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the same could be said of Third Platoon, SEAL Seven. And the SEALs were very good at what they did, better, he thought with a natural and unassuming arrogance, than anyone else in the world.
    â€œLet’s move it, Razor,” MacKenzie said, using Roselli’s squad handle. “Up the ladder! Go! Go! Go!”
    â€œRight, Big Mac.” Slapping a fresh magazine into his H&K, Roselli braced himself, then sprinted for the boarding ladder at the side of the Hercules. It was dark—the searchlights aimed at the Herky Bird were gone now, courtesy of Magic Brown—and he’d slid his NVGs up on his head so that he wouldn’t lose his peripheral vision in combat. He nearly fell headlong when he stumbled across the body of the Iraqi lying on the stairs, but then he was past and climbing, with Doc and Mac at intervals behind him, and Boomer mounting guard at the bottom with his 203 grenade launcher. The C-130’s crew-access door was closed, but Roselli had the T-shaped key that opened it. Slamming the heavy door back on its mount, he paused outside to see if anyone was going to react to his arrival with gunfire, then lunged through and into the interior.
    Aboard the C-130 Hercules, the forward, port-side access opens onto a fore-and-aft passageway on the aircraft’s port side. To the right, the passageway leads straight aft to the aircraft’s cavernous cargo deck; to the left, it goes forward a few steps, then takes a sharp twist to the right and up several steep steps to the flight deck.
    Roselli turned right, then went prone, MP5 at the ready and extending into the plane’s hold. Behind him, Mac went left to clear the flight deck. Doc followed Roselli to help secure the hold.
    On the cargo deck the only light came from a couple of battle lanterns hanging from the starboard bulkhead. In their pasty glare, Roselli could see a number of men milling about in confusion, some already on their feet, others just rising from blankets or sleeping bags scattered about the deck. Some wore civilian clothing, others military fatigues, though all had the blue armband of the UN. There were a couple of Land Rovers parked aft in front of the tail ramp, piled high with cardboard cartons.
    Hours of practice in SEAL Team killing houses had trained Roselli to take in a room at a glance, separating the bad guys from the good in an instant. No one visible in that crowd was holding a weapon, though some wore pistol holsters. None had the look of focus or concentration that suggested he was carrying out some prearranged plan. To a man, they looked frightened, confused, and a more than a little dazed.
    â€œWhat the hell’s goin’ on?” someone yelled in English. He was answered by an excited voice in French, then by someone else speaking what might have been Swedish.
    â€œEverybody down!” Roselli bellowed, hoping the tone of his voice would carry the meaning to those who didn’t speak English. “We are American Special Forces! Everybody down!” The babble of voices increased, and Roselli shouted again, his voice echoing in the hollow compartment. “American Special Forces! Everybody down!”
    A big, blond man wearing a uniform and a blue beret approached, hands raised. “You are . . . Americans?”
    â€œPlease get down, sir,” Roselli replied crisply, still on the deck, his MP5 unwavering. “I don’t want to have to shoot you. Now!”
    The man complied, and he barked an order at the others as he did so. In a few moments, everyone was lying flat on the deck. In moments more, the C-130 was secure. The UN inspectors looked terrified, and as Ellsworth moved past him to start checking the rest of the hold, Roselli could certainly understand why. The black fatigues and combat vests, heavy with pouches, grenades, magazines, and equipment; the faces painted black with only the eyes and lips showing through the greasepaint; the commo gear and NVGs pushed back on