Rankin leapt from the helicopter, rushing with the others as they ran into the open field overlooking the rocky shore. The team spread out: Half ran in the direction of a stone wall that stood near the road, the rest took positions along the cliffside. It was not quite pitch black, but seeing more than ten feet was impossible without his night goggles.
The field was empty, as was the nearby road.
Rankin scanned the area, turning slowly to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Then he took out the handheld global positioner and walked to the exact coordinates Colonel Van Buren had given him.
Nada.
“We making a pickup, or what?” said Sergeant Barren, his voice more a demand than a question.
“We’ll see what happens,” spit back Rankin.
“Fuggit,” muttered Barren, trotting off to check on the men near the road.
Rankin couldn’t necessarily disagree with Barren’s assessment. They were only a few miles from a North Korean army base. Sitting on the ground here for any particular length of time wasn’t all that good an idea, especially since they had to do it again tomorrow night if no one showed up.
But that’s what they were going to do.
Rankin went over toward the cliffside, checking on the men there. He squatted next to each one of the men, not saying anything—what was there to say?—just showing them he was there.
“Oh-twenty,” said Barren finally, coming over and pointing to his watch. “What do you say?”
“Ten more minutes,” said Rankin.
“You briefed fifteen, not thirty.”
“I want to make sure.”
The ten minutes passed more slowly than the first twenty. The wind stiffened. It wasn’t bitter cold—the temperature had climbed to the high thirties, a veritable heat spell—but it added to the discomfort nonetheless.
Finally, Rankin hopped over the wall and trotted to the middle of the road, taking one last look himself.
Nothing.
“Saddle up,” he told the others. “Let’s hit the road.”