Executive Power (16 page)

C
oleman reached the summit of the small mountain huffing and puffing from the breakneck pace he'd kept for nearly twenty minutes. With sweat covering every inch of his body he took a knee and did a quick one-eighty of the relatively minute area before him. The summit was not big. A large, dark gray, almost black, rock occupied almost one entire side of the crest. It was covered with a few stubborn trees and bushes, their roots running down into the rock's deep fissures. Directly in front of Coleman lay a gently sloping shelf covered in grass and shielded from the sun by several twisted trees. On first glance he missed Wicker.

Positioned between the base of a tree and a clump of bushes, the soles of Wicker's jungle boots were all that was visible. Coleman dropped to his belly and crawled through the knee-high grass. When he reached Wicker he noticed that the more agile man had already unpacked and assembled his .50-caliber Barrett M82A1 rifle and was surveying the lay of the land through a pair of M19/22 binoculars.

Out of breath but not the least bit embarrassed by it, Coleman asked, “What's the sit rep?”

Wicker remained motionless as he peered through the powerful binoculars. “I did a quick check of the perimeter, and it looks like we're alone.”

“Any sign of Mitch?”

“No, but we've got a Huey down there with a pair of hot engines, and a very nervous colonel standing outside of General Moro's tent.”

Coleman frowned. “How in the hell do you know it's Moro's tent?”

“Because someone was dumb enough to hang a sign with his name and rank on it.”

“You're shittin' me.”

“Nope. Have a look for yourself.” Wicker handed Coleman the binoculars and nestled in behind his high-powered rifle scope.

The former SEAL commander did a quick check of the camp and announced, “Well, if that isn't one of the stupidest things I've ever seen.”

Wicker silently concurred while he used his scope to check out several likely spots where an enemy sniper might be lying in wait. He was a cautious man by nature, but he was also extremely confident in his skills.

This Philippine Special Forces group didn't appear to be a crack outfit. From the sign hanging on the general's tent, to the lack of perimeter security, it looked like a truly sloppy operation. The odds that they'd deployed a counter-sniper team seemed unlikely. Even more in his favor, though, was the distance of the shot that he was to take. There were only a handful of men in the world who could execute a head shot at this distance. If there was a counter-sniper team about they would be focusing on a perimeter of 500 meters, give or take 100 meters. Wicker was well outside that range. Even so, he was breaking many of his own rules.

They'd arrived while the sun was up, and he'd slithered into position without donning his ghillie sniper suit. Covered with netting and burlap strips in various shades of green the sniper suit allowed him to disappear into the terrain. If given proper time, he would have added the natural vegetation of his surroundings to the suit, ultimately making him invisible to even the most well-trained pair of eyes.

“What do you think?” asked Coleman.

“I think these guys aren't real worried about being attacked.”

Next came the important question. “Can you make the shot?”

Wicker brought the crosshairs of his scope back to the general's tent and centered them on the colonel's head. Moving his eye away from the glass aperture, he looked to the east at the rising sun. The horizon was ablaze with a brilliant bank of storm clouds. For now the weather was acceptable. There was no wind yet, but that would undoubtedly change as the front approached.

Wicker eased his left eye back behind the scope and said, “Tell him I can handle it.”

Coleman, who was still breathing heavily, marveled at the sniper's calm demeanor. After retrieving the satellite phone from one of his thigh pockets, he punched in a number and waited.

T
he director general of Mossad leaned forward and stared intently at one of the large screens. It showed a section of one of the nastiest neighborhoods in all of Israel. The analyst to Freidman's right spoke in hushed tones.

“Look at the roadblocks.” With a laser pointer, the man marked the three avenues of access to the hillside neighborhood. “And look at the four men on this rooftop right here.” He circled the roof of the building in red light.

“Lookouts?” questioned Freidman.

“That and probably more.” The man said something into his headset and the rooftop was magnified. “I'm ninety percent sure two of those men are carrying RPGs.”

Freidman looked at the grainy black, green and white image. It was being shot from the underbelly of a customized DHC-7 four-engine turboprop. Part of an aid package from the United States, the plane was outfitted with the Highly Integrated Surveillance and Reconnaissance System, or HISAR. The plane was designed to provide both image and signal intelligence in real time.

The men on the rooftop with rocket-propelled grenades were not unexpected. Since the Black Hawk Down incident in Somalia back in 1993 every terrorist in the Middle East had realized how easy it was to shoot down a hovering helicopter. For this, and several other reasons, Freidman had ruled out sending in a team of commandos. There were other, less risky ways to handle the job.

Freidman shifted his glance to one of the other large screens. It gave a broader picture of Hebron. In the center of it a laser dot marked the roof of a sedan that was speeding through the streets. With each passing moment the tiny car worked its way closer to the hillside neighborhood that they'd already identified. It looked like things were going to work.

Suddenly, the sedan stopped at a roadblock that had gone unnoticed. The man on Freidman's right spoke into his headset and almost immediately the airborne low-light camera zoomed in on the roadblock. The room watched tensely as several people got out of the car. One of them walked to the rear of the sedan and placed two objects on the trunk. Others gathered around.

“Give me full magnification on the trunk of that car,” barked Freidman.

Several tense seconds passed and then they were treated to a welcome sight. It looked like the two attaché cases were still in play. Freidman watched as they were closed. He muttered something unintelligible to himself and blinked several times.

The entire room watched in silence as the man with the cases was led through the roadblock and into a waiting van. The camera zoomed out, following the van as it wound its way up the narrow streets. A digital clock on the wall above the TVs crept downward from five minutes. In two minutes and twenty-eight seconds the burst transmitter would send confirmation of the location of the attaché cases and then the waiting would be over.

All at once the four large screens fell into sync, and at the center of each was the house they had expected to see. Freidman watched as the van carrying his instrument of retribution stopped directly in front of the target. Needing no further confirmation, he turned to the general on his left and nodded.

 

Hovering at 500 feet, on the outskirts of Hebron, lurked two of the most efficient killing machines ever built by man, or more precisely, the Boeing Corporation of America. The AH-64D Apache Longbow helicopter was an unrivaled lethal machine. Its fire control radar target acquisition system allowed it to classify and prioritize up to 125 targets in just seconds. Even more impressive was the system's ability to designate the sixteen most dangerous targets and engage them with the Longbow's fire-and-forget Hellfire laser-guided missiles or AIM-9 Sidewinder air-to-air missiles. The Apache Longbow is the most advanced attack helicopter in the world, and in some people's minds the most advanced flying machine in the world.

The two birds had been on station for thirty-six minutes, patiently awaiting their orders. They'd lifted off from their airfield in the Negev and proceeded north, avoiding all towns and roadways. The Longbows that had been on station since late afternoon had returned to base to refuel.

Floating on the other side of a small ridgeline, eight kilometers from Hebron, the two choppers were running dark, their navigation lights extinguished. Each helicopter was configured for a multirole mission. They carried eight Hellfire missiles, thirty-eight Hydra 70mm folding-fin aerial rockets and 1,200 rounds of 30mm ammunition for their belly-mounted chain guns.

The amount of firepower that the Apache could carry was not what set it apart from other helicopters. The chopper, in fact, had rivals that could carry almost twice the amount of firepower. What set the Apache Longbow apart was its accuracy, stability and maneuverability. It was an all-weather attack helicopter designed to engage multiple targets with a focus on armor.

The Apache had been designed as a tank killer, but its designers had been so successful that its mission had grown. At the start of the Gulf War in 1991 it was the Apache that fired the first shots. Led by a Pave Low helicopter, a flight of Apaches snuck into Iraq under the radar and using their Sidearm anti-radar missiles, they punched a big hole in Iraq's air defense network. Through that hole poured hundreds of coalition fighters and bombers. Within hours, virtually the entire Iraqi air defense network was shut down.

And that was more than a decade ago. Since then the Apache had been given a complete overhaul that included the Longbow fire control radar, an improved navigation system, air-to-air capability, fire-and- forget missiles and increased battlefield survivability due to improved engines, electrical systems and avionics.

Taking on buildings and lightly armed men was not what the platform had been designed for, but the men flying the machines were not about to argue with the bosses in Tel Aviv. If they wanted to use a hammer to kill a fly that was their decision. The pilots and copilot gunners waited for their orders and monitored their various instruments.

The pilots looked out at the surrounding area with their Night Vision Sensors and monitored their ships' vitals, while the copilot gunners looked through their Target Acquisition Designation Sights. The surveillance plane circling above the city at 15,000 feet was sending a constant stream of information to the onboard fire control computers of the Longbows. Multiple targets were painted with lasers. All that was left to do was arm the missiles and engage.

The order to move came over the encrypted digital communications link. Simultaneously the twin General Electric gas turbine engines on each bird increased power and the helicopters began to climb. They moved over the ridgeline, closing on the city of Hebron at a cautious fifty knots. With each passing second the fire control computers effortlessly calculated a new solution to each target. In less than a minute the town of Hebron would be ablaze.

H
is fingers had just touched the cool black steel of his Beretta when he felt his satellite phone vibrate. Rapp froze for only a second but Moro noticed.

In an attempt to conceal his tension, Rapp smiled, and said, “I'll never get used to these damn vibrating phones.” He withdrew his hand from the Beretta and grabbed the phone from his belt. “Excuse me, General, I've been waiting for this call.”

Moro flashed a forced smile and nodded. He was now watching Rapp's movements with greater interest.

“Hello,” Rapp answered. He listened for a moment and then replied, “Yes. It's a deal. He's offered to join forces with us.” Rapp listened for another few seconds. “It's going to cost us slightly more than we talked about, but the general convinced me he could make it happen.” Rapp smiled and nodded to the general. “Yep … O.K. … the ball's in your court. I can fill you in on the rest of the details when I get back.” Rapp listened again briefly and then said, “Yep, it's a go … all right, good-bye.” He pressed the end button and put the phone away saying, “They are very pleased, General. They're not crazy about you upping the price, but if you follow through on your promises no one's gonna complain.”

“Good.” Moro seemed to relax a bit.

“Now,” Rapp said, getting up, “if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to Manila and take care of some more business. If you need any assistance in carrying out your missions, don't hesitate to ask.”

Moro got up and extended his hand across the small desk. “Do not worry, Mr. Rapp, my men are some of the best in the world.” He flashed Rapp a confident smile and pumped his hand.

Rapp forced himself to return the smile and ignore the fact that Moro was squeezing his hand a bit too firmly. He went to retract his hand, but Moro did not let go.

“Tell me, Mr. Rapp,” hissed Moro in a conspiratorial tone, “is General Rizal on your payroll?”

Rapp tried once again to retrieve his hand, but Moro tightened his grip. Having absolutely no tolerance for such childish games, Rapp clamped down on Moro's hand with viselike pressure. Pulling the general toward him, he warned, “General, don't fuck with me.”

With a gleam in his eye and a slick smile, Moro replied, “I am the one who you should not fuck with. I am sickened by your country and your arrogance, and let's be very clear about something, you will never own me. I will meet the agreement we made here today and that is as far as it goes. Tell that to your bosses back in Washington, and tell them if they don't like it the Andersons will never see their home again. Now get out of my camp before I decide to have you shot.” Moro released Rapp's hand with a shove.

It took every ounce of restraint Rapp had not to level Moro with a left cross to the jaw. This man had psychological issues that ran much deeper than anything he had been briefed on. The only thing that prevented him from pounding his psychotic ass into the ground was the fact that the best damn sniper in the world was sitting on a mountaintop a mile away ready to bring this little drama to a much more final and beneficial conclusion.

With that thought in mind Rapp simply turned and left the tent. Just outside he found Colonel Barboza and the general's aide-de-camp conversing. Rapp jerked his head toward the chopper and kept walking. After several strides he pulled out his satellite phone and hit the speed dial number for Coleman. After a few seconds the connection was made.

“Did you see the tent I just came out of?”

After a brief delay, Coleman's reply came back. “Affirmative.”

Looking ahead to the helicopter, Rapp twirled his finger in the air, signaling the pilots to start the engines. “That's where he is.” Rapp was almost halfway to the chopper when he heard some shouting behind him. He turned to see Moro standing in front of his tent wearing his holster. For a moment he thought the general was yelling at him and then he realized his angry comments were directed at Colonel Barboza.

The colonel, who had already started for the chopper, was now stopped about midway between Rapp and the general. Rapp couldn't hear the specifics of what was being said, but it appeared that the higher ranking of the two officers wanted the junior officer to ask permission to leave the camp.

Rapp, fed up with Moro's behavior, studied the situation pensively, and then made a quick decision. Clutching the satellite phone, he asked Coleman one simple question.

 

Coleman relayed rapp's question to Wicker and waited. Wicker lay in the prone position, completely motionless. His left eye peered through the coated glass of his Unertl scope. He'd already lasered the range to the target and made the adjustments for windage and elevation. He was in a near trancelike state and his heart had already slowed to a meager thirty-two beats a minute. Wicker pulled the trigger back one notch and said, “Say the word.”

Coleman took a quick look through his binoculars to make sure someone wasn't about to enter the line of fire. Satisfied that no one other than the target was at risk he said, “Take the shot.”

Wicker inhaled a slow steady breath and then stopped all movement. Gently, evenly, his left index finger increased its pressure on the metal trigger. There was the gentlest of clicks and then a thunderous report as the massive fifty-seven-inch rifle let loose its Raufoss grade A round. The crack of the .50-caliber round shattered the calm of dawn and sent every bird in the valley screeching into the air.

 

One second the general was standing there, yelling at his subordinate, and then in the blink of an eye, he was yanked, as if by some unseen force, off his feet. There was a full second or two of confused inaction as brains tried to process the strange thing their eyes had just witnessed. Only Rapp knew what had happened. He was already moving, not toward the chopper, but in the opposite direction. The force with which the general's body was propelled to the ground suggested that Wicker's shot had done the job, but Rapp wanted to make sure, and he also wanted to have a word with Colonel Barboza before things got really ugly. The original plan was to be in the air when the shot was taken, but Rapp had seen an opportunity and taken it.

He reached Barboza just as the general's aide-de-camp began to realize what had happened. The lieutenant, after all, had the best view of the general's body. Rapp had his eyes on him as he reached Barboza's side. He could tell by the look of absolute shock on the young Filipino's face that it was likely his commanding officer had suffered a mortal wound.

Rapp grabbed Barboza by the arm, pulling him toward the fallen general. In a low voice he urged, “You have to take charge. There are enemy snipers in the hills. Get these men moving and then start chewing some ass.” Rapp propelled him forward and the two men broke into a run.

Barboza's mind was moving fast, already wondering if this mysterious American knew more than he was letting on. Those questions would have to wait until later, for indeed it did appear that there was a sniper about. And nothing made a professional soldier's skin crawl more than the specter of an enemy sniper lurking nearby. Barboza had seen enough live combat to know a moving target was harder to hit than a stationary one, so he set a course for the shocked soldier in his path. Gathering speed he literally tackled the general's aide-de-camp and sent him sprawling across the dew-laden grass. “Take cover, you fool. There is a sniper shooting at us.”

Rapp ran past the fallen body of Moro, taking a quick look to make sure the job was done. The evidence was stark; the entire back half of the general's head was missing. As Rapp continued along the side of the general's tent he felt nothing but satisfaction. Moro was a traitor to his country, his uniform and to the best ally his country had ever known. He had spilled American blood to suit his own selfish desires, and now he was lying in an expanding pool of his own. He alone had chosen his treacherous path.