Balance of Power

THIRTY-FOUR

As soon as he heard gunshots inside the palace, Colonel August casually removed his cellular phone from his deep pants pocket. He punched in Luis’s office number but kept his face turned toward the warm sun as it crept over the buildings — soaking it up like any young vacationer. Behind him, except for Private Pupshaw, the other Strikers were pretending to study a tour book. Pupshaw was down the street, tying his shoe on the fender of a car. One of the aglets at the end of his shoelace contained a highly compressed irritant agent, primarily Chloroacetophenone — a mild but smoky form of tear gas. The other aglet contained a tiny heating coil that was activated when removed from the shoelace. It would cause the gas to be released two minutes after being placed inside the other aglet.

“This is Slugger,” August said. “We’ve just heard from three of the players in the stadium.” That meant he’d heard three shots in the palace. “Sound like they’re pretty close to the spot where we want to go.”

“Could be our teammate warming things up,” Luis said. The line was quiet for a moment. Then Luis came back on. “Coach says to go to second base and put on your uniforms. He’ll call the upper deck to see what they know.”

Second base was the dungeon directly below the Hall of Tapestries. The upper deck was the spotters.

“Excellent,” August said. “We’re on our way.” He turned the phone from ring to vibrate and returned it to his pocket. He told the other Strikers to follow him and then he raised his arm for Pupshaw to see. August crossed his second and third fingers.

The young private extended two crossed fingers and waved back. The two crossed fingers meant to put the aglets together.

August led his team quickly toward the sewer on the northwest corner of the Plaza de Oriente. They had videotaped the manhole cover when they’d first arrived and studied the playback as they stood around. Corporal Prementine and Privates David George and Jason Scott had their Walkman headsets in hand, ready to slide into the holes in the cover and lift it up. The headsets were actually made of titanium and would be able to handle the weight of the iron lid.

August put his arm around Sondra DeVonne as though she were his traveling companion. The two laughed as they walked. But when August looked at her he was actually looking past her at the traffic. It was virtually nonexistent due to all the military activity in the area. When Sondra looked at August she was keeping an eye on pedestrians. Like the streets, the sidewalks were relatively deserted.

They reached the corner and waited. Pupshaw had run over and caught up to them. No sooner had he arrived than the middle of the street erupted into a bright billowing cloud of orange smoke.

The wind blew the smoke toward them, which was why they had selected that site. Before it arrived, George, Scott, and Prementine had walked into the middle of the street. They stopped and knelt and pointed toward the smoke with their right hands. As they did, they lowered one end of the headphones into the manhole cover holes. A few seconds before the smoke reached them, they hoisted it up and moved it aside. Sondra whipped a palm-sized flashlight from the pocket of her windbreaker and shined it down. The light was not only for illumination: once the operation was underway, hand signals and on/off signals from flashlights would be their normal form of communication.

As the Interpol street plans had indicated, there was a ladder just inside. She went down quickly, followed by August, Aideen, and Ishi Honda. The other four men went down next, the burly Pupshaw waiting on the ladder to pull the lid back over the hole.

The entire operation took less than fifteen seconds.

The sewer was approximately ten feet tall and it was easy to walk through it. The system was flushed at noon and one A.M., and refuse was slightly more than knee-deep. But the relief of being inside and on the way compensated for the discomfort of the viscous liquid and its stench. They followed Sondra’s flashlight to the west and the catacombs.

As they walked, August put in his EAR plug — Extended Audio Range. This device looked like a hearing aid and allowed secure audio reception within a two hundred mile range. A Q-tip-shaped microphone taped to his chest allowed him to communicate with Interpol headquarters.

The sewer turned to the north at a brick wall that stood almost shoulder-high. There was a nearly three-foot gap at the top — the entrance to the catacombs. DeVonne handed the flashlight to Private George while Private Scott boosted her up and over. It had been agreed ahead of time that she would handle point for the mission. August was next in line followed by Aideen, with Corporal Prementine bringing up the rear. Private DeVonne was still suffering from occasional emotional slumps over Lt. Col. Squires’s death. That had occurred during her first mission with Striker. However, August was pleased to see that she’d been completely focused since they’d reached Madrid. And she was even more so down here — moving like a cat, quiet and alert. Since they’d entered the sewer, not a rat had passed that she’d failed to notice.

After the seven Strikers and Aideen had gone over the brick wall, they pressed on following a map Luis had had printed out. It wasn’t as easy moving in here. The roof was only five feet high here, and the rubble and dirt crunched loudly under their feet. Their clothes were clammy at first, then thick and hard as they dried in the cool, extremely musty air.

Suddenly, August stopped.

“Incoming message,” he whispered to the others.

The Strikers formed a tight circle around him. Sondra reminded in front and Corporal Prementine stayed behind. The other Strikers and Aideen had gathered close in on either side. Their proximity would enable Colonel August to speak quietly if there were new orders.

“Are you in?” Luis asked.

“We’re about fifty feet into the catacombs,” August replied. Since the audio line was secure, scrambled on both ends, there was no chance of it being intercepted and no reason to speak in code. “We should reach the dungeon in about three minutes.”

“You’ll probably get the go-ahead then,” Luis informed him. “We’ve just heard from the spotters.”

“What’s happening?” August asked.

“María Cornejas has been taken outside, into the courtyard,” he said. “It looks like she’s bleeding.”

“Those shots we heard—?”

“Very possibly,” Luis agreed. “The problem is, it doesn’t look like those will be the last ones.”

“What do you mean?”

“It looks as if one of the officers is selecting men for a firing squad,” Luis told him.

“Where?” August asked.

“Outside the chapel,” he said.

August snapped his fingers at Sondra and pointed to the map. She immediately brought it closer and turned the flashlight on it. He indicated for her to turn it over to the blueprint of the palace.

“I’m looking at the map now,” August said. “What’s the most direct route to the—”

“Negative,” Luis replied.

“Sir?”

“This update is not to be acted upon. We wanted you to know what was going on in case you hear the volley. Darrell has already consulted with General Rodgers and Director Hood at Op-Center and they concur that your target must remain Amadori. If he’s beginning to execute prisoners, it’s vital that he be contained as soon as possible.”

“I understand,” August said, and he did. The mission objective was crucial. But the colonel felt the same nauseating kick in the gut he’d experienced in 1970 when his battle-weary company engaged a vastly superior North Vietnamese force outside of Hau Bon on the Song Ba River in Vietnam. August needed to cover the company’s retreat and selected two men to stay behind with a pair of standoff rifles and hold the road as long as possible. He knew he would probably never see those two soldiers again, but the life of the company depended upon them. He also knew he would never forget the crooked half-smile one of the men gave him as he looked back at the company. It was a boy’s smile — a boy who was struggling very hard to be a man.

“As soon as you’re in position under the Hall of Tapestries,” Luis said, “Darrell wants you to get into gear. He expects to give you the go command within the next ten to fifteen minutes.”

“We’ll be ready,” August replied.

He briefed the team succinctly and then ordered them forward. There was no extraneous conversation. The Strikers reached their target in just over two minutes, after which Colonel August ordered them to remove their outer clothes. Beneath their damp jeans and jackets were kevlar-lined black jumpsuits. Reaching into their grips, the Strikers traded their Nikes and sandals for black “grippers,” high-top sneakers with deeply ridged hard-rubber soles. The customized soles were designed to keep the wearer from slipping on slick surfaces and to enable them to stop suddenly and with precision. They were backed with kevlar to help prevent anyone from shooting up through a floor to bring the soldiers down.

The Strikers also strapped black leather sheaths around their thighs; the sheaths contained eight-inch-long serrated knives. A loop around the other thigh contained a pencil-thin flashlight. They tucked Uzis under their arms and pulled black ski masks over their heads. When they were ready, August moved them from the catacombs to the dungeon. Six of the Strikers went ahead two at a time, the middle group of two leapfrogging over the first pair and the last pair moving up to take their place. Aideen was teamed with Ishi Honda. This allowed the two stationary pairs to cover the front and rear, respectively. They reached the dungeon in slightly over three minutes. It looked exactly like it had in the photographs they’d seen back at Interpol.

The one exit from the dungeon was an old wooden door at the top of the long and very narrow staircase. The only light came from Sondra’s flashlight and from the imperfect fit of the door. August motioned for Privates Pupshaw and George to check the door. August was prepared to blow it if they had to, though he’d prefer to enter with a little less thunder.

After a minute, Pupshaw came running back. “The hinges are rusted all to hell,” he whispered into August’s ear, “and the MD’s giving me a reading of some kind of lock on the handle on the outside.”

The MD was the metal detector. Slightly larger than a fountain pen, the MD was primarily used to find and define landmines. However, it could also “see” through wood.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to go through the door, Colonel,” Pupshaw said.

August nodded. “Set it up.”

Pupshaw saluted and ran back upstairs. Prementine joined them. Together, the men rigged a thumbnail-sized amount of C-4 around the handle and around each hinge. They stuck a remote-control detonator, about the size of a needle, into each wad.

As they were working, August received word from Luis. María was being interrogated by an outside wall and a firing squad had been assembled. It was time to move out.

Luis thanked them again and wished them luck. August promised to contact Luis when it was all over. Then he disconnected the microphone and stowed it in his grip. The action must not be broadcast, even to Interpol. The United States could not be connected with what was about to transpire and even an inadvertent recording or misrouting of the signal would be disastrous.

Like the other Strikers, August slipped the grip on his back. It was flat and lined with kevlar; the bulletproof material provided extra cover for the soldiers. Joining the others, August gave Pupshaw the order to proceed. Once the door was opened they’d proceed in serpentine fashion, Sondra still at point, Prementine at the rear. The object was to get to the throne room as quickly as possible. They were authorized to shoot — arms and legs if possible, torso if necessary.

The Strikers stood at the foot of the steps and covered their ears as Pupshaw twisted the top of what looked like an elongated thimble. The three small charges erupted with a bang like a popped paper bag. Door planks flew apart in jagged fragments, carried in all directions by three thick, gray, lumpy clouds.

“Go!” August shouted even before the echo of the blast had died.

Without hesitation Private Sondra DeVonne bolted up the stairs, followed in a tight line by the rest.