Path of the Assassin

by Brad Thor

  “And then what?”

  “We climb to just over thirty thousand.”

  “Then we hop and pop?” asked Harvath.

  “That’s the plan. We’ll be under canopy for a little over a half hour, but it’s going to put us right on the money.”

  “You’re forgetting one thing,” said Harvath, hinting in Meg Cassidy’s direction with his eyes.

  “If there was an easier way to do this, I would,” replied Morrell.

  Meg, who had been listening, but not understanding any of the exchange, finally spoke up. “What are we talking about here?” She had a bad feeling she wasn’t going to like the answer to her question.

  “There’s been a decision made on the infiltration, Meg,” said Harvath.

  “How are we going in?”

  “It’s a technique called HAHO. A high-altitude, high-opening parachute jump.”

  Meg’s face immediately drained of all color. “Exactly how high are we talking about?”

  “We’ll be exiting the aircraft above thirty thousand feet. Ten to fifteen seconds later we’ll pop our chutes and glide down to the sand dunes behind the Hijrah Oasis. A piece of cake,” lied Harvath. He knew HAHOs were one of the most dangerous insertion techniques ever conceived of.

  “Why is the plane going down?” asked Meg, growing more nervous.

  “The plane is descending so we can use masks to begin breathing pure oxygen. It will help flush most of the nitrogen from the bloodstream and tissues.”

  “What if I don’t want the nitrogen flushed from my bloodstream and tissues?”

  “Have you ever been scuba diving?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “This is very similar. There are going to be pressure changes when we jump, and we’re all going to be on oxygen on the way down. It’s just a safety precaution to help prevent any decompression problems.”

  “Scot, I can’t do this. I won’t do this.”

  “Meg, look at it this—”

  “No. One minute we’re training to beach on a small tropical island by swimming in from a rubber Zodiac, and now you want me to jump out of an airplane at over thirty thousand feet. I’m not doing this.”

  “Ms. Cassidy,” interjected Morrell, “you did the wind tunnel and ParaSim at Fort Bragg, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “This is no different.”

  “I’d say it’s a hell of a lot different, and I’m not doing it.”

  “Ms. Cassidy, if there were any other way, believe me, we’d be doing it, but there isn’t. Hashim Nidal is conducting his meeting tomorrow night and we must be in place. We have no other choice.

  “Now, there will be a radio inside your helmet and we’ll all be able to keep in touch during the jump. We’ll talk you all the way in. I know you practiced landings at Fort Bragg, and this will be just like that.”

  “You’re still not listening to me. Find another way because I am not jumping out of this plane.”

  “What if I jump with her?” asked Harvath.

  “What are you talking about?” replied Morrell.

  “We’ll go tandem.”

  “A tandem HAHO? No way.”

  “Why not?”

  “For starters, you’d only be able to carry half the amount of gear.”

  “Then reconfigure the loads. Your men are tough guys. They can handle a little more weight.”

  “We’re talking about over two hundred pounds of food, water, ammunition—”

  “—medical supplies, communications gear…I know what goes in the packs, Rick. Figure it out, or else you’ll be leaving the plane without us.”

  “Scot,” said Meg, “I can’t do it.”

  Harvath took her hand in his, not caring what Morrell or any of his men thought of it. “Yes, you can, Meg. You can do this. We’re going to do it together. I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, and I don’t intend to let you down, especially while we’re both sharing a parachute.”

  The entire plane was silent. After several tense moments, Meg halfheartedly returned Harvath’s smile, nodded her head. The mission was a go.

  43

  Harvath kept a very close eye on Meg for the next two hours as they inhaled aviators’ breathing oxygen. This was the preferred oxygen for jump operations, as other forms, such as medical oxygen, contained too much moisture and could freeze up in the regulator, the hoses, or the mask during the jump and make it impossible to breathe.

  He watched for any potential signs of hypoxia caused by the decrease in ambient pressure as they ascended. At thirty thousand feet, the air pressure was close to being only one fourth of that at sea level. The other factor Harvath was concerned with was psychological. Even though they were going to be locked together for the jump, Meg was still incredibly frightened. Harvath had seen otherwise self-confident operatives freak out and start to hyperventilate due to claustrophobia brought on by having their heads and faces covered with a helmet and oxygen mask. Scot kept speaking to Meg in soothing tones, encouraging her to relax.

  The entire plane had been depressurized to acclimate the team for the jump. Over their fatigues, all of the members wore extreme-cold-weather jumpsuits. Though cumbersome, the superinsulated suits not only would keep the team members warm during their jump, but also had the added benefit of radar absorbency, which would allow them to glide across the sky without being detected by enemy radar.

  At the two-minute warning, the team transferred from the jet’s oxygen console to the portable bottles strapped to their chests. They double and triple checked not only their weapons and equipment, but also each other one last time for any of the telltale signs of hypoxia: slowed reactions, euphoria, cyanosis—a bluish tint to the skin on lips or under fingernails—overconfidence, or lack of life in the eyes.

  The cabin lights were switched over to jump lighting, and the jet was filled with an eerie red glow, punctuated by stabs of neon green at the ankles of each team member. Chem-lights had been taped to boots so team members could locate each other in the dark and avoid potentially deadly collisions.

  Icy, subzero air blew across the open doorway as the Operation Phantom team lined up. Rick Morrell determined the order and had placed Harvath and Meg smack in the middle. As soon as Morrell gave the signal to jump, the line of bodies in front of them lurched forward, but Meg’s legs refused to move. She willed herself to follow, but it was no use. Either her brain was refusing to give the command, or her body was refusing to obey it. Whatever the case, it was imperative for the team to stay together and that could only happen by jumping at precise intervals. Harvath wrapped his arms around Meg, lifted her clear off her feet and made for the open door.

  At the last minute, Meg tried to reach out and grab something to prevent their leaving the plane, but it was no use. Harvath’s grasp was too strong.

  The frigid air burned their faces as they accelerated toward their terminal velocity of one hundred twenty miles per hour. Harvath glanced at his altimeter and watched the luminescent dial sweep off their rapidly increasing descent. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay,” he repeated over the radio to Meg. Harvath figured the temperature was at least thirty-five degrees below zero. It took only seventeen seconds to descend to twenty-seven thousand feet, but to Meg Cassidy it felt like a lifetime.

  When Harvath pulled his silver rip cord and deployed the ram-air, high-glide-ratio parachute, the expertly packed material shot straight and high into the air and then snapped into an enormous square double canopy overhead. Though Harvath had told her he was about to deploy the chute and she had been forewarned about the jolt, Meg had no idea the shock would be so intense. It was like riding in a falling elevator, which had just found the basement. She knew the intense stab of pain she felt was nothing compared to what Harvath must be feeling. He had borne the brunt of the shock and had told her in the plane that he would probably be sore for several days. It was always like that with HAHOs.

  The deafening rush of air that they’d heard as they hurt
led through the night sky was now gone. It was replaced by a silence unlike anything Meg Cassidy had ever experienced, and the view was absolutely incredible.

  Harvath was appreciating it too. Between glances at his altimeter and the positions of his teammates, he took in the beautiful starlit vista over the sea of desert far below. It never ceased to amaze him how peaceful the world looked from this height, even when he knew he was inserting into hostile territory.

  The team formed a vertical column in the sky, each parachutist seeming to rest on top of the next. The lowest man in the airborne totem pole acted as the navigator, using a compass, GPS device, and barely visible terrain features to guide them into the drop zone.

  They floated for forty miles, and a little over a half hour. Despite their high-tech jumpsuits and insulated Gore-Tex gloves, each of them was numb to the bone with cold. As they descended, the air began to gradually get warmer. At twelve thousand feet, they removed their oxygen masks and were able to breathe normally. The navigator continued to correct their course based on changes in wind speed and direction, until finally the signal came across the encrypted radios that they were coming within range of their DZ.

  Meg fought the reflex to stiffen her legs as the ground raced up to meet them. At the last moment, Harvath pulled down hard on the parachute toggles, dramatically slowing their descent. They touched down in the soft sand and immediately rolled to their left. Harvath pulled in the rest of the chute and unbuckled Meg from where she was attached to his harness. The rest of the team members were already burying their parachutes and Chem-lights in the sand.

  “Now that wasn’t so bad,” whispered Harvath with a smile as he finished covering their chute with sand and checked Meg’s equipment.

  “Not at all,” she replied. “I can’t decide which I liked more—my heart beating through my chest or my teeth nearly cracking from almost forty minutes in the freezing cold air.”

  “You’ll warm up. Wait’ll we get walking. It’s actually pretty warm in the desert tonight. It just takes your body a while to heat back up.”

  Harvath did one last check of his own gear and scanned the horizon with his night-vision goggles before he and Meg joined the rest of the team. It was already well past one in the morning local time. It would take them at least two hours, maybe three, to hike into the rocky hills above the oasis, where they would wait until tomorrow night. They could sleep during the daytime, but for now they needed the cover of darkness to hide their movements. Not a moment could be wasted. When the team was gathered together, Morrell gave the order to maintain complete radio silence and then signaled them to move out.

  The deep desert sand, coupled with the heavy loads Morrell’s men were carrying, made for extremely slow going. Free of his tandem rig with Meg, Harvath had taken more than his share of weight off the packs of the other guys, but they still slogged along. It wasn’t until the team hit firmer terrain that the pace noticeably picked up. It didn’t matter that they were hiking at a steep grade up the hillside. Everyone was thankful just to be off the sand.

  Morrell’s man on point gave the full-fist hand signal to stop, and the column came to an immediate halt. Team members took up defensive firing positions as Morrell and the point man explored a small cave behind a low overhang and several large boulders. A moment later Morrell reemerged and gave the command to set up camp. Two of the men unshouldered their packs and set out to re-connoiter the rest of the area. Morrell set up his encrypted Motorola portable satellite communications system, while one of the men positioned a field antenna on the rock overhang.

  “Welcome to the Plaza,” said Harvath as he helped Meg into the cave. They found a relatively smooth area on the ground toward the west wall and unpacked only the gear they would need for the time being. Extra food, water, and equipment would be placed in a nearby hide site, in case they had to exit the cave in a hurry. The last thing they wanted to do was leave behind any clues that would tip off the Libyans or Hashim Nidal that they were in the area.

  Meg unwrapped one of the three-thousand-calorie MREs and asked, “Can you eat this cold?”

  “Cold or hot, it doesn’t matter,” replied Harvath as he laid out a poncho liner for each of them to sleep on.

  “You have to boil it in the package if you want it hot, though, right?”

  “Yeah, but toxic chemicals leach off the wrapping, so you have to toss the water out afterward. It’s a waste of good water and that’s something you never do in the desert.”

  “But there’s an oasis just around the corner with plenty of water.”

  “And probably plenty of people who would be more than happy to let Nidal know we’re here. Let’s just say Jack and Jill will not go down the hill and will not be fetching a pail of water. Your MRE is already unwrapped, so you eat it cold.”

  Meg took a cautious bite and made a face right away. “God, this is terrible. How do you guys eat this stuff?”

  “I’ve eaten much worse.”

  “I can’t imagine worse than this.”

  “There is, believe me. You don’t want to hear about it.”

  “Well, with all of the advancements the military has made in weapons and technology, you’d think they could at least spend a little time in the food department.”

  “Now you’re starting to sound like a true soldier, Cassidy,” responded Harvath. “Let’s check your weapons.”

  Most of the men, except for the snipers, were carrying next-generation Heckler & Koch G11 caseless ammunition assault rifles. Though the G11 was an excellent weapon, Harvath and Meg carried H&K’s G36 modular weapon system, which, because of its collapsible stock, was effective both at longer ranges and in close-quarters battle. Harvath always liked to be prepared for anything.

  He was explaining how to fieldstrip the weapon and the importance of keeping everything free of sand when Morrell came back inside the cave followed by one of his men.

  “…and I think it just froze up,” said the man.

  “Those devices are supposed to be rated to extreme cold,” said Morrell as Harvath and Meg stopped what they were doing to listen to the conversation.

  “There are ones like that, but because we were deploying in a desert theater, we never thought we’d need anything arctic rated.”

  “What’s up?” asked Harvath.

  “Our Marty is nonoperational,” said the operative.

  “Your what?”

  “Marty McFly,” said Morrell. “That’s what we call our micro-mechanical flying insect. It’s a spin-off of a project the Navy code-named Robofly.”

  “You mean those tiny drones with the miniature fuel cells that can literally be a fly on the wall to gather intel?” asked Harvath.

  “The same,” answered Morrell. “We think the cold from the jump screwed ours up.”

  “Why would you drag one of those along on a sniping mission?”

  “Washington wants to know who the Saudi is. They thought if we could get the mini-drone in close enough, we could ID him.”

  “Jesus, anything else we can do while we’re here?” asked Harvath. “Maybe we can pick a few villages and help vaccinate some kids on our way out.”

  “I know. I know,” said Morrell.

  “So do I,” responded Harvath. “The more elements you try and add to a mission, the greater the chances it’s going to turn into one big GoFu.”

  “What’s a ‘GoFu’?” asked Meg.

  “A Goat Fuck, ma’am,” said the operative who was trying to fix the mini-drone.

  “Rick, there are already too many elements involved here, what with taking out Nidal and you being given the additional task of reconning the training camp. Be smart. Let’s not add anything more. Mark my words. Out here, anything that can go wrong, will go wrong, and it will screw our day major,” said Harvath.

  “Consider them marked,” replied Morrell as he turned back to help the operative with the drone.

  44

  The time difference between the east coast of the United States and Li
bya was six hours. By the time Harvath and Meg had organized all of their gear and gotten to sleep, it was after midnight for them back home and almost sunrise on the Ubari Sand Sea.

  Harvath had offered to post one of the four-hour guard shifts, but Morrell declined, saying he had more than enough men to cover the rotations. Harvath drifted into one of his deep trancelike states while Meg slept in interrupted, fitful bouts. At one point, she awoke with a start at the sound of bells, but Harvath was quick to cover her mouth. A herd of goats from one of the oasis farmers had wandered close to the mouth of the cave. Meg looked around and saw that every member of the team had his weapon drawn and was ready to kill the goatherd, should he be unlucky enough to stumble across them, but nothing happened. The goats moved on, and the team eventually stood down.

  After a while, Meg gave up trying to fall back asleep. Thoughts of what lay ahead filled her mind, and there was no way she could completely relax.

  Morrell had brought along two two-man sniper teams as part of the operation. The men who had gone out to recon the area had confirmed the distances to where they assumed the target would be, and the sniper teams were now quietly quizzing each other on ballistic charts. “At five hundred meters in ten-to-twelve-knot winds, how far will a three hundred Win Mag drop?” said one of the men.

  The spotter from the other team responded, “Considering the drag coefficient on a three hundred Win Mag, it’ll be seven inches off, right to left,” and so the conversation continued. It was completely over Meg’s head. All she knew was that there were at least seven more hours till sunset and God only knew how many more before Morrell would give the order to move out of the cave so they could take up their positions and await Hashim Nidal.

  Meg turned to Harvath to help pass the time. Normally, he would have been concerned with keeping an operative’s head in the game, but he realized Meg needed distraction. She didn’t want to think about what lay ahead. She needed to talk about something else…anything else.