“Gunny Cohen, secure the site.
Don’t let any son of a bitch in until told to do so.” “Yes, sir!”
The gunnery sergeant saluted. At his command, five of the eight Marines took outside strategic positions around the bistro while the gunnery sergeant and two others established a security post at the entrance to the bistro.
Captain Bowen moved from person to wounded person, trying to memorize the number of dead and their names, and the same for the wounded. Dr. Jacobs leaned over the admiral to apply a pressure bandage, made of cloth napkins, to the wounds on the admiral’s back.
“How’s the admiral?” Captain Bowen asked the doctor.
“He’s alive. Unconscious, but alive. Minor wounds, I think. Won’t know how dangerous until we open them up.
Hopefully, nowhere near the spine. Clive, we need to take him back to the ship where I can operate.”
“Can’t do it. Doc. A suicide bomber has hit the ship.
Both it and the Simon Lake are stern down in Gaeta Harbor.”
“Oh, my god! What is going on?”
“I don’t know, but I do know that someone is going to pay for this and they’re going to pay dearly,” he said, his teeth clenched. Then he asked, “The admiral’s wife?”
The doctor shook his head. Beneath his hand a moan escaped from the admiral.
“Didn’t make it, Clive.” He shook his head.
“Didn’t make it.”
Clive looked at Susan, who minutes before had clasped her husband’s hand beneath the table. A neat hole drilled the side of her head. He did not want to lift it to see where it exited. The pool of blood on the table told the story.
“Colonel!” shouted Gunny Cohen.
“Ambulances and police are arriving.”
“We need to carry the admiral to the hospital, Clive,” Dr. Jacobs said. The chief of staff nodded. He crawled across the top of the table to Colonel Ashworth, who was nestling Diana’s head in his lap.
“Walt, we have to start moving the wounded to the hospital.
Starting with the admiral,” Clive said, deferring to the senior marine at the scene even though, technically, Clive was the senior officer present… or, at least, the senior officer conscious.
“How is Admiral Cameron?”
“He’s alive, but unconscious. Wounded, but won’t know how serious until Doc Jacobs can get him to the hospital.”
Walt nodded and looked around the room until he spotted Gunny Sergeant Cohen coming in the door.
“Gunny Sergeant, let the Italian medical personnel inside!”
barked Ashworth. Walt’s eyes trailed off to the terrorist being guarded by the junior officer.
Clive saw the Marine’s trigger finger tighten.
“Don’t, Walt. He’s our only lead on who did this.”
The gunny saluted, drawing Walt’s attention away from the wounded terrorist.
The Marines moved aside as Italian medical personnel and ambulance attendants scrambled inside. The Italian medical teams administered first aid, even as they marked priorities for the ambulance trips. The admiral was first out the door, accompanied by two armed Marines.
“Gunny!” shouted Colonel Ashworth.
“Go with them.
I’ll handle the situation here. You protect the admiral!”
“Aye, aye, sir!” The gunny raced through the door and leaped toward the back of the ambulance as it gunned away from the bistro.
Bowen watched the commander of the United States Sixth Fleet disappear down the road in the ambulance with the gunnery sergeant being pulled inside by the other two Marines. He turned back to the bistro. The police came out with the terrorist Taradin strapped to a stretcher. They tossed him roughly into the back of a police van and drove off.
Clive noticed that no medical personnel accompanied the wounded terrorist.
He took a deep breath, thanking God that his wife and family had chosen this month to visit her parents in Frederick, Maryland.
A Marine sergeant ran over to Captain Bowen.
“Captain, there’s been an attack against Admiral Phrang near Naples.”
“Casualties?”
“Don’t know, sir. The watch just reported that his car was bombed. There have been some deaths.”
“Try to get more information. I need to know whether he was injured or not. He’s the senior Navy officer in Europe, Sergeant. If he’s dead, then… I don’t need to tell you.”
“Aye, aye. Captain,” the Marine responded, wondering briefly what it was the Navy captain didn’t need to tell him. He snapped a salute and ran outside to where a radio had been set up. Damn swabbies. Where would they be if it weren’t for the Marines taking care of them?
Clive looked back through the doorway at the carnage inside. Tonight marked the beginning of a long time. He moved around the table, talking to the survivors, assuring the wounded as they waited their turn for the ambulance.
Tears trickled down his cheeks. He wept unabashedly.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.”
The twelve men and two women seated at the long mahogany conference table in the White House briefing room stood as President Garrett Crawford entered. His long strides took him quickly to the head of the table. President Crawford was aware of his fast pace. Everywhere he went, he walked too fast. Only his wife ever asked him to slow down. When he consciously thought of his pace, a mental image of a scared rabbit looking for a hole to hide in came to mind.
“Sit down, please,” he said, the familiar friendly smile embracing everyone. He tapped the side of his nose, satisfied the Band-Aid was not flapping loose. Next week, it was back to Bethesda again to look at the spots on his back.
The president’s national security advisor. Franco Donelli, marched behind, in Crawford’s shadow, out of breath from having run up three flights of stairs with the president, who was able to talk and breathe at the same time! Donelli checked the pocket notebook clutched in his right hand.
Still there. The notorious black book, the Bible of the administration, was tucked tightly under his left arm. The president would want it later.
President Crawford sat down between the secretary of state and the secretary of defense, shaking hands and mumbling greetings to both. Franco pulled up a chair beside the secretary of state, slightly back, but between the secretary and the president. In position so he could cue the president.
He arranged the pocket notebook and the black book on the table in front of him.
Bob Gilfort, the aging secretary of state, looked at Donelli and, smiling, whispered, “Franco, when you going to give up and start taking the elevator like the rest of us?”
Franco nodded and continued breathing deeply.
“Morning, Bob, morning, Roger,” Crawford said to the two secretaries.
“Hasn’t been a good night for either of you, I bet.”
“No, Mr. President,” they responded.
“Where’s the DCI?” asked President Crawford, craning his head slightly, searching the table.
“The director of Central Intelligence phoned this time, Mr. President. He is stuck in traffic on the beltway. Traffic accident on Sixty-six. He should be here anytime, sir,” said Roger Maddock, the secretary of defense, looking at his watch.
“Well, I see you made it from Fort Meade on time. General Stanhope,” the president said to the director of the National Security Agency.
“Yes, sir, Mr. President. Sometimes it’s easier to make fifty miles from Fort Meade than ten from Falls Church.”
The DIRNSA’s smile pushed his wide ears farther out. The NSA civilians joked that he looked like a taxi coming down the road with its doors open, hence the nickname “Taxi,” which he had heard, though no one had been able (or willing) to explain to him how it had come about or what it meant. Nicknames to military professionals were badges given by their comrades in arms; the level of prestige to a nickname was determined by how it was earned and what it meant.