Page 31 of The Last Days

  Flashes of grenades and mortar rounds lit up the sky. Tracer rounds

  streaked back and forth and everyone’s ears were filled with the roar of multiple explosions and staccato bursts of machine-gun fire. But the Americans’ flood-the-zone strategy seemed to be working. One by one, enemy guns were falling silent, and hastily erected U.S. roadblocks at the major intersections were cutting off any hope of the radicals getting desperately needed reinforcements.

  Twelve minutes later, Alpha Zone was secure. Storm Two—flanked by three Super Cobras on hair-trigger alert for any further signs of trouble— swooped in and hovered thirty feet over the street facing the cafe. The pilots scanned the surroundings, then gave the thumbs-up.

  “All right, that’s it—let’s go, let’s go!” shouted Gold Leader.

  One by one, his team fast roped to the street, taking up positions on each corner and surrounding the scorched timbers of the once quaint little watering hole.

  A moment later, Gold Team was in place. All his men were in position, and Gold Leader slapped his pilots on the back as Storm Two ascended rapidly, out of sniper range and waited to be called back in.

  Ziegler and Maroq were finished.

  And they knew it. Together, they’d destroyed nearly all of their most sensitive equipment and papers. But there wasn’t enough time to finish the job. They were being overrun. They’d picked off at least two dozen militants trying to enter the main control room. But they could hear more amassing in the hallways. It was only a matter of time.

  Any moment, killers would storm through those doors. Both Americans shuddered at what their fates would be. They wouldn’t simply be shot. They’d be drilled for information about U.S. intelligence operations in Gaza and the West Bank. No form of torture would be off limits.

  Each man knew all too well the stories of Israeli operatives and informants who’d fallen into the hands of Islamic terrorist cells over the years. They could expect their fingers to be cut off—or shot off—one by one. They could expect electric cattle prods to be used on them for mock colonoscopies. If they didn’t talk—or didn’t tell their interrogators what they wanted to hear—their tongues would be cut out of their mouths while they writhed in unfathomable agony.

  But agreeing to talk wouldn’t save them. Eventually, one way or the other, their genitalia would be cut off and mailed to their relatives in sealed plastic igs.

  It wasn’t speculation. It was fact. If they were caught, diey’d be shown no

  mercy. They were going to die one way or the other. Better it be fast, and for a purpose.

  “Br’er Rabbit, this is Tar Baby, ” Ziegler radioed from inside Gaza Station, as Maroq fired another burst at both doors, hoping to buy a few more minutes. “/ repeat, Br’er Rabbit, this is Tar Baby. Come in, over. “

  “Tar Baby, this is Br’er Rabbit. You guys ready for us?”

  “It’s too late. We’re being overrun, sir. Equipment and papers at risk. Requesting immediate Samson strike on our location, sir. “

  It was a chilling request.

  Commander Ramirez was stunned. All the men in Storm One stopped what they were doing, though a dozen different requests were coming in from all sectors. Overall, the battle was going well. Operation Briar Patch would be over in less than fifteen minutes. What Ziegler was asking for seemed unthinkable. Ramirez looked at his men, then clicked his microphone back on.

  “You sure you know what you’re asking, son?”

  But Ramirez could hear the gunfire and screams over the radio. He could hear the fear in Ziegler’s voice. And then he heard the voice of resignation.

  “Melt us down, sir. It’s the only way. “

  Ramirez closed his eyes. He wasn’t required to send this one up the chain of command. He had the authority to approve all tactical operations, and he’d been given written orders, personally signed by General Mutschler himself, that Gaza Station not fall into enemy hands under any circumstances. He’d love to pass the buck on this one. But there wasn’t time.

  He knew what Ziegler was asking, and he knew why. He couldn’t imagine being captured by these people. It was a fate worse than death, and that alone settled it for Ramirez. He couldn’t let these brave Americans fall into such hands, not when they clearly knew the stakes and knew precisely what they were asking.

  A Samson strike didn’t just mean Ziegler and Maroq’s deaths. It meant the deaths of all those coming after them, and the complete and utter destruction of Gaza Station as well. It was the worst-case scenario for any American in a hot combat zone. And, ironically, it had been invented right there in Gaza.

  “Very well. Samson strike approved. May God be with you guys.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Ziegler replied, his voice flat and unemotional. “And may God bless the United States of America.”

  With that, all radios fell silent as every man—those engaged in the firefight on the ground, and those flying overhead—contemplated the fate of the two Central Intelligence operatives about to meet their maker.

  Sixty seconds later, two AV-8B Harrier fighter jets streaked across the sky. They locked on their target—the flaming rubble of the Hotel Baghdad, swarming yet again with more Palestinian militants tiying to break in—and unleashed a salvo of air-to-ground missiles. Massive plumes of fire and smoke filled the skies of Gaza.

  Barely four minutes later, a B-2 bomber on strip alert at an Israeli air base in the Negev—just in case—arrived on target. The flight crew double-checked the coordinates and received strike confirmation from Br’er Rabbit, circling and down the coast on Storm One. Then, with all systems go, the B-2 released its cargo and bolted for home.

  The two-thousand-pound “bunker buster” hit the remains of the Hotel Baghdad dead center. In the blink of an eye, everyone and everything inside Gaza Station and a one-block radius was incinerated in a hellish inferno that would burn for weeks.

  Word spread rapidly as radio and television networks led with the story. Within minutes, everyone in Gaza knew what had happened—everyone, that is, but Bennett and his team underground in the sewers.

  At first they thought it was an earthquake.

  There’d already been four in the past seventy-two hours—in Turkey, in India, another in Japan, and a monster in Tangshea, China. All measured over 7.0 on the Richter scale, and the combined death toll was already in the tens of thousands.

  The ground shook violently, more violently than anything Bennett, McCoy, or their team had ever experienced. The intensity of shock wave and the roar of the explosion surging through the sewage tunnel shook them to their core. It knocked all of them off their feet, just as the last of them were climbing up another silo, into the basement of Alpha Zone.

  And then it got worse. A wave of superheated ail began howling through the underground tunnel system. McCoy suddenly realized the danger they were in.

  “Get up—keep moving—go, go, let’s go,” she shouted, sensing what was coming.

  Tariq was already up the thirty-foot silo. So were Nazir, Sa’id, and Galishnikov. All were soaked and filthy and trying to catch their breath for a moment in the cold damp basement of the cafe. Bennett was halfway up. McCoy was just starting up the lowest rung, as Hamid awaited his turn.

  Bennett turned back to see what was going on. McCoy shouted at him to move faster. She was scrambling up the metal ladder—freezing cold and

  covered in all kinds of unimaginable filth—and closing in on him.

  All of them could feel the temperature spiking. Hamid struggled to stay on his feet as the fiery winds raged through the tunnel. As Bennett reached the top, he grabbed Tariq’s hand and pulled himself up the last few inches and turned back to help McCoy. The silo was shaking. The entire basement was shaking and the ceiling of the half-century-old structure seemed about to collapse. Bennett was terrified McCoy might slip off the slippery metal rungs, but she was holding on for dear life. She was three-quarters of the way up and moving fast. A few more feet and she’d be safe.

  “Come on, come on, Erin—
I’ve got you!” yelled Bennett, his arms and hands straining for her.

  Suddenly, McCoy’s left hand lost its grip. Her right hand began slipping as well. She screamed. So did Bennett. Her eyes went wide. She was dangling over an abyss with only seconds before a firestorm consumed them.

  “Tariq, grab my feet!“‘Bennett shouted as he moved headfirst further into the silo, desperate to grab hold of her.

  An instant later, he could feel not just Tariq but Nazir holding his legs and belt. He carefully inched himself lower. His hands shook as he strained farther to reach her. Sweat was pouring off his face. Noxious fumes came rushing up at him. He could see the fear in her eyes. He could see Hamid coughing violently. Her fingers were slipping—a little farther, a little farther.

  “No, no!” Bennett screamed.

  He could see her first finger peel off the rung, then another, then …

  His hand made contact. He grabbed her right wrist, just as her entire hand slipped free. McCoy screamed, her body twisting and jerking in the surging winds.

  “I got her, I got her—pull me up!” he, screamed as his fingers and nails dug into her wrist, desperate not to let her slip away.

  Tariq and Nazir braced themselves and yanked hard. Bennett now grabbed hold of McCoy’s other wrist and squeezed.

  “Again, pull up, pull up!”

  The two men yanked again and again and with one final tug, pulled Bennett and McCoy to the point where she could get her feet back on the metal ladder. With Bennett’s help—his hands still locked like a vise around her wrists—she scrambled out of the silo and into his arms. He pulled her to himself and rolled out of the way. She was safe, but there was no time to take comfort.

  Bennett and Tariq turned back to help Hamid. He was struggling to hold on to the lowest rung. The look of terror and helplessness in his eyes was haunting, but there was nothing they could do. Bennett wanted to look away,

  but he couldn’t. He began moving back into the silo, to help Hamid as he’d helped McCoy. But it was too late.

  Just as Bennett and Tariq peered down into the silo, the firestorm reached Hamid. With their eyes locked on his, they saw him disintegrate in a wall of flame. His flesh and muscles literally melted away from his bones right as the flames shot up the silo, threatening to incinerate them all. Tariq pulled Bennett away. He pivoted fast, cleared the silo and slammed the metal hatch down, just in time.

  A damp basement—glowing orange and red just seconds before—was now pitch-black. The floor was shaking uncontrollably. The demons below raced forward, hunting new victims. But Bennett and his team were safe. Trembling, terrified, but safe.

  Four Gold Team commandos burst through the basement door, weapons at the ready, lasers and flashlights shining into the darkness.

  “Gold Leader, this is Gold Six. I have the package. I say, again, I have the package. They are secure. Repeat, they are secure. Requesting immediate extraction. Have medical personnel standing by when we arrive.”

  “Roger that, Gold Six. Storm Five is inbound. Stani by for extraction.”

  Three minutes later, “the package” was gift wrapped,

  Bennett and his team were onboard Storm Five, skimming over the treacherous waters of the Mediterranean, surrounded by a team of navy SEALs and four Super Cobras ready to blow away anyone who got in their path.

  Sa’id and Galishnikov were lying down in the back of Storm Five. They were attended by a team of medics who hooked each man up to IVs and began treating them for shock. Tariq and Nazir were huddled in the back, each under a thick wool blanket, sipping hot coffee and keeping to themselves.

  Bennett and McCoy were also wrapped in blankets. From their seats just over the shoulders of the pilots, they could see the horizontal rains pelting the front windshield as the wipers swooshed back and forth at high speed. They could feel the intense winds buffeting the chopper, and after a few minutes, the faint outline of the USS Ronald Reagen appeared a few miles ahead. The deck looked hardly bigger than a postage stamp, and the sharp, shooting pains in Bennett’s abdomen grew worse.

  Neither of them had ever landed on the deck of an aircraft carrier before. The last time Bennett had been extracted by a SEAL team—out of Dr. Mordechai’s house in Jerusalem—he’d been taken to Ben Gurion International Airport, put on a navy medical transport plane, and flown to Germany,

  via Incirlik in Turkey. But he’d been unconscious the whole time. Now he could see the pitching, heaving carrier all too well, tossed about like a toy boat in a bathtub.

  “Don’t worry,” said Captain Lance “Buzz” Howard, a nineteen-year navy veteran. “We’ll be fine.”

  Bennett wasn’t so sure. But he didn’t have the strength to ask questions. These guys had just saved his life. He’d just have to trust they wouldn’t let him crash into the Atlantic. The deck of the Reagan was coming in fast now, and the Seahawk began its slow, careful descent from just over fifteen hundred feet. A few seconds later, they could feel steel crunching steel. The Seahawk’s motors shut down immediately, and all of them breathed a huge sigh of relief. Minutes later, a flash traffic message reached Washington.

  0107L DEC 29 2010

  ťFLASH TRAFFICŤ

  FROM: USS RONALD REAGAN

  TO: NMCC, PENTAGON //OPS//

  WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM //OPS//

  NSC, WASHINGTON DC //DIR//

  DCI, CIA-LANGLEY, WASHINGTON DC //DIR//

  CLAS—EYES ONLY—PRIORITY ALPHA

  SUBJECT: OPERATION BRIAR PATCH

  Package arrived … principals safe… one (1) KIA, Hamid Al-Shahib.

  Transfer to “Mount of Olives” by 1800 local time tomorrow. Professor en route, requested…. Sunday arrival.

  >>end
  THIRTY FIVE

  An American noose tightened around the neck of the radicals.

  The Defense Intelligence Agency issued an eyes-only report to the president and the Pentagon listing the most dangerous extremists in the Palestinian arsenal—names, photographs, dossiers. This was augmented by a top-secret report by the CIA listing all suspected Al-Nakbah insurgents, as well as hard new intel from the Palestinian Legislative Council. There were well over two hundred names on the combined most-wanted list. Each name had a bullet next to it, and it was open season.

  One by one, U.S. Special Forces—led by Delta operators, SEALs, army Rangers and a handful of Green Berets—were hunting down the men who had long terrorized the civilian Palestinian population and were now eating their own. Hour by hour, air-to-ground missiles fired by U.S. Air Force and Navy jets slammed into police stations and municipal buildings in Gaza City, Ramallah, Hebron, Jericho, and points in between.

  Most of the targets were headquarters or field offices of the twelve different Palestinian security organizations operating during the Age of Arafat. Some were freshly verified headquarters of the various Palestinian rogue forces controlled by Mohammed Dahlan, Jibril Rajoub, and Marwan Barghouti. Each was a command-and-control center for the prosecution of the bloodiest war in the history of the West Bank and Gaza, a Palestinian war against itself.

  Top officials of the Palestinian Legislative Council—many of them barricaded inside the communications center underneath the PLC’s bombed-out headquarters in downtown Gaza—were now in direct and hourly contact with Jack Mitchell and Danny Tracker at CIA, and General Mutschler, operating out of the NMCC at the Pentagon. Their cooperation and inside

  information was proving absolutely invaluable, as were tidbits coming in from Egyptian and Jordanian intelligence and, of course, critical though completely confidential Israeli intelligence assistance from Shin Bet and Mossad agents still on the ground inside the territories.

  A number of Israeli intelligence operatives disguised as Arabs—some as older Arab women, covered in traditional robes and scarves—were assisting U.S. air and ground forces, weaving in and out of heavy population centers, helping mark targets and identify radical safe houses. Others eavesdropped on Palestinian military radio frequencies, intercepted cell and l
and-line telephone calls and e-mails and monitored all long-distance lines. They provided rapid translations, summaries, and even full transcripts when needed to their American counterparts—directly to Langley, at times, or to CENTCOM headquarters in Tampa, if the information was of imminent military value.

  None of this was publicly acknowledged, of course. Nor would it ever be. The Israelis didn’t want credit for ripping up the last vestiges of a mafia empire. Washington didn’t want to give it.

  Armed with such real-time, actionable intel and surprisingly solid though no doubt temporary international support for defending Palestine from the Israelis without and the extremists within, Washington held nothing back. The president’s rationale wasn’t complicated. The faster the operation could be completed, the better the chances for peace, and the better the chances of staving off universal condemnation by the Arab world and the United Nations as a whole if the operation bogged down and civilian casualties began mounting. And the only way to get done quickly was to strike with overwhelming force.

  This was not a Pentagon photo op. There were no reporters, American or otherwise, embedded into the operation. This was an unprecedented opportunity to smash the Palestinian terror network once and for all, and to see if peace had any chance whatsoever of taking root in the rocky, barren soil of the territories, long poisoned by bitterness and blood. Thus, within forty-eight hours of the first American boots on the ground, a total of two thousand U.S. troops and Special Forces were airlifted into the theater. Dozens of U.S.-owned and -operated M-l Abrams tanks, Humvees, and Bradley fighting vehicles were moved in as well, and were now choking off every major artery into the West Bank and Gaza.

  Ostensibly, the heavy mechanized forces were there to keep the Israelis out. At least, that’s what the press and public were told. More to the point, such hardware and the troops that operated them were tasked with keeping suicide bombers from infiltrating Israel. Any new Israeli deaths by Muslim extremists could force Doron’s hand, making it politically impossible for him