the center. He tried pushing up one side and then the other, but it was too high. He couldn't muster the necessary force. He attempted to pull it down, but hanging there didn't put enough stress on the grate.
Standing under it, looking up, Rodgers suddenly realized that he needed torque to dislodge it. Painfully pulling off his shoes and socks, he fed the socks through the grate. One on the left side, one on the right. He pulled the ends back in and tied the top of each sock to its own bottom. Then he slipped his fingers through one end of the grate. Pulling himself up, he slid his feet into the stirrups he'd made from the socks.
Rodgers was in agony. His burned skin stretched and bled. But he wouldn't stop. He wouldn't let Striker find him caged like an animal waiting to die. He took a deep breath to increase his body weight. Then he jerked down with his arms while simultaneously kicking up with his feet. He felt the grate shudder. He pulled down with his hands and kicked up again. The center of the grate scraped roughly against the bar. The grate sunk a little on one end, rose a little on the other. Rodgers dropped down, his arms aching.
There were sounds of gunfire now. They were short bursts, cover fire. Striker had definitely arrived.
The top of the pit was rimmed by a metal hoop to which the chicken wire had been nailed. The hoop was slightly smaller than the grate and prevented it from turning further. But the rim was made of brass, which was thinner and softer than iron. The grate was already askew. Weight applied to one spot now might cause the hoop to bend and allow the grate to swing in.
Rodgers stood under the grate where it dipped into the pit. He forced his fingers through the tight spot between the hoop and the grate's edge. Holding tight, he hung straight down. Sweat burned his wounds, and he used the pain to fan his rage. He pulled his knees to his chest and dropped them suddenly. That added force to the downward pull. He waited a moment, then did it again. This time there was a loud screech as the edge of the grate pressed against the inside of the hoop. Rodgers felt the hoop give slightly. He continued to hang on the grate as it forced its way through the metal. After a few seconds Rodgers was able to squeeze through the opening. Fire from his wounds continued to fuel his determination. Though the grate was suspended nearly straight down now, Rodgers hung on. He extended one hand and grabbed the bar in the middle — the bar which had locked him in but now offered a way out. As soon as he had a grip on it, he reached out with the other hand. He hung there for a moment, as though preparing to do a chin-up. His arms were weary and shook violently. His fingers were cramped. But if he let go, he knew he wouldn't be able to jump high enough to reach the bar.
With a cry of hurt and anger, Rodgers lifted himself up so that his waist was bent against the bar. He rested there for a moment, then hoisted a leg over it. He lay flat, arms and legs wrapped around the bar, and shimmied the short distance to the side. When he reached the side of the pit, he stood.
And he screamed. He screamed from the suffering he'd endured, and he kept screaming with the inarticulate voice of triumph. Before the scream had died he'd snatched the bar from between the uprights of his former prison.
'I'll come back for you, Colonel,' Rodgers said as he strode down the deserted corridor. There was an engine puttering somewhere in the north. When Rodgers reached the turnoff to the main tunnel, a flare erupted well to his right. He turned. Not to the south, to the flare and the opening of the cave. He knew what was down there. Instead, Rodgers turned to the left.
He moved along the corridor with his back close to the wall. He stuck to the shadows and walked with his knees bent. That allowed him to shift his weight from whichever leg was moving and enabled him to put his bare foot down as quietly as possible.
About fifteen yards in, Rodgers saw empty gun racks and two Kurdish soldiers. One soldier was talking on an old shortwave radio. From his agitated manner Rodgers surmised that he was either briefing a field force on the situation here or else calling for reinforcements. He was armed with a holstered pistol. The other soldier was standing guard with an AKM assault rifle. He was drawing hard on his hand-rolled cigarette. Well behind them were a pair of portable generators venting through hoses which ran along the floor deeper into the cavern.
Rodgers was no more than ten yards from the men. He continued along the wall, moving sideways. He tightened his hold on the iron bar. The pain in his arms and sides made him intensely alert. He stopped. The single overhead bulb lit a wide area around them. If he came any closer he'd be seen.
Rodgers took a moment to decide on the best approach. Then he extended his right arm diagonally so that the tip of the bar nearly touched the ground. He would have one shot.
He flicked his wrist back and then snapped it forward hard, releasing the iron bar. It flew ahead, striking the armed guard in his right shin and bending him hard to that side. A moment after he threw the bar, Rodgers ran at the men. He was there when the guard bent, and he had his hands on the AKMC before the man could straighten and bring it to his shoulder. Rodgers pushed the butt into the man's groin, doubling him over. Then he pounded the side of his fist on the back of his head.
The guard released the weapon and went down. Rodgers drove the stock into the back of his neck and pointed the barrel at the radio operator.
The Kurd raised his hands. Rodgers disarmed the man and motioned for him to get up. He obeyed. Rodgers paused to take the cigarette from the fallen Kurd and poked it between his own lips. Then he retrieved the iron bar and walked the radio operator toward the back of the tunnel where there was a hint of daylight and the generators still puttered noisily.
FIFTY-SEVEN
The A-Team Strikers stopped when they noticed the neo-phosgene gas rising above a portion of the floor of the main cavern. The two point men held up their hands for the others to wait, then went to explore the area.
Corporal Prementine stood with Falah in the mouth of the cave and watched in the dying light of the flare. The section of yellow gas was floating slightly above the rest in an almost rectangular shape. Only heat would cause it to rise like that. Heat from a room underground. An occupied room.
Prementine looked at his watch. The Tomahawk would arrive and detonate in six minutes. If the ROC were within a quarter mile of the cave, in any direction, the explosion would still take them out with it. They didn't have time to get clear. There were still two hostages to locate.
The point men knew that too. One of them reached into his kit and cut off a small block of C-4. He placed it on the door, jabbed in a small timer, and motioned the men back. They all lay flat in the fast-dissipating gas. He joined them a moment later. Five seconds after that the charge detonated.
Iron fragments blew in all directions, zipping over the heads of several Strikers and barely missing Prementine. Gunfire erupted from underground. It drove Prementine from the mouth of the cave and prevented the Strikers inside from advancing.
Prementine realized that PKK fighters must have been able to get togas masks and hunker down below. It was going to be difficult to get them out. There were no lights and the Strikers didn't have a clear shot down the stairs. Grenades weren't guaranteed to take down the enemy, and for all they knew Mike Rodgers and the Turkish officer were being held down there.
The Strikers were going to have to take the room, and quickly. That would entail four men moving forward. Two Strikers would jump down one after the other, quickly identify targets, and open fire. With any luck, their bullet-proof vests would take the brunt of the initial barrage. With a bit more luck they would be able to take out the enemy before anyone realized the Strikers were wearing vests. Once they'd established a beachhead, the other two men would have go down and help finish the job.
It was the most dangerous kind of operation. But given the amount of time left, it was the only option they had.
Prementine moved cautiously into the mouth of the cave. The flares had died and he knew that he was brightly backlit against the blue sky. But no one shot at him. He was far enough back so that the men in the underground room couldn't see him. He raised his hands to give the order which would put the four Strikers on alert: two fingers on each hand pointed up. The point men acknowledged the order with a low thumbs-up. But before Prementine could point his fingers ahead and send the Men crawling over, he saw movement in the back of the cave.
