Transfer of Power Page 3

  Iranian Coast

  LT. COMMANDER DAN Harris held a pair of night-vision binoculars up to his eyes and tried in vain to search the landing area. Even though they were only several hundred yards offshore, he could barely see a thing. The boat was being thrashed in and out of the stormy sea, which made it impossible to hold the binoculars steady. Just when he had an area framed, the boat would shift and he’d end up staring at the back of a wave ten feet in front of them.

  Harris secured the night-vision binoculars in a waterproof pack and stuck his right hand into the neck of his scuba suit. The commando retrieved the earpiece to his secure Motorola MX300 radio and cupped it next to his left ear. Above the din of water and wind, he shouted, “Iron Man, this is Whiskey Five. Do you read? Over.” Harris’s throat mike picked up his words and broadcast them.

  The crackled reply came over the earpiece. “Whiskey Five, this is Iron Man. I read you loud and clear. Over.”

  Harris turned his back to the wind in hopes that he could hear better. “We are in position, Iron Man. What’s the status of our LZ?”

  “Everything is secure.”

  “Roger that. We’ll see you in five.” Harris pulled at the neck of his wet suit with his left hand and stuffed the headset back inside. Turning to his men, he shouted, “Grab your gear, and let’s get moving.”

  Each man checked his swim pack and put on his fins and dive mask. When everyone had given the thumbs-up sign, Harris gave the order to go over the sides. Once in the water the SEALs unsheathed their K-bars and punctured the sides of the rubber boat. Musty air hissed its way free. After ten seconds, the weight of the motor began to pull the deflated boat under the surface and to the bottom.

  Seeing the pier from the boat was hard enough; trying to do it from the water was futile. Everyone took a compass reading, and then Harris ordered his best swimmer to take the lead. The five men swam in a tight formation, checking their heading as they went. After several minutes of rough swimming, they neared the pier, maneuvered around the south side of the structure, and lined up to catch a wave. In unison, the five SEALs rode a wave in on their bellies. One by one they gently landed on the beach, and like alligators they scurried their way along the wet sand until they were safely out of sight under the pier.

  Without being ordered, each man moved into a defensive position of cover—their Heckler & Koch 10-mm MP-10 submachine guns already extracted from their waterproof packs and ready to fire. Attached to the threaded barrels of the weapons were thick, black water-technology sound suppressors that made the weapons extremely quiet. Two of the men crawled to the north side, two stayed at the south side, and Harris moved to the middle. All of them remained right at the surf line.

  The waves continued to pound the beach—a clamoring of thunderous-echoes reverberated from the tangled maze of the pier. The surf raced up the beach and enveloped all of Harris except his head and weapon. The frothing water subsided in a retreat, and then seconds later was replaced by another wave. Harris looked around the left side of a barnaclecoated piling and studied the wooden labyrinth before him. The roar of the surf and the howling wind made listening difficult. As Harris looked in and around the maze of wooden supports, the SEAL heard a faint whistle followed by another and then a third. Then, about thirty feet away, a man in a white robe stepped from behind one of the pilings and waved. Harris kept the thick, black silencer of his submachine gun trained on the man’s head.

  Mitch Rapp approached with his arms extended outward and his hands open. In a voice just loud enough to be heard over the crashing surf, he said, “Danny Boy.”

  Harris took his eyes off Rapp for a second and checked the areas to his left and right. Then rising to one knee, he said, “It’s good to see you, Mitch.”

  Rapp was one of the few people from the intelligence community that Harris trusted. This trust was based on two facts. The first being that Rapp, like Harris and his SEALs, actually put his life on the line and got down and dirty out in the field. The second, Harris had seen Rapp in action, and he was efficient, lethally efficient.

  “We don’t have a lot of time to screw around, so let’s get you and your men changed and get rolling.”

  Harris stood and whistled; then he motioned for his men to follow. Rapp led the five SEALs up into the recesses of the pier where it met with the road. While they changed, Rapp kept watch. Each of the SEALs folded up his wet suit once on his legs and again on his arms. Then they pulled djellabas, sandals, and turbans from their packs. Within minutes they were in disguise and ready to go.

  Rapp pulled the group into a tight circle. He had worked with all of the SEALs on previous missions and greeted them individually. Harris had brought along four of his best. To Rapp’s right was Mick Reavers, a big linebacker type who weighed in at about two hundred fifty pounds. Next to Reavers were Tony Clark and Jordan Rostein, both medium-built demolition experts who had been swim buddies since they went through Basic Underwater Demolition School, or BUDS, as it was known in the SEAL community. And lastly there was little Charlie Wicker, known by his friends as simply Slick. Barely five foot six, Wicker weighed less than one hundred fifty pounds, but what he lacked in size he made up for in talent. Wicker could climb, slither, and shoot better than anyone at SEAL Team Six or Delta Force. He was possibly the best sniper in the business, and with that position came a strange respect. Other soldiers tend to give snipers a wide berth. Their survival instincts tell them it’s not a good idea to mess with someone who can shoot you dead in the head from a thousand yards.

  Harris and his men had received 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 thirtytwo 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.

  3

  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. F
ifty 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 night-vision 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 supercarrier. 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.”