his face. As far as he was concerned, the problem wasn’t that the path was narrow; the problem was that there were no handholds. He had to keep his weight pitched in toward the wall, which was difficult not only because he was carrying a backpack but because the ledge was angled the other way. He found himself sliding across on his tiptoes the way he imagined a ballet dancer would move.
Guns’s foot hit against the side of a rock he hadn’t seen. Surprised, he jerked his weight forward, then twisted to see what he’d hit. The shift in momentum threw him off balance, and the next thing he knew he was falling straight down.
Ferguson, barely two yards away, dove forward to grab his companion.
He caught the top of his shirt. Instead of stopping Guns, Ferguson was yanked downward with him, somersaulting around before losing his grip. He slid a good twenty feet before managing to snare himself on a rock.
Guns stopped about eight feet below him. He’d smacked the side of his head on a stone and gotten a mouthful of dirt. Much worse, he’d banged and twisted his knee as he fell.
The pain held off for a second. Guns felt as if he’d been plunged into a cold lake, totally numb. Then a hatchet seemed to chop the side of his kneecap. The pain reverberated up and down his leg, and he felt incredibly hot, sweat pouring from his forehead.
“Ferg.”
“Hey, Guns, I’m here,” said Ferguson. Gingerly, he made his way down to the marine, retrieving his night glasses as he went.
“Hurt my leg. I can’t tell if it’s my knee or what,” said Guns. “The right one.”
“No compound fracture,” said Ferguson, gently running his fingers above and below it.
Guns sucked air and bit his lip to keep from screaming. “This hurts like a mo-fo.”
“If we slide down a little way, we can get to the base of the ravine we used to come in. See it?”
“Can’t. Can’t see anything, Ferg.”
Guns’s glasses were attached to his face, held there by elastic at the back of his head; Ferguson wasn’t sure whether they malfunctioned or if Guns was losing consciousness. He pushed the glasses down so they fell around Guns’s neck, then wrapped his arm around his.
“All right, let’s go down together,” Ferg told him. “I know it’s gonna hurt, but we gotta get out.”
“It’s all right.”
Ferguson tucked his leg under Guns’s to cushion it. “On our butts. Ready?”
“Go.”
Guns ground his teeth together to keep from crying out. Ferguson kept his arm around his, but Guns’s leg jerked to the side and smacked against some of the rocks as they went down.
“All right, let’s get the hell out of here,” said Ferguson, standing a little awkwardly. He checked their gear, making sure they hadn’t lost anything.
“Leave me, Ferg,” croaked Guns.
“Yeah, right. Like that might work.” Ferguson laughed, barely able to keep his voice down. “Hang on, Gimpy.”
He dipped down, maneuvering his shoulders to get leverage, then lifted Guns up and onto his back.
“You’re going to have to go on a diet if you plan on doing this again,” he grunted, starting back in the direction of the fence.
Guns insisted he could pull himself over the fence. Though doubtful, Ferguson preferred climbing to cutting a hole, and agreed they would try it. To his surprise, Guns was able to pull himself up hand over hand, all the way to the top.
“Nothin’ compared to boot camp,” grunted Guns.
Guns had trouble getting over the Teflon blanket covering the razor wire, scraping his good leg on the sharp knife point next to it. He straddled the fence top, hyperventilating.
“All right, that was the hard part,” Ferguson told him.
“Yeah. Downhill from here “
With Ferguson’s help, Guns managed to get reasonably close to the ground before letting go, hoping to land on his good foot. But he collapsed immediately, falling backward in a swell of pain.
“Wow,” he said, looking up at the dark sky. “Imagine what being shot feels like.”
“Piece of cake compared to this,” said Ferguson, standing over him.
He meant it as a joke, but Guns took it seriously. “Gotta be ten times worse.”
Ferguson got the blanket and the clips, then pulled Guns onto his back and began hiking toward the exit. It was slow going; by the time they made it outside and to the car a halfmile away, dawn had broken.
“I’m sorry, Ferg,” muttered Guns as they drove back to Daejeon. “I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just rest for a while. We’ll get you cleaned up, then take you to a doctor and get that knee fixed.”
“I’m really sorry, man. I’m really, really sorry. I screwed up.”
“You didn’t screw up. Somebody must have tipped them off. And I have a pretty good idea who it was.”
12
Thera took out the pack of cigarettes, pulled two out, then pointed one in the direction of the North Korean soldier. The man — he looked more like a teenager, with dark peach fuzz above his lip — blinked his eyes, then looked left and right before taking it. Thera smiled and gave him her matches; he lit up furtively, turning from the wind.
In the six or seven seconds it took him to get the cigarette lit, Thera slipped the last tab into the slot between the metal panels of the reception building.
She was done. It had been easier to plant the devices here than in South Korea.
Her relief lasted about as long as it took her to light her own cigarette; she saw Tak Ch’o approaching from across the complex. The scientist had a big smile on his face, nodding and laughing as he caught her glance.
The young soldier stiffened and started to move away. Ch’o told him something Thera couldn’t understand. Though it was meant to put the young man at ease, the guard barely relaxed.
“You like our cigarettes then?” Ch’o told her in English. He immediately translated into Korean for the soldier.
“Oh, yes,” said Thera. “Very good.”
“And interesting?”
“Very interesting.” Thera stared into his eyes. If there had been any doubt that Ch’o had given her the message, his gaze erased it.
“So, you are Greek?” he asked in English.
“Yes.”
“From where?”
Thera described the town, adding that it was near Athens. Ch’o nodded, then turned to the soldier and told him what she had said. He clamped the young man on the shoulder and turned to her.
“My young friend comes from Hamhun, in the east,” Ch’o told her. “His father is an important and brilliant general.”
Before Thera could respond, the scientist continued, “It’s good to see two young people getting along. Scientists are not blind to matters of the heart.”
The soldier looked on quizzically, clearly not understanding what was going on.
“I–I’m probably too old for him,” said Thera.
“Old? You are so beautiful I couldn’t guess how old you are,” said Ch’o.
He turned to the soldier and told him enough of what he had said that the young man turned beet red. This made the scientist laugh.
