“We’ll be there as quickly as we can,” said Van Buren calmly.
25
Thomas found it at the bottom of a small slip of blue paper that held a summary of a translated message dating back nearly a year.
One of Bin Saqr’s companies had rented a hangar at Manila airport. They had also bought fuel there.
He secured his room and hurried down to tell Corrigan what he had discovered. His adrenaline was flowing and he felt light-headed as he waited to be cleared through the security and in to see Corrigan. But as he walked down the hall Debra intercepted him.
“I got it, I got it, I got it,” he told her, waving the small blue paper madly.
“Calm down, Thomas. Calm down,” she told him. “He’s really busy right now. The operation is under way.”
“I have to tell him,” said Thomas, and he pushed her aside, overcome by his conviction that he was right. He marched into the situation room.
As soon as he saw the analyst, Corrigan threw his hands up, trying to flag him to stop and be quiet. He was in the middle of a four-way conversation with Colonel Van Buren, Corrine Alston, and Conners. The Team had been discovered at the Chechen base.
“Manila,” Thomas hissed. “They’re going to Manila, and then LA.”
Corrine must have heard him, for she asked what was going on.
“We’re working up new intelligence,” said Corrigan, trying to sort everything out. His brain felt like it had taken some of the rounds exploding near Conners.
“We’ll be at the target inside forty minutes,” said Van Buren. “We’ll get them out.”
“Good,” said Corrine.
Thomas stood on the balls of his feet, bobbing slightly. Debra stood behind him, shaking her head.
“All right. What do we have?” Corrigan asked.
Thomas smoothed out the paper and explained. Corrigan’s brain was suffering from the effects of far too much coffee and far too little sleep; he couldn’t quite follow the logic.
“You were supposed to look for an airplane,” said Corrigan.
“Yes, but here — they have a hangar in Manila. They’ve purchased jet fuel,” said Thomas.
“What do they need fuel for if they don’t have an airplane?” said Corrigan.
Corrigan put up his hand. “Okay,” he told Thomas. “See if you can flesh this out with more information. And Thomas, you can use the phone, right? You can call me, rather than running down here.”
“Is there one in my office?” asked Thomas, honestly not remembering seeing it.
26
As soon as the truck blew, Ferguson turned and began running down the ditch toward Conners. As he reached him, a flare ignited above; the night went crimson, then bluish white, then quickly black.
“Cheap Russian flares,” he said, spotting Conners coming toward him.
“Stay down, Ferg. There’s another truck heading toward the top of the runway.”
“You call in Van Buren?”
Before Conners could answer, one of the guerrillas in the back of the truck began firing a machine gun. It took a few moments for the Americans to realize they weren’t being targeted.
“The assault group’s on their way. Forty minutes, give or take.”
The machine gun stopped. The truck raced by, not fifty yards away, speeding toward the southern end of the runway.
“Can we get the missile van from here?” asked Ferguson.
“If I knew where it was, I could tell you,” said Conners.
“In that general direction,” said Ferg.
“You sound more and more like an officer every day, Ferg.”
“It ought to be near the gate,” said Ferguson, starting in that direction.
Conners took the launcher and bumped behind him, trying to keep up. The Chechens, meanwhile, seemed to have convinced themselves that their enemy was at the southern side of the base and were concentrating there. Every so often, someone fired an automatic weapon at the shadows.
Ferg and Conners were just about at the end of the ditch when the Chechens lofted another flare. They hunkered down, but several rounds of automatic fire showed they’d been spotted.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” said Ferguson, jumping up and running. Conners fired about half his clip, then hustled after Ferguson, who crossed the paved area and threw himself into the weeds and rocks beyond the start of the runway. Something green lit up the area to the right, and the ground to the right of them churned into dust and rocks.
Conners slapped the grenade launcher down and fired into the burbling stream of tracers. He got off two rounds before the maelstrom swung lower. Conners found himself in a sea of dust and debris. He couldn’t breathe. Coughing, he fell on his back, struggling to get away.
A large rock splintered from one of the shells hit him in the leg, smacking him so hard he flew back from the launcher. Pelted by fresh dirt, he had started to get up when a piece of metal hit his chest. He screamed with the pain, even as it pushed him over into the ground. Then something began dragging him away.
Ferguson had grabbed him and started to retreat back toward the ditch, only to find his path swirling with the 2 3 mm slugs spit out by the gun. He changed direction, pulling Conners back near the fence where they’d come in as the ZSU-23 churned up the field near the runway.
“I couldn’t nail it,” said Conners.
“Yeah,” said Ferguson. “F-l 17s’ll have to get it on their own. You all right?”
“Beat to shit.”
“Bleeding?”
“That or I pissed in my pants.”
Automatic fire stoked up again. Headlights circled the field, and a searchlight, apparently on a vehicle, appeared at the far end of the base, near the entrance.
“Think you can make it over the fence where we came in?” Ferguson asked. “I think it’s probably quieter for us there.”
“My leg’s fucked up,” said Conners.
“How fucked up?” Ferguson took out his phone, pushed out the antenna arm, and hit power. But the phone didn’t come on.
“I can walk.” Conners pushed it under him and rocked a bit. The pain increased, but they couldn’t stay there, and he thought he might be able to hobble away.
Ferguson rapped the phone against the ground, trying to get it to work.
“I can tell you’re Irish,” said Conners.
“Give me your phone.”
Conners reached for it, but it was gone; he’d lost it somewhere in the confusion.
They ducked as lights swung toward them. Ferguson shoved the phone back into his pocket, then belatedly slipped a fresh clip into his gun.
“Patrol,” warned Conners. “They’re going to the ditch.”
