Whiplash (38 page)

“Come on, come on!” Breanna yelled.

She reached down, grabbed Sugar’s shirt and pulled. But Sugar was too heavy and her grip too loose; she slipped and fell back.

Sugar’s right leg had wedged into the rocks. She pounded with her hands and elbow and pushed, but that only moved the rocks tighter around her.

Another mortar shell hit the hill behind them, shaking the ground with a ferocious jolt.

“We have to get the rocks first,” yelled Breanna. She grabbed the biggest she thought she could handle and found it was too much. She took a smaller one and barely got it out of the way.

“My leg,” cried Sugar, suddenly feeling the pain.

“Push, push!” yelled Boston, huffing and out of breath as he ran over. He grabbed two rocks and threw them away.

“Help me with this big one,” said Breanna.

Together they rolled it to the side. Boston leaned down, wrapped his upper body around Sugar and hauled her up.

“Out, let’s go, let’s go!” he yelled.

Breanna turned, then remembered the body bag. She grabbed it but couldn’t lift it over her head. She had to drag it toward the Osprey.

“Blow our gear,” Sugar told Boston. She thought she was shouting, but the dust had strangled her voice, and Boston
didn’t understand what she was saying. He got her into the Osprey, then went back and helped Breanna with McGowan. They had to drag it the last ten feet, both of them spent.

Realizing the position was no longer being held, the mercenaries charged up the hill, firing as they went. Two more mortar shells hit near the peak. For a few seconds the ground felt as if it were made of water.

Breanna punched the door panel to close the ramp, then scrambled forward.

“Emergency takeoff,” she yelled to the Osprey’s computer as she reached the flight deck. “Authorization Stockard. Go!
Go!
”

The aircraft launched. As it rose, a hail of bullets began spraying from the hill. The aircraft stayed on course, ignoring bullets and everything else once placed in emergency takeoff mode.

They were flying through a hail of tracers.

Breanna scrambled into the pilot’s seat. She grabbed the controls.

“Emergency override. Authorization Stockard!”

The aircraft bucked sharply to the side as she ducked away from the gunfire. She held it in the air, mostly by instinct, climbing away over the Ethiopian lines.

B
REANNA’S HEART POUNDED IN HER THROAT
.

“Computer control. Authorization Stockard. Orbit here at three thousand feet. No, five thousand feet. Climb to five thousand feet and orbit.”

The computer flashed the command in the center display. Breanna got up and went into the back.

Boston was cleaning Sugar’s leg, which had bruised and been cut by the rocks. One of her ribs felt broken. Her right elbow and wrist were sprained.

“You’re the bus driver?” Breanna asked Abul.

He stared at her, then nodded.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you. My name is Breanna Stockard.”

It took him a second to respond. “Amin Abul.”

“We didn’t blow up the gear,” mumbled Sugar.

“What are you saying?” Breanna asked, dropping to her knee next to Sugar.

“The gear,” said Boston. “She didn’t get a chance to blow it.”

“The detonator is in my pocket,” managed Sugar.

Boston slipped his hand in—delicately—and retrieved it. The device was essentially a short-range radio. Once the proper code was punched in, it would blow the charges. But they had to be within a half mile for it work: Nothing happened when Boston pushed it.

“We’ll go back,” said Breanna.

North of Tehran

T
HE PERIMETER OF THE FIELDS BEHIND THE BUILDING WHERE
Tarid and Aberhadji had met was surrounded by what appeared at first glance to be a dilapidated wire fence. With posts poked down in places, and strands bent and twisted in others, it looked like the forgotten remnants of the farm’s old boundaries, a doomed attempt to keep out ruin as much as animals and other trespassers.

But looks were not everything. Examining the series of satellite images taken of the area, Danny realized the wire was part of a perimeter surveillance system. Video cameras were placed near or on a dozen posts. Small transformers indicated the wire was powered. He suspected that it was a tripwire as well, rigged to sound an alarm if it was moved more than a very minimal amount. Motion sensors, with floodlights and video cameras, were stationed close to the building. More
subtly, there were several spots on the property that looked as if they could be used as defensive positions in case of an attack.

MY-PID analyzed the security system and showed several vulnerabilities, giving Danny a crooked but easy-to-follow path to the rear of the building. The only difficulty would be getting over the fence without touching it—a problem solved by stopping at a Tehran hardware store just before it closed.

The only stepladder the store had was an eight-foot aluminum model. Sturdy enough inside a building for light maintaining or maintenance, the legs were somewhat rickety on the uneven terrain where Danny wanted to cross the fence.

“Don’t hit the wire,” he hissed at Hera as she helped him get it into position. “We don’t know how sensitive it is.”

“I’m not doing it on purpose. The damn thing keeps shifting.”

The ground where she was standing was wet, and the leg kept sagging. She pulled it to one side, finally finding a sturdy spot.

Danny jiggled the ladder back and forth, testing how wobbly it was.

Very. No way it was going to hold him.

“Get some rocks and slip them under the right leg,” he told Hera. “I’ll hold it.”

The rocks made it a little sturdier, but not much.

“Are there any ground units in the rear of the building?” Danny asked the Voice. They had launched an Owl UAV before approaching the fence.

“Negative. Path remains clear.”

As far as they could tell, there was only one security person on duty, and he was down in a command post near the main building. Aberhadji had left the building some hours before nightfall.

“You climb over the ladder while I hold it,” Danny told Hera. “Then you hold it while I come over behind you.”

Hera grabbed her rucksack and rifle, cinched them against her chest, and squeezed past Danny and up the
rungs. The sun had just set, and the field where they were was cast in deep shadow. This made it hard to judge where the ground was as she descended, and when she stepped off the last rail, she slipped and fell, pushing her weight against the ladder.

Taken by surprise, Danny barely kept it from hitting the fence.

“God, be careful,” he barked.

“I’m sorry. The damn ground is pure mud.”

“Ready?” Danny asked.

“Ready.”

Danny tested his weight on the first step, then the second. The ladder jiggled to the left but remained upright. He climbed up two more steps, then swung his leg around, barely avoiding the wire below.

“That was harder than it should have been,” he said as he reached the ground. “Help me get the ladder up.”

Hera moved to the side. They lifted it up carefully, Danny taking it up gingerly to clear the wire. He folded it and set it down near the fence.

Then he grabbed Hera as she started across the field.

“I didn’t think you had anything to do with McGowan’s death,” he told her. “Your attitude has been bad. You’ve been riding everyone.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her tone anything but.

“All right.”

“I feel like you’re watching every step I make, every move. Like I have to prove myself.”

“We all have to prove ourselves, every single day,” said Danny. He reached into his ruck for the night goggles, not wanting to stop for them later.

“You don’t. Your medal says it all.”

“That medal doesn’t mean crap here,” he told her. “Come on. It ought be easier from here, at least until we get to the wall.”

Eastern Sudan, near the border with Ethiopia

B
REANNA HADN’T FORGOTTEN ABOUT THE REFUGEES, BUT
they were pushed far to the periphery of her consciousness as she concentrated on rescuing her people. As she headed back toward the hill to blow up their gear, she saw them in their makeshift camp, nearly all of them standing and straining to get a view of the black aircraft hurtling through the nearby sky.

The firing had died down. The mercenaries were now on the hill, caught between the Ethiopians and the Sudanese regulars in the pickups, who’d stopped near the road.

The ready light lit on the detonator. Breanna was in range to blow up their gear.

She was about to push the button when she spotted a black speck in the sky to the north. It was the other Osprey, belatedly coming to back her up.

Breanna clicked on the radio. “Osprey Two, this is Osprey One. Can you read me?”

“Hey, roger that, Colonel Stockard,” replied Greasy Hands. His voice shook with adrenaline and nerves. “I’m here.”

“Good. Take the aircraft over the hill and orbit around the refugee camp.”

“I don’t have it in view yet.”

“You will. It’s south of us. You have weapons?”

“Oh, roger that. We are loaded for bear.”

“Copy. Hang tight.”

“Osprey Two.”

Breanna directed the computer to fly the aircraft near the camp and land. Then she got up and went into the rear of the aircraft.

“Boston, Sugar, Abul—we’re going to land by the refugee camp.”

“We’re landing?” said Sugar.

“We’ll evac the refugees to a UN camp. There are a dozen in northern Sudan.” Breanna looked at Abul. “Right, Mr. Abul?”

Abul felt as if he were walking down a long tunnel, coming back from a dream, approaching reality.

“There are refugee camps in the north run by the UN,” Breanna said to him. “We can take these people there.”

“Yes,” said Abul.

“Will you help me? I don’t speak Arabic.”

“Yes,” said Abul, still distant. “Yes, I will,” he added more forcefully. “Yes.”

“Good. Get ready.”

A
BOARD
O
SPREY
T
WO
, G
REASY
H
ANDS WAS HAVING THE
time of his life.

Not that he wanted to do the pilot thing full-time. But sitting back and giving the computer orders, that he could live with.

As long as he didn’t have to use the weapons. Not that he couldn’t figure them out—he’d tested them many times—but the idea of using them against real people was a whole different kettle of fish, or ball of wax, or waxed kettle of fishballs, as his grandpa used to joke.

But hell, if he
had
to…

B
REANNA ESTIMATED THAT THERE WERE JUST OVER SEVENTY
refugees: very close to the payload capacity of the Ospreys with their uprated engines. But even if it took two trips, getting them away from the border to a safe place would be worth it.

She stood at the back of the aircraft, holding the handle at the ramp as it settled onto the desert floor. She punched the ramp button and looked back at Boston. He nodded, though in truth he had started to doubt this was a good idea.

“Come on, Mr. Abul,” Breanna said, tugging at the bus driver’s shirt. “Come on.”

They walked down the ramp together. The sun had just set; it would be dark inside a half hour.

A small knot of refugees stared at the front of the aircraft as they came around. One or two thought they were about to be shot. The others were simply in awe at the strange looking plane that was able to land vertically.

“We’re here to take you to a camp,” Breanna said. “We’re going to help you.”

The Osprey’s engines were still rotating, and it was hard for Abul to hear her, let alone for any of the crowd. Breanna pulled Abul with her away from the aircraft. More refugees were coming forward. Boston had his rifle with him, pointing it at the ground, trying not to spook them.

More intimidating was the other Osprey circling above, its cannon hanging down from its chin.

“We’re here to take you to camp,” said Breanna again. “Tell them, Abul.”

Abul hesitated. These were not his people. None of them were Muslim, and he didn’t recognize their accent when a few asked him what he was doing. But the Americans had galvanized him. He was amazed that they would come back, that they would want to come back, after having so narrowly escaped death. They were risking their lives to save people they didn’t know. And Allah clearly approved, because he had rescued them and stopped the shooting nearby.

He was part of a noble project. Goodwill flooded into him. He felt stronger than he had ever felt. The things he had lost—his bus mostly—were no longer important.

And so when the elders of the group turned their backs when he told them they could go to the camp, he felt crushed.

“What’s the matter?” asked Breanna as they started moving away.

“They don’t want to go.”

“Why? Are they afraid of the aircraft?”

“No. They think the borders are artificial. And the camps, they say, are hell.”

“That fence is real,” said Boston. “Tell them that.”

“I’ve tried explaining,” said Abul. “They don’t want to go to the UN camp.”

“They’ll be safe there,” said Breanna.

“They could have gone there in the first place,” said Abul. “They didn’t. They want to cross over the border, but if they can’t, they would rather stay here. This is tribal land. Here, there, on both sides of the fence. They say it goes back many hundreds of years. They’ll stay right on this spot if necessary.”

“How long?”

“Until the dead walk. That’s how they put it.”

Abul shook his head. He thought they were crazy, but he understood their doubts about the refugee camp. As well-intentioned as the camps might be, none had good reputations.

“Look, it’s getting dark,” said Boston. “We can’t stay here too much longer. And the Ethiopians over there are eventually going to move. Or the mercenaries. Tell these people this is their last chance.”

“Try again, Mr. Abul,” said Breanna. “Make them see logic.”

“It’s not a matter of logic,” said Abul, but he tried again. This time the elders spoke directly to Breanna. Their words were in Arabic, but the gist of what they were saying was clear enough. They didn’t and wouldn’t go.

“If you stay here,” said Breanna, “you may be killed. On purpose or by accident. You can’t get any water or shelter—what will you do in the rainy season?”

They were unmoved. She grabbed Abul’s arm.

“Make them understand,” she pleaded. “They can’t stay.”

“Tell them they were going to be killed by the Ethiopian army,” said Boston.

“I did.”

Abul tried once more, but by now no one was listening to his hoarse voice.

“But we want to help them,” said Breanna. “We want to help.”

“We can’t do any more, Ms. Stockard,” said Boston. “We better get out of here.”

An alert tone sounded on Breanna’s radio, a sharp whistle followed by Greasy Hands’s gravelly voice.

“Bree, there’s something serious going on with the radar.
What’s your status?”

“How serious, Chief?”

“It’s picking up a lot of aircraft at low level. Several warnings. Something big is happening. They’re coming almost right at us.”

Breanna stared at the refugees, trying to think of something to say to them. But there was nothing that she hadn’t already said. Reluctantly, she went back to the Osprey.