Free First Team by Jim DeFelice, Larry Bond Page B

about.”
     
    “It’s there,” said Rankin.
     
    “I’m not arguing with you. I just have older eyes.” Conners smiled at him. Rankin reminded him of a racehorse that had been shot up with amphetamines for a race, always jittery, sensitive to the touch. Great in the race, but hell before and after. “Be booby traps, probably twists and turns. You’d never get in that way.”
     
    “I don’t see us getting in at all,” said Rankin.
     
    “Yeah, Skip’s right on that. We’re going to have to make him come out,” said Ferguson. He got up and started pacing around, thinking over the situation. It was now almost noon. Every hour they stayed there increased the chances they would be found by either the Russians or the Chechen rebels, or both. They still had their informer, but even holding on to him was not without risk.
     
    The Russians had two companies in Irktan. That was probably the reason they didn’t attack the camp; they figured it wasn’t worth the effort.
     
    That would have to be changed.
     
    “Rankin, you see any guard posts on that back end there?” Ferguson asked.
     
    “They have people on this road way the hell over here,” he said, pointing at a highway nearly two miles from the rear of the fortress area. “The thing is, there’s no way in from the roads. So if they’re dealing with the Russians, they probably figure they don’t have to guard along this area here. Terrain’s for shit, and the Russians never go anywhere without either a caravan of armor or helicopters, or both. If you’re in the fortress, you don’t need to be anywhere else.”
     
    “And this?” Ferguson pointed to a ravine that ran out the back of the fortress.
     
    “The escape route,” said Rankin, repeating what he had told Ferguson earlier. “Got a bike right there.”
     
    The hide for the bike was visible on an earlier photo; the area was not quite as sharp in the most recent shot. But Ferguson decided it must still be there.
     
    “Why only one bike?” asked Guns.
     
    “Only one person is important enough to escape,” said Ferg.
     
    “Only one’s chicken enough,” said Rankin.
     
    “Maybe it’s for a messenger,” said Conners.
     
    “Could be,” said Ferguson. One of the briefs on the rebel organization that Lauren had posted with the satellite data emphasized that the leaders looked at the war as a long-term affair—survival was important. In his opinion, the bike was Kiro’s parachute, nothing else.
     
    “We might be able to sneak in that way, take them by surprise,” said Rankin.
     
    “We don’t know what’s beyond that opening,” said Conners. “Assuming it is an opening.”
     
    “Got to be,” said Rankin.
     
    “Yeah, OK. Listen, I gotta talk to Van,” said Ferguson, standing up. “In the meantime—Rankin, that mortar we have in the kit—”
     
    “The English piece of shit?”
     
    “The same,” said Ferguson. “You think you could rig it so some of the shells it fires don’t explode?”
     
    “What do you mean?”
     
    “I mean they fire and land somewhere, but don’t go boom.”
     
    “I could do that,” said Conners.
     
    “Yeah, I could figure it out,” said Rankin quickly.
     
    “Good. Only a couple. Don’t blow yourselves up, guys,” said Ferguson. As he jogged up the basement steps, the plan began to form in his mind.
     
    ~ * ~
     
    11
     
    IRKTAN, CHECHNYA—FOUR HOURS LATER
     
    Rankin finished setting the charge, waiting beneath the car behind the army headquarters building. He could hear Guns haranguing the guards a few feet away, asking about the clinic—demanding to know in very loud and seemingly drunk Russian why foreigners were allowed to poison people there.
     
    The guards were getting impatient. Rankin heard one of them shove Guns and rolled away from the car. They started kicking the Marine, who’d fallen to the ground as part of his diversion.
     
    It took Rankin all his self-control not to jump up and run to help his