Page 92 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
Juan and Linc finished kitting out, but in a calm and orderly fashion, moving more slowly but more efficiently than the others.
“We’re out of here in two minutes,” Plata said. “Anyone not geared up and in formation will be left behind.”
Juan stepped over to Plata and pulled on his arm to take him aside quietly. He glared at Cabrillo’s hand on his rock-hard bicep.
Cabrillo lowered his voice and spoke in Spanish.
“I’m not trying to tell you what to do,hermano, but if we form up outside we’ll just be one big target. Better we split up and meet somewhere under cover—somewhere away from the flags.” Cabrillo pointed at the map device on Plata’s wrist.
Plata sneered at him. “Don’t you think I know that? I was planning on running as soon as we got outside.”
“Where to? The traffic control tower?”
“Exactly. Now get your gear on—or get left behind.” He turned to the room. “Line up at the door!”
The Polish twins were first at the door, followed by the others. Plata and Dragu? were next to last, stuffing their packs to overcapacity. Juan and Linc packed lightly, and stood toward the back.
Plata and Dragu? pushed through the crowd.
“Here’s the plan. We don’t know what’s waiting for us out there. We don’t want to be exposed and we don’t want to bunch up. We’ll take off in pairs and spread out. Use the trees or whatever cover you can find. Let’s all meet up at the airstrip tower.”
“That’s a two-mile run,” the Nigerian said.
“You want me to call you a cab?” Dragu? barked.
“What’s the plan after that?” the Brit asked.
“I’ll let you know when we get there—assuming we all make it.”
Plata pointed at the Polish twins.
“You ready?”
The towheaded blonds nodded curtly in sync.
Dragu? held the tent door open.
“Go!”
The rest of the men queued up with their respective teammates. They all listened, half expecting gunshots or explosions as the Poles ran for their lives. Twenty seconds passed.
Nothing.
Plata sent the next pair off, then the others, in staggered intervals. Finally, only Plata, Dragu?, Juan, and Linc were left.
“You coming or not,pendejos?” Plata said.
Linc and Juan squared up at the door. Linc’s sniper rifle was so big and heavy there was no point slinging it, so he hefted it by the built-in carry handle.
Because Linc had his hands full, Juan shouldered the Barrett’s five ten-round .50-cal magazines in his pack, each weighing over three pounds, along with his own spotter’s gear, ammo, and weapons.
Plata stared daggers at Cabrillo. “Better watch your step out there,boludo.”
“Siempre.” Always.
“Dragu? shouted, “Go!”
?
