I put down the binoculars and slowly brought up the Model 70. I had a variable power scope on it which I habitually kept cranked to maximum magnification. The figure of the man leaped at me through the glass.
I put the crosshairs on his chest, studied him. Even through the shimmering air I could see the cloth he wore on his head and the headband that held it in place. He was wearing light-colored trousers and a shirt. And he was holding binoculars pointed precisely at me.
I heard a rustle behind me.
"Freeze, Julie," I said, loud enough that she would plainly hear me.
She stopped.
I kept the scope on him, flicked off the safety. I had automatically assumed a shooting position when I raised the rifle. Now I wiggled my left elbow into the hard earth, settled the rifle in tighter against my shoulder.
He just stood there, looking right at us.
I only saw him because he was silhouetted on the skyline. In the shade under this brush we should be invisible to him. Should be.
Now he was scanning the horizon again. Since I had been watching he had not once looked down at the foot of the cliff upon which he was standing.
He was probably a city soldier, I decided. Hadn't been trained to look close first, before he scanned terrain farther away.
After another long moment he turned away, began walking slowly along the top of the cliff to my right, away from the Osprey. I kept the crosshairs of the scope on him until he was completely out of sight. Only then did I put the safety back on and lower the rifle.
"You can come in now," I said.
She crawled back under her bush.
"Did you see him?" I asked.
"Yes. Did he see the airplane?"
"I'm certain he didn't."
"How did he miss it?"
"It was just a little out of sight, I think. Even if he could have seen it, he never really looked in the right direction."
"We were lucky," she said.
I grunted. It was too hot to discuss philosophy. 1 lay there under my bush wondering just how crazy ol' Julie Giraud really was.
"If he had seen the plane, Charlie Dean, would you have shot him?"
What a question!
"You're damned right," I muttered, more than a little disgusted. "If he had seen the plane, I would have shot him and piled you into the cockpit and made you get us the hell out of here before all the Indians in the world showed up to help with the pleasant chore of lifting our hair. These guys are playing for keeps, lady. You and me had better be on the same sheet of music or we will be well and truly fucked."
Every muscle in her face tensed. "We're not leaving," she snarled, "until those sons of bitches are dead. All of them. Every last one."
She was over the edge.
A wave of cold fear swept over me. It was bad enough being on the edge of a shooting situation; now my backup was around the bend. If she went down or freaked out, how in the hell was I going to get off this rock pile?
"I've been trying to decide," she continued, "if you really have the balls for this, Charlie Dean, or if you're going to turn tail on me when crunch time comes and run like a rabbit. You're old: You look old, you sound old. Maybe you had the balls years ago, maybe you don't anymore."
From the leg pocket of her flight suit she pulled a small automatic, a.380 from the looks of it. She held it where I could see it, pointed it more or less in my direction. "Grow yourself another set of balls, Charlie Dean. Nobody is running out."
I tossed her the binoculars. "Call me if they come back," I said. I put the rifle beside me and lay down.
Sure, I thought about what a dumb ass I was. Three million bucks! — I was going to have to earn every damned dollar.
Hoo boy.
Okay, I'll admit it: I knew she was crazy that first day in Van Nuys.
I made a conscious effort to relax. The earth was warm, the air was hot, and I was exhausted. I was asleep in nothing flat.
The sun was about to set when I awoke. My binoculars were on the sand beside me and Julie Giraud was nowhere in sight. I used the scope on the rifle to examine the Osprey and the cliff behind it.
I spotted her in seconds, moving around under the plane. No one else visible.
While we had a little light, I went back for the Humvee. I crawled up on it, taking my time, ensuring that no one was there waiting for me.
When we left it that morning we had piled some dead brush on the hood and top of the vehicle, so I pulled that off before I climbed in.
Taking it slow so I wouldn't raise dust, I drove the mile or so to the Osprey. I got there just as the last rays of the sun vanished.
I backed up to the trailer and we attached it to the Humvee.
"Want to tell me your plan, Charlie Dean?" she asked. "Or do you have one?"
As I repacked the contents of the trailer I told her how I wanted to do it. Amazingly, she agreed readily.
She was certainly hard to figure. One minute I thought she was a real person, complete with a conscience and the intellectual realization that even the enemy were human beings, then the next second she was a female Rambo, ready to gut them all, one by one.
She helped me make up C-4 bombs, rig the detonators and radio controls. 1 did the first one, she watched intently, then she did one on her own. I checked it, and she got everything right.
"Don't take any unnecessary chances tonight," I said. "I want you alive and well when this is over so you can fly me out of here."
She merely nodded. It was impossible to guess what she might have been thinking.
I wasn't about to tell her that I had flown helicopters in Vietnam. I was never a rated pilot, but I was young and curious, so the pilots often let me practice under their supervision. I had watched her with the Osprey and thought that I could probably fly it if absolutely necessary. The key would be to use the checklist and take plenty of time. If I could get it started, I thought I could fly it out. There were parachutes in the thing, so I would not need to land it.
I didn't say any of this to her, of course.
We had a packet of radio receivers and detonators — I counted them — enough for six bombs. If I set them all on the same frequency I could blow up six planes with one push of the button. If I could get the bombs aboard six planes without being discovered.
What if there were more than six planes? Well, I had some pyrotechnic fuses, which seemed impractical to use on an airplane, and some chemical fuses. In the cargo bay of the Osprey I examined the chemical fuses by flashlight. Eight hours seemed to be the maximum setting. The problem was that I didn't know when the bad guys planned to leave.
As I was meditating on fuses and bombs, I went outside and walked around the Osprey. There was a turreted three-barreled fifty-caliber machine gun in the nose of the thing. Air Force Ospreys didn't carry stingers like this, but this one belonged to the Marine Corps, or did until twenty-four hours ago.
I opened the service bay. Gleaming brass in the feed trays reflected the dim evening light.
Julie was standing right behind me. "I stole this one because it had the gun," she remarked. "Less range than the Air Force birds, but the gun sold me."
"Maximum firepower is always a good choice."
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
We discussed contingencies as we wired up the transfer pump in the bladder fuel tank we had chained down in the cargo bay. We used the aircraft's battery to power the pump, so all we had to do was watch as three thousand pounds of jet fuel was transferred into the aircraft's tanks.
My plan had bombs, bullets, and a small river of blood — we hoped — just the kind of tale that appealed to Julie Giraud. She even allowed herself a tight smile.
Me? I had a cold knot in the pit of my stomach and I was sweating.
SIX