August looked back at the newcomers. Corporal Prementine, the boy genius of infantry tactics, continued to look out at the ledge.
“Good work, Sergeant,” August said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Sir,” said Prementine, “no one’s gone after the woman.”
August nodded. “We’re going to have to move that,” he whispered. “To bring you up to date, we think that’s Phil Katzen and our contact at the foot of the slope. We’ll be going out in one or two groups. One group if we need to storm the cave to get our people out. Two if the hostages are—”
“Colonel,” Prementine interrupted, “the men are coming out. The bastard’s’ve gone half-and-half.”
August swung his binoculars around. Sergeant Grey also squinted back toward the cave. Three of the hostages had been thrown face-down in the dirt outside the cave. Grey could see men inside the cave, but they were hidden by the deep shadows.
“Corporal, mask up and get A-Team over there now.” August snapped. “Take them inside. We’ll handle the perimeter.”
“Yes, sir,” Prementine said. He moved out with seven Strikers crouching low behind him, single file, as they ran toward the ledge.
“George, Scott!” August barked.
“Sir?” both men replied.
“RAC ’em.”
“Yes, sir,” said George.
The two privates moved to the equipment locker they’d hauled from the FAV. As David George assembled a charcoal-gray mortar, Jason Scott pulled four shells of RAC—rapid-acting incapacitant—from their insulated storage bag. Within two seconds of exploding, the amber-colored gas would knock out everyone within a twenty-foot radius. Private Scott assisted with the heavy baseplate, and in just over thirty seconds the grenade launcher was loaded and assembled. While Private George peered through the sight, Scott adjusted the traversing and elevating handles to fix the line of fire.
“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.