Executive Power Part 17

There was a readily available solution to the danger of the landing.

Rapp had been tossing it around in his head for several hours and decided now was the time to make it known. Looking at Jackson he asked, "How tall are you?"

Jackson looked a little confused.

"Five-eleven. Why?"

Rapp gave him the once-over from head to toe.

"One hundred and seventy-five pounds?"

"One seventy-eight."

"Good." Rapp slapped Jackson on the back and said, "You wouldn't mind lending me some of your gear, would ya?"

THIRTY FIVE.

Rain fell in heavy sheets as the United States Marine Corps CH-53E Super Sea Stallion helicopter cruised toward its destination. The wipers worked furiously to clear the c.o.c.kpit windscreen but it was useless. The pilots were flying by instrument.

At a standstill, visibility was a scant two hundred feet, but flying at 110 mph it was reduced to zero. Fortunately, the wind was manageable. The slow-moving front had stalled over the Philippines, dumping rain from Manila in the north to Davao in the south. Nothing was moving that didn't have to.

While most people sought cover, and either cursed Mother Nature's power or watched it in wonder, there were those who embraced it. Twenty-five such individuals sat in the back of the cold, sterile cargo hold that was designed to carry up to fifty-five marines. All were dressed in black neoprene scuba suits. Twenty-four of them were U.S. Navy SEALs and one was an employee of the CIA.

The rain was a real blessing, enabling Rapp to move up his timetable and launch early. Nightfall was still several hours away, but you couldn't tell. Emboldened by the weather and the updates from Coleman that it looked like the guerrillas had settled in to wait the storm out, Rapp jumped at the opportunity to get things moving. He considered alerting Kennedy that they were starting the op but decided against it. It was three in the morning in Washington and that would involve waking her up and then bringing her up to speed. He had neither the inclination nor the time to open the door to suggestions from the strategists and politicians back in Washington. At this point they would more than likely complicate the mission. As far as getting final approval went, he wasn't worried. The precedent had been set when the President authorized the rescue operation earlier in the week. The United States wanted its citizens back and the aggressors would pay.

The original plan had been to take two Sea Stallions, load up the operators and four zodiacs, and drop everyone off five miles from the beach one hour after sunset. When the front finally moved in Rapp consulted with the pilots and Jackson. The pilots felt the storm would mask their approach to the point where they could get in close enough to drop them a mile from the beach with no fear of being spotted or heard.

Rapp and Jackson had no problem coming to the same conclusion; lose the zodiacs and put everyone on one bird. These types of operations were complicated enough. Any chance to simplify was an opportunity that had to be taken. The men were more than capable of off-loading the zodiacs in the roughest of seas, but it was nonetheless something else for them to do. And then once ash.o.r.e they would have to take time to stash the boats. All of this was preferred to a five-mile swim when they were up against the clock, but that was no longer an issue. A one-mile swim for the men was nothing.

One of the crew members came through the cabin holding up two fingers. There was no sense in trying to yell over the three turbine engines and six rotor blades. Those who hadn't already strapped on their fins began to do so. At the one minute mark the back ramp of the big chopper was lowered into the down position. On Jackson's command all the men stood and steadied themselves as best they could.

At the back ramp one of the crewmen was tethered to the chopper by a safety harness. He leaned out the open hatch and called out the bird's slow descent via the in-flight headset. The pilots could see almost nothing through the windscreen. Instead of holding a true hover the bird crept forward at five mph. This was intentional, so the men wouldn't land on top of each other as they entered the water. At ten feet above the drink the pilots decided they were close enough and ordered the crew chief to get the men out.

In twos, the warriors, wearing their big black fins, waddled like penguins to the sea. Jackson counted the sticks as they jumped off the ramp and when he and Rapp were the only two left, he grabbed the spook by the shoulder and in they went.

As the helicopter climbed into the storm, the men paired off and lined up for the swim to sh.o.r.e. A quick head count was taken, their position was verified by GPS and compa.s.ses were consulted. Jackson ordered them to move out and the twenty-five waterborne warriors began slicing through the water.

Three hundred feet from the beach the formation halted. The landma.s.s was but a darker shadow through the curtain of rain. Jackson briefly tried once again to send in two of his combat swimmers to reconnoiter the beach, but Rapp overruled him and took off on his own.

Using only his feet he kicked his way through the salty water until his hands touched the bottom. He took off his dive fins, secured them and then removed and stowed his mask. Reaching under the neck of his wet suit he grabbed and donned the headset of his secure Motorola radio. Lastly he retrieved his suppressed MP-5 submachine gun from the swim bag and took it off safety.

He'd outfitted the weapon with an AN-PVS17 night vision sight and after turning it on he did a quick check of the jungle. He'd opted for the gun-mounted scope over wearing the goggles. The reasons were twofold. First, it was harder to shoot wearing the goggles and second, there was a good chance the goggles would help to precipitate a headache. He'd rather trust his eyes and use the gun-mounted scope as he needed it.

Warm fresh water pelted his face as he looked up and down the beach. There was nothing but the rain; rain splashing into the water about him, rain pelting leaves of the jungle, rain hitting the beach. It was a serene, steady patter that would deaden almost any man's senses if exposed to it long enough. Rapp was counting on it to put the guerrillas to sleep.

So much rain had fallen that the beach was streaked with gullies of water pouring from the jungle. Rapp stood there in the water, his senses alert to all that lay before him. After less than a minute of observation he decided the chance that Abu Sayyaf was keeping an eye on this one spot of beach, in this torrential downpour, was minuscule.

The SEALs had been killed the other night because of an intelligence leak, and this time he'd made sure no such leak could take place.

After picking his spot he radioed back to Jackson that he was going feet dry. Holding the MP-5 in the ready position he came out of the water and darted across the fifty-odd feet of white sand and through the first line of palm trees. Standing next to one of the long bent trees he paused and listened. After ten seconds of silence he moved a little farther inland and worked his way up the beach and back. Satisfied that the landing area was clear he radioed for the others to come ash.o.r.e.

A few minutes later, Rapp watched as four heads appeared out of the mist. The four SEALs stayed partially in the surf and trained their weapons on the jungle while behind them other black-clad men began rising out of the water two at a time. Each pair of swim buddies ran up the beach, some faster than others, depending on their loads. In less than a minute the entire element was off the beach and concealed.

As per plan, a defensive perimeter was set up and the men began donning jungle fatigues and boots while dive fins were collected and buried. The wet suits were kept on under the camouflage BDUs to help preserve body heat. It would be a long night in the rain, and even though the temperature was in the eighties, being soaked for so long would slowly sap the men of their valuable energy.

After donning his fatigues, Rapp pulled a floppy camouflage hat down over his head. Drops of water poured from the brim. Suddenly, the wind picked up. With it came a roar through the trees and the rain intensified. The drops falling from his hat turned into streams and Rapp's thoughts turned to Coleman. He and his men would be soaked to the bone by the time they hooked up with them.

Adjusting the lip mike on his headset, Rapp toggled the transmit b.u.t.ton on his digitally encrypted Motorola radio and spoke.

"Strider, this is Iron Man. Do you copy, over?" Rapp waited for a reply, cupping a hand over his free ear.

"Iron Man, this is Strider. What's your situation?"

"We're on the beach and about to move out."

"ETA?".

Rapp looked down at the rain-soaked ground and then up at the rising terrain. What would normally be a forty-minute hike on dry ground might easily now turn into a three-hour jaunt. Rapp tried to remain optimistic.

"If we don't run into anybody, I'm guessing two hours, maybe a little less."

"We'll be here."

"What's your sit rep?"

"Same as last time. No one's moving."

Rapp was tempted to ask him how he and his men were doing, but decided not to waste their time. Coleman would say they were fine regardless of how miserable they were.

Jackson appeared at Rapp's side.

"My point man has already found a path and everyone else is ready to go."

Rapp nodded and covered his lip mike.

"Let's move out." Taking his hand off the mike he said, "Strider, we're on our way. I'll give you an update in thirty minutes."

The first squad of eight SEALs started up the narrow footpath into the thickening jungle with the men s.p.a.ced a little closer than security would normally dictate. Jackson and the second squad, along with Rapp, came next and then the third squad brought up the rear. All twenty-five heavily armed men quietly disappeared into the jungle and the pouring rain.

THIRTY SIX.

Something wasn't right. David's eyes fluttered open for a second and then snapped shut. The air was thick with dust and his ears were ringing. Having no idea where he was or what he'd been doing, David tried to sit up, but couldn't. Again he blinked his eyes open, this time only to a thin squint. All of his senses seemed to be off with the exception of his sight, and even that was a little blurry.

David rolled his head to his left and saw nothing, and then to his right, where through the clouds of dust and smoke he saw fire. The flames jogged his memory. He was in Hebron at the meeting. The attache cases were filled with the Iraqi counterfeit money. He had stepped outside and climbed into the armored car with Mohammed Atwa and then detonated the cases. A smile crept onto his lips as he remembered the look on Atwa's face when he'd stabbed him in the neck.

David remembered the blood spraying from the man's throat. What a joy it was to see genuine horror on the face of a man who had brutalized thousands.

His eyes fluttered. The haze lifted a bit. He tried to move his left arm but it didn't budge. He struggled with his right arm and after a moment it broke free. David lifted his head and realized that his lower body was covered in rubble. His thoughts again returned to the attache cases and the explosives. The technicians at Mossad must have packed even more C-4 than he'd expected into the cases. The entire house where the meeting had taken place appeared to be leveled.

David held his head up and looked up and down the street. The destruction was ma.s.sive. Half the block appeared to be destroyed. The attache cases could not have done all this, he thought to himself. Then he remembered the noise. A noise he had only heard once before, but a noise that was impossible to forget.

With one of his arms free, David propped himself up and looked around. His head was awash with pain and either his ears were ringing very loudly or there were sirens blaring not so far away. From his new vantage point he took in the devastation and was shocked to see the utter destruction. At least three homes in addition to the one where the meeting had taken place were completely demolished; piles of rubble, with pockets of smoke and flames.

The reality of what had happened hit David like a building had fallen on him. He did not mean for all of these innocent people to be harmed. The attache cases would have been more than enough to handle the job, but that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Ben Freidman wanted to make absolutely sure that he killed everyone.

He'd tracked him to the meeting. This was not a surprise to David.

The fact that Freidman would try to follow him was a foregone conclusion, but David felt the man would not press too hard for fear of blowing what already amounted to the best gift he had ever been given. Somehow he'd managed to follow him, and then to make sure no one made it out alive, including David, he'd launched missiles into the neighborhood. That was the noise he'd heard right before everything went black. The horrible shrieking noise of a missile, a harbinger of death and destruction.

David cleared several smaller stones from his legs and then a few larger ones. Where his black dress pants were torn he could see blood mixing in with the dust from the stones that had covered him. Slowly and carefully he pulled himself out from under the remaining rubble and took an inventory of the various pains that were shooting through his body.

The ringing was still in his ears. David looked around in search of an emergency vehicle but saw none. He came to the conclusion that the explosion had probably damaged his hearing. Carefully, he tried to stand, but quickly found that all was not well with his right leg. David placed only a fraction of his weight on it and hobbled over to what was left of a parked car.

The destruction was horrendous. Half of the block was leveled and of the homes that were still standing, most were either burning or in danger of catching fire. The number of innocent people killed would be enormous. It was time to flee. He did not want to be around to answer the questions of whoever it was who showed up, whether it was the Palestinian Authority or the Israelis. As David limped gingerly down the sidewalk, skirting rubble and leaning on whatever he could find for a.s.sistance, he saw an opportunity. Ben Freidman undoubtedly thought he was dead. Maybe there was a way to use that to his advantage.

David picked up the pace, wincing in pain as he put more pressure on his bad leg. Through the smoke and the dust he spotted a woman wandering toward him with a blank expression. As he neared her he noticed she had something in her arms. The look on her face told him she was in shock. Resisting the urge to approach her, he pressed on.

When they were within a few feet of each other he glanced at what was in her arms and instantly wished he didn't. He wanted to believe the tiny frail body was that of a doll, but he knew better. It was a baby and David knew the poor infant would be visiting him in his dreams for years to come.

Peace did not come without a price, he told himself. He continued saying this over and over as he hobbled away from the scene of devastation.

Ben Freidman would someday answer for his callous brutality. It didn't have to happen this way. The children did not have to die. David knew the perfect way to hurt such a man. All he had to do was get to America. Once there he would put into motion a series of events that would bring about the birth of a Palestinian state and the end of Ben Freidman.

THIRTY SEVEN.

Coleman was one of those steady types: never too up and never too down. He had an air of quiet authority about him that commanded a respect among his men. He was never overbearing or brusque, just calculating and decisive. But right now, more than anything, he was wet. The poncho that was draped over him had long ago become useless against the torrent of rain that was coming down by the bucket. The ground was so soaked, it was as if he was sitting on a plump sponge.

With the onset of nightfall and the deluge of rain, visibility had been reduced to the point where they could no longer see the enemy camp. Coleman had moved Stroble and Hackett to a forward position an hour ago to keep an eye on things. They'd reported back exactly what the former SEAL team commander had expected; that nothing had changed. With their report in mind, Coleman dispatched Wicker on a mission to circ.u.mnavigate the camp so he could get a better feel for the entire area.

As a general rule, when the weather was inclement people stayed put. It didn't matter if it was the South Pacific or the South Bronx. It was human nature to seek shelter and try to stay either warm or dry or cool depending on the conditions.

SEALs were the exception to this rule. Knowing that they could and would be called on to perform an operation at a moment's notice, regardless of the weather, they took it upon themselves to train in the worst of conditions. It was also why they had to endure h.e.l.l week during their selection process.

Candidates were deprived of sleep for days on end and marched continually into the cold surf of the Pacific at all hours, in soiled sandy uniforms. Most of them could handle the physical torment, the academic rigors were challenging, but not overtaxing, and the verbal a.s.saults from the instructors were for the most part ignored. It was the c.u.mulative effect of all of these, however, that got to the SEAL candidates.

By the time h.e.l.l week arrived they were already in a weakened state. Their bodies were sore, their nerves were frayed and then the very bedrock of mental stability was jerked from underneath them. They were robbed of sleep and warmth, and when the human body is deprived of those two basic necessities individuals began to do strange and unpredictable things.

This was when most of the men broke and rang the bell, signaling that they were dropping out. To the average citizen, waking up a group of young men by slamming metal trash can lids together at 2:00 A.M. was cruel enough, but after you added in the fact that the men had just gone to bed thirty minutes earlier and had not been allowed more than an hour of sleep in three days, it seemed downright inhuman.

But the SEALs weren't looking for just anyone. There was nothing nice or normal about warfare. It was mentally and physically exhausting and it was all done without the comfort of a bed, a hot shower and warm food. Most important, it was unlike almost any other job for one plain reason; you couldn't just quit. If you were working for the airlines and you got sick of throwing heavy suitcases around, you could at a moment's notice walk away from it all. If you didn't like your boss at work, you could easily quit.

In Scott Coleman's world, however, there was no quitting, because quitting usually meant that you had to die or someone else did. That more than anything was what h.e.l.l week was about. The men who ran the Naval Special Warfare Center in Coronado needed to find out who could take it, because in the real world of special operations quitting was not an option.

As miserable as Coleman was right now, he took a small amount of comfort in the fact that he'd been in much worse situations. He did have to admit one thing to himself, however; he wasn't a young stud anymore. Now that he was past forty, it seemed there was a new ache added to his list every month or so. He'd led a hard life for almost twenty years and it was catching up with him.

As he leaned against the base of a hardwood tree he could tell his lower back and knees had stiffened considerably. He looked out into the faint gray light and checked his watch. The sun wasn't even down yet, but it might as well have been. Coleman judged his visibility was a scant twenty feet. Fishing a small packet from his pocket he tore it open and popped two Nuprin into his mouth. The anti inflammatory drug would help ease the aching in his back and knees. Rapp and the other warriors would be arriving shortly, and it would be time to move.

Suddenly a whispered voice carried through the air.

"Coming up behind you, boss."

Coleman heard Wicker's voice and turned to see the sniper standing just ten feet away. The fact that he had gotten so close unnerved the commander. Either he was slipping or Wicker was the sneakiest little b.a.s.t.a.r.d he'd ever met.

Coleman got to his feet and looking at the diminutive Wicker said, "You know that's a good way to get shot."

Wicker smiled, his teeth a brilliant white against his camouflage-painted face.

"You have to hear me in order to shoot me."

"How long you been standing there?" demanded Coleman.

"Long enough to watch you pop a couple of pills."

"s.h.i.t." Coleman shook his head.

"Boss, don't sweat it. With this rain falling I could sneak up on a buck and kill it with my knife."

/ bet you could, Coleman thought. Wicker was a hunter of both the four-and two-legged variety. Having grown up in Wyoming he'd hunted everything from caribou to black bear to timber wolves.

"What'd you find out?"

"I don't want to come off as being too confident, but I think I could have walked right through their camp unnoticed."

"You're serious?" asked Coleman.

"Yeah. It's this rain. It dulls the senses. It dampens the travel of noise to start with, but then after several hours like this it becomes hypnotic."

Coleman nodded while he thought of something Rapp had said on the radio earlier.

"What about that ridge on the other side of the camp?"

"A couple of footpaths and that's it."

"No sentries?"

"None," Wicker said with a disgusted shake of his head.