TWENTY FOUR.
Rapp jerked open the
helicopter door and stepped to the ground. He scanned the perimeter
of the landing area looking for the general, even though he doubted
the officer would be so polite as to meet his visitors as they
landed. Colonel Barboza joined him and they walked underneath the
spinning rotors of the Huey.
At the edge of the
landing area the two men were greeted by an eager lieutenant
dressed in BDUs, jungle boots and a black Special Forces beret. He
saluted Colonel Barboza crisply and introduced himself as General
Moro's aide-de-camp. With that brief introduction out of the way,
the man did an about-face and led them down a path. The place was a
standard military field camp. Located in a grassy clearing about
the size of two football fields, it consisted of two rows of big
green tents set atop wooden pallets.
From the satellite
photos he'd studied, Rapp knew what each of the sixteen tents were
for, which ones served as bivouacs for the troops to sleep in,
which tent was the mess hall, medical tent, command center and most
important, which was the general's tent.
What Rapp hadn't been
able to glean from the satellite photos was what perimeter security
was in place along the tree line. On the plane ride over, Coleman
had mentioned it was very curious that there was no barbwire laid
out around the camp's perimeter, and no foxholes or machine-gun
nests dug into the obvious defensive positions. In Colean's mind
Moro was either derelict in his command or had very good reason not
to fear an attack by the guerrillas.
At the expected tent
the aide stopped and rapped his knuckles on a wooden sign that,
amazingly enough, had the general's name on it.
As a matter of
course, U.S. Special Forces personnel in the field went to great
lengths to hide the rank of officers. There was no saluting, rarely
was rank displayed unless in a subtle way that could only be
noticed up close, and men were taught not to all stand facing a
commander as he talked. This last part was the most difficult to
teach since the military had drilled the chain of command into
their heads from their first day of boot camp.
Moro was either very
proud of the fact that he was a general or he had no fear of
letting the enemy know where to find him. Rapp suspected the sign
on the door indicated a bit of both.
From inside the tent
came the word, "Enter."
The voice was not
menacing, casual or aloof. If anything, it sounded merely a bit
curious. As he stepped into the dark tent he was forced to take his
sunglasses off. There, sitting behind a small portable desk, was
the general in a pair of camouflage pants and a green
T-shirt.
Rapp immediately
noticed that the general was in tip-top shape. His arms were long
and lean, with powerful biceps straining against the tight fabric
of his shirt.
The general made no
effort to get up and greet them and Rapp casually observed the
interaction between Barboza and Moro. He watched the junior officer
salute his superior in a way that was within the proper guidelines,
but was noticeably lacking in both enthusiasm and respect. It was
the bare minimum required by the military protocol and nothing
more.
Barboza turned,
waving an arm toward Rapp, and said, "This is Mr. Rapp. He works
for the CIA."
The smallest of
smirks formed on the general's lips. It may have been a smirk of
recognition, or just a show of disrespect for the CIA. Rapp watched
Moro with the detached analytical eye of a professional. The
general made no effort to get up and shake his hand, and Rapp made
no effort to extend his. The two men silently studied each other
until the mood grew uncomfortable. Rapp had a strategy to employ
and a crucial part of it was to keep Moro off balance until the
time was right.
Moro sat motionless,
his hands gripping the armrest of his wood and canvas chair. Rapp
had played this game before, and he was sure the general had also
done so countless times with his subordinates and probably even a
few American military advisors and State Department
officials.
What was different
this time was that Rapp wasn't some American diplomat who was
worried about offending the general's sensibilities.
Rapp was intent on
doing much more than that, and he sincerely hoped that in the
process he would thoroughly upset the diplomatic applecart.
It was the general
who blinked first. His smirk turned into a full blown smile and he
asked, "To what do I owe the honor of receiving the infamous Mr.
Rapp of the CIA?"
Rapp took the insult
as a compliment. He had two choices. He could either maintain the
cold attitude of a man who obviously distrusted Moro, or he could
join the general in his parlor game and try to gain his trust, or
at a bare minimum, ease his mistrust. He decided on the latter.
With a smile of his own Rapp replied, "There is no honor in
receiving me, General. I am just a humble bureaucrat in the employ
of my government."
This caused Moro to
laugh loudly.
"A humble bureaucrat.
That is good." The general slapped his thighs enthusiastically and
looked at a confused Colonel Barboza.
"Colonel, I see you
have no idea of the fame of the man you have brought to see me." It
was obvious that Moro enjoyed this advantage over the younger
officer.
"You should read
more. Mr. Rapp is an American icon. Mr. Rapp is America's
counterterrorist."
Rapp did not join in
the general's laughter. He found very little humor in what he did
for a living. When Moro had settled down, Rapp said, "General, if
it's all right with you, I'd like to have a word in private."
Moro looked from Rapp
to Barboza. He studied the colonel for a moment with a look on his
face that hinted of a deep-seated contempt.
"Colonel, you are
dismissed. I will send for you when we are done."
Barboza remained
impassive. He saluted the general and then turned to Rapp.
"I will be waiting
for you outside."
When he had departed
Moro offered his visitor a chair. Rapp took a seat and settled
in.
"I assume," Moro
started, "that since you are America's counterterrorist, that you
are here to discuss the progress I have made against Abu
Sayyaf."
Raising an eyebrow in
surprise, Rapp replied, "I wasn't aware that you've made any
progress."
The general chose to
ignore the comment, instead smiled and said, "Your Agency is famous
for getting its facts wrong, Mr. Rapp. I don't know what you have
been told, but the terrorists have suffered over a hundred losses
in the last month alone."
"So you say," replied
Rapp with a straight face.
Moro could not let
this pass. Indignantly, he asked, "Are you questioning my
honor?"
Rapp wanted to say
that it was worthless to debate an attribute that the general did
not possess, but that might push him too far in the wrong
direction. Ignoring the question Rapp said, "General, I am a
practical man, and I have been told you too are a practical man,
one with amazing capabilities." Rapp threw in the last part as a
blatant attempt to flatter the general.
"We both know what it
is like to be in the field with politicians beating on us for
results. I am not here to attack your integrity, but I do know for
a fact that your men have not killed even half the enemy that you
have just claimed."
Moro sat motionless
for a moment, struggling between admitting the truth or sticking
with his propaganda. He decided to do neither.
"Mr. Rapp, what is
your point?"
"My point is,
General, that I know things about you that your own government does
not." Rapp let the innuendo hang in the air. He could feel the
comforting lump of his Beretta under his right arm. He would not
hesitate to kill the snake sitting across the desk from him.
Coleman and his team
appeared to have run into some trouble, so it looked like it was up
to him to handle the situation. He'd already pieced together a plan
that he felt would work.
If Moro made the
slightest move for his side arm, which was in its holster hanging
from a peg on the tent pole behind the general, Rapp would have to
ad-lib a bit, but he was still confident that he could accomplish
his mission and avoid being torn limb from limb by the general's
troops. Once he showed Moro the goodies there was a very real
chance that things would spiral out of control.
With a furrowed brow,
no doubt caused by Rapp's unsettling words, Moro tried to figure
out why this assassin had come to visit him. The first and most
obvious answer was quickly dismissed. Moro's men were fiercely
loyal to him. The American would never make it out of here alive if
he were to try to kill him. With a disarming smile, Moro said, "Mr.
Rapp, you have me at a disadvantage. I have no idea what you are
talking about."
Salty sweat poured
down Coleman's camouflage-painted face as he tried to keep up with
Wicker. It was a hopeless task. Wicker, a decade younger and thirty
pounds lighter, seemed to have an inexhaustible source of energy as
he scampered up the mountainside. This was not to say that Coleman
was past his day, it was rather that Wicker was a very unusual man.
He could move through the jungle, in near silent fashion, at a pace
that was impossible to match. Coleman was wise enough to factor all
of this into his decision before they started their scramble up the
hill and had told Wicker not to wait for him.
Back near the
footbridge, Coleman had made the difficult choice of splitting his
team in two. Stroble and Hackett were to carefully track the
terrorists while Wicker and Coleman went on to support their
primary mission. This was one of those battlefield decisions that
would either be looked back on as ingenious and gutsy, or glaringly
stupid. Like a football coach deciding to go for it on fourth down
rather than kicking a field goal, the wisdom of such a decision is
always dependent on the success of the gamble.
The physical
screening process for SEAL candidates is well known, but what is
often overlooked is that the men who run the Naval Special Warfare
Training Center in Coronado place an equal amount of importance on
intellect and character. In short, a physically strong warrior who
follows orders makes an ideal infantry soldier. In the modern
battlefield their every move is monitored by a battalion, brigade
and sometimes even a force commander. They are chess pieces on a
very intricate board that need to be moved in a precise way.
The world of Special
Forces, however, is very different. A physically strong warrior is
a good start, but a strong, intelligent warrior is absolutely
dangerous. SEALs are taught from Day One that operations rarely go
as planned. It is drilled into them that quick, intelligent
decision making will invariably enhance the chances for a
successful mission, and contribute to the very survival of their
unit.
They need to be able
to operate behind enemy lines often without the aid of artillery
and close air support. They are rarely involved in major battles
unless their mission is to take out a select high value target
prior to the launching of the main battle. In short, they are
taught to operate independently from their command, within mission
parameters, for sustained periods of time behind enemy lines.
It was not in
Coleman's character to abandon Rapp, but the kidnapped American
family had appeared like a gift out of the predawn mist. It was a
gift he could not pass up. Coleman paused briefly to catch his
breath and take a drink of water from his camel pack. He placed the
small hose between his lips and sucked in a mouthful of water.
Wicker was far ahead of him now. At least seventy-five yards. He
caught a glimpse of him as he scrambled over a rock shelf and
disappeared from sight. A shadow moving in the shadows.
Coleman started again
in earnest, on all fours, pawing and pushing his way up the steep
mountain. He was both thankful and leery of the cover provided by
the trees that enveloped the landscape. They traveled in the same
gully that ran from the top of the mountain all the way to the sea.
At times it was like a gorge and at others a babbling brook. Up on
this high steep part there were more exposed rocks and less grass
and moss. The torrential rains of the region washed away anything
that wasn't anchored down by the roots of the trees and the
surrounding undergrowth.
It would be nearly
impossible for anyone below to see them. They traveled just off to
the side of the gully where the leafy limbs of the trees provided
good cover. Coleman worried about what might be waiting for them at
the top. Mountaintops are a prized possession among opposing
forces. They offer a bird's-eye view of the lay of the land and
provide crucial intelligence. They also offer a nice perch to set
up a counter-sniping team.
Sniping in the
Special Forces is a life-and-death game played at the highest
intellectual level. A sniper does not fear machine-gun fire,
artillery shells or bombs from the air. A sniper fears the bullet
of another sniper. Snipers will lay in wait for days, slowly,
cautiously scanning every inch of the landscape, section by
methodical section, to make sure they don't become the target of
someone staring back at them through a high-powered scope. Fear of
snipers, more than any reason, was why they wanted to be in
position by sunup. Unfortunately, that precaution was out of their
reach. They would now have to hope that they were the only men
around with long barrels.
Coleman pressed on,
his thighs burning with each foot that was gained in his quest for
the relatively short summit. The pain was ignored and the pace was
quickened. His lungs took in and exhaled a steady efficient supply
of oxygen. He reached a sheer eleven-foot wall of rock. He was
about to scale it when he noticed the trampled undergrowth to his
left indicating Wicker's passage. Without hesitation he plunged
through the foliage. When he got back to the gully he looked up and
saw Wicker within striking distance of the summit. Coleman put his
head down and redoubled his efforts. He figured it would take him
no more than two minutes to reach the top.