Hood shook his head. “That isn’t the toughest part,” he whispered. “What’s tough is knowing that compared to the people in the front lines, what you do is nothing.”
At the doctor’s request, the woman stopped cleaning the wound to hold the man’s leg still. Without asking, Hood handed Bicking the phone, then hurried over. He picked up the cloth, maneuvered his arm between the three bodies, and dabbed at the blood, as deftly, as possible.
“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.