guard took a step backward, then slipped and fell down the embankment. Ferguson threw his rifle to the side and started after the man. By the time he reached the road he’d lost his own balance, sliding on his side and butt and landing a few yards behind the enemy guard, who was struggling to his feet.
The man began to run. Ferguson gave chase. After a few steps, he realized with surprise that he wasn’t gaining — that in fact, the guerrilla was faster than him. He kept running, in disbelief that he had encountered someone faster than him. Ferguson had won both the hundred- and four-hundred-meter track sectional championships when he was a senior in prep school, and would probably have finished first in the states had he not had the flu the day of the meet — or so he legitimately believed, having finished second and third. He kept sprinting, expecting that the man would soon tire, but it was Ferguson who finally had to slow his pace, and by the time the man left the trail to plunge down another spot in the rugged mountain, Ferguson was so far behind him that he lost him in the wooded copse below. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the trees from the trail, repeating the word “fuck” over and over, still not believing that he had lost the race. Finally he retreated back up the road, walking, stretching his legs which were fairly stiff and depleted after the exertion.
Conners — who had no legacy as a track star to uphold — trussed the guerrilla whom Ferguson had knocked cold, made sure he didn’t have any weapons, then climbed back up to get Daruyev.
“Let’s go,” Conners told him, wary that he might be planning a trick. They went back to the lookout spot; Ferguson returned shaking his head.
“Fucker outran me,” said Ferguson.
“Shit,” said Conners.
“Fucker outran me. Can you fucking believe that?”
“You shot him?” asked Conners, even though he hadn’t heard a shot.
“Fucker outran me.”
“Ferg — he got away?”
“That’s what I’m saying.” Ferguson slapped his hands on his hips, cursing again. He looked down at the lookout post. There was no radio, nothing in fact beyond the rifles that the two men had had. He went over to the trussed guard, who was curled over on his stomach and still out of it. Ferguson searched him slowly; the man had nothing but lint in his pockets.
“Probably means they change guards pretty regularly,” said Conners.
“Yeah. That and they can count on hearing gunshots.”
Neither fact was a real plus.
“Best bet is to try to get inside before our friend reaches the next post,” said Ferg. “Doable?”
Conners shook his head.
“Well let’s take a shot anyway,” said Ferg. They were running behind, and now were at least an hour and a half from the start of the slope, which would take several more hours to descend. It was unlikely they’d make it to the base by sunset, let alone when the satellite would make it easier to approach.
“Going to be a bigger problem for the assault team,” said Conners. “We’re going to have to tell them.”
“I don’t disagree,” said Ferg. “But let’s make sure this is the place anyway. They won’t jump if they don’t hear from us.”
“That supposed to be encouraging?”
Ferg laughed and went over to Daruyev. He tapped him on the shoulder.
“How’s it going?” Ferguson asked him.
“If a guard ran from his post,” said Daruyev, “he may not turn himself in. It would be a sign of cowardice. He’d be shot.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not counting on that,” said Ferg.
“He may try to ambush you.”
“That’d be easier to deal with,” said Ferguson, glancing at Conners. He took the Chechen’s elbow and set him in motion, gently nudging him toward the incline and the trail. Conners took the lead, his eyes squinting and his body tightening almost into a squat. He disliked point, not because he was afraid of being shot, and not because he was up front, where any screwup would be obvious, but because it always left his neck buzzing. The muscles along his spinal column inevitably spasmed and pulled against the nerves somehow. There was no way to relax or stretch them, at least in his opinion, without completely dropping his guard.
About ten minutes later, they came to a shallow ridge that ran down across the mountain like an indentation on cardboard to guide a fold. The rift didn’t show up too well on the sat photo, but it looked like it would cut off about a third of the hike down. It would also keep them from the view of the first lookout, though not the second. The only problem was a decent drop to the main slope about a hundred feet above the junkyard.
Ferguson studied it, trying to puzzle out if they’d be able to get down from the point where the ridge ended. According to the three-dimensional rendering, the dropoff was twenty feet nearly straight down.
“What do you think, Ferg?” asked Conners.
If they took the shortcut and couldn’t figure out a way down, they’d have to come all the way back up. The mission would be scrubbed for at least a day — assuming the terrorists hadn’t found them by then.
On the other hand, if they didn’t chance it, the man he’d lost would sound the alarm anyway.
“Let’s do it,” said Ferguson. “Let me take point.”
19
Rankin took a sip of the bottled water, swishing it through his teeth. The train had been parked on a siding about two miles out of town, waiting for reasons that weren’t obvious, at least to him. The guard had been increased and now included two helicopters, which he could hear hovering a short distance away. Kyrgyzstan had supplied two truckloads of soldiers, and the Russians had a helicopter working along the track, checking for sabotage, another new development.
Rankin took another swig of the water, trying to stay awake. The waste receiving station lay about ten miles to the south; his operation was just about done. Obviously, the missing boxcar had contained the smuggled material, but he had to hang in until the bitter end.
Then he could sleep.
He ran his fingers across his scalp, digging in with his fingernails. Scratching was supposed to increase the blood flow, make your brain work better.
He could always take a pill if he had to. Ferg called them “pseudobenz” — though they worked like pep pills, they were chemically different and allegedly nonaddictive. Rankin didn’t trust that, and had never actually taken one, not even to familiarize himself with the sensation. As far as he knew, Ferguson hadn’t either, nor did he push the pills very much — one of the Team leader’s few redeeming characteristics.
Actually, Ferguson had a few positive characteristics, but Rankin didn’t like him anyway.
Rankin reached for the door handle, deciding to stretch his legs. He was just getting out of the car as the sat phone beeped.
“Rankin.”
“Alston,” said Corrine on the other end. “What’s it look like there?”
Rankin gave her an update.
“I think we should pull the plug on the surveillance,” she said. “We have some action going down.”
“OK,” he said.
“Corrigan will get you transportation,” she said.
The line went dead before he could say anything else.
20
