Die Trying (43 page)

 

HE WAS HALFWAY across the bowl before he started thinking straight. So he ran back and ducked into the motor pool once more. Found what he wanted. He found it on one of the jeep's tow-hook assemblies. Some heavy stiff wire, ready to feed a trailer's electric circuits. He wrenched it out and stripped the insulation with his teeth. Ran back to the moonlight.

He kept close to the road, all the way back to Yorke. Two miles, twenty minutes at a slow agonizing jog through the trees. He looped around behind the ruined northeastern block and approached the courthouse from the rear. Circled it silently in the shadows. Waited and listened.

He tried to think like Borken. Complacent. Happy with his perimeter. Constant information from inside the FBI. Reacher locked into the punishment hut, Holly locked into her prison room. Would he post a sentry? Not tonight. Not when he was expecting heavy action tomorrow and beyond. He would want his people fresh. Reacher nodded to himself and gambled he was right.

He arrived at the courthouse steps. Deserted. He tried the door. Locked. He smiled. Nobody posts a sentry behind a locked door. He bent the wire into a shallow hook and felt for the mechanism. An old two-lever. Eight seconds. He stepped inside. Waited and listened. Nothing. He went up the stairs.

The lock on Holly's door was new. But cheap. He worked quietly, which delayed him. Took him more than thirty seconds before the last tumbler clicked back. He pulled the door open slowly and stepped onto the built-up floor. Glanced apprehensively at the walls. She was on a mattress on the floor. Fully dressed and ready. Awake and watching him. Huge eyes bright in the gloom. He gestured her outside. Turned and climbed down and waited in the corridor for her. She picked up her crutch and limped to the door. Climbed carefully down the step and stood next to him.

“Hello, Reacher,” she whispered. “How are you doing?”

“I've felt better,” he whispered back. “Time to time.”

She turned and glanced back into her room. He followed her gaze and saw the dark stain on the floor.

“Woman who brought me lunch,” she whispered.

He nodded.

“What with?” he whispered back.

“Part of the bed frame,” she said.

He saw the satisfaction on her face and smiled.

“That should do it,” he said, quietly. “Bed frames are good for that.”

She took a last look at the room and gently closed the door. Followed him through the dark and slowly down the stairs. Across the lobby and through the double doors and out into the bright silent moonlight.

“Christ,” she said, urgently. “What happened to you?”

He glanced down and checked himself over in the light of the moon. He was gray from head to foot with dust and grit. His clothing was shredded. He was streaked with sweat and blood. Still shaky.

“Long story,” he said. “You got somebody in Chicago you can trust?”

“McGrath,” she said immediately. “He's my Agent-in-Charge. Why?”

They crossed the wide street arm in arm, looking left and right. Skirted the mound in front of the ruined office building. Found the path running northwest.

“You need to send him a fax,” he said. “They've got missiles. You need to warn him. Tonight, because their line is going to be cut first thing in the morning.”

“The mole tell them that?” she asked.

He nodded.

“How?” she asked. “How is he communicating?”

“Shortwave radio,” Reacher said. “Has to be. Anything else is traceable.”

He swayed and leaned on a tree. Gave her the spread, everything, beginning to end.

“Shit,” she said. “Ground-to-air missiles? Mass suicide? A nightmare.”

“Not our nightmare,” he said. “We're out of here.”

“We should stay and help them,” she said. “The families.”

He shook his head.

“Best help is for us to get out,” he said. “Maybe losing you will change their plan. And we can tell them about the layout around here.”

“I don't know,” she said.

“I do,” he said. “First rule is stick to priorities. That's you. We're out of here.”

She shrugged and nodded.

“Now?” she asked.

“Right now,” he said.

“How?” she asked.

“Jeep through the forest,” he said. “I found their motor pool. We get up there, steal a jeep, by then it should be light enough to find our way through. I saw a map in Borken's office. There are plenty of tracks running east through the forest.”

She nodded and he pushed off the tree. They hustled up the winding path to the Bastion. A mile, in the dark. They stumbled on the stones and saved their breath for walking. The clearing was dark and silent. They worked their way around beyond the mess hall to the back of the communications hut. They came out of the trees and Reacher stepped close and pressed his ear to the plywood siding. There was no sound inside.

He used the wire again and they were inside within ten seconds. Holly found paper and pen. Wrote her message. Dialed the Chicago fax number and fed the sheet into the machine. It whirred obediently and pulled the paper through. Fed it back out into her waiting hand. She hit the button for the confirmation. Didn't want to leave any trace behind. Another sheet fed out. It showed the destination number correct. Timed the message at ten minutes to five, Friday morning, the fourth of July. She shredded both papers small and buried the pieces in the bottom of a trash-can.

Reacher rooted around on the long counter and found a paper clip. Followed Holly back out into the moonlight and relocked the door. Dodged around and found the cable leading down from the shortwave whip into the side of the hut. Took the paper clip and worried at it until it broke. Forced the broken end through the cable like a pin. Pushed it through until it was even, a fraction showing at each side. The metal would short-circuit the antenna by connecting the wire inside to the foil screen. The signal would come down out of the ether, down the wire, leak into the foil and run away to ground without ever reaching the shortwave unit itself. The best way to disable a radio. Smash one up, it gets repaired. This way, the fault is un-traceable, until an exhausted technician finally thinks to check.

“We need weapons.” Holly whispered to him.

He nodded. They crept together to the armory door. He looked at the lock. Gave it up. It was a huge thing. Unpickable.

“I'll take the Glock from the guy guarding me,” he whispered.

She nodded. They ducked back into the trees and walked through to the next clearing. Reacher tried to think of a story to explain his appearance to Joseph Ray. Figured he might say something about being beamed over to the UN. Talk about how high-speed beaming can rip you up a little. They crept around behind the punishment hut and listened. All quiet. They skirted the corner and Reacher pulled the door. Walked straight into a nine-millimeter. This time, it wasn't a Glock. It was a Sig-Sauer. Not Joseph Ray's. It was Beau Borken's. He was standing just inside the door with Little Stevie at his side, grinning.

37

FOUR-THIRTY IN THE morning, Webster was more than ready for the watch change. Johnson and Garber and the General's aide were dozing in their chairs. McGrath was outside with the telephone linemen. They were just finishing up. The job had taken much longer than they had anticipated. Some kind of interface problem. They had physically cut the phone line coming out of Yorke, and bent the stiff copper down to a temporary terminal box they had placed at the base of a pole. Then they had spooled cable from the terminal box down the road to the mobile command vehicle. Connected it into one of the communications ports.

But it didn't work. Not right away. The linemen had fussed with multimeters and muttered about impedances and capacitances. They had worked for three solid hours. They were ready to blame the Army truck for the incompatibility when they thought to go back and check their own temporary terminal box. The fault lay there. A failed component. They wired in a spare and the whole circuit worked perfectly. Four thirty-five in the morning, McGrath was shaking their hands and swearing them to silence when Webster came out of the trailer. The two men stood and watched them drive away. The noise of their truck died around the curve. Webster and McGrath stayed standing in the bright moonlight. They stood there for five minutes while McGrath smoked. They didn't speak. Just gazed north into the distance and wondered.

“Go wake your boys up,” Webster said. “We'll stand down for a spell.”

McGrath nodded and walked down to the accommodation trailers. Roused Milosevic and Brogan. They were fully dressed on their bunks. They got up and yawned. Came down the ladder and found Webster standing there with Johnson and his aide. Garber standing behind them.

“The telephone line is done,” Webster said.

“Already?” Brogan said. “I thought it was being done in the morning.”

“We figured sooner was better than later,” Webster said. He inclined his head toward General Johnson. It was a gesture which said: he's worried, right?

“OK,” Milosevic said. “We'll look after it.”

“Wake us at eight,” Webster said. “Or earlier if necessary, OK?”

Brogan nodded and walked north to the command vehicle. Milosevic followed. They paused together for a look at the mountains in the moonlight. As they paused, the fax machine inside the empty command trailer started whirring. It fed its first communication face upward into the message tray. It was ten to five in the morning, Friday the fourth of July.

 

BROGAN WOKE GENERAL Johnson an hour and ten minutes later, six o'clock exactly. He knocked loudly on the accommodation trailer door and got no response, so he went in and shook the old guy by the shoulder.

“Peterson Air Force Base, sir,” Brogan said. “They need to talk to you.”

Johnson staggered up to the command vehicle in his shirt and pants. Milosevic joined Brogan outside in the predawn glow to give him some privacy. Johnson was back out in five minutes.

“We need a conference,” he called.

He ducked back into the trailer. Milosevic walked down and roused the others. They came forward, Webster and the General's aide yawning and stretching, Garber ramrod-straight. McGrath was dressed and smoking. Maybe hadn't tried to sleep at all. They filed up the ladder and took their places around the table, bleak red eyes, hair fuzzed on the back from the pillows.

“Peterson called,” Johnson told them. “They're sending a helicopter search-and-rescue out, first light, looking for the missile unit.”

His aide nodded.

“That would be standard procedure,” he said.

“Based on an assumption,” Johnson said. “They think the unit has suffered some kind of mechanical and electrical malfunction.”

“Which is not uncommon,” his aide said. “If their radio fails, their procedure would be to repair it. If a truck also broke down at the same time, their procedure would be to wait as a group for assistance.”

“Circle the wagons?” McGrath asked.

The aide nodded again.

“Exactly so,” he said. “They would pull off the road and wait for a chopper.”

“So do we tell them?” McGrath asked.

The aide sat forward.

“That's the question,” he said. “Tell them what exactly? We don't even know for sure that these maniacs have got them at all. It's still possible it's just a radio problem and a truck problem together.”

“Dream on,” Johnson said.

Webster shrugged. He knew how to deal with such issues.

“What's the upside?” he said.

“There is no upside,” Johnson said. “We tell Peterson the missiles have been captured, the cat's out of the bag, we lose control of the situation, we're seen to have disobeyed Washington by making an issue out of it before Monday.”

“OK, so what's the downside?” Webster asked.

“Theoretical,” Johnson said. “We have to assume they've been captured, so we also have to assume they've been well hidden. In which case the Air Force will never find them. They'll just fly around for a while and then go home and wait.”

Webster nodded.

“OK,” he said. “No upside, no downside, no problem.”

There was a short silence.

“So we sit tight,” Johnson said. “We let the chopper fly.”

McGrath shook his head. Incredulous.

“Suppose they use them to shoot the chopper down?” he asked.

The General's aide smiled an indulgent smile.

“Can't be done,” he said. “The IFF wouldn't allow it.”

“IFF?” McGrath repeated.

“Identify Friend or Foe,” the aide said. “It's an electronic system. The chopper will be beaming a signal. The missile reads it as friendly, refuses to launch.”

“Guaranteed?” McGrath asked.

The aide nodded.

“Foolproof,” he said.

Garber glowered at him. But he said nothing. Not his field of expertise.

“OK,” Webster said. “Back to bed. Wake us again at eight, Brogan.”

 

ON THE TARMAC at Peterson, a Boeing CH-47D Chinook was warming its engines and sipping the first of its eight hundred and fifty-eight gallons of fuel. A Chinook is a giant aircraft, whose twin rotors thump through an oval of air a hundred feet long and sixty wide. It weighs more than ten tons empty, and it can lift another eleven. It's a giant flying box, the engines and the fuel tanks strapped to the top and the sides, the crew perched high at the front. Any helicopter can search, but when heavy equipment is at stake, only a Chinook can rescue.