Max Espionage Scout

By L.Gordon Kesler

Max Espionage Scout is a story of lust, power and greed. His latest scouting assignment brings Max face-to-face with the worst of humanity. With years of experience spying in the oil business, Max is sure he has dealt with every hostile environment possible, but he is about to find out differently: when the boys from the Big Apple get involved in the oil and gas exploration business, a man’s life soon becomes expendable. Specifically, Max’s!

Lust and greed mixed with oil and gas make for an explosive situation. Toni, the voluptuous red head, has no scruples doing whatever it takes to reach the top in a business traditionally reserved for ambitious men with years of oilfield experience.

The man driving the agenda for Talbot NY Exploration is Cliff Mayguard. At fifty-eight, Cliff is running out of opportunities for success, and his greed drives him to decisions that will leave a trail of human destruction. He has Max in his crosshairs.

Unwittingly, Max has employed Rich Barnes, a scout from the past. This decision could lead to a situation from which he may not be able to recover.

The area where the scouting assignment takes him is called Berland River, an area famous for a large Grizzly population. Max is aware of the dangers lurking in the heavy dark timber but is unable to avoid several encounters.

Sam Kline is a notorious scout who adds to Max’s dilemma. In Max’s eyes he is someone not to be trusted. The accumulation of several circumstances may force Max to reevaluate his former judgement.

In the end the entire story is one of survival, both for Talbot NY Exploration and for Max, Espionage Scout.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.Gordon Kesler
• Release date: Feb 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645161714

L.Gordon Kesler

Gordon was raised on a ranch in Southern Alberta, Canada in the early 50's and 60's, where he had the normal responsibilities of any farm and ranch kid growing up. Influenced by his uncle, who was a Canadian rodeo champion. Gordon entered his first rodeo at the age of eight. He loved riding broncs and bulls, and he loved the adrenalin rush he experienced while competing in rodeos. After completing high school, Gordon attended Weber State University with a rodeo as well as an academic scholarship. He graduated with a BSc. degree in Biology and Secondary Education. Upon completion of university, Gordon moved back to Alberta, Canada. Jobs in the teaching profession were scarce at the time and with a young family to support, he decided to get a job working the drilling rigs on Northern Canada's Arctic Islands. Gordon came to enjoy everything about the oil industry and was soon exploring ways to advance his career. An associate in the petroleum industry approached him about an opportunity to become an "Oilfield Scout." When he discovered that scouting was actually spying, he knew this would be an exciting and dangerous career, something that was right up his alley! He jumped at the opportunity to try something new. After two years of working for an independent scouting contractor, Gordon started his own scouting company, a company that had as many as sixteen professional spies employed at one time. Stalking a drilling rig in the middle of the night with a high caliber rifle slung over his shoulder was an every day experience, and as with rodeo competition, the adrenalin rush never faded, not even after twenty years.

Book preview

Chapter One

The glare from the ice between the three-foot banks of snow that lined Highway 35 between Peace River and High Level was mesmerizing at any time of night, but at 1 a.m. after driving over treacherous roads for eight hours, it was an onerous and exhausting proposition. Common sense would normally kick in, and Max Cardova would find a wide spot along the highway suitable for pulling off the road from the increasingly hazardous conditions. Tonight, however, Max was on a mission. The client had instructed him to be at the drilling rig by 8 a.m., and that meant there wasn’t time to stop. The call from the client, Rome Petroleum, came in at 4 p.m., leaving Max with no choice: he had to tackle the elements if he wanted the spying assignment.

When Max checked the caller ID on his cell phone, he was sure the call was a misdial. He couldn’t remember Wildcat Scouting ever doing a job for Rome Petroleum, and anytime his boss, Phil Graves, talked about them it wasn’t in good terms. Bunch of Pricks was his favorite expression.

Max remembered what it was that Phil didn’t like; the only way to get work was to pay the company scout who did the hiring 20 percent of the ticket. Phil refused to play the kickback game and was shut out from doing business with Rome and several other companies in the oil and gas industry who engaged in similar practices.

Procuring whores for clients was another practice Phil detested in some of his competitors. He refused to be a part of the pay for play game that was becoming more widespread in the industry.

Max knew Rome Petroleum was in a bind, or they would never have called. He also knew that before the call was made to Wildcat Scouting, they had tried every other scouting company in the country.

Since Phil Grave’s heart attack, he often times would just forward client calls directly to Max. Max was tempted to tell Rome to go to hell, but hope springs eternal and he thought maybe – just maybe — if he got great information, it might lead to more work. With medical bills piling up on Phil’s desk, Phil could put the extra revenue toward paying them off.

The freshly fallen snow that covered the roadside snowbanks glistened like a spattering of jewels in the beam of light emanating from the pickup. A green highway sign trimmed in fluorescent silver paint, MANNING 194 kilometers, flashed by the white GMC Sierra Duramax.

Son of a bitch, I forgot it was so damn far.

Quickly Max converted the kilometers to miles. He hated metric and always converted to imperial measurement –120 miles came the whisper. Max was ready for a rest. Even the cheeks of his ass were numb, and the cold air blowing directly into his face through the partially open window wasn’t helping much. Max cranked the radio up and began to serenade along with Alan Jackson: Wanted one good-hearted woman to forgive imperfection in the man that she loves. Max chuckled. Carmen, his wife of twenty-seven years, always sang along when he accompanied his favorite country singers.

For a brief moment, Max was alert behind the wheel.

There is a point where nothing seems to work and hallucinations consume a man’s mind. Suddenly Max was seeing shadows turn into moose, bear, and other critters, critters that were simply a product of his mental fatigue. Max tried his favorite trick for staying alert. Slapping the back of his neck briskly always woke him, and was always good for a few extra miles. Leaning back with his head against the headrest, Max relaxed, his thoughts spinning as if lost in a fog.

The GMC Sierra was impersonating a ballerina in the middle of the highway covered with packed ice that had become an intrinsic part of the asphalt. The sudden thud off the snow bank that lined the silver stretch of road brought Max to an erect position behind the wheel. Holy shit!

Max’s hands were a blur as he tried to right the ship. Bang! The truck spun off the opposite snow pile.

Stay off the brake, Maxie, stay off the friggin’ brake.

The blur of hands on the wheel continued through two more revolutions. Everything was happening in slow motion it seemed. With each 360-degree turn, Max could see the headlights of the big rig getting closer.

Come on baby, straighten out!

Just at the instant when there should have been an impact, the GMC 4x4 jolted to the right and plunged into the three-foot embankment. The semitruck and trailer hauling a load of drill pipe blew past, air horns blaring, trailer whipping from side to side between the ditches. Following the big rig was a blinding blizzard with zero visibility.

Max waited. The blizzard finally subsided. Max sat with his hands frozen to the steering wheel, his palms wet with perspiration.

Thank you, God, Max sighed.

Minutes passed by. Finally, Max opened the door and slid from the seat into the frigid night air. The last time he had checked, the thermometer read -30 degrees Fahrenheit.

Max’s legs felt like jello as he carefully maneuvered his way slipping and sliding around the truck.

Shit! Even in the dark Max could see the scratches and gouges from the encounter with hard ice and snow piled up by the snow plows over the past three months. A closer inspection showed even more damage.

Both front hubcaps were missing and the right front bumper below the brush guard was pushed back toward the front tire. Luckily there was still enough clearance to drive.

Max was handy with a buffing machine. A little hard work would remove some of the scratches, but the gouges would require a professional body man.

Son of a bitch! Max was wide awake now. Might as well drive to Keg River, might even make High Level. His voice competed with the unexpected breeze rushing through the scrub pine lining both sides of the road. Max examined the instrument panel; the temperature had dropped to -35 and the digital clock indicated it was now 2 a.m. Who cares what time it is? Max mused.

Time wasn’t relevant in the world of oil field spying; in fact, the best information was usually collected after the sun went down.

Not being familiar with the instrumentation of the new GMC, Max required more light to identify the 4x4 lock-in switch. He switched on the interior lights and found what he was looking for. Things have really changed, he thought, remembering having to get out of the truck to lock in the hubs when there was a need to travel in four-wheel drive.

One poke with his finger and the 4x4 sign illuminated. Max hit the accelerator and lurched forward out of the snow bank, fishtailing wildly. He released pressure with his right foot and straightened the truck back into the right-hand lane.

The little breeze had suddenly taken on a life of its own. The freshly fallen snow now resembled a river of snakes swishing wildly in the headlights, making it difficult to identify the edge of the highway. One bad piece of luck after another, Max thought. The new client wouldn’t be impressed if he knew how late Max would be arriving at the job site.

Max chuckled, Hell, I don’t even know how late it will be if this shit keeps happening.

The GMC rolled into the Shell service station in High Level at 4.30 a.m. Max found a quiet spot in the far corner of the parking lot and came to a stop. He sat motionless, draped over the steering wheel for several minutes. It was still black beyond the red and yellow neon lights of the truck stop.

Max was exhausted. He reached into the back seat and carefully retrieved his eiderdown sleeping bag, making sure not to damage the electronics, being protected by the goose-down; that would be vital to his success. An alarm clock wouldn’t be necessary; he would wake up when daylight signaled a new day. He pulled the sleeping bag over his shoulders, the Duramax diesel still idling.

When the warmth of the sun magnified by the glass windshield began to make Max uncomfortable, he rolled over and tried to ignore the rays of light striking his face. Tossing back and forth several times, he finally relented to the sun, beckoning him to rise and shine.

Max checked the dash clock. Shit! 8:30.

Only four hours had passed since he had reclined, but that was an hour’s more sleep than he had anticipated getting. Remembering the area map, he knew he had 20 miles of high-grade road to travel before he would have to navigate the 40 miles of cutlines leading him away from civilization.

Max pulled up to the diesel pump.

Rotten bastards! Gouging the public every chance they get. The price of diesel was $1.42 per liter.

Max quickly calculated a measurement that had meaning: $6.50 a gallon. With the slip tank he would require 100 gallons.

Piss, 650 bucks!

After kicking at the tire to express his displeasure, Max reluctantly filled both tanks. He decided he could get everything he needed at the Shell convenience store. It would cost more, but it would save time.

After shopping for 30 minutes, he was ready to check out. The purchase comprised only of survival food: Ritz Crackers, a 5-pound block of cheddar, pork and beans with snap tops, 3 pounds of pepperoni and a variety of drinks, including liquid gold — water. Not much, Max thought, if there were ever an emergency.

The total bill for food and fuel came to 803 dollars. Max loaded the merchandise in all the traditional places, mostly on the back seat under sleeping gear next to the Sako 300 rifle and the three scanners.

The one item that wasn’t a necessity was the red licorice and that would stay in the front seat. Max set it on the driver’s side floor mat while he continued to arrange all of the other purchases.

That’s got it.

When Max was ready to head out, he grabbed the bag of Red Vines. Whoa, what’s this? The ebony handle of the chrome Colt 45 had slid forward and was peeking out in plain sight.

Fat Albert, you son of a bitch, you trying to get me in trouble?

The beautiful Colt was a new addition to Max’s arsenal of protection. The Sako 300 Winchester was all he had carried for years, but an incident at Wolverine Hills years earlier had convinced him a handgun was necessary.

Purchasing a handgun in Canada was impossible. Max chuckled, If there’s a will, there’s a way.

On a trip to Kalispell, Montana, a few years back, he had visited a pawn shop, Riverside Pawn, if his memory served him right. He had to smuggle the gun through customs at the Canadian border.

Max started to laugh. That was the easy part; convincing Carmen not to report him to the customs officials was the hard part.

Max smiled. It took two months for her to finally settle down and accept his new friend, now known as Fat Albert. Where the name Fat Albert came from he couldn’t remember, but it suited the Colt 45. The slugs were certainly fat, and they ripped a fat hole as well.

The bigger the hole, the better.

Chapter Two

Drilling rig signs were like flowers growing wild. They popped up at every intersection exiting the main road heading west to no man’s land on cutlines that resembled a sheet of hockey ice with one difference: these ice trails were miles of straight lines with the occasional 90-degree turn.

Max slowed at each turn, checking for the only rig sign of interest. So far, no luck.

The occasional corner had so many signs he had to come to a complete stop for a close-up inspection, eliminating the chance he would inadvertently miss what he was looking for.

Max checked the speedometer. He had traveled 20.5 miles and still the rig sign he was looking for hadn’t appeared. Another mile and he would turn back to check the numerous intersections one more time.

Shit! he announced in frustration. If this well is such a top-secret operation maybe the company didn’t put a sign up at all in order to make things more difficult for a scout looking for their location. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Oops! The trail leaving the main road was barely marked. The onefoot-square rig sign, Arrowhead #3 was the smallest rig sign Max could remember seeing. Looks like a postage stamp, he muttered.

Max stopped before turning west. He wasn’t sure about the turn. It didn’t appear to have much traffic. In fact, there wasn’t a single tire track in the fresh skiff of snow.

Hmmm, bet they aren’t letting hands leave the rig as a precaution to prevent information leaks.

It was common knowledge that some of the best well info came from drunk rig hands hanging out at the local watering hole.

Max pulled off the high-grade and stopped. Carmen should be home, if I’m lucky, he mused.

One thing Max did religiously was to give his companion of 27 years an update before heading into the bush. He knew the chances were good that cell phone communication might be non-existent the farther he got from the main roads.

Max checked the signal strength — three bars. The call should go through with no problems.

The ringtone sound was faint. Max counted each ring, One, two, three.

Well, hello, stranger, Carmen said sounding frustrated. I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Thought you might call early this morning.

Just what Max had expected. He had thought about calling but got caught up getting organized for the trip to the job site.

Sorry, babe, got busy. You knew I would call eventually. Carmen could hear the soft chuckle in the distance.

Yeah, right, you big poop!

More chuckling, this time at both ends of the call. Max was laughing at her choice of words. Only when Carmen was seriously angry did she use inappropriate language. Okay, fill me in. How was the drive? Obviously, you didn’t fall asleep, Carmen said.

Max choked. He hoped Carmen hadn’t noticed. Piece of cake, sweetheart. Long, but no problems. Max held back the truth. He didn’t want Carmen worrying, especially when he might not be able to get a call out for a few days.

The two made small talk for 30 minutes, more time than Max could afford, but it was important to leave Carmen feeling easy just in case there were no cell signals at the rig location.

Might not be able to get a call out for a few days, so don’t be upset. I will try to get to town in a couple of days if all goes well.

Expressions of love were exchanged and Max ended the call.

The trail traveling west was brutal; it was slick and narrow and there were more 90-degree turns than in a sidewinder rattle snake. The drive gave Max time to reflect on the many changes that had occurred over the past year.

The most devastating change, of course, was Phil Graves’ heart attack, caused by an aneurysm in his aorta. Max sniffled and wiped the tears from his cheek. Okay, toughen up cowboy, he whispered.

Emotions surfaced easily when Max was fatigued. The news was heartbreaking; his boss had nearly died. Phil and Max had more than just a working relationship. They had become great friends; both families had truly bonded. Phil suffered from depression and wanted to sell Wildcat Scouting to Max. Max remembered how difficult it had been convincing Phil that with help he could still run the company.

I’ll help any way I can. Together, we will make it work, he remembered saying.

It seemed so long ago. Things had not gotten much better and Max was carrying most of the burden of running the company. Phil tried several times to compensate him for the extra time and effort, but Max wouldn’t take a dime.

What the hell are friends for? was Max’s response each time. He never complained to anyone, but with his new high-volume-pump venture, MaxFlow Pumps, it was getting to be a heavy load. He was lucky Brandon, his oldest son, now 24, had taken an interest in the new business and could run things when Max was away.

Whoa baby!

Max frantically pumped the brakes several times only to have the GMC gain speed and slide through the intersection and into the swamp spruce, barely missing the large sign at the T intersection. Thank heaven for the new brush guard, but even with it, the shiny new pickup was taking a beating.

The 4-foot x 6-foot red and white sign written in legal language, nailed to the large Pine tree caught his attention: LOC – 4369 -. This Road is Intended For Private Use Only. It is protected by a LICENSE OF OCCUPATION. Trespassers will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

Fu—ck! These boys are serious," Max whispered. He pulled the forestry map from under the back seat.

Damn, five miles to the rig location! he exclaimed, but there was no one to hear him.

After studying the map for 15 minutes, he was positive it was a straight shot down the cutline to his target. There was no way to travel the road during daylight hours without getting caught. He would wait until late at night. It was 2 p.m. The winter sun would set in a couple of hours.

Max engaged the 4x4. With tires spinning and squealing, he backed out of the frozen muskeg, turned right and drove until he found the perfect spot to hide out, a secluded place to wait and draft a plan of attack.

There were hours to kill, and that gave Max time to check his equipment, especially his scanners. He had packed light, just the necessary equipment, since Alex McKool, the company scout at Rome, had informed him that the job might only last a few days. It wasn’t like Max not to load his Polaris snow machine and tent camp, but this time it had stayed behind in the new shop.

The two main scanners were placed on the dash: one for regular mobile calls and the other for satellite cell phones. The handheld Bearcat stayed in the back seat. It would come in handy later on.

Max left the scanners searching, lights dancing hypnotically while he reached behind him and pulled the 300 magnum from under the eiderdown. Sliding the bolt back, he exposed the brass jacket of the cartridge that was ready to slide into the breach at a moment’s notice — a satisfying sight. Max lifted the console lid. The two boxes of cartridges were easily accessible.

To his chagrin, the scanners flickering on the dash were eerily silent! The next item was the hog’s leg, the Colt 45 better known as Fat Albert.

Max retrieved the box of cartridges from the console. He spun the chamber and loaded five rounds, leaving one vacant for safety.

Still no sound emanating from the scanners. That’s not good, Max said quietly as if someone were listening.

Fluffing the pillow for support, Max leaned against the passenger side door, half sitting. This position allowed him to look through the sparse timber down the cutline, where he was able to observe any traffic that might be coming or going to and from Arrowhead #3. Max chuckled softly, If there is a rig at the end of this unexplored trail!

The best time to travel the five miles of protected road would be after 10 p.m. By then most of the supervisors should be catching up on sleep after the day’s activities. Catching a few winks himself seemed like a good idea since once the action started, he might not get rest for days.

Max’s eyes were heavy. The low throbbing of the Duramax engine served as a sedative, and it wasn’t long before he was asleep.

Chapter Three

S on of a bitch! Max sprang to attention. Holy shit! How long did I sleep?

The blue illuminated clock on the instrument panel read 11:30. Piss, I should have been down the cutline by now!

Max jumped behind the steering wheel and through the partially frosted window peered down the cutline. With any luck it would eventually lead to Arrowhead Rig 3. Covering the five miles of icy trail in the shortest amount of time was imperative; not encountering any other traffic was even more crucial.

The moon was almost full, a lucky break. It would partially illuminate the snow-packed cutline. Max knew, from experience that driving 50 mph without headlights can be damn treacherous. He’d had his share of mishaps driving blind in the past.

Before proceeding, he checked the row of toggle switches he had recently installed for just these situations. After snapping each chrome button to the up position, he stepped out of the warm cab into the frigid night air and made his way around the truck. Every light had been extinguished.

Time was wasting. The sooner he made his run, the sooner he would know what he was up against.

Before starting his journey, Max checked the odometer. Only the last two digits, 34, were necessary. If the map was correct, he should find the mud mill at mile 39, exactly the five miles indicated on his land map. Swamp spruce lined the cutline like sentinels guarding against intruders, intruders like Max. Even without headlights, the snow was sparkling, thanks to the celestial light in the night sky.

Squinting at the odometer between the spokes of the steering wheel, Max noted he had driven four miles, and he hadn’t encountered any traffic. Max sighed loudly as he slowed to a crawl and peered through the snowladen scrub spruce. All of his senses were on high alert.

He hit the power button and lowered the glass, the bitter cold attacking his face. With eyes watering, he strained to hear the sounds that would indicate his proximity to the drilling rig.

Max stopped the truck and shut the ignition off. Nothing he muttered quietly as if someone were near enough to hear.

It was now only a half mile to where the Arrowhead rig should be drilling the well of interest. Tentatively, Max eased his way forward, peering through the shadows, watching both sides of the cutline for any sign of activity.

Oops, shit! What’s that?

Max grabbed the spotting scope and laid it on the partially open window. He peered through the scope, his tears freezing on his eyelashes. A vertical column of lights came into focus through the branches of the jack pines that had supplanted the swamp spruce as the dominant vegetation.

Suddenly the still of the night was interrupted by the roar of engines in the distance. Max’s trained ear monitored each clang and bang, indicating to him precisely what operation was occurring at the rig.

After several minutes it became clear the rig crew was making a pipe connection. A few more minutes and the sound of swooshing mud pumps and the squawking of the brakes on the drum lowering the pipe into the ground confirmed what Max had suspected: they were drilling ahead, penetrating deeper into the earth, a procedure known as making knew hole in the industry. The client would be pleased. Max knew he had arrived in time for any critical operations yet to be performed.

Ever so slowly Max eased the GMC forward, looking for the access road to the drilling location. Thar she be! he exclaimed.

The road came to a sudden dead end with a 90-degree turn to the left. Shit! Max was trapped. He couldn’t go ahead any farther and a left turn would take him directly past to the rig location.

Putting the truck in reverse, he backed down the line away from the corner. The toggle switches were functioning as planned; there was no illumination from the backup lights.

Max knew what had to be done, and time was of the essence. So far, he had lucked out. He hadn’t encountered anyone on the cutline, but he knew this kind of luck would only hold for so long.

Rolling the up window and shutting the engine off, he grabbed his parka and stepped out of the warm comfort of the pickup into the freezing night air. Max stood quietly, listening for any indication of a change in status at the rig.

Suddenly there was a low growl and then a loud roar breaking across the tundra as the big Cat engine began to hoist the column of steel skyward. The black diesel smoke belched into the atmosphere, darkening the moon and slowly drifted toward Max. The smell of the spent fuel tickled his nostrils. It was a smell that brought back memories of his many years working the rigs. His pursed lips broke into a smile.

The connection of the new pipe joint took only a few minutes before the roughnecks had the bit back on bottom cutting the hole ever deeper into the earth, with the drill bit constantly turning to the right.

After a short spell out of the truck, Max could feel the bitter bite of the frosty air. His entire face burned as if being assaulted by a swarm of bees. Glad I’ve got this balaclava, he muttered as he rolled the wool down over his face, only his eyes and mouth exposed to the harsh elements.

Out of the shadows behind him came a sound all too familiar-the haunting chorus of howling timber wolves. The hair on his neck stood at attention. The barking was close, too close! Opening the back door of the extended cab, Max grabbed the Sako and snapped a cartridge into the breach. With rifle in hand, he relaxed.

Unexpectedly, his mind drifted. He thought about the question his friends frequently asked, Don’t you get lonely out in the bush by yourself all the time?

His answer was always the same, Hell no, can’t be lonely; I’m never alone. I always have Mother Nature for company.

The howling wolves were a reminder of the accuracy of his statement. Throwing the rifle sling over his shoulder, Max jumped from the cutline into the deep snow and disappeared into the darkness. One concern on Max’s mind as he made his way toward the rig through the waist-deep snow; was that someone leaving the drilling location might see his truck parked on the cutline while he was away in the bush. It was a risk he had to take. Making his way through the shadows of the sparse trees, Max stopped behind a large jack pine. Here he could observe the action without being seen. As he’d suspected, they were drilling making new hole. The drilling location was very tight with barely enough room for all of the equipment needed to drill a well.

At the entrance to the location, the yellow D8 Caterpillar sat idling; the skinner was nowhere in sight. The cutline was only plowed open to the rig location, even though it continued eastward where it was overgrown with red willows the size of Max’s thumb.

Piss! Max reaffirmed what had to be done. He had only one option and it wasn’t a good one. Before heading back to the pickup parked on the cutline, he mentally took inventory of the equipment on the location one more time.

How the hell did I miss the test truck on the far side of the lease? Max was kicking his ass for not paying closer attention to detail. The cold will do that occasionally, he thought.

Across the door of the three-ton truck, in bold green letters, read DHT, short for Down Hole Testers. This was critical information and Max had almost missed it. Damn it! Max would beat himself up for hours over the mistake.

The howling of the wolf pack shook Max out of the self-battering he was administering. While he was busy observing the rig, the wolves had moved in. He was suddenly surrounded by the family of carnivores.

Slowly, Max removed the 300 Winchester magnum from his shoulder and began the cautious trek back to his waiting truck, every step was calculated to lessen the danger of an attack. Through the bush he could see the elusive shadows darting back and forth, yellow eyes glowing in the light of the moon. With each pass around him, they were moving closer.

A shot from the rifle was the answer but Max knew it would alert the roughnecks of his presence. Firing a shot was a last resort.

Max picked up his pace. Breaking dead branches from the jack pines and throwing them aimlessly into the darkness, he hoped to discourage the pack from closing in on him.

The chatter between the pack leaders began to dissipate, but the quiet didn’t give Max any comfort. At least when they were yelping, he could tell how close they were.

Staring into the abyss, he pushed forward, finally reaching the white GMC. Max gave an audible sigh as he opened the door and climbed into the safety of the cab. Whew! That was close!

Max secured the scanners and other equipment. The dash past the rig into the willows of the unplowed cutline could be a rough ride, and he didn’t want his valuable scanners bouncing off the roof of the cab. The 4X4 was locked in and the window was rolled down as Max listened for the roar of the engines and watched for the cloud of black smoke indicating all hands were busy making another pipe connection.

The hypnotic clang of the elevators came to an abrupt