John Ringo: Ghost

“You okay?” he said.

“Now you ask?” she replied. She’d been crying again, but she tried to smile.

“Yeah, now I ask,” Mike admitted. “I’m coming off mission-high. You okay?”

“I will be,” Ashley said. “I don’t want to wait here alone for the police.”

“Five minutes,” Mike said, noticing for the first time that she had a really distinct cleft in her chin. It just made her cuter than before and he had to force down a wave of lust that was truly overpowering. On a whim he decided to take the satellite phone; there was a land-line she could use. Satellite phones couldn’t call 911 anyway, and if she tried she’d get really confused. “At least. I can’t stay, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I really want to know who you are.”

“Well,” he said, grinning, “if you ever see me again, for the first time, be overwhelmed by a wave of lust and need to give me a blowjob right then and there, even if it’s in public. Okay?”

“Sure,” Ashley said, shaking her head. “Men. Maybe not in public, but we’ll talk, okay? This has…”

“Don’t let this put you off of men, God damnit,” Mike said, firmly. “I didn’t risk my fucking life to have you go lesbo. All men aren’t these filth. And if you decide they are, you’re spitting on what I did. Because the good guys want to get laid, too. Understand?”

“Understand,” Ashley said, nervously. “Christ, you sound like my dad.”

“Oh, that’s really what I needed to hear!” Mike said, spinning away. “Five minutes. Minimum!”

“I don’t have a watch,” Ashley said as he disappeared behind the coffins.

“Plenty of them on the bodies.”

The keys turned out to be for a dark green Explorer and he pulled out of the park quickly, stopping only long enough to grab his jump bag where he’d left it. He thought about evidence he’d left behind. Probably enough to convict him. Fingerprints on the back of the van, if they dusted that. Yeah, they would; he’d left footprints on the bumper for sure. And not even Athens PD was going to miss those. He’d kept all his magazines, expended and unexpended, but there were sure to be prints somewhere. On the coffin, too, come to think of it. Damnit, he wasn’t a natural criminal type. Well, might as well hung for a sheep as a lamb, he wanted to find the container vehicle and make sure he’d read the documents right.

To get to Atlanta from there the quickest way was to get on the 10 loop and take it to 316. That led to I-85 and a couple of ways to get to the airport. He’d never been to the cargo side of the airport but he wanted to eyeball the damned thing.

He took the bypass fast, pushing the Explorer up to nearly a hundred and weaving in and out of traffic. He was going so fast that he nearly missed the exit for 316 but caught it just in time, the vehicle swaying perilously as he decelerated for the cloverleaf spiral. He’d decided that if he spotted the vehicle he was going to do something to attract police attention. Ever since 9/11 aircraft had been heavily controlled. But if the aircraft was controlled by the muj, as it probably was, if it got off the ground it was a flying bomb filled with hostages. Better to make sure the truck got stopped before much more could be done to them.

He was headed down 316, fighting the light traffic and, more importantly, the traffic lights, when he passed the turn for Ben Epps airport. He was concentrated on the road ahead of him but out of the corner of his eye, as he blew through the red light, he caught a glimpse of truck lights up the slope to the airport. A fast head check and he cursed luridly.

“Okay, did the fuckers lay a red herring?” he muttered to himself as he pushed the vehicle up to speed, looking for somewhere to do a U-turn. “Or did I read the damned things wrong?” He was sure the truck he’d seen was the same cargo container. It had the logo and in the brief glance he’d gotten he’d thought he saw the bent part in the door.

There was an opening in the median and he pushed the SUV into a tight turn, cutting off a truck that nearly went into the median with a blast of horn, and heading back to the airport.

There was a sign for cargo, which he hadn’t even realized went in and out of Ben Epps, and he followed it. However, as he passed around the end of the runway he could see a guard post. He wanted to call the police, wanted to report what was going on and direct the proper guys to the right place. But he also still hoped he could avoid arrest. He could probably walk, even on torturing the kiddie tango. But “probably” versus twenty years, maybe life, maybe even death… that “probably” was looking mighty thin.

He took a Y corner to the right and continued past the guard post, headed for an apparent circuit of the airport. He could see the cargo container and this time he got a clear view of the back and the dent. It had stopped by a jet and was already unloading coffins onto a lift-truck.

“Motherfuckers,” Mike muttered. Once that plane got into the air, if anyone tried to catch it, it was going to be bad. Fifty dead girls, by his quick estimate. Maybe 9/11 all over again. Muj weren’t supposed to be able to get control of aircraft coming into the U.S. And he’d spend forever and a day trying to find a number that he could use with a satellite phone. “ Hello, overseas operator? I’m trying to find the emergency number of Athens, Georgia, police department. No, Georgia, not Greece. No, the state in the United States, not the country…” No.

He was in a portion of the circle road that was partially screened and he cut his lights and pulled to the side using the parking brake. He put the satellite phone in his jump bag and did a quick mental check of the contents. Besides some notebooks, his laptop and the like, it had an eclectic selection of material. Bottle of water, two power bars, toiletry items, a small thermal survival blanket, small flashlight and a change of underwear and T-shirt.

He opened the door, slipping a toothpick into the stud to keep the interior lights from coming on, and dropped out of the vehicle to the ground, closing the door quietly. He knew what he was planning and he didn’t like it. But he couldn’t contact the police in time to keep the plane from taking off and once it was out of American airspace, tracking it would be problematic. It wouldn’t be headed for anywhere in the Americas, that was pretty certain, so it would have to refuel somewhere. And it was likely that anywhere it refueled, it could get its tail number and transponder changed.

It was pointed basically towards him with most of the activity taking place at the back. There were no lights on in the cockpit so the pilots wouldn’t be looking in his direction. There was a perimeter fence, but that was no problem. The guards might see him, the tangos might see him. Either would probably keep the plane on the ground, good, but also put him in prison, bad. But if he could figure out where they were going, he could vector in a rescue op.

He paused just a moment to think about that one as he crawled to the fence. He had trained for rescue ops, but never actually done one. However, in his training, he’d never once done one clean. No matter what, the hostages always ended up shot to shit. It was one of the team mantras: “It sucks to be a hostage.”

But that was probably how it had to go down. If the police reacted right now, the plane could probably force its way off the ground. Police didn’t think in terms of “it must not take off.” And even if they blocked it, the pilots were probably aware that it was a potential “martyrdom operation” and they’d slam the plane, somehow, and kill the girls.