Peering down into the room through the overhead grating, Hans felt his
palms grow sweaty. This was the moment he always hated. Even after all
his years with the assault squads, Spezialen-satztrupp, in GSG-9, he
had never gotten over this moment of soul-searching panic.
Twenty seconds.
He glanced up from his watch, then tested the rope he and Marcel would
use to rappel down into the room. Finally he adjusted the hood of his
balaclava one last time in an attempt to quell his nerves. It never
worked, of course, and it wasn't working now. Still, he always did it.
More helpful was checking the clip on his MP5. He had a spare taped to
the one now loaded, making it possible to just flip them over. A third
was taped to his wrist. It should be enough. Ten seconds.
That was the moment--it always happened--when he felt his mouth go dry.
Bone dry.