"Anadyr was here," he said. "Utah is here. Naturally we knew all about the bomber base, and we had countermeasures in place, which included big missile bases in Alaska, here, and then a chain of four small surface-to-air facilities strung out north to south all the way underneath Anadyr's flight path into Utah, which are here, here, here and here, straddling the line between Montana and the Idaho panhandle."
The agents ignored the red dots in Idaho. But they looked closely at the locations in Montana.
"What sort of bases are these?" Webster asked.
The aide shrugged.
"They were kind of temporary," he said. "Thrown together in the sixties, just sort of survived ever since. Frankly, we didn't expect to have to use them. The Alaska missiles were more than adequate. Nothing would have gotten past them. But you know how it was, right? Couldn't be too ready."
"What sort of weapons?" McGrath asked.
"There was a Patriot battery at each facility," the aide said. "We pulled those out a while back. Sold them to Israel. All that's left is Stingers, you know, shoulder-launch infantry systems."
Webster looked at the guy.
"Stingers?" he said. "You were going to shoot Soviet bombers down with infantry systems?"
The aide nodded. Looked definite about it.
"Why not?" he said. "Don't forget, those bases were basically window dressing. Nothing was supposed to get past Alaska. But the Stingers would have worked. We supplied thousands of them to Afghanistan. They knocked down hundreds of Soviet planes. Mostly helicopters, I guess, but the principle is good. A heat seeker is a heat seeker, right? Makes no difference if it gets launched off a truck or off a GI's shoulder."
"So what happens now?" Webster asked him.
"We're closing the bases down," the guy said. "That's why the General is here, gentlemen. We're pulling the equipment and the personnel back here to Peterson, and there's going to be some ceremonies, you know, end-of-an-era stuff."
"Where are these bases?" McGrath asked. "The Montana ones? Exactly?"
The aide pulled the map closer and checked the references.
"Southernmost one is hidden on some farmland near Missoula," he said. "Northern one is hidden in a valley, about forty miles south of Canada, near a little place called Yorke. Why? Is there a problem?"
McGrath shrugged.
"We don't know yet," he said.
THE AIDE SHOWED them where to get breakfast and left them to wait for the General. Johnson arrived after the eggs but before the toast, so they left the toast uneaten and walked back together to the crew room. Johnson looked a lot different from the glossy guy Webster had met with Monday evening. The early hour and three days' strain made him look twenty pounds thinner and twenty years older. His face was pale and his eyes were red. He looked like a man on the verge of defeat.
"So what do we know?" he asked.
"We think we know most of it," Webster answered.
"Right now our operational assumption is your daughter's been kidnapped by a militia group from Montana. We know their location, more or less. Somewhere in the northwestern valleys."
Johnson nodded slowly.
"Any communication?" he asked.
Webster shook his head.
"Not yet," he said.
"So what's the reason?" Johnson asked. "What do they want?"
Webster shook his head again.
"We don't know that yet," he said.
Johnson nodded again, vaguely.
"Who are they?" he asked.
McGrath opened the envelope he was carrying.
"We've got four names," he said. "Three of the snatch squad, and there's pretty firm evidence about who the militia leader is. A guy named Beau Borken. That name mean anything to you?"
"Borken?" Johnson said. He shook his head. "That name means nothing."
"OK," McGrath said. "What about this guy? His name's Peter Bell."
McGrath passed Johnson the computer print of Bell at the wheel in the Lexus. Johnson took a long look at it and shook his head.
"He's dead," McGrath said. "Didn't make it back to Montana."
"Good," Johnson said.
McGrath passed him another picture.
"Steven Stewart?" he said.
Johnson paid the print some attention, but ended up shaking his head.
"Never saw this guy before," he said.
"Tony Loder?" McGrath asked.
Johnson stared at Loder's face and shook his head.
"No," he said.
"Those three and Borken are all from California," McGrath said. "There may be another guy called Odell Fowler. You heard that name?"
Johnson shook his head.
"And there's this guy," McGrath said. "We don't know who he is."
He passed over the photograph of the big guy. Johnson glanced at it, then glanced away. But then his gaze drifted back.
"You know this one?" McGrath asked him.
Johnson shrugged.
"He's vaguely familiar," he said. "Maybe somebody I once saw?"
"Recently?" McGrath asked.
Johnson shook his head.
"Not recently," he said. "Probably a long time ago."
"Military?" Webster asked.
"Probably," Johnson said again. "Most of the people I see are military."
His aide crowded his shoulder for a look.
"Means nothing to me," he said. "But we should fax this to the Pentagon. If this guy is military, maybe there'll be somebody somewhere who served with him."
Johnson shook his head.
"Fax it to the military police," he said. "This guy's a criminal, right? Chances are he was in trouble before, in the service. Somebody there will remember him."
Chapter Twenty-Five
THEY CAME FOR him an hour after dawn. He was dozing on his hard chair, hands cuffed in his lap, Joseph Ray awake and alert opposite him. He had spent most of the night thinking about dynamite. Old dynamite, left over from abandoned mining operations. He imagined hefting a stick in his hand. Feeling the weight. Figuring the volume of the cavity behind Holly's walls. Picturing it packed with old dynamite. Old dynamite, rotting, the nitroglycerin sweating out, going unstable. Maybe a ton of unstable old dynamite packed in all around her, still not so far gone it would explode with random movement, but gone bad enough it would explode under the impact of a stray artillery shell. Or a stray bullet. Or even a sharp blow with a hammer.
Then there was a rattle of feet on shale as a detachment of men halted outside the hut. The door flung open and Reacher turned his head and saw six guards. The point man clattered inside and hauled him up by the arm. He was dragged outside into the bright morning sun to face five men, line abreast, automatic rifles at the slope. Camouflage fatigues, beards. He stood and squinted in the light. The rifle muzzles jerked him into rough formation and the six men marched him across the diameter of the clearing to a narrow path running away from the sun into the forest.
Fifty yards in, there was another clearing. A rough scrubby rectangle, small in area. Two plywood-and-cedar structures. Neither had any windows. The guards halted him and the point man used his rifle barrel to indicate the left-hand building.
"Command hut," he said.
Then he pointed to the right.
"Punishment hut," he said. "We try to avoid that one."
The six men laughed with the secure confidence of an elite detachment and the point man knocked on the command hut door. Paused a beat and opened it. Reacher was shoved inside with a rifle muzzle in the small of his back.