Tom Clancy's op-center_ acts of war - Tom Clancy [147]
"Good work, Sergeant," August said.
"Thank you, sir."
"Sir," said Prementine, "no one's gone after the woman."
August nodded. "We're going to have to move that," he whispered. "To bring you up to date, we think that's Phil Katzen and our contact at the foot of the slope. We'll be going out in one or two groups. One group if we need to storm the cave to get our people out. Two if the hostages are--"
"Colonel," Prementine interrupted, "the men are coming out. The bastard's've gone half-and-half."
August swung his binoculars around. Sergeant Grey also squinted back toward the cave. Three of the hostages had been thrown face-down in the dirt outside the cave. Grey could see men inside the cave, but they were hidden by the deep shadows.
"Corporal, mask up and get A-Team over there now." August snapped. "Take them inside. We'll handle the perimeter."
"Yes, sir," Prementine said. He moved out with seven Strikers crouching low behind him, single file, as they ran toward the ledge.
"George, Scott!" August barked.
"Sir?" both men replied.
"RAC 'em."
"Yes, sir," said George.
The two privates moved to the equipment locker they'd hauled from the FAV. As David George assembled a charcoal-gray mortar, Jason Scott pulled four shells of RAC--rapid-acting incapacitant--from their insulated storage bag. Within two seconds of exploding, the amber-colored gas would knock out everyone within a twenty-foot radius. Private Scott assisted with the heavy baseplate, and in just over thirty seconds the grenade launcher was loaded and assembled. While Private George peered through the sight, Scott adjusted the traversing and elevating handles to fix the line of fire.
"Sergeant Grey," August said, "back in harness. Night vision. Tell me what you can see inside the cave."
"Right away, sir."
While Grey grabbed his rifle and headed back to the tree, Newmeyer pulled the night-vision goggles from his backpack. The strap was preset to slip over Grey's helmet and hang over both eyes. The Redfield telescope had been fitted with an adaptor to slip over either eyepiece.
"Sergeant," August said, "it looks like the hostages' feet are tied to ropes inside. See if you've got a shot at whoever's holding those ropes."
"Yes, sir," Grey replied. He began climbing back toward the large branch which gave him a clear view over the other trees.
As he ascended, Grey heard Private Ishi Honda's radio beep. The communications operator answered, listened for several seconds, then put the caller on hold.
"Sir," Honda said calmly, "it's Mr. Herbert's office with an AE update."
AE meant "all ears." Though that usually meant that an immediate evacuation was being ordered, Grey continued to climb.
"Shoot," August said.
"Mr. Herbert reports that seven minutes ago, a Tomahawk missile was fired from the USS Pittsburgh. It will be reaching the ROC in twenty-five minutes. We are advised to abort."
"Advised, not ordered," August said.
"No, sir."
August nodded. "Private George." Sir.
"Let the sons of bitches have it."
* * *
FIFTY-ONE
Tuesday, 3:38 p.m,
Damascus, Syria
When the revolver was pressed under his chin, Paul Hood did not see his life race by. As the other two men disarmed him, Hood was overcome with an almost dreamlike light-headedness. The mind's way of dealing with incomprehensible shock? But he was lucid enough to ask himself what the hell he'd been thinking when he'd decided to take on the terrorists. He was a desk jockey, not a fighter. And he'd been so preoccupied with the leader--where he was going and what he was doing--that he'd forgotten all about the men creeping along the wall. As usual, Mike Rodgers had been right about these things. War, he'd often said, was unforgiving.
The men with Hood's guns stepped back. One of them turned. Hood watched the leader move his band forward. There was nothing smug or triumphant about his opponent's manner. He seemed purposeful--no more, no less--as he stopped by the door and looked down the corridor. He nodded once. The