Hera grew tired of waiting. She started for the fence, planning to cut through and then flank the whole line of them behind the piers. But before she got very far, someone began firing in her direction. She froze as bullets cascaded overhead.
The slugs chewed everything up in front of her, including the body of one of the prisoners. She started backing away. Then a tremendous explosion scooped her up and tossed her toward the rear of the pen.
Flash had blown up one of the gas tanks.
DANNY CARRIED MCGOWAN’S LIMP BODY TO THE RAMP AT the end of the trench. He put him down as gently as he could, tipping his shoulder forward and going to a knee to keep the dead man from flopping down. He winced as McGowan’s head thumped against the dirt.
“I’ll be back. I promise,” Danny told him.
He turned and ran to the perimeter fence, not even ducking, though bullets were flying everywhere. Another emotion had overcome fear, or suppressed it: recklessness.
It was a strange combination, to be scared of dying yet not caring at the same time.
Danny felt the force of the exploding gas tank even from where he stood. He dropped down to his knees.
“Hera, where are we?” he barked over the radio.
There was no answer. Danny ran toward the pen. God, I’ve lost another, he thought.
“Hera?” he repeated. “Hera.”
“I’m still in the pen. Still pinned down. One of the gas tanks just blew, but they turned the machine gun around on the southeast corner.”
Danny was at the fence of the prisoner area. The machine gun was at the corner of the perimeter, ahead to his right. He’d be under direct fire if he approached.
“Boston, where are you?” he said.
“Same old, same old,” said Boston. “South of the road.”
“That machine gun on the southern end in front of you—can you get some grenades in it?”
“Already trying, boss.”
“All right. Get their attention. I’ll get them from back here.”
“Working on it.”
The roof of the post was thick and sharply angled, designed to deflect grenades and absorb what didn’t bounce off. But its defenses were oriented outward, and Danny reasoned if he could get close enough, he could get his own grenade into it.
The problem was getting close enough to get a shot without getting killed. Having gone to the trouble of reorienting his machine gun so he could fire into the compound, the gunner wasn’t skimping on bullets.
Danny pushed his shoulder against the perimeter fence as he ran forward, staying on his feet until he saw the flickering yellow of the machine-gun muzzle as it fired. He put a grenade into the launcher and crawled forward to get a better angle, almost swimming in the mud.
How long had it been since he’d done something like this? He couldn’t even remember doing it in Dreamland.
After ten yards he still didn’t have much of a shot. The perimeter fence was in the way—he worried that if the grenade struck it, the shell might bounce back at him.
His best alternative was to shoot through the fence. The machine gun continued to fire, blasting away at the pen. Danny raised his right knee under his chest, then levered himself into flight. The world blurred into a black swirl as he ran, flames circling in the distance.
He was almost to the fence when he saw someone on his left.
One of the Sudanese soldiers crouched on the ground, staring at him with wide eyes, the outline of his body black against the background of the flames of the gas tank near the entrance to the camp.
The eyes showed surprise, and a question: Are you going to kill me?
Danny had no choice. The barrel of the man’s gun was already swiveling toward his chest.
Danny reached for his gun’s trigger, pulling twice. Six bullets flew into the space between the man’s eyes, permanently shutting them.
The machine gun stuttered on, the gunner oblivious to everything but the dancing shadows in the prisoner pen. From his perspective, that was where all the trouble was; he would kill them all.
The fence gave way as Danny hit it. He sprawled forward against the chain links, abruptly stopping at a forty-degree angle. He pushed up, toes digging into the spaces in the fence. He surged forward, despite his fear. The links scraped against his knees.
His recklessness fled. But he was trapped now, unable to do anything but continue his attack.
The fence tottered forward but didn’t fall. Danny reached the top and stuck his rifle through the gap under the razor wire.
He could see the machine-gunner’s face, lit by the reflection of the nearby tank fire.
Not only was the launcher’s trigger heavy, but the rain and exertion had stiffened Danny’s muscles and dulled his sense of touch. The grenade leapt from the gun. The gunner started to duck, but it was far too late; the grenade hit the wall behind him and exploded.
“Hera! Go!” yelled Danny, pushing to slide back down the fence. “Go! Go! Go!”
HERA POKED TARID TO MAKE SURE HE WAS STILL ALIVE. HE groaned.
“Come on,” she said in Arabic. She pushed herself under him, then levered him upward, half dragging and half running toward the back of the pen. The machine gun had stopped, but there was still sporadic gunfire around the compound.
“Who are you?” muttered Tarid in Farsi as they reached the fence.
Hera told him in Arabic that she was there to rescue him.
“Why?” he asked, this time in Arabic.
“I’m with Kirk.”
“And who’s he?”
“A bigger fool than you are,” she said. “He thinks he can make money off of this.”
She’d practiced the answer; they wanted Tarid to think it was being done for money, the only motive an arms dealer would embrace.
Hera pulled him from the pen, rushing toward the hole in the perimeter fence. She saw a body at the foot of the trench as she neared the minefield, but didn’t realize it was McGowan.
There was nothing she could have done if she had.
Tarid felt his strength and senses returning as they started through the minefield. Adrenaline started pumping again. A bullet had slapped against the fleshy part of his right thigh, burning and causing a great deal of pain but, as bullet wounds went, very little damage.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked Hera.
“Outta of this crap,” she said.
“You’re with the American CIA?”
“There’s a laugh,” she said. She switched to Greek, telling him he was an ignorant jerk. Then she switched over to English.
“Are you CIA?” she asked. “Is that why Kirk rescues you?”
“Me?”
“You are pretending to be Iranian. That’s not true, is it?”
“I am Colonel Zsar’s lieutenant,” Tarid insisted, going back to Arabic.
They reached the end of the minefield. Two other prisoners were sitting nearby. Hera let Tarid slip to the ground. The field was littered with prisoners, some wounded, others too scared to move or unsure where to go.
McGowan was supposed to be out with the prisoners, directing them to run south while waiting for Tarid. They were going to help him get farther away, then play it by ear.
She couldn’t see the other trooper. She’d been assigned to hold by the perimeter fence in case there was a counterattack. If she wasn’t there, the others would be trapped inside.
“Mac?” she yelled, turning around. There was no answer. She yelled again and called for him in Greek.
Tarid collapsed to the ground. With his wounded leg, he wasn’t going anywhere.
“Wait here, you,” Hera told him in English. “I return soon.”
DANNY MADE HIS WAY BACK ALONG THE PERIMETER FENCE.
“Where’s Tarid?” he asked the Voice.
“Beyond the minefield.” The computer gave him the GPS coordinates.
“Flash, Hera, we’re out of here.”
“I’m coming out,” said Flash.
“Hera?”
“I’m at the perimeter fence. I’m holding.”
“Good. Copy. Boston, get to the rendezvous point.”
“On it, Chief.”