Executive Power Part 10

Coleman nodded and shooed him on his way. Keeping his eyes on Wicker he raised his hand above his head and gestured for Hackett and Stroble to join him. If Wicker ran into trouble they needed to be in position to help him out. When the other two were at his side he briefed them on what Wicker was doing and then the three of them moved forward one by one.

They continued up the left side of the small creek to a point where it flattened. The rocks were replaced by a gra.s.sy bank. They moved forward in a crouch, treading lightly and staying close to the drooping branches of the trees. After rounding the next slight jog in the creek Coleman sighted Wicker about forty feet ahead of them kneeling next to a tree. He also, for the first time, heard the voices that had spooked his point man. It sounded like two men talking in hushed tones.

Coleman didn't like this development one bit. As far as islands went, Dinagat wasn't very small. Over thirty miles in length and twelve across, there was only one main road that ran north-south and they weren't anywhere near it. The odds of them accidentally running into a couple of locals at this remote juncture, and this early hour, were minuscule.

Coleman's thoughts drifted to the dark memory of the two SEALs who were lost on the beach not far from where he stood. He'd seen the proof of how that mission had been compromised, but for the life of him he couldn't imagine how this little covert endeavor could have been blown. Rapp had a.s.sured him that the circle of people who were in the know was tiny. And the number of people who knew the exact specifics, such as insertion points and times, was limited to just their war party and the pilots who'd ferried them in.

But still, they weren't alone out here in this jungle and it would be light soon. Coleman watched as Wicker turned toward him with the single lens of his NVGs protruding from his face. Wicker pointed toward his eyes with two fingers and then held three fingers up in the air, telling Coleman that he had three enemies in sight. Wicker then waved him up. Coleman turned to Hackett and Stroble, pointed at them and then held a clenched fist in the air. They both nodded their confirmation and then Coleman moved out.

It took him the better part of a minute to reach Wicker and on the way he noticed the smell of tobacco in the air. This made him feel slightly better. It was improbable that anyone waiting to ambush him and his men would be dumb enough to smoke cigarettes, but then again, Coleman had seen people do a lot of truly stupid things in the field.

When he reached Wicker's position he saw the men standing approximately fifty feet from them. They were on the opposite side of the creek next to what appeared to be a bridge made of fallen trees and stones. Water trickled from under the bridge as the creek dropped several feet into a circular pool of water that meandered its way toward them. A thin mist hung in the air.

Coleman noted the small waterfall and the noise it produced. The trickling sound would help conceal their own approach. The two tangos were carrying AK-47s with their distinctive banana clips, and the third man was carrying a rifle that he couldn't quite make out. The weapons were slung over their shoulders, muzzles pointed down.

Coleman frowned at the stupidity of such a move.

Whoever these three Filipinos were, they weren't very smart, and if they'd ever received any formal military training, they'd already forgotten all the important parts. After watching them for another moment Coleman decided there was no way they were here to spring an ambush. They were more than likely Abu Sayyaf, and the way they were acting suggested they weren't too worried about security. If this was the best the Islamic terrorist group had to offer, the former SEAL Team 6 commander felt pretty good about the odds of the rescue operation succeeding.

There was also the possibility that the men were part of a local militia or workers for one of the island's farms. The intelligence dump he'd received on the island told him that with Abu Sayyaf roaming about, everyone had armed themselves.

SEALs were normally very good at patiently waiting and watching an enemy, but right now Coleman needed to get his team to the top of the mountain that was still a quarter of a mile straight uphill. There were three options. The first, most straightforward, and least desirable option was to kill the three men and get on with their mission. If he knew with any certainty that they were Abu Sayyaf, he'd gladly pull the trigger himself. The downside of that, however, was that they had to come back down the mountain when they were done, and three missing terrorists might bring some unwanted attention to the area.

The easiest course of action was to do nothing. Wait until the men moved on, and then proceed. But time was not a luxury at this point.

They needed to get moving, and they needed to do it fast. That unfortunately meant backtracking a bit and then moving through the jungle to get around the men. Any way he sliced it they were running out of time. Coleman didn't want to admit it yet, but it was looking more and more like they wouldn't be making it to the top of the mountain on time.

Coleman felt Wicker's hand on his bicep. He turned to see the point man walk two fingers in front of his face signaling that more people were approaching. The man's hearing was supernormal. Coleman, who was no novice in the woods, hadn't heard a thing.

Suddenly, the three Filipinos by the bridge threw their cigarettes to the ground and stamped them out with their sandaled feet. One by one they un-shouldered their weapons and tried to look alert. Coleman heard someone speaking Filipino to the men from farther up the trail.

Suddenly, there was another flurry of activity. Two of the men rushed to the other side of the small bridge and took up positions as the fourth man appeared from the jungle. Coleman saw that the man was carrying an M16 and Both he and Wicker ducked behind the tree at the same time.

There was no mistaking the profile of the new man. He had on a pair of night vision goggles. They lay completely still behind the tree listening for the slightest indication that they'd been spotted. After what seemed like an eternity, Coleman peered out from the opposite side of the tree. From his new vantage he could only see one side of the bridge. The man with the goggles was nowhere to be seen. Carefully, he slithered on the ground, backing up at first and then working his way toward the creek.

Once again, with a full view of the bridge, he found the man he was looking for. The man had flipped his NVGs into the up position and was talking in Filipino to the two men on the far side of the bridge. He pointed in the opposite direction from which he'd come and the two men immediately took off down the trail. The man with the M16 then pulled his goggles back down and began scanning the area. Coleman smoothly drew back behind the tree. The wisest thing for them to do right now was to sit tight. It was better to lie still than risk attracting attention.

Running down the list of possibilities, Coleman wondered if their insertion had been noticed and the guerrillas were attempting to set up a picket. If more men arrived and they began working their way down the stream it would be a foregone conclusion. Thinking ahead, the commander began to plot an ambush. If they had to, they could do it on the fly.

Coleman would leave Wicker where he was and the commander and Hackett would collapse to the middle. They'd let the enemy work their way down the stream far enough until they were fully flanked by his position and then they'd unload with Stroble and Wicker working their way from the outside in and he and Hackett the inside out. It would not be difficult for them to take down at least twelve men before a warning shot was fired.

Coleman was about to fall back when he felt Wicker tightly squeeze his arm and not let go. Looking over, Coleman saw that his point man was looking at the bridge from the other side of the tree.

Slowly Coleman peeked out from behind the right side. He blinked twice in disbelief. It took him a moment to process what was happening on the small bridge and another moment to realize that his finger had moved off the guard and onto the thin trigger of his MP-10.

TWENTY TWO.

Coleman watched in disbelief as five Caucasians, two adults and three children, pa.s.sed before him like a dream in the mist, their blond and red hair a stark contrast to the black hair of the armed men who walked with them. They were tied to each other, a sagging link of rope in between each frail, malnourished individual.

The mom in front, two kids in the middle and the dad slowly bringing up the rear carrying the youngest of the brood. They looked ragged and underfed, but alive. The column moved across the bridge and down the trail. A rear guard loitered for a few seconds, then wandered off lazily after the group. And just like that, they were gone.

Coleman, who had just moments before cursed their bad luck, was now rejoicing in their fortune. In the midst of a jungle, in the middle of the Philippines, they had just stumbled across a family of Americans for whom thousands of men and women had been searching. Getting into position to support Rapp's mission was his priority, but this was an opportunity that he might not be able to resist.

Wicker leaned over and whispered in his ear.

"I counted twenty-one plus the family."

Coleman nodded and then pointed for Wicker to move forward and check things out. With his hand cupped over his lip mike he said, "Kevin and Dan, get up here."

A minute later they were gathered near the bridge. The sky was getting lighter by the minute. While Coleman briefed Hackett and Stroble on what they'd seen' Wicker checked out the path to make sure no one was lagging behind or doubling back. When the point man returned Coleman quickly laid out their options. All four men looked to the top of the mountain where they were supposed to be by the time the sun was up, and then looked down the narrow muddy path where the family of kidnapped Americans and their captors had gone.

More than probably any other military outfit, SEALs were taught to think independently in the field, but none of them were prepared for this. They had a mission to fulfill and Coleman wasn't about to leave Rapp to carry on alone, but he sure as h.e.l.l didn't like the idea of losing the Andersons. His loyalty and respect for Rapp and the SEALs who had been abandoned on the beach was unquestionable, but so was the innocence of the American family held against their will for months on end. Strict protocol dictated that he get his team to the top of the hill as quickly as possible and radio in the sighting of the Andersons.

Common sense told him that this accidental sighting of the missing family was too good an opportunity to pa.s.s up.

Satellites and reconnaissance flights were incapable of penetrating the dense cover of the jungle, making any hope of searching for the Andersons by air hopeless. If Coleman radioed in their position it would take a day or more to insert a team. By that time the trail was sure to go cold.

Looking again to the top of the hill and then down the trail, Coleman continued to struggle with what to do. The answer suddenly came to him in the form of a question. What would Rapp do? The answer was obvious. The solution was less than perfect, but under the current situation, the best choice. The former SEAL Team commander gestured for his men to take a knee and then very specifically he laid out a course of action.

TWENTY THREE.

They had traveled north to Ramallah and then to Nablus, changing vehicles in each city. This was standard procedure.

Both cities lay on the West Bank, and despite Israeli control, there were certain enclaves in each that the Jews would not venture into unless they were in an armored column spearheaded by tanks.

David hadn't a clue as to when or where the meeting would take place, only that it would definitely be after dark. Heading north could merely be a diversion before they reversed course, or they might simply meander through one city or the other until they were convinced they weren't being followed and then stop at the appointed place.

As darkness began to fall they pulled into a parking ramp. David was swiftly ushered from the yellow Palestinian taxi he'd been riding in to a white Israeli taxi parked next to it. David was asked to lie down on the backseat and a blanket was placed over him. The transfer complete, they sped from the ramp and began winding their way through the streets of Nablus.

Approximately twenty minutes later they stopped. The blanket was pulled from David and once again he was told to get out of the car.

For a second time he found himself standing in a dimly lit concrete parking garage. He hadn't the slightest idea where he was other than somewhere on the West Bank.

Across the aisle, three men were standing by the trunk of a car smoking cigarettes. Two of them had machine guns slung over their shoulders and the third one David recognized instantly. His name was Ha.s.san Rashid. He worked for Palestinian General Intelligence, which was the official intelligence organization of the Palestinian Authority.

The agency was supposed to help combat terrorism, and work toward a lasting stable relationship with Israel, but as with everything connected to the PLO it was rotten to the core.

Ha.s.san Rashid was a street thug who had been a disciple of Ya.s.ser Arafat's since childhood. He'd grown up in Nablus and became very active during the first Intifada of 1987, but not in the way one would expect. As the conflict grew more violent Arafat saw an opportunity to consolidate his power, and he broke with the Palestinian extremist groups by calling for a Palestinian state to coexist alongside Israel.

This was Arafat's first real gambit to gain respect from the international community. It presented a real risk, however, since it was outright blasphemy for an Arab to want anything other than the complete destruction of the Jewish state. Because of Arafat's bold move the various groups under the loosely allied Palestinian United National Command splintered. Islamic Jihad and Hamas turned on Arafat and the blood began to flow. Rashid, who had one real talent in life, helped protect the PLO's standing in Nablus by brutalizing any and all Islamic extremists who stood against Arafat.

It took great effort on David's part to conceal his hatred for the man. As he stood with his two attache cases, he watched Rashid flick his cigarette through the air. It hit the ground and cart wheeled toward him, the burning tip breaking apart and showering his feet with red sparks. David looked up slowly from his shoes. Rashid was looking back with a smug look on his scarred face. His longish hooked nose was pulled farther to the side by the lopsided smirk on his lips.

"Well, pretty one, what have you brought for us this evening?"

David decided not to reply. He had risen to untouchable heights, and if Rashid persisted in his schoolyard bullying, he would have to remind him of his place.

Rashid started toward him.

"Come now, you're still not mad at me after all these years?"

"No," David feigned sincerity, "I love you like a brother."

"Oh, come now, pretty one. We all know you liked it."

"Oh, I loved it. In fact, maybe we could get together sometime and I'll shove a cattle prod up your a.n.u.s. Knowing your affinity for little boys, I'm amazed you haven't already tried it. "As David said this he saw the smile vanish from Rashid's face.

The man raised his right fist, and from two steps away began to let loose an emotional roundhouse punch. Taking David for an easy, defenseless target, he put little thought into his technique or balance.

Most of the punches that Rashid had thrown in recent years had been at men tied to a chair or strung up. His street-fighting skills were not what they once were, so when his target made a swift side step, his wild punch missed its mark with such force that it spun him around.

David was done taking c.r.a.p from the man who had plucked him from the street as a young teenager and tortured him for having too many Jewish friends. It had been twenty years since somebody had told the PLO that Jabril Khatabi was a sympathizer and they had dispatched Rashid, the street thug, to teach him a lesson. Now David was ready to repay the man who had destroyed his youth.

With a quick side step, he had avoided the punch, watching it sail past his face. Setting himself into a quick 360-degree spin, he kept the case in his left hand low and brought up the case in his right hand. He completed the spin just as an angry Rashid squared himself for another charge. The bottom corner of the hard black attache case hit with a bone-splitting crack that smashed the man's nose and sent Rashid careening off his feet and into the trunk of a parked car.

The WALL WAS AGLOW with screens relaying images shot from all around the West Bank and even a few taken from outer s.p.a.ce. Ben Freidman was filled with antic.i.p.ation. He had forced himself to use great restraint in deploying his a.s.sets. A deft hand would be needed to strike the blow he intended. Tonight he would avenge the deaths of hundreds of innocent Israelis. The Palestinians that Khatabi was going to meet were the masterminds behind the wave of suicide bombings that had rocked his country and crippled the Israeli economy.

Under Freidman's orders Mossad technicians had placed a highly sophisticated device in each case. In essence they were homing beacons connected to a GPS device and a timed burst transmitter. Every five minutes the devices turned themselves on for six seconds. The GPS recorded the position of the cases to within two meters and then the burst transmitter sent an encrypted message to a satellite in geosynchronous...o...b..t. The devices then powered off so they wouldn't be picked up by an electronic countermeasure.

Freidman understood better than anyone the draconian measures his enemy employed to keep their activities secret. He, in fact, was the reason for much of their paranoia. He had hunted and killed them in such a wild variety of ways that it had now been several years since he had gotten anyone close enough to take real action against them.

The director general of Mossad had significant experience in the arena of a.s.sa.s.sination. In 1972, when eleven Israeli athletes were taken hostage during the Munich Olympics by the Palestinian group Black September, Ben Freidman had been there. He had stood at the side of his mentor, legendary Mossad Director General Zvi Zamir, while the German police bungled a rescue operation that resulted in the deaths of all the Israeli hostages.

To add insult to injury, the two surviving terrorists were later released by the German authorities for fear of reprisals. Israel had nowhere to turn for justice, so they looked to Mossad. It was Zamir who had convinced then Prime Minister Golda Meir that they must seek vengeance. Meir agreed and directed Zamir to hunt down the masterminds behind Black September and eliminate them. Over the next nine months the blood flowed and Ben Freidman proved himself to be one of Mossad's most efficient a.s.sa.s.sins.

His first hit was barely a month after the ma.s.sacre of the Olympic athletes. Mossad wanted to send a signal to everyone, and their first target was Wael Zwaiter, a PLO representative in Rome. On October 16 Freidman approached Zwaiter from behind while the man was on a walk and put two bullets into the back of his head.

Two months later Freidman was part of a team that killed Mahoud Hamshari by placing a bomb in the phone of his Paris apartment.

The device was detonated by remote control and the PLO representative was decapitated. Blood continued to flow and Freidman's Crowning achievement came on April 13, 1973.

He was part of a select force of Mossad agents and army commandos that launched a raid into the heart of Beirut. The targets that night were three of the PLO's most senior officials. Muhammad Naj-jar, Kamal Adwan and Kamal Na.s.ser were all gunned down in their homes. The success of the operation had implications far beyond the deaths of the three leaders. Information seized during the raids led to the a.s.sa.s.sination of three more terrorists with ties to Black September.

The victory, however, was short-lived.

Just two months later Mossad was to suffer its most embarra.s.sing public moment. The disaster occurred in the sleepy Norwegian ski village of Lillehammer. A team of Mossad agents were sent to investigate a possible sighting of the terrorist AH Ha.s.san Salameh. The inexperienced group incorrectly identified the target and then proceeded to kill Ahmed Bouchiki, a Moroccan waiter. If that wasn't bad enough, six of the team members were subsequently captured while trying to escape. The men and women were put on trial and five of the six were jailed. The international outcry was deafening, and Mossad was officially ordered to get out of the a.s.sa.s.sination business.

Fortunately for Ben Freidman, he had not been involved in the Lillehammer incident, for if he had, it would have marked the end of his career. Instead, the disaster in Norway served to remind him, and many others, that they needed to hone their skills further and redouble their efforts in their covert war against the Arab aggressors.

Despite the official ban on a.s.sa.s.sination, Freidman and his group of kidons continued to hunt the terrorists that plagued his country. His Crowning achievement came when one of his kidons infiltrated Hamas. One of the group's leaders, and bomb engineers, had been a particularly nasty thorn in the side of Israel for some time. His name was Yehya Ayyash. The Israeli a.s.sa.s.sin took a phone call for Ayyash on a phone that had been modified by the technicians back at Mossad. He then handed the phone to the Hamas leader and walked away. Seconds later a tiny charge of C-4 exploded, blowing a hole in the side of the terrorist's head and killing him.

Tonight the stakes were much higher. Ayyash had been but one terrorist, whereas this evening there "would be many. Others would be sure to sprout up and take their place if he were successful, but it would take the enemy years to recover from such a blow. Hopefully by then, all Palestinians would be expelled from the occupied territories and a long tall wall would be built once and for all separating the two tribes.

And then they could turn on each other. This Jabril Khatabi was a good example of what they were capable of. Freidman had no doubt that if they ever got to the point when they no longer had Israel to blame they would simply self-destruct.

Freidman's thoughts were interrupted by the voice of one of his people.

"It looks like he's changed cars again."

The director general looked up at the wall of screens. On the left were twelve TVs, six high by two wide. In the middle were four large screens that measured four by six feet each and on the right there were again twelve TVs. On one of the big screens a red laser dot marked the roof of a white sedan that was moving through traffic. One by one screens flickered as they were changed from one camera vantage to another.

The advanced surveillance room wasn't all that different than a news control room. Right now the surveillance team's director and his two a.s.sistants were busy changing camera angles. At their disposal was an amazing array of surveillance equipment. Two satellites, over a thousand traffic and security cameras from all over the country, a specially equipped surveillance airplane circling the area at fifteen thousand feet, and several helicopters were about to join the fray just as soon as the sun slid over the long expanse of the Mediterranean.

Freidman watched and listened as his people worked computer consoles and joysticks, carefully directing teams in the field to attempt a visual confirmation that their man was still in the car. Freidman leaned forward into the glow of the screens and cautioned his people not to push too hard. The attache cases were the key. He had to take Jabril at his word; that he wanted these men dead every bit as much as Freidman did. If he was right, Jabril would do everything in his power to prevent the money from being transferred to a bag or some other case.

TWENTY FOUR.

Rapp jerked open the helicopter door and stepped to the ground. He scanned the perimeter of the landing area looking for the general, even though he doubted the officer would be so polite as to meet his visitors as they landed. Colonel Barboza joined him and they walked underneath the spinning rotors of the Huey.

At the edge of the landing area the two men were greeted by an eager lieutenant dressed in BDUs, jungle boots and a black Special Forces beret. He saluted Colonel Barboza crisply and introduced himself as General Moro's aide-de-camp. With that brief introduction out of the way, the man did an about-face and led them down a path. The place was a standard military field camp. Located in a gra.s.sy clearing about the size of two football fields, it consisted of two rows of big green tents set atop wooden pallets.

From the satellite photos he'd studied, Rapp knew what each of the sixteen tents were for, which ones served as bivouacs for the troops to sleep in, which tent was the mess hall, medical tent, command center and most important, which was the general's tent.

What Rapp hadn't been able to glean from the satellite photos was what perimeter security was in place along the tree line. On the plane ride over, Coleman had mentioned it was very curious that there was no barbwire laid out around the camp's perimeter, and no foxholes or machine-gun nests dug into the obvious defensive positions. In Colean's mind Moro was either derelict in his command or had very good reason not to fear an attack by the guerrillas.

At the expected tent the aide stopped and rapped his knuckles on a wooden sign that, amazingly enough, had the general's name on it.

As a matter of course, U.S. Special Forces personnel in the field went to great lengths to hide the rank of officers. There was no saluting, rarely was rank displayed unless in a subtle way that could only be noticed up close, and men were taught not to all stand facing a commander as he talked. This last part was the most difficult to teach since the military had drilled the chain of command into their heads from their first day of boot camp.

Moro was either very proud of the fact that he was a general or he had no fear of letting the enemy know where to find him. Rapp suspected the sign on the door indicated a bit of both.

From inside the tent came the word, "Enter."

The voice was not menacing, casual or aloof. If anything, it sounded merely a bit curious. As he stepped into the dark tent he was forced to take his sungla.s.ses off. There, sitting behind a small portable desk, was the general in a pair of camouflage pants and a green T-shirt.

Rapp immediately noticed that the general was in tip-top shape. His arms were long and lean, with powerful biceps straining against the tight fabric of his shirt.

The general made no effort to get up and greet them and Rapp casually observed the interaction between Barboza and Moro. He watched the junior officer salute his superior in a way that was within the proper guidelines, but was noticeably lacking in both enthusiasm and respect. It was the bare minimum required by the military protocol and nothing more.

Barboza turned, waving an arm toward Rapp, and said, "This is Mr. Rapp. He works for the CIA."

The smallest of smirks formed on the general's lips. It may have been a smirk of recognition, or just a show of disrespect for the CIA. Rapp watched Moro with the detached a.n.a.lytical eye of a professional. The general made no effort to get up and shake his hand, and Rapp made no effort to extend his. The two men silently studied each other until the mood grew uncomfortable. Rapp had a strategy to employ and a crucial part of it was to keep Moro off balance until the time was right.

Moro sat motionless, his hands gripping the armrest of his wood and canvas chair. Rapp had played this game before, and he was sure the general had also done so countless times with his subordinates and probably even a few American military advisors and State Department officials.

What was different this time was that Rapp wasn't some American diplomat who was worried about offending the general's sensibilities.