"Sergeant Grey," August said, "back in harness. Night vision. Tell me what you can see inside the cave."
"Right away, sir."
While Grey grabbed his rifle and headed back to the tree, Newmeyer pulled the night-vision goggles from his backpack. The strap was preset to slip over Grey's helmet and hang over both eyes. The Redfield telescope had been fitted with an adaptor to slip over either eyepiece.
"Sergeant," August said, "it looks like the hostages' feet are tied to ropes inside. See if you've got a shot at whoever's holding those ropes."
"Yes, sir," Grey replied. He began climbing back toward the large branch which gave him a clear view over the other trees.
As he ascended, Grey heard Private Ishi Honda's radio beep. The communications operator answered, listened for several seconds, then put the caller on hold.
"Sir," Honda said calmly, "it's Mr. Herbert's office with an AE update."
AE meant "all ears." Though that usually meant that an immediate evacuation was being ordered, Grey continued to climb.
"Shoot," August said.
"Mr. Herbert reports that seven minutes ago, a Tomahawk missile was fired from the USS Pittsburgh. It will be reaching the ROC in twenty-five minutes. We are advised to abort."
"Advised, not ordered," August said.
"No, sir."
August nodded. "Private George." Sir.
"Let the sons of bitches have it."
FIFTY-ONE
Tuesday, 3:38 p.m,
Damascus, Syria
When the revolver was pressed under his chin, Paul Hood did not see his life race by. As the other two men disarmed him, Hood was overcome with an almost dreamlike light-headedness. The mind's way of dealing with incomprehensible shock? But he was lucid enough to ask himself what the hell he'd been thinking when he'd decided to take on the terrorists. He was a desk jockey, not a fighter. And he'd been so preoccupied with the leader---where he was going and what he was doing---that he'd forgotten all about the men creeping along the wall. As usual, Mike Rodgers had been right about these things. War, he'd often said, was unforgiving.
The men with Hood's guns stepped back. One of them turned. Hood watched the leader move his band forward. There was nothing smug or triumphant about his opponent's manner. He seemed purposeful---no more, no less---as he stopped by the door and looked down the corridor. He nodded once. The man who was watching him turned back. He said something to the soldier in front of Hood. The soldier grunted and looked at Hood. Unlike the leader, this man smiled.
Hood shut his eyes. He said a mental good-bye to his family. Saliva had collected in his throat. He wished he could swallow, but the pressure from the gun barrel was preventing it. Not that it mattered. In a moment he would never again swallow or smile or close tired eyes or dream---
A shot cracked along the corridor and Hood started. He heard groaning and opened his eyes. The man who'd been standing in front of him was on the floor, holding his left thigh. As Hood watched in shock, the other two men went down. Bullets had punched ugly holes in their legs and lower back. Both men were dead.
Hood looked down the hallway and saw the band of ragtag Syrians striding forward. They were a wall of guns, and multicolored robes and intense expressions. As Hood stood there, surprised to be alive and uncertain what to do, the Kurdish leader froze. His men stopped behind him. They were just a few steps away from the door of the reception room. The leader looked at his three fallen soldiers, then turned and began screaming at the Syrians.
Ignored for a moment, Hood ducked back into the security office. Even as he stepped inside, he kicked himself for not thinking to grab one of the fallen men's guns. But it was too late for that, and at least he was alive. Like they used to say in the stock market, bears and bulls can prosper. Pigs don't.
Hood grabbed the phone. "Warner, are you there?"
"Of course!" Bicking said. "What's happening?"
"I'm not sure," Hood said. "Some of those soldiers were just shot by Syrians."
"Great---"
"It may be," Hood said. "I still don't think they were here to help us. Can you hear what the leader's saying?"
"Hold on," said Bicking. "Let me get closer." A moment later Bicking came back. "Paul? His name is Mahmoud al-Rashid and he wants to know what the Syrians are doing. Apparently he'd already told them he was a Kurdish leader, not a Syrian Army regular."
"What did the Syrians say?"
"Nothing," Bicking replied.
Hood looked at the monitor. "Warner, I've got a feeling those Syrians didn't mistake the Kurds for soldiers. I think they knew exactly who they were."
Mahmoud shouted again.
"What's he saying now?" Hood asked.
"He's ordering the men to identify themselves," Bicking said. "He also wants them to take care of the men they shot."
Hood's heart began to beat faster as he watched the screen. "Mahmoud's raising his gun," he said. "Warner, I'll bet my life they're not with him."
"Maybe they're presidential security forces," Bicking said. "Those guys are long overdue."
"I don't know," Hood said. "Listen, Warner. Get back to Op-Center and tell them what's happening. See if they know anything about an undercover counterstrike.
"Wouldn't they have told me?"
"Not on an open line," Hood said. "Security won't matter now."
Mahmoud stopped talking. There was a very short silence, and then the Syrians suddenly fell back a few paces. They opened fire, shooting as one at the main body of Mahmoud's group.
"Shit!" Bicking screamed into the phone. "Paul, I can't hear anything! Too much noise!"
Several of Mahmoud's men fell before they could returrn fire. Mahmoud himself was unable to shoot because his men were in the way. Instead, he motioned the surviving members of his group back. As they ran around him he covered their retreat, driving the Syrians back with a waist-high burst of fire. A few were knocked back, but must have been wearing bullet-proof vests. They got back up again. Mahmoud, however, was not wearing a vest. He appeared to take several bullets before turning and hobbling toward the reception room. As soon as he'd turned, the shooting stopped. The Syrians rushed forward again.
When it was quiet, Hood got back on the phone. "Warner, forget about Op-Center. Get to cover. The Kurds'll be there in a second!"
There was no answer.
"Warner, do it now!" Hood said. "Warner, do you hear me?"
"I hear you," he said. "But maybe there's something I can do---"
"There isn't," Hood said, "except to get your ass into hiding!"
Hood was still watching the monitor as five Kurds entered the reception room. They were followed by their wounded leader. Hood didn't say anything else. If Bicking had managed to hide somewhere, Hood's voice coming over the phone might give him away. He set the phone on its side and continued to stare at the monitor.
As Hood waited, he heard more shots just outside his door. He saw someone coming down the hall. He looked over just as the man who had been about to execute him slid past his door, lying on his back and arching like a worm. He turned onto his side, grimacing horribly for a moment, and then he curled into a tight ball. There were three bloody holes in his chest. His breathing was labored for a moment, and then stopped. His expression did hot relax as he died.
Hood felt sick.
A moment later one of the Syrians stepped over the body. He was a big man, about six-foot-five, with a white kaffiyeh and a full, black beard. The 9mm parabellum at his side was smoking slightly, and there were two bullet holes in the chest of his khaki jacket. He stood there, his frame filling the doorway on all sides.
"You are Hood?" he asked in stilted English. His gravelly voice seemed to come from a cave.
"Yes," Hood said.
The man kicked over the gun that had belonged to the dead man. It spun over on a sheet of blood. "Keep this," he said as he pulled the bottom of his kaffiyeh across his face. "Use it if you must."
Hood picked it up. "Who are you?"
<
br /> "Mista'aravim," he replied. "You stay here."
"I want to go with you," Hood said.
The man shook his great head. "I was told that Mr. Herbert will personally kick my ass if anything happens to you." He pulled a fresh ammunition clip from the deep pockets of his pants and replaced the spent clip in his parabellum.
"What about the others?" Hood asked.
"Look for videotapes in here," the big man said. "If you find them, take them."
"All right," Hood said. "But the ambassador, my associates---"
"I'll see to them," the man said, "and I'll be back for you." With that, he turned and walked back along the corridor.
There was a sudden surge of gunfire in other parts of the palace. Save for the man's heavy footsteps, it was unnervingly quiet in this wing.
Hood returned to the monitor. He watched as the big man rejoined the others. The Mista'aravim were deep-cover Israeli Defense Force commandos who masquerade as Arabs. Herbert had very close contacts with the Israeli military, and had probably asked for help here. Their undercover nature was why the operative wanted Hood to look for tapes: There mustn't be a record of his face.
The five men stood along the wall on either side of the reception room door. They had divided into two groups and were putting something on the marble walls. Hood suspected that it was C-4. They'd use the plastic explosive to distract the Kurds while at the same time creating an opening through which they could fire.
Hood began searching for the tapes. He found two half-inch videotape machines in a cabinet under the console. He popped the tapes from each. Then he stopped and swore.
The tapes weren't the only records of the Mista'aravim. The Kurds had seen them too. For that, they would have to die. And to make absolutely certain that they did, the Israelis would probably pepper the room with gunfire before they went in. That was how the Israelis worked. Sometimes the good had to be sacrificed with the bad for the benefit of the rest.
But that wasn't how Hood worked. He picked up the phone.
"Warner," he whispered, "if you can hear me, stay put. I think all hell's about to---"
An instant later all hell did break loose. The alabaster walls exploded chest-high on both sides of the door and the masked Israelis stood at the openings. As the Kurds opened fire on them, the faster, more powerful Israeli rifles replied with one, deadly voice.
FIFTY-TWO
Tuesday, 3:43 p.m.,
the Bekaa Valley, Lebanon
When he saw the spray of blood, Phil Katzen screamed curses at Kurds. Oblivious to the sharp pains in his side, he tried to crawl up the slope to the roadway.
Falah laid his guns down. He put his arms around the American's waist and held him back. "Wait!" he cried. "Wait! Something is not right---"
Katzen pressed his forehead to the dry earth. "They killed her. Shot her without a thought!" He pounded his fists slowly on either side.
"I don't think so," Falah said. "Shhh... I think I hear her."
Katzen quieted. He heard the grinding of gears as the ROC drove off. Then he heard whimpering from the ledge. "Mary Rose?" Katzen wondered aloud. Other than the sobbing, there was absolute silence. Katzen glanced over at Falah. "If she's alive, something must have happened to the man who was going to shoot her."
"That is true," Falah said. He retrieved his guns. "It was probably his blood we saw."
"But how?" Katzen asked. "I don't see how any of the other prisoners could have escaped. There were iron grates on those pits."
"No one escaped," said Falah. "If they had there would be shouts, running around. Just the opposite has happened. No one is moving." He looked off to the south. He squinted. "If it was the Kurd who was shot, he had to have been picked off. I shut down the radio an hour ago. That would have enough time for a quick 'go' decision and rapid-deployment ingress."
Striker, Katzen thought. He followed Falah's gaze.
Before Katzen could scan the trees for movement, someone shouted from above. He was yelling in English, threatening to kill three hostages.
"He's not talking to us," Falah said. "Someone sniped the killer. He's talking to them."
"If that's true," Katzensaid, "the ROC may spot whoever's out there."
"We can't even take the ROC out," Falah said. "It seems the Kurds have moved it." He climbed over Katzen and handed him one of the guns. "You stay here. I'm going to try and find them, warn---"
Before he could move farther, there was a faint pop and then a whistle from the southeast. Katzen looked up as a small, black projectile rocketed toward the cave. Another came seconds later, followed by a third. They exploded in rapid succession, sending out thick copper-colored clouds.
"Neo-phosgene!" Katzen said.
"What?" Falah asked.
"A new lung agent," Katzen said. "It induces asthma-like effects for about five minutes. Striker's the only team that has it."
At full dispersion the gas seemed to freeze, like cotton. Within moments the liquid content evaporated and the remaining vapor sunk to the ground in a thick pancake. The edges of the pancake crept toward the edge of the slope and spilled over. The men watched as Mary Rose fell forward. Her torso dopped over the ledge and she lay there gasping for breath.
"Come on," Katzen said. "The cloud itself will turn white and non-toxic in about two minutes. We may be able to get our people out before the Kurds recover."
"No," Falah said. "You stay here. Your broken ribs will slow us both down."
"Horseshit," Katzen said. "I'll look after Mary Rose, but I'm coming up."
Falah agreed, and began clawing up the slope. His speed and dexterity momentarily took Katzen aback. Being out of the field so much these days, he sometimes forgot the breathtaking skill with which indigenous people maneuvered in their native terrain.
Stretching out his leg on the side with the broken rib, Katzen tried to immobilize that side as much as possible. Tucking the gun in his belt, he began crawling up. All the while he cast looks above, to the south, and below. Despite being out of the field, he didn't forget the swiftness and surprise with which Striker struck. If neophosgene gave them a five-minute window to get in and wrap things up, they'd be here with everything wrapped up in five minutes or less.
As he was looking south, Katzen heard footsteps on the road above. He looked up. Falah was still climbing and the gas was still brownish, still potent. He couldn't see the road itself, but he saw the edges of the cloud swirl as though people were moving through it. Then someone appeared beside Mary Rose. He was wearing a camouflage uniform and a gas mask. He knelt beside her, put his arms around her shoulders, and carefully pulled her from the slope. Then he put her over his shoulder and was gone.
Falah practically vaulted up the last few yards to the ledge. Standing just outside the clearly defined edge of fire gas, Falah looked back at Katzen. The Israeli smiled enthusiastically, gave Katzen a thumbs-up, then ran in the direction of the cave.
There was no longer any need for Katzen to continue his climb. With pain stabbing him from jaw to waist, he gladly settled belly-down on a soft patch of grass. He breathed using the "Buddha" technique he'd learned in first aid. He expanded his belly rather than his chest to minimize the pain of the broken rib.
As he lay there, contentedly listening to a concerto of faint but regular wheezing and the stop-and-start crunch of boots on dirt and pebbles, he was shocked alert by the sound of gunfire. From the echo, it sounded as if it were coming from deep within the cave.
Pulling one knee and his palms underneath him, Katzen struggled to drag himself the rest of the way up the slope.
FIFTY-THREE
Tuesday, 3:45 p.m.,
Damascus, Syria
Mahmoud had been leaning with both hands against a table beside the mahmal when the wall of the reception room blew in. He'd wanted to be a part of the defense of their small bastion, but he hadn't the strength. He hadn't even been able to check the room for stragglers who might have survived the blast engineered by their suicide bombe
r, Saber Mohseni.
Already weakened by a bullet in the leg and another in his left side, Mahmoud was shaken to the ground by the blast. Though shamed by his infirmity, he avoided the scythe of gunfire which slashed once across the room chest-high, and then once back again knee-high. The other Kurds were not so lucky. They'd taken up positions behind chairs and columns in the center of the room, braced for an attack. But the powerful Turkish-made G3 rifles cut them apart.
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 04 - Acts Of War Page 35