Undeclared War (26 page)

“That must have been some talk,” Deckert said as Enzo handed him the part.

“Well, that was the stop I had to make on the way here,” Enzo said. “Bear told me on the phone that you guys had an M4. This can mount on that easily.”

“Yeah, we can come up with something like that,” Deckert said. “You got any belted ammo?”

“Four hundred rounds in two assault packs,” Enzo said. “They clip on to an adapter that's in the box. The adapter goes up in the magazine well. If the belt runs out, you can drop the adapter and immediately load up a regular magazine.”

“Or a hundred-round Beta C-mag,” Bear said with a grin.

“Sure,” Enzo said. “But when are you going to use all of this firepower? Bear just said get up here as fast as I could.”

“Well, Enzo, I hope your ass isn't flat yet,” Reaper said, “because we're leaving as soon as we
can all pack our gear in your suburban and the pickup truck. It's about a five-hour drive to where we're going and I want to get on the road as soon as we can.”

“Can we stop somewhere to grab a bite to eat?” Enzo said. “I'm hungry enough to eat a bear.”

“You stay the hell away from me,” Bear said.

“Not a problem,” laughed Reaper. “I know a pretty good place for chow, Tony's at Birch Run. They can probably even fill a guy your size.”

The vehicles were packed and on their way within an hour of Enzo's arrival. Deckert volunteered to man the phone lines at the farm and maintain a communications base in case a call came in regarding Reaper's family or the demand for guns. Ted knew that his friend wanted more than anything to go with them on the operation, but Keith had long ago come to grips with his disability, and he considered going out in an assault boat something he shouldn't do.

The stop at Birch Run north of Flint proved to be a funny one. Enzo found Tony's to be a home-style Italian restaurant that seemed as if it had time-warped from the 1950s. The triple eggs, toast, hash browns, and one-pound of bacon were almost too much of a good thing even for him. The break refreshed them and lightened the atmosphere in the vehicles.

The men traded off driving at rest stops along the way. Reaper didn't want to use much time, but they all had to be as fresh as they could when they arrived in Leland. Ben and Max swapped off driving
in Max's pickup truck while Reaper, Bear, and Enzo went tooling along in the Suburban towing the boat. They looked like either a part of a football team out on a jaunt, or the most dangerous fishermen the Great Lakes had seen in a long time.

The Suburban took the lead when the short caravan turned to the west off I-75 and headed out toward Traverse City along M72. About a quarter-hour west of Kalkaska, Bear suddenly told Reaper to turn up a short road they were rapidly approaching.

Bear had been in the back of the Suburban for much of the trip, complaining about a miserable headache. The demand to turn off seemed unusual for him, but Reaper didn't feel like arguing. The spot turned out to be a scenic turnoff that went partway up a hill to where the road spread out into a wide parking area. Picnic tables and a place to stand and look out over the inland lakes had been added. The view made it worth the stop, even Reaper admitted to that.

“Damn, look at that,” Bear said as the rest of the guys piled out of both vehicles.

The sun had slid lower in the sky and stretched out in front of their eyes were three magnificent lakes, the blue water of one going on past the horizon. Far to the west they could see the barest sliver of blue that was Lake Michigan.

“That short lake in front of us is Skegemog,” Bear said. “To the left there is Elk Lake, and that really long one is Torch.”

“How do you know so much about the lakes up here?” Ben asked.

“I used to ride my bike all around up here,” Bear said with a faraway look in his eye. “I used to camp
in the state forest up off of Dockery Road just west of here. This used to be a town called Barker Creek. Or at least it was near here.”

“Nothing of a town here but that little fenced-in graveyard over there,” Max said as he looked off to the west of where they were standing.

“Yeah,” Bear said, “that would be a real nice place to rest for a while. Nice view and all.”

“A while?” Max said. “That's a graveyard, Bear, you'd have to want to rest for a long while there. And that nice view of yours doesn't include the trees around here, does it? That one across the road way down there looks like the top got stepped on and squashed.”

“Damn,” said Bear, “you are a city boy. That's an eagle's nest. I heard they were back up here in numbers—never seen one though.”

“You okay, Bear?” Reaper asked. “You don't usually talk like this.”

“I'm fine,” Bear said shaking his head. “I must be a little dingie from the trip.”

Ben leaned close to Bear and looked him square in the eyes.

“No, really,” Bear insisted, “I'm fine. Just wanted to take a look is all. We'd better get moving.”

Reaper agreed and they got back into their vehicles. In spite of the rush, Reaper didn't begrudge Bear a few minutes in an area he seemed to know so well and cared about.

The little caravan hit the road again, heading farther out past Traverse City and on to Leland on the shores of Lake Michigan. Leland was a small town on the Leelanau Peninsula, a large finger of land
bordered by Lake Michigan on the west and Grand Traverse Bay on the east. The town itself rested on a thin strip of land that lay between Lake Michigan and Lake Leelanau on the peninsula.

When the men finally reached the Leland harbor, right at the mouth of the Leland River, it was already after six-thirty in the evening. Several hours of daylight remained, enough for them to launch and get to South Wolverine. Enzo had said that the SAV II would do more than fifty knots, close to sixty miles an hour, fast enough to get them over the twenty-five miles to the island before sunset. The team wanted to keep a low profile and launching a big boat that late in the day would draw some unwanted attention—attention they received in spite of their efforts.

At the large public boat ramp area were a number of fishing boats, most of them tied up to the docks. It was an active fishing area and the Michigan Department of Natural Resources, the DNR, kept a close watch on sports activities at the ramp.

Wearing a green uniform and looking like a police officer, down to his SIG P-226 sidearm and handcuffs, was a DNR man, a Michigan game warden. He came up to Reaper and Bear as they got out to check the boat ramp.

“How you boys doing today?” the man said. His name tag read
BERINSKI
.

“Not bad officer. How's yourself?” Bear said.

“Well enough,” Berinski said. “You going out kind of late, aren't you?”

“Not really,” Bear said. “We planned on maybe doing some night fishing.”

“Oh, fishing for what?” Berinski asked.

“Brown trout,” Enzo said as he walked up to the three others. “The news down south said they were running off the peninsula and farther out in the lake. We thought we might get an early start before the crowds came up next weekend.”

“That's a good idea,” Berinski said, “if you don't mind the cold.”

“We aren't bothered a lot by cold,” Reaper said with a smile.

“Good, a lot better than some of the people who have been coming up here recently,” Berinski said. “To look at how they acted, you'd think they were freezing. You've got all of your approved flotation devices, signaling and emergency gear, radios?”

“Not a problem on all counts,” Enzo said. “You need to check anything out?”

“No, by the looks of you, I'd say I can take your word for it,” Berinski said easily. “I see that's an out of state plate on the SUV. Got your fishing licenses?”

“Damn, I knew there was something I was supposed to stop for,” Enzo complained loudly. “Weren't you supposed to get one for me?” he said as he looked at Reaper.

“Shit, I'm sorry,” Reaper said, “I was asleep in the car. Do you know where we can pick some up, Officer?”

“Sure,” Berinski said. “There's a sporting goods store just up the docks. They'll still be open this time of night. You can get what you need there.”

“Is there a good motel nearby?” Reaper said. “It looks like it may be getting late and we might just strike out in the morning.”

“Sure,” Berinski said. “The closest one is the An
chor Motel, that's just a block up the street there,” he said, pointing the direction.

“Thanks,” Reaper said, “we'll get our act together now.”

“Not a problem,” Berinski said. “Good luck tomorrow.”

Back in the Suburban, Bear leaned over the front seat and looked at Reaper.

“Well, that was fun,” he said. “I can see about the licenses, the devil is in the details. But just what the hell was all that crap about a motel? We're not going out tonight?”

“No, we may have something else to do,” Reaper said cryptically. “Do you still have those notes from the OP?”

“Somewhere here,” Bear said. “You've been going through all of that stuff since we left the farm. What do you need?”

“Remember the van we saw come and go that night?” Reaper said. “I need to know the license number.”

“YXLC-493,” Bear said. “Why?”

Then Bear caught the stare coming his way from Enzo in the driver's seat.

“Hey, it's something I do, okay?” Bear said.

Astounded by this display of recall, Enzo shook his head.

“Take a look at the parking area left of where that officer was when we got here,” Reaper said. “Does that van look familiar?”

“Damn,” Bear said. “YXLC-493. There can't be two of them. We found them.”

“I think so, too,” Reaper said. “Now let's go get the
others and shop for some fishing licenses. I don't think that officer is going to be leaving for a while. It's a Saturday night and he's checking boats as they come in. I'll bet he's going to issue one or two tickets this evening. And I don't want him to see us loading up the boat. That cannon looks like anything but fishing gear—even in the bags. By the time he's gone, it will be too late to head out. The sun will be down and the sign says the ramp will be closed.”

“Looks like we need that motel,” said Enzo.

 

An hour before sunrise the next morning the two vehicles returned to the boat ramp. They arrived twenty minutes before the ramp officially opened to avoid any traffic from other boaters. Enzo put the boat in the water with ease, rolling the trailer down the ramp. Years of practice had eliminated his need for a ground guide to help him back up a trailer. As Reaper tied the boat up to the dock, Enzo drove the Suburban over to the parking area and left it.

All of the men hustled to hump their equipment and gear into the boat. The weapons had been packed up in USAI waterproof bags delivered by Enzo. No one was around in the early Sunday morning hours, but Bear still paused for a minute while he surveyed the parking lot. Then he pulled the Lahti 20mm cannon from the back of the SUV and hoisted it up to his shoulder. Trotting, he hurried the huge gun in its duffel bag case over to the boat.

Enzo emerged from the SUV already dressed in his ballistic dry suit. He busied himself prepping the boat and checking over everything while the rest of
the guys stowed the gear on board. He didn't have time to suit up, so he had worn the gear he wanted from the motel under loose-fitting street clothes.

The Exotherm III insulating fleece jumpsuit that Enzo had on under the dry suit would have kept him warm in a winter wind. The ballistic dry suit prevented any water from getting to the jumpsuit. The armor panels of the dry suit made it feel that much more assuring.

Since he wore one of the ballistic dry suits on a regular basis, Enzo had modified his for his own comfort by cutting off the integral boots. The mottled green-black-and-brown camouflage pattern of the outer suit didn't extend to the boots. He preferred different footwear for his movements on the boat. On top of his head, he had squashed down a badly worn boonie hat, a veteran of many missions over the water.

The suit was warm, but it could quickly become very hot if you weren't in the cold water or blowing wind. To add to his comfort level, Enzo wore a neck ring that held the soft black rubber neck seal away from his throat. The ring kept the suit from being watertight at the neck, but it made Enzo's working on the boat a lot easier.

The rest of the men dressed in their suits while Enzo checked the boat and warmed up the engines. They all had the same ballistic dry suits as Enzo wore, but none of them expected to keep them on during the land operation on the island. So instead of the extremely comfortable Exotherm II jumpsuits they had available, Ben and Max both wore a standard woodland camouflage battle dress uniform (BDU) under their dry suits. Reaper and Bear had
put on the same black shirts and Royal Robbins range pants they had worn during the Factory raid.

To put the suits on, over the uniforms and clothes, was a two-man job if you wanted to get dressed fast. The entry to the suit came through a long zipper across the shoulders. Once one had pulled the boots up onto his feet, the person stood and pulled up the rest of the pants portion of the suit. Arms went through the sleeves and the tight, soft black rubber seals at the wrists. Ducking one's head, the wearer pulled the neck part over his head and settled the neck seal in place. Then a partner was needed to pull the zipper across the back of the shoulders and seal up the suit. No one had arms flexible enough to pull the zipper by himself.

The suits crackled as they moved. The rustle of the waterproof material would be lessened when it got wet, but the new suits remained stiff. Yet they would keep each of the men protected from the thirty-nine-degree water of Lake Michigan. It had been a long, cold winter, and the spring had not been a warm one. Unprotected exposure to the water could kill a man almost instantly from the shock—and within half an hour from hypothermia if the shock hadn't gotten him.

The men placed all the gear on board and secured it. The boat's outboards were warmed up and running smoothly and everyone was now aboard. Ben had a particularly hard time gearing up because his suit was too big for him. Enzo said it was the smallest size he had in stock. When Ben accidentally dipped his hand into the lake water, he fully appreciated the suit, too large or not.

A gleam of sunrise came up over the land as the boat sped across the waves. Enzo reveled in his ele
ment, and he handled the small, agile craft with the steady hand of a master. All the waves only swelled a few feet high at the most, but Ben MacKenzie was not used to the pounding. He crawled into the crowded but protected cockpit area and tried not to look as miserable as he felt.

Reaper, Bear, and Max, all having spent a lot of time on the water while in the service, found the trip cold and wet but nothing new. As they skimmed over the water, they checked out their gear as much as they were able to. When they lost sight of the mainland, Enzo reached into the huge pocket on the outside of his dry suit and pulled out an Eagle tactical thigh holster. The rig held his favored 9mm SIG P-226 which he strapped to his leg with practiced fingers.