The massive explosion ripped through the courtyard. The sound was deaf ening. The entire facade of the legislative building began to collapse. Blood and body parts began showering down from the sky. In the blink of an eye, in a fraction of a second, on live worldwide television, the two highest-ranking Palestinian leaders and the U.S. Secretary of State were obliterated in a massive fireball.
Bennett landed hard on the cold, wet pavement and felt McCoy slam down on his back. They were largely shielded from the full effects of the blast by the limousine beside them. Now they tried to shield themselves from the falling debris. Fire and smoke seemed to suck up all the oxygen. Bennett couldn't think, couldn't breathe. A severed, bloody hand landed inches from his face. He turned away, and underneath the car, through a gap in concrete barriers, could see the hailstorm of rubble and glass crashing down on the open courtyard — a grisly scene unlike anything he'd ever witnessed. And then, in an instant — as quickly as it had happened — it was over. It was quiet. And only then did the irony begin to dawn on Jon Bennett.
Yasser Arafat was dead, at the hands of a Palestinian suicide bomber.
TWO
"Code Red, Code Red — Sunburn is gone, I repeat, Sunburn is gone."
Donny Mancuso shouted into his wrist-mounted microphone. He was now the special agent in charge. Most of the secretary's detail lay dead or dying. The rest lay on the ground, weapons drawn — a combination of Uzis, MP-5 submachine guns and Sig-Sauer P228s. They scanned the scene and tried to make sense of it all. Neither he nor they had any idea what had really just happened, or what other threats they might face. But it was Man-cuso's job to make sure they didn't get blindsided again.
By motorcade — even at high speeds — it would take nearly an hour to get the wounded back to medical facilities in Jerusalem. Tel Aviv would take at least ninety minutes, maybe more. Some might not make it that long. Several had third-degree burns. Others faced massive loss of blood.
Lightning flashed across the dark sky.
Thunder rumbled overhead and the winds were picking up. Another torrential downpour was coming any moment. McCoy began to stir. She shook glass off her back and out of her hair, then leaned inside the open limo door beside her. She reached under the driver's seat, and grabbed her Uzi. She popped in a thirty-two-round clip of 9-mm ammo and stuffed two others in her jacket pocket. Bennett could feel his heart racing.
Mancuso grabbed his MP-5.
He crawled forward — around McCoy and Bennett — to open the front door of Snapshot and grab the satellite phone off the front seat. He speed dialed the State Department's Operations Center back in Washington— code-named Black Tower — and connected with Agent Robbie Trakowski, the night-watch officer.
"Black Tower, this is Snapshot," said Mancuso. "We are Code Red—/ repeat, we are Code Red. We have extensive casualties. Requesting immediate air support and extraction. Acknowledge."
He began to hear sirens in the distance.
"Roger that, Snapshot. We've got you on a live video feed from the Pred ator over your location. Let me check on air support and extraction. Stand by one."
It sounded like a few firecrackers, at first.
Then three machine-gun rounds exploded into the open limo door above him. Someone was firing at them from the street. Eight or nine more rounds riddled the engine block just a few feet away from him. The crackle of automatic-weapons fire was getting louder, and closer. Crowds were running in all directions. People were screaming. All around them, DSS agents and PA policemen were dropping. Bennett suddenly felt someone pushing him under Snapshot's chassis. It was McCoy, trying to shield him from the gun battle erupting around them.
A man in a red kaffiyah was sprinting toward them — toward McCoy. He was screaming something in Arabic and firing a 9-mm automatic pistol. McCoy's body blocked most of Bennett's view to the street — but not all of it. He saw McCoy click the safety off her Uzi and spray repeated bursts of return fire. The man dropped to the pavement not far from the open gates. Bennett tried to breathe again. That's when it hit him — he had no weapon.
Suddenly — a flash — a puff of white smoke — then he heard the sizzle.
"RPG," McCoy shouted.
It was too late. From a darkened window across the street, a rocket-propelled grenade streaked across the top of the crowd, through the wrought-iron gates and into the open door of the secretary's limousine. Globe Trotter erupted. The explosion blew out the windows and ripped off the roof. Glass and shrapnel were flying everywhere. Flames and thick black smoke poured from the wreckage.
Bennett saw six more DSS agents incinerated in front of him. He'd have slipped into shock, but everything was happening too fast. More machine-gun fire erupted from windows across the street as McCoy, Mancuso and his assault teams from the Suburbans behind them fought back.
"Black Tower, this is Snapshot. We are now under fire."
"We acknowledge, Snapshot. You need to stand by for a moment and well—"
"Negative, negative. We are taking heavy fire from unknown assailants. Machine-gun fire and RPGs. Sunburn's gone. Globe Trotter's gone. We're taking heavy fire. We need close air support and extraction teams immediately — acknowledge. "
The sky was getting darker. The winds were getting stronger, whipping through the courtyard, fueling the raging fires all around them.
"Snapshot, this is Black Tower. Air support from the Med is a no-go. I repeat—"
"Why not?" Mancuso shouted. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Calm down, Snapshot."
Mancuso let out a string of obscenities.
"Don't tell me to calm down. We're out in the open and you're telling me you guys won't send us air support?"
A deafening crash of thunder shook everyone. Bitter cold driving rains began pelting down on them. Bullets ricocheted off the pavement all around them. Now shots were coming from a smashed open window on the third floor of the PLC administrative building towering over their position. Mancuso ducked closer to the limo and unleashed several bursts toward the windows.
"Rooftop Three, Rooftop Three, this is Snapshot — we're taking sniper fire. Third floor. Window eight. "
"Got it, Snapshot."
A U.S. countersniper agent on an opposite roof pivoted hard, aimed his Remington 700 sniper rifle, and fired twice. The shooter's head exploded. Mancuso, however, had no time for thank-yous. Washington was trying to get his attention again.
"Snapshot, you need to execute Alpha Bravo."
"Negative, negative. You don't understand. We're pinned down. Taking sniper fire. We cannot move. "
'Snapshot, listen to me—listen. There's nothing we can do right now. Nothing. The storms over you right now are even worse out in the Med. Flight ops onboard the Reagan and the Roosevelt are completely shut down. They can't risk sending in birds right now. You guys are going to have to shoot your way out of this thing until we can get you some help. I'm sorry."
CRACK, CRACK, CRACK.
The shots echoed through the courtyard. Mancuso instinctively looked up to the roof — only to see Rooftop Three falling through the air and smashing onto the pavement. He cursed and threw the phone back into the car in disgust. How exactly was he supposed to get Bennett, Galishnikov, and Sa'id to safety? How was he supposed to get his own men out?