The truck was a late-eighties Toyota 4Runner with torn cloth seats and the smell of oil, gunpowder, sweat, and some type of spice, either ginger or cumin. The cab was filled with the haze of dust from the sandstorm, like a fine talcum powder.
He looked back to the cargo bay where the device, in its box, lay like a piece of forgotten luggage.
The keys. Where are the keys?
He felt around the cab in the darkness. The keys were still in the ignition. Between the seats, next to the stick shift, he felt the warm wood and cold metal of an AK-47.
“Okay, here we go.”
Parker began to turn over the key. He knew that as soon as the first sound of an engine began the guards would start the chase and then Umarov and Yousef would follow. But the truck had been separated from the other vehicles, turned around, and was aimed in the right direction, facing downvalley and toward the edge of the finger. They had planned for an escape with their important cargo if necessary.
The key caused the engine to sputter and then start. Parker shifted into gear. The truck rolled forward, into pitch darkness. After several yards, he reluctantly gave into the reality of his surroundings and turned the headlights on. As the light illuminated the blowing sand in front of the truck, it felt as if a red-hot iron had been pressed against his forehead.
Oh, God.
Severe meningitis meant severe photosensitivity. The disease had started to infect the sac around the brain and spinal cord. The pain was a stark reminder that soon it would be too late for the antibiotic to save him.
The truck started bouncing along the trail. The lights jumped up and down as he tried to focus on the cart path.
Pow, pow, pow.
A rifle started to fire behind him. The person was aiming high. They would be wary of hitting the nuclear cargo with a stray bullet, an advantage that Parker hadn’t anticipated.
Trying to keep his focus in the dark, in the wind, and with the disease making him more and more ill by the second, Parker followed his sense of direction. He sensed the mass of rock just to his left and no mountain face to his right. It would guide him.
Another set of headlights started to follow.
Thwack, thwack.
Rounds began to strike the vehicle. Parker ducked and increased the speed, trying to keep it on the path. Occasionally, a boulder appeared out of the darkness in the center of the path. Parker slammed into one, knocking it off the trail. The jolt made his head feel as if it would split in two. A bullet struck the roof and ricocheted off into the dark, making a brief green-and-yellow glow as it spun into the darkness. Parker tucked lower in the seat, trying to get as much protection as the frame of the truck would provide him.
God, I hope I can make it.
The trail kept going, refusing to bend around the rocky finger. He knew that once he made that turn he would be crossing over into the adjacent valley. Once he made that turn, he’d be provided a few minutes of shelter from the gunfire. But the trail kept pulling him to the right, away from the ridge.
A third set of truck lights started to bounce its reflections off the rocks. This one had an extra set of lights. Parker suspected the last one would have Yousef and Umarov in it — Yousef’s Toyota SUV. The truck in the middle of the chase was a pickup. Looking back, he could see the flash of rifle fire coming from the back of the pickup truck over the front cab.
The second truck seemed to gain on him, coming closer. As when skiing, it was easier in a race to follow the path of someone in front. The one behind could cut the curves shorter. The few extra seconds it took Parker to pick the path were seconds that the following truck didn’t need to waste. All the truck driver had to do was follow the rear lights.
I’m not going to make it.
Scott watched the action, helpless.
“How long can the Predator hold this?”
“In these winds?”
The airman kept the Predator’s thermal sensor focus on the three moving objects. Occasionally short streaks of lights shot out from the second truck to the first one. Only with the thermal sensor was the Predator able to see anything in the gathering sandstorm.
“She’s flying into the wind, and at this headwind she is almost standing still on full power.” The operator seemed to strain with his ship, even though it flew on the other side of a mountain range.
Scott imagined the pilotless aircraft holding itself against the current of the winds above. The engine would be spinning at full speed trying to hold the grade.
“Sir, we need to do something. We only have one missile.”
“What do you suggest?”
The airman lined up the sight on the first vehicle. The Fire button for the Hellfire missile was less than an inch away.
“No. Not that one. That has to be Parker.”
A hand reached over the airman’s shoulder and moved the sight to the middle vehicle. The man’s wrist showed the scars of a bad burn. Scott turned around to see the senior air officer on duty moving the crosshairs of the sight for the younger man.
“This is the one you want. It will give your man more time and block the last vehicle.”
Scott had met Colonel Danny Prevatt briefly. He said he’d only been on duty here for a week, but as a veteran of hundreds of combat missions he was clearly at home in this environment and a good man to have in command. Prevatt seemed to sense the appropriate target as he moved a stub of cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.
“Go.” Scott sensed it was now or never. Parker wouldn’t be there much longer.
Prevatt squeezed the missile trigger.
“Help me keep it on track.” Prevatt continued to press the control against the wind. “It won’t help if the wind pushes us into the first one.”
Scott nervously folded his arms.
“Come on, come on.” It seemed that the missile took minutes to travel to its target; but it only could have lasted seconds. A silent flash of light lit the screen.
“Did you see that?” Prevatt let out a whoop. A ball of flames engulfed what was once a pickup truck. “Hit ’em right in the ass.”
CHAPTER 67
The explosion lifted the rear of Parker’s SUV for a second, but it did more than that to the truck in his rearview mirror. The gunmen who had been firing were gone, turned into dust, as if a vengeful god had struck them down from above. The blast pushed Parker into the steering wheel briefly and then threw him back into the seat. The concussion wave shut off the engine.
The detonation lit a fireball that momentarily blinded him. The pain in his head and eyes felt equally blinding.
“Come on, come on.”
Parker blindly found the key and turned it on, but the engine was dead. Keeping the truck coasting straight, he pulled the AK-47 from the passenger seat, then swung the truck off the road and into a scattering of boulders. He slipped out the door, gun in hand, and retrieved the bomb case from the rear of the truck.
Looking back, he heard another rifle shot and saw the shape of Umarov behind the wreckage, cutting around the wreckage efficiently while firing at him. Or, rather, his vehicle. The bullets chunked into the chassis as Parker slipped into the boulder field, turning into the wind, cutting through the rocks.
Thank God for adrenaline.
Now I need to keep my bearings.
The light of the explosion had illuminated the rocks for a millisecond, and with the light he realized that he had almost reached the point of the finger of rocks. On foot, he cut across where the road couldn’t go. He moved over a slight hill and into the next valley, heading back up into the darkness.