SEAL Team Six: Hunt the Fox by Don Mann, Ralph Pezzullo Page A
Authors: Don Mann, Ralph Pezzullo
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lavender-spacesuit-clad kittens did a slow pirouette and broke into song, an off-key Turkish version of “The Impossible Dream” from Man of La Mancha .
Colonel Oz applauded and started to laugh. He rose halfway to his feet as though he was about to say something when a massive explosion blew the glass out of the cafeteria window, threw him back against the wall, and lifted the others out of their seats. Glass flew everywhere. Chunks of plaster from the ceiling crashed onto the table. Eggs, tea, and coffee spilled onto the floor.
Crocker found himself on the floor gasping for breath. He brushed the dust away from his eyes and mouth, and did a lightning-fast appraisal of the damage. When he saw that the ceiling wasn’t going to cave in, he hurried over to Oz, who lay near the wall holding his chest and coughing.
“What the fuck was that
?
” Akil shouted through the dust and debris.
“Car bomb, probably,” Mancini responded, picking a sliver of glass out of his thigh. “The explosion originated to our left.”
Men were scrambling, moaning, and coughing. Some crawled under the table.
Crocker, his eardrums ringing, shouted, “Clear everyone to the courtyard in back!”
He heard no gunfire or sounds of a follow-up attack.
With Oz leaning on him and wheezing, he turned to him and said, “We’re going outside to get fresh air and find out what’s going on.”
Oz nodded.
Mr. Asani, who was bleeding from a cut to his forehead, took Oz by the arm and led him out while Crocker accounted for his men. Except for a few minor cuts, they were all intact.
The courtyard, which occupied the space between the military headquarters building and barracks, quickly filled with half-dressed soldiers carrying AKMs (modernized Kalashnikovs) and Spanish-made G3 7.62x51mm NATO assault rifles. MiT officials in black were barking orders into handheld radios and cell phones, and medics were ministering to the wounded. Nobody appeared to be seriously hurt.
“The bomb went off in front of Turkish police headquarters down the street,” Asani reported. “From what I hear, the whole front of the building collapsed.”
Crocker knew that meant casualties and wounded. “You wait here,” he said, turning to Mancini. “I’m going to see if I can help.”
Akil chimed in, “I’m coming with you.”
With a borrowed medical kit and two Sarsilmaz Kilinç 2000 semiautomatic 9mm pistols, he and Akil hurried left along the main street.
As he ran, the thick, stomach-turning smell of Ritchie lying on the ground hit Crocker again. His throat turned dry and he started to feel sick. Leaning on the hood of a parked truck, he felt the muscles in his abdomen convulsing and he threw up.
“Go back, boss,” Akil said. “I can handle this.”
“No, I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not. Wait here. I’ll get you some water.”
“Screw that.”
Three short blocks later they reached the Turkish police building. Pushing through the throng of onlookers and stepping around the six-foot-deep crater and smoking ruin of what was left of the truck that had carried the bomb, they confronted the pancaked façade of a modern six-story building.
“Holy shit!” Akil exclaimed.
Crocker had seen too many scenes like this.
The sickening smell of ammonium and burning plastic lingered in the air—a telltale sign of an ammonium nitrate car bomb. Half-dressed Turkish firefighters were trying to extinguish a furious blaze on the third floor. Scattered around them lay bodies, parts of bodies, the twisted remains of furniture, glass, and rubble. People trapped in the building called for help.
“What do we do now?” Akil asked.
“Follow me,” Crocker said, crossing to a passageway along the far side of the building where rescue workers in blue-and-red helmets were carrying out people on stretchers. The heat and dust were oppressively thick. Pushing forward, they climbed through the rubble to the back. All the windows there had been blown out, and although
Colonel Oz applauded and started to laugh. He rose halfway to his feet as though he was about to say something when a massive explosion blew the glass out of the cafeteria window, threw him back against the wall, and lifted the others out of their seats. Glass flew everywhere. Chunks of plaster from the ceiling crashed onto the table. Eggs, tea, and coffee spilled onto the floor.
Crocker found himself on the floor gasping for breath. He brushed the dust away from his eyes and mouth, and did a lightning-fast appraisal of the damage. When he saw that the ceiling wasn’t going to cave in, he hurried over to Oz, who lay near the wall holding his chest and coughing.
“What the fuck was that
?
” Akil shouted through the dust and debris.
“Car bomb, probably,” Mancini responded, picking a sliver of glass out of his thigh. “The explosion originated to our left.”
Men were scrambling, moaning, and coughing. Some crawled under the table.
Crocker, his eardrums ringing, shouted, “Clear everyone to the courtyard in back!”
He heard no gunfire or sounds of a follow-up attack.
With Oz leaning on him and wheezing, he turned to him and said, “We’re going outside to get fresh air and find out what’s going on.”
Oz nodded.
Mr. Asani, who was bleeding from a cut to his forehead, took Oz by the arm and led him out while Crocker accounted for his men. Except for a few minor cuts, they were all intact.
The courtyard, which occupied the space between the military headquarters building and barracks, quickly filled with half-dressed soldiers carrying AKMs (modernized Kalashnikovs) and Spanish-made G3 7.62x51mm NATO assault rifles. MiT officials in black were barking orders into handheld radios and cell phones, and medics were ministering to the wounded. Nobody appeared to be seriously hurt.
“The bomb went off in front of Turkish police headquarters down the street,” Asani reported. “From what I hear, the whole front of the building collapsed.”
Crocker knew that meant casualties and wounded. “You wait here,” he said, turning to Mancini. “I’m going to see if I can help.”
Akil chimed in, “I’m coming with you.”
With a borrowed medical kit and two Sarsilmaz Kilinç 2000 semiautomatic 9mm pistols, he and Akil hurried left along the main street.
As he ran, the thick, stomach-turning smell of Ritchie lying on the ground hit Crocker again. His throat turned dry and he started to feel sick. Leaning on the hood of a parked truck, he felt the muscles in his abdomen convulsing and he threw up.
“Go back, boss,” Akil said. “I can handle this.”
“No, I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not. Wait here. I’ll get you some water.”
“Screw that.”
Three short blocks later they reached the Turkish police building. Pushing through the throng of onlookers and stepping around the six-foot-deep crater and smoking ruin of what was left of the truck that had carried the bomb, they confronted the pancaked façade of a modern six-story building.
“Holy shit!” Akil exclaimed.
Crocker had seen too many scenes like this.
The sickening smell of ammonium and burning plastic lingered in the air—a telltale sign of an ammonium nitrate car bomb. Half-dressed Turkish firefighters were trying to extinguish a furious blaze on the third floor. Scattered around them lay bodies, parts of bodies, the twisted remains of furniture, glass, and rubble. People trapped in the building called for help.
“What do we do now?” Akil asked.
“Follow me,” Crocker said, crossing to a passageway along the far side of the building where rescue workers in blue-and-red helmets were carrying out people on stretchers. The heat and dust were oppressively thick. Pushing forward, they climbed through the rubble to the back. All the windows there had been blown out, and although
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