Authors: Vince Flynn
T
he U.S. Air Force Special Operations helicopter streaked across the calm moonlit waters of Leyte Gulf. Up ahead loomed Dinagat Island and the site where two of their fellow warriors had been gunned down just days earlier. Only one of the men in the helicopter was on active duty but that didn't matter. Once a SEAL always a SEAL.
Coleman and his team were coming to settle the score, but somewhere else in the interior of the island, under the thick jungle cover, was an American family that was undoubtedly scared witless. The former commander of SEAL Team 6 wished he could do something to help them, but right now that was out of his hands.
Coleman and his men had moved to the side doors of the bird, two men to each side, their feet dangling over the edge, each man clipped to a safety harness in the event the helicopter had to make a drastic, evasive maneuver. They were all wearing night vision goggles, giving their eyes ample time to adjust.
In addition, Coleman was plugged into an in-flight headset so he could communicate with the pilots. As he peered out the port door he listened to the chatter. The pilots were reporting four contacts on the FLIR moving toward the island from the east. They were right on time.
To help mask their insertion Coleman had asked that choppers from the
Belleau Wood
make an overflight of the island while they were being inserted. The big CH-53 Sea Stallions would fly just south of the target area while the Pave Hawk came in from the north under a ridge line. Coleman wasn't at all worried about being picked up on radar. They would be flying too low for that. The problem was that when the sun came up they needed to be in position a little less than a mile from the general's camp.
In order to do that, the Pave Hawk would have to drop them off closer to the target than he would have liked. The sentries at the field command post would probably never hear the Pave Hawk's rotors in the heavy, humid tropical air, and if they did, they might think nothing of it, but if the general decided to send out scouts it could be a problem. Coleman wasn't in the business of taking unnecessary risks when a solution as simple as arranging a flyover was available.
The calm water vanished from beneath them and was replaced by a light sandy beach and then the thick jungle canopy. Coleman looked straight down, peering over the toes of his jungle boots. They were so low he felt as if he could reach down and grab a leaf. The helicopter began to climb as they worked their way up a ravine using their terrain-avoidance, terrain-following radar to hug the treetops. The pilot calmly called out one minute to insertion as the chopper weaved to the left and then back to the right as if it were meandering its way upstream.
Coleman tugged on his leather gloves to make sure they were tight and placed a hand on the heavy coil of rope that lay between himself and Kevin Hackett. The pilot called out thirty seconds to insertion, his voice just a touch tighter this time, and then asked his door gunners to report in. The men, one on each side of the bird, looked out past their ominous 7.62mm miniguns and scanned the area, reporting all clear after just a moment. One by one Coleman and his men undid their safety tethers and grabbed on to hand straps on the sides of each door.
Coleman's heart quickened and his chest tightened a bit as the helicopter started to slow. He'd gone through this drill hundreds of times and it never changed. He'd seen men die fast-roping in near perfect conditions. It was not something to be done half-assed. It was a task that needed to be performed with great care and focus.
The second Coleman heard the Go word from the pilot he chucked the thick rope out the door and tore off his in-flight headset. Without hesitation he reached for the rope with one hand and then the other. Coleman launched himself out the door, pulled the rope close to his chest, and then loosened his grip. He dropped like a stone for the first thirty feet and then with ten feet to go he put on the clamps and slowed his descent.
His boots broke the surface of the stream and he stopped knee deep in water. Coleman moved away from the rope, bringing his suppressed MP-10 up and sweeping the banks of the stream, his NVGs piercing the dark recesses of the area. Over his earpiece, he heard each of his men call out as they hit the ground, announcing they were clear. In the wake of the rotor wash the men moved quickly through the water to a predetermined rallying point on the east bank of the stream.
The Pave Hawk rotated 180 degrees as the ropes were pulled back up, and then started its descent back toward the ocean. Normally the ropes would have been dropped and left behind, but Coleman and his men didn't have the time to gather and bury them. They needed to get to their mountaintop before the sun came up.
The entire insertion took less than ten seconds. Coleman and his men moved out immediately, never looking up at the chopper as it left the area. Wicker took the point, followed by Coleman and then Hackett and Stroble. They moved in the stream carefully, picking their way through the rocks, their eyes and ears receptive to the slightest sign that they were not alone; their first order of business, to put as much distance between themselves and the infiltration point as possible.
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The Philippine army helicopter approached the island from the southwest, the edge of the rising sun casting an orange glow across the thin horizon. Rapp sat in the back of the Bell UH-1 Huey with a Special Force's colonel from General Rizal's staff. Rizal did not like the idea of sending Rapp into General Moro's camp unaccompanied, so he had sent along his most trusted aide to make sure nothing happened to the mysterious American.
Rapp wasn't crazy about having someone looking over his shoulder, but he had to admit, if anything went wrong it would be nice to have a high-ranking Philippine Special Force's officer around to settle things down. Rizal had assured him that Colonel Barboza was not a fan of General Moro. Barboza had served under Moro and was highly suspicious of his actions. The proof that Rapp had brought with him had confirmed some of what he suspected and much more.
Fortunately, Colonel Barboza wasn't a big talker. Rapp had been with him now for over two hours and the officer had scarcely spoken a word. They'd boarded General Rizal's jet back in Manila just before 4:00
A.M.
and flown to Surigao in the Central Philippines. They then jumped onboard the Huey for the relatively short flight over to Dinagat Island.
Rapp had made only two calls on his secure satellite phone during that time. Both had been to Irene Kennedy. One confirmed that McMahon was in position to keep an eye on Ambassador Cox and the second confirmed that Coleman's team had been successfully inserted. Whether or not they were in place was still unknown. Rapp had the ability to contact them directly, but resisted the urge. Having spent most of his career in the field, he understood that they'd let him know their situation as soon as they were able. The plan was for Coleman to call him when he was in position.
D
avid had been given very simple instructions. At 6:00 p.m., when the narrow streets of Jerusalem were choked with traffic, he was to be dropped off at the All Nations Church on Jericho Road and then walk north. His Range Rover pulled up in front of the church fifteen seconds early. David took a moment to gather himself and then after thanking his driver he stepped from the vehicle and onto the curb. He was resplendent in an expensive, dark-blue four-button Italian suit, white dress shirt, sans tie, and black shoes. His eyes were covered with chic black sunglasses and his thick black hair was slicked back behind his ears.
David's classic good looks ensured that he always stood out in a crowd, but waiting in front of the church, within view of the Al Aqsa Mosque, holding two identical attaché cases, he drew even more looks than usual. He set the two cases down, and fished out a pack of cigarettes. After lighting one, he stood there trying to look relaxed, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the cigarette. He took a few earnest drags and surveyed the area. The church that he was parked in front of was a favorite tourist spot for Christians. The All Nations Church, or The Church of the Agony, as it was known by the old-timers, was not the ideal place to start such a journey.
Having grown up in the city, David couldn't help but be aware of the three religions. Each of them, he had noticed from an early age, loved to commemorate pain and suffering, but none of them more so than the Christians. David looked up at the ornate pediment that sat atop the church's colonnade. The gilded mosaic depicted the Agony of Christ as he prayed to his father the night before he was to be crucified. David glanced to the north at the small Garden of Gethsemane and its well-tended olive trees. They marked the spot where Jesus was betrayed by Judas and arrested. As the believers of the fourth major religion would have said, he was surrounded by bad karma.
He had little doubt that his Palestinian cohorts knew little of Christianity and Judaism, and what they did know were mostly lies propagated by racist caliphs, imams and sheiks. The Jews were of course the most savaged. The Muslim leaders repeatedly told their flock that during Passover Jews sacrificed young Palestinian children and drank their blood.
The ludicrous and unchallenged lies perpetuated themselves from one generation to the next. David looked to the place where Jesus had been betrayed. He knew of no Palestinian clever enough to intentionally start this journey from a place of such biblical importance. Besides, if they had the slightest clue that he had met with the head of Mossad, they would simply grab him and torture him until he revealed everything. They would never play some elaborate game. It was not the way of his people. They were too driven by emotion.
The early evening sun was still fairly high in the sky as he looked up and down the street. They were out there watching him; Palestinians and Israelis alike. David hoped that Ben Freidman wasn't so dumb as to try to trail him for the entire journey. Security for such a meeting was very tight. If the people who were to transport him got even the slightest whiff that they were being followed, they might easily abort.
Tonight's meeting, though, would be a bit different from the usual. They were all waiting on him this time, like greedy little children. They wanted their cash and that meant they would take risks to make sure he got there. Still, David wondered what Freidman and his spies from Mossad were up to. David had specified that no transponders be placed in the attaché cases. The reason for this was obvious. The security people in charge of the meeting would be carrying countermeasures that would detect just such a device. Freidman would know that, but David knew that Freidman would also never trust him enough to just let him wander off with fourteen pounds of plastic explosives.
He'd verified that weight as soon as he'd gotten back to his apartment that afternoon. Freidman's people had put seven pounds of the lethal explosives in each case rather than the five he asked for. The yield of each case had been increased by forty percent. This would make his mission all the more difficult to pull off, but he had a plan that would hopefully enable him to walk away unscathed.
After throwing his half-smoked cigarette into the street, David grabbed the two cases and started north. At the first intersection he crossed the street and continued on his way, passing the Tomb of the Virgin Mary on his right. He'd walked almost another block when without warning a blue Toyota van came to a sudden stop next to him and the side door slid open. David, having done this many times before, casually veered to his left and stepped into the waiting van. They were moving again before he was seated. Someone from behind threw the door closed and then the man in the seat next to him began frisking every inch of his body, starting with his left ankle.
E
ach step was taken with great care. Smaller rocks lying at odd angles were avoided while the men searched for firmer footing. They kept their separation at all times, Wicker setting the pace and each man in succession responsible for not falling too far behind or bunching up. This very act, this art form, of moving silently through total darkness, on an unblazed trail with a thirty-pound pack in hostile territory was perhaps the most difficult thing for a Special Forces soldier to master.
All four of the men picking their way through the jungle tonight excelled at this silent skill. They'd made steady progress since the insertion, but the terrain did not lend itself to a rapid pace. Coleman was beginning to doubt that they'd be in position by sunup. At the rare moments when the jungle canopy parted he could tell the sky was quickly going from black to dark gray. He checked his watch. The sun would be starting its crawl over the eastern horizon.
Clutching his MP-10 in his gloved hands, Coleman looked down through his NVGs, in search of firm footing so he could boost himself over a fallen tree. As he placed his right foot on the moss-slick tree he looked up to check on Wicker and froze. Charlie Wicker was standing completely still, his right hand held up in a fist. Coleman's own fist snapped up without hesitation, signaling the men behind him to freeze. The former commander of SEAL Team 6 searched in vain to see what had spooked his point man.
After several tense moments, Wicker gestured for Coleman to join him. He could have used his headset to call for him, but used hand signals instead. Coleman silently slithered over the log and carefully made his way to Wicker's position.
Wicker turned, cupping a hand over Coleman's ear and whispered, “There's movement up ahead.”
Coleman's eyes strained to see what he was talking about, then whispered back, “I don't see a thing.”
Wicker pointed to his ear, meaning he'd heard something.
“Animal?” asked Coleman.
Wicker shook his head. “Definitely human. I'm going to go sneak a peek.”
Coleman nodded and shooed him on his way. Keeping his eyes on Wicker he raised his hand above his head and gestured for Hackett and Stroble to join him. If Wicker ran into trouble they needed to be in position to help him out. When the other two were at his side he briefed them on what Wicker was doing and then the three of them moved forward one by one.
They continued up the left side of the small creek to a point where it flattened. The rocks were replaced by a grassy bank. They moved forward in a crouch, treading lightly and staying close to the drooping branches of the trees. After rounding the next slight jog in the creek Coleman sighted Wicker about forty feet ahead of them kneeling next to a tree. He also, for the first time, heard the voices that had spooked his point man. It sounded like two men talking in hushed tones.
Coleman didn't like this development one bit. As far as islands went, Dinagat wasn't very small. Over thirty miles in length and twelve across, there was only one main road that ran northâsouth and they weren't anywhere near it. The odds of them accidentally running into a couple of locals at this remote juncture, and this early hour, were minuscule.
Coleman's thoughts drifted to the dark memory of the two SEALs who were lost on the beach not far from where he stood. He'd seen the proof of how that mission had been compromised, but for the life of him he couldn't imagine how this little covert endeavor could have been blown. Rapp had assured him that the circle of people who were in the know was tiny. And the number of people who knew the exact specifics, such as insertion points and times, was limited to just their war party and the pilots who'd ferried them in.
But still, they weren't alone out here in this jungle and it would be light soon. Coleman watched as Wicker turned toward him with the single lens of his NVGs protruding from his face. Wicker pointed toward his eyes with two fingers and then held three fingers up in the air, telling Coleman that he had three enemies in sight. Wicker then waved him up. Coleman turned to Hackett and Stroble, pointed at them and then held a clenched fist in the air. They both nodded their confirmation and then Coleman moved out.
It took him the better part of a minute to reach Wicker and on the way he noticed the smell of tobacco in the air. This made him feel slightly better. It was improbable that anyone waiting to ambush him and his men would be dumb enough to smoke cigarettes, but then again, Coleman had seen people do a lot of truly stupid things in the field.
When he reached Wicker's position he saw the men standing approximately fifty feet from them. They were on the opposite side of the creek next to what appeared to be a bridge made of fallen trees and stones. Water trickled from under the bridge as the creek dropped several feet into a circular pool of water that meandered its way toward them. A thin mist hung in the air.
Coleman noted the small waterfall and the noise it produced. The trickling sound would help conceal their own approach. The two tangos were carrying AK-47s with their distinctive banana clips, and the third man was carrying a rifle that he couldn't quite make out. The weapons were slung over their shoulders, muzzles pointed down. Coleman frowned at the stupidity of such a move.
Whoever these three Filipinos were, they weren't very smart, and if they'd ever received any formal military training, they'd already forgotten all the important parts. After watching them for another moment Coleman decided there was no way they were here to spring an ambush. They were more than likely Abu Sayyaf, and the way they were acting suggested they weren't too worried about security. If this was the best the Islamic terrorist group had to offer, the former SEAL Team 6 commander felt pretty good about the odds of the rescue operation succeeding.
There was also the possibility that the men were part of a local militia or workers for one of the island's farms. The intelligence dump he'd received on the island told him that with Abu Sayyaf roaming about, everyone had armed themselves.
SEALs were normally very good at patiently waiting and watching an enemy, but right now Coleman needed to get his team to the top of the mountain that was still a quarter of a mile straight uphill. There were three options. The first, most straightforward, and least desirable option was to kill the three men and get on with their mission. If he knew with any certainty that they were Abu Sayyaf, he'd gladly pull the trigger himself. The downside of that, however, was that they had to come back down the mountain when they were done, and three missing terrorists might bring some unwanted attention to the area.
The easiest course of action was to do nothing. Wait until the men moved on, and then proceed. But time was not a luxury at this point. They needed to get moving, and they needed to do it fast. That unfortunately meant backtracking a bit and then moving through the jungle to get around the men. Any way he sliced it they were running out of time. Coleman didn't want to admit it yet, but it was looking more and more like they wouldn't be making it to the top of the mountain on time.
Coleman felt Wicker's hand on his bicep. He turned to see the point man walk two fingers in front of his face signaling that more people were approaching. The man's hearing was supernormal. Coleman, who was no novice in the woods, hadn't heard a thing.
Suddenly, the three Filipinos by the bridge threw their cigarettes to the ground and stamped them out with their sandaled feet. One by one they unshouldered their weapons and tried to look alert. Coleman heard someone speaking Filipino to the men from farther up the trail. Suddenly, there was another flurry of activity. Two of the men rushed to the other side of the small bridge and took up positions as the fourth man appeared from the jungle. Coleman saw that the man was carrying an M16 and â¦
Both he and Wicker ducked behind the tree at the same time. There was no mistaking the profile of the new man. He had on a pair of night vision goggles. They lay completely still behind the tree listening for the slightest indication that they'd been spotted. After what seemed like an eternity, Coleman peered out from the opposite side of the tree. From his new vantage he could only see one side of the bridge. The man with the goggles was nowhere to be seen. Carefully, he slithered on the ground, backing up at first and then working his way toward the creek.
Once again, with a full view of the bridge, he found the man he was looking for. The man had flipped his NVGs into the up position and was talking in Filipino to the two men on the far side of the bridge. He pointed in the opposite direction from which he'd come and the two men immediately took off down the trail. The man with the M16 then pulled his goggles back down and began scanning the area. Coleman smoothly drew back behind the tree. The wisest thing for them to do right now was to sit tight. It was better to lie still than risk attracting attention.
Running down the list of possibilities, Coleman wondered if their insertion had been noticed and the guerrillas were attempting to set up a picket. If more men arrived and they began working their way down the stream it would be a foregone conclusion. Thinking ahead, the commander began to plot an ambush. If they had to, they could do it on the fly.
Coleman would leave Wicker where he was and the commander and Hackett would collapse to the middle. They'd let the enemy work their way down the stream far enough until they were fully flanked by his position and then they'd unload with Stroble and Wicker working their way from the outside in and he and Hackett the inside out. It would not be difficult for them to take down at least twelve men before a warning shot was fired.
Coleman was about to fall back when he felt Wicker tightly squeeze his arm and not let go. Looking over, Coleman saw that his point man was looking at the bridge from the other side of the tree. Slowly Coleman peeked out from behind the right side. He blinked twice in disbelief. It took him a moment to process what was happening on the small bridge and another moment to realize that his finger had moved off the guard and onto the thin trigger of his MP-10.