Die Trying

them up the ladder and followed them in through the sliding door. Laid the Barrett on the metal floor and dumped himself into a canvas chair. Pulled his headset on. Thumbed the button and called through to the pilot.
    “Stand by, OK?” he said. “I’ll give you a course as soon as I’ve got one.”
    The pilot nodded and ran the engines up out of idle. The rotor thumped faster and the noise built louder. The weight of the aircraft came up off the tires.
    “Where the hell are we going?” Webster shouted.
    “We’re chasing Stevie, chief,” McGrath shouted back. “He’s driving the truck. The truck is full of dynamite. He’s going to explode it somewhere. Remember what the Kendall sheriff said? Stevie always got sent out to do the dirty work? You want me to draw you a damn picture?”
    “But he can’t have gotten out of here,” Webster yelled. “The bridge is blown. And there are no tracks through the forest. They closed them all.”
    “Forest Service guy didn’t say that,” McGrath yelled back. “They closed some of them. He wasn’t sure which ones, was all. What he said was maybe there’s a way through, maybe there isn’t.”
    “They had two years to spy it out,” Reacher shouted. “You said the pickup had spent time on Forest Service tracks, right? Crushed sandstone all over the underside? They had two whole years to find a way through the maze.”
    Webster glanced to his left, east, over to where the forest lay beyond the giant mountain. He nodded urgently, eyes wide.
    “OK, so we got to stop him,” he yelled. “But where has he gone?”
    “He’s six hours ahead of us,” Reacher shouted. “We can assume the forest was pretty slow. Call it two hours? Then four hours on the open road. Maybe two hundred miles? Diesel Econoline, hauling a ton, can’t be averaging more than about fifty.”
    “But which damn direction?” Webster yelled through the noise.
    Holly glanced at Reacher. That was a question they had asked each other a number of times, in relation to that exact same truck. Reacher opened up the map in his head and trawled around it all over again, clockwise.
    “Could have gone east,” he shouted. “He’d still be in Montana, past Great Falls. Could be down in Idaho. Could be in Oregon. Could be halfway to Seattle.”
    “No,” Garber yelled. “Think about it the other way around. That’s the key to this thing. Where has he been ordered to go? What would the target be?”
    Reacher nodded slowly. Garber was making sense. The target.
    “What does Borken want to attack?” Johnson yelled.
    Borken had said: you study the system and you learn to hate it. Reacher thought hard and nodded again and thumbed his mike and called through to the pilot.
    “OK, let’s go,” he said. “Straight on south of here should do it.”
    The noise increased louder and the Night Hawk lifted heavily off the ground. It swung in the air and rose clear of the cliffs. Slipped south and banked around. Dropped its nose and accelerated hard. The noise moved up out of the cabin and settled to a deep roar inside the engines. The ground tilted and flashed past below. Reacher saw the mountain hairpins unwinding and the parade ground sliding past. The knot of tiny people was breaking up. They were drifting away into the trees and being swallowed up under the green canopy. Then the narrow slash of the rifle range was under them, then the broad stony circle of the Bastion. Then the aircraft rose sharply as the ground fell away so that the big white courthouse slipped by underneath as small as a dollhouse. Then they were over the ravine, over the broken bridge, and away into the vast forested spaces to the south.
    Reacher tapped the pilot on the shoulder and spoke through the intercom.
    “What speed are we doing?” he asked.
    “Hundred and sixty,” the pilot said.
    “Course?” Reacher asked.
    “Dead on south,” the pilot said.
    Reacher nodded. Closed his eyes and started to calculate. It was like being back in grade school. He’s two hundred miles ahead, doing fifty miles an hour. You’re chasing him at a hundred and sixty. How long before you catch him? Grade school math had been OK for Reacher. So had fighting in the yard. The fighting part had stayed with him better than the math. He was sure there must be some kind of a formula for it. Something with x and y all over the damn page. Something equaling something else. But if there was a formula, he had long ago forgotten it. So he had to do it by