But that wasn't how Hood worked. He picked up the phone.
"Warner," he whispered, "if you can hear me, stay put. I think all hell's about to—"
An instant later all hell did break loose. The alabaster walls exploded chest-high on both sides of the door and the masked Israelis stood at the openings. As the Kurds opened fire on them, the faster, more powerful Israeli rifles replied with one, deadly voice.
FIFTY-TWO
When he saw the spray of blood, Phil Katzen screamed curses at Kurds. Oblivious to the sharp pains in his side, he tried to crawl up the slope to the roadway.
Falah laid his guns down. He put his arms around the American's waist and held him back. "Wait!" he cried. "Wait! Something is not right—"
Katzen pressed his forehead to the dry earth. "They killed her. Shot her without a thought!" He pounded his fists slowly on either side.
"I don't think so," Falah said. "Shhh I think I hear her."
Katzen quieted. He heard the grinding of gears as the ROC drove off. Then he heard whimpering from the ledge. "Mary Rose?" Katzen wondered aloud. Other than the sobbing, there was absolute silence. Katzen glanced over at Falah. "If she's alive, something must have happened to the man who was going to shoot her."
"That is true," Falah said. He retrieved his guns. "It was probably his blood we saw."
"But how?" Katzen asked. "I don't see how any of the other prisoners could have escaped. There were iron grates on those pits."
"No one escaped," said Falah. "If they had there would be shouts, running around. Just the opposite has happened. No one is moving." He looked off to the south. He squinted. "If it was the Kurd who was shot, he had to have been picked off. I shut down the radio an hour ago. That would have enough time for a quick 'go' decision and rapid-deployment ingress."
Striker, Katzen thought. He followed Falah's gaze.
Before Katzen could scan the trees for movement, someone shouted from above. He was yelling in English, threatening to kill three hostages.
"He's not talking to us," Falah said. "Someone sniped the killer. He's talking to them."
"If that's true," Katzensaid, "the ROC may spot whoever's out there."
"We can't even take the ROC out," Falah said. "It seems the Kurds have moved it." He climbed over Katzen and handed him one of the guns. "You stay here. I'm going to try and find them, warn—"
Before he could move farther, there was a faint pop and then a whistle from the southeast. Katzen looked up as a small, black projectile rocketed toward the cave. Another came seconds later, followed by a third. They exploded in rapid succession, sending out thick copper-colored clouds.
"Neo-phosgene!" Katzen said.
"What?" Falah asked.
"A new lung agent," Katzen said. "It induces asthma-like effects for about five minutes. Striker's the only team that has it."
At full dispersion the gas seemed to freeze, like cotton. Within moments the liquid content evaporated and the remaining vapor sunk to the ground in a thick pancake. The edges of the pancake crept toward the edge of the slope and spilled over. The men watched as Mary Rose fell forward. Her torso dopped over the ledge and she lay there gasping for breath.
"Come on," Katzen said. "The cloud itself will turn white and non-toxic in about two minutes. We may be able to get our people out before the Kurds recover."
"No," Falah said. "You stay here. Your broken ribs will slow us both down."
"Horseshit," Katzen said. "I'll look after Mary Rose, but I'm coming up."
Falah agreed, and began clawing up the slope. His speed and dexterity momentarily took Katzen aback. Being out of the field so much these days, he sometimes forgot the breathtaking skill with which indigenous people maneuvered in their native terrain.
Stretching out his leg on the side with the broken rib, Katzen tried to immobilize that side as much as possible. Tucking the gun in his belt, he began crawling up. All the while he cast looks above, to the south, and below. Despite being out of the field, he didn't forget the swiftness and surprise with which Striker struck. If neophosgene gave them a five-minute window to get in and wrap things up, they'd be here with everything wrapped up in five minutes or less.
As he was looking south, Katzen heard footsteps on the road above. He looked up. Falah was still climbing and the gas was still brownish, still potent. He couldn't see the road itself, but he saw the edges of the cloud swirl as though people were moving through it. Then someone appeared beside Mary Rose. He was wearing a camouflage uniform and a gas mask. He knelt beside her, put his arms around her shoulders, and carefully pulled her from the slope. Then he put her over his shoulder and was gone.
Falah practically vaulted up the last few yards to the ledge. Standing just outside the clearly defined edge of fire gas, Falah looked back at Katzen. The Israeli smiled enthusiastically, gave Katzen a thumbs-up, then ran in the direction of the cave.
There was no longer any need for Katzen to continue his climb. With pain stabbing him from jaw to waist, he gladly settled belly-down on a soft patch of grass. He breathed using the "Buddha" technique he'd learned in first aid. He expanded his belly rather than his chest to minimize the pain of the broken rib.
As he lay there, contentedly listening to a concerto of faint but regular wheezing and the stop-and-start crunch of boots on dirt and pebbles, he was shocked alert by the sound of gunfire. From the echo, it sounded as if it were coming from deep within the cave.
Pulling one knee and his palms underneath him, Katzen struggled to drag himself the rest of the way up the slope.
FIFTY-THREE
Mahmoud had been leaning with both hands against a table beside the mahmal when the wall of the reception room blew in. He'd wanted to be a part of the defense of their small bastion, but he hadn't the strength. He hadn't even been able to check the room for stragglers who might have survived the blast engineered by their suicide bomber, Saber Mohseni.
Already weakened by a bullet in the leg and another in his left side, Mahmoud was shaken to the ground by the blast. Though shamed by his infirmity, he avoided the scythe of gunfire which slashed once across the room chest-high, and then once back again knee-high. The other Kurds were not so lucky. They'd taken up positions behind chairs and columns in the center of the room, braced for an attack. But the powerful Turkish-made G3 rifles cut them apart.
Lying with his cheek on the cold tile, Mahmoud listened as the gunfire died along with his troops. Unhurt in the latest fusillade, he left his eyes open just a crack. He stared across the floor covered with shattered crystal and broken bodies. He watched as a face appeared in each of the wall-openings. The bottom of their kaffiyehs had been pulled across the nose and mouth of each man. Mahmoud had suspected that these were not the President's elite bodyguard. Now he was certain. These men did not wish to be identified. Also, the President's bodyguards didn't shoot to kill. They used gas to debilitate foes so they could capture and torture them. The Syrian President liked to know about possible conspiracies and his inquisitors couldn't question a dead man. Finally, these men had shot blindly into a room containing the holy mahmal. No Muslim would have dared commit such sacrilege.
No, these men were not Syrians. Mahmoud suspected that they were Mista'aravim, Israelis who masqueraded as Syrians.
Mahmoud's gun was lying beside him in the dark. He picked it up. He could still help to make the goal a reality. His fingers tensed around the butt. His index finger slid through the trigger guard. There were still Syrian Kurds in the building and they were fighting on. So would he.