The walls and floor of the cavern shook. Particles of rock fell from the cave ceiling. The low thrum of the rocket engine grew deafening as the missile entered the cave.
No sooner had the walls of the main cavern begun to glow with the missile's exhaust than the Tomahawk exploded. The glow became an instant of white light, then a fierce red glow as the roar shook down rocks and dirt. Rodgers clapped his hands over his ears in a failed effort to block out the sound. He watched as flame rolled down the main corridor and fragments of the Tomahawk bounced, skidded, and flew along the cavern. Large and small pieces struck the mouth of the fork and ricocheted off the walls. Some were knife-edged sheets spinning edge-over-edge. Others were clumsy, smoking slag. Most fell to the ground before they reached the pits. One popped the light bulb, throwing the tunnel into darkness. Rodgers was forced to duck and turn his face to the wall, not to escape the shrapnel but to protect his face from a massive fist of heat which pounded him. From the time the intense temperatures surrounded him, it hurt to move and especially to breathe.
The sound died first, followed by the flames. A short time later the stifling heat released him. Rodgers heard coughing from the pits. He stood slowly and walked over.
"Is anyone hurt?"
There were a flurry of negatives. Rodgers reached down and pulled up the first soldier whose hand he could find. It was Sergeant Grey.
"Help the others," Rodgers said, "then put a detail together to find and secure the warhead. I'm going to see about the ROC."
"I think Colonel August already did that, sir," Grey said.
"What do you mean?" Rodgers asked. "Where is he?"
"He didn't come with us," Grey said. "He wanted to move the ROC farther away. He thought it'd give us a better chance if the Tomahawk hit it."
Rodgers told him to help the others out, then jogged toward the main corridor. He took the gun from his belt so he wouldn't lose it.
The cave had resisted the United States Navy's efforts to shut it down. There were chunks of still burning missile embedded in the walls and strewn on the floor. It reminded Rodgers of Gustave Dore's etchings of Dante's Inferno. But the cavern was still whole and still navigable. He turned left, toward the gorge, drawing on the last reserves of stamina to reach his friend.
Rodgers saw the west-side mouth of the cave. He didn't see the ROC. As he came closer he looked out at the thick trees, the surrounding hills, flaming pieces of the missile, and long, late afternoon shadows. He didn't see the ROC. Then he noticed the dirt path which led to the road-cut. The ROC was parked about two hundred yards away. August was running back.
"General!" he yelled. "Is everyone all right?"
"A little scorched," Rodgers replied, "but otherwise okay."
"What about the warhead?"
"I sent Sergeant Grey and a small detachment to look for it."
August reached Rodgers's side. He grabbed his wrists and drew him gently toward the wall beneath the ledge. "There are still some armed Kurds in the hills," he said. He pulled his radio from his belt. "Private Honda?"
"Sir?"
"Let me have Corporal Prementine."
The NCO was on the radio a moment later.
"Corporal," said August, "is B-Team all right?"
"I'm with them now," he said. "They evacuated themselves and the surviving Kurds before the Tomahawk arrived. There were no injuries."
"Very good," August said. "I want you and three other men out here with the ROC on the double."
"What about an HP to find the rest of the enemy force?" Prementine asked.
"Negative on the hunting party," August said. "I want to get the ROC back on the road with everyone onboard as soon as possible. We're getting out of here."
"Yes, sir."
August replaced the radio. He looked at Rodgers. "Let's get you some medical attention, food, and rest, General."
"Why?" Rodgers asked. "Do I look that burned out?"
"Frankly, sir, yes. You do. Literally."
It took a moment for Rodgers to realize what August had said. When he did, he didn't smile. He couldn't. A piece of the process was missing. Rodgers could feel the hole, a void where his pride had been. You couldn't laugh at yourself if your self-worth wasn't strong enough to take the blow. The men walked to the cave in silence.
Inside the main tunnel, Sergeant Grey and his team had found the warhead. It had been slammed into the ground when the missile aborted. Remarkably, the warhead---which was located just forward of the fuel section, behind the TERCOM system and DSMAC Camera---was relatively intact. The detonation works were in a modular compartment atop the explosives. By following printed instructions inside the casing, the detonator could easily be reprogrammed or removed. August told Sergeant Grey to input a countdown, but not to start it until he gave the order.
Upon reaching the front of the cave, Colonel August and General Rodgers made their way down the road to the bottom of the slope. As they walked, August told Rodgers how Katzen had saved the Israeli's life by tackling his would-be murderers. By rescuing Falah, Katzen had made it possible for the Strikers to get inside as quickly as they did.
Rodgers felt ashamed of himself for having doubted the environmentalist. He should have realized that Katzen's compassion came from strength, not weakness.
At the base of the slope, Private Musicant, Falah, and members of the B-Team were tending to the injured Kurds as best they could. The thumb-cuffed prisoners had recovered from the neo-phosgene attack and were seated beneath a tree, their backs to the trunk. They were bound man-to-man, unable to run. The seven burn victims were spread out on the grass. Following Musicant's instructions, the Strikers used piles of branches to elevate the men's legs and help straighten their air ways. The medic had already given what little plasma he had to the more seriously burned. Now the men who had gone into hypovolemie shock were being given injections of an epinephrine solution. Falah, who had had some medical training in the Mista'aravim, was handling that.
With the exception of Colonel Seden, who was being cared for by Private DeVonne, the rest of the liberated ROC crew was sitting on boulders and leaning against trees close to the main road. They were looking out at the valley and were unaware of Rodgers's arrival. He wanted it that way for now.
"Private," said August, "I'd like you to have a look at General Rodgers as soon as possible."
"Yes, sir."
Rodgers looked over at Colonel Seden. Private DeVonne had removed his tattered shirt and was washing out his gunshot wound with alcohol. "I want him cared for first,'' Rodgers said.
"General," said August, "those wounds of yours need to be dressed."
"After the colonel," Rodgers said firmly. "That's an order."
August glanced down. Then he looked at Musicant. "See to it, Private."
"Yes, sir," said the medic.
Rodgers turned and stood over the Kurds. He looked down at a man on the far left. He was unconscious, with dark, leathery burns on his chest and arms. His breath came in irregular wheezes. "This man pointed a gun at Colonel Seden's head when he and I were first waylaid. His name is Ibrahim. He held the gun while his companion Hasan burned the colonel with a cigarette."
"Unfortunately," said Musicant, "I don't think Ibrahim is going to be standing trial for what he did. He's got third-degree burns on the anterior and posterior trunk and he has suffered possibly severe inhalation injuries. Circulating blood volume appears to be way down."
Rodgers usually felt bad for fighting men who had been wounded, regardless of their beliefs. But this man was a terrorist, not a soldier. Everything he had done, from blowing up an unfortified dam to ambushing the ROC, had been worked in whole or in part against unarmed civilians. Rodgers felt nothing for him.
August was looking into Rodgers's eyes. "General, come on. Sit down."
"In a minute." Rodgers moved to the next man. He had red, mottled burns on his arms, legs, and upper chest. He was awake and staring at the sky with angry eyes.
Rodgers idly point
ed at him with the gun. "What about this one?" he asked.
"He's the healthiest of the bunch," Musicant replied. "Must be their leader. People were protecting him. He's got second-degree burns and mild shock. He'll live."
Rodgers stared at the man for a moment, then squatted beside him. "This is the man who tortured me," he said.
"We'll bring him back to the U.S. with us," August said. "He'll stand trial. He won't get away with what he did."
Rodgers was still looking at Siriner. The man was dazed, but those eyes were unrepentent. "And when he does stand trial," Rodgers said, "Americans working in Turkey will be kidnapped and executed. Or an American plane bound for Turkey will be blasted from the air. Or a corporation which does business with Turkey will be bombed. His trial and even a conviction will become America's ordeal. And do you know what's ironic?" Rodgers asked.
"No, General," August answered warily. "Tell me."
"The Kurds have a legitimate complaint." Rodgers stood. He was still looking down at Siriner. "The problem is, a trial will give them a daily forum. Because they've been oppressed, the world will regard this man's terroism as understandable or even necessary. Holding a torch to a man's body and threatening a woman with violent abuse become acts of heroism instead of sadism. People will say he was driven to it by the suffering of his people."
"Not all people will say that," said August. "We'll see to it."
"How?" Rodgers asked. "You can't reveal who you are."
"You'll testify," August said. "You'll talk to the press. You're articulate, a war hero."
"They'll say we made things worse by spying on them. That I invited retribution by killing one of them in Turkey. They'll say we destroyed their---what will they call this? A refuge. A bucolic retreat."
The hum of the ROC's eight-cylinder engine reached them as it emerged from the road-cut. August stepped between Siriner and General Rodgers.
"We'll talk about this later, sir," August said. "We accomplished our mission. Let's take pride in that."
Rodgers said nothing.
"Are you okay?"
Rodgers nodded.
August stepped away cautiously and turned on his field radio. "Sergeant Grey," he said, "stand by to initiate countdown."
"Yes, sir!"
August faced the Strikers. "The rest of you prepare to---"
August jumped as Rodgers's pistol fired. The colonel looked over. Rodgers's bare arm was extended almost straight down. Smoke twisted from the barrel and rose into Rodgers's unblinking eyes. He was staring at Siriner as blood oozed slowly from a raw hole in the commander's forehead.
August spun and pushed the gun up. Rodgers didn't resist.
"Your mission was finished, Brett, not mine," Rodgers said.
"Mike, what've you done?"
Rodgers looked at him. "Got my pride back."
When August released his arm, Rodgers walked calmly toward the road. The rest of the ROC crew had stood up at the gunshot and were looking over. Rodgers was able to smile now, and he did. He was looking forward to apologizing to Phil Katzen.
His face ashen, August ordered Musicant to finish with the Kurds and treat Colonel Seden as soon as they were onboard the ROC. Then he handed the gun to Private DeVonne, who had been looking at her fellow Strikers.
"Sir," she said urgently, "we didn't see that. None of us did. The Kurd was killed in a firefight."
August shook his head bitterly. "I've known Mike Rodgers for most of my life. He's never told a lie. I don't think he's planning on starting now."
"But they'll break him for this!" said DeVonne.
"I know!" August snapped. "That's what I was worried about. Mike is going to do exactly what he was afraid the Kurd would do. He's going to use his courtmartial as a forum."
"For what?" DeVonne asked.
August took a quick, shaky breath. "For showing America how to deal with terrorists, Private, and for telling the world that America has had it." He headed for the road as the ROC arrived. "Let's move it out!" he shouted. "I want to blow this goddamn cave to Hell...."
SIXTY
Tuesday, 6:03 p.m.,
Damascus, Syria
A convoy of presidential security force cars pulled up at the American Embassy in Damascus at 5:45 p.m. Ambassador Haveles was escorted to the gates, where he was met by two United States Marine guards. A hearse took the bodies of the dead DSA operatives around to the back of the embassy. Haveles went directly to his office, composed despite the fright still in his eyes, and telephoned the Turkish Ambassador in Damascus. He explained to him his first-hand knowledge of what had happened in the palace, and also told him that it had been PKK soldiers, not Syrians, who had been behind the theft of the border patrol helicopter, the attack on the Ataturk Dam, and the incident at the Syrian border. He urged the ambassador to brief the military and ask them to stand down. The ambassador said he would pass along the information.
Paul Hood arrived a few minutes later. He, Warner Bicking, and Professor Nasr had been dressed in kaffiyehs and sunglasses and escorted to a bus stop. Hood had always found the idea of disguises a theatrical extravagance when they appeared in movies and novels. In real life, he walked the third of a mile as if he were born and raised on Ibn Assaker Street. He had to. If he were recognized by a journalist or foreign official, it would jeopardize the two women who had come with him.
But he wasn't spotted. Though buses were being diverted around the Old City, the three men reached the embassy in just a half hour. Stopped by two Marine guards, Hood felt like Claude Rains in The Invisible Man as he unwrapped his disguise to show the sentries that he was who he said he was. Watching the front gate on closed-circuit camera, a DSA agent hurried out to usher the three men inside.
Hood went directly to the nearest office to telephone Bob Herbert. He shut the door of Deputy Ambassador John LeCoz's chambers and stood alone beside the old mahogany desk. The heavy, drawn drapes cloaked the small office in deep dark and muted silence. Hood felt safe. As he punched in the number of Herbert's wheelchair phone, it flashed through his mind that Sharon and the kids might have heard about events in Damascus. They might be worried. He hesitated, then decided he'd call them next. He didn't want to rush them off the phone, but he had to know about the ROC.
Herbert answered on the first ring. He was uncharacteristically subdued as he told Hood the good news. The Tomahawk had been aborted. Striker had gone in, rescued the ROC and its crew, and all were now safely back at Tel Nef. Syrian Army forces had been alerted about the wounded Kurds and had gone to collect them. In a short interview with CNN, the leader of the SAA force had ascribed the explosion at the cave to PKK mishandling of munitions---but only after the U.S. had agreed to allow Syrian security officials to interrogate the survivors while insisting there weren't any. They wanted to know everything about how Syrian security had been breached in Damascus and at Qamishli. Haveles's deputy ambassador had agreed to that after consulting with General Vanzandt.
Hood was elated until Herbert informed him of Mike Rodgers's torture and his execution of the Kurdish leader who ordered it.
Hood was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Who witnessed the killing?"
"That's not going to fly," Herbert said. "Mike wants people to know what he did and why he did it."
"He's been through Hell," Hood said dismissively. "We'll talk to him after he's rested."
"Paul---"
"He'll budge on this," Hood said. "He has to. If Mike is court-martialed, he'll be forced to talk about what he was doing in Turkey and why. He'll have to reveal contacts, methods, talk about other operations we've mounted."
"In situations involving national security, the records of the court-martial can be sealed."
"The press will still cover it," Hood said, "and they'll be all over us. This could literally bring down American intelligence operations in the Middle East. What about Colonel August? He's Mike's oldest friend. Can't he do anything?"
"Don't you think he tried?" Herbert asked. "Mike told him t
hat terrorism is a greater threat than anything else America is facing today. He says it's time we fought fire with fire."
"He's got to be in shock," Hood concluded.
"He was checked at Tel Nef," Herbert replied. "He's sound."
"After what the Kurds did to him?" Hood said.
"Mike's been to Hell a whole lotta times and made it back okay," Herbert replied. "Anyway, the Israeli medics say he's mentally fit and Mike himself says he's thought this through."
Hood reached for a pen and pad. "What's the telephone number at the base? I want to talk to him before he does anything he'll regret."
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 04 - Acts Of War Page 39
