Balance of Power

THIRTY-SIX

To reach the throne room from the Hall of Tapestries, it was necessary to exit the long but narrow hall, go around the grand staircase, then pass through the Hall of the Halberdiers. Altogether it was a journey of slightly more than two hundred feet. The Strikers would have to cover the distance quickly, lest the noise of the explosion send General Amadori into hiding.

For the seven soldiers and Aideen, however, it was also a foray against more than two hundred years of American tradition. Although the United States had clandestinely assisted or encouraged assassination attempts against the likes of Fidel Castro and Saddam Hussein, only once in its history had the military targeted a foreign leader for assassination. That was on April 15, 1986, when U.S. warplanes took off from England to bomb the headquarters of Libyan despot Muammar al-Qaddafi. The attack was in retaliation for the terrorist bombing of a West Berlin discotheque frequented by American soldiers. Qaddafi survived that assault and the U.S. lost an F-111 and two airmen. Three hostages were murdered in Lebanon in reprisal for the American air raid.

Col. Brett August was aware of the lonely significance of the mission they were undertaking. In Vietnam, the base “padre,” Father Uxbridge, had a word for it. The priest tried to keep the mood light by giving all his sermon themes a military-style acronym. He called ethical ambiguities like these M.I.S.T.: Moral Issues Sliced Thick. That meant there was so much to chew on that you could think about it forever and never do anything because you could never reach a satisfactory intellectual resolution. The priest’s advice was to do what felt right. August hated bullies — especially bullies who imprisoned and killed those who disagreed with him. This felt right. The irony was that if they succeeded, credit for the deed would go to Spanish patriots loyal to the king, whose identities must be kept secret for security reasons. If they failed, they would be described as rogue operatives who had been hired by the Ramirez clan to avenge his death.

When the dungeon door blew open, the Strikers found themselves behind what was left of a three hundred year old arras. The bottom of the tapestry had been torn off in the explosion and the top was still fluttering as they rushed through. The Strikers’ orders were to disable opponents wherever possible and they were ready for the first wave of soldiers that came to investigate the blast. The Strikers’ ski masks contained goggles and mouth filters which would protect them from the Orthochlorobenzylidene malononitrile grenades Privates DeVonne and Scott were carrying. The fast-acting agent caused burning eyes and retching. In an enclosed area like the palace rooms, the gas would disable an opponent for up to five minutes. Most people couldn’t stand the effects for more than a minute or two and attempted to get to fresh air as quickly as possible. During the leapfrog approach, DeVonne and then Scott would take alternate tosses as necessary.

The first group of Spanish soldiers was swallowed in a huge yellow-and-black cottonball of gas. They dropped where they stood, some in the doorway and a few just inside the room. Anticipating that the Spaniards wouldn’t fire blindly into the thick cloud, the Strikers moved boldly through the doorway and proceeded along the southside wall. The door to the Hall of the Halberdiers was straight ahead, on the same side.

Soldiers were rushing toward them, guns raised. Scott’s partner, Private Pupshaw, crouched and fired ahead knee high. Two soldiers fell and the rest went racing to doorways for cover. While they scattered, Scott rolled a grenade down the hall. There was a three second delay and then the hallway filled with smoke. August and Private Honda leapfrogged ahead, followed by Private DeVonne and Corporal Prementine.

The Strikers were halfway to the Hall of the Halberdiers when August heard shouts inside along with gunfire. As soon as August and Honda were back in front of the team, the colonel held up a hand to halt their progress. He didn’t know how many people were inside the chamber or why there was shooting, but Striker was going to have to neutralize the entire room before they entered. He raised three fingers, then two — indicating attack plan thirty-two — then pointed at Privates DeVonne and Scott with the other hand. He motioned them ahead, Scott to the near side of the door, DeVonne to the far side. As soon as they were in position, both rolled grenades into the Hall of the Halberdiers.

When he was helping to train NATO troops in Italy, August had described the effect of the OM gas as very much like pouring boiling water in an anthill. The targets went down where they stood and just squirmed. Here, as Striker moved from room to hall to room, the impression of moving through an anthill was especially strong.

August pointed back to Prementine and Pupshaw, who rejoined their partners on either side of the door. They heard coughing and vomiting inside. When no one came out, August and Honda went in. The two Strikers squatted low on either side of the door, weapons ready, and surveyed the room.

August wasn’t quite prepared for the sight that greeted him: hundreds of bodies, mostly civilians and a few soldiers, writhing on the floor of the Hall of the Halberdiers. August knew that they wouldn’t die. But his mind flashed to images of the Holocaust, to gas chambers from the Second World War, and he had a flash of guilt — one of Father Uxbridge’s moral paradoxes.

He forced it aside. He had to. Once a tactical strike force set out, no member could afford to waver. The lives of the soldiers didn’t depend upon a shared ideology. They did depend upon a shared commitment.

August motioned for Honda to go right around the mass of bodies. Still squatting, August went left. Both men stayed close to the wall. There were bullet knicks in the marble near the door. The soldiers had obviously fired in that direction when the grenades rolled in. Though they were in no condition to fire now, August watched them as carefully as he could through the yellow haze. There was always the possibility that someone might rally enough to fire off a few rounds. But no one did. When he reached the throne room door, Colonel August withdrew the flashlight from the loop around his thigh. He flicked it on and off twice to indicate that the next group should proceed. Private DeVonne, Aideen, and Corporal Prementine came in, moving low along the wall as August and Honda had done. Privates Pupshaw and Scott followed them in.

The other Strikers and Aideen entered the Hall of the Halberdiers. As they did, August kept the gagging soldiers covered while Private Honda attached a thumbnail-sized lump of plastique to the base of the doorknob. He inserted a fuse, which heated by turning the cap. Five seconds later the plastique would detonate. The door would open and Scott would roll in another gas grenade. According to the map, this door was the only exit from the throne room. Once the people inside were disabled, the Strikers would move against Amadori.

When everyone was in position, Honda activated the fuse. It glowed red and then the plastique blew outward in a narrow line parallel to the floor. The door flew open and Private Scott rolled in a grenade. There were shouts and gunfire aimed at the door and then the gas exploded with a bang and a loud whoosh. Then the gunfire stopped and the choking began. When he heard them, August motioned for Private DeVonne and Corporal Prementine to move in.

Still on point, DeVonne took the first shot in the chest. She stumbled when she was hit and fell backward, landing against Prementine. The corporal backed out, pulling her with him, and the Strikers fell back several paces. August knew that the kevlar lining would have kept the bullet from penetrating Sondra’s chest, though she’d probably suffered a broken rib or two. She was moaning from the pain.

August motioned to Scott to roll in a second grenade. Then he crawled forward to DeVonne and pulled a grenade from her pouch. The gas was dissipating in the Hall of the Halberdiers and he threw one toward the mass of people. He had only two or three minutes to make a decision about whether to continue with the mission or to abort.

August crept toward the doorway. Someone had been waiting for them inside. Someone who was coherent enough to aim and fire a single shot at the first person in the door. He thought quickly. The security cameras wouldn’t have given Amadori enough time to get out, but it might have told him how large the attacking force was. And given him time to put on a gas mask, if he had one. And he might.

He also might have sent for reinforcements. They couldn’t afford to wait him out. August motioned to Pupshaw and Scott. The three of them went to either side of the door, August on the left, Pupshaw and Scott on the right. August held up four fingers then one. Plan forty-one was target-specific crossfire, with the third gunman covering the other two. August pointed to himself and Pupshaw, meaning that they’d take out Amadori. The entrance would be made using the Marine tactic of one soldier using a single somersault to get inside, then stretching out into a tight pencil-roll — the arms flat across the chest, holding the firearm, and the feet facing toward the target. The first soldier’s entrance was designed to draw the fire to one side so the second soldier could enter. When the two men were in, they’d sit up — legs still extended — and fire ahead. Meanwhile, the soldier responsible for setting up the cover fire would remain outside the room. He’d pencil-roll in front of the doorway, remaining on the outside and facing the target. He’d stop on his belly with his weapon pointed ahead.

August pointed to himself. He’d go in to the left, followed by Pupshaw. By the time Scott rolled into view, the other two Strikers would have the target in their sights.

August doffed his backpack and sidled to the door. Pupshaw and Scott did the same on the right. August looked at Pupshaw and nodded. The colonel somersaulted in and cut to the left pencil-roll. There was gunfire, but it trailed him as he turned quickly to the left. Pupshaw went in and was in position before the gun could be turned toward him. Both men had their sights on the target as Scott rolled into position.

August’s right hand shot up, the fingers splayed. That was the sign for the Strikers not to fire.

Neither of the other Strikers fired. August stared over his gunsight at a priest, gagging terribly. There was an automatic weapon jutting from under his right armpit, pointing toward the door. Behind him was a general wearing a gas filter and goggles. From his size and hair coloring, August knew that it was Amadori. The general’s left hand was around the priest’s throat. Behind the general was another officer — a major general, August determined through the yellow haze. There were six other officers in the room, all of them high-ranking, all of them sprawled on the floor or leaning across a conference table in the center.

The general motioned up and down with the gun. He was telling the Strikers to stand. August shook his head. If Amadori fired, he might get one of them. But he wouldn’t get all of them. And if the general shot the priest, then he had to know that he himself was dead.

It was a standoff. But the one running out of time now was Amadori. He had no way of knowing whether Striker was a SAT — a stand-alone team — or the first wave of a larger force. If it was the latter, then Amadori couldn’t afford to be trapped here.

The general obviously made up his mind quickly, as August had expected him to. Amadori began walking the priest forward slowly. The older clergyman was having difficulty standing. But pressure from Amadori’s fingers around his throat brought him upright each time he threatened to stumble. The major general walked with them, tight against Amadori’s back. As they approached, August could see that the major general had a handgun. He suspected that the only reason these men hadn’t fired was because they didn’t know who or what was waiting for them outside the throne room.

August watched as the three men came forward. There was no doubt that the Strikers could take Amadori. The question was the pricetag for both sides. In situations like these, the decision was up to the commanding officer. For August, the question was the same as it was in chess: whether an exchange of high ranked pieces was worth it. For him, the answer had always been no. Depending upon who was sharper and better prepared, it was better to keep the game going and wait for the other player to make a mistake.

August held out his right hand, palm down. That meant to do nothing unless provoked. Outside the door, Scott passed the signal to the other Strikers. Scott wriggled back as Amadori approached. He didn’t take his gun off him. As he stepped through the doorway into the Hall of the Halberdiers, the other Strikers also took aim at the general. The exception was Corporal Prementine, who was helping Private DeVonne.

The gas in the throne room was beginning to wear off. At August’s signal, Scott threw another grenade to cover their retreat. They rose and exited after the general. Scott walked with his back pressed to August’s back. The private was facing into the throne room, watching to make sure that none of the choking soldiers attempted to get off a shot. None did.

August couldn’t afford to feel frustrated as Amadori walked toward the corridor. The general had had a gas filter with him: that was a reasonable precaution. The President of the United States had one in the Oval Office. They were kept in most rooms at 10 Downing Street. Boris Yeltsin had one in his desk and one in each of his cars. The surprise was that Amadori had had a hostage. The killing or even wounding of a hostage was always unfortunate; the killing or wounding of a Roman Catholic priest in Spain would be a disaster.

August considered the situation carefully. If they let Amadori out into the open, the general’s army would be better able to protect him. And if he got away, this attack could make him a hero in the eyes of his people. But that wasn’t the biggest problem. August had no idea if and when reinforcements might arrive. And if they did show up, they might also be equipped with gas masks.

My chess game be damned, August decided. He was going to have to go for the king. He couldn’t get his head or torso, but he had a clear shot at his legs and could bring him to the ground. Even if the general or the major general turned on him, that would give the other Strikers a chance to take them out.

He raised his index finger once and then again. Number one was going after number one.

August and Scott were still standing back-to-back. August half-turned and whispered to the private as they walked toward the hallway.

“When I move, dive to your left.”

Scott nodded.

An instant later, August fired.