Ferguson knew it was going to hurt when he landed.
He seemed to know that forever, flying forward in the blackness toward pain.
He managed to get his right hand up as he landed. This didn’t deflect the fall so much as it focused the anguish on the asphalt scraping his palm and forearm raw. He rolled over on the ground, the wind knocked out of him, unable even to scream.
There was no telling how long he might have lain there if he hadn’t noticed the faint light of headlights in the distance behind him. He pushed himself to his feet, grabbed the bicycle and dragged it off to the side as the lights rounded the curve behind him and became two distinct cones sweeping the night.
If he’d been in better shape, Ferguson might have leapt onto the back of the fuel truck as it passed, for it lumbered rather than sped. But he was too spent. He had barely enough strength to watch it as it passed.
Thirty yards down the road, the truck’s brake lights lit. It stopped, then began moving in reverse. With a groan, Ferguson grabbed for the pistol he’d tucked into the parka’s pocket, but the truck had only missed a turn. It took a right, the driver grinding the gears as he went up a winding path.
Ferguson got to his knees, then stood, watching the headlights disappear behind the trees. Corrigan had told him the airport was up about a hundred yards from the roadway, up a hill. There weren’t any settlements anywhere nearby.
Was this it already?
He pushed the bicycle into a clump of bushes and started in the direction the truck had taken. Ferguson walked until he came to a chain-link fence topped by barbed wire. His right hand hurt so much that he decided to look for a spot to crawl under rather than use it to pull himself over. Eventually he came to a hole made by a large tree trunk and managed to squeeze underneath.
Threading his way through a clump of young trees, Ferguson found himself at the edge of what he thought at first glance was a farm field. There were lights a few hundred yards away and a small building. It was only when he started walking toward them and dragged his feet across the ground that he was sure he’d found the airstrip.
He backtracked, walking along the perimeter near the fence until he found the road the truck had taken toward the building. As soon as he started down it, however, he caught a glimpse of two shadows moving a short distance away. He stopped, watching as they worked over a third lump. This one barrel-shaped. Fire suddenly erupted from it, and the two men held their hands out to warm themselves.
Can I take them?
I could use one of their uniforms.
Take them.
But if I’m asking the question, then I can’t do it. ’Cause if I doubt myself, that’s a warning.
Find the plane and call it in. That’s most important.
Ferguson slid back in the direction of the fence, circling warily around the sentries. His hand was too mangled and his legs stiff. He couldn’t think quickly, and his body felt as if it were moving through mud.
He walked only another seventy or eighty yards before he had to stop and rest. There was definitely a plane there; he could see it in front of the hangar. The truck was nearby and must be refueling it.
What the hell else do I need to know?
Ferguson pulled out the sat phone.
“Corrigan, you awake?” he asked.
“I’m here, Ferg. Where are you?”
“I found your airstrip. There’s definitely an airplane here.”
“What kind?”
“Some sort of jet.”
“Is it a MiG?”
“Hang on, I’ll go ask them.” Ferguson put the phone down against his leg and shook his head. Then he picked the phone back up. “They say they don’t know.”
“I guess that was a dumb question, huh?”
“No, Jack, it was a ridiculously dumb question. I’m about seventy-five yards from them, maybe farther. I don’t know; my distance judgment’s off. They’re not using any lights. There’s a cube kind of building there, like a bunker. If all of that fits your description, this is the place you’re looking for.”
“Stand by.”
“I am standing.”
A moment later, Slott came on the line.
“Ferg?”
“Hey.”
“We’re sending in a team to take the plane out. Are you OK?”
“I really feel like horseshit to be honest.”
Slott sighed, as if the whole weight of the world had now settled on his shoulders.
Ferguson started to laugh. He had to put his arm against his mouth to keep his voice down.
The truck had started to move.
“Hey, when’s that team getting here?” he asked.
“Twenty minutes. Why?”
“Too late,” he told him, stuffing the phone in his parka as he began to run.