Chapter 17 - The Snowcat Descent
The heavy diesel engine of the 1984 Tucker Sno-Cat sputtered, coughed, and then roared to life with a deep, rumbling growl that vibrated through the shed's corrugated iron roof.
I hit the switch for the cab's internal heater, feeling the warm air begin to circulate through the cramped four-person compartment. I sprinted back into the house, scooped Eliza up in my arms—with Samuel nestled securely in a padded chest-carrier strapped beneath her winter coat—and carried them through the biting gale directly into the Sno-Cat's passenger seat.
"Keep his face covered from the wind," I told her, strapping the harness over her hips. "The tracks will take the bumps, but it’s going to be rough."
"Just drive, Nolan," she said, her knuckles pale as she gripped the door handle.
I ran back, tossed the duffels into the rear compartment, grabbed the Remington shotgun and an AR-15 with six loaded magazines, and slammed the heavy metal door shut.
Down the driveway, the two Suburbans had cleared the final bend. Red and blue strobes flashed behind their tinted grilles—not official state troopers, but unmarked utility vehicles using emergency lights to mimic law enforcement authority.
A high-powered spotlight mounted on the lead SUV swept across the yard, blinding us as it pinned the Sno-Cat in its beam. Through the megaphone mounted on the vehicle's roof, a harsh, synthesized voice crackled through the storm:
"Nolan Vance! Shut the engine down and step out with your hands visible! This property is subject to an immediate federal seizure warrant!"
"Federal warrant?" I muttered with a bitter scoff. "The feds don't drive unmarked rigs with expired county plates."
I slammed the dual-lever steering controls forward and mashed the throttle down.
The heavy steel tracks bit into the three-foot snowdrift, throwing a massive rooster tail of ice and snow behind us as the machine lurched forward. Instead of taking the driveway toward their ambush, I banked hard to the left, crashing through the wooden perimeter fence and barreling straight into the dense forest corridor of the unmaintained logging trail.
Behind us, gunshots cracked through the blizzard. Rounds pinged off the heavy steel plating of the Sno-Cat's rear engine cover, dull metallic thumps that made Eliza flinch and curl protectively over Samuel.
"They're firing at us!" she screamed.
"Their trucks can't follow where we're going," I yelled back over the deafening whine of the tracks and the roaring engine. "This logging grade drops at a thirty-degree angle into the canyon. Wheeled vehicles will roll into the ravine. We just need to hold the line for four miles!"
The Sno-Cat plunged into the black timber, the heavy pine branches whipping against the reinforced safety glass of the windshield. Below us lay the deep gorge of Dead Man's Creek, shrouded in darkness and driving snow.
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Through the rear observation window, I saw the headlights of the two Suburbans halt abruptly at the edge of the tree line. Men in tactical gear spilled out into the snow, leveling rifles, muzzle flashes lighting up the blizzard like violent fireflies. But their rounds were wild, swallowed by the dense screen of lodgepole pines.
We had broken through the perimeter. But as the machine crested the treacherous ridge overlooking the reservation valley, the dashboard oil pressure light began to flash a violent, steady red.
