His parabolic dish picked up sound, threw it to the satellite and bounced it back through transmitters into his earpiece. The roar of the crowd. A declaration in Arabic.
He tried to tell himself they wouldn't carry out the barbaric punishment. Many governments in the region had outlawed the practice.
This wasn't a government.
The need to charge ahead built. Surged. Pressed. He could all but feel her presence somewhere in
that crowd. So damned close. Not close enough. "Plan of action?"
"Hold steady," the Colonel commanded quietly. "Direct action is not called for."
Like hell. Quitting was not an option. Blake exploded from his low pit and scrambled forward before he finished forming the intent.
Weight tackled his back. Two hundred and thirty pounds of Carlos sandwiched him against the hard-caked sand.
"Oof." Blake reached behind him, twisted a fistful of ghillie suit. "Get the hell off me!"
Voices bombarded through his headset from around him.
"Pin him."
"Contain him. Now."
"Gardner, no direct action. That is an order."
"Screw your goddamn orders!" The hoarse response ripped through Blake's throat. "I'm going in."
"Gardner?" Korba's voice cut through the chaos. "Man, I know where you are right now but don't blow this. Think! It's probably not her. And there's nothing you can do. Nothing."
Nothing? Then he'd die trying before he risked anything happening to Sydney. He punched, bucked, adrenaline giving him the edge to reverse position to his back, staring up at Carlos.
His swim buddy's forearm slammed down against his throat. "Don't make me knock you out. Listen to the Major."
Sweat trickled along the streaked face above, dripped down. Splatted on him.
"No matter who that is," Korba continued, "there's not a damned thing you can do. You're too far out. You'll just get yourself killed. Your buddy, too. Do you hear me? And if it's not her, you'll have killed her by going in. If it is her, there's nothing you can do. The other hostages will die and no one will pay because with advance warning, they'll scatter before we can get there. We gotta make them pay and keep them from doing this to anyone else."
Slowly, reason trickled through his rage one drop at a time like the sweat streaming off Carlos's face. Blake forced his tensed muscles to ease. Even as his breathing regulated, his vision narrowed, returning him to the caves of Afghanistan. The bowels of Baghdad. No light at the end of the tunnel. Just cobwebs and a goal.
Make them pay. His rules. His game. Quitting was not an option.
Time to quit for the day, except Monica couldn't shake nerves enough to sleep.
Walking the halls likely wouldn't help, but at least she might eventually exhaust herself. She would rather talk to Jack, sink into one of his foot rubs while she tried to figure out what set him so on edge. They hadn't shared a moment alone since his flight last night, and now he was finishing up his shift in the command center.
Her feet carried her down the stairs to the first floor. Given the low hum of music swelling from the end of the corridor, apparently someone else couldn't sleep, either. Their schedules were all turned around with the time change compounded by night flights.
She followed the music, rock songs, tunes about fifteen years younger than her thirty-four years, but a welcome slice of America so far from home. Maybe that was the reason portable CD players seemed to be standard issue for soldiers these days with more time spent overseas on cots than in their own beds.
Rounding a corner, she moved closer to the luggage return terminal housing the Rangers. The music increased until it boomed to party level.
What should have seemed incongruous with the gravity of their mission somehow felt right. Life asserting itself as the boys let off steam. Like with Crusty's calls home to his family.
Sydney of all people would approve. No matter how down things got at home growing up, Sydney always smiled, danced through mud puddles, insisted everything would work out so why waste life worrying. Please God, don't let this place have crushed that out of her.
In honor of her sister, Monica walked forward as if being a little like Sydney tonight might bolster her sister somewhere else.
The open archway revealed the high-ceilinged room pulsing with noise. Santuci perched on the luggage return belt, using it like a disc jockey dais. A small boom box rigged into the ancient, crackling P.A. system blasted Foo Fighters. Stripped down to only his BDU pants and a concert T-shirt, Santuci was jotting requests on a notepad.