Recall (21 page)

“Break off!” the colonel commed. “Rally at secondary. Meet at our trucks. Red, keep track of the drivers.”

Red crawled atop a display of apples. Their sharp, green scent reminded him of helping Tom make hard cider last fall. Over the displays he saw Salar and Navid sprint into the next alley as many in the crowd dropped to the ground. He and Lanyard grabbed the basket and ran. At the end of the block, he turned to head them off. One ran across the opening ahead. As the other came into view, two red plumes sprayed from the driver's chest, followed by the reports of small arms fire.

Red ducked behind a dusty green hedge at the corner and signaled Lanyard to fall in behind him. He strained to hear footsteps over the screams and shouts coming from the market. A balding gray-haired man with a little potbelly trotted across the alley, carrying a 9mm. When he stopped at Salar's body, Red dropped him with a double tap, then glanced around the corner. A crowd from the market that had been running toward them stopped when the man went down. None of these were in uniform, but then neither was the man who'd shot Salar and Navid.

Red ran to Salar. Lanyard took position at the corner of the hedge, covering their tail. Red pushed the potbellied man off him—the guy was heavier than he looked—then rolled Salar onto his back. Blood was seeping from his chest. His eye wasn't wandering now. His pupils constricted as he faced the sky. Red searched his pockets and found the truck keys. He put a finger to Navid's neck. The pilot had no pulse.

“Got the keys,” he said, lifting the basket.

Lanyard jerked his head at Salar. “One still looks alive.”

“He'll be dead soon.” Only a few more blocks lay between them and the trucks.

Red commed as they ran, “Salar and Navid are dead. We've got keys. Be there in two.”

“Hurry up,” Jim said. “We're all waiting.”

They turned another corner and saw the first vehicle at the end of the alley. They yanked off their
ch
dors
and shoved them behind a moldy stack of cardboard boxes. Several other
ch
dors
from the team were already there. The only other person in view was a street down and walking away, a man in brown slacks, apparently unaware of the chaos a few blocks over.

The side of the first truck dropped and Crawler and Marksman rolled out. Red threw one set of keys to Crawler, hoping it was the right one.

“Marksman, get us to the airport,” Jim snapped. “Red, drive the second.”

Red opened the door and slid across the seat, snagging one cargo pocket on the stick shift. Only a few hours ago he'd seen the plume of steam rising from the vehicle's hood. He hoped the engine was still warm enough to make a fast start. He punched the clutch and turned the key, then tilted his head back and said, “Thank you, God,” as the engine fired. He raced the motor but it sputtered off, the truck shuddering. He turned the key again. This time the engine cranked for several seconds before it came to life.

Crawler was pulling away. Red eased the gas this time and the engine revved slowly, but kept running. “Shit,” he muttered. Were gear patterns universal? He moved the stick to where he thought first would be. The shift box resisted with a crunching sound.

“Like the farm,” he whispered. “Grind 'em till you find 'em.”

“What?” Lori's voice.

Red snapped his head around. She was climbing into the seat beside him. “Where'd you come from? Get in the back!”

“What if we hit a checkpoint?”

“I'll run 'em over. You don't look Iranian, and I can't protect you up here.”

She waved the barrel of her AK-47 toward the windshield. “Stick a rag in it and drive the damn truck.”

Ahead, Crawler was almost at the end of the block. Red popped the clutch, snapping her neck backwards. “Why do you have to be so stubborn?”

“I'm not the one who went ape-shit at Walmart and blew your cover.”

Red's face warmed despite the cold draft coming from the door. What was she hiding? “Maybe if I had a wife who'd told me I had a cover . . . maybe then—”

Her voice softened. “Red, we decided it was best.”

I'm the husband!
Shouldn't
we
include me? “Who the hell are you talking about? You're a control freak. Or wait—” He frowned. “Did
we
include whoever you're carrying a tag for?”

She shook her head. “Red, you know why I've got a tag.”

“No, I don't!”

Lori frowned. “But—”

He jabbed two fingers at his head. “Didn't get the memo. Had a memory issue for a while. No damn clue why my wife's a national asset. It sure as hell isn't your cooking.”

The comm clicked in his ear. “Plug it,” Jim's voice crackled. “I can hear you two bitching all the way back here.”

Would he ever know Lori? Could he? Why was he trying to rescue someone who'd helped hide his past? Who was behind all of it? But she was the mother of their kids. That much he remembered, with fondness. He'd promised them he'd get her back. He could do that. The rest would have to wait.

“I'll get us to the airport, but we've got no pilot,” Marksman commed.

“We'll take one hostage,” Jim said.

Red smiled and jabbed his comm. “Sir, we've got a pilot.”

Lori palmed her mic and snatched the comm out of her ear. “You better not be talking about me!”

Red yanked his out as well. He whispered, “Stick a rag in it and drive the damn plane,
dear
.”

“You're such an ass!” she hissed. “That was before I even met you. In my twenties!”

“You said you flew twins.”

“Ten hours of cockpit time, Red. Turpboprops, not jets. I never even qualified.”

“You had your license before that. Singles. Might be a turboprop at the airport. You can get us off the ground.”

“Shit, Crawler could get us off the ground. It's landing that's a bitch.”

Crawler's truck slowed at an intersection and turned onto a busier road. Red stopped at the corner, then gunned it to keep up. Lori was looking out the window, the corner of one eye shimmering, hands clasped, fidgeting as if playing thumb-war with herself.

Red patted her knee. “Sorry. But for real, we need you. It'll come back, just like things did for me. With enough clear runway, you'll do great.” Red slipped the comm back into his ear.

Jim was calling his name. “What happened?”

Red looked at Lori. “Um, communication issue, sir.”

“What did you mean, we've got a pilot?”

“Lori used to have her license. Got some twin engine time. She's rusty, but if we can't hijack a turboprop, she'll fly us out.”

C
rawler shoved the shift lever forward to where third gear should be. The handle wobbled. Was it even in a gear? He released the clutch and the truck jerked like it'd been hit from behind. What a piece of crap. Not that American trucks didn't have loose linkage, especially the older, well-worn models. But give him a good ol' AM General Duece-and-a-Half any day over this Iranian shit-box.

Marksman pointed to a green sign, scrawled in something like Egyptian hieroglyphics. “Take a right on Saeedi Highway.”

Crawler squinted at the signpost. It looked like one of his ink blot tests from Dr. Genova. “Where the hell's that?”

“Just go right.”

“Give 'em to me like that,” Crawler said. “None of that other crap.”

He rolled down his window and adjusted the side view. Red was keeping up, though Crawler noticed he had trouble at intersections, lurching his starts. The engine knocked. He hadn't heard it last night, sitting in the back. Sounded like a bad exhaust gasket. Vapors coming from the firewall confirmed it.

A white Mercedes with a blue stripe passed going the other way. A block down, it made a U-turn.

Crawler glanced at the mirror next to Marksman. “Sorry to interrupt your fun.”

Marksman slid down in his seat, planting both feet flat on the floor. “It's not what you think. Jannat and I are business partners.”

Crawler ignored the distant white-and-blue car. Probably headed to the market where he'd just saved everyone's ass. “Yeah. Right.”

Marksman put an arm across the back of the seat, the wrist as thick as an axle tube. For an old guy, he looked like he could still hold his own in a fight.

“Make it whatever you want.” Marksman swept a hand across a dusty green dashboard. “But I've been married thirty years. Like hell I'm going to throw that away on some whore. She's pitiful. You imagine being the pet of that general?”

“I almost was,” Crawler said, thinking how the arrogant prick had tried to grab his ass. Yet Jannat had somehow stopped him. She was discreet. The general had never suspected a thing.

Marksman tilted his head to both sides, cracking his neck. “Then, like all whores, she has to pretend like she enjoys it.”

Crawler blew through tight lips. Right. She'd said it in the way she looked at Marksman from the start. He wasn't stupid, though he supposed the team thought he was. She enjoyed it. She loved it. How could she not? He mustered the most condescending tone he could. “How sweet.”

Marksman drummed his fingers on the roof. “Ain't worth my breath. Take the next right.”

At the end of the road stretched an open grass field, then a runway. If the street didn't turn, it would lead onto the overrun strip. “That it?”

Marksman gave a whoop. “Mehrabad.” He raised a long finger and pointed. “Looks like the small aircraft terminal's at two o'clock. That's where we go. Take another right, around to the other side.”

Crawler peered in the side view, then accelerated. He pressed his comm while searching vainly for a safety belt. “Get ready. We're goin' Dukes of Hazzard
.
”

“We're doing what?”

Crawler gritted his teeth. “Hold on.”

“Go around!” Marksman yelled, gripping the dashboard.

Crawler kept his nose straight at the end of the runway. The street merged ahead with another that circled the airport. If he could jump the drainage ditch, all he'd have to deal with was a chain-link security fence.

Something was going on in the seat next to him. Marksman was yelling, one arm clamped to the underside of the seat, the other braced against the roof. Crawler couldn't hear him over the roar of the engine and the knocking, coming louder and more rapid. What was Marksman's problem?

Crawler checked his speed. What the hell? Ninety? He wasn't going that fast. Speedo's broke. Going to have to wing it. Drainage ditch didn't look that wide. He shot across the opposite side of the road, timing himself between oncoming vehicles. There was a culvert with a small upward angle to it, like a ramp. He floored the accelerator when he hit it, remembering how his cousin had taught him to keep his nose up when jumping dirt bikes. Couldn't be much different. They lifted somewhat, the engine red-lining when the rear wheels left the ground. The landing was smoother than Crawler had anticipated, the front axle slamming against the bump stops on the frame, but no grinding gears. No snap of mutilated shafts.

“The fence!” Marksman yelled, ducking below the dashboard.
He must not have found a seatbelt, either.
Crawler kept the accelerator down and leaned sideways till his nose touched the shift knob. The security fence ripped over them, taking the side-view mirrors and the top of the windshield frame with it.

He sat back up and gazed at Marksman huddled on the floorboard. The tagline from a motivational poster he'd seen hanging in an office came to mind. Maybe he could teach Marksman something. “That's the difference between you and me,” Crawler said. “You see an obstacle as something in your way, but I never sees 'em cause I gots my eyes on the goal.”

“Idiot!”

Crawler stuck his head out the shattered window and looked back. Red was still there, but his front bumper was gone and dirt was caked in the grille. The driver side wheel was wobbling, trying to rip itself from the lugs.

“We had company,” Crawler said. “A police car.”

Red's wheel grabbed a rut and his truck steered sideways enough for Crawler to see behind him. The police car was angled toward the culvert. It launched well, but didn't have enough speed. The nose plowed into the ditch bank and flipped an endo till it stopped upside down, leaning against a broken patch of chain link.

The truck slowed in a soft spot and Crawler downshifted. “The major did okay,” he said, “but the police didn't commit. Probably better. We'd have to kill 'em if they made it.” Crawler leaned back, crunching against broken glass. At least Red had learned something. Everyone should know how to handle a truck. Marksman was back on the seat, gripping the dash with both hands. He always had a big head, thinking he was so much smarter. Would he ever listen?

* * *

Red scanned the runway. Not a single plane on it, or the taxiway. “Must've locked down the airport,” he commed. “All the planes are at the terminal.” Glancing to Lori, he said, “I don't see any props out here.” A small white dual-engine prop plane rested on the far side of the runway with several single-engine ones, but it wasn't nearly large enough for everyone.

“Go for the light blue one in the middle,” Lori said. “The one with the fuel truck next to her. Gulfstream. I think it's got a built-in auxiliary power unit so we can get her started.”

Crawler cut in front of him as he pointed his truck to it. Red turned the wheel, its spokes shaking so hard he had to keep a loose grip on the rim. “Gulfstream,” he said. “We can squeeze into it. Only a couple hundred miles to the coast. We should try for Al-Asad. No, Balad's closer.”

“Jim's working on it,” Lori said. “Right now I just want off the ground. Any chance of getting a pilot?”

“I don't even see baggage handlers. If they've locked down, we won't find any pilots.”

Crawler slammed the brakes and skidded to a stop, broadside to the aircraft. Red did the same near the tail.

Jim rolled out the back, yelling as he came. “Richards, cover the far side. Lanyard, clear the aircraft. Everyone else, defensive positions.”

The sides of the trucks dropped and the teams rolled out as in a Chinese fire drill. Lanyard drew his sidearm and ran up the stairs. “All clear except a steward in the bathroom,” he called after a quick check.

“Keep him there,” Lori said, running into the plane. “I may need him.”

Red stood next to the front wheel of his truck. The rim was bent inward so badly the tire should have blown. He scanned the perimeter fence. Open ground and runway stretched for at least a half mile to it. Two green jeeps and a few trucks stopped close to where they'd busted through. He ducked and looked under the plane. On that side were other small aircraft and the airport. The best place for the Iranians to attack would be from there, using the terminal and planes as cover.

Lori was yelling something in Farsi inside the aircraft. Then it sounded like French. She ran down the ladder, pointing to the near wing. Her jugular bulged blue from her neck, contrasting with the chalky paleness of her face, making her eyes dark and sinister. “Only one tank's full. We have to balance, and the steward's useless. It'd be faster to fill the other tank.”

Crawler slung his weapon and ran to the wing. As he dropped to his knees, his momentum carried him below it, leaning backwards like he was doing the limbo. He slapped the underside like he was swatting flies until a panel dropped. With a grunt and a firm twist he connected the fuel hose.

“How long?” Jim asked.

“Five minutes, maybe, once I figure out how to turn this thing on,” he said.

Jim pointed above his head and made whirlybird swirls. “We need a perimeter for five minutes. They'll try to block the runway. At this point I don't give a shit who they are. Police, military, civilian. Shoot anything that gets in the way. Use the trucks to clear the runway if we have to.”

Red scanned the airport perimeter again. “Marksman, what we got?”

Marksman was standing behind the front of Crawler's truck, M14 resting atop the hood, aimed toward the breach in the fence. His head was forward, peering through the scope. “Three jeeps and three ten-wheelers. Same ones we got. Ambulance just got here and someone's coming out of the wreck.” He lifted his head, squinting. “The mashed car is in the way. Can't come across the ditch like we did.”

A flicker of light glimmered from Red's periphery. Seconds later the distant clatter of rifle fire sounded across the open field. He ducked, though any shot from a half mile away would be luck, unless they already had a sniper on scene.

“Marksman, keep their fire down,” Jim said.

Marksman hugged his stock and spread his legs. Red lifted his gaze, exposing his head over the hood, squinting at the distance. A few stick figures near the road stood between two jeeps. Marksman's rifle boomed, two beats of a heart passed, and one of the sticks dropped flat backwards. The other men dove behind the jeeps without trying to help him. Seconds later, the rifle's echo roared back across the expanse like far-off thunder, bouncing off gray-brown office buildings.

“That was a lucky shot,” Marksman said. “This ain't my 50 cal.”

“Keep them behind cover,” Jim said. “They should know we've got hostages. Won't make any moves till it's too late. Disable the trucks if you can.”

This place will go to hell when the plane starts rolling
, Red thought.

A white sedan with flashing yellow lights screeched around the corner of a Boeing 777 at the next terminal over. Crawler followed it and shot twice. Blue smoke billowed from underneath as the engine self-destructed, metal grinding and snapping in low grumbles. A small piece of it punched through the hood before it died. The sedan slowed and ran off the jetway. The driver threw open his door and dove into the grass. A flame came through the hole in the hood and thick smoke streamed from the wheel wells. The driver stood and sprinted away from their position. Crawler took aim.

“Let him go,” Marksman said. “He'll be gone by the time we get rolling.”

Something moved near the fence. Red squinted. The larger trucks were pulling away, moving along the perimeter road. Lori leaned out the door of the aircraft. “We're at a quarter full,” she yelled.

Marksman nuzzled his stock. “There's an old Jeep Wagoneer, their command car. Looks like—” He lifted his head and squinted, then stared through the scope again. “Your boyfriend got here, Crawler. He's squatted behind the Wagoneer.”

“How you know it's him?” Crawler asked.

“I stared at his ugly face through the crack in the door.”

Crawler's day-old whiskers darkened in the creases of his skin as he smiled. “Bet you can't hit him.”

Dust blew from the hood as Marksman's rifle boomed.

Red flinched. “You get him?”

“No . . . But he'll change his pants before going back to Jannat's.”

Jannat.
Where was she? She'd never have sold them out, Red thought. If she did, VEVAK would kill her anyway. She'd been doing this too long. He glanced at Jim. His gaze was hard, unyielding.

Red drew a line with his arm. “The trucks stopped a half mile down the road.”

“What's over there?” Jim asked.

“Can't tell,” Marksman said. “There's a gate, so there's a way across.”

“They're going to rush us,” Jim said. “Pull the trucks closer together. Protect this broadside.” He stooped and called under the plane, “Richards, this could be a diversion. Keep your eyes on the terminal. Red, you and Lanyard stay here but back up Richards if he calls for it.” He turned and yelled in the direction of the cockpit, “How we doing?”

“Almost half,” came Lori's voice from inside.

Red backed his truck closer, parking it in front of the jet's engine. There was no way the Iranians could have organized a diversion and an assault in such a short time. The enemy knew they'd be taking off soon. If the Iranians were going to do something, it would be now and it would be desperate.