Or, Hood thought, they aren't afraid of being attacked.
It was part of Hood's job to do what he called the "PC thing," to presume conspiracies. Part of Op-Center's mission was constantly to ask "What if?" when faced with a murder by a lone assassin or a rebellion by a hitherto underarmed faction. Hood was not obsessed with conspiracies, but he wasn't naive.
The soldiers continued to move ahead purposefully. Hood watched as coverage shifted to another monitor.
"Paul?" Warner said. "Are you coming?"
"Hold the line," Hood said.
"I've got Op-Center still holding—"
"Stay on the line!" Hood ordered.
He bent lower to the monitors. A few seconds later he saw two men with black kaffiyehs, brandishing what looked like Makarov pistols, cross the hall behind them. One of the soldiers looked back briefly. He didn't even break his stride.
"Warner," Hood said urgently, "get out of there."
"What? Why?"
"Get everyone together and move!" he said. "Bring them here. I don't think the cavalry is on our side."
"Okay," Bicking said, "I'm moving."
"And if they won't leave, don't argue with them. Just get out."
"Understood," Bicking said.
Hood squeezed the phone. More attackers passed with impunity behind the troops. Either the Syrian military was in on this, or these men were only masquerading as Syrian Army regulars. In either case, the situation had just gone from dangerous to deadly.
"Shit!" Hood said as the soldiers turned down the last corridor. "Warner, stay put!"
"What?"
"Stay where you are!" Hood shouted. He'd no longer have to watch the attackers on the monitor. To see them, all he'd have to do was stick his head out the door. His head or—
Hood looked down at the blood-soaked marble. The Russian guard's pistol was there along with the Syrian killer's automatic rifle. All that Hood knew about firing guns was what he'd been taught in the required courses at Op-Center. And he hadn't done terribly well at those. Not with Mike Rodgers and Bob Herbert casually ticking off bull's-eyes at the firing stations on either side of him. But what Hood knew might be enough. If he could drive the Syrians back, that might buy Warner and the others enough time to get out of the reception room.
"Warner," Hood whispered loudly into the phone, "there are soldiers coming toward you. Probably hostile. Hunker down until you hear from me. Acknowledge."
"Hunkering down," Bicking said.
Hood let the phone drop. He lifted the automatic rifle from the thin layer of blood carpeting the marble floor. He got up quickly and felt dizzy. He wasn't sure if it was because he'd gotten up too fast or because his hands and the soles of his shoes were sticky with someone's blood. It was probably a little of both. Moving quickly, Hood stepped over the outstretched arm of one of the DSA men. He stood just behind the doorjamb.
His heart was a mallet, thick and heavy. His arms trembled slightly. He had taken mandatory weapons training, but he had never shot at anyone before. He wouldn't fire to kill. Not at first. But there was no guarantee he wouldn't have to. He'd been the Mayor of Los Angeles and a banker. He'd signed on at Op-Center for a think-tank-type desk job. Crisis management, not wallowing in blood.
Well, things freakin' change, Hood, he pep-talked to himself as he took a slow breath. Either you fire if necessary, or your family attends a funeral. He leaned into the hallway and looked at the soldiers walking toward the reception room. He had the framework of a plan. First, to find out if he could communicate with these people. Second, to see how they'd react to a challenge.
"Do any of you speak English?" Hood asked.
The soldiers stopped. They were nearly twenty feet from the reception room, about three-dozen yards from him. Without turning around, the leader said something to a man behind him. The man stepped forward.
"I speak English," said the man. "Who are you?"
"An American guest of the President," Hood replied. "I just spoke with the commander of the presidential guard by phone. He's asked that all loyal forces meet him in the north gallery at once."
The man translated for the leader. The leader gave an order to a man behind him. Two soldiers left the group and went back the way they'd come.
He's got to check, Hood thought, but he's not using his field radio. If there are presidential guards out there, this man doesn't want them to know he's here.
As the two men trotted around a corner, the leader issued a new order. The group split up again. The leader and four men continued toward the reception area while three men moved toward Hood. Their weapons were in their hands. They weren't coming to rescue him. The question was, did they intend to take the men hostage or kill them? They had already taken several lives in a failed effort to assassinate the President. And they'd killed all the men in this booth. Even if they were taking prisoners, which Hood doubted, he didn't want to subject his country, his family, himself, or the men in the other room to an extended hostage ordeal. As Mike Rodgers had once put it, "In the long run, that's just a different way to die."
Hood hugged the automatic rifle to his waist, the magazine resting along his thigh. Aiming the barrel low, he swung into the corridor and fired at the floor just in front of the group's leader. Hood was startled as casings flew at him from the ejection port, but he continued to hold the trigger. The men down the hall retreated. The three men, who were coming toward the security room threw themselves against the wall, behind a large bronze horse, and returned fire.
Hood stopped firing and ducked back behind the jamb. His knuckles were bone-white around the pistol grip. His breathing was fast and his heart was hammering harder than before. The men down the hall also stopped firing. The automatic rifle felt light, nearly empty. Hood picked the bloody pistol up off the floor and checked the magazine. It was about one-third empty. He had seven or eight shots.
Hood knew that there wasn't much time. He'd have to go back into the hallway and fire again, this time aiming higher. He checked the monitor. The leader and his group were hanging back. They'd been joined by a ragtag group of Syrians with guns. The leaders of both groups were conferring. Hood knew that if he waited any longer he'd fall to sheer force of numbers.
He sidled up to the jamb and held both guns facing up. He didn't feel like John Wayne or Burt Lancaster or Gary Cooper. He was just a frightened diplomat with guns.
One who's responsible for the lives of men trapped down the hallway. He listened. He heard no movement outside. Holding his breath this time, he dropped both guns hiphigh and swung into the hallway.
And stopped as a soldier stepped right into his face and shoved a pistol barrel up under his chin.
FIFTY
Before joining Striker, Sergeant Chick Grey had been Corporal Grey of the elite counterterrorist Delta Force. He'd been a private when he'd first reported for training at Fort Bragg. But Grey's two specialties had enabled him to climb the ratings ladder to private first class and then corporal in a matter of months.
His first skill was in HALO operations — high-altitude, low-opening parachute jumps. As his commander at Bragg had put it when recommending Grey's boost from private to PFC, "The man can fly." Grey had the ability to pull his ripcord lower and land more accurately than any soldier in Delta history. He attributed that to having a rare sensitivity to air currents. He believed that also helped with his second skill.
Grey's second skill was marksmanship. As the late Lieutenant Colonel Charles Squires had written when insisting that Mike Rodgers recruit him for Striker, "Corporal Grey is not only a sharpshooter, General. He could put a bullet clean through one of your bull's-eyes." The report didn't note that Grey could also go without blinking for as long as necessary. He'd developed that ability when he realized that all it took was the blink of an eye to miss the "keyhole," as he called it. The instant when your target was in perfect position for a takedown.