by Flynn Vince
Their bodies were now piled in a low building to the southeast. Halabi couldn’t see it from his vantage point, but knew from reports that the work bricking up the windows and doors was nearly complete. By the end of the day, the godless collaborators would be sealed in the tomb where they would stay for all eternity. Forgotten by their families, by history, and by Allah.
He limped to the other side of the minaret and looked into the narrow street below. Two of his men were visible, one dressed in traditional Yemeni garb and the other in a chador. It was a bit of an indignity for the battle-hardened soldier, but an unavoidable one. The Saudis and Americans were always watching from above and they couldn’t be permitted to see anything but the normal rhythms of rural Yemeni life.
The wind began to gust and he closed his eyes, feeling the presence of God on the cool, dry air. The path to victory became clearer every day as Allah blessed him with an increasingly detailed understanding of His plan. The objective, so indistinct before, now seemed as well defined as the landscape around him.
Halabi finally turned and began descending the spiral steps that provided access to the minaret. His injuries forced him to use the stone walls to steady himself, but he was grateful for the struggle. Every stabbing pain, unbalanced step, and constricted breath reminded him of his arrogance and God’s punishment for it.
As expected, Muhammad Attia was waiting patiently for him on the mosque’s main floor.
“What of Mitch Rapp?” Halabi asked as Attia fell in alongside him.
“There’s still no sign of him, and our sources say that the Saudis are planning to bomb the area out of concern over the biothreat. I’ve been forced to move our men into the hills immediately surrounding the village.”
“Do I detect disapproval in your voice, Muhammad?”
“Disapproval? No. But concern. Our resources are limited and risking the few reliable men we have in hopes that Rapp will appear in an empty, burned-out village . . .”
“He’ll come,” Halabi assured him.
“Even if he does, how much are we willing to risk over one man?”
Halabi didn’t answer, instead exiting the mosque and winding through the narrow cobbled paths between buildings. Near the center of the village, they entered a tall, slender structure with rows of arched windows and a ground floor lined with diesel generators. After descending another set of stone steps, they crossed into a room that had been built inside a natural cavern.
Despite the fact that he’d been personally involved in its design, the environment inside the room was disorientingly foreign. It was a long, rectangular space, with smooth white walls and rows of overhead LEDs that glinted dully off stainless steel biotech equipment arranged beneath.
The machinery had been extremely difficult to acquire and transport but the effect was exactly as he’d envisioned. The impression was of a medical research lab that would look at home in London, Berlin, or New York. Videos made in this room would be disseminated online, fanning the West’s fear into full-fledged panic and intensifying the chaos already present in America’s political system.
He turned his attention to the only thing in the room that wasn’t modern and polished—a sheep’s diseased carcass lying on a cart near the center of the room. As promised, the matted hair and dried blood around its nose and mouth contrasted terrifyingly with the sterile environment.
Halabi’s cane thudded dully as he walked the length of the room, finally finding the three Westerners near the back. They were huddled together on the floor beneath the watchful eye of an armed guard. None made a move to stand as he approached, instead staring up at him with expressions that were easily read. The German’s face reflected calm resignation. Bertrand’s, in contrast, projected desperation and terror. Finally, the American woman was consumed with hate.
It was exactly the reaction he’d expected. While social media was one of the most powerful weapons ever devised by man, it wasn’t that platform’s ability to disseminate false information that was useful to him at the moment. It was other people’s willingness to use it to strip themselves of their secrets. The intimate knowledge he had of these three infidels would have been impossible only a few years ago. Organizations like the FBI, Stasi, and KGB had spent billions on wiretaps, physical surveillance, and informants to learn less than he could with a few keystrokes.
Halabi understood their hopes and motivations. Their strengths and weaknesses. Their allegiances and the subtle dynamics within those allegiances. Enough to assign each of them a very specific role in the drama that was unfolding.
“Who are you? Why are you keeping us here?”
As expected, Victoria Schaefer was the first to speak. And while he had a strong distaste for dealing with women, there was no alternative in this case.
“I am Sayid Halabi.”
The recognition was immediate. Some of the defiance drained from the woman’s eyes, and the Frenchman appeared to be on the verge of fainting. The German, as was his nature, seemed unaffected.
Halabi swept a hand around the room. “All this is for you. So that you can build a biological weapon.”
“A biological weapon?” Schaefer said after a brief silence. “I’m a doctor. Otto’s a nurse. And Gabriel’s a scientist who researches how to stop diseases. Not how to cause them.”
“The skills are the same,” Halabi said, and then pointed at the dead sheep. “It was taken from a flock infected with anthrax. The bacteria are simple to incubate and weaponize. It’s my understanding that a second-year biology student could do it.”
She stared at him for a few seconds and then began slowly shaking her head. “No way in hell.”
There was a time when he would have immediately turned to violence in order to coerce them. Now, though, he understood that this tendency was just another facet of his arrogance. Less an opportunity to carry out God’s plans than to vent his own hate. And while the time for savagery would undoubtedly come, it hadn’t yet arrived. Manipulation was the secret to victory in the modern world. Not force.
He turned his attention to Gabriel Bertrand, the weakest and most knowledgeable of the three. “I assume you’re aware that while anthrax is a simple weapon to create, it’s not particularly effective. In order to contract a deadly form of it, you’d have to inhale the spores and then not seek the widely available antibiotics capable of curing it. I’m a terrorist, yes? Isn’t that how your government and media portrays me? If this is true, then it’s my goal to spread terror, not death. I’ll use you and this equipment to create propaganda videos—”
“Like the one you made in the village,” the woman said, cutting him off. “You sealed innocent women and children in their homes and burned them alive. And now you want us to believe that all you want to do is a little marketing?”
“What you believe isn’t important to me. Only what you do.”
• • •
After a life dedicated to battle, the scene playing out in front of Halabi seemed laughably banal. The Crimean documentary filmmaker whose artistry had thus far exceeded all expectations was now entirely in his element. He had the three Westerners dressed up in elaborate hazmat suits and was orchestrating their every movement as they dissected the sheep. Lighting was constantly adjusted, camera angles were tested, close-ups were taken and retaken. He’d even experimented with some rudimentary dialogue, though it was unclear whether he thought it would be dramatic enough to make the final cut.
For their part, the three Westerners seemed content to play along. And why not? In their minds, nothing they were doing was real. Much of the equipment, while impressive looking, wasn’t fully assembled or even relevant to the task of producing anthrax. The elaborate computer terminal they were pretending to consult wasn’t plugged in. For now, they would be allowed to believe that they were nothing more than actors trading performances for survival.
The truth, though, was so much grander.
With biology, God had created a class of weapon infinitely more powerful than anyt
hing ever devised by man. Halabi now understood that pathogens and the skillful manipulation of information were the only weapons that mattered in the modern era. While the Western powers spent trillions maintaining massive armies and involving them in meaningless skirmishes, he had assembled the tools necessary to set fire to the earth.
CHAPTER 10
CENTRAL YEMEN
CONDITIONS were solid, with a half-moon, a sky full of stars, and light winds. Rapp’s Saudi pilot was keeping the chopper high, making it unlikely that they’d be noticed by the scattered al Qaeda and ISIS forces that controlled the area.
Rapp scanned the dark terrain through the open door but couldn’t pick up so much as a cooking fire. Maybe they’d get lucky and this operation would go quickly and smoothly. The best intel they had suggested that the village they were on their way to was completely devoid of human activity. Sayid Halabi’s men had been admittedly efficient at turning it into a tomb, leaving nothing but the charred bodies of its inhabitants sealed in their burned homes.
The main dangers they expected to face were a few potential booby traps and the germs that Claudia was so afraid of. Time on the ground would have to be limited, so if they were going to come up with any clues as to where Halabi had taken the medical team, they’d have to do it fast. The Saudis were definitely committed to wiping what was left of this village off the face of the planet, but were being cagey as to exactly when. Better not to be standing in the middle of it when the bombers showed up.
The wind gusting through the door intensified and he pulled back, turning his attention to the dim cabin and the men sharing it with him. Scott Coleman, Joe Maslick, Charlie Wicker, and Bruno McGraw were all sitting calmly, lost in their own thoughts or lightly dozing. They’d been with him almost since the beginning. Long enough to accumulate a few too many years and a few too many injuries. It didn’t matter, though. The kind of trust they’d developed over that time couldn’t be replaced by one of the standout SEALs or Delta kids that Coleman occasionally got wind of.
This team had always been there for him and not a single one of them was replaceable as far as Rapp was concerned. He knew what they would do before they did it. He knew that every one of them was one hundred percent loyal to him and to each other. And he knew that not one of them would stop until five minutes after they were dead.
“Everyone’s clear on the drill,” Rapp said over the microphone hanging in front of his face. “We’re looking for anything that could even have a chance of being useful—equipment left behind, shell casings, tire tracks. The guys in Langley said they’d take gum wrappers if that’s all we can find. Get pictures of everything, and you’re authorized to use flash. We don’t have any choice, and I don’t think anyone in that village is going to mind. The far building to the west is what they were using as a hospital. Don’t get any closer than thirty feet. Hazmat protocols are in effect for the entire op, and anything we collect goes in the bags.”
“What if we find a survivor?”
“Keep a twenty-foot interval and get ’em on the ground. We’ll question them like that and call in an army medical team to make sure they’re not sick.”
“And if they don’t follow directions?” Coleman asked.
“If they get inside that twenty-foot perimeter, give them one warning shot, and if they still don’t get the message, put ’em down. Then we burn the body.”
The shadowed faces around him seemed slightly more nervous than normal. Stand-up fights were one thing but bacteria and viruses were another. They’d all been there. Smoldering with fever in some godforsaken jungle. Trying to be quiet while puking your guts out behind enemy lines. Dengue. Malaria. Dysentery. Infected wounds oozing puss. Everyone’s least favorite part of the job.
The nose of the aircraft dipped and the pilot announced that they were on their final approach. The plan was to never let the runners touch the ground. As soon as they were out, the chopper would climb to a safe height and wait for them to call it back in. There was no reason for ISIS or al Qaeda to be hanging around here, but it didn’t make sense to take chances.
Rapp grabbed the edge of the door and hung partway out the side as they descended. The darkness was too deep to discern the charring on the walls of the stone buildings. The collapsed roofs and the inky graves beyond, though, were easy enough to pick out in the moonlight.
The Saudi did a respectable job of the drop-off and Rapp slipped the face mask off the top of his head and over his face. Coleman’s men spread out, looking a little less smooth than normal in the chem suits designed to protect them from biological threats. Rapp positioned himself at the right flank of the formation, searching the darkness for human shapes as the chopper started to climb.
The beat of rotors began to fade like they had in so many ops in the past, but then were drowned out by the deafening crash of an explosion. He instinctively threw himself to the ground and trained his M4 carbine on the source of the sound. The sky to the northeast was lit up, and he watched through his face mask as the helicopter broke apart and flaming chunks of it started to rain down on the desert.
Predictably, the shooting started a few seconds later.
A disciplined burst from a tango to the south landed a few feet to Rapp’s right and he rolled in the opposite direction, getting to his feet and sprinting toward the village, finally penetrating into the narrow streets as rounds pounded a stone wall to the east.
“Give me a sit rep!” he said over his throat mike.
Everyone sounded off as uninjured, reporting opposition east, north, and south. Rapp dropped behind a rock wall but it turned out to be a bad position when what seemed like a .50-caliber round pulverized a stone two feet from him. He flipped over the wall, sweat already starting to soak him in the poorly ventilated hazmat suit.
“Mitch!”
It took Rapp a moment to realize the shout hadn’t come over his earpiece and he followed it through an empty doorway to his right. Coleman was inside with his back to the wall next to a window opening, occasionally peeking over the blackened sill to make sure no one was moving in on them.
Rapp took a similar position next to the door, peering out as he called for an update from Coleman’s men.
“We’re just inside the southwest edge of the village and we’re in a position to cover each other,” Maslick said over the radio. “No one’s hit yet but we’re taking heavy fire from the south and we’re seeing sniper activity to the north. The low ground to the west looks clear. Can you reach us? We can cover you and then get out down the slope on our side.”
“Rocket!” Coleman shouted.
They both threw themselves to the ground, anticipating an impact on the heavy stone walls of the building. The projectile went wide, though, and instead exploded in a narrow street just to the east. Flame billowed through the windows and door but didn’t reach either one of them. The smoke was another story. Suddenly Rapp was thankful for the fogged face mask.
“If these assholes could shoot straight, this would kind of suck,” Coleman said, moving back to his position next to the window.
The former SEAL’s muffled words were intended as a joke, but it was a pretty good description of their situation. The problem was that from what Rapp had seen, their attackers could shoot. They’d hit the chopper. Fire discipline was good—with controlled bursts only when a viable target presented itself. And while they continued to miss, they seemed to always go just a little wide to the east.
They weren’t going for kills, he suddenly realized. They were driving his team west, trying to draw them into the low ground. And it was working. He already had three men on that side of the village, and both he and Coleman were in a position where the smoke and fire were encouraging them to re-form with them.
“Why didn’t they take the chopper out while we were on it?” Rapp shouted over the sound of gunfire starting to pound the walls around the window Coleman was beneath.
“Maybe we caught them by surprise.”
“You mean the forc
e dug in around a burned-out village in the middle of nowhere?”
Coleman looked back at him through his face mask as chunks of shattered wood and rock rained down on him. “It does seem a little far-fetched.”
“But they forgot to put men to the west.”
“You’re thinking ambush? That they’re driving us there? Why? If they want us dead, why not just surround us and do it?”
The answer was pretty clear: Sayid Halabi. The son of a bitch was holding a grudge. He didn’t want to kill Rapp, he wanted to capture him. He wanted to throw him in a hole and spend the next five years working him over with a set of pliers and a blowtorch.
And if that was true, it was their ticket out of there.
“We’re going east,” Rapp said into his throat mike.
Not surprisingly, Joe Maslick’s voice came on the comm a moment later. “Did you mean west, Mitch? The heaviest fire is coming from the east and it’d leave us climbing toward shooters controlling the high ground.”
“You heard me. East. Come right up the middle of the main street on Scott’s orders. Leave your hazmat suits and face masks on. I repeat, biohazard protocols are still in effect. Understood?”
The response sounded hesitant but there was no question that Maslick, Wicker, and McGraw would follow his orders to the letter.
“What are you thinking?” Coleman said as Rapp slipped up next to him and took a quick look outside. The flames had managed to find fuel and the smoke was combining with the condensation on his face mask to make it hard to see.
“Halabi figured I’d come and he left men with orders to capture me. But they don’t know which one of us I am because of the suits.”
“So we’re going to charge a bunch of guys dug in above us because you think he ordered them not to kill you?”
“You got it.”
Coleman looked up at the missing roof and the flames starting to lap over it. “That’s a lot to hang on a hunch.”