The Last Days (32 page)

“All set?” Bennett whispered.

McCoy looked down the long hallway at the flames shooting from the electrical wiring in the ceiling. They'd have to get down on the floor on their stomachs in the rapidly rising water, hold their breath, and make a dash for it. It was the only way they knew of to get to Sa'id and Galishnikov, and such as it was, the window was closing fast. Soon the entire hallway would be engulfed in flames.

“You sure about this?” she whispered back, not really expecting an answer.

“No,” he conceded. “Not really.”

“How do we get back?”

Bennett thought about that for a second.

“I have no idea,” he admitted again.

Well, she thought, at least he was being honest.

“All right,” said McCoy. “After you.”

Bennett nodded, then got down in the water and began to inch his way forward. It was hard to see, and harder to breath. The smoke was getting thicker. The flames were growing longer, threatening to reach down and lap up the water at any moment. McCoy was right behind him, her hand on his back so they wouldn't get separated.

“Ready. Set. Go.”

Bennett sucked in a lungful of oxygen, then plunged down into the water and tried to hug the floor, pressing against the walls to keep himself from rising in the water up to the flames just inches above him. Six seconds later, he was through. He came up gasping for air and wiping the sooty water out of his eyes. A few seconds later, McCoy came through as well. She came up like a swimmer, head arched back, wet hair streaming down her back, her Beretta ice cold but still glued to her right hand.

The two were soaked to the bone, shivering and short of breath. But they were together, and they were safe, at least for—a massive explosion shook the hallway. A huge, gaping hole suddenly opened up at the far end of the hallway, about thirty yards ahead of them. Concrete and sheetrock came pouring down into the water. A cloud of dust and smoke began moving toward them. Then three, maybe four men dropped down into the hallway. It was hard to see them clearly. But they were shouting in Arabic and both Bennett and McCoy knew instantly.

“Jon, get down, get down,”
shouted McCoy, pushing Bennett's body back into the water as automatic weapons fire erupted all around them.

She took aim through the smoke and dust and began firing. The screams were instantaneous, but they came with return fire. Bennett refused to stay down. Flames now completely engulfed the hallway behind him and McCoy. There was no way out.

Hugging the wall, and staying as low to the floor as he could, he raised his head, lifted both .357s and began firing into the haze and flames and smoke ahead of him. He couldn't see faces. Neither could McCoy, only shadows and movement. Bullets were smashing all around him. McCoy ducked to reload. Bennett kept firing—first one trigger, then the other, in rapid succession. Before he realized it, he'd unleashed every round from both clips. He was pulling triggers and hearing nothing but metallic clicks.

McCoy popped back up out of the water, her Beretta reloaded. But suddenly, the gunfire fell silent. No return fire. No shadows. No movement of any kind ahead of them. All was quiet, besides the sloshing of the water around them and more water falling from burst pipes a few dozen yards behind them. Had they killed them all? How many were there? Were there more? Bennett looked over at McCoy, who nodded her agreement. The flames behind them were just a foot or two away. They had to press forward.

As McCoy covered him, Bennett reached into his pocket to get the other clips. Then he signaled McCoy and the two forced themselves down again into the ice-cold water. With Bennett leading, they began to creep forward. When they got ahead about fifteen or twenty yards, to the corner of two adjoining hallways, they could see what they'd done. Near a pile of rock and concrete and dirt—the remains of the explosion by which the terrorists had breached the station—the riddled bodies of five men they'd just gunned down floated in water as bloodred as the kaffiyahs that covered their faces. Bennett shuddered. He could feel his hands trembling and the back of his throat began to burn, as though he were about to throw up.

McCoy carefully checked the pulse of each man, her pistol ready to strike if any of them were still alive. But they were gone. Each man held an AK-47 in a death grip. None of them carried any ID. McCoy and Bennett quickly stripped the men of their ammunition, and backed away. As quickly as they could, the two worked their way down the next hallway and reached the door to Tariq's room. Neither said it. Neither dared to. But the same question worried them both.

Who would they find on the other side?

 

The five SH-60F Seahawks were powered up and ready to go.

The rugged sixty-four-foot all-weather choppers were originally built for antisubmarine warfare. But these five—the navy's version of the famed army Blackhawk—were uniquely outfitted for special operations and assigned to the newest nuclear-powered supercarrier in the American arsenal, the USS
Ronald Reagan.

The first Seahawk—code-named Storm One—was the command-and-control helo, carrying SEAL Team Eight commander Eduardo Ramirez, code-named Br'er Rabbit—a senior intel officer, and two radio operators, one to coordinate combat operations in the air, the other to coordinate operations on the ground.

In the second Seahawk—Storm Two—eleven members of Gold Cell or Gold Team, ST-8's premier counterterrorist assault force, checked their gear and prepared for liftoff. Onboard Storm Three, Red Cell ran through their final checklists, while onboard Storm Four, Blue Cell did the same. Joining these four and bringing up the rear would be a fifth Seahawk, Storm Five, the transport helo and responsible for the safety of the “package”—Bennett, Sa'id, and their team. Some carried M-16s equipped with laser sights and fifty-five-watt halogen spotlights for close-quarters combat at night or inside buildings. Others preferred the M4A1 Carbine, similarly equipped. Those responsible for initial perimeter security tended to go with the SASR .50-caliber sniper rifle. All were loaded up with as much ammunition as they could carry.

SEAL Team Eight would be the first in—on the ground in less than fifteen minutes. They'd be backed up by the Sixth Fleet and the STRIK-FOR-SOUTH command out of southern Europe. On the ground, they'd be joined by two hundred crack fighters from the Twenty-sixth Marine Expeditionary Unit from the USS
Kearsarge.
Deemed special operations capable—SOC—the Twenty-sixth MEU excelled at rapid-response, high-risk, high-threat missions into hostile territory. In June of 1995, they'd rescued Air Force Captain Scott O'Grady, shot down over Bosnia and trapped behind enemy lines. In May of 1997, they'd rescued two hundred Americans out of Sierra Leone. “A certain force in an uncertain world” was their motto, and over the years they more than lived up to their billing. The men and women of the Twenty-sixth MEU lived for this stuff, and once again they were about to step up to the plate in service of their country.

If the plan held and weather cleared a bit more, another two thousand marines and their mechanized equipment would hit the beaches in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. And they'd soon be reinforced by a detachment of Rangers and as many Delta commandos as U.S. commanders on the ground in Iraq could spare.

This was it, the tip of the spear.

It was the riskiest gambit yet in James MacPherson's already high-risk presidency, and everyone involved knew there were no guarantees.

 

They were at Tariq's door.

Bennett rechecked his .357 and tried to steady his shaking hands. He glanced at McCoy. She was double-checking her Beretta as well and trying to slow her breathing. They were as ready as they were going to be. They just hoped these guys were still alive, and that no one else was in there.

Bennett took the left side of the door. McCoy took the right. They looked each other in the eye, and nodded. As rapidly as she could, McCoy punched in Tariq's pass code. Bennett then kicked open the door, careful to stay out of the line of fire. The room was pitch-black. Only the flickering flames from in the hallway ceiling provided any light at all. Bennett glanced in, the .357 in his right hand out in front of him, then pulled back. He couldn't see a thing. Neither could McCoy. No eyes. No movement. Nothing.

“Ibrahim? Dmitri?” Bennett whispered. “You guys OK?”

For a moment, it was silent. Bennett whispered again, his palms sweating against the handle of both weapons.

“Ibrahim? Dmitri? You guys in there?”

“Jonathan? Is that you?”

It was Galishnikov's distinctive Russian baritone.

“Dmitri?”

“Da.”

“Dmitri, it's me. Erin's with me. You guys all right?”

“
Da, da,
my friend, we are good—never better—and look, we've got company.”

Suddenly, the bedroom filled with light. Startled, Bennett and McCoy cautiously peeked in, only to find Tariq and two of his operatives—Nazir and Hamid—kneeling behind the couch there in flak jackets and helmets, with fully locked and loaded M-4 submachine guns in their hands and two portable lanterns sitting on the desk and the coffee table behind them. Sa'id was huddled in the corner next to Galishnikov, who was also holding an M-4. They were safe after all, and it couldn't have been a more welcome sight. Both Bennett and McCoy breathed a huge sigh of relief. A fast round of handshakes and hugs ensued, and then the group quickly got back down to business.

Tariq went first, laying out their escape plan.

“The hotel is gone. Gaza Station's breached in at least two places we know of.”

“Three,” McCoy interrupted. “Jon and I saw an explosion down the hallway just a few moments ago. We took out five guys coming in that way. But there has to be more coming in any second.”

Tariq rubbed his eyes. He'd already been up all night. His nerves were raw.

“Well look, all the more, then, we need to get Mr. Sa'id and the rest of you out of here. Mr. Ziegler just talked to Langley. Here's the plan. SEAL Team Eight is inbound from the
Reagan,
along with an assault force of marines. ETA is about nine minutes. Maroq and Mr. Ziegler are back in the main control room, destroying papers and equipment and trying to hold off the infiltrators. It's my job, along with Nazir and Hamid here, to provide security for Mr. Sa'id. Erin, you need to provide security for Mr. Bennett and Mr. Galishnikov. All right?”

Everyone nodded.

“The original NEO plan was for us to be airlifted off the top of the hotel,” Tariq continued. “But obviously that's not going to work anymore. So we're going with Plan B. I just got off the satcom link with Commander Ramirez with the SEALs. We've got to make our way about five blocks through a sewage tunnel that runs under the main street. It's not going to be the most pleasant experience, but it's all we've got. It'll take us to a burnt-out café we're code-naming Alpha Zone. Once we get there, we'll reestablish contact with Ramirez and the SEALs will scoop us up and get us the hell out of here. In the meantime, I'll take the lead. Hamid brings up the rear. Any questions?”

“What about Ziegler and Maroq?” asked McCoy.

“Don't worry about them. We've got a squad of marines coming for them. They'll be fine. Anyone else? All right, let's move out.”

Fires were raging throughout all the main hallways now, but fortunately they didn't have to go far. About halfway down the hallway they were in, Tariq stopped, instructed Nazir, Hamid, and McCoy to set up a perimeter, and pressed a passcode into what looked like an ordinary utility closet.

A second later, the door electronically clicked open, but inside were no brooms, mops, or buckets. There was another submarine hatch, similar to the one they'd all used to get down into Gaza Station. This one would take them down again, into Gaza's sewage system, but God willing, it would also take them all out of this hellhole once and for all.

Tariq punched in another passcode, opened the hatch, then stuck his M-4 with its small halogen search lamp into the silo, scanning it for any signs of life. The good news was there was no one down there. The bad news was the stench was horrendous, and they were going in anyway.

Tariq reached up onto a shelf in the closet, far above the steel hatch. Finding a large box, he pulled it down and began distributing a gas mask to each person. He put his own on and then helped Sa'id and Galishnikov get theirs on and adjusted. He looked over the group, got the thumbs-up from everyone, nodded, then proceeded down the silo. Three minutes later, they were all together again, slogging through a putrifying combination of waste and slime, illuminated only by the lights on their M-4s, and a small flashlight Tariq had given to Sa'id.

“I've been meaning to ask you something, Tariq, ever since we got here,” said Bennett, as the group pressed forward.

His voice echoed through the huge steel pipe.

“What's that, Mr. Bennett?” Tariq replied.

“How did you guys ever build Gaza Station, anyway? I mean, you know, without the whole world knowing about it.”

Bennett instantly recoiled. He'd just betrayed the name of a CIA safe house. True, these men were friends. They knew most of one another's secrets. But not all of them. Nor could they. The world had just changed. He had to be more careful.

Tariq's stomach tightened, too. He knew the station's entire history—how the Hotel Baghdad had once been the headquarters for Egyptian intelligence in Gaza since first being built in 1962; how the facilities—including the underground bunkers and tunnels—were secretly offered to the CIA by President Sadat in the spring of 1980, after the Camp David peace accords were concluded; how senior State Department officials, seething with bitterness at the CIA for its failure to anticipate the Islamic revolution in Iran and prevent the takeover of the American embassy in Tehran in November of '79 persuaded Carter to turn down the deal; and how the Reagan administration, soon after the release of the hostages from Tehran, secretly reopened talks with Sadat and nailed down a deal that neither the Israelis nor the Palestinians ever knew about.