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 cautiously 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."
"That's another fifteen-second delay---"
"Look, we're moving this as fast as we can."
"I know," Herbert said. "I know." He looked at his watch. "It'll take them at least another fifteen seconds to transmit. Longer if they're---shit!"
"What?" said Vanzandt.
"They can't use a satellite to relay the abort code," Herbert said. "The ROC has a window of interference that's going to screw up the download from the satellite."
Vanzandt echoed Herbert's oath. He got back on the phone to the submarine.
Herbert listened as the general spoke to Captain Breen. He wanted to wheel himself into a closet and hang himself. How could he have forgotten to mention that? How?
Vanzandt came back on. "They realized the satellite wasn't responding and switched to direct radio transmission."
"That cost us some time," Herbert said through his teeth. "The missile's due to impact in one minute."
"There's still a bit of a window in there," said Vanzandt.
"Not much of one," Herbert said. "What'd they pack in that Tomahawk?"
"The standard thousand-pound high-explosive warhead," said Vanzandt.
"That'll take out ground zero plus a fifth of a mile in every direction," Herbert said.
"Hopefully, we can pull the plug well before then," said Vanzandt. "And if we do, then just the missile blows. Not the warhead. The team should be okay."
Herbert felt a jolt. "That's not true. What if the missile blows in the cave?"
"Why would it?" Martha asked. "Why would the missile even go into the cave?"
"Because the new generation of missile operates via LOS," Herbert said. He was thinking aloud, trying to figure out if he was right. "In the absence of geographical data, the Tomahawk identifies its target through a singular combination of visual, audio, satellite, and electronic data. The missile probably won't have visual contact because the ROC is behind a mountain, and the satellite's been shut down. But it will pick up electronic activity---probably through the cave, which is the most direct path. And the missile will go after it along that route. Sensors in the nose will warn it to stay away from everything which isn't the ROC, such as the sides of the cave."
"But not people," Martha said.
"The people are too small to notice," Herbert said. "Anyway, it isn't the impact I'm worried about. It's the abort itself. Even if the order is transmitted in time, it'll come when the missile is already inside the cave. Everything in the cave will be caught in the explosion."
There was a short silence. Herbert looked at his watch. He grabbed the phone to Ishi Honda.
"Private, listen to me!" Herbert said.
"Sir?"
"Take cover!" he yelled. "Any cover! There's a chance the missile's going to abort in your laps!"
FIFTY-NINE
Tuesday, 4:01 p.m.,
the Bekaa Valley, Lebanon
Mike Rodgers had no desire to watch the B-Team Strikers help the Kurds. They were pulling burning bodies from the hell of the burning headquarters. The Strikers used dirt from the floor of the cave and even their own bodies to extinguish flaming clothes and hair and limbs. Then they began carrying them outside, to the light, where they could be given at least basic first aid.
Rodgers turned his own burned body from the rescue effort. He didn't like what he was thinking and feeling---that he hoped they suffered. Each one of them. He wanted them to hurt the way he did.
The general let his head roll back. Pain continued to flare along his arms and sides. Pain caused by a willful disregard for every legal and moral code. Pain ordered by a man who demeaned his cause and his people by inflicting it.
Rodgers walked back into the cave. He would rescue Seden later. Right now, he wanted to see if there was anything he could do to help take back the ROC. The ROC which had been his to command, which he had lost.
He listened as he approached. There were gunshots, followed by Colonel August counting down. He arrived just as Ishi Honda radioed Op-Center that the ROC had been retaken.
Rodgers faded back against a wall. This was August's triumph and he had no right to share in it. He looked down and listened. He could hear the relief in the voices of the Strikers as A-Team moved in to secure the van. He felt nearly alone, though not quite. As the Italian poet Pavese had once written, "A man is never completely alone in this world. At the worst, he has the company of a boy, a youth, and by and by a grown man---the one he used to be." Rodgers had the company of the soldier and the man he'd been just a day before.
After what was only a few seconds but seemed much longer, Rodgers heard Private Honda call for Colonel August.
"Sir," Honda said quickly, "the Tomahawk may strike the ROC or abort in the cave in approximately forty seconds. We're advised to seek cover---"
"Strikers assemble on the double!" August yelled.
Rodgers ran toward them. "Colonel, this way!"
August looked at him. Rodgers was already running down the other fork.
"Follow the general!" August cried. "Ishi, radio B-team to get down the slope with the prisoners!"
; "Yes, sir!"
Rodgers reached the prison section even as they heard the bass horn roar of the Tomahawk racing toward the cave. The general ordered the men to throw open the grates and jump into the pits. He opened Colonel Seden's prison himself, making sure that no one hurt him as they climbed in.
Private Honda was the last Striker into a pit. As soon as he was crouched down, his arms over his head, Rodgers stepped back. He stood in the end of the cave, listening to the bellowing as it grew louder. He felt proud of his countrymen as he thought of the Tomahawk, the result of applied American intellect, skill, spirit, and purpose. He felt that way about the ROC as well. Both machines had worked exactly as they were designed to. They did their jobs. So had the Strikers and he was deeply proud of them as well. As for himself, he would have wished for the blast to consume him, whatever form it took, were it not for the fact that his own job was not yet finished.
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 04 - Acts Of War Page 38