“Where is he?” Tanner said.
“Kruje, along the Croat-Bosnian border. He’s moving by ground, heading east. He’ll cross the border in about fifteen minutes.”
“I need that Blackhawk.”
“George is checking … hold on.” Thirty seconds passed, then: “It’s twenty miles out. Head to the beach and wait. We’ll start working on airspace clearance.”
Ten minutes later the Blackhawk set down in a flurry of sand. A hundred yards away passengers and rescue workers shielded their eyes and stared. The Blackhawk’s rear door opened and the crewman inside waved Tanner over. Hunched over, he sprinted over and leapt in the door. The crewman buckled him in then handed him a pair of headphones. “Can you hear me?” the crewman asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m Brady. You ready to go? If you have to barf, try to aim it at the door.”
Brady gave the thumbs-up to the pilot. They lifted off, banked hard, and headed southeast.
They flew for ten minutes, then slowed and began loitering. “We’re off Cesarica,” the pilot called to Tanner over the headset “Waiting for clearance.”
“Can’t we—”
“Sorry, the Croats are edgy. We’d get a missile up our tail.”
Tanner nodded. He leaned his head back and waited.
Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Then, from the pilot: “We’re clear to the Bosnian border.”
“And then?”
“And then we play it by ear.”
“Where’s the target?”
“He’s crossed the border. Bearing zero-seven-five, range fifty miles. We’re twenty minutes from the border.”
Eighteen minutes later, the Blackhawk slowed again. Tanner craned his neck until he could see forward out the window. In the distance he could see the spined back of the Dinaric Alps. The upper slopes and ridges were lost in fog; here and there were patches of snow.
Tanner waited, his hands clenched into fists. Strapped to the forward bulkhead was a camouflage pack; beside it, an M4 assault rifle. Tanner got the crewman’s attention and pointed. “Mine?”
The crewman nodded. He pulled the pack and rifle down and handed them across. Tanner checked the M4, pulled back the charging handle, and flicked on the safety. He rummaged through the pack and found four grenades — three fragmentation and a flash-bang — a first-aid kit, two spare M4 magazines, a compass, and a roll of “soldier’s fix all” matte black duct tape. Tanner pocketed the spare magazines and left the rest.
Over his headset the pilot called, “Sorry, mister, we’re still — Wait. Stand by.” He came back twenty seconds later “We’re cleared. That don’t mean much, though; most of the factions down there see us as target practice. If we start taking fire, sit tight and listen to Brady.”
“Understood. Where’s—”
“He’s moving into the mountains thirty miles to our east. I’ll have you there in eight minutes.”
The pilot dropped the Blackhawk and banked sharply. Tanner glanced out the window. Tree lines and ridges swept past, a blur of green and gray.
“Crossing the border,” the pilot called “Six minutes to target.”
Tanner picked up the M4 and laid it across his lap. The Blackhawk bucked, then heeled over onto its side. Tanner grabbed the seat frame, grunting against the strain. Crouched on the deck, Brady braced himself against the bulkhead and grinned. From the cockpit Tanner heard a rapid beeping.
“Missile radar below,” the pilot called. “Russian Strela. Hold tight … I’ve gotta throw it off.”
The Blackhawk banked again, rolled nearly onto its back, then whipped upright and nosed over sharply. The engines whined in protest. The stench of aviation fuel filled the cabin.
“Two minutes,” the pilot called.
Tanner glanced out the window. A thousand feet below lay a broad expanse of trees broken by jagged ridges and peaks. Tanner suddenly found himself wondering how close they were to Simon Root’s bunker. Somewhere down there was where all this had begun eighty years earlier. There was still time, Briggs reminded himself. Not done yet.
“Target!” the pilot yelled. “Right side!”
Tanner unbuckled himself and crab-walked to the opposite window. Below he could make out a dirt road winding its way up the mountainside. He glimpsed a truck on the road, slipping in and out of view through the trees.
“On top!” the pilot called. “You got a visual?”
“I see him,” Tanner called.
It was a U.S. Army two-and-a-half-ton truck — a “deuce and a half”—painted black, with an olive drab canvas cover.
“Can you put me down ahead of him?” Tanner asked.
“No problem. How far?”
“I’ll need five minutes.”
“You got it.”
The Blackhawk ascended and surged forward. Sixty seconds later they nosed over and began descending, until Tanner could see treetops flashing beneath the helo’s skids. He grabbed the pack, rifled through it, and tossed everything but the compass, the three fragmentation grenades, and the duct tape.
“What’s that for?” Brady asked.
“Tree trimming,” Tanner replied.
The pilot dropped the Blackhawk into a clearing a quarter mile northwest of the road. “You’ve got your five minutes,” he told Tanner. “The truck’ll be coming from the south,” the pilot said. “We’ll loiter up top and wait for your call.”
Brady handed Tanner a portable radio, then slid open the door. With a teeth-jarring thud, the skids touched down. Tanner jumped out. Brady slammed the door shut. The Blackhawk lifted off and disappeared over the trees.
Briggs started running.
He sprinted through a copse of birch and elder, over a ridge line, and into the draw beyond. Through a second line of trees he stumbled down an embankment, up the other side, and suddenly found himself standing at the road’s edge. To his right the road curved away and down out of view. In the distance he could hear the thumping of the Blackhawk’s rotors.
Tanner held his breath and listened. At first there was only silence, and then, faintly, the grinding of a truck’s engine.
Tanner looked around, chose a tree he thought would suit his purposes, and ran to it. From the pack he withdrew the fragmentation grenades and the duct tape. He clustered the grenades together on the front of the trunk and wrapped them in tape until only the spoons and pins were left exposed.
Down the road, the truck’s engine was coming closer, stuttering and coughing as it struggled up the grade.
He looped his index finger through each of the three pins and jerked them free. He sprinted across the road, threw himself belly first into the ditch, and rolled into a ball.
There was a stuttered crump, followed by the crackling of tree limbs. A wave of air washed over Tanner’s head. He looked up and found himself staring into the trees’ canopy. He scrambled onto the road. Perched horizontally atop its shattered trunk, the bulk of the tree lay diagonally across the road. Tanner crouched behind the trunk, laid the M4 barrel across it, and peered over the sites.
A minute passed, and then another. He should have seen it by now He cocked his head and listened. Silence. No engine. He was lifting the portable radio to his lips when it crackled to life.
“On the ground, do you copy?”
“Roger, go ahead.”
“The target’s taken another road; we missed it.”
“Range and bearing,” Tanner called.
“Half a mile to your southeast — call it your ten o’clock. We’re heading for the clearing. We’ll pick you up—”
“Negative, negative, I’ll go on foot. Stay on the target and steer me.”
“Roger.”
At a sprint, Tanner returned to the clearing, then turned southeast through the forest. Tree branches raked his face and arms. He ducked and skidded, fell, then got up and kept going. After three hundred yards, he stopped, radioed the Blackhawk, and gave the pilot his location.