The Last Days (46 page)

And then Nadir Sarukhi Hashemi raised his face to the sky, shouted
“Allahu Akbar!”
and pulled the trigger.

 

The massive explosion was blinding, even on television.

Gogolov and Jibril couldn't believe what they were seeing. They'd done it. They'd accomplished what they set out to do. It didn't matter that the Viper was the only one to die. He'd died in a fireball in the heart of the enemy's capital. America would never be the same. Nor would Al-Nakbah.

“You've got mail.”

Jibril could barely pull himself away from the television. The images were mesmerizing and soon they'd be gone. Soon the coverage would shift across the Atlantic. He just hoped none of his team did anything to knock out the satellite uplink stations on the Rock. It was a show the whole world had to see.

The newest message was from Gift Shop. What? Another motorcade was heading up to the summit? Had they been wrong? Had they moved too fast? Jibril grabbed the satellite phone and speed dialed the G5. But there was no answer.

Bennett's motorcade was less than half a mile away.

Their headlights were on and their windshield wipers were cranked up to the highest setting. The storm was coming in faster than expected, and so were the lights of the business jet. The lead driver in the package saw it first and realized immediately what was happening.

“Incoming,”
he shouted as he slammed on his brakes and veered to the side of the road, hoping not to get clipped from the Tahoe right behind him.

Bennett hit the brakes, too, and pulled the wheel hard to the left, barely missing the back of Sa'id's vehicle ahead of him. He knew he should slam the VW into a K-turn and start racing for cover. But he couldn't look away. None of them could.

The jet was coming in fast and hard from their right. It was a Gulfstream, and it was heading straight for the restaurant. For a split second, Bennett froze. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. He suddenly thought of Tariq and the advance team. They were about to perish in a firestorm meant for him. Bennett wanted to scream but couldn't. All he could do was watch as the plane slammed directly into the restaurant and set the summit ablaze.

Bennett could feel the anger rising fast. Every friend he had was dying in a war he couldn't stop. Now it was Tariq Abu Ashad, his guardian angel since Gaza Station. The guy was a saint—quiet and unassuming but one of the toughest and nicest guys Bennett had ever met. He was a Palestinian in love with America, and an American in love with Palestine, and now he was gone. Bennett slammed his fists on the dashboard. He fought to choke back the emotions forcing their way to the surface. But their was no time to mourn. The SEALs in the minivan were screaming at him to move.

“Go back, go back—let's go, let's go, let's go.”

The chatter on the radios was deafening. Bennett could see all the taillights ahead of him turn white. He jammed his stick shift into reverse and hit the gas. All the other cars in the package were turned around, but Bennett didn't have time. He was now doing forty driving backward down Signal Station Road on the Rock in the rain.

“Sa'id, Doron—are they OK?” McCoy shouted over her radio.

The answer came back immediately from both Tahoes. The prime ministers were rattled but safe.

“Devil's Tower, Devil's Tower, this is Gold One, do you copy?”

“Gold One, this is Devil's Tower—what the hell is going on?”

“Code Red, we have a Code Red. A kamikaze just took out the restaurant. We're coming back to you—repeat, coming back to you. Stand by one.”

“Roger that, Gold One—we'll seal the cave behind you.”

“Get CENTCOM on the line and tell him we're under attack.”

“You got it, Gold One, we've already—”

Bennett couldn't tell what had happened. Was the transmission cut or did the watch commander simply stop talking?

“Oh my God, Jon!”

Bennett had never heard McCoy scream like that. He couldn't stop, not yet, but he could see what she was seeing. Not a hundred yards off the mountain to their right, another jet—a Citation—was screaming in at what had to be five hundred miles an hour.

A split second later, the plane slammed into the British military command post and the entrance to their living quarters. Another fireball lit up the darkening sky. The explosion mixed with booms of thunder. Sticks of lightning crackled on the horizon, and Devil's Tower was off the air.

“Mr. President?”

MacPherson was still trying to process the explosion at the Washington Monument, but it was General Mutschler at the NMCC.

“What is it, General?”

“Gibraltar Station is under attack.”

“What?”

“Two kamikazes—one took out the restaurant, the other took out the British military command. A third plane just touched down at the airport—it's unloading a team of terrorists. There's heavy fighting going on right now. Mortar shells are coming in from speedboats out in the harbor.”

“What about Bennett and others?”

“They're still on the mountain—two main roads are cut off by fire. There's only one left.”

 

“Jon, look out!”

They were fast approaching a hairpin turn but their wheels were in the gravel and there was a thousand-foot dropoff less than three yards to their right. Bennett was still driving backward and even Galishnikov was terrified of plunging over the side.

“I got it. I see it. Hold on—Gold Three, I'm making this turn. Follow my lead.”

Bennett slammed on the brakes again and pulled the wheel hard to the right. The red VW spun out and Bennett struggled for control. They were sliding toward the edge.

“Jon…”

Bennett could feel the muddy gravel underneath them and adjusted back to the left. It was just in time. They could suddenly feel solid road again and Bennett jammed the stick shift into second, then third. Both Tahoes and the minivan spun out on the turn as well, but everyone made it and now Bennett was on point, picking up speed as they blew south down Charles the Fifth Road. Seconds later, they hit the next hairpin turn and barely made it. Now they were heading east down Queen's Road doing sixty. That's when they first saw the billows of smoke coming from the airport.

“Gold One, this is Bennett, you there?”

Bennett couldn't remember his own code name if he even had one. And he didn't care.

“This is Gold One—I'm right behind you.”

“I'm just trying to get us off this mountain. But what do I do then?”

“Head for the Governor's Mansion. They have a safe house there.”

“How do I get there?”

“I'll tell you when we get closer.”

Bennett came to another hairpin turn and downshifted quickly. He broke left and was now coming down Old Queen's Road. Then a fast, hard right, and another hard left. A few minutes more and they'd be in the heart of the city.

“Gold One, this is Frontier Six, over.”

It was a Brit Bennett hadn't heard before.

“Frontier Six—go.”

“It's on fire—I say, again, the Governor's Mansion is on fire.”

“What? What happened?”

“Attacked by RPGs a few minutes ago—guys in speedboats out in the harbor.”

“What's your status?”

“Not good. We've got a wicked firefight on our hands.”

“How many?”

“Eight, maybe ten guys. Took us all by surprise—we saw the explosions at the summit and I sent most of my men up there.”

“What's all the smoke down your way?”

“They just blew up their plane on the runway, they did. Nothing can get in or out.”

Bennett needed options. He needed someplace safe to get his team. But where? Everything he knew was gone. He needed time to think, but they were moving too fast. They were doing seventy toward a short tunnel when two shots erupted from their right. The first missed but the second sliced the front windshield, shattering it into a thousand pieces. It was safety glass so none of it went flying, but suddenly Bennett couldn't see.

“McCoy…”

He had no idea who was shooting at them. He hit his high beams in the tunnel and prayed no one was in his way. McCoy reached over and rolled down his window. Bennett stuck his head out into the driving rains and tried not to lose control on the next series of turns. He had no idea where he was. He was moving through alleys and parking lots, desperately trying to reach Main Street, the Queensway, anything that would get him out of these narrow lanes and deadly zigzags that were going to kill all of them if a sniper didn't take them out first.

“Gold One, this is Bennett again.”

“Go.”

“Now what do we do?”

The SEAL Team commander thought about it for a fraction of a second. There weren't any good options. His instincts told him to get this team as far from Gibraltar as possible. It was a risk. He didn't dare take a boat. Not with terrorists out there in speedboats. They could sprint for the frontier, blow through the border, and drive to Rota. But that would take hours. And there was an intense gunfight at the Frontier.

“Gold One, come on, let's go!” Bennett shouted. “I need an answer—now!”

“Make a break for the airport, Jon.”

“What? Are you crazy?”

“Jon, we don't have a choice. We need to get you guys out of here now.”

“We've got no plane. The runway's on fire.”

“Jon, shut up and do what the man says.”

It was McCoy. The VW went silent. So did the radio traffic.

“These guys know their stuff,” McCoy continued as Bennett sped into the city along deserted streets gushing with rain. “The SEALs can fight their way onto the airstrip. There's two Seahawks there. We can use those.”

“And who's gonna fly them?”

“Hunt and Brackman are both pilots—they flew together in Desert Storm.”

“And then what?” asked Bennett, trying to calm down. “This storm's right on top of us. We go up in this and it'll kill us for sure.”

“Have some faith, Jon. We'll blow up that bridge when we get to it.”

 

MacPherson pressed General Mutschler for details.

“What do you have to back them up?”

“We've got a rapid-response team at our base in Rota, Spain. They're almost completely socked in by the storm coming down from the north—and they're completely on the entire other side of Spain, on the Atlantic coast. But we're sending them anyway. They'll be in the air in the next few minutes.”

“What else have you got?”

“We've got another team of SEALs out on the
Kennedy.
They're closer. Visibility is practically nil—less than half a mile at this point—but it's possible.”

MacPherson was furious.

“General, I don't have to remind you what's at stake here. Now I want you to get these guys out. I don't care how you do it—just do it.”

 

“All right, Gold One, take the lead—we'll follow you.”

Bennett eased off the gas a bit and let the minivan roar ahead. They were on Smith Dorrien Avenue, coming around a curve onto Winston Churchill. They'd be at the airstrip in less than a minute and it was going to be a fight to the death.

McCoy readied her Uzi and handed her Beretta to Bennett.

“When we get there, pull behind one of the Seahawks. I'll jump out and lay down some covering fire. You get Mordechai and Galishnikov into the chopper and watch my back. When you guys are ready, shout. I'll be right behind you.”

The package now crossed the tarmac and everyone in the VW gasped at the devastation. The burning wreckage of the Learjet was front and center and the airport terminal was engulfed in flames. Machine-gun fire erupted from their left.

“Point Man, this is Prairie Ranch, do you read me?”

It was Marsha Kirkpatrick in the Situation Room.

“Roger that—what've you got?” Bennett shouted into his microphone as he tried desperately to steer clear of the firefight.

“Hang in there. We've got a rescue team coming in from Rota—ETA about fifteen minutes.

“Negative, negative—we're under heavy fire—we can't wait that long.”

Bennett cut right, barely missing a tanker trunk in the middle of the tarmac, still running and apparently abandoned in the fight.

“Jon, look out!”

It was Mordechai.

“Where? What is it?”
yelled Bennett, unable to turn his head or risk crashing.

Now McCoy saw it, too.

“Get down, get down—RPG.”

Bennett didn't know where it was coming from. He didn't want to know. He just ducked as low as he could, hit the gas, and raced for the Seahawks.

The RPG missed them by inches. It slammed into the fuel tanker, unleashing yet another explosion. The force of the blast blew out all the windows of the VW, but they were finally there. Bennett grabbed his microphone again.

“Gold One, we don't have time to wait for a rescue—get us out of here now.”

“Roger that, I'm right behind you.”

Bennett pulled behind the lead Seahawk, grabbed McCoy's 9-mm, and started helping the two Israelis out of the backseat. The SEALs took up a blocking position and returned fire. Tracer rounds crisscrossed the tarmac as Sergeants Hunt and Brackman powered up the choppers and prepared for liftoff.

Bullets whizzed by his head and three or four more explosions went off, though Bennett quickly lost count. Before he realized it, McCoy was slapping him on the back and yelling at him to jump into the sixty-four-foot bird or get left behind. Doron, Sa'id, and their protective details, as well as Mordechai, Galishnikov, and another handful of SEALs were already locked and loaded and ready to go. The rest of the SEALs would take the second chopper. Bennett scrambled in with the others and McCoy jumped in last.

She put on a headset and gave Bennett his own pair to block out the noise and communicate with the others. Sergeant Hunt completed their preflight check. Two SEALs took up their positions by the .50-caliber machine guns mounted in the doors and opened up on the terrorists now firing at them.

“Look out, look out.”

It was one of the SEALs. Bennett couldn't see what was happening. But he could hear it. Someone was firing at them at close range. The .50s opened up and blew the guy away, but not before six rounds riddled the back of their Seahawk.

“We're hit, we're hit—go, go, go.”

Both Seahawks gained altitude and began pulling away from the airport. The question was, which way should they go? The Seahawk's onboard color radar showed the storms pelting the coastline and interior of Spain, making the route to Rota treacherous at best. The worst of the storm was now over the Rock itself. Thunder boomed above them and lightning was flashing all around them. Heading out to the aircraft carrier actually seemed the marginally less dangerous course of action, but it was a crap shoot either way.

“It's your call, Sergeant,” Bennett said. “Just get us out of here.”

Hunt climbed into the raging storm and made his decision.

“Freedom One, this is Striker One Six,” Hunt told the USS
John F. Kennedy.
“We are airborne. Our feet are dry, but we are coming to you. Over.”

“Striker One Six, this is Freedom One—negative, negative—be advised weather our way is extremely dangerous.”

“Look out,”
yelled Galishnikov.
“RPG—left side.”

Every head turned. They could see the white contrail heading straight for them. The Seahawk banked hard to the right. The RPG sliced past their left window, missing by inches. Now the pilot pulled straight up into the lightning and fog. Everyone was holding on for their lives, but now the gunfire didn't seem as terrifying as the weather.

“Freedom One, this is Striker One Six, you do not understand—we have the Package. I repeat, we have the Package. We are under heavy fire. We have no other options. We are heading your way.”