This pleasing prospect only made the trip to it seem that much longer. But in due time they reached a place where they could finally stand on hard and reasonably level ground. Olivia was all for stopping there and having a little snack, but Jake talked her into clambering up over the spur. This they did easily, even riding the bicycles for part of the way, and finally attained the flattish top of the great outcropping, from which they could look back the way they’d come and see John still sitting on the red ATV a couple of miles behind them, as well as enjoy a previously hidden vista to the north.
Several miles away, their path was barred by a high ridge running approximately east-west that Jake assured them was north of the border. Far below them, and a little closer, was a dark green kettle in the terrain, producing a dim roaring noise and partly shrouded in humidity. This, Jake said, was American Falls, which, as the name implied, was just south of the border. Between those two landmarks, and making use of a compass, it was easy to envision the east-west line of the forty-ninth parallel running between them.
All they had to do was get there; and that, Jake said, was straightforward from here on out. He had printed out some maps of the area and added hand-drawn notations showing them useful landmarks and telling them what to avoid.
This, in other words, was where they would be parting company. Olivia thanked him, and even hugged him, hoping that she was not trespassing on any moral/religious boundaries by doing so. Sokolov shook his hand and thanked him politely but, as she thought, a trifle coldly. Later, maybe, she could find out what he really thought of Jake and his people. But maybe she was misreading the situation; perhaps the Russian’s coolness, his evident haste to be finished with the pleasantries, was just him being focused on the mission (he would probably think of it as a mission) at hand: getting out of this country and figuring out what was going to come next. And for a man in that state of mind, being able to look out and see the border engendered a powerful urge to get moving and get it behind him.
So Jake turned back and coasted on his bicycle down the side of the spur to a place where it became positively dangerous and then hopped off it and resumed the arduous trudge back across the talus slope. Olivia, who had been known to harbor slight feelings of resentment when she found herself obligated to give a friend a lift to Heathrow, felt ashamed by comparison.
But she was with a man who had little time or patience for such ruminations, so they were on their way as soon as they could down a few swallows of water and finish their candy bars. The north side of the spur was a different proposition from the one they had just climbed, being flatter, smoother, and easier to move on at first. They were pushing and sometimes carrying the bicycles, picking their way down among huge shivered boulders, headed for a stretch of talus that would take them down into the tree line a couple of hundred meters below.
Olivia had been hearing a dim whacka-whacka-whacka noise for a few moments.
“Helicopter,” Sokolov said, and drew into the shadow of a boulder, indicating with a look at Olivia that she might want to do the same. They laid the bikes on their sides and then squatted down.
A minute later, a small helicopter, moving at a leisurely pace, traversed across the broad valley to the west of them, headed generally north. It slowed and descended as it drew closer to the falls and hovered there for a couple of minutes. Then its tail elevated, and it began to head north.
“Do you think they’re looking for us?” Olivia asked. “They’re not cops.”
Sokolov seemed to have been thinking quite hard about the same question. He shrugged. “It is not how I would do it,” he said. “But someone is looking for something. It is better that we not be seen.”
“In a few more minutes, we’ll be down in the trees,” she pointed out, tapping a notation on Jake’s map.
“Then let us go that way while they are looking at something else,” Sokolov suggested, and rose to his feet and picked up his bicycle.
The chopper, flying quite close to the ground now, had disappeared from view among the convolutions of the ridges and valleys. Sokolov now set a pace that Olivia was barely able to keep up with. He was too much the gentleman to leave her far behind, but she did not want to make him stop and wait any more than was strictly necessary. They soon emerged from the boulder field and began to pick their way straight down the talus slope toward the trees.
The footing was treacherous and demanded all her attention. So she almost rear-ended him. He had pulled up short and was holding out a hand for silence.
“What?” she asked. She had veered to the left to avoid a collision and now found herself nearly abreast of him.
“Shooting, maybe,” he said.
They stood absolutely silent for a minute, then two, then three. Finally Sokolov began to breathe more deeply and to show interest in things around them. He hitched his bottom up onto the seat of his bicycle, got a foot on a pedal, and eyed the slope below. Wondering if he could take it on wheels. Olivia was praying he wouldn’t.
“Interesting that there is no more helicopter,” he pointed out.
“Maybe they landed.”
“Blades would still be moving, I think.”
His sentence was punctuated by a sharp bang, impressively loud even though it was at a great distance. Echoes continued to reach them, reflecting from various slopes, for what seemed like a full sixty seconds afterward.
Sokolov’s eyes met Olivia’s. He saw the uncertainty on her face. Read her mind, perhaps, as she got ready to put forth the theory that it was a big tree branch snapping, or a stick of dynamite going off in a mining operation.
“Ordnance,” Sokolov said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“We are in some kind of little war.” Then, seeing a look of incomprehension or disbelief on her face: “Jones is here.”
SEAMUS DID NOT have a direct line of sight to what happened above, but his eyes saw a sort of blood comet hurtling upward just a moment before his eardrums were all but staved in. The comet expanded and faded to a bank of pink fog that, mercifully, was blown in another direction by the light breeze coming up out of the valley.
Yuxia was standing next to the helicopter, where she had been bantering with the pilot, trying to get his mind off his troubles. She had belatedly clapped her hands over the side of her head and was standing there with her mouth in an O, eyes darting around uncertainly. Richard Forthrast seemed to have been taken by a dizzy spell and sat down roughly on the ground and hugged his knees, staring in an unfocused way in the general direction of the explosion. Seamus noted with approval and interest that, even as Richard had been semicollapsing to the ground, he had taken care to manage the shotgun hanging from his shoulder, making sure that its barrel did not dig into the ground and get jammed with dirt.
“Care to fill me in on anything?” Seamus asked, when he felt as though he had some chance of being able to hear the answer.
“That was my friend Chet,” Richard answered.
“The casualty on the rock?”
Richard nodded. “He had a claymore mine strapped to his chest. He was going to use it on those guys, if he got an opportunity.”
“Well, I guess an opportunity presented itself,” Seamus said. It was not an exquisitely sensitive thing to say. Richard’s eyes jumped quickly toward his face, checking for signs of archness. But Seamus had said it, and meant it, quite seriously. Richard broke eye contact and squinted up the slope.
“The question is how many did he get?”
“There were two jihadists?”
“And one man-eating cougar.”
Now it was Seamus’s turn to look at Richard for signs of sarcasm. But the latter had deadpanned it.
“If the jihadists had a lick of sense,” Seamus said, “they wouldn’t have been standing right next to each other. We had better assume that at least one of them is still alive. And it is safest to assume that he is the sniper.”
“And here we are with a shotgun and a pistol,” Richard pointed out.
“What is that thing loaded with? Slugs or—”
“Buckshot,” Richard said. “Four shells remaining.”
“What are these words?” Yuxia asked.
“All the guns we have,” Richard explained, “can only hit things that are close. Up above us, we think is a man with a gun who can hit things from far away.”
Seamus considered it. “If there’s anything to your Wikipedia entry, you know the way from here.”
“That much of it is actually true,” Richard said.
“If the three of us go together, the following will happen,” Seamus said. “The sniper will come down here and—” He nodded toward the chopper and flicked his thumb across his throat, indicating the likely fate of the crippled pilot. “Then he will track us down the valley and try to pick us off one by one. So that’s not what we’re going to do.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Richard asked him.
“A man in his element. Here’s how this is going to go. I am going to find a blind where I can hang out. You two, Richard and Yuxia, are going to get out of here and try to find your way to safety. If the sniper comes here, I will kill him. If he follows you, then I will follow him. That’s good for the pilot”—he nodded toward the chopper—“because he’s got enough warm clothes and water and stuff to stay alive here for a little while as long as fucking jihadist snipers aren’t coming after him.”
“What about the man-eating lion?” Yuxia put in.
“Fuck!” Seamus said, and then immediately felt bad since it made Yuxia flinch. “I don’t know. I’ll warn the pilot. Tell him to keep the door closed.”
A moment passed.
“What are you guys waiting for?” Seamus asked.
JUST BEFORE AWAKENING, she had dreamed of the flight from Eritrea, the six-month barefoot march into the Sudan and the quest for a refugee camp willing to take her group. The faces had faded from her memory, but the landscape, the vegetation, the feel of the march had stayed with her and become the continuo line underlying many of her dreams. Usually it was northern Eritrea, which they had marched through during the first days of the journey, when her mind had been fully open to the new sights and impressions that, once they hiked free of the caves in which she had spent her earliest years, seemed to present themselves to her every moment. The terrain was endless brown hills separated by the arroyos of seasonal streams and barely misted with scrubby vegetation. Nothing like the terrain she was running through now, densely grown with huge cedars and carpeted with ferns. But she knew that if she gained enough altitude, she would find herself in territory like what she and Chet had traveled through yesterday: steep, wide-open country where you could see for miles. And going there was not optional. If she stayed to the low moist valley of the river that flowed south from American Falls, it would lead her off in the wrong direction, taking her down into the basin of a major lake system that drained southward. It might be two days’ hiking down into those lakes before she could reach a place where she could summon help. To reach Uncle Jake’s, she would have to climb out of the valley and above the tree line to the lower reaches of Abandon Mountain, which she would have to traverse for several miles until she came to the headwaters of Prohibition Crick. That bit, she already knew, was going to be the desperate part: that was where she’d have to summon whatever it was the leaders of her refugee group had summoned on the worst days of their trek, when they were tired, short on food and water, and being pursued by men with guns.
The only thing that was going to make it possible was that she had a head start. The jihadists would have to climb farther out of the valley than she would. Even so, it was a long climb; and she feared that they would be able to narrow the gap, or even catch up with her, before she broke out above the tree line and into country where it would be impossible to hide.
So there was only one thing for it, and that was to run like hell and not stop for anything. She had grabbed all the water she had—the CamelBak pilfered from the Schloss, about three-quarters full—and as many energy bars as she could stuff into her pockets, and then simply lit out in the direction Richard had indicated. Down below, the jihadists were making it easy for her by shouting to one another and communicating on loud walkie-talkies.
Her first objective—which she achieved perhaps half an hour after parting from Richard—was to make contact with a trail that switchbacked up out of the gorge. The idea of following a marked trail was ridiculous in a way, since the jihadists would use the same route, and therefore be on her tail the entire way. But the terrain left no choice; the slope seemed nearly vertical when viewed from below, and it was a wildly uneven jumble of fallen, rotting logs. To bushwhack to the top would have taken days, if it were possible at all. Switchbacking up the trail, Richard had assured her, could be done in hours by a man carrying heavy cargo on his back.
She didn’t reckon she had hours.
She slammed to a halt when the trail came into view, then retreated several paces and squatted in ferns to listen and think for a moment. While she was doing that, she sucked water out of the tube of the CamelBak and forced herself to eat a food bar. The sounds being made by the jihadists had become fainter during her run, which was of course better than the alternative, but still no reason to relax. If they knew what was good for them, they were talking less and running more, working their way down the bank of the river and looking for the head of this trail, just a few hundred yards below where she was now perched.
She had been peeling off layers as she ran, tying them around her waist, and was now dressed in a black tank top and cargo pants with the legs rolled up to expose her calves. She understood now that she would have to discard the outer layers. They would do nothing but slow her down. And they were bright pastel colors that could be seen for miles. The Girl Scout in her was screaming that it was a bad idea, that she’d become hypothermic the moment she stopped running.
But if she stopped running, she would be dead much sooner from other causes. So she dropped all those layers of fleece that Jones had bought for her at various Walmarts, stuffing them under a rotten log where men running up the trail would be unlikely to notice them, and went on with nothing except the clothes on her body and the water pouch slung on her back.
And then it was just switchbacks and switchbacks, seemingly forever. She struggled, every second, with the desire to slow down, to stop and take a rest, reminding herself over and over that the men behind her were used to scampering around Afghanistan like mountain goats. For all she knew, Jones was putting guns to their heads to force them to go faster. So she tried to remember what that was like—Jones putting a gun to her head—and to use that to eke out a little more speed. As much as fear told her to keep looking down, her brain told her to keep looking up, trying to make out the next leg of the switchback on the slope above her. For sometimes these things were designed as much for erosion control as for hiking efficiency, and there might be places where she could dash straight up the slope for, say, fifty feet and thereby cut off hundreds of feet of a switchback’s apex. She perceived a few such opportunities and took them, arms flailing and legs scrambling as some part of her mind told her, If I had only stayed on the trail, I’d already be long past this point! Listening to that voice, then, she ignored a couple of such opportunities and then heard another voice saying, If you had taken the shortcut, you’d be way ahead. There was no getting away from those voices, so she tried to take each opportunity that looked worth it. The jihadists, she knew, didn’t have to make such choices; they could split up and send half the group one way and half the other, let the best men win.
Which, if true, must mean that they were getting widely spread out on the trail below her. She wouldn’t have to contend with all of them at once.
Thank God Jahandar had stayed behind. But she’d been taking a silent inventory of their weapons and seen other guns perfectly capable of killing at long range.
She had no concept of time’s passage and had forgotten to count switchbacks. But she had the clear s
ense that the canopy overhead was thinning out, the light growing brighter, the switchbacks becoming less acute as the slope abated.
She got to a point where she simply could not run anymore, so she permitted herself to drop into a brisk walk while she drank more water—she hadn’t been drinking enough, the CamelBak was only half empty—and ate another couple of bars. She was now on something that almost felt like a proper hike through the woods. Still gaining altitude but no longer with the sense of clinging to a cliff face. Gazing ahead and up-slope through increasingly common gaps between trees, she saw the high terrain that she had both longed for and dreaded all through the ascent, and towering above it the bare scarp of Abandon Mountain, which had nothing to recommend it as a tourist attraction unless you were a big fan of bleak. It looked like a science-fiction magazine cover, a mountain on some dead moon of Jupiter.
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