The sewer turned to the north at a brick wall that stood almost shoulder-high. There was a nearly three-foot gap at the top — the entrance to the catacombs. DeVonne handed the flashlight to Private George while Private Scott boosted her up and over. It had been agreed ahead of time that she would handle point for the mission. August was next in line followed by Aideen, with Corporal Prementine bringing up the rear. Private DeVonne was still suffering from occasional emotional slumps over Lt. Col. Squires’s death. That had occurred during her first mission with Striker. However, August was pleased to see that she’d been completely focused since they’d reached Madrid. And she was even more so down here — moving like a cat, quiet and alert. Since they’d entered the sewer, not a rat had passed that she’d failed to notice.
After the seven Strikers and Aideen had gone over the brick wall, they pressed on following a map Luis had had printed out. It wasn’t as easy moving in here. The roof was only five feet high here, and the rubble and dirt crunched loudly under their feet. Their clothes were clammy at first, then thick and hard as they dried in the cool, extremely musty air.
Suddenly, August stopped.
“Incoming message,” he whispered to the others.
The Strikers formed a tight circle around him. Sondra reminded in front and Corporal Prementine stayed behind. The other Strikers and Aideen had gathered close in on either side. Their proximity would enable Colonel August to speak quietly if there were new orders.
“Are you in?” Luis asked.
“We’re about fifty feet into the catacombs,” August replied. Since the audio line was secure, scrambled on both ends, there was no chance of it being intercepted and no reason to speak in code. “We should reach the dungeon in about three minutes.”
“You’ll probably get the go-ahead then,” Luis informed him. “We’ve just heard from the spotters.”
“What’s happening?” August asked.
“María Cornejas has been taken outside, into the courtyard,” he said. “It looks like she’s bleeding.”
“Those shots we heard—?”
“Very possibly,” Luis agreed. “The problem is, it doesn’t look like those will be the last ones.”
“What do you mean?”
“It looks as if one of the officers is selecting men for a firing squad,” Luis told him.
“Where?” August asked.
“Outside the chapel,” he said.
August snapped his fingers at Sondra and pointed to the map. She immediately brought it closer and turned the flashlight on it. He indicated for her to turn it over to the blueprint of the palace.
“I’m looking at the map now,” August said. “What’s the most direct route to the—”
“Negative,” Luis replied.
“Sir?”
“This update is not to be acted upon. We wanted you to know what was going on in case you hear the volley. Darrell has already consulted with General Rodgers and Director Hood at Op-Center and they concur that your target must remain Amadori. If he’s beginning to execute prisoners, it’s vital that he be contained as soon as possible.”
“I understand,” August said, and he did. The mission objective was crucial. But the colonel felt the same nauseating kick in the gut he’d experienced in 1970 when his battle-weary company engaged a vastly superior North Vietnamese force outside of Hau Bon on the Song Ba River in Vietnam. August needed to cover the company’s retreat and selected two men to stay behind with a pair of standoff rifles and hold the road as long as possible. He knew he would probably never see those two soldiers again, but the life of the company depended upon them. He also knew he would never forget the crooked half-smile one of the men gave him as he looked back at the company. It was a boy’s smile — a boy who was struggling very hard to be a man.
“As soon as you’re in position under the Hall of Tapestries,” Luis said, “Darrell wants you to get into gear. He expects to give you the go command within the next ten to fifteen minutes.”
“We’ll be ready,” August replied.
He briefed the team succinctly and then ordered them forward. There was no extraneous conversation. The Strikers reached their target in just over two minutes, after which Colonel August ordered them to remove their outer clothes. Beneath their damp jeans and jackets were kevlar-lined black jumpsuits. Reaching into their grips, the Strikers traded their Nikes and sandals for black “grippers,” high-top sneakers with deeply ridged hard-rubber soles. The customized soles were designed to keep the wearer from slipping on slick surfaces and to enable them to stop suddenly and with precision. They were backed with kevlar to help prevent anyone from shooting up through a floor to bring the soldiers down.
The Strikers also strapped black leather sheaths around their thighs; the sheaths contained eight-inch-long serrated knives. A loop around the other thigh contained a pencil-thin flashlight. They tucked Uzis under their arms and pulled black ski masks over their heads. When they were ready, August moved them from the catacombs to the dungeon. Six of the Strikers went ahead two at a time, the middle group of two leapfrogging over the first pair and the last pair moving up to take their place. Aideen was teamed with Ishi Honda. This allowed the two stationary pairs to cover the front and rear, respectively. They reached the dungeon in slightly over three minutes. It looked exactly like it had in the photographs they’d seen back at Interpol.
The one exit from the dungeon was an old wooden door at the top of the long and very narrow staircase. The only light came from Sondra’s flashlight and from the imperfect fit of the door. August motioned for Privates Pupshaw and George to check the door. August was prepared to blow it if they had to, though he’d prefer to enter with a little less thunder.
After a minute, Pupshaw came running back. “The hinges are rusted all to hell,” he whispered into August’s ear, “and the MD’s giving me a reading of some kind of lock on the handle on the outside.”
The MD was the metal detector. Slightly larger than a fountain pen, the MD was primarily used to find and define landmines. However, it could also “see” through wood.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to go through the door, Colonel,” Pupshaw said.
August nodded. “Set it up.”
Pupshaw saluted and ran back upstairs. Prementine joined them. Together, the men rigged a thumbnail-sized amount of C-4 around the handle and around each hinge. They stuck a remote-control detonator, about the size of a needle, into each wad.
As they were working, August received word from Luis. María was being interrogated by an outside wall and a firing squad had been assembled. It was time to move out.
Luis thanked them again and wished them luck. August promised to contact Luis when it was all over. Then he disconnected the microphone and stowed it in his grip. The action must not be broadcast, even to Interpol. The United States could not be connected with what was about to transpire and even an inadvertent recording or misrouting of the signal would be disastrous.
Like the other Strikers, August slipped the grip on his back. It was flat and lined with kevlar; the bulletproof material provided extra cover for the soldiers. Joining the others, August gave Pupshaw the order to proceed. Once the door was opened they’d proceed in serpentine fashion, Sondra still at point, Prementine at the rear. The object was to get to the throne room as quickly as possible. They were authorized to shoot — arms and legs if possible, torso if necessary.
The Strikers stood at the foot of the steps and covered their ears as Pupshaw twisted the top of what looked like an elongated thimble. The three small charges erupted with a bang like a popped paper bag. Door planks flew apart in jagged fragments, carried in all directions by three thick, gray, lumpy clouds.