Judgment at Alcatraz

the meadow. She was at the base of the hill as she watched them disappear from view. The last she saw was the swishing tail of a mule.
She tucked in low behind a boulder, then activated the detonator and pressed the switch. Her actions were rewarded with a deafening blast and a powerful shockwave that hit her hard, even at a thousand-yard distance. She gazed around the boulder and saw black stick-like objects, which she surmised were assault rifles, hurling through the air in all directions. The cattails and shrub willows within fifty yards were flattened, and a large crater now occupied the location once held by the guns, ammunition, and explosives.
She rose to her feet. With the pack of cash on her back, she ascended to the sniper hide and gathered up her rifle, spotting scope, and the few remaining items from her daypack. After placing the articles of importance on top of the bundles of bank notes, she left the daypack behind. With the Nosler rifle on her shoulder and the carbine in her hand, she moved on to the mines. They had to be disarmed and retrieved. Although the pack was stuffed full, she managed to get the unexploded munitions inside, and the top flap secured. She stashed the detonators in a cargo pocket of her pants, safely removed from the explosives.
Her GPS showed the path to her exit location. It would be a five-mile hike, and she had two hours until sunset. Plenty of time. But the mission wasn’t truly over until she was out and far away.
The clouds started to lower, and within minutes, she was hiking in mist that would provide cover, as well as attenuate sound. A few hours ago, she dreaded the fog. Now, she welcomed it.
A good omen.

Chapter 5
Nunavut, Northern Canada
May 13
The Artic sun cast long shadows across the flat, glistening white plain on the shore of Bathurst Inlet. Natan Kudloo and Duane Kotierk, both Inuit, had been driving their snowmobiles hard through the night, thanks to a full moon. Each was pulling a sled, and on each sled was a half-ton machine encased within a rusted steel cage. The cylindrical machine was three-feet tall and painted mint green, with dozens of vertical metal fins spaced evenly around the outside.
Natan clasped his mitten-covered hands against his shoulders, trying to stimulate blood flow into his arms. Although dressed in traditional furs, chill had set in from the long drive through the frigid air. He opened the top of his thermos bottle and swigged tepid coffee.
“I could use something hot to drink,” he said.
Duane surveyed their destination, the outpost of Umingmaktok. The settlement was divided by a runway. On one side were the old Hudson’s Bay Company buildings, and the co-op store. On the other side was the main residential area.
“This place has been deserted for years,” Duane said. “We don’t have time to make a fire and boil water. I doubt they left any generators and fuel behind.”
“Maybe I can heat what’s left of my coffee on this machine.” Natan pointed at the cargo on the sled attached to the back of his snowmobile, recalling how snow kicked up from the track on his snowmobile quickly melted when it settled onto the pale-green machine.
“You don’t want to get too close to those things, or you might begin to glow at night.” Duane chuckled.
He removed a satellite phone from a saddle pack, and trudged toward the nearest building.
“Come on. We can call from inside. There won’t be any wind. At least it will feel warmer.”
Inside, the wood-framed building was empty—no furnishings of any kind, not even a simple chair or stool. No pictures or decorations on the walls. Even the light fixtures that had once hung from the ceiling were gone. Remarkably, all the glass windows were still intact.
“It’s nice they left the door unlocked,” Natan said.
“Why not? Nothing to steal.” Duane removed his mittens and pressed a series of numbers on the Iridium phone keypad.
After a few seconds, the call connected.
“Ranger here. What’s your status?”
The characteristic clipping of the voice communication provided the only differentiation between the satellite communication and a typical cell call.
Duane replied, “Roger. We arrived at the air strip.”
“Confirmed. Flight is inbound. Advise local weather conditions.”
“Clear sky and mild westerly wind. Shouldn’t be any problem for the pilot.”
“Roger that. Will relay your report. Thank you for your service.”
“Okay, Ranger. Say, any reason we need to stick around? We’d like to get back to our village. I mean, if you don’t need our help.”
“No, you should go. When the plane arrives, they’re going to open the casings. But they have proper safety gear, and you don’t want to be anywhere nearby when they do to that.”
Natan and Duane mounted their snowmobiles and sped off. Without the trailing sleds, they soon left the abandoned outpost behind.
s
The de Havilland DHC-2 Beaver buzzed the dirt airstrip at two hundred feet. The iconic aircraft was a favorite of bush pilots flying the backcountry. With a single wing that stretched over the cabin, a square-shaped fuselage that tapered rearward to the tail, and a short, fat nose, the plane had a distinctive appearance.
Although the pilot was concerned about any objects on the runway, she was especially anxious about caribou. Running the single-engine aircraft into a herd of the ungulates, also known as reindeer, would be disastrous for the mission. She executed a low altitude buzz that would surely frighten away any wandering beasts.
Seeing nothing untoward on the short strip, she banked and lined up for the approach. Her three passengers tugged one last time on their seatbelts. The oversized tires kissed the frozen surface and the Beaver bounced once, then twice, before settling down and coasting to a stop near the main buildings.
“Nice landing,” said one of the passengers, who’d introduced himself as Jerry. “Looks like you’ve done this before.”
“More times than I can count. I used to fly bush in Alaska and the Northwest Territories.”
She didn’t look to be older than thirty-five, but