HOKKAIDO, JAPAN
Rankin, Guns, and Massette unfolded themselves from the seats and walked toward the hatchway as the aircraft stopped rolling near the hangar area. Massette popped the door open, then jumped back—they were a good distance from the ground, with no ramp in sight.
A gray, four-engine DC-8 sat across the tarmac waiting for them, engines idling; the old aircraft had been leased by the American military and been commandeered to take them to Manila.
“Yo! Let’s go!” shouted a short, squat man, who stood on the ground about halfway between the two aircraft. “Let’s go!” he shouted again, his voice somehow loud enough to be heard over the idling engines. He was wearing civilian clothes, but his haircut and demeanor gave him away as military.
“Jump,” Rankin told Guns.
“Fuck,” said Massette, who could feel the pain in his leg already.
Rankin started to push him aside. Guns dropped to the floor and lowered himself, pulling his gear out with him as he hopped—literally, since he lost his balance and nearly
toppled over—to the ground. Rankin just stepped off, though when he landed he wished he hadn’t, the sting punching his ankles. Massette finally decided to play it halfway, easing down to his butt and hanging his feet over before plopping to the ground.
“I’m Murphy,” said the man. “Where’s Rankin?”
“Yo,” said Rankin.
“You gotta get to Manila. This is your plane. Your boss has been trying to reach you.”
“Yeah, no shit. So who the hell are you?” said Rankin.
“I just told you.”
“You got to be a SEAL,” said Guns. “And I’m going to guess master chief, right?”
“And you’re a fuckin’ Marine,” sneered Murphy, who said nothing else as he walked back to the DC-8.
“How did they know that?” asked Massette.
“By smell,” said Rankin, pulling out his sat phone to call Corrine.