"You're wrong," Hood said. "I think they would."
The men continued down the corridor to a gold door. It was locked. The man in front shot off the knob and kicked the door in. They entered, the man in the rear closed the door, and the man in front turned on a flashlight. The group proceeded quickly through a grand ballroom. Even in the near-dark Bicking could feel the weight of the gold drapes, smell their long history.
There was a sudden clattering of boots outside the door. The three men of the Mista'aravim froze, their weapons turned toward the hallway. The flashlight was doused and the short man hurried back to the gold door.
"Continue straight ahead and wait by the kitchen," the giant man whispered to Hood, Nasi, and Bicking.
They did as they were told. As they walked, Hood looked back. The small man peeked through the hole where the knob used to be. When no one entered, the masked men rejoined them.
The small man said something to the others in Syrian.
"Presidential guards," Bicking translated for Hood as they ran through the enormous kitchen.
"Then this whole thing was a kabuki, as the ambassador suggested," said Nasr. He pushed back his wavy gray hair, which had become disheveled in the excitement. It immediately fell back over his forehead.
"What do you mean?" asked Hood.
"The Syrian President expected this to happen," Nasr said, "just as Ambassador Haveles predicted. He allowed his stand-in and the foreign ambassadors to take the heart of the attack, protected only by palace guards--"
"Who are like museum or bank security personnel in the U.S.," Bicking interjected. "They're trained for one-on-one response. If there's big trouble they have to call for help."
"Correct," said Nasr. "When the President was certain the Kurds had sent in the bulk of their force, he had his elite guards close the door on them."
"The President uses other nations as a buffer against his enemies," Bicking said. "He uses Lebanon to throw terrorists against Israel, Greece to fight Turkey, and helps Iran to create trouble around the world. We should have been prepared for him to do the same with people."
The sounds of gunfire increased. Hood imagined phalanxes of well-armed soldiers moving through the corridors, gunning down any and all opposition. Though wounded Kurds would be captured, he couldn't imagine any of them surrendering. Most would find death preferable to incarceration.
The men stopped at another door. The short leader told the others to wait. After withdrawing a small slab of C-4 from his pocket along with a timed detonator, he opened the door and exited. These people might not be the most personable men Bicking had ever met, but he was impressed by how prepared they were.
"Is Ambassador Haveles going to be safe?" Hood asked.
"That's difficult to say," Nasr admitted. "Whatever happens is a win-win situation for the Syrian President. If Haveles dies, it's the Kurds' fault and the U.S. declines to support them in the future. If he lives, then the elite guards are heroes and the President gets concessions from the U.S."
The short man returned and motioned the others ahead. The group passed through a large pantry to a door which led to a small outdoor garden. It was surrounded by a ten-foot-high stone fence with a ten-foot-high iron gate at the south end. They walked along a slate path through an immaculately manicured waist-high hedge. When they reached the end of the path, the short man stopped them. They waited some twenty feet from the gate. A moment later the lock exploded, blowing a hole in the gate and in the fence. Almost at once, a large truck with a canvas back pulled up to the curb. The short man ran ahead of the others.
The street was free of pedestrians. Either the fighting or the local police had chased them away. The street was also clear of news crews, which could not go anywhere without the government's consent. Though as Bicking thought about it, he realized that the government might have sent undercover operatives to the scene. That was probably why the group had taken the long way around. The men didn't want to be photographed.
The short man pulled the rear flap to one side. Then he motioned to the men at the gate.
As the men approached the truck, they were struck by the strong smell of fish. But that didn't stop them from boarding. Hood, Bicking, and Nasr climbed in first. They helped the giant man carry on his two wounded companions. Then the rest of the team got in. The wounded men lay on empty canvas sacks, while the other men sat on greasy wooden barrels which lined the back. In less than a minute the truck was on its way, headed southeast toward Straight Street. Turning left, the driver sped past the sixteen hundred year-old Roman Arch and the Church of the Virgin Mary. Straight Street became Bab Sharqi Street, and the truck continued northeast.
Nasr peeked out the back flap of the truck. "As I expected," said Nasr.
"What?" asked Hood.
Nasr shut the flap and leaned close to Hood. "We're avoiding the Jewish Quarter."
"I don't understand," Hood said. "What does that mean?"
Nasr bent even closer. "That we are almost certainly in the hands of the Mista'aravim. They would never operate out of that section of the city. If they were ever found out, the repercussions against the Jewish population would be severe."
Bicking had also leaned toward Hood. "And I'll bet everything I own that there's more than fish in these barrels. There's probably enough firepower in this truck to wage a small war."
The truck slowed as it made its way through the very narrow and twisted paths. Tall, white houses hung over the road at irregular distances and angles, their once-white walls burned an unhealthy yellow by the sun. Low dormers and even lower clotheslines rubbed the canvas top of the truck, while bicyclists and compact cars moved at their own unhurried pace and made it even more difficult to maneuver.
Eventually, the truck pulled into a dark, dead-end alley. The men got out and walked over to a wooden door on the driver's side of the alley. They were greeted by two women who helped carry the wounded men in to a dark, spare kitchen. The injured men were placed on blankets on the floor. The women removed their kaffiyehs and trousers, then washed the wounds.
"Is there anything we can do?" Hood asked.
No one answered.
"Don't take it personally," Nasr said quietly.
"I didn't," said Hood. "They've got other things on their minds."
"They'd be this way even if their men hadn't been shot," Nasr whispered. "They're paranoid about being seen."
"Understandably," said Bicking. "The Mista'aravim have infiltrated terrorists groups like Hamas and Hezbollah. They have safe houses like these when they need to work in absolute security. But if they were to be seen here it could cost them their lives and--much worse in their minds--compromise Israeli security. They certainly can't be very happy about having had to come out to save a bunch of Americans."
Even as the men spoke, the truck driver and the three masked men rose. While the short man made a telephone call, the others hugged the women. Then they left the dark room. Moments later the gears rattled and moaned as the truck backed from the alley.
One of the women continued to tend to the injured. The other woman stood and faced the three newcomers. She was in her middle-to-late twenties and stood about five feet-two. Her auburn hair was worn in a tight bun, and her thick eyebrows made her brown eyes seem even darker. She had a round face, full lips, and olive skin. She wore a blood-stained apron over her black dress.
"Who is Hood?" she asked.
Hood raised a finger. "I am. Will your men be all right?"
"We believe so," she said. "A doctor has been sent for. But your associate is correct. The men were not happy about going out. They are even less happy that two of their men have been hurt. Their absence and their wounds will not be easy to explain."
"I understand," Hood said.
"You are in my cafe," the woman said. "You were a delivery of fish. In other words, you cannot be seen outside this room. We will get you to the embassy when we close for the day. I can't spare the people until then."
"I underst
and that as well."
"In the meantime," she said, "you've been asked to telephone a Mr. Herbert when you arrive. If you don't have your own telephone I'll have to get you one. The call cannot appear on our bill here."
Bicking reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellular phone. "Let's see if this one's still working," he said as he flipped it open. He turned it on, listened for a moment, then handed the phone to Hood. "Made in America and good as new."
"Also not secure," Hood said. "But it will have to do."
Hood walked over to a corner and called Op-Center. He was put through to Martha's office, where she, Herbert, and members of their staff had been waiting for word about the operation. Because it was an open line, he would only use first names.
"Martha--Bob," Hood said, "it's Paul. I'm on a cellular but I wanted you to know that Ahmed, Warner and I are fine. Thanks for everything you did."
Even standing a few yards away Bicking could hear the cheers rising from the telephone. His eyes moistened as he thought of the incredible relief they all must be feeling.
"What about Mike?" Hood asked, being as discreet as possible.
"He's been found," Herbert said, "and Brett is there. We're still waiting to hear."
"I'm on the cellular," Hood said: "Call me the instant you hear anything."
Hood hung up. As he briefed the others, the doctor arrived. The three men stepped to a corner, well out of the way. Then they watched in silence as the doctor gave the wounded men injections of local anesthetics. The woman who had spoken to them knelt beside one man. She lay a wooden spoon between his teeth, then held his arms pressed to his chest to keep him from flailing. When she nodded, the doctor began cutting the bullet from his leg. The other woman used a washcloth and a basin of water to wipe away the blood.
The man began to wriggle from the pain.
"I've always found that the toughest part about being a diplomat is when you have to say and do nothing," Bicking said softly to Hood.
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.
Acts Of War (1997) Page 35
