27
Ferguson’s lungs felt as if they were collapsing in his chest, compressed by the hard strokes of his legs as he ran across the field. The truck was moving, going off on the road to his right. There were two men near the jet, working on it, illuminated by work lights that made the aircraft seem like a bird of prey hiding in the night. A fat cylinder sat beneath its belly.
Ferguson kept his eyes fixed on the cylinder, which looked more like a fuel tank than the bomb he guessed it must be.
He had the Russian PSM pistol in his left hand; his right couldn’t close around the trigger.
He had to get close with that gun, real close. Right next to them.
Shoot them, grab their weapons, screw up the plane somehow.
Step by step.
Go, he told himself. Go, go, go,
Ferguson was less than thirty yards from the aircraft when he tripped the first time. He felt himself falling and managed to roll onto his left shoulder, curling around and getting back to his feet. The men at the aircraft, consumed by their work, didn’t notice.
The second time he tripped he was twenty yards away. This time he hit his elbow and lost his pistol.
He couldn’t find it at first. The men at the aircraft began shouting.
Ferguson spotted the gun and scooped it up. He was on both knees. He steadied his left hand with his right as best he could and fired.
He missed high, the bullet not even close enough to scare the men pointing at him.
Nothing to do now but go, he told himself, jumping to his feet.
General Namgung was still in the tunnel from the flight room when he heard the screams.
“An intruder!” he yelled, repeating what the others had said. “Quickly!”
He drew his pistol and began racing toward the airstrip.
The AK-47 sounded like a tin toy to Ferguson, the patter of its bullets the sound a child’s mechanical toy made when winding down. He saw the tracers spinning wildly to his left, the soldier’s aim thrown off by the shadows from the work lights.
The aircraft’s canopy was open and a ladder propped against its side. Two men were racing to the ladder.
Ferguson brought the pistol up and fired at the figures. His bullets missed both.
I’m not that bad a shot, damn it, he thought to himself. He aimed at the lights, got both, and continued running forward.
Pilot Lee Ryung was not sure what was happening, but he knew that he had to do his duty, and his duty now was to board the aircraft. He put his hands on the orange rail of the ladder, pushing away from the crewman trying to help him.
A bullet crashed through the metal hull of the jet a few inches from his head. A soldier ran from the hangar ramp on the other side of the aircraft. The pilot froze for a second as the man began to fire, mistakenly thinking the soldier was shooting at him.
He was so close now there was no way he could miss. Ferguson fired two shots into the face of the man at the base of the ladder and watched him peel off to the side. He leapt past him, raising his gun at the figure descending into the cockpit. He squared his aim and fired.
Nothing happened. The PSM was out of bullets.
General Namgung saw the soldier pull up his rifle as the pilot climbed up the aircraft boarding ladder.
“Don’t hit Lee Ryung!” he yelled. “Don’t shoot the pilot!”
The soldier stopped. Namgung yelled to the pilot. “Go, go!”
Then he realized the man on the ladder wasn’t dressed in flight gear and wasn’t in fact the pilot at all.
Lee Ryung slapped the controls, desperate to start the MiG and move it from danger. Then he realized it was too late for that; there was someone on the ladder. He grabbed at his holster, pulling out his service revolver.
Ferguson screamed as he climbed the ladder, pain, anger, and frustration boiling together. He lost his balance, and as he started to slip he threw the last bit of momentum he controlled toward the figure in the cockpit, grabbing at the pilot’s helmet.
Something exploded on his left.
A pistol, a big pistol.
Ferguson grabbed for it with his left hand, grappling for the barrel.
It felt like a hot pipe, a hot iron pipe on fire. He pulled it toward the other man, pushing it into his chest as it exploded again.
28
“They’ve lost contact with Ferguson,” Van Buren told Rankin over the radio.
Before Rankin could reply, the helo pilot pointed at the front of the windscreen.
“Airstrip dead ahead. There’s a plane at the far end.”
A thin line of tracers arced toward them from the right.
“We’re going in!” shouted Rankin. He meant to tell the rest of the team, but in his excitement left the radio channel on the control frequency with Van. “It’s hot! LZ is hot!”
“Godspeed,” said the colonel.
29
The man on the ladder dove into the cockpit.
Namgung cursed himself for being a fool. He took out his pistol and fired.
It had been so long since he used the weapon that the nose shot up and the bullet flew far from its mark. He fired again, with the same result.
Cursing, he ran toward the ladder, shouting for help.
Ferguson pulled the gun from the pilot’s hand, bashing the side of the man’s head with it, once, twice, a third time before realizing the man was already dead. The bullet the pilot had fired had gone up through his neck and into his brain.
There were more shouts, screams, gunfire. Ferguson was at the center of a roiling tempest, but all he could see was a small circle around him.
Someone was climbing the ladder. Ferguson leaned over and fired the revolver, felt it jerk up in his hand, the bullet sailing far from its intended target.
