"Let's move it, Razor," MacKenzie said, using Roselli's squad handle. "Up the ladder! Go! Go! Go!"

"Right, 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.

"What the hell's going' on?" someone yelled in English. He was answered by an excited voice in French, then by someone else speaking what might have been Swedish.

"Everybody 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?"

"Please 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 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.

"Did any Iraqis come aboard?" Roselli asked the inspection team leader.

"N-no, Sir! They gave us until dawn to surrender the records."

"Looks like we came just in the nick then," Ellsworth said, teeth showing very white against his black-painted face.

"Cargo 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

"We 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.

"Alfa, 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. "Delta, 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, metal bucket, piles of rags and cleaning supplies.

"Chucker!" sounded over his radio. "Move! Move!" Kos sounded worried. Time for the search was sharply limited.

"On my way."

"Kos, this is Rattler." That was Fernandez. "We're in traffic control. Negative, negative. No hostiles."