Executive Power (18 page)

Coleman and Wicker had descended the mountain without incident and then very slowly and deliberately worked their way through the thick jungle with the goal of linking back up with Hackett and Stroble. Using the various paths that snaked their way through the plush vegetation was unwise, so even though they were going mostly downhill, it took a full two hours before they reached their comrades.

The last hundred or so feet was navigated on their bellies. Thanks to their secure Motorola radios and GPS devices, they were able to locate the well-concealed Hackett and Stroble without needing them to reveal their position. The two former SEALs had picked a spot atop a small ridgeline among the roots of a large mangrove tree. Their vantage of the Abu Sayyaf camp was ideal.

When Coleman reached the hide, he was surprised to find how lax the enemy's security was. A cooking fire puffed smoke into the air and the men lounged about with no apparent concern that they might be attacked. At first glance there appeared to be no perimeter patrol.

Coleman took this as further evidence that General Moro had been under their payroll.

Looking through binoculars he counted four dilapidated lean-tos and two green tents that appeared to be of the U.S. army surplus type.

Two men were busy tying down a blue tarp over one of the lean-tos as they prepared for the storm that was coming. The color of the tarp was further evidence that contrary to the intelligence reports they'd seen, these guerrillas were not a crack outfit. Coleman guessed the site was an abandoned village of some sort. Methodically, he scanned every foot looking for the Andersons. He checked each dwelling and saw no sign of the family. This meant they'd already been moved to a different camp, or they were inside one of the army tents. Coleman prayed it was the latter.

Knowing they had a long day ahead of them, Coleman ordered Hackett and Stroble to get some shut-eye while he sent Wicker to reconnoiter their left flank, and see if he could confirm the location of the Andersons.

As Wicker squirmed away, the former commander of SEAL Team 6 got Rapp on the secure net and began the process of meticulously relaying the location of each structure, the precise terrain of the camp and the exact strength of the enemy. Neither man communicated the obvious. Come nightfall they would be launching one of the most delicate and challenging of all military operations: a hostage rescue. Unlike almost every other military engagement, this one needed to be exercised with great restraint. It needed to be carried out with extreme skill and precision, or the hostages would get mowed down in the cross fire.

the expansive nonskid deck of the USS Belleau Wood pitched and rolled as the seas intensified with the oncoming storm.

Standing on the aft section of the flattop, Rapp picked up a suppressed MP-5 submachine gun that was lying on a tarp with several others. He held the weapon in his hands for a second getting a feel for the balance, and then pulled back the slide. After checking the chamber he released the cocking lever and listened for the click of a 9mm round being chambered.

In front of him were eight cardboard silhouette body targets. Rapp thumbed the selector switch from safety to single shot. He paid no attention to the men who were standing behind him. Moving with the confidence of someone who had done this many times before, he brought the weapon up into the firing position. His right foot moved slightly in front of his left, his entire body crouched a bit and he leaned forward. With the butt of the weapon nestled firmly to his left shoulder he looked down the black steel and through the hoop sight.

The ship rolled under his feet and with his knees flexed, Rapp found the rhythm. He squeezed the trigger once and a bullet spat from the end of the thick black silencer. Thirty feet away the projectile tore a hole in the center of the head of the paper target. Rapp squeezed off two more rounds that enlarged the hole created by the first bullet.

Then flipping the selector switch from single shot to fully automatic he began moving down the line, spraying the targets with lead. Each paper silhouette varied in distance from thirty to fifty feet but it didn't seem to affect Rapp's marksmanship. By the time he reached the end all eight heads were shredded.

Pausing for only a second, Rapp did a speed load on a fresh thirty-round magazine and started back down the line, this time shooting with one hand and moving at a much quicker pace. When he reached the end he stopped and analyzed the fresh set of holes he'd added to the chest of each target. Satisfied with the weapon he turned to the chief and said, "This one will do just fine."

Lieutenant Jackson, who'd been watching with great interest, smiled and said, "Not bad."

Rapp grinned.

"It was easy. They weren't moving."

As Rapp walked toward the superstructure Lieutenant Jackson fell in.

"Do you want to tell me what you're up to?"

"What do you mean?"

"Somehow I get the feeling you're not going to sit this one out on the sidelines."

Rapp kept walking toward the superstructure. He'd been on autopilot all morning, diligently putting the op together. It was now after noon and things were gel ling nicely. Coleman had confirmed that the Andersons were in one of the army tents, both SEAL platoons were ready, the insertion had been planned, the backup was in place and the extraction was ready. Now all they had to do was wait for nightfall.

The only thing that was left for Rapp was to be honest with himself.

He was drawn toward the action like a surgeon to the operating room. He didn't have to go; Coleman and his men were some of the best in the world, as were Jackson and his SEALs. But as good as they were Rapp knew he was better, and Coleman would be the first to admit it.

Rapp knew if he didn't do everything in his power to save that family he'd never forgive himself. Anna would never understand that, but she didn't have to know. That, combined with being on the other side of the planet, made it easier to make the decision.

"Yeah," said Rapp, "I'm going." One concern had consistently come up in the operational planning meeting. The Abu Sayyaf group that was holding the Andersons was not the only guerrilla element on the island. The way they were armed made it highly unlikely that they were the force that had ambushed the SEAL team several nights earlier.

With that in mind Jackson was concerned about landing his platoon on the beach. Like any leader he had no desire to lead his team into an ambush.

The most readily available solution to the problem was to be inserted by helicopter farther inland as Coleman and his men had been the night before. Rapp, however, ruled this out immediately. Neither Jackson nor Captain Forester knew the real reason why Coleman and his team were on the island. They both thought it was to track down the Andersons.

If they knew the whole story, as Rapp did, they would probably come to the same conclusion. And that was that Coleman's helicopter insertion had more than likely spooked the Andersons ' captors into moving them. If the guerrillas decided to move again, the rescue would have to be postponed until another plan could be drawn up.

Coleman offered to send one of his men on the three-mile hike back to the beach to check things out in advance of the landing, but Rapp also ruled this out without hesitation. He wanted Coleman and his men focused on the target. If the guerrillas decided to move again he would need all four of them on the hunt. There was also the remote possibility that they might be discovered by the guerrillas and if that happened Coleman minus even one man could mean the difference between survival and annihilation.

There was a readily available solution to the danger of the landing.

Rapp had been tossing it around in his head for several hours and decided now was the time to make it known. Looking at Jackson he asked, "How tall are you?"

Jackson looked a little confused.

"Five-eleven. Why?"

Rapp gave him the once-over from head to toe.

"One hundred and seventy-five pounds?"

"One seventy-eight."

"Good." Rapp slapped Jackson on the back and said, "You wouldn't mind lending me some of your gear, would ya?"

Rain fell in heavy sheets as the United States Marine Corps CH-53E Super Sea Stallion helicopter cruised toward its destination. The wipers worked furiously to clear the cockpit windscreen but it was useless. The pilots were flying by instrument.

At a standstill, visibility was a scant two hundred feet, but flying at 110 mph it was reduced to zero. Fortunately, the wind was manageable. The slow-moving front had stalled over the Philippines, dumping rain from Manila in the north to Davao in the south. Nothing was moving that didn't have to.

While most people sought cover, and either cursed Mother Nature's power or watched it in wonder, there were those who embraced it. Twenty-five such individuals sat in the back of the cold, sterile cargo hold that was designed to carry up to fifty-five marines. All were dressed in black neoprene scuba suits. Twenty-four of them were U.S. Navy SEALs and one was an employee of the CIA.

The rain was a real blessing, enabling Rapp to move up his timetable and launch early. Nightfall was still several hours away, but you couldn't tell. Emboldened by the weather and the updates from Coleman that it looked like the guerrillas had settled in to wait the storm out, Rapp jumped at the opportunity to get things moving. He considered alerting Kennedy that they were starting the op but decided against it. It was three in the morning in Washington and that would involve waking her up and then bringing her up to speed. He had neither the inclination nor the time to open the door to suggestions from the strategists and politicians back in Washington. At this point they would more than likely complicate the mission. As far as getting final approval went, he wasn't worried. The precedent had been set when the President authorized the rescue operation earlier in the week. The United States wanted its citizens back and the aggressors would pay.

The original plan had been to take two Sea Stallions, load up the operators and four zodiacs, and drop everyone off five miles from the beach one hour after sunset. When the front finally moved in Rapp consulted with the pilots and Jackson. The pilots felt the storm would mask their approach to the point where they could get in close enough to drop them a mile from the beach with no fear of being spotted or heard.

Rapp and Jackson had no problem coming to the same conclusion;

lose the zodiacs and put everyone on one bird. These types of operations were complicated enough. Any chance to simplify was an opportunity that had to be taken. The men were more than capable of off-loading the zodiacs in the roughest of seas, but it was nonetheless something else for them to do. And then once ashore they would have to take time to stash the boats. All of this was preferred to a five-mile swim when they were up against the clock, but that was no longer an issue. A one-mile swim for the men was nothing.

One of the crew members came through the cabin holding up two fingers. There was no sense in trying to yell over the three turbine engines and six rotor blades. Those who hadn't already strapped on their fins began to do so. At the one minute mark the back ramp of the big chopper was lowered into the down position. On Jackson 's command all the men stood and steadied themselves as best they could.

At the back ramp one of the crewmen was tethered to the chopper by a safety harness. He leaned out the open hatch and called out the bird's slow descent via the in-flight headset. The pilots could see almost nothing through the windscreen. Instead of holding a true hover the bird crept forward at five mph. This was intentional, so the men wouldn't land on top of each other as they entered the water. At ten feet above the drink the pilots decided they were close enough and ordered the crew chief to get the men out.

In twos, the warriors, wearing their big black fins, waddled like penguins to the sea. Jackson counted the sticks as they jumped off the ramp and when he and Rapp were the only two left, he grabbed the spook by the shoulder and in they went.

As the helicopter climbed into the storm, the men paired off and lined up for the swim to shore. A quick head count was taken, their position was verified by GPS and compasses were consulted. Jackson ordered them to move out and the twenty-five waterborne warriors began slicing through the water.

Three hundred feet from the beach the formation halted. The landmass was but a darker shadow through the curtain of rain. Jackson briefly tried once again to send in two of his combat swimmers to reconnoiter the beach, but Rapp overruled him and took off on his own.

Using only his feet he kicked his way through the salty water until his hands touched the bottom. He took off his dive fins, secured them and then removed and stowed his mask. Reaching under the neck of his wet suit he grabbed and donned the headset of his secure Motorola radio. Lastly he retrieved his suppressed MP-5 submachine gun from the swim bag and took it off safety.

He'd outfitted the weapon with an AN-PVS17 night vision sight and after turning it on he did a quick check of the jungle. He'd opted for the gun-mounted scope over wearing the goggles. The reasons were twofold. First, it was harder to shoot wearing the goggles and second, there was a good chance the goggles would help to precipitate a headache. He'd rather trust his eyes and use the gun-mounted scope as he needed it.

Warm fresh water pelted his face as he looked up and down the beach. There was nothing but the rain; rain splashing into the water about him, rain pelting leaves of the jungle, rain hitting the beach. It was a serene, steady patter that would deaden almost any man's senses if exposed to it long enough. Rapp was counting on it to put the guerrillas to sleep.

So much rain had fallen that the beach was streaked with gullies of water pouring from the jungle. Rapp stood there in the water, his senses alert to all that lay before him. After less than a minute of observation he decided the chance that Abu Sayyaf was keeping an eye on this one spot of beach, in this torrential downpour, was minuscule.

The SEALs had been killed the other night because of an intelligence leak, and this time he'd made sure no such leak could take place.

After picking his spot he radioed back to Jackson that he was going feet dry. Holding the MP-5 in the ready position he came out of the water and darted across the fifty-odd feet of white sand and through the first line of palm trees. Standing next to one of the long bent trees he paused and listened. After ten seconds of silence he moved a little farther inland and worked his way up the beach and back. Satisfied that the landing area was clear he radioed for the others to come ashore.

A few minutes later, Rapp watched as four heads appeared out of the mist. The four SEALs stayed partially in the surf and trained their weapons on the jungle while behind them other black-clad men began rising out of the water two at a time. Each pair of swim buddies ran up the beach, some faster than others, depending on their loads. In less than a minute the entire element was off the beach and concealed.

As per plan, a defensive perimeter was set up and the men began donning jungle fatigues and boots while dive fins were collected and buried. The wet suits were kept on under the camouflage BDUs to help preserve body heat. It would be a long night in the rain, and even though the temperature was in the eighties, being soaked for so long would slowly sap the men of their valuable energy.

After donning his fatigues, Rapp pulled a floppy camouflage hat down over his head. Drops of water poured from the brim. Suddenly, the wind picked up. With it came a roar through the trees and the rain intensified. The drops falling from his hat turned into streams and Rapp's thoughts turned to Coleman. He and his men would be soaked to the bone by the time they hooked up with them.

Adjusting the lip mike on his headset, Rapp toggled the transmit button on his digitally encrypted Motorola radio and spoke.

"Strider, this is Iron Man. Do you copy, over?" Rapp waited for a reply, cupping a hand over his free ear.

"Iron Man, this is Strider. What's your situation?"

"We're on the beach and about to move out."