THIRTY FOUR.
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?"