“Excellent,” Thibodaux said. “Then get her zoomed in and let’s make sure he’s okay.”
Guttman shot a terrified look at Palmer.
“Can’t do that, Jacques.” The national security advisor frowned. “The AX7 is a stealth platform, but it does leave some signature. With the Hellfire deployment, they’ll be searching for us as it is. If we bring the drone lower to look through the cloud layer the Chinese will shoot her out of the sky. The Red Army has an air defense battery just outside of Kashgar. Too close.”
Thibodaux rubbed his jaw. “You once said you wouldn’t drop us in the grease without fair warning. Looks to me like Jericho is fryin’ out there and you don’t give a shit.”
Palmer shook his head slowly. If he was offended, he didn’t show it. “Quinn was fully briefed, Jacques. He knew how to deploy the weapon and how far away he had to be. He’s alive now or he isn’t. I’m betting he had an escape plan before he pulled the wire.”
“We should at least look.” Thibodaux rolled his shoulders, trying in vain not to let his temper get the best of him.
“No one wants to more than I do,” Palmer said.
“I’ll bet I do.” The Marine stared hard.
“Easy to say, Jacques, when you only have your friend to consider
…” Palmer studied him a long moment before nodding slowly, opening both hands. “But okay. You’re in charge now. You say the word and Sergeant Guttman will bring Damocles out of near orbit to check on our friend Quinn. Don’t worry about the little dustup with China, Pakistan, and the rest of the world over our previously top- secret invisible armed UAV.” The national security advisor turned to Guttman. “This man says the word and you bring her down.”
“Sir…” Guttman stammered, looking like he might have already wet his pants.
“Just do it, son.”
Thibodaux stood completely still, glaring at the ashen staff sergeant.
“Shit!” he finally spat, throwing up his hands. “Just forget it.”
Across the room, Palmer released a pent-up breath. Guttman slouched in his seat, looking as if he might weep.
“There are damn few people in the world we can trust now, Jacques,” Palmer said. “The last thing we need is for what we’re doing to end up on WikiLeaks. We’ve got to believe Jericho knows what he’s doing… Give him a chance.”
“I know.” Thibodaux nodded. His neck burned with a mix of worry over Quinn and pity for men like Palmer who had so many layers of convoluted junk to consider. He preferred the heat of battle when it was kill or be killed. The political side of matters fatigued him. He turned to leave. Camille was in the hospital on bed rest and he hated to leave her alone too long.
“Jacques,” Palmer called.
He stopped at the coded, metal door.
“Sir?”
“For the record, I wouldn’t have made that offer if that had been another Marine out there.”
Thibodaux grinned. “Shows how much you know, sir. I adopted Chair Force into the Corps about an hour after I met him.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Jericho clenched every muscle in his body. The veins on the side of his neck swelled as he strained with his left arm to hold on to Ronnie where she dangled five thousand feet above the hungry rocks below. He lay on his stomach, the crook of his right elbow clutching a nubbin of stone where they’d landed on the ledge roughly the size of a kitchen counter an instant before the Hellfire strike. The camel herder had fallen to his death and the two bandits left topside had been reduced to fine bits of ash.
The missile’s impact had rendered Quinn partially deaf. He could hear snippets of Ronnie’s frantic shouting, but her voice sounded like it was coming from the inside of a metal can. He couldn’t see over the edge, but her hands clutched his forearm and he knew he had a good grip on some piece of her clothing. He could just make out the dust-covered crown of her head over the ledge.
Bracing with his legs against a thin fissure in the rock, he rolled backward, gaining inch by slow inch until he was able to haul her up like a fleshy, wriggling fish. She collapsed, wheezing on top of him, and he realized his handhold had been at the small of her back, on the bunched waistband of her wool long johns.
She looked down at his face as she rearranged her bunched clothing. “In some parts of Cuba, a wedgie like that would mean you’d have to marry me.” Bits of gravel covered her lips. “Good thing I wore my big-girl panties…”
“Yeah, good thing.” Jericho was already working out a plan to get them up the sheer ten-foot face and back to the smoldering crater where their camp had been. He explained about the Breitling while he studied the rock.
“All this time you had an exploding watch and you didn’t tell me?” She shook her head from side to side, her ebony hair a tangled nest of dirt and ash. “I am riding through China with James Bond.”
“The watch just sent up a signal. The explosion was courtesy of the U.S. Air Force. And, technically-” Quinn grunted, trying to pull himself up with a shallow handhold, then slipping back down to hug it so he didn’t fall backward into the dizzy drop behind him. “We’re in Afghanistan… and now I won’t even know what time it is.”
“How far do you think-to the Kyrgyz camp?”
“If they haven’t started their trek back out of the high pastures
… maybe six miles according to Gabrielle’s map.”
Garcia faced the rock, raising her arms above her head. She arched her back and stuck out her butt.
“Come on,” she said. “Give me a boost.” Even under their desperate circumstances, the stance took Quinn’s breath away.
“As inviting as that looks”-he grinned-“you’ll need to push me up first. That way I can pull you up.”
“Okay…” Garcia shot a worried look over her shoulder toward the sheer drop. “But you know how I feel about heights. Don’t leave me down here long.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The sounds of Nguyen’s hoarse screams still rang in Hunt’s ears when the kids came back in the room. Kenny was all grins, but he didn’t mention the killing. They came and went at least five times a day. Both Hunt and Nelson talked to the other boys but refused to speak to Kenny again.
“What do you call it when a person likes to set things on fire?” A freckled blond boy of eight or nine asked Hunt from his cushion next to a sullen Kenny. His name was Sam and he had an earnest look in his eyes Karen found disarming.
“Pyromania,” Lieutenant Nelson said, deadpan. He leaned against the curved stone wall of the cell. “Why? You know somebody who’s into it? It usually means they wet the bed like Kenny.” He’d talk sports or hunting with the other boys to pass the time, but he didn’t pass up the opportunity to give the little jerk a jab if it presented itself.
The rest of the boys giggled until Kenny stared them down.
Little Sam scribbled in his spiral notebook, then looked up under blond bangs. “Don’t you sometimes call them something else? I know there’s another word…”
Karen shrugged. “Just plain pyro.” She’d decided to play along. Since the guards had dragged poor Nguyen away, a number of boys-all between the ages of eight and twelve-had come to the cell every few hours to talk. Karen counted seven different boys in all, but they came three or four at a time. Kenny was always with them and appeared to be their de facto leader. All spoke perfect English.
