With the fader still in place on the security camera at Blessed Peak, Ferguson and Guns didn’t have to make another night jump—which was fine with Guns, since he hated parachuting during the day, let alone at night. They hiked into the nature preserve around four in the afternoon, getting their bearings before the sun set. They hid and waited until dark, when they hiked up the trail near the mountain that backed into the waste site, then headed in the direction of the fence. Between the sliver of moon and the clear night sky, there was enough light to see without using their night-vision gear, though every so often Ferguson stopped and put his on while he scouted to make sure no one was lurking nearby.
It took roughly two hours for them to reach the clearing in front of the fence. Ferguson led Guns through the pine trees to a rock outcropping that stood almost directly across from the video camera.
“You got clips?” Ferguson asked.
Guns nodded. The clips were large clothespins that were used to hold down the barbed wire at the top of the fence. He also had a Teflon “towel” tied around his shoulder to throw on top of the wire and keep it from snagging them as they went over. Because of the camera angle, they could leave the gear in place until they came back.
Ferguson took the remote from his backpack and sent the signal to the camera to move to the right. It didn’t budge.
Ferguson cursed and tried again. Still nothing.
“What’s going on?” Guns asked.
“Not sure. Let’s see if the fader’s working.”
The screen turned white, then grayed. Ferguson let it come back to full.
“I don’t know why the camera’s not moving,” he told Guns, “but the fader is.”
“You sure?”
“Only one way to find out.”
“All right.”
“If I yell retreat, retreat. OK?”
“Sure.”
“Hey, I thought marines never retreated,” said Ferguson, hitting the fader button and jumping to his feet.
Laughing, Guns scrambled to the fence, leaping about halfway up and climbing hand over hand to the top in about two seconds flat. He clamped down the wires, untied his towel, and twirled himself over and down to the ground.
Ferguson, several steps ahead, ran straight to the camera. Dropping down behind it, he saw the problem: One of his clips had fallen off the wire. He fixed it, made sure it worked, then went with Guns in the direction of the plant.
They had more than a mile and a half to go when Ferguson noticed a glow he hadn’t seen the other night.
“What’s up?” asked Guns.
“Looks like there’s a used-car lot down there, doesn’t it?”
Guns peered through the trees.
“What do you mean?”
“Place wasn’t lit up like this the other night. There are spotlights down there.”
“They going to see us coming?”
“I don’t know.”
Ferguson started walking again. About a half mile from the low-level waste area, he emerged from the ravine he and Rankin had used the other night, circling above and around the cavelike entrance. The rise in terrain gave them a better view of the area, though the brush and rocks were fairly low and they had to stay close to the ground to avoid casting shadows.
A dozen security guards stood near the reception building, warming themselves around large burn barrels. Another four or five stood around a barrel near the tracks, about a hundred yards from the low-level waste site but within full view of it. The train cars had been moved.
“This is new,” Ferguson told Guns.
“You think they saw something with the video camera?”
“No. They’d’ve sent somebody up to fix it. Or shoot us.”
“I mean when we went over.”
Ferguson studied the compound. It was possible that there had been an alert, but surely the response would have been more emphatic. This looked more generic, like something you might do if you heard bank robbers were over at the saloon having a drink.
Or if word had leaked out of the Seoul office that something was up.
A pickup truck swung around the compound. It was the same truck that had been used for patrols the other night, only this time there were men in the back. The pickup stopped in front of the low-level waste area, and the men got out, took a look around, then hopped back in.
Ferguson and Guns lay on the cold ground for another hour and a half, timing the patrols. There were seven during that time, almost nonstop. The men varied their patrol route as well.
“Something tipped them off,” Ferguson told Guns. “There’s no way we’re getting where we want to go without being seen.”
“What do we do?”
“Follow me.”
“We leaving?”
“Not yet.”
Ferguson retreated about a hundred yards up the hill, then began circling toward the far side of the entrance to the underground waste depository. He had to move slowly, trying not to kick too much dirt or rocks downhill. And every time the pickup truck came in the direction, he and Guns had to flatten themselves to make absolutely sure they weren’t seen.
Nearly two hours passed before they had reached the other side. Ferguson stripped off his pack and took out his small shovel and baggies.
“Chill for me here, Guns.”
“Hey, don’t get lost, man.”
“You’re getting a sense of humor. That’s dangerous in a marine.”
Ferguson got down on all fours and crawled out in the dirt toward the entrance to the low-level waste area. After roughly fifty yards, he reached the edge of a macadam parking area that sat off the loop road used by the pickup patrol. He was just about to get up and run across it when the security patrol swung in his direction.
Ferguson flattened his body in the dirt, nudging his face against the pebbles. His nose and mouth filled with the fine, claylike dust as he waited for the truck to pass.
Guns, standing in the shadows, watched helplessly as the truck veered in Ferguson’s direction. He had a smoke grenade in his hand, but what good was that? He reached for his pistol, even though Ferguson had told him they weren’t supposed to shoot anyone.
Ferguson heard the engine, then the staccato rhythm of the Koreans’ voices. The wheels crunched the gravel, spraying it to the sides. The truck jerked to the left, then sped up. They’d just missed seeing him.
Ferguson waited a full minute, then scrambled across the lot and the road, throwing himself down in the dirt. Two shovelfuls later, he had the bag filled.
“I thought they were going to spot you,” said Guns when he got back. “They were like, ten feet away.”
“Eleven at least,” Ferg told him. “Let’s get the hell out of Dodge.”