area contaminated by the uranium dust.
Of course, if the guerrillas came down to the main level, anyone going in could be easily cut down. The colonel decided to send a second rover — this one had no nickname, but looked almost identical to AR — inside to survey the area first. As they got ready to go, Peterson suggested they put a flash grenade on the robot to draw attention away if they needed to rescue Kalman or move under fire.
“No way to set it off,” said one of the rover controllers.
“Fuck hell there is,” said the diminutive woman. “Attach it to the front and pull the pin with the claw.”
Even Van Buren laughed at her eloquence.
Five minutes later, the robot ambled inside, not one but two grenades attached to the chassis by a thick band of duct tape. Peterson told them through the headset what she was seeing on the video. Her voice sounded almost seductive.
“You’re clean at the lip of the cave. One man, two on the ledge. There’s Kalman — he’s alive, I can see him moving. He’s on the left side, behind the lip of that wall,” she said.
“Team two ready at the back door?” Van Buren asked.
There was a slight delay while the message was relayed.
“Good to go,” said Peterson.
“Go,” said Van Buren.
9
Rankin, Guns, and Massette unfolded themselves from the seats and walked toward the hatchway as the aircraft stopped rolling near the hangar area. Massette popped the door open, then jumped back — they were a good distance from the ground, with no ramp in sight.
A gray, four-engine DC-8 sat across the tarmac waiting for them, engines idling; the old aircraft had been leased by the American military and been commandeered to take them to Manila.
“Yo! Let’s go!” shouted a short, squat man, who stood on the ground about halfway between the two aircraft. “Let’s go!” he shouted again, his voice somehow loud enough to be heard over the idling engines. He was wearing civilian clothes, but his haircut and demeanor gave him away as military.
“Jump,” Rankin told Guns.
“Fuck,” said Massette, who could feel the pain in his leg already.
Rankin started to push him aside. Guns dropped to the floor and lowered himself, pulling his gear out with him as he hopped — literally, since he lost his balance and nearly toppled over — to the ground. Rankin just stepped off, though when he landed he wished he hadn’t, the sting punching his ankles. Massette finally decided to play it halfway, easing down to his butt and hanging his feet over before plopping to the ground.
“I’m Murphy,” said the man. “Where’s Rankin?”
“Yo,” said Rankin.
“You gotta get to Manila. This is your plane. Your boss has been trying to reach you.”
“Yeah, no shit. So who the hell are you?” said Rankin.
“I just told you.”
“You got to be a SEAL,” said Guns. “And I’m going to guess master chief, right?”
“And you’re a fuckin’ Marine,” sneered Murphy, who said nothing else as he walked back to the DC-8.
“How did they know that?” asked Massette.
“By smell,” said Rankin, pulling out his sat phone to call Corrine.
10
One by one, Van Buren’s team slipped into the cave while the rover moved forward to catch the guerrillas’ attention. The terrorists aimed their weapons at it, but did not fire; the audio feed picked up muffled conversation as the guerrillas discussed what to do about the miniature beast.
“Couple of people behind them,” whispered Peterson.
Van Buren was the next-to-last person inside. The team moved along the wall, crouching behind a low row of machines and broken crates. The point man stopped behind a pair of molded plastic chairs and aimed his M-4 toward the balcony.
“I can get one,” he whispered.
“Just hold,” said Van Buren. “Let the other team move into position.”
He nudged to the side, trying to locate Kalman. He thought he saw something moving in the dim light filtering in from the outside but couldn’t be sure. He resisted the temptation to run across and find him.
The rover stopped just before the wall beneath the guerrillas’ position, then backed slowly and began making a circle, primarily to draw their attention but also to check through an area of crates at the back to see if anyone was there. The second team, meanwhile, had entered from the back door and made its way to the edge of the ramp, using a simple scope device to observe the interior.
The seconds ticked off like the long hours of an interminable schoolday. Van Buren took a slow, controlled breath, vision narrowed to the dim viewer of the night-gear monocle. He fought off distractions — the thought of what he might tell his son about the mission tickled him a moment, then disappeared.
“Ready,” whispered Peterson.
“We go on the bang,” said Van Buren. “Shield your eyes.”
The rover slid to a stop. One of the guerrillas stood and started to get down, climbing over the rail so he could go to it and examine it. The arm on the unit clicked, but nothing happened, the lieutenant having trouble manipulating it correctly.
Just pull the damn thing, Van Buren thought to himself. Then bam — the grenade flashed and exploded, a big Fourth of July firecracker going off at the back of the cave. The point man took out the terrorist on the balcony, while Yeger blasted the one who’d jumped down to examine the rover. A second flash-bang, tossed by the team at the ramp, exploded, followed by a pair of short bursts from MP-5s.
Van Buren ran across the open floor, looking for Kalman. Something hard bounced off his back — a ricochet that caught just the right angle — and he felt a stinging numbness in his arm. But he pushed up to his feet and found his man hunkered behind a row of long crates.
In the forty seconds or so that it took for the others to finish securing the hangar, the numbness in Van Buren’s arm spread to his neck, then up and around his face. His legs stiffened and he felt as if he were being choked. He grabbed Kalman by the arm, pulling him toward the mouth of the cave.
Van Buren reached the mouth of the cave, where men in space suits fell on Kalman, who was already protesting that he was fine. Someone shouted in Van Buren’s ear:
“Colonel, we’re advised that a convoy of Russian armored vehicles is on the highway roughly one hour away.”
“All right,” said Van Buren. His jaw hurt to move. “We’re wrapping up. Prepare the aircraft. Get the demolitions people in — blow the roof down.”
“Make it quick in there,” warned Peterson.
“Go, let’s go,” said Van Buren. “Where are Ferg and Conners?”
“They’re not here,” said Yeger. “We have two prisoners, two dead men.”
“Outside, get everyone outside.” He turned to go back in but someone stopped him — Peterson.
“Your suit,” she said, pointing. “It’s torn.”
“I’m OK.”
“Over here!” she yelled. There was a strict protocol, and not even Van Buren could avoid it. Medics swarmed
