“Iron Bird One, this is Van. Rankin, you hear me?”
“Iron Bird One. Rankin.”
“Cinderella has gone over the line.”
“Roger that,” said Rankin. The message meant that the plane with Thera on it had crossed out of North Korean air space. She was safe. “We are zero-five from Potato Field.”
“Be advised there is a flight of MiGs coming from the south on a routine patrol. Stand by for exact position and vectors.”
Rankin turned to the pilot and tapped his headset, making sure he’d heard.
The helicopter bucked as they passed over the coastline. They hit a squall of rain head-on. Water shot against the bubble canopy as if bucket after bucket were being thrown against them.
“Rain’s bitchin’,” said the pilot, struggling to hold the small chopper on course. “Sixty seconds.”
Rankin tensed. The rain made their infrared sensors almost useless. If anyone had seen or heard them the night before, a good hunk of the North Korean army might be waiting for them.
Buffeted by yet another gust, the helicopter tipped hard to the right. The pilot overcorrected, pitching the craft so low the skid bumped against the ground. The next thing Rankin knew they were down, stopped, in one piece and without crashing.
He jumped into the downpour, running toward the wall near the road as he had the day before.
“See anything?” he barked into the squad radio as he reached the stones.
A chorus of no’s jammed the circuit.
Sergeant Barren cursed somewhere behind him.
Rankin leapt over the wall, landing in a ditch at the side of the road. He sunk in water up to his thigh. Climbing out, he pulled his binoculars from his tac vest and looked down the road. The glasses fogged; even when he cleared them, all he could see was rain and blackness.
It was two minutes to midnight.