A few seconds before, perched in a treetop, Grey had been staring through the twelve-power Redfield telescope mounted on top of his Remington 7.62 mm M401 sniping rifle. It had been twenty-odd seconds since he'd blinked. Twenty-odd seconds since the terrorist had walked from the cave holding a gun to the head of Mary Rose Mohalley. Twenty-odd seconds since Colonel Brett August had told him to take the subject out at will. During that time, Grey had not only watched everything that transpired, he'd also listened carefully through earphones plugged into a six-inch-diameter parabolic dish. The clip-on dish had been attached to a branch beside him and provided clear audio from the area surrounding the idle ROC.
There is an instant in every hostage situation when a marksman makes an emotional rather than just a professional commitment to doing what must be done. A life must be taken in order to rescue a hostage. It isn't a point of no return; hostage situations are fluid and one must always be ready to stand down. But it is a form of peacemaking with oneself. If the guilty party doesn't die — swiftly, painlessly — an innocent one may. That realization is black and white. It comes without passing judgment on the larger matter, the merits of the terrorist's cause. At that point, an almost supernatural calm comes over the marksman. Those last seconds before firing are moments of cold and frightening efficiency. The first seconds afterward are moments of equally dispassionate acceptance with just a hint of professional pride.
Sergeant Grey waited until the gunman had uttered the last number of his count before firing. His single shot struck the terrorist in the left temple. The man jerked hard to the right on impact, twisted slightly, and then dropped to his back. His blood sprayed out over the ledge and then poured with him as he fell. When the man's arms went limp, Mary Rose fell to her knees. No one rushed out to claim her. A moment later, someone began clambering up the slope. Grey didn't wait to see the outcome.
Privates David George and Terrence Newmeyer were standing under the tree. The instant'the terrorist went down, Sergeant Grey lowered the dish and headphones to Private George, handed his rifle to Private Newmeyer, and climbed down. As he stowed his gear, Sergeant Grey felt only one thing. That there was still a lot to be done.
The three men joined Colonel August and the others. The Strikers had left their vehicles a quarter mile back so the engines would not be heard. Two Strikers had remained behind to protect the FAVs and motorcycles, while the others had moved forward through the tops of the close-growing trees. They'd executed an infrared scan and hadn't detected sentries, so the off-ground route served a double purpose. First, it would keep them from tripping any mines that guarded the cave. Second, if the ROC were working, the reading would indicate that something was moving in the trees — though at this distance the Kurds might think they were some of the flocking vultures that were indigenous to the region.
For the three minutes that Sergeant Grey had been in the tree, Colonel August and Corporal Pat Prementine had been using field glasses to watch what was happening on the ledge approximately three hundred yards away. The other eleven Strikers had been gathered in a tight group behind them. When Sergeant Grey arrived with the two privates, the group absorbed them without seeming to expand.
August looked back at the newcomers. Corporal Prementine, the boy genius of infantry tactics, continued to look out at the ledge.
"Good work, Sergeant," August said.
"Thank you, sir."
"Sir," said Prementine, "no one's gone after the woman."
August nodded. "We're going to have to move that," he whispered. "To bring you up to date, we think that's Phil Katzen and our contact at the foot of the slope. We'll be going out in one or two groups. One group if we need to storm the cave to get our people out. Two if the hostages are—"
"Colonel," Prementine interrupted, "the men are coming out. The bastard's've gone half-and-half."
August swung his binoculars around. Sergeant Grey also squinted back toward the cave. Three of the hostages had been thrown face-down in the dirt outside the cave. Grey could see men inside the cave, but they were hidden by the deep shadows.
"Corporal, mask up and get A-Team over there now." August snapped. "Take them inside. We'll handle the perimeter."
"Yes, sir," Prementine said. He moved out with seven Strikers crouching low behind him, single file, as they ran toward the ledge.
"George, Scott!" August barked.
"Sir?" both men replied.
"RAC 'em."
"Yes, sir," said George.
The two privates moved to the equipment locker they'd hauled from the FAV. As David George assembled a charcoal-gray mortar, Jason Scott pulled four shells of RAC — rapid-acting incapacitant — from their insulated storage bag. Within two seconds of exploding, the amber-colored gas would knock out everyone within a twenty-foot radius. Private Scott assisted with the heavy baseplate, and in just over thirty seconds the grenade launcher was loaded and assembled. While Private George peered through the sight, Scott adjusted the traversing and elevating handles to fix the line of fire.
"Sergeant Grey," August said, "back in harness. Night vision. Tell me what you can see inside the cave."
"Right away, sir."
While Grey grabbed his rifle and headed back to the tree, Newmeyer pulled the night-vision goggles from his backpack. The strap was preset to slip over Grey's helmet and hang over both eyes. The Redfield telescope had been fitted with an adaptor to slip over either eyepiece.
"Sergeant," August said, "it looks like the hostages' feet are tied to ropes inside. See if you've got a shot at whoever's holding those ropes."
"Yes, sir," Grey replied. He began climbing back toward the large branch which gave him a clear view over the other trees.
As he ascended, Grey heard Private Ishi Honda's radio beep. The communications operator answered, listened for several seconds, then put the caller on hold.
"Sir," Honda said calmly, "it's Mr. Herbert's office with an AE update."
AE meant "all ears." Though that usually meant that an immediate evacuation was being ordered, Grey continued to climb.
"Shoot," August said.
"Mr. Herbert reports that seven minutes ago, a Tomahawk missile was fired from the USS Pittsburgh. It will be reaching the ROC in twenty-five minutes. We are advised to abort."
"Advised, not ordered," August said.
"No, sir."
August nodded. "Private George." Sir.
"Let the sons of bitches have it."
FIFTY-ONE
When the revolver was pressed under his chin, Paul Hood did not see his life race by. As the other two men disarmed him, Hood was overcome with an almost dreamlike light-headedness. The mind's way of dealing with incomprehensible shock? But he was lucid enough to ask himself what the hell he'd been thinking when he'd decided to take on the terrorists. He was a desk jockey, not a fighter. And he'd been so preoccupied with the leader — where he was going and what he was doing — that he'd forgotten all about the men creeping along the wall. As usual, Mike Rodgers had been right about these things. War, he'd often said, was unforgiving.
The men with Hood's guns stepped back. One of them turned. Hood watched the leader move his band forward. There was nothing smug or triumphant about his opponent's manner. He seemed purposeful — no more, no less — as he stopped by the door and looked down the corridor. He nodded once. The man who was watching him turned back. He said something to the soldier in front of Hood. The soldier grunted and looked at Hood. Unlike the leader, this man smiled.