Dressed in blue jeans and a black T-shirt, Bennett was on his stomach, on the floor — the only place he could breathe — covered in at least a foot of water. McCoy, in navy blue sweatpants and a thick gray fleece, was right behind him, shivering in the ice-cold water pouring out of at least a dozen shattered pipes. But in less than an hour, she figured, that water would be heating toward a boil. She was coming to the same conclusion. They had no choice. They had to keep moving. They could hear men shouting in Arabic, but hadn't seen anyone, dead or alive. Not yet. Not a soul. Where were they all? Had all of the Gaza Station team been killed either in the initial explosions or the gun battles that followed?
Not seeing a single living soul besides themselves was an eerie feeling. All they could see were flames and smoke and the water they were sloshing through. Still, Bennett was actually grateful for the flames — at least they provided some light in this subterranean labyrinth. But the raging electrical fires in the walls and ceilings worried him. It would only take one wire or cable falling into all this water and they'd be electrocuted instantly.
His eyes — bloodshot and stinging something fierce from all the smoke— searched wildly for escape routes. But their options, limited from the beginning, were narrowing fast. Small but rapidly growing fires seemed to block their path to Galishnikov's and Sa'id's room. Now more fires blocked the way back to Ziegler's room, as well. They weren't completely trapped, but it was only a matter of time. The only way out seemed to be forward. But something in Bennett's gut whispered it was a trap, told him to go to the right, through the flames, to Sa'id and Galishnikov, before it was too late.
Flashbacks from his nightmare came like a strobe light. He remembered the gun battle in the control room. He remembered the overwhelming presence of evil he felt, and being trapped in the conference room, where he'd almost died. It was as though sirens were calling him to that control room, luring him forward. Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe he'd woken up to soon. Maybe it wasn't a death trap but a road map he could follow better this time.
Fresh bursts of automatic gunfire — closer, louder, and coming from the main control room in longer bursts — snapped Bennett back to reality. He looked over his shoulder, made sure McCoy was OK, then silently motioned her to follow him down the hallway — now almost completely engulfed in fire — to Tariq's quarters, to Galishnikov and Sa'id. Maybe it was suicide. But there was only one way to find out.
Both phones and his pager went off all at once.
It was well past midnight, but such was the life of a New York Times White House correspondent. Forever electronically tethered to a world that never stopped moving. Marcus Jackson clicked on the light beside his bed and tried to get his bearings. He raced into the bathroom to grab one of the cell phones out of its charger, and just in time.
" You wanted to know about Bennett?' said the voice at the other end.
"Talk to me."
Danny Tracker raced downstairs.
The hastily scribbled note passed to the CIA's deputy director of Operations during a crisis meeting in his office bore only a few words—"GS down… L5… request immediate extract." But the message was devastating. Everything was suddenly at risk. If it were true — if Gaza Station had really been compromised, or worse, was going down in flames — the implications were unthinkable. Losing a $25 million intelligence gathering facility would be bad enough. Losing Bennett and McCoy, plus Ziegler and his team, would be a nightmare. But losing Ibrahim Sa'id, the newly appointed prime minister of Palestine, would be catastrophic. Everything now hinged on him. He needed to be protected and extracted at all costs.
Mitchell wasn't at Langley. He was in an armor-plated SUV, en route from the White House, and his phone was busy. Tracker raced down the stairwell to the Global Operations Center. He tried Mitchell again — still busy. Then he tried Ed Mutschler, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
"Mutschler — go."
"General, it's Danny," shouted Tracker as a guard opened the door to the Global Ops Center and waved him through. "You see what I'm seeing?" "Gaza Station?"
"We've got to go in now, General," said Tracker. "Are your guys ready?" "My guys are always ready. The real question is: are they even still alive?"
THIRTY-THREE
'All set?" Bennett whispered.
McCoy looked down the long hallway at the flames shooting from the electrical wiring in the ceiling. They'd have to get down on the floor on their stomachs in the rapidly rising water, hold their breath, and make a dash for it. It was the only way they knew of to get to Sa'id and Galishnikov, and such as it was, the window was closing fast. Soon the entire hallway would be engulfed in flames.
"You sure about this?" she whispered back, not really expecting an answer.
"No," he conceded. "Not really."
"How do we get back?"
Bennett thought about that for a second.
"I have no idea," he admitted again.
Well, she thought, at least he was being honest.
"All right," said McCoy. "After you."
Bennett nodded, then got down in the water and began to inch his way forward. It was hard to see, and harder to breath. The smoke was getting thicker. The flames were growing longer, threatening to reach down and lap up the water at any moment. McCoy was right behind him, her hand on his back so they wouldn't get separated.
"Ready. Set. Go."
Bennett sucked in a lungful of oxygen, then plunged down into the water and tried to hug the floor, pressing against the walls to keep himself from rising in the water up to the flames just inches above him. Six seconds later, he was through. He came up gasping for air and wiping the sooty water out of his eyes. A few seconds later, McCoy came through as well. She came up like a swimmer, head arched back, wet hair streaming down her back, her Beretta ice cold but still glued to her right hand.
The two were soaked to the bone, shivering and short of breath. But they were together, and they were safe, at least for — a massive explosion shook the hallway. A huge, gaping hole suddenly opened up at the far end of the hallway, about thirty yards ahead of them. Concrete and sheetrock came pouring down into the water. A cloud of dust and smoke began moving toward them. Then three, maybe four men dropped down into the hallway. It was hard to see them clearly. But they were shouting in Arabic and both Bennett and McCoy knew instantly.
"Jon, get down, get down," shouted McCoy, pushing Bennett's body back into the water as automatic weapons fire erupted all around them.
She took aim through the smoke and dust and began firing. The screams were instantaneous, but they came with return fire. Bennett refused to stay down. Flames now completely engulfed the hallway behind him and McCoy. There was no way out.
Hugging the wall, and staying as low to the floor as he could, he raised his head, lifted both .357s and began firing into the haze and flames and smoke ahead of him. He couldn't see faces. Neither could McCoy, only shadows and movement. Bullets were smashing all around him. McCoy ducked to reload. Bennett kept firing — first one trigger, then the other, in rapid succession. Before he realized it, he'd unleashed every round from both clips. He was pulling triggers and hearing nothing but metallic clicks.
McCoy popped back up out of the water, her Beretta reloaded. But suddenly, the gunfire fell silent. No return fire. No shadows. No movement of any kind ahead of them. All was quiet, besides the sloshing of the water around them and more water falling from burst pipes a few dozen yards behind them. Had they killed them all? How many were there? Were there more? Bennett looked over at McCoy, who nodded her agreement. The flames behind them were just a foot or two away. They had to press forward.