Two hours. Less if he ran flat out, which he would.

Stoner looked back at the village. He couldn’t see everything that was going on, but he heard more vehicles arriving, and guessed that the Iranians were reorganizing. They would try to surround the area next. They would concentrate on the north, since it was easiest to travel in that direction. Going east meant crossing the desert hills. It was also the direction of the air base, which the Iranians would assume was an unlikely destination for the men they pursued, since it was their own stronghold.

Turk’s plan was their best bet, definitely.

“Let’s do it,” said Stoner, starting to run.

STONER’S QUICK ACQUIESCENCE TOOK TURK BY SURPRISE. He hesitated a moment, then started to run after him. By the time he was halfway down the hill, Stoner was some ten yards ahead. The distance between them increased rapidly, until finally Turk had to yell to the other man to stop.

“Hey!” he yelled. “I can’t keep up. Hey!”

Stoner turned and stopped, waiting for him. Exhausted from the sprint, Turk slowed to a trot; by the time he reached Stoner he was walking.

“You have to move faster,” Stoner told him. His voice and affect were so flat that under other circumstance, they might have been comical.

“I’m sorry.”

“Here. Give me your gun.”

Turk hesitated. “But—”

“Give me your gun and get on my back.”

“On your back?”

“I will carry you. Let’s move. Come on.”

“I’m keeping my gun,” said Turk, still unsure this was going to work. But he decided it was silly to resist, and so when Stoner turned around, he climbed on, piggyback style. Stoner began running, slowly at first but quickly gathering speed. Turk guessed he was going as fast as he had been before, maybe even faster.

They ran like that for nearly forty minutes, Stoner keeping the same pace over the rocks as he did over level paths. Turk knew of Stoner’s rescue by Danny and the others; he’d heard a small amount of his history. But he hadn’t spent any time with him, and he’d thought, quite frankly, that some of the tales of his prowess and strength were exaggerations. Clearly they weren’t. He was amazed at the man’s strength and endurance, which not only was superior to his own but far exceeded even that of the Special Forces soldiers he’d been with.

They stopped to rest and scout their position on the eastern side of a hillock, in a bend in a trail. The base was four and a half miles away; Turk could make out the concrete expanse of the runways in the distance.

He’d told Stoner they would steal a truck at the base, not a plane. He was afraid Stoner would think taking a plane was too wild, too crazy. To a person who didn’t fly, it probably was. But the more Turk considered it, the better the odds seemed.

“They don’t man the perimeter,” said Stoner, gazing in the direction of the base.

“They didn’t the other night, but there are posts and—”

“No one is in them.”

“You can see that far?”

“Yes.”

“What are you, Superman?”

Stoner stepped back, glaring at him.

“I didn’t mean that as an insult,” said Turk. “I’m just amazed you can see that far. And hell, you’re—strong.”

“There were operations. There are downsides and costs.”

“Yeah?”

Turk waited, but Stoner didn’t explain.

“I don’t think they’re following us,” Turk said finally.

“They will.” Stoner turned back in the direction of the base. He pointed. “If we go north and then follow the pipeline, they won’t see us, even if they do man the closest lookout. There is more cover farther east, along the main line. We can move behind it, then around into the facility from the north. It is in our interest to move as quickly as possible,” he added. “Get on my back.”

AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER TURK AND STONER crawled on their hands and knees behind the scar of the pipeline, moving to an access road on the north side of the base. The nearest observation post was five hundred yards to the west, and it would be difficult for anyone to see them as long as they stayed low to the ground.

Even crawling, Stoner was fast. Turk followed as quickly as he could but still fell behind. The piles of dirt were of different heights, jagged both at the top and the sides, and Turk found himself wending around them like a caterpillar. Losing sight of Stoner, he resisted the temptation to stand, continuing in the dirt until his stolen pants were worn through at the knees. Finally he twisted around a fat mound of sand and found Stoner studying the fence and the facility beyond.

They were near the point where he and Grease had gone in before. A truck was parked about twenty yards up the road, facing the eastern end of the base and away from them.

“Sorry it took me so long,” said Turk, scrambling up behind Stoner.

“Mmmm.”

Stoner stared at the truck. It seemed to Turk that he was gauging whether to take it. Turk turned his gaze toward the rest of the base, scanning the runways. He’d been right about the aircraft he’d seen earlier; they had landed here.

A chime sounded—a wristwatch alarm on Stoner’s arm. The Whiplash operative reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a small cardboard container about the size and shape of the matchboxes that bars and restaurants once gave away. He slipped it open and dumped the contents into his mouth.

“What are you doing?” asked Turk.

“Meds.”

“What kind?”

“All kinds.”

“Is that alarm to remind you?” Turk pointed at the watch.

“Every day. Sometimes more.”

“What’s in them?”

“Different things.” Stoner shrugged. “It’s how I live.” He pointed at the truck he’d been watching. “We can get it from the back. We’ll break through the fence there and keep going.”

He started to rise.

“Wait,” Turk told him, grabbing his arm. “You see over there? The planes? They’re F-4 Phantoms. They’re being fueled on the apron, at the end of the north field.”

“Yes?”

“They’re two-seaters. We could take one. It’s farther than the truck, but if we go straight across the field here, we can get there before anyone sees us.”

“There is someone with binoculars on the building,” said Stoner. “They’ll see us.”

“We’ll be at the planes by the time they send someone to get us,” said Turk. “Look, they’re being refueled. We can fly out. We’ll take one right to Kuwait. It’s what? Forty minutes, max. We’ll be home free.”

“You can fly it?”

“I can fly anything.”

“What about those?” Stoner pointed to a pair of MiGs parked on a second apron closer to the buildings.

“They’re better planes, but they’re one-seaters,” Turk said. “So unless you can fly, too, we want one of the Phantoms.”

“We will have to run across open land,” said Stoner. “It will take time.”

“Me, yes. Not you.”

“Go!” was Stoner’s answer, jumping up and dashing toward the planes.

THE FIRST OF THE PILLS WAS JUST STARTING TO TAKE effect as Stoner began to run. He could feel the stitch in his side melt. The dark blanket that had begun to descend on his head evaporated. The pills counteracted some of the remaining poisons in his body, but also replaced the hormones he could no longer manufacture. Most important, the drugs supplied part of the boost his organs had been trained to need.

No one had ever asked what was in them before. Stoner himself didn’t know.

Four men were near the planes. One was overseeing a fuel hose by the wing of the lead plane. Another was back by the fuel truck. The last two were loading something beneath the plane—a bomb, Stoner assumed.

There were other men and vehicles back near the hangars, half a mile away, working on the MiGs.

If something went wrong, he would blow up the tanker truck, then go and get the security vehicle sitting back by the terminal. Most likely they would come to him, responding as soon as they saw the attack.