continuous intelligence updates while onboard the Honolulu.
Thanks to Rapp’s intelligence from the ground and the high-resolution satellite imaging of Bandar Abbas, Harris and his men had been able to coordinate the formation of their plan with Rapp before leaving the boat.
Rapp, bent down on one knee, looked at the other five bearded Americans and asked, “Any questions before we get started?” Each of the men answered with a simple shake of his head. Rapp nodded and said, “Good.
Harry, let’s get things rolling.”
Harris touched his lip mike and said, “Bravo Six, this is Whiskey Five.
What’s your status? Over.”
There were several seconds of static, and then the reply came back.
“Whiskey Five, this is Bravo Six. We are ready to roll. Over.”
“What’s your ETA for our extraction? Over.”
“Three two minutes. I repeat three two minutes. Over.”
Harris looked at his men and Rapp, who were all listening to the same conversation over their headsets.
“Start the extraction countdown on my mark. Over.”
“Roger.”
All six men sitting under the dark pier synchronized their digital wristwatches accordingly. Harris spoke precisely.
“Three, two, one, mark.” Harris pressed the button on his watch and said, “We’ll see you in thirty-two minutes. Bravo Six.”
Looking to his left, Harris said, “Slick, you hit the road first. “Then, jerking his thumb, he added, “Get going.”
The wiry sniper rose and left the group without saying a word. Two minutes later Tony and Jordan moved out, and then finally Rapp, Harris, and Reavers made their way out from under the tangled wooden structure.
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.
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
