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 pointed 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"