"If worse comes to worst," he continued, turning away to blow out a stream of smoke, "run like madmen into the jungle. Head south-by-southwest. When you hit water, go downstream. Before then, though, you'll encounter an electric chain-link fence. Find a tree with an overhanging branch to get past it." He thought for a moment. "Oh, and if they do chase you into the jungle, do not use your gun."
"Explain," Julia said.
"Emilio's men used to snipe into the compound from the jungle. They'd take someone out, then fade into the jungle. Back again to kill again, then gone again. It makes the target area virtually useless and frazzles the enemy's nerves."
"What happened?"
Tate took an angry draw on his stogie, then flicked the glowing stub into the sunlight. "They installed these anti-sniper contraptions. One shot and these things shoot back—with lots of firepower. I called a friend of mine, still in SAS. He said they're probably Deadeyes. They monitor the perimeter of the compound, just waiting for some fool to fire a rifle or a pistol, any small arms."
"And when someone does?"
"It's the last thing they ever do. These Deadeyes track the trajectory of the projectile, calculate it back to the point of origin, then make anything at that point of origin disappear—by way of heavy aircraft artillery—all within three seconds of the shot."
Stephen exhaled heavily.
Julia shifted her weight, thinking. "Does that mean anyone chasing us can't shoot either?"
"Not necessarily." His words came laced with the ashy odor of tobacco. "According to my mate, the Deadeyes can be programmed to monitor specific regions, so troops behind them can shoot toward an enemy without triggering the Deadeyes. Handheld remotes control them. They can be turned on and off and redirected instantly. Acoustic and electro-optical sensors identify muzzle-flash signatures, so grenades or firecrackers won't distract them. They're very sophisticated and very dangerous."
Stephen asked, "Didn't your friend wonder what this place was doing with these things?"
Tate shook his head. "I know of an oil sheik with his own fully armed Harrier jet. A Colombian drug lord has a German Leopard tank, top of the line. None of this stuff is as regulated as civilians would like to think."
Julia stood, feeling the weight of the Sig Sauer at the small of her back. "Let's do it, then."
Still crouching, Tate pointed with a chiseled arm. "Go straight back. When you think you must have gone too far, keep going. You'll see the metal door I told you about first. Little farther, you'll find rungs on the left wall. They lead to a hatch inside the compound." He described the surface topography radiating from the hatch: jungle behind, Quonsets before. He told what he knew of the surface guards, their number, stations, and routines. He gave directions to the stairs.
"Beyond that, you're on your own," he finished.
"Uncharted territory," Stephen said.
"Good lu—" He stopped, then gripped Stephen's shoulder firmly, shook his head. "To hell with luck. God be with you." He turned his eyes to her. "Both of you."
At that moment, Julia realized how intensely he wanted to join them, to go all the way and damn the torpedoes. He'd witnessed the mournful aftermath of countless abductions, attended the funerals of people who'd gone to the air base for revenge. He'd been waiting for justice a long time. Now someone was going to try. But he knew it wasn't his time, not yet.
She nodded and turned into the black coolness of the mine. Stephen brushed past her, taking point. Ten paces in, she looked back. Tate was squatted like a guardian troll in front of the radiant mouth of the mine, his forearms resting across his knees. She stifled the urge to call out to him, to plead for him to come. She wanted to say, How can we possibly do this without your help? Instead, she followed Stephen deeper into darkness, wondering if this mine would prove to be their River Styx.
When she turned again, Tate was gone.
ninety-one
Stephen braced his feet and hands against the rusty
metal rungs set in the concrete tube that ascended from the mine like a chimney and pushed his shoulder into the manhole cover above him. It rose slowly, sounding like a mason jar when you unscrew the lid. Blinding light sliced into the pitch darkness of the shaft. And something else. The stench of rot—it pierced his nostrils and stung his eyes, perhaps not as effectively as the gaseous irritants cops use to incapacitate suspects, but enough to force shallow breaths and teary vision. Squinting, he made out the source—and also the reason Tate thought this was a safe entrance into the compound: he was behind a trash container roughly the size of an eighteen-wheeler. Sludge oozed down its side and through unseen holes in its bottom, forming pools that collected tissue paper and cans and other refuse the way tar pits entrap animals.
Metal wheels held the container ten inches off the ground, giving him a view of the base beyond. Straight ahead and down a grassy incline were the Quonsets Tate had described. That's where they'd find the stairs into the underground complex—and Allen, Stephen prayed. He looked off to the right, and his heart jumped. There, a hundred yards away, was the entrance gate and a guard shack. They were the first things he recognized from the home movie Despesorio Vero had smuggled out—the second video, which showed the air base. The sense of being here, of having made the journey in search of his brother, made the hair on his arms stand up.
Two guards were talking, submachine guns at their sides. A collection of battered metal trash cans next to the Dumpster nearly shielded Stephen's position. He and Julia would have to be careful when they emerged.
He eased the cover down, pinching off the light. He snapped on his flashlight. Below him, also clinging to the rungs, Julia peered up.
"Can we get to the stairs?" she asked. Her whispers sounded loud in the concrete shaft so near the enemy.
"I think I spotted the building they're in. There are guards at the front gate, within view. I don't see any way to just slip in. We're near a Dumpster. Maybe we can—"
The entire shaft rumbled around them. Flakes of rust rained down from the bottom of the manhole cover. Under Stephen, one end of a rung popped loose, and his foot sailed into Julia's forehead. She lost her grip. For a moment she remained suspended over the fifty-foot drop to the mine floor, her body wedged diagonally in the shaft; her cheek was pushed into the side; her feet fought for traction on the opposite side.
Stephen's flashlight struck the top of her head and tumbled down, strobing until it hit the earth and blacked out. Julia fell and jerked to a stop as Stephen grabbed the shoulder strap of her knapsack. She flailed her arms in the dark until she found the rungs and pulled herself to them.
Above them, sirens sounded.
ninety-two
Karl Litt had just finished scouring Dr. Rankin's blood off his hands and arms and was watching the last pink swirl slip down the drain when the blast quavered through the bathroom. He gripped the edge of the countertop. It felt like the bumper of a very powerful car, ready to roll. The light flickered. He caught his sunglasses as they slipped off the counter. Someone screamed in the hall— impossibly loud. Then he realized it was the base's air raid siren, which Gregor had made functional shortly after they'd leased the base. He yanked his handheld out of his pocket.
"Was ist los!" he yelled. What's happening?
"Air strike!" Gregor answered. "I saw it. One of the hangars went up. A jet. Here comes—"
Another explosion. This time the thunderous sound echoed through the handheld's speaker, breaking up into squeals and static.
Gregor cursed. "They're after the planes," he said. "I just saw Atropos—the Atroposes—heading for the Quonsets. One of the Cessnas got hit. Karl, get out of there. Get—"