Authors: Vince Flynn
T
he black boat lay still in the water while Devolis took a quick fix with his handheld GPS. They were right on the mark, two miles off the coast of Dinagat Island in the Philippines. The men retrieved their night vision goggles (NVGs) from their waterproof pouches and secured them tightly on their heads. Thick clouds obscured the moon and the stars. Without the NVGs they'd be blind. On Devolis's signal the boat moved out, the modified Mercury outboard engine no louder than a hum.
The powers that be in Washington had finally decided to make a move. Abu Sayyaf, a radical Muslim group operating in the Philippines, had kidnapped a family of Americans on vacation, the Andersons from Portland, Oregon. The family, Mike and Judy and their three childrenâAva, nine, Charlie, seven, and Lola, sixâhad been plucked from their seaside resort on the Philippine island of Samar five months earlier.
Devolis and his men had followed the story closely, knowing that if the politicians ever got off their asses, it would most likely be their job to go in and rescue the Andersons. Devolis had spent a lot of nights thinking about the family, especially the kids. The twenty-eight-year-old officer wanted to rescue those kids more than anything else he'd wanted in his six years as a U.S. Navy SEAL. He'd stared at their pictures so often the edges were worn and brown, and read their files over and over until those innocent little faces visited him in his sleep. For better or worse this mission had become personal. He wanted to be their savior. With Devolis it was not false bravado but an honestly and fiercely held conviction that someone needed to show these fanatics what happened when they screwed with the United States of America.
Devolis was in no way sadistic, but he felt an unusual amount of hatred toward the men who were holding the Andersons. He couldn't grasp what type of person would kidnap innocent children, but whoever they were, Devolis felt confident that he would lose no sleep over whacking the whole lot of them. Tonight Abu Sayyef was going to feel the full force of the U.S. Navy and the terrorist group would deeply regret having locked horns with the world's lone superpower.
The USS
Belleau Wood
was lurking fifteen miles off the coast of Dinagat Island. The Tarawa-class amphibious and air assault ship could bring to bear an immense amount of firepower. One of five such ships in the U S. Navy's arsenal, the
Belleau Wood
was the air force, army and navy rolled into one. She was a hybrid aircraft carrier and amphibious assault ship with an 800-foot flight deck. She carried six AV-8B Harrier attack jets, four AH-1W Super Cobra attack helicopters, and for troop transport, twelve CH-46 Sea Knight helicopters and nine CH-53 Sea Stallion helicopters. The 250-foot well deck in the stern of the ship held the navy's superfast 135-foot, cushioned LCAC, capable of delivering heavy equipment, such as tanks and artillery, to the beach at forty-plus knots.
She carried a crew of 85 officers, 890 enlisted men and women and a battalion of 2,000-plus marines. The
Belleau Wood
provided true tactical integrity. Rather than waiting for various air force and army units to come together to form an integrated fighting force, the
Belleau Wood
delivered a complete self-contained fighting unit to the hot spot with air power, muscle, and logistical support all at the same time. She was the culmination of everything the marines and navy had learned as they clawed their way across the Pacific during World War II.
Devolis's squad was the advance element of the operation. Their job was to go in and recon the camp. Once they'd verified what the intel guys had told them, they were to set up a blocking position between the main opposing force and the hostages and call in the doorkickers. Because of this they'd left their suppressed MP-5s back on the
Belleau Wood,
sacrificing stealth for firepower. Six of the eight men were carrying the M4 carbine, an undersize version of the venerable M16. With a shorter barrel and collapsible butt stock the weapon was much easier to maneuver through the thick jungle. The squad's machine gunner was carrying an M249 SAW and the sniper was carrying a customized silenced Special Purpose Rifle. When the shooting started it would be very noisy, but for tonight's mission, this would be a plus. The noise created by Devolis's squad would both shock and disorient the opposing force as the helicopters swooped in from above and disgorged the assault teams.
Three more squads of SEALs, twenty-four men total, would then fast-rope in from above and both secure the hostages and sweep the camp. From there the doorkickers would move the Andersons one click from the camp to a small clearing for a helicopter evacuation. The clearing would be secured by a platoon of Force Recon marines, and if things started to fall apart and they met more resistance than they'd planned, the Harrier attack jets and Super Cobra attack helicopters were on station for quick deployment.
The squad would remain until the rescue element was safely out, and then work their way back to the beach and exfiltrate the same way they'd come in. A pretty straightforward plan, with one exception: they would be operating in the backyard of one of their allies and the Filipinos weren't going to be involved in the operation. Not only were they not going to be involved, they weren't even going to be told it was going on. No one had told the SEALs why, but they had their suspicions. The Philippine army had been promising for months to rescue the Andersons and they hadn't done squat. There were rumors working their way around the teams that our old Pacific allies could no longer be trusted, so the United States was going to take care of things on its own.
Devolis had learned early on in his career to steer clear of diplomatic and political questions. They tended to cloud the mission, which for a SEAL was a very bad thing. Mission clarity was crucial for a Special Forces officer. Besides, all that stuff was way above his pay grade. It was for the hoity-toity crowd with all their fancy titles and degrees.
Despite knowing better, Devolis couldn't help but wonder how some of this might affect the mission. The scuttlebutt was that some pretty heated debates had taken place in Washington before they green-lighted the rescue operation. A rivulet of sweat dropped from his left eyebrow and landed on his cheek. He pressed the sleeve of his jungle BDU against his forehead and mopped his face. Silently, he cursed the heat, knowing that if it was warm out here on the water, it would be completely soupy in the jungle.
As they neared the beach, the boat slowed and settled in the calm water. There was only about fifty feet of sand between the waterline and the jungle. Every pair of eyes in the little rubber boat scanned the beach and the thick jungle in search of a sign that they weren't alone. Even with their night vision goggles there was nothing much to glean beyond the empty beach. The jungle was too thick. Insertions were always a tense part of the op, but for tonight, at least, the intel guys had told him that it was highly doubtful they would meet any resistance upon landing.
A large, mangled piece of driftwood sat at the water's edge. On Devolis's order the boat headed in its direction. Unless it had moved since this morning's satellite photographs, that was their spot. Just to the right of it, and in from the beach approximately a hundred yards, was a shallow stream they would use to work their way inland to the camp.
The boat nudged onto the sand beach, just to the right of the driftwood. The men moved with precision and speed. This was where they were most vulnerable, here on the beach out in the open. They spread out in a predetermined formation that they'd practiced with numbing repetition. The lead men in the front of the boat maintained firing positions while the others fanned out, creating a small secure beachhead that provided 180 degrees of fire.
Devolis lay in the prone position slightly ahead of the others, the muzzle of his rifle pointed at his sector of the jungle, his heart beating a bit faster but under control. The goggles turned the dark night into a glowing green, white and black landscape. Lying completely still, the lieutenant squinted his eyes in an attempt to pierce the wall of vegetation in front of him. After he'd given it a good look he took his right finger off the trigger and pointed toward the jungle twice. Ten feet to Devolis's right, Scooter Mason, his point man, popped up and scampered off toward the jungle in a low crouch, his weapon at his shoulder ready to fire. Devolis took a second to check their flanks and looked down the beach in both directions.
That was when it happened. A three-round burst that shattered the still night. Three loud distinctive cracks that Devolis instantly knew came from a weapon that didn't belong to any of his men. As Devolis swung his head around he saw Scooter falling to the ground and then the jungle in front of them erupted in a fusillade of gunfire. Bright muzzle flashes came from everywhere. A bullet whistled past the young lieutenant's head and the sand in front of him began to dance as rounds thudded into the beach. In return, the squad let loose with everything they had. Each man hosed down his sector, focusing on the bright muzzle flashes of the enemy.
Devolis unloaded his first thirty-round magazine and ejected it. While fishing for a fresh magazine, he yelled into his lip mike, “Victor Five, this is Romeo! I need an immediate evac!” Devolis rammed home the fresh magazine and chambered a round. A muzzle flash erupted at one o'clock and he sent a three-round burst right back down its throat.
“Say again, Romeo” came the reply back over Devolis's earpiece.
Devolis continued to fire and shouted, “We are taking heavy fire! We have at least one man down and we need an immediate evac! Bring it right in on the beach!”
An earnest voice crackled back over the radio, “We're on the way.”
Devolis knew the rest of the team had heard his call for an evacuation over their headsets. They had covered it thoroughly in the premission briefing. The Mark V was to circle back after it dropped them off and take up station a mile and a half off the beach in case they were needed. It was a standard mission precaution, but one that no one thought they'd need tonight. As Devolis returned fire, he loudly cursed the people back in Washington. They'd walked right into an ambush and for the life of him he couldn't figure out how it had happened.
“Guys, give me a sit rep, by the numbers.” Devolis continued to fire while his men sounded off one by one. Only five men checked in. Devolis knew Scooter was down and that left only one other. “Irv, talk to me.” Devolis repeated the request, then looked to his left. He could see Irv's prone figure, but there was no movement. “Listen up!” His shout was interrupted by several loud explosions as one of his men fired his M203 40mm grenade launcher into the jungle. “Gooch, put some smoke into their position. The boat will be here any second. When the big fifties start to rake the jungle we move. I'll grab Irv. Gooch, can you get to Scooter?”
“Affirmative.”
Devolis tore off his night vision goggles, reached for an M-18 smoke grenade and pulled the pin. Rolling onto one side, he lobbed the can of soup upwind from their position. The grenade rolled across the sand and began to hiss its white cover. Slowly the fog worked its way back down the beach. Devolis knew the boat had to be near and started his crawl toward Irv. He had to get to him. No one could be left behind. When he was just a few feet away from his friend a bullet found him. It slammed into his right leg. Through gritted teeth Devolis let out a muffled scream and a slew of profanities. The pain had been so complete he wondered briefly if his leg had been blown off. He looked over his shoulder to reassure himself that it was still attached.
He reached Irv just as the battle reached a new crescendo. The big .50-caliber machine guns of the Mark V tore into the jungle with vicious force. Shredded leaves rained down, branches snapped free, trunks absorbed the big rounds with cracking moans and thuds and then the 40mm grenade launcher let loose with a salvo of explosions. The enemy's guns all but stopped as they dove for cover.
Devolis called out his friend's name and reached out for his shoulder. When he turned him over all he saw was a lifeless face staring blankly at the night sky, his jaw open and loose. A bullet had struck him in the forehead and a mixture of sand and blood covered one side of his face. Devolis froze briefly in sorrow as the finality of the moment hit home and then a line of bullets popped in the sand just in front of him. A voice inside told him to get to the water. Now was not the time to mourn his friend's death. Devolis grabbed Irv's H harness and began dragging him toward the safety of the sea. As he struggled with the lifeless body and only one good leg, he called for his team to report in.
While they did, he reached the warm salty water and looked over at the rubber raft. It was too shot up to bother recovering. He continued to move away from the shore, pulling his friend with him as the salt water began to bite at the bullet hole in his leg. He gave the team orders to abandon the raft and swim out for pickup. Devolis stopped in about five feet of water and waited for each team member to pass. The Mark V continued to rake the beach with its big .50-caliber machine guns until the enemy fire was reduced to a few sporadic shots. Devolis side-stroked with all his might, clutching his dead friend as they moved farther and farther away from the shore. As he neared the safety of the boat, he blocked out the agonizing pain and tried to understand how they could possibly have walked into an ambush.
T
he man sat on the backseat of a power launch, his oil-black hair blowing in the wind like a lion's mane as the boat sped away from the Monte Carlo dock. The sun was climbing into the bright blue Mediterranean sky. It looked to be another perfect day in the playland of the ultrarich. The passenger's dark skin was offset by a loose-fitting white shirt and a pair of black Ray·Ban sunglasses. He looked like something out of a travel magazine with his arms stretched across the back of the white leather seat and the sun shining down on his chiseled face, a postcard, if you will, for how to get away from the everyday grind of life. For the passenger sitting in the back of the launch, however, this little sojourn out to sea would be anything but relaxing. He was not getting away from the everyday grind, he was heading directly into it. He was on his way to pay a visit to a man he disliked intensely. And to make matters worse, the visit was not his idea. It was a command performance.
The handsome man went by the name of David. No last name, just David. It wasn't his real name, but one that he had adopted years ago, while he'd attended university in America. It was a name that suited him well in a profession that called for striking just the right balance between anonymity and panache. David was a survivor. He had grown up in an environment that bred violence and hatred, and had somehow managed to master both at an early age. Controlling his emotions instead of being driven by them was what allowed David to pick his way through the minefield of his youth and set a course for greatness. And now at the relatively young age of thirty-four he was poised to change the world. If only the man he was going to see would leave him alone, he could put the final pieces of his plan into place.
David looked over the windscreen of the launch at the massive yacht anchored out at the far environs of the harbor and sighed. In David's mind the yacht and its owner were almost indistinguishable. Both were huge, both demanded to be noticed by all who slipped into their sphere and both needed a crew of tireless workers to keep them afloat. There were days when David wondered if he could turn back the clock and start over, would he have chosen someone else to be his benefactor? He traveled a great deal, and in his line of work, if you could call it that, taking notes was a very bad idea, so he constantly mulled over his previous decisions and how they would affect his next move. Every flight and train ride was an endless scrolling through of what-ifs and whos.
At some point, though, it was all moot. He was too far into it now to change horses. Prince Omar was his partner, and at the end of the day David had to begrudgingly admit that the man had held up his end of the bargain, at least financially. As the ostentatious yacht loomed larger with each passing second, David once again had the uneasy sensation that he was being pulled into the prince's orbit against his wishes. The man was like an illicit drug. In small doses he was tempting and beguiling, but if not monitored, his excesses could rot your body and your soul to the core.
As the launch pulled up alongside the massive 315-foot yacht, the sun was blocked out, its warmth dissipating in the cool morning air. David glanced down and noticed goose bumps on his arm. He hoped this was merely a result of the change in temperature and not an omen of bad things to come. The prince had requested that David join him for lunch and drinks at two that afternoon, but David wasn't about to waste an entire day in Monaco. There was far too much to be done. The prince would not be happy, but at this point in the game there wasn't a lot he could do other than stamp his feet and protest.
Before the launch came to a stop, David shoved a hundred euros into the driver's shirt pocket and leapt onto the stern deck. He landed gracefully and immediately noticed five white garbage bags filled with the waste from last night's party. Even in the cool morning air he could smell wine and beer and God knows what else leaking from the bags. The prince would be in rough shape.
A voice sounded from somewhere above. “You're early.”
David recognized the French-accented English of the prince's chief minion and said, “Sorry, Devon.” Looking up, he saw the prince's assistant, Devon LeClair, and next to him, the prince's ever-present Chinese bodyguard, Chung.
Devon looked down at him with an irritated frown. “You're going to have to wait, you know.”
David started up the ladder, keeping his eye on Devon. Dressed in a suit and holding his leather encased Palm Pilot he looked more like a cruise director than quite possibly the highest paid executive assistant in the world.
David smiled and said, “You're looking well this morning, Devon.” He clapped the prince's assistant on the shoulder and added, “I trust you didn't take part in last night's activities.”
With a dramatic roll of the eyes, Devon replied, “Never. Someone has to stay sober enough to make sure this enterprise stays afloat.”
“True enough.” David almost asked how the party went and then thought better of it. If he hung around long enough the prince would probably force him to sit through a private viewing of the debauchery that had most certainly been recorded for posterity.
“Will you be staying with us long?” The prince's assistant had his pen poised over his now open Palm Pilot, ready to go to work.
“No, I'm sorry.” David always treated Devon with great respect and care. As the gatekeeper to the prince, he was someone you wanted on your side.
“Well, you're going to have to wait quite a while for His Highness to awake. The sun was starting to come up when he finally called it a night.”
David pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head and checked his Rolex. It was a quarter past nine. “Devon, I'm sorry, but I can't wait. He ordered me to show up today, and to be truthful, I didn't even have time for that.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “I really can't afford to sit around all day and wait for him to sleep off last night's hangover.”
The thin Frenchman closed his Palm Pilot and looked at David pensively through his silver-rimmed oval spectacles. “He will not be happy.”
“I know he won't, and you can blame it all on me.” David could see Devon was on the fence. “If you would like, I will go wake him up, but I absolutely can't afford to waste the day away waiting for him.” He watched as Devon's eyes quickly scanned him from head to toe and then looked over at Chung, who shook his head. There was no way the man charged with keeping the prince alive was going to let this particular guest enter the prince's inner sanctum unannounced, for David was a man with many talents.
As he turned to go, the ever-efficient assistant said, “I will see what I can do. In the meantime, are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
Pointing up he said, “I will have breakfast prepared for you on the aft sundeck.” With a curt nod the assistant turned and disappeared into the ship leaving David and Chung alone with one of their uncomfortable moments of silence; the assassin and the bodyguard.