"Thank you," said the woman who had spoken to them.
Hood said nothing, and Bicking could see that it was very, very easy.
FIFTY-FIVE
Tuesday, 3:52 p.m.,
the Bekaa Valley, Lebanon
The Strikers had taken only what they needed from the FAVs. They were wearing their Kevlar vests beneath their uniforms and their gas masks. Their equipment sacks were packed with neo-phosgene grenades, flares, and several bricks of C-4. They were armed with Beretta 9mm pistols with extended magazines and Heckler & Koch MP5 SD3 9mm submachine guns with additional ammunition. They were also carrying plastic thumbcuffs. These small, lightweight cuffs incapacitated individuals by locking them thumb-to-thumb, knuckle facing knuckle. The cuffs could also be used to create a daisy chain of prisoners.
The team had its orders, which had been given to them during the flight from Andrews Air Force Base. Since they knew that the target was going to be a cave or a base rather than a moving target, they would separate into two teams. The first team would muscle its way inside and incapacitate the enemy. The second team would back them up. The second team would also be responsible for preventing enemy troops from escaping or reinforcements from getting in.
If there were a difference between Colonel August and his predecessor, Lieutenant Colonel Squires, it was that August advocated team play. Squires invariably broke his unit into heavily armed pairs or individuals, each of which had specific goals in a master plan. If any of the tactical goals were not met, one of three things happened. An alternate plan was shifted into place, a backup team went in, or the mission was aborted. In his years of strike force command, Squires had never had to abort a mission. His infiltration techniques were unobtrusive, effective, and always left the target naked and surprised. But August was different. He preferred to hit hard and keep up the pressure. Instead of causing dominoes to fall in succession, he believed in shaking the table.
Corporal Prementine's A-Team, eight soldiers strong, quickly made their way up the dirt road toward the mouth of the cave. They moved single file behind their submachine guns with orders to shoot first and never mind the questions. By the time they reached the slab of coppery neo-phosgene, it had sunk from waist-high to just below the knees. It swirled thickly as the Strikers walked through---like stirred house paint, Prementine thought. The wiry corporal sent Private William Musicant, the company medic, to find and assist the woman the Kurds had been planning to execute.
Before Musicant could fall out, a voice came from their left, from the side of the slope.
"I will dwell in this land!"
Prementine stopped the Strikers with five fingers held face-high, palm-back. If he closed his fist, it would mean to open fire. The Strikers stood with their submachine guns ready. Though the correct password had been given, Prementine knew that it could have been forced from one of the prisoners. He'd wait for the challenge to be answered before continuing.
They watched as a man climbed up past the cloud of neo-phosgene. His hands were raised. His gun hung by the trigger guard, which was around his left-hand index finger.
"Identify yourself!" Prementine said from under his mask.
"The Sheik of Midian," the man replied.
"Hold where you are," Prementine said. The corporal turned his hand sideways, thumb-back. Everyone was to continue what they'd been doing. Private Musicant went to the slope, while the Strikers pressed along the cliff leading to the mouth of the cave. They were less than twenty yards away.
The corporal made his way through the gas, which was now ankle-high. He stopped a few feet from the newcomer. The man kept his hands raised, but pointed down with his free index finger.
"Another of the hostages is down there alive," he said. "The other five are still inside. I have no idea where your van is. They moved it a few minutes ago. Possibly inside. I believe there's also an area in back to which they could have taken it."
Prementine kept his gun on the man as he looked over. He saw Phil Katzen less than ten feet down. He was painfully making his way up the slope. The environmentalist looked up and gave the Striker an okay sign. Below him, August and his team were just arriving. They fanned out along the bottom of the slope, and four of the eight soldiers began to climb. They would take up positions along the slope. To the right, the Strikers had divided. Three of them somersaulted together through the gas to other side of the cave. No one from inside fired at them.
The corporal regarded the man standing in front of him. "Do you know where the prisoners are?"
"Yes," the man replied.
As they were speaking, Musicant returned. He had set Mary Rose down on the road, clear of the gas.
"Report," Prementine said.
"She's groggy but alive," Musicant replied.
"Take her down to Colonel August's group, then help Mr. Katzen," said Prementine. "And give the Sheik your mask."
"Yes, sir," Musicant replied. He was clearly disappointed not to be going in, but his manner was one of aggressive efficiency.
Musicant handed his gas mask to the man. Falah slipped his gun in his belt and pulled the mask on. As he did, Prementine turned to the Strikers at the mouth of the cave. As two Strikers set up a covering fire into the cave, shooting shoulder-high bursts, the other four pulled the wheezing Kurds and former hostages to one side. Clear of the gas, the Kurds were cuffed. Prementine leaned over the slope and held up two fingers. Two Strikers near the top of the slope, scurried up to help recover the ROC personnel. There wasn't time to get them clear of the area. They would be killed with the rest of them if the Tomahawk struck. For now, however, they were moved to the foot of the slope, out of the line of fire.
The six A-Team Strikers regrouped on either side of the cave. They all watched the colonel as he held his hand face-high, palm-forward. An instant later he dropped it. The first two Strikers on either side of the cave tossed flares, then moved in behind them. They hugged the inside wall as the next two Strikers moved in behind them.
The flares revealed five choking Kurds sprawled beneath a thin blanket of neo-phosgene. As the first two Strikers fired short, high bursts into the dying light, the two Strikers behind them moved in to cuff the enemy personnel. Once they'd been taken, the last group of two moved in to drag the prisoners out. When that was done, the two lead Strikers tossed neo-phosgene grenades ahead of them. As they exploded with a dull hiss, the Strikers threw in additional flares and repeated the maneuver.
Outside the cave, Prementine looked at his watch. The Tomahawk was due in seven minutes. He sought out August at the bottom of the slope and held up seven fingers.
August nodded.
Then he held up four fingers.
August nodded again.
Prementine looked at his companion. "We've got four minutes to get in and get the prisoners out." He pointed to the gun. "Use that if you have to. I want my people out of there."
"So do I," said Falah as he started toward the cave.
FIFTY-SIX
Tuesday, 3:55 p.m.,
the Bekaa Valley, Lebanon
Mike Rodgers was standing in the eight-foot-deep prison pit. He stood with his arms stretched above him, his fingers wrapped through the checkerboard grate. That was the only way he could prevent the burns up and down his arms from touching the burns along his sides. As it was, the salty trickle of sweat caused pain which made Rodgers's entire body shake.
Colonel Seden was in the pit beside him. The Turkish officer was awake but in pain. Private DeVonne had been feeding him rice and water until she, Coffey, and Private Pupshaw had been taken away. Except for an occasional moan from Seden and the nervous gum-chewing of the guard, the prison area was quiet.
Rodgers wished he knew why the others had been taken away. He suspected that they had been brought to the ROC. That bastard Phil Katzen must have turned it on and told the Kurds all that he knew about its operation. Then they'd brought out Mary Rose to force her to talk. Rodgers thought he'd heard a gunshot when they had her out there.
He hoped they hadn't murdered the poor woman as an object lesson before bringing out the others. He hoped that almost as much as he hoped that the Kurdish commander remained alive until he could kill him.
Rodgers distracted himself by pushing his palms up against the grate to test it. It was unyielding. He poked a finger through the mesh fence that lined the pit, and dug at the dirt beneath the grate. The chicken wire didn't allow him to push his finger very far, and he gave up.
Then the shells exploded outside the cave. Rodgers stood there, listening. He thought he recognized the distinctive pop of Striker's NQ-doubleB---the Not Quite Big Bertha, their nickname for the compact cannon---but he couldn't be sure. The blast was followed by shouts from the front of the cave and from the sleeping quarters.
As he listened to the commotion, Rodgers took his hands from the grate. He stood unsteadily.
"Colonel Seden," Rodgers said, abandoning any pretense about their real identities. "Colonel, can you hear me?"
The colonel didn't answer. But neither did the guard. The fact that he hadn't told Rodgers to be quiet indicated that something unexpected had happened. Rodgers listened closely for a moment. He couldn't hear the popping of the man's gum. The guard wasn't even there.
"Colonel Seden!" Rodgers yelled.
"I hear you," he responded weakly.
"Colonel, can you tell me what's going on out there?"
"They were... shouting about a gas attack," said the Turk. "The Kurds... were trying to get to their masks."
Then it is gas, Rodgers thought. Colonel August's first-stage attack against a stationary position was to use neo-phosgene gas to incapacitate the enemy. Things were going to be happening quickly.
Encouraged and revitalized and wanting to join the fray, Rodgers pushed up on the grate again.
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 li
ke 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.
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 04 - Acts Of War Page 37