“If I talk to him,” she told Parnelles, “I’ll tell him this was your idea.”
“You can tell him what you want. If you do mention me, say that I told you I owe him an apology.”
19
Thera handed Rostislawitch the folded surgical pants and shirt when the navy C-2A Greyhound transport aircraft was fifteen minutes from the airport.
“You can put them on over your clothes if they fit,” she told him. “We have to be ready when we land.”
The scientist nodded.
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” she told him. “We’ll fly you to the States. You’ll be safe.”
Ferguson had told Rostislawitch the same thing. But he knew that Atha was more likely to fall for the plan if he was there. He was the bait in the trap — the peanut butter his mother used to put on the spring so they could catch the mouse eating their larder.
Thera helped him pull the green pants over his shoes. An ambulance would meet them at the airport and they would pretend to transport a sick patient into the city. Just in case the Iranian had spies at the airport, they planned to actually go to the hospital, where a car would meet them to take them to the hotel — not the Alfonse, where the message had directed Atha to meet him, but the Americano, two blocks away. The Marines would go straight there, and be waiting when they arrived.
Thera pulled a blue pair of hospital clothes over her jeans and blouse, then tied her hair at the back with a rubber band. The navy had loaned her a pair of handguns; she wore one in a holster beneath her top, and would keep the other in the stretcher with their “patient,” one of the Greyhound’s crewmen.
The pilot announced that they were about to begin their final approach. Thera strapped herself in. Rostislawitch sat next to her.
“I hope you don’t mind,” the scientist told her. “But I don’t like airplanes when they land.”
“They have to land sometime.”
“True,” he said. Then he closed his eyes and gripped her hand.
It was cold and wet, and made Thera worry even more that he might not be able to stand the stress of meeting with Atha.
The sound of the plane grew as they pulled down onto the runway. They bounced slightly; Rostislawitch tightened his grip. Then the ride smoothed out and the brakes caught.
“We have a long way to taxi,” warned the pilot from the front.
Thera took out her phone to call Corrigan and tell him they were on the ground in Libya. She could tell something was wrong from his voice. For a moment, she thought it was Ferg. He’d gone to the airport to take a commercial flight, wanting to check out Tripoli on his own.
At least that was what he told her. Ferguson was never good at sharing mission details, and hadn’t entirely explained why he was going alone. Thera suspected it had something to do with T Rex.
“Rankin and Guns crashed not too far from the Libya-Sudan border,” Corrigan told her. “They’re OK. Van’s setting up a mission to get them. They found a camp nearby — we think it’s Atha’s base. They’re going to raid it at the same time.”
“They’re all right?”
“Yeah, they’re OK.”
“Where’s Ferg?”
“His flight left Naples on time. He should get in about an hour or so after you get to the hotel.”
“All right.”
“Stay in touch, right?”
“You sound like my dad, Corrigan,” she told him, hanging up.
20
Technically, one wasn’t supposed to use a satellite phone while on board an airliner. But that was exactly the sort of rule Ferguson believed in observing in the breach. He slipped his right earbud in, then angled himself against the side of the plane. His neighbor in the seat next to Ferguson could only hear his side of the conversation; so long as he was careful about what he said, there’d be no problem.
“Ferg,” he said, pressing the send button in his pocket.
“This is Van. You get the information from Corrigan?”
“Yeah. You see where they went down?”
“I have GPS coordinates,” said Colonel Van Buren. “Thing is, Ferg, they’re too close to the camp to get them without someone there noticing. We have to hit the camp at the same time.”
“When’s that?”
“We’re looking at nine your time in Tripoli,” said Van Buren. “We may be able to push it up. We’re waiting to hear on a tanker. It’s a little more than four hours from here to where the camp is. We’ll be ready to take off shortly. The problem is really on the other side, picking us up.”
It wasn’t clear from satellite photos whether the landing strip would support the weight of a C-130. Staging helicopters in for a pickup would take considerably longer, because of not only their speed but also the need to refuel. Van Buren was working on a plan that would have C-130s and helicopters as backups, so he could switch if necessary. But that involved bringing the helos in from Egypt. They were still trying to finish the arrangements.
“When are you meeting Atha?” Van Buren asked.
“It’s his call. I won’t grab him until I know you’re close. Just in case he has some way of warning them.”
“Thanks, Ferg.”
Of course, that would work both ways — if Ferguson waited too long, the camp might warn Atha. But it was a risk he’d have to take.
Ferguson tapped his phone to kill the transmission. He turned to the woman in the seat next to him. She smiled.
“You’re using a phone, right?” she asked.
“That or I’m talking to myself.”
“I do both on planes all the time,” she told him.
Even so, Ferguson waited for his seatmate to go to the bathroom before calling Guns and Rankin. Guns answered.
“Ferg?”
“What are you doing getting shot down without me?”
“Sorry, Ferg.” Guns explained the situation; they were about ten miles from the camp, on the other side of a ridge that separated it from the desert.
“Can you guys wait until about ten or so to get picked up?” Ferguson asked. “Be better for this side of the operation.”
“No sweat.”
“Be square with me, Marine.” Ferguson made his voice very serious. “Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“All right. They’ll call you when they’re close. If things go to shit, holler. Otherwise stay under the rocks until they land.”
The phone rang a few seconds later. Ferguson slid it out of his pocket far enough to see who it was.
“Hey, Madame Butterfly,” Ferg told Corrine Alston. “What’s going on?”
