by Tom Clancy
August would later testify before a special committee of the French National Assembly that the casualties among the New Jacobins occurred because they fought too hard and too chaotically.
"They were like chess players who knew the moves but not the game," he would read from a statement he and Lowell Coffey II prepared. "The terrorists charged from the factory without a plan, divided their forces, and got chewed up. When they retreated into the building and tried to regroup, we closed in. Finally, after they'd been flanked, they attempted to punch their way out. We tightened the knot until they surrendered, and that was that. The entire operation, from first shot to last, took twenty-two minutes." It had seemed much longer to Paul Hood.
When the massive V-22 Osprey had descended on the compound and the New Jacobin leader had ordered the execution of his captives, gunfire popped not only from where the doorknob had been removed. It also came from a hole which had been cut in the pasteboard of the false ceiling and from a window to which one of the Gendarmerie officers had rappelled. It was a perfect triangulation and it accounted for three of the New Jacobin wounded: the three men who had been ordered to execute Paul Hood, Nancy Bosworth, and Matt Stoll.
As soon as the men fell, Hood threw himself atop Nancy and Matt dove for the ground. Ballon received his wound as he ran out to cover Matt.
The prisoners were ignored in the madness which followed, as the New Jacobins scrambled to escape what had become a shooting gallery and get out into the open. They were back within ten minutes, trying to hold off the attackers. But by that time, Hood and his companions had retreated to a kitchenette, where Nancy cleaned and bandaged Ballon's wound as best she could and Hood struggled to keep him down. Despite the pain, the Colonel was anxious to get back into battle.
Stoll stood aside, admittedly sickened by the blood and distracting himself with self-congratulatory palaver for having noticed the doorknob being removed and attempting to distract the New Jacobins with "my 'I'm just a computer guy' riff." Like the New Jacobin before him, Hood told Stoll to be quiet.
Two NATO privates were the first ones into the kitchenette. By then, the corridor had been secured and a medic was summoned to take care of Ballon.
Hood, Nancy, and Stoll were evacuated to the Osprey.
August and his French interpreter had set up command headquarters beside the cockpit. After receiving a report that the team had secured the first floor and was moving to the second floor, he introduced himself. Then his attention turned back to the interpreter, who was on the radio as the NATO team closed in on the executive suites.
Hood wanted to know if either team had found Dominique or Hausen, and he was desperate to talk to Rodgers. He was concerned about Herbert and wanted to know how he was faring. But it would have to wait. At least they were all safe.
Stoll had already made himself comfortable in the Osprey cabin. Hood was about to invite Nancy inside when a light appeared in the sky. It was star-small and moving east to west. Suddenly, it turned toward them and grew larger, accompanied by the distinctive beating of a helicopter rotor.
August also looked up.
"One of yours?" Hood asked.
"No," he said. "It could be the one that took off before we landed. We assumed some top-level instigators were getting out." Suddenly, a Gendarmerie officer approached from the edge of the field. A man in shirtsleeves was draped over his shoulder.
"Sous-lieutenant!" the officer called to the interpreter.
He placed the groaning man on the ground beside the Osprey and talked with the Second Lieutenant. After several moments, the French officer turned to August.
"This man is a pilot, sir," he said. "He was warming up the helicopter for a M. Dominique when a blond man hit him." "Hausen," Hood said.
The helicopter began to spiral down. It was obvious that it was falling now, not flying.
August told everyone to get down and cover their heads. Hood lay on top of Nancy, though August remained standing. The Colonel watched as the chopper leveled itself out at about two hundred feet, then pulled back toward the river.
August asked, "Who's Hausen, Mr. Hood?" Hood stood. "A German politician and a flier. He hates Dominique, the man behind all this." "Hates him enough to risk his life stealing a chopper?" "More than enough," Hood told him. "I think Hausen would take himself out just to get Dominique." "Himself, the chopper, and everyone underneath," August said. He continued to watch the helicopter. It swooped off to the north in an arcing climb, then leveled off again. "I've seen this before, old rivalries getting out of control." The Colonel turned to the interpreter. "Are Manigot and Boisard still on the first floor?" The Second Lieutenant got on the radio and was given an affirmative. "Still on cleanup, sir," he said.
August said, "Tell them to report back here at once.
You're in charge." "Yes, sir," the officer said, saluting.
August looked up at the cockpit and moved his index finger in a circle, over his head. The pilot saluted and fired up the vertical engines.
"Colonel, what is it?" Hood asked.
August ran toward the stairs which led to the cockpit.
"Somebody wants that chopper to land and somebody else doesn't," he said. "If we don't get aboard it's going to do neither." "Get aboard?" Hood shouted.
But the two NATO commandos arrived quickly and climbed on board, and the thunder of the powerful engines precluded an answer. Stoll jumped out of the Osprey's cabin. Hood and Nancy backed away, and less than two minutes after the helicopter had first been sighted the huge VTOL was airborne.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Friday, 12:04 A.M., Wunstorf, Germany
The police car raced along the Autobahn at over one hundred miles an hour. Hauptmann Rosenlocher was looking to his left, past the driver, watching for any sign of activity.
He was running without a siren, the driver flashing his toplights briefly at anyone who happened to get in the way.
One man sat silently in the backseat. He wore the blue uniform of the Landespolizei. Along with his commander, he was watching the road.
Behind Rosenlocher's car were two other cars, designated Two and Three. Each one carried six men of his fifteen-man tactical force. Five of the men were armed with.30 M1 carbine rifles used for sniping. Five had HK 53 submachine guns. All.carried long-barrelled Walther P1 pistols. All were watching for the young woman and the man in the wheelchair.
The silver-haired, craggy-faced officer wondered if Richter had bought the bluff. Rosenlocher himself didn't have any experience in these PSYOPS, psychological operations. His expertise was in riot control and undercover operations. But General Rodgers assured him it had worked for one of his colleagues in a situation in 1976 involving the Croatian hijackers of a TWA jet over Paris. And what General Rodgers had said made sense. Most revolutionaries, especially new and insecure ones, could be convinced that there were traitors in their midst. Often, there were.
The officer's phone rang. "Ja?" "Hauptmann Rosenlocher, it's Rodgers. We've finally got all of you on satellite. Bob and the girl are about three kilometers north of you, headed toward the Autobahn. The neo-Nazis were stopped but now they're moving again. It'll be close as to who reaches them first." The Hauptmann checked the odometer, then leaned toward his driver. "Go faster," he said softly.
The baby-faced driver grunted.
"Thank you, General," said Rosenlocher. "I'll call back the moment I have something to report." "Good luck," said Rodgers.
Rosenlocher thanked him again, then peered ahead.
The shotgun was in a rack on the back of his seat. He reached around and grabbed it. His palms were as sweaty as always before he went into action. Though unlike most situations, he ached for this one to develop into "a shooting war." He cherished any excuse to strike at the brutes who wanted to destroy his country.
"A little bit faster," he said to the driver.
The driver pursed his lips and leaned into the gas pedal.
The night sped by. The other cars sped up. And then
he saw two pale figures amidst the dark foliage on the left side of the road. They ducked back quickly.
"That was one arm of Richter's team," the Hauptmann said. "I can smell those bastards at one hundred twenty miles an hour. Slow down." The driver obliged. Seconds later, two people struggled from the woods. A man in a wheelchair with a young woman behind him.
"Stop!" Rosenlocher said.
The driver touched the brakes and pulled over as Rosenlocher picked up his radio. The other cars also slowed.
"Two and Three," he said to the other cars, "you see them?" "We see them in Two." "We've got them in Three." The Hauptmann said, "Two, you cover the south flank.
Three, you pull up and take the north. I'll bring them in." The three cars stopped twenty meters apart on the side of the road. The drivers remained behind the wheels as the police officers emerged on the passengers' sides. In the event of casualties, they would race to the hospital in Hanover. The officers in Two and Three moved south and north. In the dark, they set up a skirmish line behind the railing at the side of the road. If they or the Americans were fired upon, their orders were to shoot to kill.
Rosenlocher was the first one over the guardrail. He was less than thirty meters from the edge of the woods, where Bob Herbert and Jody Thompson were rushing to outrace their pursuers.
Rosenlocher raised the shotgun. He aimed at the area behind the woman where he saw movement.
"Come!" he called to Herbert.
Jody continued to push. She was panting and stumbling but she wasn't stopping.
Rosenlocher watched the others. He saw faces in the headlights as traffic passed. Young faces. Some were angry, some were frightened. He knew that all it took was one misstep, for whatever reason, to cause this situation to get out of hand. He hoped that self-preservation would win out and no one would lose his cool.
He could see the Americans' faces clearly now. Herbert was intense as he turned his wheels. Jody was sobbing as she half-pushed, half-leaned on the chair.
Rosenlocher concentrated his aim on a clutch of young men who had emerged from the woods. Bold men, obviously, willing to sacrifice their lives to make a statement. After a moment, however, he knew that they weren't going to attack. Rosenlocher didn't see Karin or Manfred. He didn't know why they weren't here, but he did know that without the head the body wasn't going to think.
And without the heart it wasn't going to act. Whatever these ruffians were capable of doing to lone adversaries, they weren't willing to take on a trained force.
Herbert and Jody reached his side. As instructed earlier, the drivers of Two and Three got out to help Herbert over the fence. There was no sense of urgency, no panic.
Just a workman-like efficiency which was a hallmark of Rosenlocher's squad.
As the police officers remained at their posts, the drivers helped Herbert and Jody into the first car. When they were safely inside, the men at the rail peeled off from the outside, one at a time. They went back to the passengers' sides of the cars, where they covered the other men as they returned to the cars.
When everyone was safely away from the guardrail, Rosenlocher turned his back on the woods and walked to the car. He half-expected to die. There was always one coward in every crowd of terrorists or thugs. He kept his head erect.
Cowards were intimidated by men who refused to be. By men who didn't fear. As he walked, he was completely aware of every sound, every step, knowing that each could be the last he enjoyed.
When he reached the car he walked to the passenger's side and quietly instructed his men to get inside.
They drove off without incident.
Rosenlocher instructed his driver to go directly to the hospital. The man punched on the siren.
Sitting in the backseat of the police car, Jody fell against Herbert's shoulder. She began crying big, heaving sobs.
"My arm hurts," she cried.
"Hush," Herbert said.
"Everything hurts. Everything." Herbert cradled her head. "We're going to get you taken care of," he said softly. "You're going to be okay.
You're safe. You performed like a real hero." She clutched him around the shoulder. Jody's breath and her tears were warm against his neck. He held her even tighter, so proud of her that his own eyes misted over.
Rosenlocher said softly, "Are you all right, Herr Herbert?" "Yes," Herbert said. "Very." "Your friend the General was correct," Rosenlocher said. "He told me all I had to do was buy you a few minutes.
'Loosen the noose and Bob will slip out.' " "Sure," Herbert said, "slip right from the gallows into quicksand. Thanks for hauling us out, Hauptmann. You're gonna be on my Christmas card list for a long time." Rosenlocher smiled. He turned around, picked up his car phone, and asked his dispatcher to put him through to General Rodgers in Washington.
The shotgun was between his legs. As he waited, Rosenlocher felt the weight of it against his right knee. It had taken a war to bring Hitler down. Once the police had transported Herbert and the girl to safety, they would return and track down the rest of these thugs. It would be ironic after all these years of chasing Felix Richter, after training for assaults and firefights, if the new Fhrer fell without a shot being fired.
Ironic but fitting, Rosenlocher thought. Perhaps we have learned something after all. If you confront tyrants early enough you'll find that all of them are dressed in the Emperor's New Clothes.
Rosenlocher savored that thought as he had the pleasure of passing the telephone back to Bob Herbert so he could tell his superior that the mission had been accomplished.
It had indeed.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Friday, 12:16 A.M., Wunstorf, Germany
Felix Richter watched the members of his hunting party straggle back.
"Where are the Americans?" he demanded.
Rolf was among the first people to return. He looked at the bodies of Karin and Manfred. Their heads and shoulders had been covered by windbreakers. They reminded him of dogs which had been run over in traffic. He looked away.
Richter walked up to him. "What happened?" "The police were waiting," he said. "There was nothing to do." Richter screamed, "Is that what Karin Doring would have said? That there was nothing to do?" "Karin would have been there doing it," someone yelled back, "not waiting for us to come back. Karin wasn't a talker." "I never said I was Karin Doring—" "No," said Rolf, "you're not. And I'm leaving." Richter stepped in front of him. "Listen to me. All of you. You can't let the legacy die because of a setback. We owe it to those who came before us to fight on." Several people stopped to pick up the bodies. Others waited for them.
"Don't let this end!" Richter said.
The men moved past him to join those who were still waiting at the camp. Rolf followed the flashlight beams which carved through the dark. Were these meager things the spotlights Richter had spoken of, the ones which were supposed to shine across their symbols and accomplishments?
"This is a setback, not a defeat," Richter said. "Don't let them stop us!" The men continued to walk.
Richter repeated the lines verbatim, his voice rising as he tried to reignite the fervor of the rally.
Jean-Michel said from behind, "They don't care about your distinctions, Herr Richter. They only know that they've lost their heart. If you're clever and determined, perhaps you'll get some of them back. But now it is time to go home." Jean-Michel looked toward the beams of light and followed, leaving Richter alone in the dark.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Friday, 12:17 A.M., Toulouse, France
The Osprey hung over the field like a storm cloud, dark and rumbling, its navigation lights flashing lightning.
Colonel August stood in the cockpit, behind the pilot, as the craft rose to one thousand feet.
The LongRanger was nearly three miles downriver, moving southeast. The helicopter still lurched and rollercoastered now and then, though less frequently now. It was like a bronco resigning itself to being broken. Only August didn't want it resigning itself too fast. Legally
, he suspected, he wouldn't be able to justify what they were about to do unless the chopper was out of control and a threat to people on the ground.
"Approximate speed one-two-five miles an hour," the pilot said as they watched the LongRanger recede.
The Osprey nosed down slightly, the props tilting forward as it moved ahead. At speeds of up to 345 miles an hour, the VTOL would overtake it quickly. However, the crew chief wasn't ready yet. He and his three-man team were in the cargo bay readying a two-thousand-pound hoist with a two hundred-foot cable. The cable was used to pick up or deposit cargo in areas where the Osprey couldn't land.
August had told them to get the hoist ready. When he told them why, Manigot and Boisard jokingly requested that they please be court-martialed and jump right to the execution instead. The end result would be the same.
But August didn't believe that. He told them what he told everyone in his command. If a job is planned correctly and executed by professionals, it should go as smoothly as getting out of bed in the morning. And while there were always intangibles, that was what made the job exciting.
The Osprey soared ahead in its helicopter configuration.
August was not so much concerned with speed as being able to track the chopper. If the pilot decided to change course abruptly, August wanted to be able to adjust accordingly.
The Colonel had also ordered his radio operator to maintain silence. The less information the LongRanger had about who was on board or why, the less likely he was to dig in his heels. There was nothing more antagonizing than a faceless, voiceless adversary.
The pilot adjusted the Osprey's altitude so that it was flying one hundred feet higher than the LongRanger. He bore down on the helicopter, sweeping east or west as it moved with the river. Obviously, whoever was at the controls knew how to fly but not how to navigate. He was following the river to get away.