“Get in there!” he told the reporter. “Buckle her seat belt! Buckle your own!”
As he hurried around the back of the plane, he heard Tori helping the reporter climb inside. A frantic glance down the lane showed him that the guard was running in their direction.
The guard stopped and fired. Dirt flew near the Cessna’s tail.
Somewhere in that dirt, a bullet’s ricocheting, Page thought.
He drew his pistol and aimed extremely high. If he fired straight ahead, his bullets would drop to the ground before they had a chance to come anywhere close to the distant target. By aiming high, however, he gave the bullets an arc that increased their range. Much of their force would be lost when they landed, but Page hoped they would strike near enough to the gunman to make him pause.
In rapid order, Page pulled the trigger six times. Six clouds of dust burst from the lane in front of the gunman, making him stumble back. Immediately Page ran along the left side of the plane and yanked open the door, scrambling inside.
Tori was in the passenger seat, fastening her belt.
Page jabbed the master switch, turned the ignition key, and worked the throttle. Abruptly the propeller spun, roaring. When he released the brakes, he felt the Cessna bump along the dirt lane. The two additional passengers added weight, reducing the engine’s power.
Come on! Page thought. Move!
Feeling the Cessna bump faster along the lane, Page imagined the guard racing to get within range. He braced himself for bullets that would tear through the rear windscreen and slam into his back-or that would damage the rear wings and make it impossible for him to get the Cessna into the air.
“The plane’s blowing dust!” the reporter shouted from the back. “I can’t see the guard!”
Which means the guard can’t see the plane, Page thought. But that won’t stop him from shooting toward us.
Their speed reached fifty-five knots. Page pulled back the yoke and felt the aircraft leave the ground. He stayed low, wanting to gain more speed before he went higher. Right now distance was the key, not height. When he thought he’d gone a sufficient distance, he eased farther back on the yoke and pointed the plane’s nose toward the horizon.
He was abruptly aware that his shirt was soaked with sweat.
“Tori, take the controls.”
He put on his headset. It muffled the engine’s roar as he activated the radio system.
“Taking back the controls,” he said.
He couldn’t contact Medrano on the police radio. After all, his excuse for entering the prohibited airspace was that the police radio had failed. Instead he used the plane’s standard radio. Although Rostov’s airport didn’t have a control tower, he hoped someone in the office would hear him.
“Rostov traffic. Cessna Four Three Alpha has an injured passenger. A gunshot victim. We need an ambulance at the airport. My ETA is five minutes. Rostov.”
“I hear you, Four Three Alpha,” a voice said through Page’s head- set. It belonged to the man in the frayed coveralls who’d given Page his rental-car papers. “I’ll get that ambulance.”
Page tilted his head toward the reporter in back. “How is she?”
“Unconscious. But it looks like the duct tape sealed the wound.”
To Page’s right, the stock pens outside Rostov came into view, as did the courthouse on the main street. People and vehicles seemed everywhere, exploring the town before night settled and they went to the viewing area.
He descended toward the airport northeast of town, but not before he took a hard look at the collapsed, rusted hangars and the cracked, overgrown airstrip on the abandoned military airbase in the opposite direction. There wasn’t any sign of the vehicles he’d seen on the base the evening before. Beyond the ruin of the airbase, he frowned toward the boulders that looked like giant cinders strewn in a chaotic semi – circle, all that remained of the volcanic rim that had spewed them to the surface eons earlier.
60
Lockhart lay on the ground and spoke into the radio.
“The plane’s taking off. There’s a lot of dust, but I can see that the guard’s still running and firing.”
“Shoot the son of a bitch,” Raleigh’s voice ordered.
“I’m not within accurate range, sir.”
“Get closer.”
“Yes, sir.” He scanned the sky. “It looks like the plane escaped.”
“By tomorrow there’ll be no way to contain this. If I hadn’t put a quarantine on that place, there’d be police cars all over there by now. I don’t want anybody guessing what that facility really does. After you take care of the guard, destroy all the equipment in the observatory. Make it look as if he did it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Remaining low, Lockhart watched the guard continue firing to- ward the departing airplane-he kept squeezing the trigger even after he ran out of ammunition. As the lowering sun made the dust look scarlet, the guard glared toward the sky, then turned and took long, angry strides back toward the first of the three fences.
Lockhart was to the guard’s right, just behind him and about two hundred yards away. Bullets from an M4 could travel that far, but Lockhart couldn’t depend on where they would hit. To stop the guard, rather than merely startle him, he needed to get closer.
Satisfied that he wasn’t in the guard’s line of vision, he stood, tucked the radio into the duffel bag that hung from his shoulder, picked up his M4, and broke into a run. As the man passed the burning van and got closer to the observatory, Lockhart increased his pace, the duffel bag bumping against his side. His thick-soled shoes crunched on the pebbly soil, but the breeze was blowing in his direction, so the slight sound wouldn’t carry.
He couldn’t allow the man to reach the door to the shed. He strained his legs to their full length. Charging across the scrub grass, he ignored the sweat that dripped from his face.
The guard reached the first gate.
Lockhart raced nearer.
The guard reached the second gate.
Lockhart had seen the difficulty that the guard had experienced when trying to shoot through the three fences. Continuing to rush forward, he simultaneously veered toward the lane.
Need to shoot through the open gates, he thought.
A hundred yards.
Abruptly the guard stopped walking toward the tiny building.
Does he hear me? Lockhart worried.
The guard turned, but instead of looking in Lockhart’s direction, he came back and reached for the first open gate. As he started to close it, he froze at the sight of Lockhart racing toward the lane.
Lockhart stopped, raised the M4, fought to control his breathing, and leveled the rifle’s sights on the target. His exertion made his arms unsteady. Years of combat training enabled him to brace his muscles and keep the barrel from wavering.
The guard raised his weapon and tried to shoot first, but nothing happened-he’d used all his ammunition when he’d fired at the air- plane. He turned and ran toward the middle gate.
Lockhart pulled the trigger. The selector switch on his rifle was set to deliver bursts of three shots. The first group missed. He took a deep breath, held it, and fired again.
The guard lurched but kept running. He passed through the second gate and headed toward the final one, each frenzied step taking him farther away, making him a more difficult target.
Lockhart fired another burst, and again the guard seemed to lurch. But he made it past the open-backed truck, disappearing into the darkness beyond the shed’s open door.
Cursing, Lockhart fired into the void of the door. His ammunition ran out, so he ejected the empty magazine, pulled a fresh one from his duffel bag, slammed it home, freed the bolt, and fired yet again through the open door.
Then he realized how out in the open he was and what an excellent target he made now that the guard had been given the opportunity to reload. He darted to the left of the lane, stopping where the three lines of fences provided some cover, and dropped to the ground, making himself a smaller target.