Tom Clancy's op-center_ acts of war - Tom Clancy [144]
"They probably have orders to get the ambassadors out," Bicking said. "Maybe you'd better come back."
"Maybe," Hood agreed.
The gunfire was growing louder at the other end of the hall, away from the reception room. It wouldn't be long before the rebels reached the security office.
Hood continued to watch the monitors. The troops weren't checking other rooms, nor had they set up any kind of flank watch. They were moving ahead with surprising confidence. Either they had courage or they didn't have a clue as to how bad things were.
Or, Hood thought, they aren't afraid of being attacked.
It was part of Hood's job to do what he called the "PC thing," to presume conspiracies. Part of Op-Center's mission was constantly to ask "What if?" when faced with a murder by a lone assassin or a rebellion by a hitherto underarmed faction. Hood was not obsessed with conspiracies, but he wasn't naive.
The soldiers continued to move ahead purposefully. Hood watched as coverage shifted to another monitor.
"Paul?" Warner said. "Are you coming?"
"Hold the line," Hood said.
"I've got Op-Center still holding--"
"Stay on the line!" Hood ordered.
He bent lower to the monitors. A few seconds later he saw two men with black kaffiyehs, brandishing what looked like Makarov pistols, cross the hall behind them. One of the soldiers looked back briefly. He didn't even break his stride.
"Warner," Hood said urgently, "get out of there."
"What? Why?"
"Get everyone together and move!" he said. "Bring them here. I don't think the cavalry is on our side."
"Okay," Bicking said, "I'm moving."
"And if they won't leave, don't argue with them. Just get out."
"Understood," Bicking said.
Hood squeezed the phone. More attackers passed with impunity behind the troops. Either the Syrian military was in on this, or these men were only masquerading as Syrian Army regulars. In either case, the situation had just gone from dangerous to deadly.
"Shit!" Hood said as the soldiers turned down the last corridor. "Warner, stay put!"
"What?"
"Stay where you are!" Hood shouted. He'd no longer have to watch the attackers on the monitor. To see them, all he'd have to do was stick his head out the door. His head or--
Hood looked down at the blood-soaked marble. The Russian guard's pistol was there along with the Syrian killer's automatic rifle. All that Hood knew about firing guns was what he'd been taught in the required courses at Op-Center. And he hadn't done terribly well at those. Not with Mike Rodgers and Bob Herbert casually ticking off bull's-eyes at the firing stations on either side of him. But what Hood knew might be enough. If he could drive the Syrians back, that might buy Warner and the others enough time to get out of the reception room.
"Warner," Hood whispered loudly into the phone, "there are soldiers coming toward you. Probably hostile. Hunker down until you hear from me. Acknowledge."
"Hunkering down," Bicking said.
Hood let the phone drop. He lifted the automatic rifle from the thin layer of blood carpeting the marble floor. He got up quickly and felt dizzy. He wasn't sure if it was because he'd gotten up too fast or because his hands and the soles of his shoes were sticky with someone's blood. It was probably a little of both. Moving quickly, Hood stepped over the outstretched arm of one of the DSA men. He stood just behind the doorjamb.
His heart was a mallet, thick and heavy. His arms trembled slightly. He had taken mandatory weapons training, but he had never shot at anyone before. He wouldn't fire to kill. Not at first. But there was no guarantee he wouldn't have to. He'd been the Mayor of Los Angeles and a banker. He'd signed on at Op-Center for a think-tank-type desk job. Crisis management, not wallowing in blood.
Well, things freakin' change, Hood, he pep-talked to himself as he took a slow breath. Either you fire if necessary, or your family attends a funeral. He leaned into the hallway and looked at the soldiers walking toward the reception room. He had the framework of a plan. First, to find out if he