After leaving Montreal they had chatted about practically everything except DIA, BRINT, and Project Frisco, and still, somehow, Bahr had been made aware that BRINT had been following Frisco for almost two months, had tracked his ’copter units to Wildwood the night before and set up an intercept team inside US borders within fifteen minutes of the alarm.
This was not news to Bahr; he had suspected something of the sort because he knew that ’copter radios were too weak to reach Canada without phenomenal weather conditions. But the skill with which MacKenzie put the matter on the line was professionally fascinating, as well as professionally disturbing.
And throughout it all Bahr could not shake off the uneasy feeling that the BRINT man was very quietly, very discreetly laughing at him.
“Amazing,” MacKenzie said, looking down at the small armada of ’copters fanning out in their wake, “simply amazing how you Americans manage to get so many machines to work with. You must have two dozen rotors down there.”
“Two field units,” Bahr said, a little defensively.
“I doubt if there are a dozen of those available to BRINT in the whole Western Hemisphere,” MacKenzie said. “We’re always having to borrow them from the Air Force.”
“We used to have the same problem,” Bahr said, “when I first took over the field units. But I changed that.”
“Yes, we’ve noticed quite a few changes in DIA field units since you took over,” MacKenzie said. Then, after a pause, “What are you planning to do with them all up here?”
“I work on the principle that it’s better to have them and not need them than to need them and not have them,” Bahr said. He stared down at the wilderness of alder thicket passing below, a succession of rolling forest land, swamp, underbrush, and lakes. “Look, let’s get down to business. You must know something about what happened up here.”
“Not very much,” MacKenzie said. “Radar unit 1237, that’s some fifty miles north of here, picked up an echo at 15:30 this afternoon. Radar unit 1240 confirmed it and together they tracked the trajectory of the target. It was moving fast, and its descending pattern was decidedly curious.” He handed the report to Bahr.
Bahr blinked. “How much verticle coverage does your radar sweep give?”
“At that range about 70,000 feet. And a 15-second sweep cycle.”
“Then why didn’t your unit pick it up before?”
“We were extremely fortunate they picked it up at all,” MacKenzie said. “These are Early Warning units, specialized to pick up missile trajectories. This target didn’t follow any missile trajectory. In fact, no missile, not even a Robling missile, could make a trajectory like this. This target didn’t come over the Pole, it came straight down.”
“But from this, the strike area could be anywhere within a fifty-mile radius!” Bahr burst out.
“One hundred mile, to be accurate,” MacKenzie said mildly.
“How do you expect to search a hundred mile radius of this sort of wilderness?”
“Well, there’s really not much way anything can get out of the area,” MacKenzie said. “Only a single road, the Alaska Highway, which we have blocked and sectored.”
“But all this delay in getting to the target area.”
“Well, we’ve been a step behind you in this thing, so far,” MacKenzie said pointedly. “And what with all this rabid talk of the European nets, we felt obligated to follow through the investigation on a joint basis. Different techniques, and all that . . . .” His talk was light enough, but there was no mistaking the steel-sharp intention to check DIA’s methods.
BRINT plainly did not like this alien thing one bit. “And then, we may have an ace in the hole,” MacKenzie went on. “There’s an American photography team camping in this area; at least, they obtained a permit to camp here. Two men and a Hydro two-wheeler. Professional cinematographers making nature-study documentaries. They’ve worked this area several times in the past three years. One of them is the cameraman, the other chap does the editing, commentary and sound track. If we’re lucky, they may have picked up a disturbance. If they’re actually around, that is.”
“I don’t suppose you know their names,” Bahr said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
“Stanley Bernstein, age forty-two, height medium, slender physique, married, two children,” MacKenzie said as though running off a tape. “He’s the cameraman. The other chap is Anthony Russel, formerly Russano, age thirty-three, tall, over six feet, also slender physique, dark hair, unmarried. Both men from New York City.” He paused, smiling at Bahr. “We have launching facilities in this region, you know. We could hardly let someone into the area without a check-through.”
“What I can’t see,” Bahr said, “is why an alien craft should pick this region to land in in the first place.”
“Rather obvious, don’t you think? If they hoped to land undetected, that is. They very nearly succeeded.” He peered at the map. “The photographer’s camp should be on this lake, East side. The Highway passes within a mile of shore. Why don’t you have your units drop down and try to spot the camp?”
Bahr picked up the speaker mike and pressed the button. The lake was visible in the late evening light, a small, kidney-shaped body of water, almost indistinguishable from the belt of swamp, underbrush, fallen timber and alder growth. Over the lake, two of the ’copters dropped down almost to tree height and began moving slowly along the lake shore.
Ten minutes later the speaker blared. “There’s a tent in the clearing down there, Chief. Shall we land?”
“Ask them to hold off a bit,” MacKenzie said quickly. “I’d like to have a look myself before we take any action.”
“Hold it,” Bahr said into the speaker. “We’ll be right over.” The ’copter swung down. In the fading light a spotlight glared, picked up a small clearing on the lakeshore, and the canvas roof of a tent on the edge of an alder thicket.
“No fire,” MacKenzie said slowly. “Tent looks odd, too. Shall we land and have a look?”
Bahr gave the order to the pilot, and picked up a burp gun from the floor, jammed a clip expertly into place. The ’copter settled quickly in the high ragged grass of the clearing, its spotlight still focused on the patch of canvas. Another ’copter landed beside them, and Frank Carmine jumped down.
When the whine of the engines died, there was dead silence. Not a breath of air stirred. The lake was like glass. Bahr and MacKenzie started across the clearing, with Carmine close behind. Both DIA men carried burp guns. MacKenzie carried a flashlight and his pipe. They walked cautiously over toward the tent.
“I thought that looked odd,” MacKenzie said, stopping. The tent was ripped and shredded, hanging like a ragged washing on a line. One corner of it was entirely cut away, with chunks of canvas lying scorched and partly charred on the ground.
“Jesus,” Bahr said. “It looks like somebody cut through the back of the tent with a blowtorch.”
“Watch your foot,” MacKenzie said sharply. He aimed his Hash on the ground a few inches from Bahr’s toe. There was a twelve ounce can of Bako condensed stew, the top part of the can missing. Together they knelt over the can. It looked as though the top had been burned off, the metal rim curled and blistered. A few shreds of stewmeat and bouillon jelly clung to the bottom of the can.
Quickly MacKenzie swung his light at the food locker. The door had been burned open, making a very smooth, slightly discolored cut. Food containers were scattered all over, some empty, some merely opened and discarded.
“Christ, what a stink,” Bahr said, swinging the flashlight beam back and forth across the ground.