Payback

55

Dean and Karr were supposed to meet the airplane in a small field about five miles north of the city, but when they got there the field was empty. It bore only the vaguest resemblance to an airstrip, and if it hadn’t been for the GPS coordinates, Dean would have continued on. He turned the car off the road and immediately sank into the soft turf. Dubious, he shut off the engine and got out. Karr had already leapt from his seat and was wading into knee-deep grass.

“The field is mud,” said Dean. “How’s a plane going to land here?”

“Maybe he’s just going to slow down so we can jump aboard,” said Karr.

Dean went to the trunk and got their bags. He opened them and started rearranging things, making sure the most important items — like extra bullets — were in a single bag, just in case they had to leave extra weight behind. It reminded Dean of his early days on patrol. Many Marines had realized that luxuries like clean underwear weren’t worth displacing necessities like ammunition. He made those same choices now, unsure of what they were facing.

The A2 rifle was packed in a small box of its own. Both men carried two pistols, one under each arm in shoulder holster. Besides being easier to conceal under a bulky jacket, the shoulder holsters made it easier to retrieve the gun, especially when you were sitting in a car. Dean checked his pistots — both Glocks, solid and dependable 9mm handguns — then filled his pockets with as many extra magazines as he could stuff in.

“It’s only wet by the road, Charlie,” yelled Tommy. “There’s a macadam strip under this dust. Check it out.”

As Dean started toward him, an airplane turned hard around the nearby mountain. It came down so fast it looked almost out of control, more plummeting rock than glider. A small, high-winged plane with a boom tail, one engine at the nose and another at the rear of the cockpit behind the boom, the plane made almost no noise as it landed, bumping along the short field for only a hundred yards before slowing and starting to turn.

The aircraft’s basic shape reminded Dean of spotter airplanes he had seen long ago in Vietnam — Air Force close-air-support planes built by Cessna and officially known as 0-2As. This plane was painted green, the shade so dark it looked almost black. It rode across the field on tricycle landing gear with thick shock absorbers and tall wheels that were mounted four across at the axle.

Dean and Karr ran for their gear while the airplane turned and taxied back toward the end of the runway where it had landed. By the time they caught up to it the front prop had feathered to a halt. The hatch at the side of the cockpit popped open and a short bearded man wearing a baseball cap and a monstrous frown emerged from the craft.

“Fashone!” yelled Karr. “You? What are you doing here?”

“Suck it, Karr,” replied the pilot. He jumped down, kicked at the surface of the field, and shook his head. “This is an improved airstrip, huh? Rockman wouldn’t know dirt from concrete if he ate it.”

“Hey, that’s no way to say hello,” shouted Karr. “Long time no see.” He gave Fashona a shoulder chuck that nearly sent the lightly built pilot tumbling to the ground. “What’s happenin’, my friend?”

“Usual BS,” grumbled Fashona. He went to the belly of the short fuselage and opened the hatch on a cargo bay.

“Hey, Ray,” said Dean. “How are you?”

“I’m all right, Charlie. How about yourself?”

“Pretty good. Lia told me how you saved her in Korea.”

Fashona’s face turned red. “I didn’t save her, man. I just got a plane to where she was. That’s all I did. How is she?”

“Holding up.”

“Yeah, she’s tough. That’s good. Give me your bags. They have to be tied down in the back.”

“What kind of airplane is this, Fashone?” said Karr.

“Knock off the Fashone crap.”

“It’s pretty quiet,” said Dean. He’d met Fashona on his very first mission in, as one NSA briefer had put it, the good part of Siberia. Fashona was a contract pilot for the NSA who could handle everything from helicopters to airliners. He tended to be moody, and Karr always seemed to rub him the wrong way, even though the two men had worked together for a long time.

“The plane is pretty quiet,” Fashona told Dean. “These engines were specially built. But I have to tell you, they would not be my first choice. They’re more temperamental than my first girlfriend. They got borderline personality disorder. For real.”

Dean gave Fashona his bag. The pilot stood five-four or five-five and had to lift the bag up against his shoulder to slide it into the bay because the special gear on the aircraft lifted it so high off the ground.

“Spooks built this plane ten years ago,” said Fashona. “Typical CIA project — you can land the thing in mud just about with these wheels, no one can hear you coming until you’re two feet away, and there’s no stinking heat in the cockpit.”

“So, really, Fashone. What are you doing here?” said Karr.

“Knock off the Fashone crap. It’s Fashona. Uh. Uh.”

“What are you doing here, Ray?”

“I’m on vacation. You brought fuel?”

“We have gasoline in the car,” said Karr.

“Oh, that’ll work great in a turboprop.” Fashona slapped down the cargo hatch. “Rockman said you might have fuel. Of course, he also claimed this was a decent airstrip.”

“Didn’t tell us about it,” said Karr.

“Just as well. Probably be too heavy to take off. You put on a few pounds, Tommy.”

“Get out. You think?”

“You oughta work out like Dean.”

Karr laughed. “I will when I’m his age.”

“Your parachutes are inside.” Fashona pulled open the cockpit door. “You better get it on before we take off. Fat boy in back, Karr. Sit in the middle of the plane. We have to worry about weight distribution.”

“It’s that razor wit that sets you apart, Fashone. That’s why we love you.”

“Wait,” said Dean as Fashona started to climb into the plane. “We’re jumping?”

“Hey, we’ll have chutes,” said Karr.

“Rockman didn’t tell you?”

“No. He’s supposed to brief us once we’re airborne. They’re still pulling information together.”

“Ah. You’ve jumped before, Charlie, right?” said Karr.

“Yeah.” Dean had jumped before, several times — and liked it about as much as putting his finger in a light socket. The last time he had parachuted had been into a desert — and even with all that sand to land on, he’d nearly busted both legs.

“You’re worried because it will be a night jump?” asked Fashona.

“No.” That was an honest answer — Dean hated jumping in daytime, too.

“Hey, if you’re worried, Charlie, we can always do a tandem,” said Karr. “I’ll just strap you onto my belly and away we go. No sweat.”

“Thanks,” said Dean. “I’ll manage somehow.”