“Thanks, Doug,” Davis said, “for painting such a rosy picture.”
“My parents were refugees from Hungary. They taught me to call things the way I see them, no matter how unpleasant they might be.”
Seconds after Volman said this, a peal of automatic fire echoed through the narrow streets to their left. Mustafa turned into an alley as more gunfire erupted in front of them, lighting up the night sky.
Crocker said, “It’s probably better to keep moving.”
Volman nodded. “Yeah. Let’s head back to the coast.”
Mustafa backed up and turned right, burning rubber. Volman crouched down in the passenger seat and pointed out a dark building surrounded by a high metal fence on their left.
“That used to be the women’s military academy.”
Crocker saw no women on the streets, only a handful of men who ducked into buildings and vehicles seeking cover. Storeowners quickly pulled their wares inside and closed up their shops.
The gunfire, which seemed to be coming from the south, grew closer.
“How far are we from the Sheraton?” Crocker asked. He and Davis were unarmed.
Volman’s hands trembled as he spoke. “I’m getting tired of this shit.”
“How far away are we?”
“Maybe a quarter mile.”
A huge explosion illuminated the street in front of them and lifted up the front of the SUV. It came down with a crash, tossing the four men up and down like bouncing toys.
Mustafa and Volman both lurched forward and smacked the windshield. The former started bleeding from his nose; the latter held his head and moaned. Crocker climbed over the seat to check them out. Neither wound looked serious.
“Hold your head back,” he told Mustafa. “Squeeze here,” showing him where to pinch his fingers near the bridge of his nose.
Volman complained that he couldn’t find his glasses and couldn’t see without them. Crocker pushed Mustafa to the back seat, got behind the wheel, shut off the headlights, and gunned the engine.
“Direct me to the hotel,” he shouted.
“I told you, I can’t see.”
“Help me out, Mustafa.”
“Straight ahead, sir.”
He tried several times, but couldn’t shift the vehicle out of second gear. Secondary explosions lit up the sky.
“What’s the problem?” Davis asked.
“The clutch is fucked. Keep your heads down.”
Volman said, “The Japanese embassy is nearby. We can find shelter there.”
“Forget the Japanese embassy. Direct me to the hotel.”
“Stay on this road, sir.”
Closing in on the Mediterranean, they entered a cloud of orange-gray smoke. Directly ahead of them a fire was burning. Flames shot up above the buildings and turned the sea beyond a sinister shade of red.
Off the Corniche, down a side street, Crocker saw the shattered front of what looked like a modern eight-story hotel. Three high marble arches formed what remained of the entrance.
“I smell smoke,” Volman said, poking his head up over the dashboard.
“It’s the Sheraton, sir,” Mustafa offered. “Looks like it’s been attacked.”
To the right, past smaller white guesthouses and palms, Crocker saw a marina.
“Turn this thing around and get us out of here!” Volman shouted.
Crocker drove within a hundred feet of the hotel entrance and stopped. Cars were fleeing the hotel, steering wildly. A Mercedes with a shattered windshield crashed into another Mercedes in front of it. Crocker pulled up on the sidewalk and parked. “Let’s get out here, Davis. Stick together.”
“What are you doing? What about us?”
“Wait here,” Crocker said to Volman and Mustafa. “We’ll be back.”
They ran, squeezing past cars and frenzied people streaming past. Flames rose to the left around some palm trees near the entrance. Crocker saw the burning carcass of what looked like it had once been a delivery truck near a checkpoint at the end of the block. Flames rose from several other overturned cars nearby. One had landed hood-first in a fountain.
The explosion had left a gaping hole in one corner of the building. The place looked like some huge creature had taken a bite out of it. There was shattered glass everywhere. People moaning, screaming, calling out names, asking for help in various languages-English, Dutch, Arabic, French.
Dozens poured out of the smoking structure, stepping over burnt bodies, walking, stumbling, and running in all directions. Some were injured, others looked perfectly fine except for the horrified looks on their faces. Others stared ahead blankly, like the man in a suit who staggered by with blood running down his face, calmly smoking a cigarette.
The torso of a uniformed man lay in the street. His arms and legs had been blown off. His head was a gory mess of brains and shattered bone.
Crocker expected sirens but heard none.
As they approached the entrance, gunfire rang out. People jumped behind trees and walls or threw themselves to the pavement. Crocker and Davis crouched behind a planter overflowing with red bougainvillea.
“Sounds like the shots are coming from inside,” Davis shouted.
“That’s odd,” Crocker said, looking for soldiers or security guards and finding none.
“Real odd.”
“Maybe we should circle around back.”
They rose together and almost tripped over a stout middle-aged woman holding up a bleeding man. The man’s face was injured.
The woman screamed in a language Crocker didn’t understand. The man stumbled and grabbed his neck.
With Davis’s help, Crocker sat the man down on the ground, against the wall of the entrance. Then he started to reach down his throat.
The woman shouted, “No! No!” shaking her head, slipping into hysteria.
Crocker nodded at Davis, who held her back.
The man’s windpipe was blocked with blood and broken teeth. Crocker swept them free and fished them out of his mouth. The man coughed and started to breathe normally. The gash across his cheek and mouth was serious but not life threatening.
With no medical kit available, Crocker removed his own black polo shirt and held it against the man’s face. Then he grabbed the woman’s hand. “Hold this here and wait for an ambulance. Your husband will be okay.”
“Wait?”
“Attendez,” Crocker said, remembering one of the few words he knew in French.
“Attendez, oui.” She nodded her head, then kissed his cheek.
The firing from inside had picked up. More people were running out in panic. Some wore uniforms; some men, suits. Women were clothed in cocktail gowns and dresses. Many of them abandoned their high heels, which littered the tile floor.
Crocker saw someone who looked American and stopped him.
“Where’s the party for the NATO chief?”
“The party?”
“Yeah. Where’s Al Cowens?”
“Out of my way!”
Crocker grabbed him firmly by the shoulders. “Al Cowens from the U.S. embassy? You know him?”
“Don’t go in there! Men are shooting. Lots of dead. It’s fucked.”
He entered the building with Davis at his side. The lobby was littered with the injured and bleeding. Blood was smeared everywhere. A lot of the lights were out. Smoke. A Muzak version of “Copacabana” by Barry Manilow played over the PA, adding a surreal element.
People were screaming, moaning, crashing into things, asking for help.
The two SEALs followed the sound of gunfire past the lobby, down a hall to the other end of the building. Turning left, they entered what looked to be a brasserie-type restaurant that faced a pool and, beyond that, the beach.
Because it stood at the back of the building, the restaurant seemed to have escaped damage from the explosion, but tables had been overturned and people were hiding behind them. He saw bodies in the corners.
“What the-”
Before he could complete his question, an explosion threw Crocker against the back wall.