Guns had been beaten pretty badly, but he was able to walk, and when the car exploded, Rankin ran around the block and met him as they’d arranged. The mortar shells began falling in the field short of the center of town; the timers on the other charges he’d set around town began going off. Rankin applied the coup de grace to the attack by igniting the charge on their Accord; a fireball shot straight up from the gas tank, a spectacular show that would have rated a ten at a fireworks display.
They took a quick left turn off the main drag and jumped in a truck they’d stolen earlier. Guns slumped against the door as Rankin drove around to the road that led to the rendezvous point.
“Fuckin’ Russkies don’t have a clue,” he told the Marine, who merely groaned in response. “They’re little rabbits, cowering in their holes. Assholes had any sense, they’d have their knives out — cream us just as soon as look at us.”
In Rankin’s opinion, the Russians’ entire posture had invited attack — he would have had a better perimeter force, better sweeps, checkpoints — he wouldn’t have let a couple of foreigners, one of them a gimp, waltz right out of town under his nose. A machine gun would have commanded the top of the ridge beyond the road, wiping them out as they drove.
“You complaining?” Guns asked him, as they stopped to get rid of the truck just beyond the ridge.
“I’m just saying they’re awful lazy.”
“They kick pretty good.”
“You all right?”
“Yeah.”
“I was worried they were going to arrest you.”
“Ferg said they wouldn’t.”
“Yeah, well, Ferg’s not always right.”
“Think they broke my rib.”
“Bastards. We shoulda killed every one of them,” said Rankin.
He climbed on top of the truck and turned his field glasses back toward the town. Two BMPs, armored personnel carriers mounting a light cannon, had taken up a position at the nearest end of town.
“They coming for us?” Guns asked.
“Not yet. They better get their act together, or we’re back to square one.”
“You don’t think blowing up the commander’s car will piss them off?”
Rankin spun around so quickly he nearly fell off the truck. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.”
“With what? Your binoculars?” Ferguson looked at Guns, who was hunched over the front of the truck. “You all right, Marine?”
“I’m fuckin’ fine.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Come on, boys; we got a long walk to catch up to Dad, or he’s going to have all the fun.”
12
After more than two hours in the woods, they were still a good mile Mr?W& and a half from the back of the fortress. With the sun starting to set, Ferguson decided they’d have to split up. He was worried that the rebels would decide to sneak out of the fortress as soon as it was dark.
“Conners’ll just blast ‘em,” argued Rankin.
“If he has to, that’s OK. But he also might get his ass handed to him,” said Ferg. “You help Guns come up as fast as you can.”
“I can make it by myself,” said Guns. “Both of you guys go.”
“I don’t know, Guns,” said Ferguson. “Go on.”
“I don’t need no Marine Corps macho bullshit,” said Ferg. “I need you in one piece.”
“Fuck yourself, I am.” “He can make it,” said Rankin.
Ferguson debated with himself. If there was a firefight behind the fortress, Rankin would be extremely useful. On the other hand, Guns wasn’t likely to go too much faster with Rankin helping him.
“You sure you can make it?” he said to the Marine. “Yeah, I can do it,” said Guns.
“I’m counting on you. I got to keep these Army guys in line. One Marine, two Army — about right.”
“You need five grunts for a jarhead,” said Guns, wincing through his smile.
“Yeah, that’s about right,” said Ferg. “You use the radio if you get stuck. You got me?”
“Yes, sir.”
They had to stop after a mile and put on their night goggles. The quickest way to the ravine over the cave exit was across a sheer rock wall. It would be impossible in the dark — Ferguson had mapped a route below, which would have brought them almost opposite the vehicle hide — but if they got across it they’d be almost on top of the exit, in perfect position to control it. From there, one man could cover the other as he went across to the left down to the spot where Conners was waiting near the vehicle, which he’d already incapacitated.
“You’re out of your mind,” said Rankin, looking at it through his goggles. “No way.”
“Leave the pack if it’s too heavy,” said Ferg. “Come on. I’ve gone across rock quarries that were tougher.”
“At night?”
“Oh shit yeah,” said Ferguson, examining the wall. “There’s plenty of handholds, couple of ledges. Won’t be a problem.”
“You’re crazy man. I’m not doing that.”
“Your call,” said Ferguson, starting out.
“Fuck,” said Rankin, snugging his ruck tighter and following.
Ferg found a ledge about chest high and climbed up onto it. It was about eight inches wide, and he didn’t have to lean too much to keep his balance as he went. He stopped after a few feet to tighten the shotgun; the MP-5 was in its Velcro rig. There was a guard post about a hundred yards farther up the ridge to the left, but to see down here the lookout would have to crawl out and peer over the rocks, extremely unlikely as long as they were quiet.
The ridge ended twenty feet out. A hundred and fifty yards of nearly sheer wall separated Ferguson from a pile of rocks that would be easy to scramble across. The drop was at least two hundred feet.
Rankin really didn’t want to know how far down it was. He could feel the sweat swimming down his fingers. He watched Ferguson begin climbing the wall, working his way across. Fucker probably wants me to fall, Rankin thought to himself, pushing his fingers into a rock and kicking for something to put his foot into.
Ferguson was about ten feet from the rocks when he ran out of places to put his hands and feet. At first he thought it was just because of the darkness and eye fatigue — the goggles tended to make his eyes blurry after a while — but gradually he realized it was a real problem. He climbed up a few feet, only to find his way barred in that direction as well. He stared and stared, trying to find a hold, and was still staring at it when Rankin finally reached him.
“Now what?” whispered Rankin. He was breathing hard, probably hyperventilating.
“I don’t know,” said Ferguson. “The rock’s so smooth I can’t find a hold anywhere. No cracks. Nothing.”
“Well you better find one. I’m getting tired.”
“We could turn around,” said Ferguson.
“I’m not going back.”
“Just wanted to give you the option. I’m going to push off and jump.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Better keep your voice down,” said Ferguson. He went back to studying the wall. If he were wearing climbing shoes, he might take a risk on a nub just out of his reach; the face sloped ever so slightly, and he thought — knew — he could get his finger there before his balance got too unwieldy.
