“Watchya got goin’, Monsoon?”
“Thera’s in the Russian’s building. He must’ve been inside. He’s got her and taking her up the fire escape. Him or someone else. I couldn’t tell.”
“Track them. Don’t get too close. Tonto and I are two miles away,” said Ferguson.
“I don’t know if I can get her back without shooting him.”
“He’s dead as far as I’m concerned,” said Ferguson. “Don’t hit her, though.”
“That’s fine.” Monsoon slung his AK-47 over his shoulder and ran around to the fire escape, leaping up to pull the ladder down.
Thera moved up the fire escape slowly, partly because she was still disoriented from being slammed against the wall and partly because she thought it would give Monsoon and the others time to catch up. The Russian grumbled and pushed, but, overweight and not in particularly good shape, he stopped every few rungs to catch his breath.
When they reached the sixth floor, Thera felt the rattle on the metal below and realized Monsoon must be following. Now she changed her tactics and began scrambling upward. But the Russian was too close. He reached up and grabbed her ankle, pulling her down. She kicked at him; he punched back.
“Hey!” yelled Monsoon below.
The Russian answered by firing two shots from the CZ52. The slugs clinked off the metal.
Thera scrambled upward, reaching for her pistol beneath the bodice of her dress. Vassenka, huffing, caught up and managed to grab her leg, pulling hard enough to make her lose her grip. She fell against him, clawing but sliding past to the steel deck. The Russian fired blindly at Monsoon below, then started to climb again.
By the time Monsoon reached Thera, she had gotten her gun out and struggled to her feet. Her knee had twisted and a stream of blood was spurting madly from her nose.
“Let’s go,” she told Monsoon, half hopping and half running for the ladder. “Come on.”
“You stay here. Your face is bashed.”
“It’s just my nose,” she said, pulling herself up the ladder ahead of him.
At the airfield, the Delta Team bound the plane’s crew members and the fuel truck attendant, then carried them into the nearby field where they would be out of the way. They drove the fuel truck up the ramp area and outfitted it with an explosive device so it could be blown up as a diversion if necessary. Two men pulled on civilian clothes that made them appear to be pilots. By the time they were dressed, two canisters and a delivery system had been connected to the ventilation system. The canisters would deliver a mixture of oxygen and Enflurane into the cabin. Enflurane was a last-acting general anesthetic used during operations. The mixture would incapacitate everyone in the pressurized cabin within a minute if not less.
After checking the aircraft, Colonel Van Buren trotted over to the support team, huddling with his communications sergeant as he checked in with the group watching the approach. The 737 pilot reported that he was ready to go; he had the engines idling.
“Colonel, we have some contacts here we thought you’d like to know about,” said the operator aboard the EC-130E. “We have a pair of Dornier DO 28, liaison/transport types flying very low to the water, offshore on a line to Latakia airport. I’m advised that Israel operates this type of aircraft, designated as the Agur, and uses them for maritime patrol and occasional transport. They have the capacity to land on a short runway and can carry up to fifteen troops, sir.”
“Are these aircraft Israeli? Are they heading here?”
“We’re not sure,” said the controller. “Neither plane has answered radio calls and I’m informed they don’t have functional IFF.”
The friend-or-foe identity device was essentially a radio beacon declaring who the plane belonged to. The fact that the devices were not operating and their pilots were not talking, strongly suggested that they were Israeli aircraft and that they were on something more serious than a routine training mission.
“Sir, the F-15 escorts have the aircraft in sight and are requesting guidance. They can shoot them down at this time.”
“Negative,” said Van Buren. He turned to the communications sergeant. “I have to speak to Corrigan, right now.”
Ferguson threw down his bicycle in an alley near the hotel. He had his gear, including his MP5, in the large rucksack on his back; he pulled two stun grenades from one of the pouches on the back of the pack but left the submachine gun inside, not sure whether he’d have to go into the hotel or not. Guns was just coming down the block.
“Monsoon? Thera? What’s up?” said Ferguson over the radio. He reached to his belt to select their channels; neither answered.
“EC-130 control, are you in contact with Thera?”
“Negative. I have Sergeant Ranaman.”
“Monsoon? Ranaman? Where the hell are you?”
Monsoon’s out of breath voice responded. “We’re on the fire escape. He’s getting away.”
“Where’s Thera?”
“She’s here. She’s banged up but OK.”
“Where’s the Russian?”
“He just reached the roof.”
“I’m on my way. Don’t go up until you hear from me. Don’t shoot him if you don’t have to.”
“But you said—”
“That was then; this is now. Relax. Everybody get on team frequency. This is a sharing time.” Ferguson pulled off his rucksack. Guns had just arrived. “I’m going up to the roof,” he told him. “Watch the door. We want Vassenka alive if we can get him. We may be able to get him to play with us after Van takes Khazaal. Rankin and Grumpy are on their way.”
Guns glanced at the big Glock in Ferguson’s hand. “I thought you wanted him alive.”
“This is for persuasive purposes only,” said Ferguson, sticking it in the belt of his black fatigues. He opened the pack and took out his sawed-off shotgun and a package of plastic bullets. He also grabbed a gas mask, slinging it around his neck but not donning it.
Guns took out the grenade launcher and packed it with a large, non-lethal round, thick enough to stun a horse.
Ferguson trotted to the hotel, lowered his shotgun so that it was at his side, and walked in. The desk person said something to him. Ferguson put up his empty hand, signaling as if to say “one minute,” and kept walking.
A bellhop ran up toward the elevator as Ferguson pressed the button. The man looked as if he weighed three hundred pounds and wanted to pound Ferguson into the floor. Ferguson raised the shotgun, which persuaded him that following the stranger into the elevator would be very foolish.
By the time he reached the top floor, Ferg had taken out a flash-bang and removed its pin, holding it in his left hand. The door opened on an empty corridor.
“Monsoon, where are you?” he said into the radio headset.
“We’re just under the roof.”
“All right. I’m at the stairwell,” said Ferguson. “Let me see if I can sneak onto the roof. When I’m ready, you draw his fire. Don’t forget: we want him alive if we can take him that way.”
“You sure?”
“No, but let’s pretend I am.”
He reached for the doorknob, turning it slowly with the hand that held the small pin grenade. He pushed into the space, once more throwing himself to the ground, ready to fire; once again there was no one there.
Third time is going to be the charm, he thought, grabbing his night glasses and putting them on awkwardly as he went up the steps to the roof door.
Thera reached through the blouse of the long Arab dress and took two smoke grenades from the webbing sewn inside. As she gave one to Monsoon, the Delta trooper gave her a slight nod.
