Ferguson picked his way slowly across the rocks, crossing the hill behind the entrance to the underground low-level waste area. The whole night had been pretty much a waste—the soil samples were the lowest priority on the wish list the specialists had given him—but he had to contain his bile until they were out.
Ferguson stopped as he came to a deep crevice. He didn’t remember the fissure, which was about three feet wide and extended at least twenty. Unsure where he had gone off course, he stopped and took off his night-vision glasses to get his bearings.
“What’s wrong, Ferg?” asked Guns, tagging along behind him.
“You remember this hole here?”
“No.”
Ferguson reached into his pocket and took out his satellite photos. They’d gone farther up the hill on the way back than they had on the way in. It wasn’t a big difference, but if they kept going they’d end up at a cliff.
“We need to angle down this way,” he told Guns, pointing.
Within a few yards, the soil became extremely loose. Afraid that they were going to send enough down to alert the patrols, they backtracked again and looked for sturdier ground. They went over a steep stretch, finding handholds in the thin vegetation, finally arriving at a ledge about thirty feet from the ground.
Once again, Ferguson consulted the photos. They hadn’t made enough of a correction and were a good five hundred yards farther east of the spot where he thought they would come out. But that wasn’t necessarily bad. The ledge was out of sight from the compound, and though the ledge was narrow—maybe eight inches—following it would save them considerable time. Ferguson eased out slowly, keeping himself flat against the wall. After what seemed like forever, he reached a large boulder. He hugged it, spun his legs around, and landed on the side of the hill.
“Downhill from here,” he whispered to Guns, who was just starting across.
The marine grunted. He kept fighting the temptation to look down, narrowing his view to the rocks in front of his face. As far as he was concerned, the problem wasn’t that the path was narrow; the problem was that there were no handholds. He had to keep his weight pitched in toward the wall, which was difficult not only because he was carrying a backpack but because the ledge was angled the other way. He found himself sliding across on his tiptoes the way he imagined a ballet dancer would move.
Guns’s foot hit against the side of a rock he hadn’t seen. Surprised, he jerked his weight forward, then twisted to see what he’d hit. The shift in momentum threw him off balance, and the next thing he knew he was falling straight down.
Ferguson, barely two yards away, dove forward to grab his companion.
He caught the top of his shirt. Instead of stopping Guns, Ferguson was yanked downward with him, somersaulting around before losing his grip. He slid a good twenty feet before managing to snare himself on a rock.
Guns stopped about eight feet below him. He’d smacked the side of his head on a stone and gotten a mouthful of dirt. Much worse, he’d banged and twisted his knee as he fell.
The pain held off for a second. Guns felt as if he’d been plunged into a cold lake, totally numb. Then a hatchet seemed to chop the side of his kneecap. The pain reverberated up and down his leg, and he felt incredibly hot, sweat pouring from his forehead.
“Ferg.”
“Hey, Guns, I’m here,” said Ferguson. Gingerly, he made his way down to the marine, retrieving his night glasses as he went.
“Hurt my leg. I can’t tell if it’s my knee or what,” said Guns. “The right one.”
“No compound fracture,” said Ferguson, gently running his fingers above and below it.
Guns sucked air and bit his lip to keep from screaming. “This hurts like a mo-fo.”
“If we slide down a little way, we can get to the base of the ravine we used to come in. See it?”
“Can’t. Can’t see anything, Ferg.”
Guns’s glasses were attached to his face, held there by elastic at the back of his head; Ferguson wasn’t sure whether they malfunctioned or if Guns was losing consciousness. He pushed the glasses down so they fell around Guns’s neck, then wrapped his arm around his.
“All right, let’s go down together,” Ferg told him. “I know it’s gonna hurt, but we gotta get out.”
“It’s all right.”
Ferguson tucked his leg under Guns’s to cushion it. “On our butts. Ready?”
“Go.”
Guns ground his teeth together to keep from crying out. Ferguson kept his arm around his, but Guns’s leg jerked to the side and smacked against some of the rocks as they went down.
“All right, let’s get the hell out of here,” said Ferguson, standing a little awkwardly. He checked their gear, making sure they hadn’t lost anything.
“Leave me, Ferg,” croaked Guns.
“Yeah, right. Like that might work.” Ferguson laughed, barely able to keep his voice down. “Hang on, Gimpy.”
He dipped down, maneuvering his shoulders to get leverage, then lifted Guns up and onto his back.
“You’re going to have to go on a diet if you plan on doing this again,” he grunted, starting back in the direction of the fence.
Guns insisted he could pull himself over the fence. Though doubtful, Ferguson preferred climbing to cutting a hole, and agreed they would try it. To his surprise, Guns was able to pull himself up hand over hand, all the way to the top.
“Nothin’ compared to boot camp,” grunted Guns.
Guns had trouble getting over the Teflon blanket covering the razor wire, scraping his good leg on the sharp knife point next to it. He straddled the fence top, hyperventilating.
“All right, that was the hard part,” Ferguson told him.
“Yeah. Downhill from here.”
With Ferguson’s help, Guns managed to get reasonably close to the ground before letting go, hoping to land on his good foot. But he collapsed immediately, falling backward in a swell of pain.
“Wow,” he said, looking up at the dark sky. “Imagine what being shot feels like.”
“Piece of cake compared to this,” said Ferguson, standing over him.
He meant it as a joke, but Guns took it seriously. “Gotta be ten times worse.”
Ferguson got the blanket and the clips, then pulled Guns onto his back and began hiking toward the exit. It was slow going; by the time they made it outside and to the car a halfmile away, dawn had broken.
“I’m sorry, Ferg,” muttered Guns as they drove back to Daejeon. “I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just rest for a while. We’ll get you cleaned up, then take you to a doctor and get that knee fixed.”
“I’m really sorry, man. I’m really, really sorry. I screwed up.”
“You didn’t screw up. Somebody must have tipped them off. And I have a pretty good idea who it was.”