"This is Gold One — I'm right behind you. "
"I'm just trying to get us off this mountain. But what do I do then?"
"Head for the Governor's Mansion. They have a safe house there. "
"How do I get there?"
"I'll tell you when we get closer. "
Bennett came to another hairpin turn and downshifted quickly. He broke left and was now coming down Old Queen's Road. Then a fast, hard right, and another hard left. A few minutes more and they'd be in the heart of the city.
"Gold One, this is Frontier Six, over. "
It was a Brit Bennett hadn't heard before.
"Frontier Six — go."
"It's on fire — I say, again, the Governor's Mansion is on fire. "
"What? What happened?"
"Attacked by RPGs a few minutes ago — guys in speedboats out in the harbor."
"What's your status?"
"Not good. We've got a wickedfirefight on our hands. "
"How many?"
"Eight, maybe ten guys. Took us all by surprise — we saw the explosions at the summit and I sent most of my men up there. "
"What's all the smoke down your way?"
"They just blew up their plane on the runway, they did. Nothing can get in or out."
Bennett needed options. He needed someplace safe to get his team. But where? Everything he knew was gone. He needed time to think, but they were moving too fast. They were doing seventy toward a short tunnel when two shots erupted from their right. The first missed but the second sliced the, front windshield, shattering it into a thousand pieces. It was safety glass so none of it went flying, but suddenly Bennett couldn't see.
"McCoy…"
He had no idea who was shooting at them. He hit his high beams in the tunnel and prayed no one was in his way. McCoy reached over and rolled down his window. Bennett stuck his head out into the driving rains and tried not to lose control on the next series of turns. He had no idea where he was. He was moving through alleys and parking lots, desperately trying to reach Main Street, the Queensway, anything that would get him out of these narrow lanes and deadly zigzags that were going to kill all of them if a sniper didn't take them out first.
"Gold One, this is Bennett again."
"Go."
"Now what do we do?"
The SEAL Team commander thought about it for a fraction of a second. There weren't any good options. His instincts told him to get this team as far from Gibraltar as possible. It was a risk. He didn't dare take a boat. Not with terrorists out there in speedboats. They could sprint for the frontier, blow through the border, and drive to Rota. But that would take hours. And there was an intense gunfight at the Frontier.
"Gold One, come on, let's go!" Bennett shouted. "I need an answer— now!"
"Make a break for the airport, Jon. "
"What? Are you crazy?"
"Jon, we don't have a choice. We need to get you guys out of here now."
"We've got no plane. The runway's on fire."
"Jon, shut up and do what the man says."
It was McCoy. The VW went silent. So did the radio traffic.
"These guys know their stuff," McCoy continued as Bennett sped into the city along deserted streets gushing with rain. "The SEALs can fight their way onto the airstrip. There's two Seahawks there. We can use those."
"And who's gonna fly them?"
"Hunt and Brackman are both pilots — they flew together in Desert Storm."
"And then what?" asked Bennett, trying to calm down. "This storm's right on top of us. We go up in this and it'll kill us for sure."
"Have some faith, Jon. We'll blow up that bridge when we get to it."
MacPherson pressed General Mutschler for details. "What do you have to back them up?"
"We've got a rapid-response team at our base in Rota, Spain. They're almost completely socked in by the storm coming down from the north— and they're completely on the entire other side of Spain, on the Atlantic coast. But we're sending them anyway. They'll be in the air in the next few minutes."
"What else have you got?"
"We've got another team of SEALs out on the Kennedy. They're closer, Visibility is practically nil — less than half a mile at this point — but it's pos-sible."
MacPherson was furious.
"General, I don't have to remind you what's at stake here. Now I want You to get these guys out. I don't care how you do it — just do it."
"All right, Gold One, take the lead — we'll follow you."
Bennett eased off the gas a bit and let the minivan roar ahead. They were on Smith Dorrien Avenue, coming around a curve onto Winston Churchill. They'd be at the airstrip in less than a minute and it was going to be a fight to the death.
McCoy readied her Uzi and handed her Beretta to Bennett.
"When we get there, pull behind one of the Seahawks. I'll jump out and lay down some covering fire. You get Mordechai and Galishnikov into the chopper and watch my back. When you guys are ready, shout. I'll be right behind you."
The package now crossed the tarmac and everyone in the VW gasped at the devastation. The burning wreckage of the Learjet was front and center and the airport terminal was engulfed in flames. Machine-gun fire erupted from their left.
"Point Man, this is Prairie Ranch, do you read me?"
It was Marsha Kirkpatrick in the Situation Room.
"Roger that — what've you got?" Bennett shouted into his microphone as he tried desperately to steer clear of the firefight.
"Hang in there. We've got a rescue team coming in from Rota — ETA about fifteen minutes.
"Negative, negative — we're under heavy fire — we can't wait that long."
Bennett cut right, barely missing a tanker trunk in the middle of the tarmac, still running and apparently abandoned in the fight.
"Jon, look out1."
It was Mordechai.
"Where? What is it?" yelled Bennett, unable to turn his head or risk crashing.
Now McCoy saw it, too.
"Get down, get down — RPG. "
Bennett didn't know where it was coming from. He didn't want to know. He just ducked as low as he could, hit the gas, and raced for the Seahawks.
The RPG missed them by inches. It slammed into the fuel tanker, unleashing yet another explosion. The force of the blast blew out all the windows of the VW, but they were finally there. Bennett grabbed his microphone again.
"Gold One, we don't have time to wait for a rescue — get us out of here now."
"Roger that, I'm right behind you."
Bennett pulled behind the lead Seahawk, grabbed McCoy's 9-mm, and started helping the two Israelis out of the backseat. The SEALs took up a blocking position and returned fire. Tracer rounds crisscrossed the tarmac as Sergeants Hunt and Brackman powered up the choppers and prepared for liftoff.
Bullets whizzed by his head and three or four more explosions went off, though Bennett quickly lost count. Before he realized it, McCoy was slapping him on the back and yelling at him to jump into the sixty-four-foot bird or get left behind. Doron, Sa'id, and their protective details, as well as Mor-dechai, Galishnikov, and another handful of SEALs were already locked and loaded and ready to go. The rest of the SEALs would take the second chopper. Bennett scrambled in with the others and McCoy jumped in last.
She put on a headset and gave Bennett his own pair to block out the noise and communicate with the others. Sergeant Hunt completed their pre-flight check. Two SEALs took up their positions by the .50-caliber machine guns mounted in the doors and opened up on the terrorists now firing at them.