Persian Gulf
ON THE DECK of the USS Independence the rotors of the Pave Low and Pave Hawk started their slow drooping turn.
Within half a minute the bend in the long blades was gone and they were spinning level, their rotor wash buffeting the shirts of the deck crew, who were pulling away the fueling hoses and readying the helicopters for takeoff. Another set of sailors scrambled under the desert-camouflaged helicopters and removed the bright yellow metal chocks from around the landing gear. In the back of the big Pave Low the three crew members checked their weapons. Bristling from the port and starboard hatches were two 7.62-millimeter miniguns, and a third was sling-mounted beside the open cargo ramp. The two pilots, crew chief, and three flight crew members were all wearing night-vision goggles mounted over their flight helmets. Fifty feet away, in the sleek Pave Hawk, the same checks were being conducted. The two door gunners sat at the ready with their miniguns pointing out the open sides—the combination of their bulbous flight helmets and awkward nightvision goggles gave them the ominous appearance of modern technological warriors.
The pilot of the Pave Low gave the order to go feet wet, and a second later the large bird lifted ten feet off the fuel streaked black deck of the super carrier The Pave Low immediately peeled to the port side of the moving ship and went nose down for the waves. The Pave Hawk mimicked the maneuver and pulled into formation one hundred fifty feet back and just to port of the Pave Low. The two helicopters raced eastward for the coast of Iran, skimming the water, their radar profiles nonexistent, the digital time display in their cockpits ticking downward.
Bandar Abbas, Iran AS THEY TURNED into a narrow alley, a strong gust of wind smacked them in the face and snapped their flowing clothes against their bodies like a loosely trimmed sail. Rapp lowered his head and squinted as a wall of dust and sand peppered his face. Fortunately, the billowing clouds still filled the night sky, blotting out the moon. The three Americans, with Rapp in the lead, walked down the dirty streets with their weapons concealed.
Rapp was lightly armed with only a knife and a silenced Beretta 9-mm pistol. The two SEALs had their submachine guns ready and gripped just under the folds of their robes. They traveled a circuitous route to move into position. When they reached an alley several blocks away from their objective, Lt.
Commander Harris called the other SEALs for a status report, while Rapp used the time to check on the helicopters.
Everything was proceeding on schedule. Now all they had to do was sit and wait. Rapp looked down the narrow passageway and checked both entrances. They were well concealed.
Harris tapped Rapp on the shoulder and held his watch in front of Rapp's face. The digital countdown read ten minutes and forty-one seconds until the choppers arrived. Harris asked, "When do you want to get moving?"
Rapp held up three fingers, and Harris nodded.
Leaning against the stucco wall, Rapp closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. He began to visualize what was to come. How he would take the guard out. What to expect when he got to the top of the stairs. He thought he knew how many people would be inside, but one could never be exactly sure. That was why Harris and his people were there. Rapp had seen firsthand during the day that almost every man in the neighborhood carried a gun or rifle. This was, after all, Hezbollah's own backyard.
Rapp felt his chest tighten at the thought, causing a spike in his nerves. He reminded himself that a little bit of fear was a good thing.
At T minus four minutes Harris called for another status report, and everyone checked in by the numbers.
Harris gave Rapp the thumbs up sign, and Rapp pulled the arm of his lip mike down.
"Slick, cover me as I come down the street, but don't shoot unless something goes wrong."
The wiry SEAL had picked a three-story clay house that sat atop a slight hill four blocks away and on the same street as the house they were going to hit. He had deftly slithered his way up a drainpipe and set up position on the flat rooftop. With a foam pad under his elbows and chest, the sniper peered through his night-vision scope at the street below. Tucked next to his right cheek was an Israeli-made Galil sniper rifle with a twenty-round magazine. Wicker loved his Galil. The SEAL had more accurate rifles, but none as rugged and compact. With its collapsible stock and attached bipod, the weapon was ideal for the mission.
Wicker listened to Rapp over his headset and moved the crosshairs of his optic-green scope until they were centered on the left temple of the guard sitting in front of Harut's.
"Roger that. Iron Man. The guard looks like he's having a hard time staying awake. Other than him, the street is all yours."
"Roger that," whispered Rapp. He checked his watch, took a deep breath, and then looked to Harris.
"Give me a ten second head start, and then get moving." Harris nodded, and Rapp disappeared around the corner. There was about a six-inch lip at the edge of the flat roof.
Wicker had run all of his calculations. The wind was gusting at speeds of up to twenty knots and could potentially cause some problems, but most of that would be negated by the fact that he was only two hundred yards from the target. For Wicker, this was close.
Wicker saw Rapp appear at the opposite end of the street, one block away from the guard. The sniper licked his lips and took a slow even breath.
Rapp slid his feet in a gingerly shuffle, making a scraping noise to alert the sleepy guard to his presence before he was close enough to startle him. With his head down and posture slouched, Rapp mumbled to himself in Farsi, while his eyes checked the street.
As he neared, the guard looked his way and sat up a little straighter.
The muzzle of the gun came up, but then upon recognizing the crazy old man, the guard let his weapon fall back to his lap.
The scene was developing in a casual, nonthreatening way, just as it had a dozen times over the last three nights. As he inched down the street, Rapp continued his mumbling, stumbling, and bumbling act. When he was about twenty feet away, Rapp greeted the guard and, without giving him a chance to respond, began talking about the weather. Deftly, Rapp noted the large man's weight location on the chair. His legs were stretched out in front of him, and his balance was back. He was in no position to spring to his feet.
At first it looked as if Rapp was going to pass right by. He gave no sign of slowing until he was right in front of the guard.
Drawing closer, as if to ask a question, he zeroed in on the Iranian's eyes and pointed down the street with his left hand. At the same time his right hand slid underneath his robe in a smooth, almost undetectable motion. Gripping the hard rubber handle of his matte-black knife, Rapp extracted the weapon and stepped forward.
In one fluid motion, the sharp blade of the knife sliced deep into the neck of the guard just under the jawline Rapp cupped his left hand over the man's mouth and drove the knife upward into the base of the brain.
Then with a quick twist of the handle, the guard's entire body went from rigid to limp in one convulsion as his brain stem was severed. Rapp propped the dead man against the wall and extracted the bloody knife.
Looking over both shoulders, he wiped the knife on the guard's brown robe and covered the wound with the dead man's turban.
Silently, Rapp ducked into the doorway and crouched. A narrow hallway of worn wooden steps proceeded to the second story apartment. Just as he had expected, there was no way of getting up the old rickety stairs without announcing his presence.
Rapp scanned the steps leading to the second floor for trip wires and replaced his knife. From a thigh holster under his djellaba he retrieved his silenced 9-mm Beretta. Several seconds later Harris and Reavers joined him.
Rapp stood and motioned for them to follow. To the surprise of the two SEALs, Rapp coughed loudly and began climbing the stairs while complaining in Farsi of the cold night air. The two SEALs followed close behind, their suppressed MP-10s up and ready to fire. Rapp climbed to the top landing, checked to make sure Harris and Reavers were behind him, and then took one step back, brought his right foot up, and lunged forward. His kick splintered the doorframe and sent the unpainted door swinging inward. In a blaze of motion, Rapp rushed the room, his silenced Beretta up and sweeping from right to left.
The two men at the kitchen table looked up from their backgammon board with sleepy eyes. Before they had a chance to reach for their weapons, Rapp fired. The silencer coughed twice, sending a bullet into each man's forehead. As the bodies toppled from their chairs, Rapp rushed across the room and dove through the shabby curtain that served as a door to the bedroom. He hit the floor, did a forward somersault, came up on one knee, and began to search for his target. A thin wall of light from the kitchen now cut through the bedroom in a diagonal swath. Rapp saw an arm move through the block of light and fired.
Fara Harut was lunging for his gun, but before he could reach it, a bullet smashed through his right wrist, breaking it instantly and sending it jerking away from its destination. The elderly man recoiled in pain and clutched his wounded limb.
His next reaction was to scream for help, but before he could do so, the words were sucked from his mouth.
Mitch Rapp, adrenaline pumping, had lunged from his spot on the floor and brought the butt end of the Beretta's grip smashing down across the Iranian's temple. Harut crumpled back dazed and bleeding.
Rapp heard Harris call "clear" from behind him, while Reavers did the same from the kitchen. With his left hand, Rapp retrieved a syringe from under his robe and pulled the protective plastic cover off with his teeth. Then he stabbed the needle into Harut's neck and pressed the plunger. The sedative would keep him out for the next two hours.
Carefully, Rapp put the plastic cover back on the syringe and placed it in his robe. Then he began searching the room for any documents that might be useful. In the nightstand he found a gun. He removed the clip, emptied the chamber, and tossed the gun into the far corner.
Harris was now at the bedroom window, his MP-10 at the ready. Over his radio he said, "Give me a sit rep by the numbers."
Turning to Rapp, he said, "Nice work, Mitch. I'm glad we could be here to watch."
"We're not out of here yet. Harry." Rapp continued searching for anything of value.
Harris kept his eye on the street and listened to his men report in.
When they were done, he said, "All right. Jordan and Tony, get your asses up here. Slick, keep me posted on what's going on outside. We're heading up to the roof."
As Harris walked back into the kitchen, he pointed to the ladder on the far wall and said, "Reavers, get up on the roof and test the strobe… and make sure you check for wires on that hatch before you open it."
Reavers climbed the short ladder and looked at the edges of the square hatch that led to the flat roof: After he was sure there were no booby traps, he opened the hatch and climbed onto the roof.
Harris, in the meantime, opened the back door just in time to greet his two men who were climbing the rickety stairs from the alley. Pointing to the front and back stairways Harris said, "Booby-trap both of 'em." Then he spun and went back toward the bedroom saying, "Bravo Six, this is Whiskey Five. We are ready for pickup. What's your ETA? Over."
The reply from the helicopters came back.
"We are seven two seconds out. I repeat, seven two seconds out. Over."
Harris checked his watch. They were within fifteen seconds of their planned extraction time.
"Slick, what's going on outside?"
Down the street. Wicker rubbed the trigger guard of his rifle while he scanned the dark street with his night-vision scope.
"Everything is quiet so far."
Back in the bedroom, Rapp had turned his attention to cuffing and gagging Harut. Harris came through the doorway as he was finishing up.
"Mitch, let's go. The chopper is on its way in."
"Roger." Rapp stuck a sheaf of documents in his waistband and threw Harut over his shoulder.
He bounced the old man twice until he had him in the right position.
Then he started for the ladder. As Rapp started to climb, he heard the first sign of trouble come over his earpiece.
Bandar Abbas, Iran FROM ATOP HIS perch down the street. Wicker was keeping a careful eye on the street and humming a Bob Marley tune to himself. Peering through his optic-green night-vision scope, he kept his breathing shallow and smooth. Suddenly, the door from the downstairs apartment opened, and a man wearing a pair of underpants appeared with an AK-47 gripped in his hands.
"Harry," the sniper spoke into his mike, "you've got company.
The guy from the downstairs apartment just came outside."
Wicker watched through his scope as the man walked over to the slumped guard and shook his shoulder. The dead guard rolled from the chair to the ground, and the man stepped back quickly, bringing his AK-47 up to the firing position.
Wicker didn't have to think—from the moment the man had stepped outside, his head had never left the crosshairs of the scope. The SEAL squeezed the trigger of his rifle, the suppressor at the end of the barrel hissed with the expulsion of gases, and the bullet was away.
The heavy round hit the man in the side of the head and propelled him to the ground, his body tensing as it was thrown and his index finger compressing on the trigger of the AK-47.
A two-round burst of the loud rifle broke the predawn silence.
"Tango down," stated a calm Wicker as he began a sweep for other targets. HARRIS WAS STANDING under Rapp, making sure he got up the ladder, when he heard what he instantly knew to be the distinctive sound of an AK-47 firing. There was a split-second pause, and then everybody kicked it into high gear. Harris stepped away from the ladder and listened as Wicker gave him an update. When he had heard enough, he yelled at Jordan and Tony, "Are you two almost done?"
Without looking up. Tony, the smaller of the two, said, "We'll be right with you."