The snow had intensified when Captain Jack
Crawford stepped from his Toyota pickup and began a two-mile walk to the bus
station. Having served in both the
military and the Intelligence Service, he had one final mission to complete. Wearing a sock hat, a black, hooded
sweatshirt, a heavy coat, old jeans and hiking boots, he doubted that he could
be identified should any video cam catch his movements; extra cautious, he had
shaved his beard before leaving the house.
A small backpack, slung over his shoulder, contained all the equipment
he would need.
Paying for the bus ticket with cash, he took
a seat near the rear of the vehicle and waited for the other passengers to hug
their relatives and climb onboard. Just
a few minutes behind schedule, the bus rolled from the depot and headed west
toward the mountains, now obscured by the heavy snowfall. An hour later, at the second stop, Jack got
off the bus, certain that there would be no surveillance in this small mountain
town.
He then walked to a faint trail that entered
the woods near the edge of town and, since darkness had fallen, he easily
reached the trailhead without attracting attention. Heading into the forest, now coated by six
inches of fresh snow, he picked up his pace, knowing that a two-hour hike was
ahead. Several creek crossings posed a
bit of a challenge but he pushed onward, thankful that a full moon, now
emerging from the last of the storm clouds, was lighting his path. Finally, right on schedule, he reached his destination,
a wooded meadow with a spectacular view of a broad river valley, far below. He had visited this scenic spot many times
over the years and had never encountered other hikers.
Jack took a seat in the meadow and listened
to the bugling of elk that echoed up from the valley. The mountain air was cold and dry and he knew
from weather reports that a low of minus ten was expected at this
elevation. Pulling a bottle of wine from
his backpack, he unscrewed the cap and took a few swigs, anxious to experience
its calming effects. He then took off
his boots and coat; using the latter as a pillow and lied back, scanning the
bowl of stars overhead. There was no
doubt in his mind that this was the right spot, perhaps his favorite location
on the planet.
The diagnosis had come six months before and
he was informed that no effective treatment was available. Experimental treatment had been offered but
Jack had declined. He informed his
ex-wife, his daughter who lived in Boston and a few close friends but otherwise
kept the death sentence to himself. He
had decided to wait for the symptoms to worsen and then take action.
So this was his final mission. He soon began to shiver and took another swig
from the bottle, accepting the fact that death would arrive before sunrise.
