snapping off his phone. “The bad news is the asshole they set up to pick us up ran off with a better-paying customer, and they’re not coming until tomorrow night.”
“Fuck,” said Rankin. “Why isn’t this an SF operation?”
“We don’t need all that fuss,” said Ferguson, who had turned down Van’s offer to send in an evac team. In the CIA op’s opinion, that would draw way too much attention and was only a last-resort option. “You worried, Skip?”
“We can’t stay here. We’re too damn exposed.”
Ferguson rubbed his face. He was tired, but if he fell asleep now he wouldn’t wake up for hours and hours. He figured the same must be true of the others.
“Let’s get across the border now,” he said, pulling his ruck back on. “We should be able to find someplace to sleep on the other side of that hill there, in those woods.”
They found a well-worn passage underneath the fence about a half mile farther south. Ferguson and Guns scouted along the fence line until they came to another somewhat less worn. Worried that despite Corrigan’s intelligence to the contrary there were high-tech sensors between the fence, Ferguson sent Guns through. By the time he made it back, it was nearly dawn.
Conners and Rankin carried Kiro between them as they approached the fence, then dragged him under like a trussed pig. Meanwhile, Guns and Ferguson scouted the area for a place to hole up. About a half mile into Georgia they spotted a military post manned by six guards, who had a jeeplike vehicle mounting a machine gun near the post. The shoulder of the road dropped off a good eight feet as it passed, but to get by without being seen they’d have to crawl along it — impossible to do with Kiro. They trekked back up the hill, moving along the valley and actually crossing back into Chechnya before coming around through another pass, this one unguarded.
It was nearly midmorning before they finally found a secure place to camp, throwing themselves down against the rocks as if they were down-filled pillows. Ferguson started talking about the plan for tomorrow; he had them climbing aboard the helicopter before realizing not one of the others was awake.
14
In the early stages of the war against terrorism, the U.S. had sent ten UH-1 Hueys to Georgia to help fight against Islamic rebels. Ferguson thought one of the Hueys would be coming for them now, so when the helicopter descended low enough for him to see clearly with his NOD that it wasn’t a Huey, he hesitated before blinking his flashlight. The chopper descending toward the patch of dirt across from the mountain stream had large struts extending from its cabin to giant wheels at the side. Its massive engines groaned and wheezed as the seventy-foot rotor above lowered it precariously close to the streambed.
A crewman jumped out and blinked a flashlight several times. Ferguson blinked his in response.
“Corrigan sent us,” yelled the crewman.
Actually, the words sounded more like “Car came sent blues.”
“And us,” said Ferguson, stepping forward.
“Fregunski?” said the crewman.
“Close enough,” Ferg told him. He waved the others forward from the copse where they’d been hiding.
“Quickly,” said the crewman. “It’s not safe. The rebels are everywhere.”
The man turned out to be the pilot, and the only man aboard. Ferg slipped into the unoccupied copilot’s seat. The pilot smiled, then concentrated on getting the helicopter launched. The old Mi-8 shuddered, then groaned upward, passing so close to the cliff at the left that Ferguson closed his eyes.
“Ten minute,” said the pilot cheerfully.
“Ten minutes to where?” asked Ferguson. The airport at the capital was close to a half hour away, if not longer given their plodding pace.
“Pandori,” he said, practically signing the name of the mountain village.
“We’re going to Tbilisi,” said Ferg.
The pilot turned toward him.
“Tbilisi, yeah,” said Ferguson.
The man began speaking in Georgian. Ferguson told him in English and then in Russian that he couldn’t speak Georgian, but that didn’t stop the tirade.
“We need to go to Tbilisi,” Ferg told him. He put his hand on the man’s right arm.
The helicopter pitched forward sharply. Ferguson, who hadn’t belted himself in, slammed against the dashboard. He threw himself around and took out his gun.
“No more of that,” he told the pilot.
“Tbilisi, no,” said the pilot.
“What’s going on?” asked Guns, poking his head between them.
“Our friend doesn’t want to go to the capital,” said Ferg. “How’s your Georgian?”
Guns shook his head, but between them they puzzled out some information. The pilot had been challenged at the airport before taking off and had been buzzed by a Russian fighter just before finding them. He was afraid of being arrested if he returned to the capital. The closest he would take them was Micheta, a town about five miles north of Tbilisi.
Ferguson called Corrigan and told him to get a car up there.
“That’s not as easy as you think,” said the desk man.
“We’re not walking,” said Ferguson. “Why the hell didn’t you get us a real helicopter?”
“It is a real helicopter.”
“Corrigan, you and I are going to have a serious talk when I get back. You’re supposed to facilitate my mission, not make it harder.”
“I’m sorry. The embassy made the arrangements.”
“They know we’re on the same side, right?”
“Hold on the line while I talk to them,” said Corrigan.
“Good idea.”
“The embassy’ll send a car,” Corrigan told Ferguson finally. “It’s on the way now. Plainclothes Marines.”
“Guns’ll be overjoyed,” said Ferguson, snapping off the phone.
The pilot had apparently been to the small town before, barely hesitating as he angled in between a set of power lines to land in a small field behind a school building. He stayed in his seat, with the rotors moving.
“It’s been real,” Ferg told the pilot in English.
The man gave him a thumbs-up and a wide smile, as if they’d had the time of their lives. Ferguson barely got the door up and closed before the helicopter whipped back upward.
“Starting to rain,” said Guns.
“Figures,” said Rankin.
“We have to move up to the road,” said Ferguson, checking his watch. The Marines were due in ten minutes.
“See, the guy’s dying,” Conners explained to the others. “It’s that kind of song.”
“Yeah, no shit,” said Rankin.
“You got a good voice, Dad,” said Guns.
“And you’re fuckin’ crazy,” said Rankin.
