by Brad Thor
As if reading Harvath’s thoughts, General Venrick spoke into his lip mike. “Jonah, this is the Old Man. Are you in a position to ascertain the nature of the whale’s skin?”
The fact that the satellite hadn’t been able to penetrate the building had bothered Venrick as well.
Speaking quietly into his throat mike, the team leader responded, “Negative. It looks the same as all the others.”
Checking Chaperone one last time, the general responded, “Jonah, you may cast your bread upon the waters. Over.”
“Roger that. Jonah out.”
With a flick of his fingers, the team leader sent two members scurrying around the back of the houses toward the rear of the target building. Two more were sent to the home just adjacent. Moving quickly and using the shadows for cover as much as possible, the remaining four members of the squad headed toward the ugly-crimson-colored door of a house just down the street from the target building.
As arranged by the Israelis, the door was unlocked. Weapons ready, the team entered the house, sweeping the first and then the second floors. Satisfied that it was clean, they carefully made their way to the roof. Slowly, the team leader raised the trapdoor and peered out. Confident there was no immediate danger, he took off his goggles and took a pair of more powerful night-vision binoculars from his pack. From what he could see, everything was quiet. He slid from underneath the hatch and crawled along the roof to its southeast corner.
So as not to give himself away, he balanced his goggles on the parapet wall of the roof and aimed them toward the objective. The team’s second in command toggled to the leader’s vision screen and, not seeing anything in the vicinity of the objective, flashed the leader a thumbs-up.
The man known as Jonah retrieved his goggles, crept forward toward the corner of the roof, and gently raised himself to look over the parapet wall with his binoculars. The objective was perfectly quiet, not even anyone on its roof. These Fatah guys were either very confident or very stupid.
Crawling back to the trapdoor, Jonah put his night-vision goggles back on before signaling the team’s sniper that it was all clear. Squeezing through the tight opening, the muscular and deadly accurate twenty-five-year-old rolled onto the roof and prepped his weapon.
He carried a silenced Walther WA2000 sniping rifle, which fired a .300 Winchester Magnum cartridge. Even without its Leupold night-vision scope and laser range finder, there wasn’t much the sniper couldn’t hit. With the specially designed barrel clamped at the front and rear, the torque from the large bullet wouldn’t lift it away from its intended target. The barrel had also been fluted, further reducing the gun’s vibrations on firing. With its pistol-style grip and customized butt and cheek pads, this weapon would do very nicely if anybody chose to come snooping around while operation Rapid Return was in progress.
Jonah and his two remaining team members were to make the frontal assault. Exiting the house where they’d left their sniper, the men picked their way down the deserted street, breathing a little easier knowing they were under the watchful and protective eyes of one of the best long guns the SEALs had ever trained.
The key elements of the mission were speed, surprise, and overwhelming force. As Jonah and his men neared the target building, all of its shutters were drawn. Adjusting the fine tuning on his goggles, Jonah looked up toward the flat roof and noticed that there were indeed sheets of what looked like lead protruding along the edges, covered with plaster and mud. Confident that the right people back in D.C. had seen what he had and knew what it was, he and his men carefully scanned the perimeter. There were no signs of any intrusion devices, not even dogs.
“Ishmael, this is Jonah,” he whispered, his throat mike perfectly picking up every word. “It is very quiet. Do you detect any motion?”
“Negative, Jonah. You are all clear. Proceed when ready.”
By means of the arched courtyard, two Rapid Return members were able to scale the common wall to reach the adjoining roof next door undetected.
Resisting the urge to make a joke about what a great haircut he could give the two team members who had just climbed upon the roof, the sniper kept his communication to the bare minimum and said into his throat mike, “Alpha, this is Watchdog. I have you in my sights and you are all clear.”
“Affirmative,” responded Alpha’s leader.
Hearing that Alpha was on the next roof, Jonah said into his throat mike, “Alpha, the whale’s skin may be tougher than we thought. Get over and check it out. I want an assessment ASAP.”
“Roger,” came Alpha’s response.
Quietly, the two men picked their way across the roof of the adjoining house, wary of weak spots thanks to a training story of an operative who fell through a roof in Panama.
Jonah and his team members stayed concealed in the shadows just down from the front of the target building as the other team waited behind it.
Finally, Alpha checked back in. “Jonah, this is Alpha. It looks like the roof entry is metal, pretty thick, but the hinges are on the outside. With a little bit of give glue, I think we can breach it.” Give glue referred to the small tubes of specially formulated acid paste that the teams carried with them on missions where doors would need to be breached and hinges couldn’t simply be blown away. Once applied, it ate through almost any type of metal in only a matter of seconds.
“Hold on, Alpha,” said Jonah. “Bravo, are you in position?”
“Roger. Good to go,” came the voice of the Bravo leader.
“Okay then, Alpha. Start the glue, and let us know when you’re ready,” said Jonah.
Creeping beneath the windows of the house, Jonah and his men made their way to the old wooden front door. As he’d figured, it was locked, but it would be nothing for them.
“Watchdog, you got the door in case they don’t like Avon calling?” asked Jonah.
“Knock, knock, motherfucker. Just like when we did Qaddafi. I’ve gotcha covered,” replied Watchdog.
“Alpha, how are we doing?”
“Almost there.”
“Good, listen up. Just like we planned. Fast and furious. Flash bangs first. Does everyone copy?”
“Bravo. Roger.”
“Alpha. Roger…And it looks like we are ready to crash the party. On your command, Jonah. Over.”
The men in the sit room held their breath.
“Okay. On my command. Firemen, take your positions. Pitchers, ready your flash bangs. We go in five…four…three…two…one. Now!”
In sync, Jonah’s men breached their respective entry points, tossed in their flash bangs, and quickly followed once the concussions had detonated.
What Rapid Return’s recovery team never had a chance to see was the white-hot blaze that moments later appeared on Chaperone’s screen as the entire street, and the house they had entered, were reduced to dust. The SEALs, including their sniper, never saw it coming.
32
At the same moment Chaperone showed the building exploding, the night-vision images from the SEAL battle cams disappeared and were replaced on each monitor with a chilling two-word message: Off Line.
The shock and silence in the sit room were quickly replaced by a frenzy of activity. Glancing up at the monitor that fed a live picture from JSOC command, Harvath noticed it was chaotic there as well.
Every phone in the sit room was being used by people trying to figure out what had happened. Scot was closest to General Venrick, and he listened as Venrick tried to get a handle on things. “…We were able to figure that out from here. It looks like it was a very big one. At least one to two square blocks from what Chaperone is showing us right now…
“First things first. Can we confirm the status of the Rapid Return team?…What about the Israeli assets on-site?…My God. Only one? Have him get in there and get a better look…. We have got to get confirmation. If there are injured men there, we need to get them out…. I agree. We began to worry about it as well, but it’s a little late for that now…. All right. Get on the I
sraelis, and get back to me as soon as you get an update. In the meantime, I want you to roll back the tape on the battle cams to one minute before they went off-line and feed it back here in slow mo…. Negative. Until we know what the situation is, all teams are to stand by. That’s it. Get going.”
The general shook his head in disgust, feeling he should have pressed the vice president harder to postpone the recovery attempt until they had gathered more intelligence. Instead, a crack SEAL team had walked right into a trap. His increased dislike of the vice president was surpassed only by the shame he felt in losing men under his command. This had been a half-baked idea from the start and he should have stopped it.
As JSOC command fed back the battle cam images in slow mo, the general used his com link to give orders to freeze-frame certain images and rewind others. A team of military experts, aided by the ATF, would be poring over these pictures for months ascertaining whether there was one blast or several, where the blast or blasts originated, as well as what type of explosive device was used. But for now, the general needed to put together his own picture of what had happened.
The images showed that each of the assault teams was able to successfully breach its entry point and pitch in its flash bangs, hoping to stun any immediate targets with the blinding white light and concussion tremors they emitted. After the teams entered, the battle cams showed that they moved quickly and began to secure the rooms on their respective levels. The cams showed what appeared to be sleeping men in some of the rooms, but would the kidnappers actually booby-trap themselves?
Before any of the men could be secured with the plastic riot cuffs that the teams always carried, there was a bright flash and the cams went off-line. Because of the need for his vision to be unimpaired while he looked through the night-vision scope on his rifle, the sniper’s battle cam wasn’t of much help. His goggles had been placed on top of his pack, off to his left-hand side. His images lasted for only a few frames more than those of his teammates, who presumably were at the epicenter of the explosion. Whatever had been used was extremely powerful. Chances were low to absolutely nonexistent that any of the team had survived.
In the midst of the chaos, no one noticed that the president’s direct line rang and that the vice president’s chief of staff had answered it until he cupped the mouthpiece and screamed for everyone to quiet down.
The entire room was taken aback. His face was ashen. “How did you get this number?” DaFina asked.
Lawlor knew exactly who was on the phone and was the first one to react. He picked up the phone in front of him and dialed faster than he ever had in his life. When a voice answered on the other end, he gave his name, password, and location. He gave the orders to begin a trace and was floored by the response, “No can do.”
“What?” Lawlor hissed into the phone. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This is a matter of national security. Now trace the damn call!”
Lawlor’s boss, FBI director Sorce put a hand on his arm and whispered, “Gary, they can’t trace any calls coming or going from the sit room. It’s impossible.”
“What do you mean, impossible?” he asked.
“When the room and equipment were updated, so were the communications. The lines had to be tap- and trace-proof. Besides, who would have ever envisioned a scenario like this where a trace would be necessary?”
Lawlor felt impotent. All he could do was sit and watch. The worst of it was that DaFina was doing all of the talking.
“He wants me to put him on speakerphone. How do I do that?” DaFina asked, once again cupping the mouthpiece.
Two button punches later and the cyborg-style voice that Lawlor remembered all too well clicked out of the overhead speakers.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the voice said.
Since the kidnappers had originally established contact with Lawlor, no one objected as he rose from his seat to walk over to the active phone. As he rounded the table, Vice President Marshfield held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. Lawlor was stunned.
The voice continued, “I trust your vice president is present?”
DaFina slid the phone toward him. “Yes, I am here. Who is this?”
“More silly games,” said the voice. “You know exactly who this is. Did you enjoy our little demonstration?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Mr. Vice President, I will say this only once. Do not play games with me.”
“Where is the president?”
“He is quite comfortable, I assure you.”
“How can we be sure?”
“Mr. Vice President, we have already proven that we have him and that we are capable of outthinking you and your military. The explosion was quite an unfortunate, but necessary occurrence. So many souls called to Allah, unwitting of the role they have played in the Jihad.”
“Is that what this is all about, some kind of holy war?”
“I commend you, Mr. Vice President. Your knowledge of foreign affairs is greater than your critics give you credit for.”
The insult raised the hairs on the back of the vice president’s neck. Inwardly, almost every member in the sit room would have congratulated the kidnapper for that jibe if he hadn’t been behind so much death and mayhem.
“You will not get away with this. I guarantee you,” said the vice president.
“But, I already have.”
“What do you want?”
“First, I want to be treated with some respect for my intelligence. Did you actually think I would not know when I called the FBI that they would start an immediate trace? Do you think after all of my careful planning I would allow this dance to be so quickly brought to an end? By underestimating me, you may be forced to pay the price twice.”
“Twice?” said the vice president. “What do you mean twice?”
“By now you should be very well aware that your men did not survive the explosion we set. That was the first price. If we were able to slay any of the Israeli pigs that might have been working with the U.S.A. in their feeble rescue attempt, then all the better. But, the second price will come if you do not cooperate. Evidence will be produced that will link this explosion back to you and the unrecognized State of Israel. It will be seen as an act of U.S.-supported Israeli terrorism against the Palestinian people.”
All eyes in the room were upon the vice president.
“Whatever evidence you might fabricate, it will never work.”
“Just as a plot to kidnap your president would never work? Tsk, tsk, Mr. Vice President. I believe you are still underestimating me.”
“You know, Mr…. if it is Mr. I don’t even know your name,” said the vice president.
“My name is not important. What is important are my demands. I want my men released immediately.”
“It is the policy of the United States government not to negotiate with terrorists.”
“Is it really? Is this the same no-negotiation policy that was in effect during your arms for hostages fiasco with Iran?” asked the voice.
“That was then, and this is now. We absolutely do not negotiate with terrorists. The two men you want killed scores of innocent Americans.”
“In our opinion, Mr. Vice President, there is no such thing as an innocent American, and further, how many innocent people have been killed throughout the Middle East as a result of the meddling of the United States?”
Several people at the table were motioning for the vice president to shut up and discontinue his hard line with the kidnappers, but he ignored them.
“I’ll make you a deal,” said the vice president, pausing for effect.
“A deal? You are in no position to make demands of us! It is we who have your president, and it is we who will make the demands of you. As your show of good faith, you will release our men as we have requested and you will convince Egypt to unfreeze our assets. You will do this immediately!” said the voice, and then the line went dead.
Lawlor leaned over to his boss. “Hell of a negoti
ator. Where’d this asshole learn his technique?”
The FBI director didn’t answer. He knew everyone else in the room was thinking the exact same thing. The vice president was completely out of his league.
33
After the meeting in the sit room was adjourned, everyone quietly filed out, still in shock. They were horrified not only by the failure of Rapid Return and the loss of top-rate operatives, but also by the way the vice president had handled the kidnappers’ phone call.
Director Jameson gave Scot a subtle cue to hang back with him. In a few moments the only other people still sitting at the table were the directors of the FBI and CIA, along with Gary Lawlor.
“It looks like your instincts were right,” said the CIA director to Harvath.
“It didn’t do those men much good, though,” replied Scot.
“What could you have done?”
“I’ve asked myself that a million times. Not only about tonight, but Sunday too. These guys, whoever they are, really know what they’re doing.”
“What I want to know,” said Lawlor, “is how the hell they got my direct line as well as the president’s here in the sit room.”
As the lock on the soundproof door of the sit room clicked and was followed by the hiss of it swinging open, the men fell silent.
“Don’t you men have work to do?” asked Chief of Staff DaFina as he walked across the room to retrieve a file he had left on the table.
Vaile beat the others to the punch. “You know what, DaFina? What we’re doing and how we’re doing it is none of your goddamn business.”
Harvath was taken by surprise. Director Vaile had a reputation for being unfailingly diplomatic. Both DaFina and his boss, the vice president, rubbed even the calmest of people the wrong way.