Chapter 20

Denver

After the small war at the campground, after the ghosts had killed all four terrorists and destroyed the remaining missile and scattered pig parts everywhere, they climbed down the cliff to the tangled wreckage of the Sky Horse, 200 feet below.

All four were crying as they lifted Gallant out of the pilot’s seat. His blood was splattered everywhere, his glasses shattered against the steering column. The rest of the copter was a total loss. All of the cell phones, all of Bates’s gadgets, their food, their water, their extra ammo—all of it gone. The only thing they found that was salvageable, strangely enough, was Finch’s Revolutionary War flag. It was seared and singed but otherwise unharmed. The team had two of the three big fifties with them, as well as their personal weapons and ammo, but only because this was the armament they’d jumped into the campsite with. It was painful for Fox and Puglisi to relight the fire that had flared up around the copter only to go out following the crash. But they couldn’t leave any evidence behind. So burn it they did.

About a half-mile from the bottom of the cliff there was a wide drainage culvert, dug years ago to handle the spring runoff from the Rocky Mountains. This was where the team headed first Rows of trees and shrubbery lined both sides of the man-made waterway, which was all but dry now. The flora gave them cover from the state police helicopters that quickly appeared overhead.

Once in the culvert, Puglisi went on ahead; there was a housing development a mile south of the crash site. It was the only place they could think to hide, at least until night fell. By the time Puglisi returned, local law enforcement and the FBI were swarming all over the remains of the chopper, or what was left of it anyway. It was a miracle the team wasn’t spotted in the ditch, just a few hundred feet away. Puglisi reported that he’d found a shed in the backyard of a house in the development very close to a bend in the culvert. No one seemed to be at home in this house at the moment. The trees were thick on both sides of the ditch all the way down, giving them cover they would need. The team quickly agreed they should try to make for the tiny garage.

Ryder carried Gallant the entire way. He refused to let anyone help him. He had his reasons for this. It should have been him in the copter at the time the missile hit it, not Gallant—this Ryder told the others over and over. He’d been “on the ground” for the last hit before the campground, that being the attack on the terrorists’ boat off the water from Milwaukee, so it should have been his turn behind the controls.

But Gallant had never really stuck to the one-two schedule, so when it was time to jump off for the campground attack, as in the past, he told Ryder to go. And Ryder went, but only because he actually liked skewering the mooks. He liked shooting them to pieces and stuffing their mouths with bacon. He liked them to see his face, to feel his pain, before he sent them off to hell. But now this was the result. Someone should have been lugging him at that moment, Ryder knew. That’s why he insisted on carrying Gallant on his own.

They reached the housing development Puglisi had scoped out with no problems. The law enforcement people, most of them still visible up on the cliff, seemed intent on searching the high areas in and around the campground. The ghosts had to lay low a couple times during this scramble as the state police helicopters roared over. But, luckily for the ghosts, no one spotted them moving on the ground below.

Climbing up the embankment at the bend in the culvert, Fox and Bates carefully cut an opening in the wooden fence at the back of the yard in question. They all managed to slip through this hole and gain entry to the shed, again without being spotted. Bates carefully replaced the wood taken from the fence, making it look as if nothing had been disturbed. Only when they were all inside the shed, among the lawn mowers and the snow shovels and the rakes, did they breathe easy, if just for a moment.

All except Ryder, that is. He laid Gallant down as gently as possible, then collapsed to the floor. Bates gave him some water. Fox lit a cigarette for him. Ryder’s combat suit was drenched in blood not his own—it had all flowed out of Gallant. And Ryder’s face was grimy, too, and his hands were cut and bruised; his shoulders were at the point of dislocation.

But he had done for Gallant what Ozzi had done for Hunn. He had carried his brother warrior away from the danger.

The only difference: Gallant was dead.

 

Jack Rucker arrived home from the second shift at the Denver Flats munitions plant to find the door on his backyard shed unlocked and slightly ajar.

He didn’t give it a second thought. Parking his car in the garage next to the shed, he was almost too exhausted to think. It had been a long day at work. He was nearly 70 years old. He’d served as a security guard for the plant for almost 40 years. His shifts seemed to get harder to take every day.

He entered his small two-story house by the side door, nearly being mauled by one of his wife’s cats eagerly waiting to be let out. Rucker walked quietly into his kitchen. It was past eleven o’clock and his wife had gone to bed long ago. She’d left him a dinner of meat loaf and French fries in the microwave. A note hanging from it instructed him to simply push the big red button.

He sat down at the kitchen table and started his coffeepot. The plant had been incredibly busy tonight. Bombs—especially aerial bombs—were a hot commodity these days, and that’s what they did at Denver Flats. They made bombs. Rucker had been on the front gate since two that afternoon. Between the parade of government cars going in and trucks carrying bombs going out, it had been nonstop for nine hours.

He clicked on the kitchen’s under-the-shelf TV, anticipating some Leno to go along with his meat loaf. But Leno wasn’t on. Instead the local news station was in the middle of a Special Report.

It took Rucker a few moments to understand what was happening on the screen, this because when the picture first blinked on, it was showing a replay of the events of 9/11, specifically the second hijacked plane going into the second of the Twin Towers. For a moment, crazily, Rucker thought it had happened again.

But then he realized the station was actually in the middle of a news wrap-up, waiting to go live at the bottom of the hour. They broke for a commercial. That’s when Rucker heard two sirens outside. They seemed to be coming from opposite directions; indeed, through his back door window he could see one police car approaching from one end of his quiet suburban street, with another roaring past it in the opposite direction.

Dumb cops, he thought.

He turned back to the TV. They were still in commercial break, and this was the only channel the crappy little kitchen set picked up. What was going on? Denver Flats was a national defense plant; the workers were not allowed to carry or listen to radios or watch TV while working. In effect, he’d been sealed off from the outside world for nearly half the day.

Now something seemed to have happened right here in his little community.

He fought the temptation to wake his wife and waited instead for the news to come back on. When it did, at first the news anchors missed their cue and were caught whispering to each other. Finally they snapped to. A graphic popped up in back of them. It showed an airliner going down in flames but also had a huge question mark superimposed on it.

They began speaking … .

Rucker sat there openmouthed, his meat loaf getting cold, as he heard for the first time of the events that had taken place up at Whispering Falls campground, not two miles north of him. The missile launch. The dead terrorists. The crashed helicopter. The government’s admission—finally—that a kind of rogue antiterrorist group was roaming the country. Various FBI spokesmen were interviewed, urging citizens to be on the lookout for this rogue team, as if they were somehow just as great a threat (if not more so) as the terrorists, who, it was not mentioned in more than passing, might have tried to shoot down as many as five airliners in the past week.

The local news reporter came back on and said, “When asked why it seemed this rogue unit knew more about the terrorists’ intentions than the FBI itself, a Bureau spokesman responded simply, ‘No Comment … .’”

Back to the anchor: “And earlier today, the Governor’s office authorized a request from Washington that the Colorado National Guard join in the search.”

At that moment, on cue, Rucker heard a rumbling noise outside. He returned to the side window to see a column of military trucks heading in his direction. The image startled him. His quiet street, lit only by the bare street lamps, in what was supposed to be the dead of night—and now three big troop trucks followed by two Humvees, were piercing the darkness. It was the National Guard, looking for the rogue squad.

He returned to the kitchen and picked at his semiwarm meat loaf. But he wasn’t hungry anymore. These events disturbed him. He still had memories of life during World War II and Korea, and certainly Vietnam and the first Gulf War. But things had changed so much since then. Terrorists running wild in the country. Rogue hit squads doing the job that the government should be doing. Where was it all going to end?

He wasn’t sure why, but at that moment he looked out his back window. The shed door, unlocked and opened a bit when he first came home, was now shut tight. That was strange … .

He poured himself a cup of coffee, then went out the side door and into his backyard. Over the wooden stockade fence and across his neighbors’ lawn he could see the National Guard trucks driving along the next street over. They had large searchlights turned on now and were directing these bright beams into people’s backyards, into their cars, even splashing them all over the homes themselves. Again, this image of the military at night startled him. This just didn’t seem like the America he knew.

He walked to the rear of his property—and was surprised again. The shed door was slightly ajar once more. The hinges? he thought. Were they getting too old? He usually locked the shed when not using it, if just to keep the raccoons out. And there was no way his wife ever came out here to open it up.

In any case, he was intent on closing his shed door now. A gust of wind might yank the damn thing off, and it would be expensive to replace. One step away from the dark opening, though, he found his feet frozen to the ground. What was wrong? He tried to take another step but couldn’t. Helpless, he stared into the shed—and was startled to see a pair of eyes staring back out at him.

It was due to a premonition that he did not step into the shed, and it was a good thing, too. Because the next thing he saw was the barrel of a very large gun pointing right at his chest with a bayonet attached to it by nothing more than a dozen or so large rubber bands.

Just then, he heard the National Guard trucks turn the corner next street over. They were heading back in his direction. Suddenly all the backyards on his block were filled with the harsh searchlights. Rucker thought he was dreaming. This didn’t seem real.

He looked deep into the eyes of the person holding the rifle on him and realized now there was more than one person in his shed. And more than one gun pointing out at him. He was still immobile; he was barely breathing. But his mind was clear and in that moment he knew that these people were the rogue team the government was looking for.

Rucker had served in the armed forces during the mid-50s. He voted Republican and considered himself a loyal American. But at that moment, he did something that surprised even him.

Just a half-second before the National Guard truck’s searchlight swept through his backyard, he closed the shed door tight, shielding the people inside.

 

June Rucker woke up to the sound of someone whispering in her ear.

When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was a great wash of light pouring in her bedroom window.

“It’s OK,” she heard the voice whisper again. In the weird shadows cast by the light she saw her husband bending over her. “It will be all right,” he was saying to her. “It’s OK … .”

She looked up at him. She’d never seen him look like this before.

“What is it?” she asked. “Is the house on fire?”

He almost laughed. “No, my dear,” he replied. “Something has happened. Were you watching the TV at all tonight?”

“Yes—the news. About the terrorists. And these helicopter people or something … .”

“Put your robe on and come down to the kitchen then,” he told her. “There’s something you’ve got to see.”

Thirty seconds later, June was standing in her kitchen. Four very strange people were there, staring back at her.

They were dressed like soldiers who’d lost their way home. They were bearded, grungy, dirty. One was covered with blood.

June Rucker didn’t need any explanation but knew exactly who these people were.

“The people from the helicopter? The ones the government is looking for?”

They all nodded. Jack was standing right next to her. They looked like Ma and Pa Kettle together. He nodded, too.

At that moment, the searchlight swept through their yard again. The fugitives all flinched.

“The whole world is looking for them,” Jack said to her, this as June noticed all the weapons the men were carrying.

“I don’t think you’ve exactly captured them, dear,” she deadpanned.

“I haven’t,” he replied. “Nor do I want to.”

He took a deep breath.

“I think we should help them,” he said.

June stood there for a long moment; it seemed like a part of her life was flashing before her eyes.

Then she said, “I think we should help them, too.”

 

They dug Gallant’s grave in shifts.

Fox and Puglisi went out first to carve a hole at the edge of the property, next to the shed, ducking down whenever the searchlights went over. Then Ryder and Bates, Gallant’s close colleagues since the beginnings of the team, carried him out and put him in the ground, covering him over and replacing the dug-up strips of grass to hide the spot. There were no prayers. No last words. The constant threat of searchlights prevented any of that.

June Rucker was a retired visiting nurse. She patched their wounds and made them all take some Tylenol. Jack Rucker made them a hot meal. Eggs, ham, and pancakes galore. They took turns using the shower and June taught them how to use her washing machine. While all this was going on, the police and National Guard continued sweeping through the neighborhood but only with their searchlights and not yet door-to-door. The team kept their eyes on the Rucker’s living room TV, too, switching between CNN, Fox, and the local all-night news. It was nonstop reportage, but they wound up hearing the same headline over and over again: a terrorist attempt to shoot down a 747 had been foiled, four terrorists had been killed, and authorities were searching the local area for “others connected with the incident”

But each report left the team with more questions than answers, especially about what might be happening back in D.C. after all this. There was no way they could call anyone back there, though. Even if they had a way to reach their East Coast colleagues, they had no idea what the security situation might be. They would have been crazy to try to make contact, even with a clean cell phone. There would be no way to know who might be listening in.

Whatever the case, the ghosts had to get out of the area, and quick. Not just to escape but to still somehow find their way to West Texas to catch the first bus in the act. They couldn’t give up on that now. But how to do it? The bus thing was happening in less than 24 hours and it was more than 600 miles away. The old couple had been almost too good to them, and in return the team had told them everything, including the pending situation with the first bus. But how were they ever going to get there from here? It wasn’t like they could steal a car. Or take some hostages. Or shoot their way out.

But as it turned out, June Rucker had the solution. She and her husband would hide them in their car and drive them out. They would help them get back into the mountains and eventually on to Texas as well.

And she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

 

But why?

Why were the Ruckers being so helpful?

Psychically bruised and battered though he was, Ryder just had to know. He’d just finished his shower and climbed back into his now-bloodless combat suit when he approached Jack Rucker, sitting at his CB radio setup in the couple’s basement.

Ryder excused the interruption and, first off, thanked him for everything he and his wife had done for them. The food. The bandages. Letting them put their comrade to rest, if just temporarily. And most important, for not turning them in.

The ghosts had received help throughout their crusade across America to stop the terrorists. But each time, that help, whether it be food or fuel, had been set up, in advance, by their invisible godfather, Bobby Murphy. Could Murphy’s web of friends and influence reach down so far that it would include these two typical home folk?

Ryder asked Rucker right out: “Do you know a guy named Murphy? An intelligence agent type, back in D.C.?”

He was almost surprised when Rucker shook his head no.

Ryder had only one other question to ask then. “Why?” he said. “Why are you helping us?”

Rucker hesitated a long moment, then told Ryder to wait in the basement. He disappeared upstairs for a few minutes. When he returned, June was with him; she was carrying a photograph of a Marine in dress uniform. The frame was ringed with black drapery. She held the photo as if it were the crown jewels.

It was their son. Their only child.

“He was killed, more than twenty years ago,” she said. “In Lebanon. When those heartless Muslim bastards blew up the Marine barracks in Beirut.”

She started crying; her husband comforted her. The rest of the team had gathered around the couple now. They were absolutely silent.

“The government was wrong back then,” she said softly. “Not the soldiers. And not the people supporting the soldiers. But the people in charge. The people in Washington. They had promised to look after my boy, to protect him while he was protecting someone else. But they didn’t. And he died for it.”

She dabbed her eyes again.

“The problem is, nothing has changed,” she went on. “The people still support our country. They support our troops. They support the flag and what it stands for. It’s those egomaniacs in Washington that are the problem—the politicians, the lobbyists, and the rest. And for years we’ve always asked, Why doesn’t someone do something about it?”

She ran her finger along the edge of the photo’s frame, then looked up at the ghosts.

“Well, maybe now, someone is,” she said.

Jack Rucker hugged his wife; she played with a tissue she’d taken from her pocket.

“That’s why,” Jack told Ryder. “That’s why we’ll get you out of here safely, so you can do what you have to do.”

 

It was a tight fit for the four ghosts, arrayed as they were, in the back of Jack Rucker’s 1996 Ford station wagon. Using the sanctity of their attached garage, the four were squeezed into the back bay, a blanket covering them and their weapons, with six plastic bags filled with authentic trash laid on top of the blanket. Then the Ruckers poured about a hundred refundable plastic soda bottles on top of the trash.

June climbed behind the wheel, two plates of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies in hand. Jack had with him an oxygen tank, long unused, that June had left over from her nursing job. It had a thin clear plastic breathing tube, which he put into his nose. A plastic HANDICAPPED DRIVER sign, again from June’s visiting nurse days, was hanging from the rearview mirror brace; it completed the scene.

They left at 6:00 A.M. The quiet neighborhood was not quiet any longer. Their development was crawling with state police search teams now indeed going house-to-house, asking for permission to search. It was hard to determine what would happen if a home owner refused.

They drove slowly through the streets, passing by more state police vans, SWAT trucks and cruisers, as well as local sheriff’s cars. No one paid them any undue attention. But when they turned the corner leading out of the development, they found a small traffic jam of cars and trucks waiting there. The National Guard had set up a roadblock. Soldiers in full battle gear were giving each car the once-over before allowing it to leave.

They waited for five long minutes, until they were next in line. When it was June’s turn to move up, she intentionally gunned the engine, with her left foot planted firmly on the brake. Much screeching and engine smoke resulted; the six Guardsmen manning the checkpoint scattered. June finally brought the old car to a halt some ten feet beyond the stop line. Everyone within took a deep breath.

The Guardsmen recovered and approached the car cautiously. June had her window rolled down as a young corporal walked up beside her.

“You poor boys,” she said in her best grandmotherly voice. “How long have you been out here?”

“All night,” the corporal said, his men now looking in the windows at the load of trash in the back.

June passed him out a plate full of cookies.

“Take these,” she told the soldier. “And don’t forget to share them. And if you’re still out here at lunchtime, I’ll bring you something then, too.”

The Guardsmen all broke up. “We’ll be here!” one cried happily.

“Anyone bother you last night, ma’am?” the corporal asked her politely, peeking under the foil at the cookies. “I have to ask.”

At that moment, on cue, Jack Rucker began rasping.

“Just you and your damn spotlights!” he bellowed at the corporal.

The soldiers were startled and caught off-guard.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the corporal said, trying to apologize. “We’re just looking for some bad guys and—”

“I don’t give a damn who you’re looking for!” Rucker complained again, at full volume. “What is this? Nazi Germany? Iraq? I’m handicapped and I’m a veteran … . I don’t have to take this—”

“Can we go now?” June asked the corporal. “He’s always cranky on trash days.”

“Sure,” the soldier replied, starting to wave her on. “And thanks for the cookies … .”

June started to pull away. But suddenly another Guardsman yelled, “Stop!” He was looking in through the passenger window.

“Wait!” this soldier yelled again. “Don’t move … .”

June froze at the wheel. The soldier indicated that Jack Rucker should roll down his window. He made a big display of it, but finally the window came down.

The Guardsman reached in—and turned up the flow nozzle on the oxygen tank resting on Rucker’s lap.

“My dad uses one of these things,” the soldier said, noting that the on-off dial had now turned green. “And you’ve got to turn it on, partner, if you want to be able to breathe.”

The Ruckers glanced at each other and shrugged.

“Can we go now?” June asked the young soldier again. A line had formed in back of them.

The corporal hit the roof of the car twice with his hand.

“You bet,” he said. “And thanks again for the sweets.”

 

They traveled about an hour down Interstate 55.

The Ruckers had switched places, and now Jack was driving. June was ensconced in the passenger seat working the car’s ancient CB radio. While the ghosts were sure their pursuers were monitoring all cell-phone activity, they weren’t so sure about CB radio. This was an almost forgotten form of communications these days—but truckers still used them, as did many citizens, especially the housebound, especially out west. Jack and June knew literally hundreds of citizens inhabiting this CB planet.

June must have spoken with a dozen of these people during the 60-mile drive south, this while the team members stayed hidden in the back. They couldn’t hear what she was saying exactly, but the tone of the conversations was definitely all business.

They finally reached a truck stop outside the town of Black Hills, Exit 199 off the highway. It was the kind of place that had three gas pumps and a diner that could seat about a hundred. It was called Sky High Diner. Its sign was vintage 1950s.

It was not yet 7:00 A.M. The early-morning rush of truckers had come and gone. The place was empty and would be like that until noon, when it would begin to fill up again. The sky was perfectly clear and really did look high. There was nothing out here but bare mountains and flatlands and highway. It was starting to heat up, the beginning of what would be a very warm day.

Jack Rucker pulled up not to the front of the diner but around the back. Here a huge semi was parked, diesel engine popping, a small cloud of smoke rising from its stacks. June got out and had a quick conversation with the driver. She gave him some cookies, then returned to the car, opening the back of the old Ford.

“Time to move, boys,” she said. “And quick. This guy is our friend. He’ll bring you to the next place you have to go.”

The team rolled out, Jack and the truck driver watching either end of the diner for interlopers. The ghosts climbed up into the back of the semi’s very long trailer. It was empty except for a few wooden pallets. The team took the trash bags and empty bottles with them; the Ruckers couldn’t very well go home with them. June went into the diner and bought two six-packs of Coke. She handed them up to Ryder. The driver climbed back into the cab and gunned his engine. He was anxious to go.

Ryder looked down at the two oldsters. What do you say to two strangers who just saved your tail at great risk to themselves?

“No thanks needed,” June told him. “Just a favor.”

She reached into her pocket and came out with a medal. It was a U.S. Marine service decoration; Ryder didn’t have to be told who it belonged to.

“Take this, please,” she asked him. “And when you get to the last mile on your journey … when it might seem like you can’t go another stop, take it out. Hold it. Think of my son. His memory. What he died for. I hope it will give you the strength to carry on.”

Ryder was speechless. The rest of the team were as well. A helicopter flew over. The truck started to pull away. Ryder had just enough time to snatch the medal from her hand before they were moving very quickly. The two oldsters stood in the empty parking lot, suddenly alone, watching the truck go.

June waved and blew them a kiss.

Jack stood, back straight, shoulders proudly square, and gave them a long, crisp salute.

 

 

Thus began an 14-hour, 400-mile odyssey.

They rode the first semi out of the Black Hills and along the approaches to the Rockies, entering by Interstate 25. The constant grind of gears as the truck climbed the initial peaks was broken only by the thrill of the huge vehicle tearing down the other side of the mountain. The smell of diesel exhaust and burning brakes filled the compartment where the ghosts lay.

Their first stop was at a small town called Pebble Creek. Another diner, this one barely a log cabin, with gas pumps. Another truck was waiting here. This one was hauling wallboard. The team had no conversation with the driver—none was needed. They tried to squeeze themselves in among the huge slabs of hardened plaster, being careful to hide their weapons first. This truck carried them for two more hours, again a cycle of long, smelly climbs, followed by the hair-raising joy of barreling down the other side of a mile-long slope.

They changed trucks again midafternoon. This switch was made at another tiny truck stop, this one deep in the forest of the lower Rockies. The transfer was swift, but the team spotted not just one but two helicopters flying over the area. A reason for concern? They were not sure. Copters flew over the Rockies, didn’t they?

The third truck was an enclosed lumber hauler. It smelled of thick pine and sap, but because this was expensive wood, it was all wrapped in packing blankets, with plenty of extras for the team to sack out on.

This trip lasted another three hours. The fourth and last transfer took place in a highway rest area in the dead of night. This was another covered semi—no blankets, no expensive wood products. Just an empty trailer. It was the most uncomfortable leg of the journey but was also the shortest. Barely two hours later, the truck stopped and the team piled out.

They were in deep forest with nothing but trees and the roadway. The driver pointed to a path leading into the thick woods.

“That’s the way, boys,” he said.

Fox looked at the path and then back at the driver.

“You want us to go where?” he asked, as puzzled as the rest of them.

“You guys need an airplane right?” the trucker said.

“We do,” Fox replied for them.

“Then I was told to tell you just walk that way,” he said, again pointing to a very narrow path. “And just keep going straight.”

With that, he revved up his engine and with no wave, no salute, rumbled away, leaving them alone, in the middle of nowhere.

 

The first bus carrying the Al Qaeda missile teams would be traveling along Route 27 in West Texas early on the morning of July 3.

It was to stop at a rest area along the highway on the premise of letting its passengers use the bathrooms. At this rest area would be a sleeper agent who’d been living in Texas for seven years, waiting for this day to be activated. He would join the others on the bus, which would then pass through Amarillo, then on to DallasFort Worth, where another missile team would try for another shot at another airliner.

Taken from the cutout Ramosa’s laptop, this information was written down in scribbles by Bates during the hasty phone conversation with Ozzi just hours before the campground attack. It was scribbled because it was taken for granted at the time that the two ghost teams would be talking again soon. A very bad assumption, as it turned out.

Why this information was lying inside Ramosa’s laptop, virtually unprotected, they had no idea. The laptop contained nothing further on any other sleeper teams. It was the only evidence they’d picked up so far that actually gave the movements of the first bus, where it would be, at a specific time, in a specific place.

Certainly it was a valuable piece of intelligence. But it couldn’t do the west side ghosts much good now. They were hopelessly lost, in the middle of the Rocky Mountains, or at least thought they were. They’d been walking through the woods in the dark for two hours now, not knowing what else to do. The path they’d been told to take was narrow and winding and the forest overhead so thick, it barely let the moonlight through. They were moving in a line, with Bates out front, followed by Fox and Puglisi, and Ryder bringing up the rear. The terrain was so screwy, and with very little light sometimes it was hard for them to tell if they were going uphill or down—a perfect analogy for their lives in the past week.

They must have looked strange, Ryder thought more than once during this trek to nowhere. The four men, heavily armed and armored, right down to their battle helmets and suits, walking through the dense woods. It was almost as if they were in another place, in another time. The Ia Drang Valley? The Huegten Forest?

It just didn’t seem like they were still in America.

These and other strange thoughts had been bouncing around Ryder’s skull for the past two hours, maybe as a defense mechanism against dwelling on more important things he should have been thinking about, no matter how painful they might be.

Gallant … Ryder couldn’t count the number of times since the aftermath of the campground attack that when some kind of question came up, he’d turned to ask Gallant what he thought they should do, only to find his comrade was no longer there. The guy had been their rock. Mr. Dependable. A quiet presence that spoke volumes about his professionalism.

It should have been me …

That was the song going around Ryder’s head now, a dreadful tune that wasn’t going anywhere else soon …

It should have been me …

Another worry, though, the one he tried to keep out of his head, was almost as troubling: Dropped off in the middle of nowhere? Walking through a black forest for two precious hours? With not the faintest idea where they might be or why?

Had they been betrayed? By the Ruckers? By the truckers? By the people on CB planet? It would be a simple deceit if they had. Send them into the woods so deep, that even in summer it got so cold at night, they might not ever come out again. Or just plain get lost. These were the demons nipping at Ryder’s heels, when suddenly, he heard Bates cry out …

“What the hell is this?”

The four of them stopped in their tracks. They were walking in a line with Bates out front. Never had Ryder heard the computer whiz sound so excited. A strange smell came to him just about the same time he heard Bates yell. Burnt wood. Suddenly, it was very thick in the forest air.

Bates had come upon a clearing in the woods. It was what lay beyond that had caught his attention. It was no longer a forest. It was the remains of a forest. The landscape for the next mile or so looked more like the surface of the moon than some place in the Rockies.

“What happened here?” Puglisi asked. “A bomb hit this place?”

“Worse,” Fox said. “A forest fire … .”

They kept walking, though. Strangely, the path itself was still visible. But they were more careful, more aware, than just stumbling along, still not knowing where it would bring them.

It took them a half hour or so, but they finally found themselves back in the woods. Ryder at least was happy to be under trees again; walking through the devastated forest was one of the creepiest things he’d ever done. But they were in for another surprise, because up ahead was another clearing, and this one had not been caused by the scorched earth of a forest fire.

This was a lake.

And floating on that lake, glimmering in the dark, was an airplane.

A firefighting airplane.

Draped in American flags.