That too was María, McCaskey thought.
McCaskey looked back at the chopper. Flashes of fire were increasing as soldiers got inside the palace and took up positions by the windows. Luis was able to drive them back but he wouldn’t be able to hold them for long.
McCaskey picked María up. “Let me take you to the chopper,” he said. “Then I’ll go back and get—”
Suddenly, there was a loud report from somewhere directly above them. It was followed by a gurgled cry from the chopper megaphone. A moment later Luis stumbled from the open door on McCaskey’s side. He was holding the rifle in one hand and clutching a wound in his neck with the other. McCaskey looked up. A sharpshooter on top of the arches had managed to get a clear shot through the open door of the helicopter. McCaskey was furious with himself for having anticipated only groundfire. He should have had the goddamn chopper drop him off and then get the hell out of there.
Luis walked forward haltingly. The rifle clattered from his hand and he left it where it fell. His goal was obviously the captain, who was writhing painfully. Luis took two steps more and then fell across him. No one risked shooting at him now.
Pedro looked desperately toward McCaskey, who waved him off. There was nothing else the pilot could do. A couple of bullets pinged off the rotor as the helicopter rose, but it wasn’t severely damaged. The chopper headed away from the palace, toward the cathedral, and was quickly out of range.
They, unfortunately, were not.
THIRTY-SIX
To reach the throne room from the Hall of Tapestries, it was necessary to exit the long but narrow hall, go around the grand staircase, then pass through the Hall of the Halberdiers. Altogether it was a journey of slightly more than two hundred feet. The Strikers would have to cover the distance quickly, lest the noise of the explosion send General Amadori into hiding.
For the seven soldiers and Aideen, however, it was also a foray against more than two hundred years of American tradition. Although the United States had clandestinely assisted or encouraged assassination attempts against the likes of Fidel Castro and Saddam Hussein, only once in its history had the military targeted a foreign leader for assassination. That was on April 15, 1986, when U.S. warplanes took off from England to bomb the headquarters of Libyan despot Muammar al-Qaddafi. The attack was in retaliation for the terrorist bombing of a West Berlin discotheque frequented by American soldiers. Qaddafi survived that assault and the U.S. lost an F-111 and two airmen. Three hostages were murdered in Lebanon in reprisal for the American air raid.
Col. Brett August was aware of the lonely significance of the mission they were undertaking. In Vietnam, the base “padre,” Father Uxbridge, had a word for it. The priest tried to keep the mood light by giving all his sermon themes a military-style acronym. He called ethical ambiguities like these M.I.S.T.: Moral Issues Sliced Thick. That meant there was so much to chew on that you could think about it forever and never do anything because you could never reach a satisfactory intellectual resolution. The priest’s advice was to do what felt right. August hated bullies — especially bullies who imprisoned and killed those who disagreed with him. This felt right. The irony was that if they succeeded, credit for the deed would go to Spanish patriots loyal to the king, whose identities must be kept secret for security reasons. If they failed, they would be described as rogue operatives who had been hired by the Ramirez clan to avenge his death.
When the dungeon door blew open, the Strikers found themselves behind what was left of a three hundred year old arras. The bottom of the tapestry had been torn off in the explosion and the top was still fluttering as they rushed through. The Strikers’ orders were to disable opponents wherever possible and they were ready for the first wave of soldiers that came to investigate the blast. The Strikers’ ski masks contained goggles and mouth filters which would protect them from the Orthochlorobenzylidene malononitrile grenades Privates DeVonne and Scott were carrying. The fast-acting agent caused burning eyes and retching. In an enclosed area like the palace rooms, the gas would disable an opponent for up to five minutes. Most people couldn’t stand the effects for more than a minute or two and attempted to get to fresh air as quickly as possible. During the leapfrog approach, DeVonne and then Scott would take alternate tosses as necessary.
The first group of Spanish soldiers was swallowed in a huge yellow-and-black cottonball of gas. They dropped where they stood, some in the doorway and a few just inside the room. Anticipating that the Spaniards wouldn’t fire blindly into the thick cloud, the Strikers moved boldly through the doorway and proceeded along the southside wall. The door to the Hall of the Halberdiers was straight ahead, on the same side.
Soldiers were rushing toward them, guns raised. Scott’s partner, Private Pupshaw, crouched and fired ahead knee high. Two soldiers fell and the rest went racing to doorways for cover. While they scattered, Scott rolled a grenade down the hall. There was a three second delay and then the hallway filled with smoke. August and Private Honda leapfrogged ahead, followed by Private DeVonne and Corporal Prementine.
The Strikers were halfway to the Hall of the Halberdiers when August heard shouts inside along with gunfire. As soon as August and Honda were back in front of the team, the colonel held up a hand to halt their progress. He didn’t know how many people were inside the chamber or why there was shooting, but Striker was going to have to neutralize the entire room before they entered. He raised three fingers, then two — indicating attack plan thirty-two — then pointed at Privates DeVonne and Scott with the other hand. He motioned them ahead, Scott to the near side of the door, DeVonne to the far side. As soon as they were in position, both rolled grenades into the Hall of the Halberdiers.
When he was helping to train NATO troops in Italy, August had described the effect of the OM gas as very much like pouring boiling water in an anthill. The targets went down where they stood and just squirmed. Here, as Striker moved from room to hall to room, the impression of moving through an anthill was especially strong.
August pointed back to Prementine and Pupshaw, who rejoined their partners on either side of the door. They heard coughing and vomiting inside. When no one came out, August and Honda went in. The two Strikers squatted low on either side of the door, weapons ready, and surveyed the room.
August wasn’t quite prepared for the sight that greeted him: hundreds of bodies, mostly civilians and a few soldiers, writhing on the floor of the Hall of the Halberdiers. August knew that they wouldn’t die. But his mind flashed to images of the Holocaust, to gas chambers from the Second World War, and he had a flash of guilt — one of Father Uxbridge’s moral paradoxes.
He forced it aside. He had to. Once a tactical strike force set out, no member could afford to waver. The lives of the soldiers didn’t depend upon a shared ideology. They did depend upon a shared commitment.
August motioned for Honda to go right around the mass of bodies. Still squatting, August went left. Both men stayed close to the wall. There were bullet knicks in the marble near the door. The soldiers had obviously fired in that direction when the grenades rolled in. Though they were in no condition to fire now, August watched them as carefully as he could through the yellow haze. There was always the possibility that someone might rally enough to fire off a few rounds. But no one did. When he reached the throne room door, Colonel August withdrew the flashlight from the loop around his thigh. He flicked it on and off twice to indicate that the next group should proceed. Private DeVonne, Aideen, and Corporal Prementine came in, moving low along the wall as August and Honda had done. Privates Pupshaw and Scott followed them in.