SOUTHERN CHECHNYA
The ravine ended in a shallow chimney, almost like the section of a funnel emptying onto the more gentle slope. They had twenty feet of rope with them but no way of securing it above.
“We lower Daruyev, then you climb down,” Ferguson told Conners.
“And what the hell are you going to do?”
“I’ll just jump,” said Ferguson.
“Well one thing’s in our favor,” said Conners. “It’s 1355. The guards’ll be hiding from the Russian satellite.”
“Try to smile as we go down,” Ferguson told him. “Make some Russian photo reader’s day.
“Better I give him the finger.”
Ferguson took the rope and went to the prisoner, wrapping the end around his chain and making a knot that Daruyev could reach to untie.
Then he took the hood off. “I want you to see where you’re going,” Ferguson told him.
“Thank you.”
“It’s going back when you’re down.”
The Chechen nodded reluctantly.
“You’re trusting him?” said Conners, taking the rope.
“He’s not going anywhere,” said Ferg. “We have a deal.”
Daruyev said nothing. Conners mentally calculated how he’d shoot him if the bastard ran.
Once they started to lower the Chechen, there was no way to see where he was. They kept paying the rope out against the rock at the lip of the drop, straining as it cut into their hands. Finally, they felt a tug. He’d made it.
“You’re up, Dad.”
“You sure you got me?”
“If I don’t, you’ll be the first to know.”
Conners eased himself downward, putting his legs against the side of the narrow chimney to try and ease the strain on Ferguson. Even so, Ferguson felt himself being pulled forward as he neared the bottom; his feet started to slip, and if Conners hadn’t jumped the last yard or so, he might have gone over. He tossed down the rope, slung his pack and guns on his back, and told them to get out of his way.
The sides of the chimney were exposed enough for him to get down about ten feet fairly easily. When they ran out, he began working down the left side, reaching down gingerly to a decent hold and pushing his knees in at one point to maintain his balance. He’d gotten another four feet lower when he felt his grip loosening; Ferg flailed with his foot, and caught something, but then felt his other leg twist around behind him, his muscles too fatigued to follow his brain’s command. Fearing he would fall on his back or head, he threw his upper body against the rock, sliding down against the mountain.
Daruyev and Conners, who’d been waiting to help him, both grabbed him as he fell, keeping him from tumbling down the slope.
“Thank you, boys,” said Ferguson, spitting the dirt from his mouth.
“You are committed,” said Daruyev.
“We call it crazy,” said Conners, taking point down the slope.
The Russians had used the bottom of the gully as a junkyard, and the men had to pick their way over piles of wrecked chairs and office furniture as they made their way down the last fifty yards or so. The sun’s shadows were starting to darken the bowl between the mountains where the base was, but if anyone happened to come up along the perimeter fence, they’d be seen easily. Ferguson and Conners stopped constantly, aware that they were pushing their luck.
Finally, Ferguson reached the perimeter fence. He could hear the sound of generators humming and some other machinery. The two large hangar buildings were across the field to his left, but the sound seemed to be coming from somewhere closer. As he craned around to get a better view, he saw a vehicle moving on the left just before the start of the runway. He slid down, watching as it moved behind the buildings to the perimeter road.
“What do you think?” Conners asked, sliding down with Daruyev.
“They’re working on something,” said Ferg. He took out the rad meter; its needle didn’t budge. Disappointed, he slid it back into his pocket.
They could hear another vehicle approaching. Ferg and Conners settled back against two large, wrecked filing cabinets, waiting as it passed. The vehicle stopped somewhere to their right, though there was no way to get an angle and see where.
“What’s in the mountain?” asked Conners, when the truck didn’t appear.
“Good question. We’re going to have to go in and find out.”
“There’s probably a cave or something, with the entrance disguised so you can’t see it from above,” said Conners.
Ferguson shrugged, though he agreed. “I think it’s dark enough to get past that first fence at least. We can go through over there—see where it meets the ground?”
“What about our friend?” asked Conners.
“Let’s leave him here and pick him up later,” said Ferguson.
“You think that’s a good idea?”
“Better than bringing him in, don’t you think?”
They used another one of their handcuffs to tie him to a large piece of a desk near the bottom of the pile. Daruyev complained that he couldn’t sit comfortably. Ferguson rearranged some of the metal refuse, and the Chechen was able to hunch his legs up under himself into a squat, which for some reason seemed more comfortable to him.
“Will you take off my hood?” he asked.
“Sorry,” Ferguson said. “I’m not going to do that. Give him a drink of water,” he told Conners.
“No,” said Daruyev. “Shoot me.”
Ferguson and Conners exchanged a glance.
“Why?” asked Ferguson.
“I’d rather die now than wait,” said the Chechen.
“You’re not going to get killed,” said Ferg. “I told you I was taking you back.”
“If the others find me, they’ll kill me.”
“Don’t be such a pessimist.”
“Mr. Ferguson, please.”
“I’ll come back for you, Daruyev. I told you I would.”
“Should’ve killed him, Ferg,” Conners said, as they crouched on the other side of the fence ten minutes later. “You coulda used the knife.”
Ferguson changed the subject.
“If we get over the fence there, we can walk south along the strip that borders the runway. From there, we can see the other side of the slope, find out if there’s a cave or something, then we can cross to the buildings.”
“The post at the gate has a clear view of the runway. And God only knows what’s in front of the mountain.”
“Yeah. What I think we have to do is cross here, that way we can see south around where the truck ought to be. Maybe I move down closer that way, get into the shadows, see if I have to climb over.”
The top of the fence had three strands of barbed wire, but he could clip it down and get over fairly easily.
“You get too close to that cave or whatever is over there, there’ll be guards,” said Conners.
They discussed it for a while longer, Conners in general preaching a more conservative line, Ferguson plotting a considerably
bolder course. At the end, Ferg told him he’d go in, cross the runway, and check the buildings. Conners would hang back, covering him at first, and then see what he could find out about the cave. They didn’t have their com devices, but they could communicate using the sat phones, which were set to vibrate rather than ring.
“Can you climb over the fence with that grenade launcher on your back?” Ferguson asked.
“If I have to.”
“If it’s too heavy, leave it. Once you’re in, move down the ditch,” said Ferguson. “They’re not going to be watching the middle of the base. When you find the entrance, let me know. Your meter working?”
“It claims it is,” said Conners, who had checked it at the perimeter.
“Take the Prussian blue,” he told Conners, referring to the antiradiation sickness pills they carried. Though not a panacea, the drug helped ward off some effects of radiation sickness. “We get in there, we just get a general idea of what’s going on. We don’t have to collect autographs.”
“I ain’t arguing with you. What should I do with Daruyev if you get nailed?” asked Conners.
“I ain’t fucking getting nailed,” said Ferguson, starting away.
Conners thought to himself that he was getting old and tired, confusing caution with wisdom. His body ached, and his eyes were stinging from the lack of sleep. Worse, he could feel the thirst for a beer in his mouth.
He stood up, pushing away the fatigue as Ferg went over the fence.
Ferguson slid down to the ground next to the fence, trying to make his body as compact as possible. Empty, rock-strewn fields dotted by nubs of thick grass lay on either side of the runway. It was several hundred yards across to the buildings. To his right, the mountainside jutted out and cut off whatever was there.
He took out the rad meter, got nothing. The device had an audible alarm; he set it, put the earphone in his ear, then put it back in his pocket. He worked his legs beneath him into a
crouch, then sprang across the dirt perimeter roadway, making it in two bounds. Slowly, he began to crawl toward the runway.
After nearly ten minutes, much of it spent on his belly or all fours, he reached a set of runway lights near the edge of the concrete. There were lights in the metal jacket, though one of them had been broken. Ferguson huddled near the structure, listening—he could hear voices riding over the base from the buildings, but couldn’t see anyone. Nor did he have a sufficient angle on the cave entrance yet.
Ferguson hunched down and ran to the nearby ditch. He crawled along it about ten yards, looking for a good spot to cross the runway, but of course he would be exposed no matter where he went. Finally, he just thought screw it all, hopped up out of the ditch, and ran for the other side.
It took forever to get there, days out in the bright sun, exposed to the world. Finally, he landed in the other ditch, his heart thumping so loudly he wouldn’t have been surprised if the people in the buildings heard it beating.
After catching his breath, he started crawling again, this time angling to his left. A light was on at the side of the building; its circle ended about twenty yards from the fence at a pile of rocks. He thought if he could get into the rocks, he’d be able to get around them, then work his way behind the building, maybe even right up to it.
But to do that, he had to cross the edge of the field, exposed not only to the front of the buildings but the guard post at the gate. He was more worried about the guard post than the buildings, even though he was probably five times as far from it; there were definitely people there. Of course, their job was to look outside the base, not inside, but Ferguson wasn’t in a position to hand out demerits if they spotted him.
He continued to crawl, the earth cold against his chest. Twice he stopped to make sure the earbud was still in place, surprised that he’d found no radiation yet.
About ten yards from the flank of the building, he heard voices again. He froze, waiting for them to grow louder. When they didn’t, he began inching forward again, finally getting to what he had thought were rocks but turned out to
be a collection of cut-up tires. Ferguson pulled himself behind them, caught his breath.
There was another light at the back of the buildings; he’d have to walk through it to see inside.
Ferguson brushed some of the dirt from his shirt and pants, then started out again.