The thoughts rushing through Bennett were alien to everything he'd been taught to believe. They smacked of the very intolerance and judgmentalism he'd been so relentlessly warned against back at Georgetown and Harvard. But what was "tolerance" in the face of terror? Wasn't it surrender? Wasn't it social suicide?
Suddenly — without warning — Bennett began to move. He grabbed the machine gun, scrambled out from under the limousine, and took aim at the two hooded men who'd just shot Mancuso. Now they were charging at him. It was kill or be killed. It was winner take all, and he could see fire coming from the barrels of their AK-47s. He'd been here before. He'd looked into a killer's eyes. Bennett raised the AK-47, pulled the trigger and didn't let go. In a fraction of second, he emptied the entire clip, riddling the two men with dozens of rounds until they collapsed just fifteen or twenty yards away. They were screaming and thrashing about in pain and rage. And then, their bodies and screams went silent.
McCoy was stunned. She just stood there, mesmerized by the two lifeless bodies, taken off guard by Bennett's sudden engagement.
"Erin, we can't stay here — we've got to move out now."
Bennett wheeled around. He saw two men sprinting through the flames at the other end of the courtyard. Then he heard the incoming sizzle.
"Get down — get down — RPG."
Bennett hit the deck, bringing McCoy down with him. He covered her body with his own as the rocket-propelled grenade came whistling through the gates. It missed McCoy's head. It missed his own by no more than a few inches, and barely missed the limo as well. Bennett could still see the smoke of the RPG's trail slicing the air above them, across Snapshot's hood. The missile hit the PLC building. The ferocious explosion sent another massive shock wave through the compound. But it was the image of McCoy almost having her head blown off that changed everything.
"You two, in the car — now," Bennett demanded, pointing to Galishnikov and Sa'id, then turned to McCoy. uGet them in — everybody — let's go."
Bennett pulled Sa'id and Galishnikov out from under the car. He shoved them into the backseat of the vehicle that now had to save their lives. Then he looked down at Mancuso's crumpled body. He checked his pulse — just to be sure — but it was too late. He was gone. He and McCoy lifted Mancuso's body. They carefully set it inside the car, along with his MP-5 and the Sig-Sauer pistol inside his jacket pocket. McCoy climbed in beside him, slammed the door behind her, and covered Mancuso's body with coats.
Bennett grabbed Mancuso's earpiece and radio, put them on himself, jumped into the driver's seat, pulled the door closed behind him, and hit the automatic door locks.
"Halfback, this is Snapshot — can you hear me?"
Max Banacci — six foot three inches tall, former Army Ranger turned lead DSS agent for the assault teams — responded immediately.
"Bennett, that you? Where's Donny? Where's McCoy?"
"Mancuso's dead. McCoy's with me. I've got Galishnikov and Sa'id. We've got to get out of here — now."
"No, no," Banacci insisted. "We can't just leave these guys here. We've got to—"
"Banacci, it's over. We've got to get out of here — now."
"No way. IfMancuso 's down then I'm in charge now and I say we stay until—"
"Until what? We're all dead? Forget it. I work for the White House. You work for me. Now get us the hell out of here before the rest of the peace process goes up in flames."
"You 're out of your mind, Bennett1." Banacci shouted. "We don't leave until we get the last man out. No one gets left behind. That dear enough for you?"
Bennett fought to control his anger.
'Everyone who's alive is coming widi me," Bennett shot back. "If you've got a problem with that, bring it up with the president. I'm taking these guys home."
FOUR
Air Force One shot across the Atlantic at 43,000 feet.
Among those aboard were Defense Secretary Burt Trainor, Deputy Secre tary of State Dick Cavanaugh, Press Secretary Chuck Murray and a cadre of se-nior officials from the Pentagon, the National Security Council, and the State Department Policy Planning Staff. Those who weren't working were sleeping or watching the in-flight movie system. Events on the ground were moving fast, and word of what had just happened in Gaza would reach the president any moment. But it hadn't yet.
MacPherson sat alone in his airborne office, sipping a cup of coffee and reviewing the latest intel from Iraq. The Persian Gulf port city of Umm Qasr was controlled by the marines. Navy SEAL (Sea, Air, and Land) commandos were almost finished clearing mines from the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. Basrah and Nasiriyah were largely secured by army units in the south, as were Mosul and Kirkuk in the north. There were still sporadic skirmishes in Karbala and Al Kut. Holdouts from the Republican Guard were booby-trapping cars and fedayeen snipers took potshots at night. But that was to be expected. He had no doubt the entire country would soon be secure.
All things considered, civilian casualties in Tikrit, the birthplace of Saddam Hussein and Saladin — Muslim conqueror of Jerusalem in a.d. 1187—were much lower than he'd feared.
Baghdad was not so lucky. American spy satellites had found the "smoking gun" the world had been demanding. Saddam had been minutes away from launching a nuclear ICBM — code-named The Last Jihad — against New York or Washington, or perhaps Israel or Saudi Arabia. His nuclear forces had been hidden in a children's hospital in the heart of the city, not far from
Baghdad University. The president didn't have a choice. It was kill or be killed.
MacPherson knew he'd done the right thing. But that didn't make it easier to sleep at night. It didn't make it easier to see the latest bomb-damage assessments, or read the latest intelligence updates, or listen to Paris, Bonn, and Moscow denounce him at the U.N. This was the price of being the world's only superpower, and it was high indeed.
Banacci was a Ranger.
He couldn't bear the thought of leaving behind the bodies of his fallen comrades. And as a senior DSS agent and team leader, he was supposed to take over after Mancuso. But Bennett was right. There were bigger fish to fry here and they didn't need to be fighting each other. Banacci needed to get the president's "point man" out of this hellhole and back to Washington. His job was to provide security for Snapshot and its occupants, so that's what he'd do, like it or not.
"Fine, hold on, "he shouted into his microphone. "We'll give you guys cover."
Banacci cranked up the air conditioning and directed the team in the Suburban ahead of him — code-named Halfback — to take the point. His Suburban — Fullback — would bring up the rear. Agents in both vehicles locked their doors, popped in new ammo clips, and sucked down bottles of water.
McCoy scrambled into the front passenger seat, next to Bennett. She pulled out a map and quickly tried to assess their options, navigating a way of escape. Bennett looked in his rearview mirror. What was this guy waiting for?
Bennett gunned the engine. He was determined to get his team out alive. But if Galishnikov or Sa'id asked him what their chances were, he'd be tempted to lie. Yes, he'd raced his Porsche turbo down hairpin turns in the Colorado Rockies on weekends. He'd floored it on country straightaways in Connecticut. But he'd never been trained by the CIA's school for defensive driving, or the Secret Service's. And yes, he'd reviewed some maps and logistics on the flight from Washington. But he didn't really know where he was. He hadn't driven this team into Gaza. And he knew one wrong turn was a death sentence.