by Ted Bell
“What did you say your name was again?”
“Hawke. Lord Hawke.”
“Surname ‘Hawke,’ given name, ‘Lord’?” She went to another screen and started to type it in.
“Correct,” Hawke replied, not bothering to correct her.
“The man you are inquiring about is known to everyone on staff here, Mr. Lord Hawke. His benevolent generosity built the very building you are now standing in. As a most gracious gift to our nation and the beloved city of his birth.”
“Did he really? Built the hospital? Isn’t that interesting? Never mentioned a word to me, but, of course, his modesty always becomes him. Well, thanks for your time, madame, I’ll be off.”
She didn’t even look up as Hawke walked away.
“Oh,” he said, pausing and looking back at her, “one more thing. I can’t seem to find the underground parking garage. Could you possibly tell me where it is located?”
“Closed for repairs.”
“Ah, that explains it. Well, where is the entrance?”
“Closed for repairs, too.”
Hawke turned and crossed back to the counter, glancing up at the closed-circuit TV camera.
“You know, I have a very difficult time believing you. I have seen the architectural renderings the Sheik’s architects used during construction. Which include an entrance to an underground facility. Perhaps we could have a more frank discussion if you took a look inside this newspaper.”
He placed a folded copy of the News on the counter.
She eyed it suspiciously and said, “What is inside?”
“Have a look. It won’t bite.”
She took the paper, opened it, and a letter-sized manila envelope plopped on the desk in front of her.
“And what is this?” she asked, picking it up by a corner and giving it a shake. Curiosity most definitely piqued, he observed happily.
“That, my good woman, is fifty thousand dollars in small bills, all U.S. currency.”
She looked around to see if they were alone, then ripped open the seal. The thick wad of hundred-dollar bills was secured with a heavy red rubber band. Looking nervously about, she thumbed through it, her eyes widening incredulously. Obviously, she’d never seen this much money in her life. Few had. It always had a positive effect on people. Her dark eyes involuntarily registered greed. It was all he needed to see.
Without warning, Hawke’s hand flicked across the counter with blinding speed. He snatched the cash from her hands so quickly she rocked back in her chair in shock.
“About that mysterious underground garage,” he said, slipping the wad into the pocket of his windbreaker.
“Yes? What about it?”
“I want to see it. I want you to tell me how to find the entrance to it. If you do, and I see it for myself, I shall return here and give you this money. Of course, if I discover you have lied, or alerted anyone about my inquiries, you will never see me or the money again. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Use that pencil and draw a simple diagram of where the entrance is located. Quickly, before someone comes.”
As she drew, she told him, in an anxious whisper and with a good bit of detail, exactly where the entrance was located. She folded the map into a small square and placed it on the counter. “You’ll need this, too,” she said, placing a metallic silver electronic reader card on the counter. “After that, there are guards. You’ll be on your own.”
“Thanks so much,” Hawke said, turning and then striding across the inlaid marble-floored room. He paused in midstride again and looked back at her.
“By the way, don’t even think about picking up that phone. If you speak to anyone, or I encounter any unexpected problems, you will never see this money or your family again. Because you will be dead. And if not you, my men will find your family. In the event you keep silent and prove helpful, there is another ten thousand in it for you. Do we fully understand each other, madame? A simple yes or no will do. Now.”
“Yes.”
Hawke observed her carefully. She was telling the truth.
“Good. Let’s hope so for your sake.”
As Hawke rode the elevator down, the mental tumblers rapidly clicked into place. The Sheik had followed the same hallowed tradition the Hamas War Council had adopted during the Israeli conflict in Gaza City.
Hamas commanders had used the Shifa Hospital’s basement as their communications center, issuing orders, paying salaries, and discussing war strategies. The hospital, the largest in Gaza City had been chosen to avoid being targeted by Israel’s military, who knew the location. But it would have been impossible to take out without bombing. Or a massive ground operation and unacceptable civilian casualties.
“Let’s go find Harry,” Hawke said, climbing into the car. “Tonight’s the night.”
“You found out where the Sheik is hiding?”
“I did. It seems he’s in the morgue.”
FIFTY-THREE
THE TEAM STRUCK THAT VERY NIGHT, two hours before dawn. They’d neutralized two security guards standing outside the entrance. Hawke posted Abdul Dakkon outside wearing, as they all did, a headset and lip mike. His job was to alert them of any untoward activity at the hospital entrance. Dressed in a uniform identical to that of the hospital guards, he now cradled one of their Pak G3 assault rifles in his arms. Brock had advised him to select “full auto” and he had. The two unconscious guards, tightly bound and gagged, were in the bushes just behind him, silent as stones.
Hawke, Stokely, Sahira, and Brock had entered the completely empty hospital lobby at varying intervals. The three men were wearing doctors’ robes with authentic name tags and stethoscopes round their necks. Beneath the traditional Pakistani medical garb, each man was heavily armed with automatic weapons, flash-bang and smoke grenades, and extra rounds of ammunition.
Hawke prayed they were sufficiently prepared. It had been difficult enough to plan this assault because no one had the remotest idea what to expect.
Sahira, primly dressed in a Muslim nurse’s uniform, was now sitting at the reception desk where she would remain during the operation. That is, unless she heard otherwise from Hawke in her headset. A code word, “Boom!,” meant the team had discovered the missing nuclear device in the underground bunker and needed her immediate threat assessment. The real receptionist had received the same treatment as the guards outside and was now peacefully supine beneath the counter at Sahira’s feet.
Sahira kept her right hand out of sight beneath the counter.
In her lap was a very lethal pistol. Harry Brock had given it to her at the hotel. It was called “The Judge.” It was a Taurus revolver capable of firing either .45 rounds, or .410 shotgun shells. Her gun was loaded with double-ought buckshot shells. In close quarters, nothing was deadlier than the Judge.
Giving her the loaded gun, Brock had said, “Remember, Sahira, in the eyes of Islamic militants, there are only two places for Muslim women. In the husband’s home. And in the graveyard. Don’t hesitate to use this thing.”
The good news was that Islamabad rolled up its sidewalks at ten o’clock each evening and there was normally little to no walk-in traffic at the hospital at this hour. So far, their luck was holding.
Hawke led his team past the four banks of gleaming elevators. He turned right, entering a long hallway. At the end was a set of stainless-steel swinging doors. The sign above read mortuary/restricted.
Inside the green-tiled morgue, the stinging stench was immediate and almost overpowering. The myriad, nameless chemicals of the constantly processed dead. It was then that Hawke remembered the old trick of rubbing Vick’s VapoRub under one’s nose, but it was too late. At least the place was empty, just as Hawke had hoped it would be.
They quickly moved past the banks of stainless-steel refrigerators to an area where all the mortuary chemicals and supplies were stored. Hawke quickly located the black steel panel in the wall that the VIP receptionist had described. There was a card reader beside
the panel. He swiped the silver card she’d given him and the doors slid open.
Inside the elevator was an identical card reader in place of any buttons. Hawke swiped his card once more and felt his heels lifting in his shoes as the elevator dropped swiftly and smoothly. It was a long ride and Hawke sensed they were going deeply underground. Deep enough so that no American bunker-buster bomb could ever penetrate.
Hawke pulled his SIG P226 Tactical pistol from his thigh holster and chambered a round. The other two did the same. All three weapons had three-inch barrels and were fitted with noise suppressors. And all three men wore Kevlar body armor under their flowing robes.
An electronic ping announced their arrival. They came to a gentle stop and the doors opened on a small room with four opaque white glass walls. Against one wall stood a single wooden chair. A gaunt, bearded man with a gun was seated in that chair.
The lone guard, shocked at their appearance, raised his AK and demanded to know what these three doctors were doing in a secure area.
Brock erupted into a flurry of furious Urdu and Pashtu epithets, barking at the man in loud gibberish, enough to distract him for a moment.
Simultaneously, Hawke brought up his pistol in one fluid movement and put a silent round into the guard’s right eye. The man toppled from the chair and dropped to the floor, blood pouring from his wound, his weapon clattering on the polished white marble floor, even as the three men stepped out of the elevator.
“Okay,” Harry Brock said, stepping nonchalantly over the corpse and looking around the bare room. “Now what? No doors, no nothing. This is it, huh? The Headquarters of the Evil Empire?”
“Has to be something here,” Hawke said, running his hand over the smooth glass wall behind the chair. He moved to the adjacent wall to his right and repeated the process. “Stoke, check that wall to your left.” Stoke did.
“Don’t bother. Here it is,” Hawke said.
“Here’s what?” Brock asked.
“Biometric screening device. Compares stored images of fingerprints with anyone desiring access.”
Hawke placed his hand against the barely visible screen and activated it. A green bar rolled down the small screen, scanning his five digits. It flashed red three times and then shut down.
“Stokely, do me a favor,” Hawke said. “Bring that recently deceased fellow over here, will you please?”
“See that?” Stoke said to Harry as he dragged the corpse over to Hawke. “That’s called using your head. Put the guard’s hand on the screen, right, you see what the man’s thinking?”
Hawke grabbed the corpse’s right wrist as Stoke lifted the lifeless body from the floor. He carefully placed the man’s hand flat against the screen and pressed. Again, the rolling green bar. Again, the five red flashes.
“Shit,” Stoke said, and the three men looked at one another.
“He’s wearing his watch on his right wrist,” Hawke said. “He’s a lefty. Bet on it.”
Hawke placed the dead man’s left hand on the screen, the green bar rolled down, and the entire glass wall suddenly slid into the floor. “That’s what I’m talking about,” Stoke said, peering into the dimly lit corridor that lay beyond the room. Light was visible through the cracks in a pair of double doors at the far end. Hawke held up his hand for silence and began speaking in a calm, low voice.
“Heads up. We stack up outside the door,” Hawke said. “Me, Stoke, then Harry. Assume the door is locked. Assume there will be enemy fire from within. Possible booby traps. Who the hell knows. I’ll fire a short burst at the latch and kick both doors open. Got it?”
The two men nodded silently.
“As soon as the doors are open, I drop to one knee and Stoke skip-bounces a concussion grenade hard off the floor into the room so they can’t toss it back. Then, Stoke, throw one smoke and two frags. I’ll provide covering fire while you do it. Then you stack up again. Our grenades go in, I issue the verbal alert, ‘Frag out.’ If I see any incoming enemy grenades, the verbal alert is ‘Grenades.’ Pick them up and heave them back. Clear?”
“Clear,” Stoke said.
“Clear,” Brock said.
“We go in with weapons in the ready-carry position. Full auto. I’ll cross the threshold, go left, and clear my immediate area. Stoke, you enter immediately following, buttonhook, and clear the adjacent sector. Once we’re in position, I shout, ‘Next man in.’ Brock moves to one side of the door and establishes a center sector of fire coverage. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“We’re going in now,” Hawke said, the pumping adrenaline obvious in his voice. “Ready, go.”
The three men moved quickly to the door and stacked up one behind the other. Hawke fired a short burst into the door latch, took a step back, and kicked it wide open. Hawke took a knee. Stoke pulled the pin on the concussion grenade and overhanded it off the marble floor so hard that it bounced twice going into the room. Then he threw the two fragmentation grenades and a smoke. A good bit of hell broke loose and then some.
A skeleton crew of Taliban militants had been manning a bank of monitors on the far wall. Hawke instantly scanned the command and control room, left to right. The two frag grenades had killed or severely incapacitated some of the men. But Hawke saw six more soldiers who’d been playing cards seated at a round table far to the right. All were stunned, but they had survived unharmed and quickly recovered. Seeing Hawke, then Stokely and Brock enter the room, they grabbed their weapons, threw the heavy wooden table over for cover, raised their AKs, and started firing wildly.
“On your right,” Hawke said, seeing two men dive from behind the table and scramble for cover in a nearby alcove. “Smoke ’em, Harry, and go to cover.”
Brock fired a sustained burst and the two men stopped shooting and living simultaneously. At that moment Harry sensed noise and movement from behind him. He whirled and saw the doors of another elevator opening into the room. Inside were three guys in green surgical scrubs carrying automatic weapons.
Harry began firing into the elevator car before the doors were fully opened. Two of the three Talibs inside never stood a chance. The third was unhurt and had Harry pinned down, crouching behind a very small wooden chair.
“Over here, mothercusser!” Stoke yelled at the last remaining elevator guy, diverting his focus away from Brock. “I’m putting a fatwa on your ugly ass!”
The guy looked wide-eyed at Stoke’s yawning black muzzle and that was his last look ever. Stoke saw Hawke signal and hurled himself across the room to join him.
Stoke and Hawke took cover behind a large slab of marble being used as a desk. Rounds were taking chunks out of the stone. Hawke got Stoke’s attention, mimicked pulling the pin on a grenade, and snatched one from his webbed utility belt. He pulled the pin and let the frag grenade “cook off” in his hand before heaving it over the upended table.
Stoke cringed at Hawke’s decision. Cooking off grenades was an extremely dangerous thing to do since frag fuses were not completely reliable. On the other hand, this action eliminated any chance of the enemy hurling it back.
“One…two…and…” Hawke said before rising up and tossing it across the room where it dropped just behind the table. Ducking down as it exploded, he clapped both hands over his ears. The noise and concussion of the explosion was shattering in the closed quarters. Hawke looked at Stoke. “Ready?”
“Let’s go.”
Back to back, they moved out from behind the safety of the slab of marble swinging their weapons in opposite arcs, ready to kill anything that moved. Nothing was moving. There were four chopped-up bodies behind what was left of the heavy wooden table.
“Find a live one somewhere who speaks English,” Hawke called out. “If you can.”
“Over here,” Brock said.
Hawke and Stoke converged on the guy. Chest wound sucking loudly. Hawke knelt beside him.
“You’re going to be okay. You’re in a hospital after all, we’re getting medics down here right now. I need to kn
ow where Abu al-Rashad is. Is he one of the men in this room?”
“No-o,” the guy wheezed, and you could hear air from deep inside the wound.
“Where is he now?”
“Office.”
“Where is his office?”
“One floor above. That elevator there. Please help me. Am I dying?”
“We are here to neutralize a weapon the Sheik has taken from the Islamabad nuclear arsenal. Where is it? Here in this facility?”
“D-don’t know…”
“I have help standing by on this radio. You want me to tell that doctor to hurry up?”
“Please, God. Please get me a doctor…”
“Is there another way out of this complex? A way for the Sheik to escape?”
“A hidden elevator. Drops down from the ceiling behind his desk. Leads to a door in the morgue.”
“Where would he go? How does he travel?”
“In a body bag. Everywhere.”
“Good God.”
“Please help me. I don’t want to die.”
“No one does,” Hawke said, getting to his feet. He looked at Stoke and Brock and said, “One floor up. We’ll use the elevator with the three dead occupants.”
It was the work of ten minutes to discover that whoever had been there had left in a hurry. Hawke found three half-empty plates of food and three cups of still warm tea on the desk in the Sheik’s office. He looked up at the ceiling and saw the faint outline of a square the size of a small elevator.
“Sahira,” he said into his lip mike, “has anyone left the hospital?”
“No. But about ten minutes ago a Red Crescent ambulance pulled up outside and two medical technicians retrieved a corpse from the morgue and loaded it in the back. Did you find the weapon?”
“No. We have enemy wounded down here. Ring the hospital operator and tell them we need a trauma team down in the morgue. I will meet them there and direct them to the Sheik’s underground bunker.”
“Got it.”