Taradin ran down the steps from the mezzanine toward the tables directly into the lucky trajectory of the bottle.
The bottle caught him in the temple, knocking him out.
Taradin collapsed on the floor. The momentum sent the small submachine gun the terrorist carried sliding across the floor toward Ashworth.
Walt rolled to the left, grabbed the gun as it slid toward him, and jerked it up. He fired a sweeping burst at three terrorists who were gallery-shooting at the trapped Americans from along the railing that separated them from the raised floor above.
His first shots went wild, but it was enough to cause the three terrorists to rush toward the door. Walt pushed himself up onto one knee to steady the weapon, corrected his aim slightly, and shot a close sharpshooter pattern to kill the nearest terrorist, who was bent over and firing at people under the table.
The terrorist flew backward like a jerking doll as three bullets collected in his midsection. The dead man’s gun clattered off the mezzanine and landed near the table. A hand reached out and grabbed the automatic pistol. Ashworth recognized the second armed American as the staff’s meteorologist.
“Let’s go!” shouted Anwar.
Anwar joined the four remaining terrorists as they ran toward the door.
Ashworth stood and charged the fleeing terrorists, screaming at the top of his voice. He was no longer at the bistro. He was back in Desert Storm, leading an attack against an entrenched Iraqi position. With two controlled bursts he shot two more terrorists in the back, grabbing one as he fell to shove him down the steps. The other flung his arms outward as the bullets ripped through him, both terrorists dead before they hit the floor.
The meteorologist fired at the two remaining Hizballah terrorists as they ran out the door. His bullets missed Said Abu Said, who disappeared into the darkness outside. The gun jerked to the right, causing the last bullet to hit Ashworth in the calf just as the colonel charged up the steps.
Ashworth tumbled onto the mezzanine.
A spread of bullets ripped through the air where a split second ago Ashworth had been. The terrorist leader, Anwar, fired a couple of bursts at the prone Marine, missing, before he, too, disappeared into the darkness beyond the door.
Ashworth jerked the weapon from under him and fired a couple of random bursts into the darkness. From outside a short cry was heard, followed a couple of seconds later by a car spinning gravel as it raced away.
The meteorologist ran to the colonel.
“I’m sorry. Colonel.
God, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s a nick. I’ve had worse. Grab those two guns and give them to someone. I’ll cover you.”
The meteorologist grabbed the two guns and handed one to the staff intelligence officer. Captain Kurt Lederman, and the other to a junior officer who had been sitting at the opposite end from Baldston.
Colonel Ashworth grabbed a nearby column with one hand and pulled himself up, keeping his eyes and the weapon on the entrance. He turned to the table, ignoring the pain from the bullet wound. Blood soaked his trouser leg.
Diana lay on the floor. A pool of blood was spread around her head; the wineglass was broken in her hand.
Across from her the admiral was facedown across his wife.
Ashworth saw the telltale signs of bullet wounds across the admiral’s back.
His eyes dropped to Diana as realization crashed.
“No, no,” he cried and limped to her. He threw himself beside her, lifted her gently, and eased her off the chair, pulling her head onto his lap. Diana’s blood mixed with his to soak his pants. The gun remained pointed at the door, his finger still on the trigger. Nestling her in his lap, tears fell on top of her head. A wail, like a solitary wolf on a moonlit night, joined other cries around the table.
The few who escaped the carnage moved to help the wounded. The dead remained as they were. In the background sirens penetrated the shock of the room.
“This one is still alive,” the meteorologist said.
Ashworth gently moved his wife’s body off of him.
Limping over to the moaning terrorist, the colonel fired one bullet into each knee. The terrorist begged in Arabic as he waved his hands at Ashworth, who looked impassively at the enemy in front of him. In his mind he knew what he was doing. What he didn’t know yet was if he would kill him. The Marine part of him said no, but the emotional part of him cried yes.
Ashworth moved the barrel of the gun to the terrorist’s elbow, keeping his eyes locked on the frightened eyes of the enemy. Just as Walt began to squeeze the trigger, a hand grabbed his shoulder. Another hand grasped the hot barrel, swinging it up and away from the terrorist.
“Don’t, Walt. Give me the gun.”
Ashworth turned. It was the chief of staff. Captain Clive Bowen.
Walt took a couple of deep breaths and reluctantly broke eye contact with the terrorist.
“No, I’m okay. I’m not going to kill him, but he’s not going to get away!” He wrenched the gun away from Bowen and hobbled back to Diana.
Clive Bowen motioned to the meteorologist and pointed at the terrorist.
“Guard him, Jim. I want to find Baldston’s telephone.”
A minute later Clive found it, still clutched in the dead aide’s hand. He pried it loose and punched the redial, knowing that the number would be the cellular telephone of the Sixth Fleet SDO.
“SDO, this is Captain Bowen. Now listen carefully.
We’ve had a terrorist attack against Admiral Cameron at the bistro. I want a Marine security force dispatched ASAP.
The fleet surgeon is here, but we need medical assistance, also. You got that?”
Unaware of what had happened at the port. Captain Bowen listened as the lieutenant briefed him on the situation at the harbor.
“My God, my God,” Captain Bowen mumbled as he listened.
Through the front door rushed two Italian policemen, their guns drawn. Clicks of four weapons coming to bear stopped the policemen.
“Don’t come in!” yelled Ashworth. The policemen backed away, their hands up, but pistols still in them. Their eyes shifted rapidly around the bistro, quickly taking in the magnitude of the situation.
The Americans lowered their weapons slightly when they recognized the intruders as Italian policemen.
One of the policemen shoved his pistol away and ran back outside to the car radio. Shouting, the policeman told headquarters to send every ambulance possible to the bistro and that they needed several squads of attack policemen to seal off the area.
The meteorologist motioned the junior officer to guard the terrorist. He hurried out the door with the other policeman.
In Italian the meteorologist described the two terrorists who had escaped. An Italian woman from across the street stumbled down the rough bank in front of the bistro and ran to the policeman, waving a sheet of paper. Screaming, she shoved the paper at them. She had seen the car speeding off and written down its registration number.
Still on the radio, the Italian policeman relayed the information to Italian police headquarters, where it was put on the net. On the autostrada, Italian security forces moved rapidly to establish roadblocks in vain hopes of catching the fleeing murderers.
A white Navy van roared up the gravel road, screeching to a halt outside the bistro. Fully armed United States Marines boiled out of the van, M-16s at the ready — armed and wanting someone to fight.
The gunnery sergeant raced inside the bistro, his nine millimeter Navy Colt drawn. Seeing Colonel Ashworth sitting on the floor cradling his wife, the gunny ran down the several steps to the Marine Corps officer.
“Colonel. I—” the gunnery sergeant started, then stopped.
Ashworth looked up.