CHAPTER 10
CENTRAL YEMEN
CONDITIONS were solid, with a half-moon, a sky full of stars, and light winds. Rapp’s Saudi pilot was keeping the chopper high, making it unlikely that they’d be noticed by the scattered al Qaeda and ISIS forces that controlled the area.
Rapp scanned the dark terrain through the open door but couldn’t pick up so much as a cooking fire. Maybe they’d get lucky and this operation would go quickly and smoothly. The best intel they had suggested that the village they were on their way to was completely devoid of human activity. Sayid Halabi’s men had been admittedly efficient at turning it into a tomb, leaving nothing but the charred bodies of its inhabitants sealed in their burned homes.
The main dangers they expected to face were a few potential booby traps and the germs that Claudia was so afraid of. Time on the ground would have to be limited, so if they were going to come up with any clues as to where Halabi had taken the medical team, they’d have to do it fast. The Saudis were definitely committed to wiping what was left of this village off the face of the planet, but were being cagey as to exactly when. Better not to be standing in the middle of it when the bombers showed up.
The wind gusting through the door intensified and he pulled back, turning his attention to the dim cabin and the men sharing it with him. Scott Coleman, Joe Maslick, Charlie Wicker, and Bruno McGraw were all sitting calmly, lost in their own thoughts or lightly dozing. They’d been with him almost since the beginning. Long enough to accumulate a few too many years and a few too many injuries. It didn’t matter, though. The kind of trust they’d developed over that time couldn’t be replaced by one of the standout SEALs or Delta kids that Coleman occasionally got wind of.
This team had always been there for him and not a single one of them was replaceable as far as Rapp was concerned. He knew what they would do before they did it. He knew that every one of them was one hundred percent loyal to him and to each other. And he knew that not one of them would stop until five minutes after they were dead.
“Everyone’s clear on the drill,” Rapp said over the microphone hanging in front of his face. “We’re looking for anything that could even have a chance of being useful—equipment left behind, shell casings, tire tracks. The guys in Langley said they’d take gum wrappers if that’s all we can find. Get pictures of everything, and you’re authorized to use flash. We don’t have any choice, and I don’t think anyone in that village is going to mind. The far building to the west is what they were using as a hospital. Don’t get any closer than thirty feet. Hazmat protocols are in effect for the entire op, and anything we collect goes in the bags.”
“What if we find a survivor?”
“Keep a twenty-foot interval and get ’em on the ground. We’ll question them like that and call in an army medical team to make sure they’re not sick.”
“And if they don’t follow directions?” Coleman asked.
“If they get inside that twenty-foot perimeter, give them one warning shot, and if they still don’t get the message, put ’em down. Then we burn the body.”
The shadowed faces around him seemed slightly more nervous than normal. Stand-up fights were one thing but bacteria and viruses were another. They’d all been there. Smoldering with fever in some godforsaken jungle. Trying to be quiet while puking your guts out behind enemy lines. Dengue. Malaria. Dysentery. Infected wounds oozing puss. Everyone’s least favorite part of the job.
The nose of the aircraft dipped and the pilot announced that they were on their final approach. The plan was to never let the runners touch the ground. As soon as they were out, the chopper would climb to a safe height and wait for them to call it back in. There was no reason for ISIS or al Qaeda to be hanging around here, but it didn’t make sense to take chances.
Rapp grabbed the edge of the door and hung partway out the side as they descended. The darkness was too deep to discern the charring on the walls of the stone buildings. The collapsed roofs and the inky graves beyond, though, were easy enough to pick out in the moonlight.
The Saudi did a respectable job of the drop-off and Rapp slipped the face mask off the top of his head and over his face. Coleman’s men spread out, looking a little less smooth than normal in the chem suits designed to protect them from biological threats. Rapp positioned himself at the right flank of the formation, searching the darkness for human shapes as the chopper started to climb.
The beat of rotors began to fade like they had in so many ops in the past, but then were drowned out by the deafening crash of an explosion. He instinctively threw himself to the ground and trained his M4 carbine on the source of the sound. The sky to the northeast was lit up, and he watched through his face mask as the helicopter broke apart and flaming chunks of it started to rain down on the desert.
Predictably, the shooting started a few seconds later.
A disciplined burst from a tango to the south landed a few feet to Rapp’s right and he rolled in the opposite direction, getting to his feet and sprinting toward the village, finally penetrating into the narrow streets as rounds pounded a stone wall to the east.
“Give me a sit rep!” he said over his throat mike.
Everyone sounded off as uninjured, reporting opposition east, north, and south. Rapp dropped behind a rock wall but it turned out to be a bad position when what seemed like a .50-caliber round pulverized a stone two feet from him. He flipped over the wall, sweat already starting to soak him in the poorly ventilated hazmat suit.
“Mitch!”
It took Rapp a moment to realize the shout hadn’t come over his earpiece and he followed it through an empty doorway to his right. Coleman was inside with his back to the wall next to a window opening, occasionally peeking over the blackened sill to make sure no one was moving in on them.
Rapp took a similar position next to the door, peering out as he called for an update from Coleman’s men.
“We’re just inside the southwest edge of the village and we’re in a position to cover each other,” Maslick said over the radio. “No one’s hit yet but we’re taking heavy fire from the south and we’re seeing sniper activity to the north. The low ground to the west looks clear. Can you reach us? We can cover you and then get out down the slope on our side.”
“Rocket!” Coleman shouted.
They both threw themselves to the ground, anticipating an impact on the heavy stone walls of the building. The projectile went wide, though, and instead exploded in a narrow street just to the east. Flame billowed through the windows and door but didn’t reach either one of them. The smoke was another story. Suddenly Rapp was thankful for the fogged face mask.
“If these assholes could shoot straight, this would kind of suck,” Coleman said, moving back to his position next to the window.
The former SEAL’s muffled words were intended as a joke, but it was a pretty good description of their situation. The problem was that from what Rapp had seen, their attackers could shoot. They’d hit the chopper. Fire discipline was good—with controlled bursts only when a viable target presented itself. And while they continued to miss, they seemed to always go just a little wide to the east.
They weren’t going for kills, he suddenly realized. They were driving his team west, trying to draw them into the low ground. And it was working. He already had three men on that side of the village, and both he and Coleman were in a position where the smoke and fire were encouraging them to re-form with them.