The plane’s the important thing, he told himself.
He put the pistol’s nose flat against the biggest screen and fired, then put the rest of the bullets through the panel on the right.
Ducking as the bullet flew past, Namgung lost his balance and slipped down the ladder. He struggled to get his boots back on the rungs, then clambered upward. As he did, the intruder flew over the side of the cockpit.
Namgung reached the cockpit, where the pilot sat upright in his seat.
“Go!” he commanded him. “Start the aircraft and take off! Go!”
Then he saw the blood covering the front of his vest, and realized all was lost.
Ferguson dropped from the MiG’s forward cowling, landing on his legs as he planned but immediately pitching forward, rolling in a summersault underneath the plane. He saw two boots in front of him, and grabbed at them, pushing a surprised North Korean soldier to the ground.
The man’s assault rifle skittered away. Ferguson dove at it, pulling it to his chest as the Korean recovered and grappled him, a fisherman reeling in an immense catch. But this catch slipped its hook: Ferguson rolled and mashed his mangled right hand onto the trigger of the AK-47.
The gun jerked wildly as the bullets spewed from its nose. Only two or three of the dozen bullets Ferguson fired found their target, but they laced across the North Korean’s head, killing him instantly.
There was a second of stillness, of no sound, as if a vacuum had been created beneath Ferguson’s body. He felt nothing, not cold or pain, certainly not triumph, nor even despair.
And then the tumult resumed: Helicopter blades whirled in the distance. Guns fired. Someone screamed.
It was Ferguson. He pushed himself out of the dead man’s grasp and ran back the way he had come.
Despair overwhelmed General Namgung. His future — Korea’s future — sat stone upright in his hands, empty.
“He’s escaping!” yelled one of the soldiers.
“Helicopters!” yelled another.
Namgung started down the ladder, moving deliberately. He felt nothing, not anger nor revenge.
The soldier he had stopped from shooting earlier lay on the tarmac a few feet away. Two other soldiers were crouched nearby, firing into the field.
Namgung went to them. He could tell they were firing blind, without a target. «
“Bring up more lights so you can see him,” he said calmly. He checked his own pistol, making sure it was ready to fire.
Ferguson threw himself down about thirty yards from the strip. He crawled forward, deeper into the darkness. All he had to do was crawl away, just crawl. Rankin and the rest of Van’s guys were here now, above, right here, on their way. They’d get the plane and then rescue him.
Or would it be better to die now?
He could stop, stand up, and burn the rest of the magazine, make himself an easy target.
Go out in a blaze of glory.
There was a certain romance in that, a fittingness. People would say he went out the way he wanted to. But the truth was, he didn’t want to go out like that. Not now, at least, not here.
There were many things to do, people to see, to talk to.
His dad. Always his dad.
He hunkered down as a fresh wave of bullets flew by, pushing deeper into the darkness.
He’s there!” yelled one of the soldiers, pointing at the shadow about forty yards away.
General Namgung grabbed the rifle from the nearby soldier. He would take care of the man himself.
30
Rankin saw the figures running from the airstrip toward the field.
They must be after Ferguson.
“There,” he shouted at the pilot. “I want to go there.”
“I thought you wanted the plane.”
“There’s no one in the cockpit. We get my guy first.”
The pilot started to answer, but Rankin didn’t hear. He’d already pivoted toward the open door of the helo and put his Uzi on his hip. He steadied the weapon as the aircraft swooped low and began to fire.
31
General Namgung stopped and lowered the nose of his rifle, aiming at the man crawling away.
He showed great courage in attacking us, but now runs like a coward, thought the general.
As he pushed the trigger to fire, he felt the hot wind of hell swirling around him. He glanced up, realizing it was a helicopter.
In the next instant, a half-dozen 9 mm parabellum bullets riddled his neck and chest.
Rankin leapt out of the Little Bird as it touched down, running toward the body to the left of the chopper. At first glance, he thought he’d made a mistake; it looked like a Korean.
At second glance, it looked dead.
Ferguson pitched himself onto his back, trying to bring up the AK-47.
Rankin stepped on the gun. Ferguson was so weak he lost his grip on the weapon. He blinked, then realized who was standing there.
“About fuckin’ time, Skippy,” Ferguson croaked. “You missed all the fun.”
32
Corrigan looked up from the console.
“They’ve got him!” he yelled. “Ferguson is alive! They’ve got him!”
Tears began to stream from Corrine’s eyes.
“Aircraft is under their control,” added Corrigan, almost as an afterthought. “We have the bomb. The Marines are inbound!”
Corrine looked down at the communications panel controlling her headset and pushed the button to connect with Slott.
“You heard that, Dan?”
“Yes.”
“I think you should be the one to tell the president.”
“We should both tell him,” he said. “Corrigan?”
There was a light pop in the headphones.
