Taking the Beach

 220.

Forced to touch-down in Missoula due to extreme weather conditions, we quickly transfer our gear to the waiting SUV. Drysdale's contract informer, more a scout in these Western applications, is there to meet us at the snowy general aviation hangar. The four of us slowly make our way towards the hotel with heater and fan circulating warm air to the cramped space. Drysdale introduces us to our local contact Merle, tonight doubling as driver, along the short ten miles from airport to hotel. As Drysdale makes the introductions along with the responsibilities along with chain of command notations, Merle moves his eyes from the treacherous road conditions to his rear-view mirror to make a name-face association. When he turns his eyes on me I notice a rugged resolve and an unblinking commitment to duty, common in many of the special forces personnel I have had the pleasure to serve beside. It is the pigment of valor, and I nod respectfully in the code of respect.

"Thank you for your hard work brother, has there been any recent movement?" I ask.

"Several vehicles, mostly 12-20 foot rental trucks, in and out of the compound on a regular rotation over the last three days. We followed them to a warehouse outside of town but couldn't get a good look at cargo," Merle announces in a smooth, deep tenor with an accented hint of a Native American that I consider to be either Blackfoot or Pend d'Oreille.  

"Any sign of The Queen?" I press, foot to pedal.

"She gets out for exercise about an hour a day, but normally uses to time to chain smoke and walk head down in a tight circle. Other than that she appears to be in 23 a day lockdown."

"Is she alone when outside?"

Merle grunts and says, "Just her and a hostile on the deck with an AK on his lap."

"What about access, fencing?"

"Nothing but cedar rails around the perimeter but they installed an inner pen with hurricane fencing about six months back. That is the exercise area. Ten feet, razor wire on top. They planted some pines to hide it but they all died so they built a wall on the road side."

"Who owns the property?"

"Group called MBI." Drysdale shoots me a quick look.

"How long have they been here?"

"Since '17. It's the old Zimmerman place, 120 acres of scrub, mostly ranch land, but over the years they've reclaimed a bit for soy production. They keep one hand on full-time and until this latest go-round only use it for what lightly passes as hunting retreats. That and target practice."

"You know the honcho?"

"Yeah, Joey Krebs, good guy, bit slow, unambitious, invisible. Lives in an Airstream out back. His Dad was at Normandy."

We ride the last mile in respectful silence, the latest snowfall crunching under the steel-belted all-weather tires. I can almost hear the others piece together the plan of attack upon factoring this updated intel as we slow to a stop at the hotel.

The door of the SUV swings open on my imagery of us taking the beach.