us.”
“He’s doing it because he’s crazy,” McGrath said.
“He must be,” Webster said. “He’s a maniac. Otherwise I just can’t
understand why he’s trying to attract so much attention. Because like
he says, he holds all the cards already.”
“We’ll worry about that later, chief,” McGrath said. “Right now, we
just need to stall him.”
Webster nodded. Forced himself back to the problem in hand.
“But we need longer than two hours,” he said. “Hostage Rescue will
take at least four to get over here. Maybe five, maybe six.”
“OK, it’s the Fourth of July,” McGrath said. Tell him the linemen are
all off-duty. Tell him it could take us all day to get them back.”
They stared at each other. Glanced at Johnson. He was right out of
it. Just slumped against the rock face white and inert, barely
breathing. Ninety hours of mortal stress and emotion had finally
broken him. Then the radio in Webster’s hand crackled again.
“Well?” Borken asked, when the static cleared.
“OK, we agree,” Webster said. “We’ll fix the line. But it’s going to
take some time. Linemen are off-duty for the holidays.”
There was a pause. Then a chuckle.
“Independence Day,” Borken said. “Maybe I should have chosen another
date.”
Webster made no reply.
“I want your Marines where I can see them,” Borken said.
“What Marines?” Webster said.
There was another short laugh. Short and complacent.
“You got eight Marines,” Borken said. “And an armored car. We got
lookouts all over the place. We’ve been watching you. Like you’re
watching us with those damn planes. You’re lucky Stingers don’t shoot
that high, or you’d have more than a damn helicopter on the ground by
now.”
Webster made no reply. Just scanned the horizon. McGrath was doing
the same thing, automatically, looking for the glint of the sun on
field glasses.
“I figure you’re close to the bridge right now,” Borken said. “Am I
right?”
Webster shrugged. McGrath prompted him with a nod.
“We’re close to the bridge,” Webster said.
“I want the Marines on the bridge,” Borken said. “Sitting on the edge
in a neat little row. Their vehicle behind them. I want that to
happen now, you understand? Or we go to work on Holly. Your choice,
Webster. Or maybe it’s the general’s choice. His daughter, and his
Marines, right?”
Johnson roused himself and glanced up. Five minutes later the Marines
were sitting on the fractured edge of the roadway, feet dangling down
into the abyss. Their LAV was parked up behind them. Webster was
still in the lee of the rock face with McGrath and Johnson. The radio
still pressed to his ear. He could hear muffled sounds. Like Borken
had pressed his hand over the microphone and was using a walkie-talkie.
He could hear his muffled voice alternating with crackly replies. Then
he heard the hand come away and the voice come back again, loud and
clear in the earpiece.
“OK, Webster, good work,” Borken said to him. “Our scouts can see all
eight of them. So can our riflemen. If they move, they die. Who else
have you got there with you?”
Webster paused. McGrath shook his head urgently.
“Can’t you see?” Webster asked. “I thought you were watching us.”
“Not right now,” Borken said. “I pulled my people back a little. Into
our defensive positions.”
There’s nobody else here,” Webster said. “Just me and the general.”
There was another pause.
“OK, you two can join the Marines,” Borken said. “On the bridge. On
the end of the line.”
Webster waited for a long moment. A blank expression on his face. Then
he got up and nodded to Johnson. Johnson got up unsteadily and the two
of them walked forward together around the curve. Left McGrath on his
own, crouched in the lee of the rock.
McGrath waited there two minutes and crawled back south to the
Chevrolet. Garber and Johnson’s aide were in front and Milosevic and
Brogan were in back. They were all staring at him.
“What the hell happened?” Brogan asked.
“We’re in deep, deep shit,” McGrath said.
Two minutes of hurried explanation, and the others agreed with him.
“So what now?” Garber asked.
“We go get Holly,” McGrath said. “Before he realizes we’re