like going back in, but it was better than the alternative.
Guided by the GPS signal in the phone, the MC-130 zoomed toward shore. Roughly three miles from the mooring area — and well within range to he detected by the corvette — it fired off a shower of flares. This was followed by a hard bank as the corvette began peppering the air with flak. One of the bullets from the gun struck the plane and its fuel tank exploded, sending it spiraling into the water.
Or so it appeared from the water. The MC-130 had actually jettisoned a large disposable fuel tank that had been rigged to explode in flames; a pair of small parachutes kept it airborne just long enough to heighten the effect. Ferguson thought he could hear a whoop of elation from the Zodiacs over the roar of their engines. Three of the four that had pulled up near Birk’s old yacht immediately began racing for the supposed wreckage. He slipped over the side and began stroking south, angling toward shore.
The cramp in his neck disappeared, but his arms remained tired; even his legs felt drained. He pushed on, his goal the rocky beach. But within a few minutes he realized he wasn’t making much progress at all. He thought he felt the temperature of the water abruptly change. Remembering the riptide that had taken Guns, he started to get serious about cutting across the current. When that didn’t work, he rested for a minute. This wasn’t a mistake because he really had no other choice, but the tide took him back to the north in the direction of the corvette’s searchlights.
A minute wasn’t much of a rest, but it was all he was getting. Ferguson threw himself into it, pushing directly toward the beach. Head down, he slammed his hand against the shallow rocks sooner than he thought possible. He wrapped his arm around the stone and held on, the water tugging at him, still trying to pull him out to sea. After awhile he pulled up onto the rocks, wincing because of his bare feet. He made it to a relatively level portion of land and sat down, leaning against a boulder and thinking he would rest a few minutes before heading south along the shore and returning to the hotel. But his arms were too heavy to move, and his legs felt pasted to the ground.
Ferguson remained there, a sodden mass, for a half hour, watching the headlights that occasionally swept along the road above. He’d climbed up next to a boat landing. Studying the lights he eventually realized that if he’d gone just six or seven feet farther to the south, he could have walked up a paved path from the sea. Crawled, more likely.
He was just thinking that he was in an exposed, easily seen position when a set of lights turned down the ramp. Too tired to run, he slipped to the side behind the rock, trying to hide as two men got out and came down to the water, only a few feet from him.
The men had seen him on the ground and came over, shouting at him that they were policemen and he was in a great deal of trouble. One kicked him in the ribs, asking in Arabic if he was drunk or drowned. The other grabbed him and started to pull him up; as he did, the sat phone fell from one of Ferg’s pockets. The man dropped Ferguson in a heap and picked up the phone. The phone had a thumbprint reader as well as a password number for security, so there was no chance of it working. The man fiddled with it for a few minutes, then tossed it to his companion, who threw it out into the sea.
When the first man returned and tried to pick up the drunkard by the shirt, he suddenly found himself flying in a somersault toward the rocks. Ferguson jumped up and aimed a kick at the other man, bare foot connecting with the Iraqi’s knee. The man grabbed Ferguson as he fell and managed to pull him down with him. Ferguson kicked at his chest but the man held on, his fingers like metal clamps. The fatigue that had immobilized Ferguson just a few minutes ago vanished; he rolled and smashed the man’s head with his fist, pounding him into unconsciousness with three blows to the temple.
In the meantime, the first man drew his pistol and began firing wildly, the bullets sailing well over Ferguson’s head. Panicked, he quickly emptied the magazine. As the gun clicked empty, Ferguson threw himself forward and plowed headfirst into the Syrian, knocking the wind from him. Two sharp blows to his head put him out for good.
Ferguson grabbed the gun and looked at the man’s belt for more ammunition. All he could find were a pair of handcuffs. He cuffed the man’s arms behind his back and did the same to his companion. Then he sized up the men and borrowed the clothes of the larger. His pants were too wide but more than an inch short; the shoes, at least, fit snugly.
Smaller than an American vehicle and without the bubblegum light at the top, the police car nonetheless came fully equipped with everything Ferguson wanted at the moment: four wheels, a full tank of gas, and a key to save him the trouble of jumping it.
Ferguson turned the wrong way out of the road leading to the ramp and found himself driving north rather than south on the highway. The easiest way to correct this was with a U-turn in the middle of the road. He misjudged the distance and went off the other side, the tire slipping down into a ditch and taking part of the exhaust with it. The pipe clattered along loudly. Ferguson was no mechanic, but he found a suitable solution by veering off the side again, scraping the pipe sufficiently to leave it and the muffler behind.
Except for its effect on Ferguson’s ears, the noise wasn’t a problem on the highway; given that the hotel was only a mile or so away, he figured he could tough it out. But as he neared the hotel he saw a pair of military vehicles at the front entrance and decided to keep going.
The sat phone would be sending a GPS signal out because it had been tampered with. If he didn’t call in soon, Van Buren would initiate the bailout plan. Unfortunately, Syria wasn’t very big on roadside telephone booths. Ferguson drove all the way to Latakia without spotting a place to park. Finally, he parked on a side street near the train station and got out, figuring there would be a phone inside. He had to put his hands in his pockets to keep the borrowed pants from ending up around his ankles, but there was a phone at the corner, and he called the number that signified he was OK.
Feeling a bit like a homeless man living in a borrowed set of pants, Ferguson walked south through the city, looking for a place where he might hide out and sleep. After several blocks he thought of the hotel they had escaped from and the bikes they had left in the alley nearby. As he turned down one block, he caught a glimpse of the moon. The sight of it between the buildings and his fatigue played on his mind, and within a block he was softly humming “The Rising of the Moon.”
Death to every foe and traitor
Or would strike the marching tune —
And we’ll arm our boys for freedom
‘Tis the risin’ of the moon…
The bicycles were still there. He took one and pedaled south, riding for nearly an hour until his legs felt so tired he thought they might fall off. He found a spot of brush near the water on the other side of the railroad tracks to hide.
Ferg lay on his back, staring at the stars, the words to “The Rising of the Moon” still echoing in his head.
14
The guards who challenged Rankin, Guns, and James on the road into the airport at Tal Ashtah New had American Ml6s and sidearms, but everything else about them was Iraqi. Rankin stared at their ill-fitting pants and their untucked shirts as their sergeant checked the ID cards. In Rankin’s opinion the Iraqi army was good at one thing and one thing only: running away. All the real fighters joined the resistance groups.
The guard gave the cards a cursory glance, then handed them back. Rankin gave him the name of the air freight company they were looking for, seeking directions; the Iraqi simply waved at them, not wanting to be bothered.
“There can’t be many buildings here,” said James, leaning forward from the backseat between Rankin and Guns. “And what’s here’ll be falling down.”
Contrary to James’s prediction, the first building they saw was in good shape, and the second was brand new.
