“They’re all right, they’re okay,” said Conners, rushing in behind them.
Rankin pushed the Iranian guard to the corner of the room, trussing him with plastic cuffs. Ferguson, meanwhile, went out into the hall.
“Right, turn right,” yelled Rankin, following him out.
“Gotta get my hideaway,” Ferguson told him. “They took it.”
“Fuck that,” said Rankin. “Let’s go.”
“That stinking Glock is my personal weapon,” said Ferguson. He trotted down the hall toward the far end of the corridor, where two SEALs were watching the approach from a second hallway. Ferguson signaled to them to follow, then went toward the office where he’d been searched.
He kicked the door in and threw himself back as the two SEALs poked their guns inside. The lone occupant was hunched behind a desk in the corner. One of the SEALs shouted in Farsi for the man to throw down his weapon. He shouted again, and the man raised his hands to show he wasn’t armed.
As Ferguson slipped between the SEALs into the room, he spotted a shadow in the corner of his eye. With a quick lunge he pushed on the door and then grabbed his would-be assailant, disabling him with an elbow shot to the solar plexus after pulling him forward. A gun flew to the ground.
“Fucking rent-a-cops,” he said, grabbing the Beretta from the floor.
Tears were falling down the other man’s face.
“Oh we ain’t going to hurt you,” Ferg told him. “We ain’t even going to tell the mullahs on you. Where’s my fuckin’ gun?”
As the man babbled in Farsi for his life, Ferguson noticed a metal cabinet against the wall. He went to it, pulled at the door; when he saw it was locked he blew off the handle with a bullet from the Beretta. The thin metal mechanism shattered, and the doors slapped open.
His Glock was on the top shelf, along with his rad counters and the small plastic container with his synthetic thyroid pills, which was what he had really wanted to retrieve.
“Are you fuckin’ comin’ or what?” demanded Rankin from the hallway.
“On my way,” said Ferguson, gulping the pill he had missed.
A bus, Conners?” asked Ferguson.
“The train was busy.”
“Kinda feels like we’re going home after the big track meet,” said Ferguson. “And we lost or something.”
“I wouldn’t call the mission a smashing success,” said Rankin.
“It ain’t over till it’s over,” said Ferguson. No matter what the circumstance was, Ferg thought, Rankin could be counted on to have a stick up his ass.
Generally sideways.
“So, Ferg, you star in any of their movies?” Conners asked.
“I wanted to, but there was a language problem,” Ferguson told him.
“What are we going to do now?” Keveh asked.
“Well you and your buddy can either be evacked to the U.S. or just go home.”
“People saw us.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Ferg told him. “Come back with us. The SEALs’ll take care of you. Right, MC?”
“Sure,” said the SEAL team leader.
“We’ll stay,” said Keveh.
“You sure, buddy?”
Keveh nodded.
“Good. All right, Skip and I’ll go check the ship out.”
“What about me, Ferg?” asked Conners.
“You hang back with the bell-bottom boys, Dad. You look tired.”
“Fuck you.”
“Nah, you do. MC, I’ll take two of your guys for backup. That cool?”
“We’ll all go with you.”
“Too many people,” said Ferg. “Dad and I already figured it out. We need you to stay on the perimeter so you can cut off anybody that comes up from that barracks at the north. If we’re quiet, we’re in and out.”
“What if you’re not quiet?” asked MC.
“Then we’re in and out a little faster, and you guys get some action,” said Ferg. “We’ll try for quiet. Worst case we go out on the water side.”
“What about yourself?” said Conners. “You’re not tired?”
“I never get tired.”
“You on amphetamines?” asked Rankin.
“I’m high on life, Skippy.”
“I just saved your ass,” said Rankin.
“And I’m glad you did.”
“Show a little respect.”
“I respect you, Skip. I just don’t want to sleep with you.”
“I don’t get you, Ferguson. I don’t get you at all.”
“The day you get me, Rankin,” said Ferg, “is the day I hang it up.” He smiled at him. “But thanks for saving my ass anyway.”
12
They cut the fence and went in, skirting around a set of floodlights to reach the side of one of the warehouse buildings. Ferg’s sensor was clean, and both buildings were empty.
The ship was a little better guarded. Two sentries walked a line that swung across the rail access; they had decent lighting and a clear field of vision beyond a pair of shacks and assorted machinery sheds about fifty feet from the hull. The lights strung around the yard cast a pale yellow haze over everything, but was strong enough that they didn’t need their NODs.
“Good place for a crossbow,” said Ferg, sizing it up.
“Yeah, well, I don’t have one,” said Rankin.
“They don’t even talk to each other when they pass,” said Ferg.
“Maybe they don’t like each other.”
The men wore berets and couldn’t see each other until they were about ten feet apart. In fact, they hardly glanced toward each other. Rankin and Ferguson agreed that if one were eliminated, they could sneak up behind the other and attack as he walked toward the intersection of their rounds.
“You think we have enough time to take one, grab his uniform, then meet his partner in the middle?” Ferg asked.
Rankin studied them, using a small pair of folding binoculars — personal equipment, like the Uzi he favored. “Not the whole uniform. But you’d just need the shirt maybe. Have to be the guy on the left.”
‘Why?
“Other guy’s too short. Shirt’ll never fit.” Rankin watched them walk. He guessed that they would be tired and more than a little bored; guard duty sucked no matter where you did it. “When he gets to that rope at the far end there, see by the ship? I could climb up on that scaffold and jump.”
“He’d see you.”
“Not if I come off the top of the scaffold.”
“That’s twenty feet,” said Ferg.
“Yeah.” Rankin said it like it was a dare.
