Authors: David DeBatto
The Apache climbed quickly, at low altitudes an easy target for shoulder-fireds and RPGs.
“You’re three blocks beyond the take-out point,” DeLuca heard in his headset. “Come back, come back three!”
Zoulalian turned right, then right again onto the street that paralleled the beach, racing past a row of fish vendors and
an open-air bar, speeding another block before turning left at a marine repair shop when the way ahead was barricaded by a
pair of overturned cars. He threaded his way between overturned brightly colored fishing boats and turned right again once
he hit the beach, the van fishtailing and slowing as the sand grabbed at the tires. The way ahead was clear, until DeLuca
saw a man rise from the sand and wave his arms at them to stop.
“Navy SEAL, Navy SEAL!” he heard in his earpiece as Zoulalian hit the brakes. “Claymores directly in front of you—do not proceed!”
Team Red spilled from the van, MacKenzie staying by the ambassador’s side, while DeLuca gazed seaward, where he saw the destroyer
USS
Minneapolis
, and closer in, the LST from which the helicopters had launched. The USS
Lyndon Johnson
, the aircraft carrier that was their final destination, cruised beyond the horizon.
The SEAL stood in the sand, pointing to a spot at his feet and gesturing with his arm for the team to approach.