Die Trying

man’s daughter. Then he saw that the General’s finger was resting a half-inch south of a much better location. A little farther north, the road narrowed dramatically. It straightened to give a clear view north and south. The terrain tightened. A better site for a roadblock. A better site for a command post. He was amazed that the General hadn’t spotted it. Then he was flooded with gratitude. The General had spotted it. But he was leaving room for McGrath to point it out. He was leaving room for give-and-take. He didn’t want total control.
    “I would prefer this place,” McGrath said.
    He tapped the northerly location with a pencil. The General pretended to study it. His aide pretended to be impressed.
    “Good thinking,” the General said. “We’ll revise the rendezvous.”
    McGrath smiled. He knew damn well the trucks were already heading for that exact spot. Probably already there. The General grinned back. The ritual dance was completed.
    “What can the spy planes show us?” Brogan asked.
    “Everything,” the General’s aide said. “Wait until you see the pictures. The cameras on those babies are unbelievable.”
    “I don’t like it,” McGrath said. “It’s going to make them nervous.”
    The aide shook his head.
    “They won’t even know they’re there,” he said. “We’re using two of them, flying straight lines, east to west and west to east. They’re thirty-seven thousand feet up. Nobody on the ground is even going to be aware of them.”
    “That’s seven miles up,” Brogan said. “How can they see anything from that sort of height?”
    “Good cameras,” the aide said. “Seven miles is nothing. They’ll show you a cigarette pack lying on the sidewalk from seven miles. The whole thing is automatic. The guys up there hit a button, and the camera tracks whatever it’s supposed to track. Just keeps pointing at the spot on the ground you chose, transmitting high-quality video by satellite, then you turn around and come back, and the camera swivels around and does it all again.”
    “Undetectable?” McGrath asked.
    “They look like airliners,” the aide said. “You look up and you see a tiny little vapor trail and you think it’s TWA on the way somewhere. You don’t think it’s the Air Force checking whether you polished your shoes this morning, right?”
    “Seven miles, you’ll see the hairs on their heads,” Johnson said. “What do you think we spent all those defense dollars on? Crop dusters?”
    McGrath nodded. He felt naked. Time being, he had nothing to offer except a couple of rental jeeps, two years old, waiting at the sidewalk.
    “We’re getting a profile on this Borken guy,” he said. “Shrinks at Quantico are working it up now.”
    “We found Jack Reacher’s old CO,” Johnson said. “He’s doing desk duty in the Pentagon. He’ll join us, give us the spread.”
    McGrath nodded.
    “Forewarned is forearmed,” he said.
    The telephone rang. Johnson’s aide picked it up. He was the nearest.
    “When are we leaving?” Brogan asked.
    McGrath noticed he had asked Johnson direct.
    “Right now, I guess,” Johnson said. “The Air Force will fly us up there. Saves six hours on the road, right?”
    The aide hung up the phone. He looked like he’d been kicked in the gut.
    “The missile unit,” he said. “We lost radio contact, north of Yorke.”

31
    HOLLY PAUSED IN the corridor. Smiled. The woman had left her weapon propped against the wall outside the door. That had been the delay. She had used the key, put the tray on the floor, unslung her weapon, propped it against the wall, and picked up the tray again before nudging open the door.
    She swapped the iron tube for the gun. Not a weapon she had used before. Not one she wanted to use now. It was a tiny submachine gun. An Ingram MAC 10. Obsolete military issue. Obsolete for a reason. Holly’s class at Quantico had laughed about it. They called it the phone booth gun. It was so inaccurate you had to be in a phone booth with your guy to be sure of hitting him. A grim joke. And it fired way too quickly. A thousand rounds per minute. One touch on the trigger and the magazine was empty.
    But it was a better weapon than part of an old iron bed frame. She checked the magazine. It was full, thirty shells. The chamber was clean. She clicked the trigger and watched the mechanism move. The gun worked as well as it was ever going to. She smacked the magazine back into position. Straightened the canvas strap