65 Below by Basil Sands

offered Marcus a sample of his latest homebrewed smoked porter ale. Marcus, who had developed an affinity for the rich, dark stout beers while serving several tours with the British SAS and the Royal Marines, accepted the offer.
    As it turned out, “Al’s Black Ops,” as the brew master had titled the concoction, was much stronger than either of them had expected, topping out at somewhere between ten and twelve percent alcohol. Marcus was religious about never driving under the influence. He made a point that even if he only had one drink, he would wait at least an hour before getting behind the wheel. Therefore, after two pints with Al in the period of an hour, Marcus told his friend that he would be sacking out on his couch for a couple of hours before heading home. Al, of course, had no problem with that, and for that matter, offered more to Marcus since he was staying. Marcus declined, not desiring a hangover to take with him on the trap line when he left in the early morning hours.
    At five in the morning, Marcus woke and let himself out of Al’s cabin. He had one hundred and twenty miles of trap line to run in the next two days, and didn’t want to get a late start. He drove the twenty-five miles back to his own cabin. A note was tacked to the bulletin board that hung on his door.
    Marcus had no phone or other way of answering the request, and couldn’t wait until Linus’s store opened to call the troopers. He left the note where it was and entered the cabin to get ready for his trip.
    The cops can talk to Linus or Bannock—they know everything I know.
    The trap line he was about to run was actually owned by another friend of his from the base. Air Force Major Steven Krisler, commander of the Arctic Survival School, had run a long string of snares to capture furs for his side business. Krisler was retiring from the Air Force soon and trying to get himself established as a taxidermist. He had been running the trap line across the back of the base for a couple of years now, and had taken Marcus out earlier in the season as a riding buddy.
    The previous week, Krisler had gotten a hold of the retired Marine to ask him to run the line for him, as he had just received emergency orders to report to Afghanistan for a one-month temporary duty assignment. Marcus willingly agreed. He was looking forward to the time in the brush.
    His own cabin was, by any average North American’s perspective, extremely remote already. But the prospect of taking a ride into the unpaved, off-the-grid backcountry always made him happy. There would be nobody for a hundred miles in any direction—just him and his snowmobile.
    Marcus piled all his gear in the long cargo sled attached behind the snowmobile. He had loaded a sufficient quantity of food, extra clothes, camp supplies, fuel, and water, as well as a few spare parts for his snowmobile. He pushed his grandfather’s rifle into an insulated, hard black nylon scabbard that ran along the right side of the machine. In his backpack, Marcus also had a small .22 caliber Henry Survival rifle, disassembled and stowed neatly in its own stock. This he would use if the chance arose to take a rabbit or grouse along the trail.
    He tucked his sidearm, a custom-made MEU-SOC Colt 1911A1 .45 caliber pistol, into a shoulder holster in his jacket. Marcus mounted his snowmobile, a long track Arctic Cat M series that had been specially modified to reduce the rumble of the engine to a level so low that from more than ten feet away, it was almost totally silent. Engineering students at the University of Alaska Fairbanks had designed several similar machines for a contest the previous year. Marcus managed to buy one through an ad in the Fairbanks Daily News Miner when one of the students became desperate for funds early in the current semester and offered his award-winning machine for a bargain price.
    Marcus pulled out of his yard onto the trail beside Johnson Road, this time turning north toward the open