“I’ll be damned if I’m going to give up on JC,” Ding said as they walked.
“We’re not giving up on anybody,” Clark agreed.
He reached into a pocket of his carrier vest, removed a signal flare, and popped it. A brilliant fountain of green sparks went spinning down the road.
28
Turkey/Georgia Border
2319 Local Time
Wheeler and Ross spotted the signal flare at the same time. The holding pattern they were flying was little different from the ones Delta Air Lines flew over Atlanta. They were loitering seven miles south of the area of operations. That put them beyond the range of shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles, but close enough to return within minutes. Wheeler banked hard, pushed up the power, and made a beeline back to the road.
The signal had been briefed by Clark. A green flare meant return immediately and land east of the flare. Red was an order to bug out. The aircraft had no direct voice contact with the team on the ground—the mission had been put together in a rush, and they didn’t have the right hardware—but in a crisis messages could be relayed between their respective command authorities. So far there had been nothing on the radios, and the green flare was a good sign. Still, the pilots were cautious. They’d watched raptly as the pyrotechnics of a serious firefight had played out. Now they would see the outcome.
Four minutes later the C-41 touched down and came to a stop fifty feet short of the flare, which, at that point, was little more than a heap of green embers.
The scene in Wheeler’s night vision optics was exactly what he’d hoped to see. The team was approaching at double time, seven in all. In the background were the hulks of two devastated vehicles. Wheeler kept scanning the area as Ross went aft to lower the boarding ramp, and finally he realized what was missing.
Ross returned, and announced, “Ramp is secure.” She was already flipping switches.
Clark appeared right behind her, filling the opening of the flight deck door.
“Where’s the box truck?” Wheeler asked.
“Slipped past us. We have to chase it down.”
“But we’re only a few miles from the border. Won’t it have crossed into Georgia by now?”
“Probably.”
“We were given strict orders not to cross any borders.”
“And I’m giving you a stricter order to do what it takes to get our man back.”
Wheeler exchanged a cautious look with Ross.
“Look,” Clark bargained, “it’s not like Georgia is going to start shooting missiles and launching interceptors. We’re talking a few miles, tops. We find this truck, stop it, and duck back out.”
Wheeler remained frozen.
“And if that doesn’t work for you,” Clark added, “you can ride in back and I’ll fly this thing.”
Wheeler studied the big operator, wondering if he was serious. There was nothing in his expression to suggest he wasn’t.
“Mind you,” Clark said, “ifIend up flying…that would be a risk multiplier for everyone.”
The major nodded slowly…because what else could he do? He reached for the throttles, pushed them forward, and soon the C-41 was back in the night sky.
—
Conza groaned as the truck rounded a bend. Every jolt from the creaky suspension, every bump and vibration brought new adventures in pain.
His ribs were the worst. At least one or two had to be broken. Nerve pain seared up his right arm into his shoulder. They had mostly worked him over with a two-by-four, one man battering him while the other held him upright. The boss had looked on approvingly. He vaguely remembered being asked questions. Even more vaguely remembered giving bullshit answers. His head throbbed and his jaw was swollen. Between the beating and the crash of the Black Hawk, he’d had better days.
Still, Conza couldn’t feel sorry for himself. As they’d dragged him clear of the wreckage, he remembered seeing the Turkish crew chief splayed in the dirt. Maybe alive, maybe not. He hadn’t gotten a look at the pilots, but the cockpit had taken the brunt of the impact. The odds that they’d survived weren’t good.
His abductors were responsible for that crash. And another that had claimed fifteen more lives. Conza was surrounded by the saboteurs.
