"What the hell do you want me to do?" Thompson raised his voice, then paused, and, with a calculated breath, returned to the measured drone of a bureaucrat. "Our emergency plans call for falling back to this position and waiting for rescue."
"Those plans went into effect before Tehran. We're sitting ducks in a big steel pot and the water's gonna boil. We need to go on the offensive before they're entrenched. Hold the building or at least-"
A marine wearing a duty uniform and carrying a shotgun interrupted. "Sir, I have a man pinned down at Post-2. They're prying the grilles off the cafeteria windows and squeezing through. They're crawling all over the compound. Sir, permission to use force?"
"Only Ambassador Hummel or DCM King can authorize force," Thompson said.
"That's bullshit," the congressman said.
Thompson pointed at Rack. "You shut the door." He continued, "Gary, has anybody found Hummel or King?"
"They went home for lunch right before the fun started. The diplomats in the other room have them on the phone. You know Hummel. He'll never authorize it-and it would take too long to try."
"Sir," the marine said. "It's Sergeant Molson trapped down there-the one whose wife just had twins."
"Bernie, you can't work for two agencies at once," Stella said. "You gonna let the diplomat's caution rub off and tarnish the operative in you?"
Thompson pursed his lips and squinted an evil eye. At that moment, she knew he hated her. He said, "I've got a Dragunov in the Agency's private collection. Take it and do whatever you need to do-quietly."
"Your best resource management would be to get me and the Dragun into a little fresh air on the roof," Stella said.
"Jesus, you can't snipe from the roof of a U.S. embassy."
"The rifle doesn't exist. I don't exist. I don't see the problem."
"Will you help Molson or not?"
"Whoa." Rack held up his hand. It was twice the size of Stella's. "Are you out of your mind sending this girl to do a man's job? Give me the rifle."
Stella's face grew warm. "You ever fire one of these, Congressman?"
"You don't need a trained sniper to take out rioters at thirty yards."
"You need someone who knows what she's doing to tame a Dragun indoors," Stella said.
Thompson opened a locker and removed a sleek, black case. Stella reached out for it. So did Rack.
"Sorry, Congressman." He handed it to Stella. "She's the man for the job. But no one will stop you from checking the hall to make sure it's clear before she goes out." He passed a smoke grenade and gas mask to her.
Stella turned toward the marine. "You have a flak jacket?"
"Not here, ma'am."
"Can you get me radio contact with the sergeant?" "No, ma'am. He's on a land line."
"Tell him to use tear gas when I signal him, then run like hell to the vault." "What's the signal?" "He'll know." As soon as I do.
Stella snatched up a large rubber band from atop a file cabinet. Rack eyed her as she pulled her shoulder-length hair away from her face and into a ponytail. She missed some, allowing a few wisps to frame her face. Now the girl was ready for the man's job.
Khan scraped his arm as he climbed the mulberry tree. The crowd was magnificent, topping ten thousand, and he could see three more buses down the street. They had only imagined stirring up fervor for the Islamic revolution; no one had thought as far as occupying the embassy like their Shia brothers in Tehran. Today's protest was a single event, but if they could leverage it with hostages, they could steal the show from the misguided Aya-tollah Khomeini and energize their brothers around the world with their message. The Iranians had seized the embassy with a mere five hundred. They were many times this size and growing. It was regrettable that his students were so disorganized, but Khan was certain he could change that.
Rack stepped from the vault first, a shotgun pressed against his shoulder and said, "Clear!"
Stella slipped past him and set the rifle case and a shotgun on the linoleum floor. "Thanks, Congressman. You can go back inside now."
Rack didn't budge. She guessed he was waiting for a glimpse at the gorgeous weapon. She flipped open the latches. "Okay, Congressman. She's a beauty, but it's time for you to move on."
"I'm not going anywhere until that boy's safe."
She slammed the case shut. "Follow my lead and stay the hell out of my way." She opened the nearest office door and stashed the sniper rifle behind a coatrack, covering it with a sweater.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
Stella held the gas mask with two hands and smoothed out the face piece with both thumbs, opening it to its fullest extent. She seated her chin into the chin pocket, pushed it against her face, pulled the harness over her head and felt for the center patch. Satisfied, she pulled it off and placed the straps over the front of the lens.
Rack adjusted his own mask. He knows what he's doing.
She dumped the contents from her purse and stuffed the grenade and half-mask inside. She picked up the shotgun.
"What was all of that Dragun-taming BS back in there?" Rack asked.
"Only a fool would choose a Dragunov over a shotgun for close-quarter combat." She sprinted toward the stairwell, a long lock of hair dancing against her cheek. "A Dragun is meant to have a good wind at its back and sunlight streaming toward her. She's like a wild bird. You don't cage her."
Stella reached the bottom of the stairway, glanced up at the security camera and then peeked through the fire door's small rectangular window. Five men were in the hall, two carried Enfields, a rotten choice to clear rooms. An older man was going door to door, looking for unlocked rooms. He turned a doorknob and signaled the riflemen into position. One of the Arabs kicked the door open with a kung fu thrust. The group rushed into the office. One remained behind, aiming the rifle down the empty hall.
Rack whispered to Stella, "We can take them all out."
"It's not right. They're students."
"They've got guns and fingers on the triggers." Rack raised his shotgun.
Stella put her hand on the barrel of Rack's gun and pushed it down. "They don't have a clue what they're doing."
Just as she turned toward the security camera, movement caught her eye. She jerked her head back to the window. Two women marched from an office, followed by three armed men. One wore traditional Islamic dress; the other sported Farrah Fawcett hair and a short skirt.
The first American hostage.
"Damn!" Stella whispered. The throbbing of her heart seemed to shake her entire body. She recalled her father's training. Paint the picture you want them to see. Stella took out the smoke grenade, pulled the pin and dropped it on the stairwell floor. "Your mask. Now."
"You crazy?" Rack pulled the respirator over his face.
After a few seconds' delay, the grenade spewed white smoke. Stella looked again at the security camera, extended both arms parallel to the floor and pumped her fists toward her ear three times, as if flexing her biceps. She prayed Sergeant Molson was monitoring and caught the military's visual signal for gas.
Smoke filled the stairwell. "Fire!" Stella shouted in Urdu, then thrust her chin into the mask, seated it and exhaled. Careful to stay clear of the burning phosphorous, she opened the door and held it long enough for a cloud to billow out. Like a skilled cricket player, she grasped the gun by its barrel and knocked the white-hot grenade into the hall with the butt. She glided across the corridor and yanked down hard on the fire alarm. An ear-piercing ring filled the hall. She winced.