Fires of War (20 page)

Ferguson and Guns lay on the cold ground for another hour and a half, timing the patrols. There were seven during that time, almost nonstop. The men varied their patrol route as well.

“Something tipped them off,” Ferguson told Guns. “There’s no way we’re getting where we want to go without being seen.”

“What do we do?”

“Follow me.”

“We leaving?”

“Not yet.”

Ferguson retreated about a hundred yards up the hill, then began circling toward the far side of the entrance to the underground waste depository. He had to move slowly, trying not to kick too much dirt or rocks downhill. And every time the pickup truck came in the direction, he and Guns had to flatten themselves to make absolutely sure they weren’t seen.

Nearly two hours passed before they had reached the other side. Ferguson stripped off his pack and took out his small shovel and baggies.

“Chill for me here, Guns.”

“Hey, don’t get lost, man.”

“You’re getting a sense of humor. That’s dangerous in a marine.”

Ferguson got down on all fours and crawled out in the dirt toward the entrance to the low-level waste area. After roughly fifty yards, he reached the edge of a macadam parking area that sat off the loop road used by the pickup patrol. He was just about to get up and run across it when the security patrol swung in his direction.

Ferguson flattened his body in the dirt, nudging his face against the pebbles. His nose and mouth filled with the fine, claylike dust as he waited for the truck to pass.

Guns, standing in the shadows, watched helplessly as the truck veered in Ferguson’s direction. He had a smoke grenade in his hand, but what good was that? He reached for his pistol, even though Ferguson had told him they weren’t supposed to shoot anyone.

Ferguson heard the engine, then the staccato rhythm of the Koreans’ voices. The wheels crunched the gravel, spraying it to the sides. The truck jerked to the left, then sped up. They’d just missed seeing him.

Ferguson waited a full minute, then scrambled across the lot and the road, throwing himself down in the dirt. Two shovelfuls later, he had the bag filled.

“I thought they were going to spot you,” said Guns when he got back. “They were like, ten feet away.”

“Eleven at least,” Ferg told him. “Let’s get the hell out of Dodge.”

~ * ~

10

NORTH P’YŎNPAN PROVINCE, NORTH KOREA

Thera lay on her cot, staring at the bottom of the empty bunk above her. Lada Rahn snored a few feet away. The sound rattled all of the metal in the room, like a kind of counterpoint to the hum of the fluorescent light fixtures from the hall.

Thera had destroyed the message in the cigarette box, but the words had been seared into her brain.

Dr. Tak Ch’o wanted to defect.

Why had he picked her? Was it a trap? A trick?

Thera wasn’t sure what to do. The scientist might be a big prize, but was he worth jeopardizing her mission for?

And even if he was, how would she go about arranging for his defection?

If there were answers, they weren’t in the dark gray light around her. But Thera continued to stare, unable to sleep.

~ * ~

11

SOUTH CHUNGCHONG PROVINCE, SOUTH KOREA

Ferguson picked his way slowly across the rocks, crossing the hill behind the entrance to the underground low-level waste area. The whole night had been pretty much a waste—the soil samples were the lowest priority on the wish list the specialists had given him—but he had to contain his bile until they were out.

Ferguson stopped as he came to a deep crevice. He didn’t remember the fissure, which was about three feet wide and extended at least twenty. Unsure where he had gone off course, he stopped and took off his night-vision glasses to get his bearings.

“What’s wrong, Ferg?” asked Guns, tagging along behind him.

“You remember this hole here?”

“No.”

Ferguson reached into his pocket and took out his satellite photos. They’d gone farther up the hill on the way back than they had on the way in. It wasn’t a big difference, but if they kept going they’d end up at a cliff.

“We need to angle down this way,” he told Guns, pointing.

Within a few yards, the soil became extremely loose. Afraid that they were going to send enough down to alert the patrols, they backtracked again and looked for sturdier ground. They went over a steep stretch, finding handholds in the thin vegetation, finally arriving at a ledge about thirty feet from the ground.

Once again, Ferguson consulted the photos. They hadn’t made enough of a correction and were a good five hundred yards farther east of the spot where he thought they would come out. But that wasn’t necessarily bad. The ledge was out of sight from the compound, and though the ledge was narrow—maybe eight inches—following it would save them considerable time. Ferguson eased out slowly, keeping himself flat against the wall. After what seemed like forever, he reached a large boulder. He hugged it, spun his legs around, and landed on the side of the hill.

“Downhill from here,” he whispered to Guns, who was just starting across.

The marine grunted. He kept fighting the temptation to look down, narrowing his view to the rocks in front of his face. As far as he was concerned, the problem wasn’t that the path was narrow; the problem was that there were no handholds. He had to keep his weight pitched in toward the wall, which was difficult not only because he was carrying a backpack but because the ledge was angled the other way. He found himself sliding across on his tiptoes the way he imagined a ballet dancer would move.

Guns’s foot hit against the side of a rock he hadn’t seen. Surprised, he jerked his weight forward, then twisted to see what he’d hit. The shift in momentum threw him off balance, and the next thing he knew he was falling straight down.

Ferguson, barely two yards away, dove forward to grab his companion.

He caught the top of his shirt. Instead of stopping Guns, Ferguson was yanked downward with him, somersaulting around before losing his grip. He slid a good twenty feet before managing to snare himself on a rock.

Guns stopped about eight feet below him. He’d smacked the side of his head on a stone and gotten a mouthful of dirt. Much worse, he’d banged and twisted his knee as he fell.

The pain held off for a second. Guns felt as if he’d been plunged into a cold lake, totally numb. Then a hatchet seemed to chop the side of his kneecap. The pain reverberated up and down his leg, and he felt incredibly hot, sweat pouring from his forehead.

“Ferg.”

“Hey, Guns, I’m here,” said Ferguson. Gingerly, he made his way down to the marine, retrieving his night glasses as he went.

“Hurt my leg. I can’t tell if it’s my knee or what,” said Guns. “The right one.”

“No compound fracture,” said Ferguson, gently running his fingers above and below it.

Guns sucked air and bit his lip to keep from screaming. “This hurts like a mo-fo.”

“If we slide down a little way, we can get to the base of the ravine we used to come in. See it?”

“Can’t. Can’t see anything, Ferg.”

Guns’s glasses were attached to his face, held there by elastic at the back of his head; Ferguson wasn’t sure whether they malfunctioned or if Guns was losing consciousness. He pushed the glasses down so they fell around Guns’s neck, then wrapped his arm around his.

“All right, let’s go down together,” Ferg told him. “I know it’s gonna hurt, but we gotta get out.”

“It’s all right.”

Ferguson tucked his leg under Guns’s to cushion it. “On our butts. Ready?”

“Go.”

Guns ground his teeth together to keep from crying out. Ferguson kept his arm around his, but Guns’s leg jerked to the side and smacked against some of the rocks as they went down.

“All right, let’s get the hell out of here,” said Ferguson, standing a little awkwardly. He checked their gear, making sure they hadn’t lost anything.

“Leave me, Ferg,” croaked Guns.

“Yeah, right. Like that might work.” Ferguson laughed, barely able to keep his voice down. “Hang on, Gimpy.”

He dipped down, maneuvering his shoulders to get leverage, then lifted Guns up and onto his back.

“You’re going to have to go on a diet if you plan on doing this again,” he grunted, starting back in the direction of the fence.

~ * ~

uns insisted he could pull himself over the fence. Though doubtful, Ferguson preferred climbing to cutting a hole, and agreed they would try it. To his surprise, Guns was able to pull himself up hand over hand, all the way to the top.

“Nothin’ compared to boot camp,” grunted Guns.

Guns had trouble getting over the Teflon blanket covering the razor wire, scraping his good leg on the sharp knife point next to it. He straddled the fence top, hyperventilating.

“All right, that was the hard part,” Ferguson told him.

“Yeah. Downhill from here “

With Ferguson’s help, Guns managed to get reasonably close to the ground before letting go, hoping to land on his good foot. But he collapsed immediately, falling backward in a swell of pain.

“Wow,” he said, looking up at the dark sky. “Imagine what being shot feels like.”

“Piece of cake compared to this,” said Ferguson, standing over him.

He meant it as a joke, but Guns took it seriously. “Gotta be ten times worse.”

Ferguson got the blanket and the clips, then pulled Guns onto his back and began hiking toward the exit. It was slow going; by the time they made it outside and to the car a halfmile away, dawn had broken.

“I’m sorry, Ferg,” muttered Guns as they drove back to Daejeon. “I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just rest for a while. We’ll get you cleaned up, then take you to a doctor and get that knee fixed.”

“I’m really sorry, man. I’m really, really sorry. I screwed up.”

“You didn’t screw up. Somebody must have tipped them off. And I have a pretty good idea who it was.”

~ * ~

12

NORTH P’YŎNPAN PROVINCE, NORTH KOREA

Thera took out the pack of cigarettes, pulled two out, then pointed one in the direction of the North Korean soldier. The man—he looked more like a teenager, with dark peach fuzz above his lip—blinked his eyes, then looked left and right before taking it. Thera smiled and gave him her matches; he lit up furtively, turning from the wind.

In the six or seven seconds it took him to get the cigarette lit, Thera slipped the last tab into the slot between the metal panels of the reception building.

She was done. It had been easier to plant the devices here than in South Korea.

Her relief lasted about as long as it took her to light her own cigarette; she saw Tak Ch’o approaching from across the complex. The scientist had a big smile on his face, nodding and laughing as he caught her glance.

The young soldier stiffened and started to move away. Ch’o told him something Thera couldn’t understand. Though it was meant to put the young man at ease, the guard barely relaxed.