IRKTAN, CHECHNYA—FOUR HOURS LATER
Rankin finished setting the charge, waiting beneath the car behind the army headquarters building. He could hear Guns haranguing the guards a few feet away, asking about the clinic—demanding to know in very loud and seemingly drunk Russian why foreigners were allowed to poison people there.
The guards were getting impatient. Rankin heard one of them shove Guns and rolled away from the car. They started kicking the Marine, who’d fallen to the ground as part of his diversion.
It took Rankin all his self-control not to jump up and run to help his companion. Instead, he got up slowly, walking toward the battered Accord, where Conners was waiting with their Chechen informer.
A woman was walking near the road. Rankin looked at her for a moment, worried that she would stop and say something to him. But she hurried on.
The sergeant looked back in time to see one of the men give Guns a kick in the ribs, leaving him in a heap against the wall. He waited for him to make it to the corner and start
across the street. Then Rankin opened the car door and pulled the Chechen informer out.
“In two days,” he said, repeating the Chechen words Guns had told him. “Go to Sister. You’ll be paid.”
The Chechen’s eyes were glued on the hundred-dollar bill in Rankin’s hand.
“Two days. Understand?”
The man nodded.
“Now run.”
The Chechen understood that. He shook his head and put up his hands.
Rankin took the pistol from under his jacket. “Run,” he said. “Run.”
He had to bring the gun up almost to the man’s face before he started.
The soldiers didn’t see him until he was a good distance down the block. One began yelling; the other knelt to aim at him. As he prepared to fire, Rankin pushed the button on the radio detonator, blowing up the car.
When Ferguson heard the explosion, he dropped the round into the L16, involuntarily ducking back as the 81 mm projectile whipped upward from the small mortar. In quick succession, he loaded and fired five more rounds from the British-made weapon, raining a half dozen shots on the Russian headquarters. Had these been normal rounds, they would have done considerable damage; the bombs weighed a bit over nine pounds, much of it explosive. Rankin had fiddled with them, essentially turning them into duds. Still, it was very possible that the attack would injure someone, and while Ferguson had no particular love for the Russians or locals, his own people and the Mormons were down in the village. He finished with the dud rounds and moved the mortar to bomb out the road; these rounds sounded the same as they left the tube but their booms were potent cracks that shook the air even where he was positioned, roughly two thousand meters away.
Ferguson kicked over the mortar, then kicked dirt all around to make it seem as if there had been more people there. Grabbing his gear, he hiked up the ridge he’d scouted earlier, tracking down, then across the hills to a point north of the Chechen stronghold, where he was supposed to meet Rankin and Guns. Conners was already watching at the rear of the fortress; if Kiro tried to escape before the rest of the team got there, Ferg had told him to blow him away. Authorized or not, the death would not be lamented in Washington.
It took nearly an hour for Ferguson to reach the rendezvous point. As he reached it, he heard an airplane approaching and worried that perhaps the plan had succeeded a little too well—perhaps the Russians were so angry they’d pound the guerrillas so severely that they wouldn’t have a chance to escape.
The jet was too high and too fast for Ferguson to see. It circled twice over the camp, which was between two and three miles away. On its second orbit the steady hush of the jet seemed to stutter. Then it roared louder than before. Ferguson instinctively ducked; a few seconds later he heard the muffled thud of two medium-sized bombs exploding near the fortress.
As the plane zoomed away, the CIA officer climbed up the rock with his MP-5 and Remington over his shoulder, looking in the direction of camp. White smoke curled into the sky from beyond the rocks, but he couldn’t see the fort itself from where he was.
“That bomb get you, Dad?” he asked Conners.
“Thought we were on silent com,” grumbled the SF soldier.
“Just checking.”
Ferguson went back to the ledge and stowed his gear, then took his binoculars and scouted the approach, adjusting his com set to make sure he’d hear the team when they got into range. He sat down cross-legged, shotgun in his lap, submachine gun at his side, and made himself as comfortable as possible to do the thing in the world he hated the most—wait.
Guns had been beaten pretty badly, but he was able to walk, and when the car exploded, Rankin ran around the block and met him as they’d arranged. The mortar shells began falling in the field short of the center of town; the timers on the other charges he’d set around town began going off. Rankin applied the coup de grace to the attack by igniting the charge on their Accord; a fireball shot straight up from the gas tank, a spectacular show that would have rated a ten at a fireworks display.
They took a quick left turn off the main drag and jumped in a truck they’d stolen earlier. Guns slumped against the door as Rankin drove around to the road that led to the rendezvous point.
“Fuckin’ Russkies don’t have a clue,” he told the Marine, who merely groaned in response. “They’re little rabbits, cowering in their holes. Assholes had any sense, they’d have their knives out—cream us just as soon as look at us.”
In Rankin’s opinion, the Russians’ entire posture had invited attack—he would have had a better perimeter force, better sweeps, checkpoints—he wouldn’t have let a couple of foreigners, one of them a gimp, waltz right out of town under his nose. A machine gun would have commanded the top of the ridge beyond the road, wiping them out as they drove.
“You complaining?” Guns asked him, as they stopped to get rid of the truck just beyond the ridge.
“I’m just saying they’re awful lazy.”
“They kick pretty good.”
“You all right?”
“Yeah.”
“I was worried they were going to arrest you.”
“Ferg said they wouldn’t.”
“Yeah, well, Ferg’s not always right.”
“Think they broke my rib.”
“Bastards. We shoulda killed every one of them,” said Rankin.
He climbed on top of the truck and turned his field glasses back toward the town. Two BMPs, armored personnel carriers mounting a light cannon, had taken up a position at the nearest end of town.
“They coming for us?” Guns asked.
“Not yet. They better get their act together, or we’re back to square one.”
“You don’t think blowing up the commander’s car will piss them off?”
Rankin spun around so quickly he nearly fell off the truck. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.”
“With what? Your binoculars?” Ferguson looked at Guns, who was hunched over the front of the truck. “You all right, Marine?”
“I’m fuckin’ fine.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Come on, boys; we got a long walk to catch up to Dad, or he’s going to have all the fun.”