Chapter 3 - Tactical Advantage
The war room inside the secure hangar at the regional airfield smelled of stale coffee, aviation fuel, and high-grade electronics.
Three large flat-screen monitors hung from the steel beams of the hangar, displaying satellite imagery of Bear Creek Canyon—a rugged, dense three-thousand-acre expanse of timberland owned by Travis Cole's family. Red heat-signature dots flickered across the screen, tracking vehicle movements along abandoned logging trails.
A dozen men in dark combat uniforms stood around a large tactical table. They were members of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team and an army reconnaissance element.
When I stepped into the room, every single man stood at attention.
"At ease," I commanded, stepping up to the tactical table. I was wearing dark tactical pants, a black thermal top, and a lightweight body armor vest—no rank insignia, no unit patches. Just clean, lethal utility.
Captain Vance tapped the digital map. "Commander, the suspect, Sheriff Travis Cole, commands a force of sixteen deputy personnel. However, our intelligence indicates at least eight of those deputies are non-sworn militia contractors paid directly through offshore accounts."
"They aren't law enforcement," I observed, pointing to a cluster of thermal signatures near an abandoned sawmill deep in the canyon. "They're security for the convoy."
"Correct," Vance nodded. "At 2300 hours tonight, a convoy of three heavy timber trucks carrying four hundred gallons of chemical compounds will cross the Canadian border via the unmonitored logging road. Sheriff Cole plans to personally escort the convoy through the county line using his official cruisers to clear any state police checkpoints."
A young FBI tactical leader named Agent Miller leaned forward. "Commander, with all respect, this is a massive federal bust. Why not just set up a roadblock on Highway 83 with thirty armored vehicles and crush them?"
I looked at Miller, letting a tight, humorless smile touch my lips.
"Because Travis Cole knows Highway 83 better than you do," I explained, tapping the map with my index finger. "If he sees an armored roadblock, he triggers his contingency plan: he dumps the tankers into the Bear Creek watershed. That water feeds the entire county's agricultural valley. Millions of gallons of water rendered toxic in five minutes."
The room went dead silent.
"We don't block him," I said, my voice dropping into an icy tactical rhythm. "We intercept him inside the canyon. We cut the snake's head off before he reaches the main road."
"How do you propose we clear sixteen armed hostiles in heavy brush without alerting the convoy?" Miller asked.
"By using their own arrogance against them," I said. "Cole thinks I'm a broken mechanic standing in a diner covered in strawberry syrup. He thinks he owns this valley. He expects a frightened husband to be sitting at home weeping into a pillow."
I pulled a small encrypted flash drive from my pocket and tossed it onto the table.
"These are the private radio frequencies his deputies use," I said. "I cloned his cruiser's transponder two months ago when he brought his department vehicle to Miller's Auto Body for a brake repair. I know every channel, every code word, and every blind spot in his patrol grid."
Agent Miller stared at the flash drive, then looked up at me with newfound awe. "You cloned his cruiser two months ago? You were already tracking him?"
"A SEAL never stops surveying his sector, Agent Miller," I answered quietly. "I didn't know he was running chemicals back then. I just knew he was a dirty cop who looked at my wife the wrong way."
Captain Vance pulled up a secondary screen showing real-time camera feeds from inside the county sheriff's department.
On screen, Travis Cole was sitting behind his heavy oak desk, pouring himself a double shot of bourbon, chuckling with his chief deputy. They were celebrating their easy victory in the diner.
"He has no idea what's coming," Vance murmured.
"He will," I said, adjusting the tactical gloves over my knuckles. "Agent Miller, gear up your team. We move out in twenty minutes. I take point."
"Commander," Vance cautioned, "federal protocol dictates you stay in the command center as a technical advisor. You're a civilian now."
I stopped at the doorway, looking back over my shoulder at her.
"Captain, that man threw a drink in my face in front of my town," I said softly. "He made my wife a traitor. He poisoned this valley. I am not a civilian tonight."
May you like
Without waiting for her reply, I walked out to the armory rack, picked up a suppressed M4 carbine, checked the chamber with a practiced click, and slung it across my chest.
The game was over. The hunt was on.
