The Strikers were halfway to the Hall of the Halberdiers when August heard shouts inside along with gunfire. As soon as August and Honda were back in front of the team, the colonel held up a hand to halt their progress. He didn't know how many people were inside the chamber or why there was shooting, but Striker was going to have to neutralize the entire room before they entered. He raised three fingers, then two--indicating attack plan thirty-two--then pointed at Privates DeVonne and Scott with the other hand. He motioned them ahead, Scott to the near side of the door, DeVonne to the far side. As soon as they were in position, both rolled grenades into the Hall of the Halberdiers.
When he was helping to train NATO troops in Italy, August had described the effect of the OM gas as very much like pouring boiling water in an anthill. The targets went down where they stood and just squirmed. Here, as Striker moved from room to hall to room, the impression of moving through an anthill was especially strong.
August pointed back to Prementine and Pupshaw, who rejoined their partners on either side of the door. They heard coughing and vomiting inside. When no one came out, August and Honda went in. The two Strikers squatted low on either side of the door, weapons ready, and surveyed the room.
August wasn't quite prepared for the sight that greeted him: hundreds of bodies, mostly civilians and a few soldiers, writhing on the floor of the Hall of the Halberdiers. August knew that they wouldn't die. But his mind flashed to images of the Holocaust, to gas chambers from the Second World War, and he had a flash of guilt--one of Father Uxbridge's moral paradoxes.
He forced it aside. He had to. Once a tactical strike force set out, no member could afford to waver. The lives of the soldiers didn't depend upon a shared ideology. They did depend upon a shared commitment.
August motioned for Honda to go right around the mass of bodies. Still squatting, August went left. Both men stayed close to the wall. There were bullet knicks in the marble near the door. The soldiers had obviously fired in that direction when the grenades rolled in. Though they were in no condition to fire now, August watched them as carefully as he could through the yellow haze. There was always the possibility that someone might rally enough to fire off a few rounds. But no one did. When he reached the throne room door, Colonel August withdrew the flashlight from the loop around his thigh. He flicked it on and off twice to indicate that the next group should proceed. Private DeVonne, Aideen, and Corporal Prementine came in, moving low along the wall as August and Honda had done. Privates Pupshaw and Scott followed them in.
The other Strikers and Aideen entered the Hall of the Halberdiers. As they did, August kept the gagging soldiers covered while Private Honda attached a thumbnail-sized lump of plastique to the base of the doorknob. He inserted a fuse, which heated by turning the cap. Five seconds later the plastique would detonate. The door would open and Scott would roll in another gas grenade. According to the map, this door was the only exit from the throne room. Once the people inside were disabled, the Strikers would move against Amadori.
When everyone was in position, Honda activated the fuse. It glowed red and then the plastique blew outward in a narrow line parallel to the floor. The door flew open and Private Scott rolled in a grenade. There were shouts and gunfire aimed at the door and then the gas exploded with a bang and a loud whoosh. Then the gunfire stopped and the choking began. When he heard them, August motioned for Private DeVonne and Corporal Prementine to move in.
Still on point, DeVonne took the first shot in the chest. She stumbled when she was hit and fell backward, landing against Prementine. The corporal backed out, pulling her with him, and the Strikers fell back several paces. August knew that the kevlar lining would have kept the bullet from penetrating Sondra's chest, though she'd probably suffered a broken rib or two. She was moaning from the pain.
August motioned to Scott to roll in a second grenade. Then he crawled forward to DeVonne and pulled a grenade from her pouch. The gas was dissipating in the Hall of the Halberdiers and he threw one toward the mass of people. He had only two or three minutes to make a decision about whether to continue with the mission or to abort.
August crept toward the doorway. Someone had been waiting for them inside. Someone who was coherent enough to aim and fire a single shot at the first person in the door. He thought quickly. The security cameras wouldn't have given Amadori enough time to get out, but it might have told him how large the attacking force was. And given him time to put on a gas mask, if he had one. And he might.
He also might have sent for reinforcements. They couldn't afford to wait him out. August motioned to Pupshaw and Scott. The three of them went to either side of the door, August on the left, Pupshaw and Scott on the right. August held up four fingers then one. Plan forty-one was target-specific crossfire, with the third gunman covering the other two. August pointed to himself and Pupshaw, meaning that they'd take out Amadori. The entrance would be made using the Marine tactic of one soldier using a single somersault to get inside, then stretching out into a tight pencil-roll--the arms flat across the chest, holding the firearm, and the feet facing toward the target. The first soldier's entrance was designed to draw the fire to one side so the second soldier could enter. When the two men were in, they'd sit up--legs still extended--and fire ahead. Meanwhile, the soldier responsible for setting up the cover fire would remain outside the room. He'd pencil-roll in front of the doorway, remaining on the outside and facing the target. He'd stop on his belly with his weapon pointed ahead.
August pointed to himself. He'd go in to the left, followed by Pupshaw. By the time Scott rolled into view, the other two Strikers would have the target in their sights.
August doffed his backpack and sidled to the door. Pupshaw and Scott did the same on the right. August looked at Pupshaw and nodded. The colonel somersaulted in and cut to the left pencil-roll. There was gunfire, but it trailed him as he turned quickly to the left. Pupshaw went in and was in position before the gun could be turned toward him. Both men had their sights on the target as Scott rolled into position.
August's right hand shot up, the fingers splayed. That was the sign for the Strikers not to fire.
Neither of the other Strikers fired. August stared over his gunsight at a priest, gagging terribly. There was an automatic weapon jutting from under his right armpit, pointing toward the door. Behind him was a general wearing a gas filter and goggles. From his size and hair coloring, August knew that it was Amadori. The general's left hand was around the priest's throat. Behind the general was another officer--a major general, August determined through the yellow haze. There were six other officers in the room, all of them high-ranking, all of them sprawled on the floor or leaning across a conference table in the center.
The general motioned up and down with the gun. He was telling the Strikers to stand. August shook his head. If Amadori fired, he might get one of them. But he wouldn't get all of them. And if the general shot the priest, then he had to know that he himself was dead.
It was a standoff. But the one running out of time now was Amadori. He had no way of knowing whether Striker was a SAT--a stand-alone team--or the first wave of a larger force. If it was the latter, then Amadori couldn't afford to be trapped here.
The general obviously made up his mind quickly, as August had expected him to. Amadori began walking the priest forward slowly. The older clergyman was having difficulty standing. But pressure from Amadori's fingers around his throat brought him upright each time he threatened to stumble. The major general walked with them, tight against Amadori's back. As they approached, August could see that the major general had a handgun. He suspected that the only reason these men hadn't fired was because they didn't know who or what was waiting for them outside the throne room.
August watched as the three men came forward. There was no doubt that the Strikers could take Amadori. The question was the pricetag for both sides. In situations like these, the decision was up to the commanding officer. For August, the question was the same as it was in chess:
whether an exchange of high ranked pieces was worth it. For him, the answer had always been no. Depending upon who was sharper and better prepared, it was better to keep the game going and wait for the other player to make a mistake.
August held out his right hand, palm down. That meant to do nothing unless provoked. Outside the door, Scott passed the signal to the other Strikers. Scott wriggled back as Amadori approached. He didn't take his gun off him. As he stepped through the doorway into the Hall of the Halberdiers, the other Strikers also took aim at the general. The exception was Corporal Prementine, who was helping Private DeVonne.
The gas in the throne room was beginning to wear off. At August's signal, Scott threw another grenade to cover their retreat. They rose and exited after the general. Scott walked with his back pressed to August's back. The private was facing into the throne room, watching to make sure that none of the choking soldiers attempted to get off a shot. None did.
August couldn't afford to feel frustrated as Amadori walked toward the corridor. The general had had a gas filter with him: that was a reasonable precaution. The President of the United States had one in the Oval Office. They were kept in most rooms at 10 Downing Street. Boris Yeltsin had one in his desk and one in each of his cars. The surprise was that Amadori had had a hostage. The killing or even wounding of a hostage was always unfortunate; the killing or wounding of a Roman Catholic priest in Spain would be a disaster.
August considered the situation carefully. If they let Amadori out into the open, the general's army would be better able to protect him. And if he got away, this attack could make him a hero in the eyes of his people. But that wasn't the biggest problem. August had no idea if and when reinforcements might arrive. And if they did show up, they might also be equipped with gas masks.
My chess game be damned, August decided. He was going to have to go for the king. He couldn't get his head or torso, but he had a clear shot at his legs and could bring him to the ground. Even if the general or the major general turned on him, that would give the other Strikers a chance to take them out.
He raised his index finger once and then again. Number one was going after number one.
August and Scott were still standing back-to-back. August half-turned and whispered to the private as they walked toward the hallway.
"When I move, dive to your left."
Scott nodded.
An instant later, August fired.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Tuesday, 11:19 A.M. Madrid, Spain
Father Norberto had heard the unmistakable sound of the helicopter flying low over the palace courtyard. It was followed soon after by the equally unmistakable crack of gunfire. He listened with one ear as he continued reading from Matthew 26 to the small group of people seated around him. It wasn't until one of the parishioners went out to check, then came running back, that the congregation learned that something dire was going on.
"There is gunfire outside," the man shouted into the church. "Soldiers are shooting at people in the courtyard."
The church was silent for a long moment after that. Then Father Francisco rose from the group he was counseling in the front of the nave. He raised his arms as though offering a blessing.
"Please remain calm," Francisco said, smiling. "No harm will come to the church."
"What about the General Superior?" someone shouted. "Is he safe?"
"The General Superior is at the palace," Francisco replied calmly, "hoping to secure a role for the mother church in the new Spain. I'm sure that God is looking out for him."
Father Norberto found something very unnerving about Francisco's composure. Faith in God alone would not inspire such confidence. The feeling that Norberto had had earlier, that General Superior Gonzalez was involved in the upheaval--that might be enough to give Francisco comfort. Especially if he had foreknowledge that there would be gunfire. But for what? There was only one thing Norberto could think of.
Executions.
The man ran back outside. The priests resumed counseling the people who sat before them, leading them in prayer or offering words of comfort. A few minutes later the man came back.
"There is yellow smoke coming from windows of the palace," the man yelled. "And gunfire inside!"
This time, Father Francisco was not so composed. He left without a word, walking hurriedly toward the door behind the ambulatory, which opened into the courtyard of the Royal Palace.
Father Norberto watched him go. The silence of the church was even deeper now. Around them he could hear the crack of guns. Norberto looked down at the text then back toward the anxious faces before him. They needed him. But then he thought of Adolfo and of his dying need for absolution. Beyond these walls were times of trial and acts of sin. His place was with those who required the sacrament of penance, not comfort.
Norberto put his hand on the shoulder of a young woman who had come in with her two little girls. He smiled at the mother and asked if, for a while, she would not mind reading in his place. He said that he wanted to see if Father Francisco required any assistance.
Walking quickly down the aisle, Father Norberto made his way to the ambulatory and out the large door into the courtyard.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, 11:23 A.M. Madrid, Spain
Colonel August had leaned to his left in order to get a clear shot at Amadori's leg. All he managed to get was the top of the general's foot, but it was enough. Amadori howled through his gas mask and fell against the major general. As he did, the general's gun discharged. The automatic was still poking out from under the priest's arm and it pumped several shots in August's direction. They traced a straight vertical line as the general stumbled back. But the colonel had already jumped to the left while Scott dove to the right. Screaming and covering his ears, the priest had fallen to his knees and remained there with his face between his legs. The bullets pinged off the marble wall but no one was hit.
The two Strikers hit the ground in perfect diving roll-outs, one shoulder connecting with the floor with the head tucked into the chest. The rest of the body followed in a somersault and the men ended up standing, facing in the direction of the dive. They turned quickly toward their targets as the other Strikers fanned into the hallway, making sure that the other soldiers were still on the ground. Private DeVonne emerged on her own, though she was stooped over and in obvious pain from the shot she'd taken.
During the time it had taken August and Scott to roll out, the major general had grabbed Amadori around the chest with one arm. Pulling hard, he helped the general stay on his feet. The two men retreated. As they did, they set up a spray of automatic fire that sent the Strikers dropping to the ground and rolling in all directions for cover. There were screams all around them as several of the Spanish soldiers were struck.
Throughout the exchange, Aideen had remained just inside the Hall of the Halberdiers. She didn't stay there because she was afraid. She stayed there because she didn't want to get in the way of the Striker game plan. She also wanted to be free to assist any of the Strikers who might go down. She'd tried to help Sondra into the hallway but the private had insisted that she was all right. For the moment, she probably was. Aideen knew from experience that at least there was one benefit to constant pain, like a broken rib or a nonlethal bullet wound. The mind had the ability to block that pain out, even when it was severe. It was the jab of recurring or steadily increasing pain that was difficult to deal with.
Now, standing beside the jamb, Aideen suddenly had another mission. The wounded Amadori had disappeared around the turn in the corridor to the east. At that moment she was the only team member who was still on her feet. From the western end of the corridor, straight ahead, she heard the distinctive stomp of boots. The smoke was still too thick for her to see that far, but she knew that reinforcements were on the way. The Strikers would have to release more grenades to deal with them. If the soldiers had been alerted by security cameras or by a call from the throne room, they might very well be wearing gas masks. If that we
re the case, the Strikers would have their hands full just getting out of there. And Colonel August would abort if he felt that the mission had been too severely compromised. In the meantime Amadori might get away.
Someone had to stay with the general, Remote Surveillance System or not. If Aideen kept her distance, Amadori might not spot her. Chances were he'd be watching the cameras ahead of him, not behind him. And keeping her distance until she had a clear shot at the general was doable. There was blood on the floor from the bullet wound in Amadori's leg. It would provide a trail she could follow easily. And if he stopped to bandage it, that was fine too. Perhaps Aideen would be able to get to him then.
Aideen looked back. The Spanish soldiers were wearing gas masks. August motioned his team back while he and Scott fired and drove the onrushing soldiers running for cover.
Aideen swore. Colonel August was going to call the mission off. But she wasn't a Striker. She didn't have to abort anything. This whole thing started when someone was encouraged to shoot at her and Martha Mackall. That seemed a fitting way to end it.
Aideen took a deep breath to still her trembling legs. The air tasted like charcoal through the mask, but she was getting used to that. Rolling off the jamb, she ran into the smoke-filled hallway, and followed the corridor to the east.
THIRTY-NINE
Tuesday, 5:27 A.M. Washington, D.C.
Sitting back in his wheelchair, Bob Herbert reflected on the fact that there was nothing quite like this feeling. Waiting in Paul Hood's office with Hood, Mike Rodgers, and Op-Center's international legal expert, Lowell Coffey II, Herbert contemplated the mood that settles onto a room in which officials are waiting for news of a covert operation.
Balance Of Power (1998) Page 29
