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their heads, all combined to create a terrifying, nightmare image. The SEALs looked like invaders from some other, darker world.
    As Ellsworth covered the plane’s occupants, Roselli ran a quick count. There were fifteen UN inspectors aboard, plus the four-man crew of the Hercules. Nineteen for nineteen, and no ringers hiding among the hostages.
    â€œDid any Iraqis come aboard?” Roselli asked the inspection team leader.
    â€œN-no, sir! They gave us until dawn to surrender the records.”
    â€œLooks like we came just in the nick then,” Ellsworth said, teeth showing very white against his black-painted face.
    â€œCargo deck clear!” Roselli called over the radio. “Hotels secure!”
    Hotels meant hostages. Had there been bad guys on the plane the SEALs would have had to tie the hands of everyone aboard with plastic restraints and clear them one by one, but that wasn’t necessary now. MacKenzie appeared a second later. “Flight deck’s clear. Regular cakewalk.” He touched his Motorola’s transmit key. “Alfa, Bravo!” he called. “Stage two clear, negative tangos. We have the package! No damage!”

0239 hours (Zulu +3) Shuaba runway, Iraq
    â€œWe have the package! No damage!”
    Cotter heard those welcome words over the tactical channel and loosed a pent-up sigh of relief. The code phrase meant that all of the UN people were safe, the first half of the mission successfully accomplished.
    Which left only the getaway.
    â€œAlfa, this is Charlie!” That was Nicholson, one of the two Gold Squad men sent to take down the guards at the roadblock. “Clear! Four tangos down!”
    That left one element of the assault still unspoken for. Delta, consisting of the rest of Gold Squad—DeWitt, Wilson, Fernandez, Holt, and Kosciuszko—had been assigned the daunting task of clearing the airport terminal facility, together with the attached air traffic control building that glowered over the parked Hercules like a prison guard tower.
    â€œDelta, this is Alfa. Report.”
    For answer, there was only a series of clicks, a signal that element Delta was busy right now.

0242 hours (Zulu +3) Shuaba control tower, Iraq
    Electrician’s Mate Second Class Charles Wilson, “Chucker” to his squad mates, braced himself on one side of the door, while Chief Kosciuszko took the other. This was the deadliest part of clearing a building, going through a closed door with no idea what was waiting for you on the other side. Reconnaissance by grenade was the preferred room-clearing technique, but the assault so far had been carried out in near-perfect silence, and the longer the SEAL assault team let the neighbors sleep, the better.
    So Kos nodded to Chucker, and Chucker nodded back. The chief took a step back, kicked at the flimsy, hollow-core door, and smashed it open. In a smooth roll around the door frame, Wilson burst into the room, his H&K held high, tight, and ready.
    Nothing. Several beds, one of which looked as if it had been slept in recently.
    Neither man wore NVGs. Even low-light gear requires some light to work, and it had been decided before the mission that individual IR goggles, which “saw” heat instead of visible light, were too heavy to make bringing them along as well worthwhile. Instead, both men had flashlights taped underneath the heavy, sound-suppressor barrels of their MP5SD3s; they provided both light for searching darkened rooms, and a quick-and-dirty aim-assist device in a close-quarters firefight.
    Chucker crouched to one side of the door, H&K still at the ready, as Kos rolled in and began searching the room. They moved swiftly and with few words. “Clear,” Kosciuszko said, and withdrew from the room. Chucker noticed a closed door and tried the knob. Locked. He put his shoulder to it and the cheap lock gave easily. Inside, his flashlight revealed a tumble-down of empty cardboard boxes, a mop and a wheeled,