many people got involved and the waters became muddy.
He was independent, but he also played by the rules. The loss of the helicopter pilot, in the near vicinity to where the fillings had been found, was just too coincidental. Sure, the small arms fire had been reported from the top of the mesa, and could have just been a drunk hunter taking pot shots at a helicopter. But Sam couldn't ignore the facts. He also couldn't ignore the itch that was starting to form in the back of his head - that intuition that all law enforcement officers have that alerts them when things are about to turn from bad to very, very bad.
He'd called in for reinforcements. Three hours later the small town of Panguitch's population had doubled. All of the hotel rooms were full. Many of the agents had come in with RVs, places which served as bunk houses as well as mobile labs. It was like something out of a bad Hollywood movie about alien invasion, Sam thought, driving through town.
He was heading for the sheriff's office, which had become the de facto command center. It certainly was the hub for communications in the area, and the facilities were being updated and augmented by the FBI's special task force for such matters. He was not into the tech side of things as much, really only knowing that when things broke down people suffered. He was grateful for these guys and what they did, even if - and maybe because of - he didn't understand what they did. It all seemed like such voodoo...
The local dispatch, Deborah, had taken refuge in the break room. She'd been displaced, but she was not bitter about it. Sam could tell that Deborah was one of those truly saint-like women who loved people and wanted to do what she could to help in each situation. Right now she was making coffee, something that still brought a smile to Sam's face. She'd not even known how to brew a cup three weeks ago, he thought. Now she makes the best coffee he'd ever had. And the home made baked goods were adding inches to his waistline.
He bypassed the tempting smells coming from the break room and headed into what was now the situation room. It was a small conference room that had been transformed. The large table that was in the middle of the room had been removed, and there were now desks lining the walls, glowing monitors showing satellite reconnaissance, road maps, and even historical satellite imagery from Google Earth. They were putting together a picture of the last twenty years of this particular slot canyon. The results were quite revealing.
A general had been called in from the Army. They were using his expertise to determine what kind of defense he would have constructed if this was his position. The kind of lingo the military used for such things was lost on Sam. He had to keep interrupting to ask for explanations, and he hated that. It made him feel like a school kid...
"Look for gun placements where there is easy concealment, but also which provide a route to fall back in the event the place is overrun. Because this is a slot canyon, it will be tough to infiltrate, but it will also be easy to defend. The problem always is how to get folks out," the general was saying.
"These canyons all end in a dead end," Sam interjected. "Even the adjacent canyons all come to a point where there's no other way out."
"What about tunneling to an alternate canyon?" one of the tech guys manning the computers asked.
"Well, we know that there have been lots of trucks coming in and out of the place," the general mused. "But from reports we've had, the trucks have gone in loaded and left empty. There's no debris from such a mining operation. In fact, considering all of the truck traffic we estimate on this road, I can't imagine where everything's gone."
His thoughts trailed off as we considered what he was saying. Truckloads of something had been going in here for years, not to mention other incidental traffic. But if that much stuff had been deposited here, it would have appeared on the satellite imagery. Yet there was nothing. No sign of a warehouse, no sign of a stock pile of any kind...
What was going on here?
The general said, "What we need is some aerial surveillance: photos, videos, even sound recordings."
"That would be great. But they shot down the only chopper pilot in the area worth his salt, and I wouldn't want to risk anyone else on this kind of thing. It just feels wrong."
"Let me make some phone calls. Let's meet back together in one hour," the general said.
It was an uncomfortable feeling for him. He had been brought up in a household where independence was not only encouraged, it was demanded. He'd learned from an early age to wash his own clothes - he'd even had to make his clothes once he was old enough - how to prepare and cook his own food, and how to care for his body. But more importantly, he'd always been taught to be independent in his thoughts, accepting other's points of view only after strict interrogation and lengthy evaluation. It's what made him such a excellent detective - he was able to analyze things from all aspects, putting the pieces together slowly, methodically, and thinking like a criminal would. The trouble always came - as it was coming now - when too many people got involved and the waters became muddy.
He was independent, but he also played by the rules. The loss of the helicopter pilot, in the near vicinity to where the fillings had been found, was just too coincidental. Sure, the small arms fire had been reported from the top of the mesa, and could have just been a drunk hunter taking pot shots at a helicopter. But Sam couldn't ignore the facts. He also couldn't ignore the itch that was starting to form in the back of his head - that intuition that all law enforcement officers have that alerts them when things are about to turn from bad to very, very bad.
He'd called in for reinforcements. Three hours later the small town of Panguitch's population had doubled. All of the hotel rooms were full. Many of the agents had come in with RVs, places which served as bunk houses as well as mobile labs. It was like something out of a bad Hollywood movie about alien invasion, Sam thought, driving through town.
He was heading for the sheriff's office, which had become the de facto command center. It certainly was the hub for communications in the area, and the facilities were being updated and augmented by the FBI's special task force for such matters. He was not into the tech side of things as much, really only knowing that when things broke down people suffered. He was grateful for these guys and what they did, even if - and maybe because of - he didn't understand what they did. It all seemed like such voodoo...
The local dispatch, Deborah, had taken refuge in the break room. She'd been displaced, but she was not bitter about it. Sam could tell that Deborah was one of those truly saint-like women who loved people and wanted to do what she could to help in each situation. Right now she was making coffee, something that still brought a smile to Sam's face. She'd not even known how to brew a cup three weeks ago, he thought. Now she makes the best coffee he'd ever had. And the home made baked goods were adding inches to his waistline.
He bypassed the tempting smells coming from the break room and headed into what was now the situation room. It was a small conference room that had been transformed. The large table that was in the middle of the room had been removed, and there were now desks lining the walls, glowing monitors showing satellite reconnaissance, road maps, and even historical satellite imagery from Google Earth. They were putting together a picture of the last twenty years of this particular slot canyon. The results were quite revealing.
A general had been called in from the Army. They were using his expertise to determine what kind of defense he would have constructed if this was his position. The kind of lingo the military used for such things was lost on Sam. He had to keep interrupting to ask for explanations, and he hated that. It made him feel like a school kid...
"Look for gun placements where there is easy concealment, but also which provide a route to fall back in the event the place is overrun. Because this is a slot canyon, it will be tough to infiltrate, but it will also be easy to defend. The problem always is how to get folks out," the general was saying.
"These canyons all end in a dead end," Sam interjected. "Even the adjacent canyons all come to a point where there's no other way out."
"What about tunneling to an alternate canyon?" one of the tech guys manning the computers asked.
"Well, we know that there have been lots of trucks coming in and out of the place," the general mused. "But from reports we've had, the trucks have gone in loaded and left empty. There's no debris from such a mining operation. In fact, considering all of the truck traffic we estimate on this road, I can't imagine where everything's gone."
His thoughts trailed off as we considered what he was saying. Truckloads of something had been going in here for years, not to mention other incidental traffic. But if that much stuff had been deposited here, it would have appeared on the satellite imagery. Yet there was nothing. No sign of a warehouse, no sign of a stock pile of any kind...
What was going on here?
The general said, "What we need is some aerial surveillance: photos, videos, even sound recordings."
"That would be great. But they shot down the only chopper pilot in the area worth his salt, and I wouldn't want to risk anyone else on this kind of thing. It just feels wrong."
"Let me make some phone calls. Let's meet back together in one hour," the general said.
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