Chapter
One

Special Agent Barbara Post stood motionless, close enough to the demolished snowmobile to touch it, but touching the mangled heap of steel and plastic was the furthest thing from her mind. She shivered inside her heavy parka as something other that the brisk winter wind chilled her to the bone. She began piecing together how the Polaris had come to this end, claiming the life of U.S. District Judge Nelson Richards. Barbara shivered again when she remembered the crime scene photos of the judge’s battered and bloody remains, only too aware of the reddish-black stains on the otherwise pristine white snow.

She heard a tinkling sound behind her as the engine of their double-riding Polaris cooled; however, she was more aware of the National Response Team agent standing beside her. The man seemed wary and suspicious of her, a reaction she encountered from time to time despite working for a federal bureau. Momentary irritation welled up inside her. Some agents apparently expected explosives experts to be of the male gender.

“So, what do you guess did that?” the agent asked her.

“I don’t have to guess!” Barbara said, before she could check her tongue. The white puff of her breath faded, and a short silence ensued. She clamped down with her internal censor and continued in a more subdued tone. “I knew what it was when you showed me the shells, but I wanted to examine the crime scene myself to make sure nothing was overlooked.”

The man seemed to stiffen at this, but it was hard to tell, encased as he was in his bulky parka.

“So, what was it?” he asked.

Barbara felt momentary satisfaction at the agent’s obvious irritation. “Forty millimeter M-203 high-explosive grenade rounds, from a launcher mounted on an M-16.”

“Something mounted on a gun did that?”

“The M-16 is an assault rifle, but yes, the M-203 is quite capable of this. The high-explosive grenade contains a 35-gram charge that is wrapped with rectangular-shaped steel wires, notched to provide fragmentation on detonation. It makes a real mess of the target.” Again she remembered the judge’s mangled body.

“But why use grenades?”

Barbara had been wondering that herself. “Good question. The guy obviously had an M-16, which would be easier to use and more than adequate to take the judge out. Maybe the assassin wanted to make a statement.”

“Termination with extreme prejudice?”

“Something like that.”

“Where do you think the weapons came from?”

Barbara turned from the wreck and looked at the agent’s mirrored sunglasses. “The brief I read in Dallas said that Judge Richards was trying a suspected militiaman. I presume the Team is pursuing a connection.”

“We are. When apprehended, the suspect was in possession of several kilos of C-4, stolen from an Army National Guard armory in Billings Montana.”

“Which is a violation of the Federal Explosives Law,” Barbara finished for him.

“That’s a roger.”

“What kind of unit?”

“Artillery battery.”

“That’s probably the source of the weapons then. Artillery would definitely have M-16s and M-203 grenade launchers. However, we can’t rule out private dealers. You’d be surprised what’s available out there, particularly in states like Montana.” The agent said nothing. Barbara suppressed a grin. “OK, so you wouldn’t be surprised.”

“We are in the militia belt.” The man paused. “What do you make of the scene outside the Richards’ cabin?”

Barbara thought about the comfortable, modern cabin back at the Pahaska Tepee Lodge and the trampled snow roughly two hundred feet away among the fir trees. The response team agents had found three circular depressions forming a large triangle and a heavy metal pin.

“Don’t know,” she said. “The circular depressions could have been caused by tripod footpads, perhaps an observation device, but more likely a heavy weapon.”

“You mean, something to blow up the cabin?”

“That would be my guess. It’s consistent with using grenades to kill the judge rather than using the M-16.”

“Then why didn’t they do it?”

“Who knows? Heavy weapons are complex. Maybe a component failed, or they were missing a part. Perhaps they had second thoughts. That site is terribly exposed. Could be they were afraid of getting caught. Ambushing Judge Richards out in the boonies makes a lot more sense.”

The agent nodded. “OK. What about the pin?”

Barbara thought about the photos. “It’s definitely military, probably used to secure a device inside its storage container. But I’ve never seen that particular part before. I’ll run it through my sources when I get back to Dallas. Will you be sending me copies of the forensics?”

The man nodded. “Of course. It’s standard procedure.”

“Right. I’m done here. Is there anything else you need me to look at?”

“That’s it. Shall we head back to the lodge?”

The agent climbed onto the snowmobile and engaged the electric starter. The powerful engine started immediately. Barbara got on behind and gripped the handholds as securely as she could with her heavy gloves. The grisly details of the crime scene faded a little as they roared over the fresh snow near the eastern entrance to Yellowstone National Park. Dark green fir and spruce trees lined the way, along with stripped aspens. The sun blazed down from the deep blue, cloudless sky. Barbara squinted against the brilliant glare, even though she wore sunglasses.

Snowmobiling was new to her, and she decided she really liked it. Growing up in Marfa, Texas, in the northern reaches of the Chihuahuan Desert, snow sports had not been a high priority in her recreational goals. Perhaps she would have to reconsider, especially with her impending transfer to the Grand Rapids, Michigan, Field Office of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. That thought brought a pang of anxiety. Bureau representatives had told her before she joined that travel and relocation came with the Treasury Department job, and that had been no lie.

But Barbara was committed to her job and found she realty enjoyed it. At twenty-eight, she had recently celebrated, if you could call it that, her fifth year with the ATF, and at the present time wanted to make a career of it. There weren’t a lot of other openings for explosives experts outside the military, which did not appeal to her.

The snowmobile roared over a ridge, revealing the Pahaska Tepee Resort. The agent pulled up beside the main lodge and stopped. They dismounted and trudged into the large, A-frame building. Once inside, Barbara pulled off her sunglasses, revealing her brown eyes. The interior seemed dark and dingy after the brilliant snow. The ATF agents had commandeered a storeroom for their command post, since all the cabins were rented. Although the Richards’ lodge was empty, it was off-limits until all federal and state agencies were done with their investigations.

Barbara removed her gloves, then unzipped and shrugged out of her parka. The snug hood refused to give up without a fight. She frowned and tried to smooth her short brunette hair with a hand, then realized it was futile. Removal of her bulky coat revealed a petite figure and lithe build. She walked beside the agent, making no attempt to match his long strides.

The agent in charge looked up as they entered the storeroom. He gave them a weary smile as he leaned over a large table, his hands resting on a map of the resort. He made a quick note with a red pen and stood upright.

“What did you find?” he asked Barbara.

“The weapon was an M-203 grenade launcher mounted on an M-16. You found three spent shells. The damage done is consistent with what three high-explosive grenades would deliver. From my observation at the scene,” Barbara swallowed, “... and the photographs, one round hit the judge in the chest; the other two struck the snowmobile.”

“And the site outside the cabin?”

“I don’t know. Possible heavy weapon. I’ll see if I can track down that pin when I get back to Dallas. I suspect it’s a military part, probably army.”

“I see. Well, keep me informed.”

“I will.”

“What are your plans?”

“Head back to Dallas — if you’re done with me.” She saw the look of surprise in his eyes as he glanced at his watch.

“I think that’s all for now, but you’re going back today?”

Barbara had already decided she wanted to avoid another night in that dreary motel in Cody. “I better. I’m being transferred to the Grand Rapids Field Office in May, so I’ve got to finish up my work in progress.”

“Need a ride back to Casper?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got a rental car.”

“I appreciate your help.” He seemed to hesitate, then shook her hand.

Barbara said hurried good-byes and bundled herself into the white Ford Contour. Although the drive from Pahaska Tepee to Cody was spectacular, she concentrated on keeping her speed up. Fortunately the roads were open, and the forecast was for clear and cold through the weekend. That being the case, she didn’t see any problem in making the 4:55 P.M. departure from Casper to Denver. Assuming she made her connecting flight, she would be back at DFW a little after 7:00 P.M. Then claim her baggage, grab the shuttle to the north remote lot, and be home by what time? Not too late, if everything went as scheduled. She said a silent prayer that everything would.

*      *      *

It was not until a week later that Barbara finally identified the mysterious pin found near Judge Richards’s cabin, not because this was difficult but because other projects ranked higher in priority. Had the part figured in the actual assassination, she would have been in more of a hurry, but it didn’t. Still, it was a loose end to tie up, and Barbara had plenty of those to deal with as her transfer date approached.

Suspecting an older weapon, Barbara first looked at back copies of Jane’s Armour and Artillery CDs and found the part within thirty minutes. In the section on U.S. heavy antitank weapons, she found a picture of the TOW (tube launched optically tracked wire-guided) missile together with its launch container. And there, between the two, was the part in question. It was the hold-back pin that retained the missile inside its container.

Barbara pulled the crime scene photos out and compared them with the picture on her monitor. There could be no question, but to be sure she called an acquaintance at the army’s Aberdeen Proving Grounds. After a short discussion with the young armor major, she had confirmation. Further, the man told her that the TOW missile was part of the Army National Guard’s weapons inventory. Barbara thanked him and hung up.

So, the militia probably had stolen the missile from the same armory that yielded the M-16 and M-203 grenade launcher. Barbara tilted back in her swivel chair. This was not good news. A missile capable of knocking out a main battle tank could do a lot of damage. Here was yet another worry to add to the bureau’s unending list.

The ATF had a wide and somewhat catchall portfolio: regulation of alcohol, tobacco, and firearms trade, and the licensing of explosives distributors and customers. Barbara’s work centered mostly on militias and paramilitary organizations, not particularly surprising for an explosives expert. But she knew these groups were a growing concern for the ATF as a whole. Given terrorist activities in recent years, it was to be expected.

Barbara switched to her contacts application and found the mobile number for the National Response Team agent in charge. She punched in the number and waited as it rang. A few seconds later, the agent’s voice mail announcement played. Barbara waited for the beep. She left a message telling him the identity of the part and said she would fax the details to his office.

And that’s that, she thought to herself as she hung up. It bothered her that a militia would have a TOW missile, but at least this one was not her responsibility. She decided to get a cup of coffee before returning to her duties.

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©2009 Frank Simon