by Tom Clancy
Though it sat there like a perforated manhole cover, he couldn't push it up because of the bolt lying across the center. He tried pushing up one side and then the other, but it was too high. He couldn't muster the necessary force. He attempted to pull it down, but hanging there didn't put enough stress on the grate.
Standing under it, looking up, Rodgers suddenly realized that he needed torque to dislodge it. Painfully pulling off his shoes and socks, he fed the socks through the grate. One on the left side, one on the right. He pulled the ends back in and tied the top of each sock to its own bottom. Then he slipped his fingers through one end of the grate. Pulling himself up, he slid his feet into the stirrups he'd made from the socks.
Rodgers was in agony. His burned skin stretched and bled. But he wouldn't stop. He wouldn't let Striker find him caged like an animal waiting to die. He took a deep breath to increase his body weight. Then he jerked down with his arms while simultaneously kicking up with his feet. He felt the grate shudder. He pulled down with his hands and kicked up again. The center of the grate scraped roughly against the bar. The grate sunk a little on one end, rose a little on the other. Rodgers dropped down, his arms aching.
There were sounds of gunfire now. They were short bursts, cover fire. Striker had definitely arrived.
The top of the pit was rimmed by a metal hoop to which the chicken wire had been nailed. The hoop was slightly smaller than the grate and prevented it from turning further. But the rim was made of brass, which was thinner and softer than iron. The grate was already askew. Weight applied to one spot now might cause the hoop to bend and allow the grate to swing in.
Rodgers stood under the grate where it dipped into the pit. He forced his fingers through the tight spot between the hoop and the grate's edge. Holding tight, he hung straight down. Sweat burned his wounds, and he used the pain to fan his rage. He pulled his knees to his chest and dropped them suddenly. That added force to the downward pull. He waited a moment, then did it again. This time there was a loud screech as the edge of the grate pressed against the inside of the hoop. Rodgers felt the hoop give slightly. He continued to hang on the grate as it forced its way through the metal. After a few seconds Rodgers was able to squeeze through the opening. Fire from his wounds continued to fuel his determination. Though the grate was suspended nearly straight down now, Rodgers hung on. He extended one hand and grabbed the bar in the middle — the bar which had locked him in but now offered a way out. As soon as he had a grip on it, he reached out with the other hand. He hung there for a moment, as though preparing to do a chin-up. His arms were weary and shook violently. His fingers were cramped. But if he let go, he knew he wouldn't be able to jump high enough to reach the bar.
With a cry of hurt and anger, Rodgers lifted himself up so that his waist was bent against the bar. He rested there for a moment, then hoisted a leg over it. He lay flat, arms and legs wrapped around the bar, and shimmied the short distance to the side. When he reached the side of the pit, he stood.
And he screamed. He screamed from the suffering he'd endured, and he kept screaming with the inarticulate voice of triumph. Before the scream had died he'd snatched the bar from between the uprights of his former prison.
"I'll come back for you, Colonel," Rodgers said as he strode down the deserted corridor. There was an engine puttering somewhere in the north. When Rodgers reached the turnoff to the main tunnel, a flare erupted well to his right. He turned. Not to the south, to the flare and the opening of the cave. He knew what was down there. Instead, Rodgers turned to the left.
He moved along the corridor with his back close to the wall. He stuck to the shadows and walked with his knees bent. That allowed him to shift his weight from whichever leg was moving and enabled him to put his bare foot down as quietly as possible.
About fifteen yards in, Rodgers saw empty gun racks and two Kurdish soldiers. One soldier was talking on an old shortwave radio. From his agitated manner Rodgers surmised that he was either briefing a field force on the situation here or else calling for reinforcements. He was armed with a holstered pistol. The other soldier was standing guard with an AKM assault rifle. He was drawing hard on his hand-rolled cigarette. Well behind them were a pair of portable generators venting through hoses which ran along the floor deeper into the cavern.
Rodgers was no more than ten yards from the men. He continued along the wall, moving sideways. He tightened his hold on the iron bar. The pain in his arms and sides made him intensely alert. He stopped. The single overhead bulb lit a wide area around them. If he came any closer he'd be seen.
Rodgers took a moment to decide on the best approach. Then he extended his right arm diagonally so that the tip of the bar nearly touched the ground. He would have one shot.
He flicked his wrist back and then snapped it forward hard, releasing the iron bar. It flew ahead, striking the armed guard in his right shin and bending him hard to that side. A moment after he threw the bar, Rodgers ran at the men. He was there when the guard bent, and he had his hands on the AKMC before the man could straighten and bring it to his shoulder. Rodgers pushed the butt into the man's groin, doubling him over. Then he pounded the side of his fist on the back of his head.
The guard released the weapon and went down. Rodgers drove the stock into the back of his neck and pointed the barrel at the radio operator.
The Kurd raised his hands. Rodgers disarmed the man and motioned for him to get up. He obeyed. Rodgers paused to take the cigarette from the fallen Kurd and poked it between his own lips. Then he retrieved the iron bar and walked the radio operator toward the back of the tunnel where there was a hint of daylight and the generators still puttered noisily.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Tuesday, 3:56 p.m.,
the Bekaa Valley, Lebanon
The A-Team Strikers stopped when they noticed the neo-phosgene gas rising above a portion of the floor of the main cavern. The two point men held up their hands for the others to wait, then went to explore the area.
Corporal Prementine stood with Falah in the mouth of the cave and watched in the dying light of the flare. The section of yellow gas was floating slightly above the rest in an almost rectangular shape. Only heat would cause it to rise like that. Heat from a room underground. An occupied room.
Prementine looked at his watch. The Tomahawk would arrive and detonate in six minutes. If the ROC were within a quarter mile of the cave, in any direction, the explosion would still take them out with it. They didn't have time to get clear. There were still two hostages to locate.
The point men knew that too. One of them reached into his kit and cut off a small block of C-4. He placed it on the door, jabbed in a small timer, and motioned the men back. They all lay flat in the fast-dissipating gas. He joined them a moment later. Five seconds after that the charge detonated.
Iron fragments blew in all directions, zipping over the heads of several Strikers and barely missing Prementine. Gunfire erupted from underground. It drove Prementine from the mouth of the cave and prevented the Strikers inside from advancing.
Prementine realized that PKK fighters must have been able to get togas masks and hunker down below. It was going to be difficult to get them out. There were no lights and the Strikers didn't have a clear shot down the stairs. Grenades weren't guaranteed to take down the enemy, and for all they knew Mike Rodgers and the Turkish officer were being held down there.
The Strikers were going to have to take the room, and quickly. That would entail four men moving forward. Two Strikers would jump down one after the other, quickly identify targets, and open fire. With any luck, their bullet-proof vests would take the brunt of the initial barrage. With a bit more luck they would be able to take out the enemy before anyone realized the Strikers were wearing vests. Once they'd established a beachhead, the other two men would have go down and help finish the job.
It was the most dangerous kind of operation. But given the amount of time left, it was the only option they had.
Prementine moved cautiou
sly into the mouth of the cave. The flares had died and he knew that he was brightly backlit against the blue sky. But no one shot at him. He was far enough back so that the men in the underground room couldn't see him. He raised his hands to give the order which would put the four Strikers on alert: two fingers on each hand pointed up. The point men acknowledged the order with a low thumbs-up. But before Prementine could point his fingers ahead and send the Men crawling over, he saw movement in the back of the cave.
He made two fists to put the men on hold, then watched as one figure and then another emerged slowly from the darkness. The man in front was a Kurd. He held two large, red plastic containers. The man in behind him held a rifle and a bar with a white handkerchief tied to the end. A lit cigarette hung from his lips. Prementine waited anxiously as they came closer to the light.
"General Rodgers!" he said softly as the bare-chested man came closer to the light. The man with him couldn't be the Turkish officer. Rodgers had the gun barrel pointed to the back of his head.
"He's been tortured," Falah said.
"I see," said Prementine.
"As soon as you can, you should get him out of there," Falah said. "I'll go in to get the other hostage."
Rodgers put the white flag down and raised a fist. He wanted the Strikers to wait. Prementine looked at his watch. The Tomahawk would be arriving in five minutes. They had to notify Op-Center in three minutes in order to have time to abort the detonation. The corporal knew that Colonel August would not make the call unless the area had been taken: If the ROC had been moved to some other site, August would be hard-pressed to explain why he ordered the abort. It was not a valid excuse to say, "To save the team and the hostages." In enemy hands; the ROC could be far more lethal in the long term.
His forehead and collar soaked with sweat, Prementine watched as the Kurd walked through the now-harmless white neo-phosgene. He set the containers down a foot behind the opening and unscrewed the caps. Rodgers stepped up next to him. He motioned for the Kurd to raise his arms. The frightened radio operator did so. Rodgers put the rifle barrel under his chin. Using his bare foot, he gently knocked one container over, then the other. The clear contents spread over the floor and poured into the opening.
Rodgers pulled the Kurd back several paces, then casually dropped the cigarette into the gasoline. He continued to walk back as the room below lit up with a loud whoosh.
A rippling wave of heat poured up the stairs; forcing the Strikers to scurry backwards. Shrieks and flame shot up next, followed by burning bodies rushing wildly, sometimes blindly for the stairs.
"Help them!" Corporal Prementine shouted as he ran into the cave. The A-Team rose and Falah rushed in. Together, they pulled bodies from the steps as they emerged. Prementine dodged flames as he raced around the pit to Rodgers's side.
"Glad to see you, sir," he said, saluting.
"Corporal, Colonel Seden is in the back in one of the prison pits," Rodgers said. "The ROC is back there too, down the eastern fork of the tunnel. There are six or seven Kurds guarding it."
Prementine looked at his watch. "There's a Tomahawk due to impact in less than four minutes," he said. "That gives us two minutes to take the ROC." He turned. "A-Team, this way!" he shouted.
The Strikers stopped what they were doing and ran forward. As Prementine waved them down the eastern fork, he pulled his radio from its belt-strap.
"Colonel August," he said, "we need B-Team here as backup. General Rodgers requires medical assistance and there are a lot of wounded Kurds. We're moving ahead to the ROC. Please open the recall line."
"Acknowledged, Corporal," said August.
Prementine saluted Rodgers again as he started down the tunnel. When he arrived, one of his men was already cuffing the Kurd Rodgers had knocked down. The others had continued to the back of the tunnel. The corridor jogged left and right, then opened into a gorge. While the men hugged the wall behind him, Prementine looked out. The ROC was there, roughly fifty yards away. It was sitting under a ledge and facing them. There were two Kurds crouched on the dry brush close to the ROC on either side. At least two men were inside. It didn't appear as if anyone was using the ROC's electronics. Perhaps they didn't know how.
The Strikers had a little over a minute left to "disinfect" the ROC. It was still possible that the Strikers could step on a mine and the Kurds would be able to simply drive the ROC away. The team had to own the vehicle before they called Op-Center.
It struck Prementine as damned ironic that the ROC was bullet-proof and fire-resistant. The only contingency plan which had been designed to deal with a situation like the ROC falling under enemy influence was to destroy it with a missile. Once again he was faced with a situation in which his men would have to charge armed and fortified opponents. And win in sixty seconds.
"Corporal!"
Prementine turned as Colonel August arrived with Privates David George and Jason Scott.
"Yes, sir!" Prementine responded.
"Step aside," August said as the men set down and quickly assembled what they were carrying, their partially dismantled NQ-double B mortar.
"Yes, sir," Prementine said. "But Colonel, that may not—"
"Stow it, Corporal," August said. "I've debriefed Mr. Katzen. He didn't tell the hijackers anything about the ROC's exterior capabilites."
"Understood," said Prementine.
"Grey, Newmeyer," August said, "setup a cross fire on the ROC. If they fire, fire back. But make sure you don't hit the van or you'll blow our bluff."
"Yes, sir," both men replied as they went to opposite sides of the cave. They stayed just within the shadows. One of the Kurds fired a short burst at Private Newmeyer, who returned fire. No one was hit.
When Privates George and Scott were finished, August took a deep breath. He looked at the two men. "We have to allow the enemy to see us," he said. "I'll draw first fire, you follow."
The men acknowledged the order. August drew his Beretta from its holster and stepped from the dark at the side of the cavern. He moved quickly toward the cave mouth followed by the men.
Prementine looked at his watch. They had thirty seconds to place the call to Herbert. Radio operator Ishi Honda crouched beside him.
"Are you ready, Private?" the Corporal asked nervously.
"I've got Mr. Herbert on the line," he said, "and Mr. Herbert's got the White House on another line. I've briefed him. He knows our situation."
Prementine raised his submachine gun, ready to support the team. But his mind was on the missile and what its warhead would do to all of them if it detonated.
Bullets chewed into the cave floor as August came into view. He aimed at the ROC, fired, and kept walking. Prementine and Musicant also shot at the gunmen, and the Kurds were forced back. Privates George and Scott quickly set up the mortar. George aimed it at the van.
Colonel August holstered his Beretta. He faced the van and held up his ten fingers so the men in the window could see.
"Ten!" he shouted, and folded a thumb in. "Nine!" he shouted, and dropped his pinky. "Eight seven six five four"
When he brought down the thumb of the other hand, that was obviously enough for the Kurds. The men on the side of the van scattered into the gorge. The two men who were inside the ROC ran for the passenger's side door. They jumped out and joined their comrades.
"Grey, Newmeyer, cover us!" August shouted. "Striker, advance!" he cried as he led the charge to the van.
Prementine remained behind with Honda. There were ten seconds left on the corporal's watch. Someone fired at August from a hillside. Grey shot back at the gunman and August kept running. He reached the door of the ROC and swung inside, followed by Privates Musicant, Scott, and George.
Prementine's heart drummed as he looked at his watch. There were five seconds left.
August leaned out the door. "It's ours!" he cried.
"Do it!" Prementine said to Honda.
"This is Striker B-Team!" Honda said into the phone. "The ROC is ours! Repeat! The ROC
is ours!"
FIFTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, 8:00 a.m.,
Washington, D. C.
Bob Herbert actually had two lines open to the White House, just in case one of them went down. Martha Mackall's desk phone and also the cellular phone on his wheelchair were both connected to the office of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Herbert was using the cell phone while Martha listened in on the other line. They were alone now, the night crew having left and the rest of the day team focusing on tensions which were still at a peak in the Middle East.
"Striker has retaken the ROC," Herbert told General Ken Vanzandt. "Request immediate Tomahawk abort."
"Acknowledged and hold," said Vanzandt.
Herbert listened as what he called the "ball and chain of command" made its way from the people at the site, through the military bureaucracy, back to the site again. He would never understand why the soldiers on the scene, the people whose lives were at risk, couldn't simply radio the HARDPLACE abort order to the missile. Or at least to Commander Breen on the USS Pittsburgh.
By this time, Vanzandt should have passed the word to his Naval liaison. With any luck, he would call the submarine directly. And promptly. The missile was due to strike in just over two minutes, and there was no window for error or delay. The time it would take a member of this relay team to sneeze could bring the Tomahawk an eighth of a mile closer to its target.
"This is madness," Herbert grumbled.
"This is a necessary checks-and-balances," Martha said.
"Please, Martha," Herbert said. "I'm tired and I'm scared for our people there. Don't talk to me like I'm a goddamned intern."
"Don't act like one," Martha replied.
Herbert listened to the silence on the other end of the phone. It was only slightly more frustrating than Martha.
General Vanzandt came back on. "Bob, Commander Breen has the order and is passing it to his weapons officer."