Any moment, killers would storm through those doors. Both Americans shuddered at what their fates would be. They wouldn't simply be shot. They'd be drilled for information about U.S. intelligence operations in Gaza and the West Bank. No form of torture would be off limits.
Each man knew all too well the stories of Israeli operatives and informants who'd fallen into the hands of Islamic terrorist cells over the years. They could expect their fingers to be cut off — or shot off — one by one. They could expect electric cattle prods to be used on them for mock colonoscopies. If they didn't talk — or didn't tell their interrogators what they wanted to hear — their tongues would be cut out of their mouths while they writhed in unfathomable agony.
But agreeing to talk wouldn't save them. Eventually, one way or the other, their genitalia would be cut off and mailed to their relatives in sealed plastic igs.
It wasn't speculation. It was fact. If they were caught, diey'd be shown no mercy. They were going to die one way or the other. Better it be fast, and for a purpose.
"Br'er Rabbit, this is Tar Baby, " Ziegler radioed from inside Gaza Station, as Maroq fired another burst at both doors, hoping to buy a few more minutes. "/ repeat, Br'er Rabbit, this is Tar Baby. Come in, over. "
"Tar Baby, this is Br'er Rabbit. You guys ready for us?"
"It's too late. We're being overrun, sir. Equipment and papers at risk. Requesting immediate Samson strike on our location, sir. "
It was a chilling request.
Commander Ramirez was stunned. All the men in Storm One stopped what they were doing, though a dozen different requests were coming in from all sectors. Overall, the battle was going well. Operation Briar Patch would be over in less than fifteen minutes. What Ziegler was asking for seemed unthinkable. Ramirez looked at his men, then clicked his microphone back on.
"You sure you know what you're asking, son?"
But Ramirez could hear the gunfire and screams over the radio. He could hear the fear in Ziegler's voice. And then he heard the voice of resignation.
"Melt us down, sir. It's the only way. "
Ramirez closed his eyes. He wasn't required to send this one up the chain of command. He had the authority to approve all tactical operations, and he'd been given written orders, personally signed by General Mutschler himself, that Gaza Station not fall into enemy hands under any circumstances. He'd love to pass the buck on this one. But there wasn't time.
He knew what Ziegler was asking, and he knew why. He couldn't imagine being captured by these people. It was a fate worse than death, and that alone settled it for Ramirez. He couldn't let these brave Americans fall into such hands, not when they clearly knew the stakes and knew precisely what they were asking.
A Samson strike didn't just mean Ziegler and Maroq's deaths. It meant the deaths of all those coming after them, and the complete and utter destruction of Gaza Station as well. It was the worst-case scenario for any American in a hot combat zone. And, ironically, it had been invented right there in Gaza.
"Very well. Samson strike approved. May God be with you guys."
"Thank you, sir," Ziegler replied, his voice flat and unemotional. "And may God bless the United States of America."
With that, all radios fell silent as every man — those engaged in the firefight on the ground, and those flying overhead — contemplated the fate of the two Central Intelligence operatives about to meet their maker.
Sixty seconds later, two AV-8B Harrier fighter jets streaked across the sky. They locked on their target — the flaming rubble of the Hotel Baghdad, swarming yet again with more Palestinian militants tiying to break in — and unleashed a salvo of air-to-ground missiles. Massive plumes of fire and smoke filled the skies of Gaza.
Barely four minutes later, a B-2 bomber on strip alert at an Israeli air base in the Negev — just in case — arrived on target. The flight crew double-checked the coordinates and received strike confirmation from Br'er Rabbit, circling and down the coast on Storm One. Then, with all systems go, the B-2 released its cargo and bolted for home.
The two-thousand-pound "bunker buster" hit the remains of the Hotel Baghdad dead center. In the blink of an eye, everyone and everything inside Gaza Station and a one-block radius was incinerated in a hellish inferno that would burn for weeks.
Word spread rapidly as radio and television networks led with the story. Within minutes, everyone in Gaza knew what had happened — everyone, that is, but Bennett and his team underground in the sewers.
At first they thought it was an earthquake.
There'd already been four in the past seventy-two hours — in Turkey, in India, another in Japan, and a monster in Tangshea, China. All measured over 7.0 on the Richter scale, and the combined death toll was already in the tens of thousands.
The ground shook violently, more violently than anything Bennett, McCoy, or their team had ever experienced. The intensity of shock wave and the roar of the explosion surging through the sewage tunnel shook them to their core. It knocked all of them off their feet, just as the last of them were climbing up another silo, into the basement of Alpha Zone.
And then it got worse. A wave of superheated ail began howling through the underground tunnel system. McCoy suddenly realized the danger they were in.
"Get up — keep moving — go, go, let's go," she shouted, sensing what was coming.
Tariq was already up the thirty-foot silo. So were Nazir, Sa'id, and Gal-ishnikov. All were soaked and filthy and trying to catch their breath for a moment in the cold damp basement of the cafe. Bennett was halfway up. McCoy was just starting up the lowest rung, as Hamid awaited his turn.
Bennett turned back to see what was going on. McCoy shouted at him to move faster. She was scrambling up the metal ladder — freezing cold and covered in all kinds of unimaginable filth — and closing in on him.
All of them could feel the temperature spiking. Hamid struggled to stay on his feet as the fiery winds raged through the tunnel. As Bennett reached the top, he grabbed Tariq's hand and pulled himself up the last few inches and turned back to help McCoy. The silo was shaking. The entire basement was shaking and the ceiling of the half-century-old structure seemed about to collapse. Bennett was terrified McCoy might slip off the slippery metal rungs, but she was holding on for dear life. She was three-quarters of the way up and moving fast. A few more feet and she'd be safe.
"Come on, come on, Erin — I've got you!" yelled Bennett, his arms and hands straining for her.
Suddenly, McCoy's left hand lost its grip. Her right hand began slipping as well. She screamed. So did Bennett. Her eyes went wide. She was dangling over an abyss with only seconds before a firestorm consumed them.
"Tariq, grab my feet!"'Bennett shouted as he moved headfirst further into the silo, desperate to grab hold of her.
An instant later, he could feel not just Tariq but Nazir holding his legs and belt. He carefully inched himself lower. His hands shook as he strained farther to reach her. Sweat was pouring off his face. Noxious fumes came rushing up at him. He could see the fear in her eyes. He could see Hamid coughing violently. Her fingers were slipping — a little farther, a little farther.
"No, no!" Bennett screamed.
He could see her first finger peel off the rung, then another, then…
His hand made contact. He grabbed her right wrist, just as her entire hand slipped free. McCoy screamed, her body twisting and jerking in the surging winds.