Protect and Defend

by Vince Flynn

  Rapp hit the first-floor landing and reached the front door. He looked out the small window and said, “Stan, are you guys ready?” He waited to hear Stilwell’s voice over his wireless earpiece.

  “Mitch, I think this is a bad idea,” Stilwell said in a worried voice. “The base says they have air assets on the way, and the quick reaction force is rolling. The smart thing to do is sit and wait.”

  Rapp lowered his head. He knew this wasn’t the brightest thing he’d ever done, but sitting and waiting for reinforcements to show up while Kennedy and her people were in all likelihood dying simply wasn’t in his programming.

  “Stan,” Rapp said firmly, “we’re done talking about this. On the count of three I’m coming out the door. Are you with me or not?”

  “Yeah,” Stilwell groaned.

  “One,” Rapp tugged on the black balaclava hood to get a better opening for his eyes. “Two,” he took a breath and told himself he was crazy. “Three,” he put his hand on the doorknob and waited to hear Stilwell and his men open fire. Right on cue there was a massive volley of gunfire. Rapp leaned his shoulder into the door, hit the small stoop, took a hard left, and started running for his life.

  The first thing Rapp noticed were four men standing behind an old blue Chevy Impala that had been backed up on the sidewalk to form a makeshift barricade. All four men were pointing their rifles directly at him. Rapp had no choice but to keep moving toward them. If he stopped and went back they would shoot him for sure. If he kept rushing toward them they would hopefully think he was one of them.

  As planned, two explosions rocked the opposite corner. Rapp winced as tiny pebbles of debris pelted him. The men behind the car elevated their weapons and began firing at Stilwell and his men. Rapp reached the corner and hopped up onto the trunk of the car. He slid across on his butt and was helped to the ground by one of the men.

  Rapp tried to steal a quick glance at the convoy, but the street was covered in smoke. Of the four corners of the intersection this was safest. The two just to the north were getting absolutely hammered by Stilwell and the Kurds, and the fourth corner, just behind him, had received its first incoming grenade. Bodies were everywhere and confusion was spreading rapidly.

  Rapp had the .45-caliber Glock in his left hand and kept it up in the air so it was there for anyone to see who might be watching. His right hand slowly slid under his shirt and drew his silenced 9mm Glock from its paddle holster. Rapp moved up behind the first man and placed the tip of the silencer right between his shoulder blades and slightly to the left. At the same time he extended his .45 and aimed it down the street. Rapp fired the 9mm and slid his right knee under the man’s butt to stop him from falling. He kept his left arm raised and angled the 9mm to the left. He fired one quick suppressed round, striking the second man in the head. He instantly collapsed. Rapp fired another shot into the third man’s head and then finally the fourth.

  Rapp dropped to his knee, as if he was seeking cover. He placed his back against the Impala, and for the first time he took in the full scope of the carnage. Through the billowing smoke he saw what was left of the vehicles. His heart sank. The fourth vehicle was as bad as the fifth. The white skin was riddled with blackened .50-caliber holes the size of fists. The lead vehicle was in flames and the first Suburban was in two pieces. The second Suburban was shrouded by white smoke, rather than the dark gray smoke caused by explosives. From what he could make out, Kennedy’s vehicle looked pretty much intact.

  Just beyond the Suburban, Rapp noticed some movement. There were men in black hoods moving around. He looked up and down the cross street. Stilwell and the Kurds were pounding the hell out of the militia and the few remaining cops. Rapp decided to move closer.

  “Stan, I’m moving to take cover behind the last Toyota. Make sure your guys don’t shoot me.”

  Rapp could hear Stilwell passing on the information to the Kurds. A moment later there was a slight lull in the shooting. Rapp stayed low and scrambled the thirty-odd feet to the front fender of the Toyota. The dead security contractor was lying a few feet away. From this new angle Rapp could see a group of the militiamen moving hurriedly toward two big late-model American sedans. There was a brief opening, and he got a glimpse of Kennedy. She was being forced into the backseat of the sedan by one of the men.

  Rapp was on one knee; his eyes surveying the tactical situation. From left to right he counted eleven men, not counting the ones in the vehicles. They were all carrying machine guns. About half of them were in positions of cover, and they were alert. At best he could take down two or three. The rear door of the first sedan closed and the tires began spinning on the pavement. Rapp’s hope sank as the vehicle took off. Through the back window he saw the man grab his boss by the hair and force her down.

  “Stan,” Rapp said tensely. “Irene is alive. I repeat Irene is alive. They just put her in the back of a gray Ford LTD. There is a second car following with a bunch of militia guys inside. It’s a white four-door. Maybe a Chevy. I can’t tell for sure.” Rapp watched both vehicles take a right at the next corner. He passed the information on to Stilwell and then said, “Tell the base commander Kennedy has been kidnapped. He needs to get roadblocks set up ASAP, and I want every Predator and helicopter he has in the air immediately. Then call global ops and tell them to light a fire under everyone’s ass.”

  Rapp had a vision of Stilwell having to explain the situation from start to finish with each call. Rapp realized he needed to speak to the president directly, so the orders could be issued from the top down—without question. He was about to tell Stilwell to get him a line to the White House when he noticed a police officer in a hood come running up to one of the men standing by Kennedy’s smoking Suburban. The police officer pointed in one direction and then the other. The man he was talking to began barking orders to the men around him.

  “Stan, I need three of your Kurds down here right now!” Rapp holstered the .45, scooted back a couple of feet, and lay down on his stomach. He was just behind the driver’s-side front wheel of the Toyota. Looking under the SUV he could see both men from the knees down. Rapp switched the 9mm to his left hand and lined up the shot. The men were approximately fifty feet away.

  “Tell them to hurry up,” Rapp whispered and then gently squeezed the trigger. The bullet spat from the end of the circular suppressor, and seconds later the man on the left collapsed to the pavement. Rapp already had the sights trained on the second man. He fired again with the same results. The police officer joined the first man on the ground, both of them writhing in pain. Rapp stayed right where he was and waited for the inevitable. Two men appeared at the exact same time. They both bent over to grab the man Rapp guessed was their leader. These guys were well trained. Rather than administer first aid on the spot they were going to drag him to a safer location. Rapp dropped both men with shots to the head. They crumpled to the asphalt; the one on the left motionless, the one on the right twitching.

  “Stan, where are those Kurds?” Rapp whispered as he searched for more targets.

  “They’re on their way, and the Stryker column is two minutes out.”

  “Tell your boys not to shoot me when they get here.”

  Another man showed up to drag his commander to safety and Rapp put a bullet through the top of his head. Knowing he was pushing his luck, he got to his feet and quickly moved to the rear fender of the Toyota. He leaned against the truck, ejected his magazine, and put in a fresh one. The cops and militia to the north were in full retreat. A block away he spotted a group of men disposing of their weapons and tearing off their hoods and uniforms. Rapp circled around the back of the Toyota and looked back down the street toward the two wounded men. Beyond them he found two militia members taking cover behind Kennedy’s still-smoking Suburban and three more hiding behind parked cars. At the far end of the block there were more men fleeing on foot. As far as Rapp could tell, the five remaining men must have figured there was a sniper in one of the buildings across the street.

&nb
sp; Rapp looked over his shoulder and saw four of Stilwell’s Kurds approaching the Impala he had slid over when he’d first reached the intersection. Rapp waved his hand to get their attention and then motioned for them to stay put on the other side of the vehicle. He took one last peek around the fender of the Toyota and decided to make it quick. Rapp drew the .45-caliber Glock and put it in his right hand. With a gun in each hand he crouched and ran for the sidewalk. As he passed around the end of the first parked car, he hit the sidewalk and began sprinting toward the three men who were taking cover behind a parked car. They paid him no attention.

  Rapp covered the ground in under two seconds. The men were talking among themselves, probably trying to figure out whether to grab their commander or abandon him. As Rapp drew almost abreast of the first man, he extended the silenced pistol, aimed it at the man’s right temple, and fired at near point-blank range. Before the other two men even realized what was going on, Rapp fired two more quick shots hitting both men in the face. Never breaking stride, he cut between two parked cars and charged at the last two men. He lowered the silenced 9mm and raised the .45-caliber Glock. Both men were kneeling. The man on the right tried to swing his rifle around. Rapp fired from a mere ten feet away and kept charging. The heavy round snapped the man’s head back into the Suburban. The man to the left was so startled by the shot he froze. Rapp closed the final few feet, and at the last second decided to take the man alive. He pivoted and snap-kicked the man in the side of the head, sending him tumbling to the ground. Rapp kicked his rifle clear and yelled for the Kurds to come over and help.

  “Stan,” Rapp said, as he did a 360-degree sweep of the area. He looked at his watch; it wasn’t even noon. The president was more than likely in bed. “Send one of the Kurds down here with a satellite phone.”

  The scene had changed drastically in less than a minute. The police and the insurgents were all gone. The gunfire had fallen silent. All that was left were dead bodies and broken vehicles. It was the aftermath of battle. Rapp eyed the two men he had shot in the knees. The policeman had rolled onto his stomach and was trying to crawl away. Rapp then looked to his feet at the four men from Kennedy’s security detail. They were all lying facedown with bullet holes in the back of their heads. McDonald wasn’t one of them. Rapp turned and checked the front seat of the Suburban. There was a body in the front passenger seat, but it was missing a face. Rapp knew it was McDonald. That was where he’d been sitting when they’d left the café.

  The anger came boiling up from deep in his gut. Rapp made no effort to control it. He turned and eyed the pathetic piece of shit in the police uniform who was still trying to crawl away. Rapp raised the .45-caliber Glock and fired the weapon. The heavy round hit the man in the ass and blew out a chunk of his right hip socket. The man may as well have been hit by a bolt of lightning. His entire body snapped rigid for a moment and then he began screaming in pain.

  Rapp holstered the 9mm, but kept the .45 ready. He pulled off his own hood and yelled for the Kurds to do the same as he walked over to the man the police officer had been talking to.

  Rapp reached down to yank off the man’s hood. As he did so, the man’s right hand lashed out. Rapp stepped clear as the tip of a knife sailed wildly past his abdomen. Before the man could take another swipe, Rapp brought his right foot crashing down on his shattered knee. As he convulsed in pain, Rapp found the hand with the knife in it and sent his left foot crashing down with bone-crushing force. The knife was instantly released. Rapp kicked it clear and snatched the hood off the man’s head.

  Rapp was not surprised to find a bearded man, with brown eyes, in his mid to late thirties. Wherever he had come from he was not Arabic. His skin was too light and brow too pronounced. He could be an Iraqi, but the pronounced brow and high cheekbones told Rapp the man was more than likely Persian or Kazakh.

  “Where did they take her?” Rapp asked conversationally.

  The man clenched his teeth and said nothing. Rapp stepped on his knee again. After a few seconds he released his foot and repeated the question, this time in Arabic.

  “Fuck you!” the man screamed in English.

  Rapp thought he caught a slight Persian accent. He answered the man in Farsi, saying, “I don’t think so.” Leaning in closer, he lowered his voice and asked, “Do you like being a man?”

  The fierce brown eyes stared defiantly back at Rapp.

  “The two of us”—Rapp pointed to himself and the man on the ground—“we’re going to find out the hard way.” Reaching under his shirt, Rapp drew his matte black ZT knife and dangled it in front of the man’s face. “That woman you just helped kidnap…she means a lot to me.” Rapp’s eyes turned crazed. “Trust me when I tell you you’re gonna tell me where she is.”

  The man twisted his face into a frown and spit on Rapp.

  Rapp didn’t even blink let alone bother to wipe the spit from his cheek. He took his knife and drove the four-inch blade into the man’s right shoulder socket. With a violent jerk he twisted the knife a quarter turn.

  The man gasped at the sheer pain and then let loose a stream of profanities, all in Farsi.

  The words confirmed for Rapp that the man was Iranian. Rapp leaned hard on the knife, and when the man opened his mouth to scream again Rapp stuffed the barrel of his .45 into his mouth. Bringing his nose to within an inch of the other man’s, he said in Farsi, “I don’t care how tough you think you are, you Persian piece of shit. You’d better hope for your sake that she gets returned quickly and she better not have a single mark on her, or you’re going to be eating your own nuts for dinner.”

  41

  STRAIT OF HORMUZ

  They’d lost the Iranian Kilo. Halberg stood in the combat and control center of his sub, sweating profusely. He took a drink of water and silently watched his men work. They’d lost plenty of contacts before, but never in a situation this tense. His steel blue eyes darted from one screen to the next. A digital readout on the plotting screen read 14:32 and counting. That was how long it had been since the Kilo had broken contact. They were nearly three months into a six-month patrol and the men had conducted themselves wonderfully, until now.

  Halberg had been in the engine room hitting the heavy bag when the officer of the deck had sent word that the Iranian sub had vanished. Without saying a word, Halberg peeled off his boxing gloves, grabbed a towel, and headed to the CACC. His XO met him at the plotting table and played back the tactical information on the screen starting two minutes prior to losing contact. Ten seconds of footage told Halberg all he needed to know. He saw what the Iranian captain must have done. The man had timed things perfectly. Just as he finished one of his lazy figure eights, he had made a dash across the outgoing channel and the bow of a heavily laden supertanker that was making a lot of noise and churning up a lot of muck. When the supertanker had finally passed, the Iranian Kilo was gone. They did a quick sweep and came to the conclusion that she had headed back into the strait sandwiched between two container vessels that were separated by less than a mile. Halberg ordered a new course and they fell in behind the second container vessel. As best they could figure it they were approximately two miles back from the Kilo.

  The executive officer finished speaking with the navigator and then walked across the CACC to where Halberg was silently standing watch. In a hushed voice meant for only the two of them Strilzuk said, “I’m sorry I lost her, Skipper.”

  “No need to apologize. She made a good move.”

  “You would have seen it coming.”

  Halberg shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “No. You would have seen it, and we both know it.”

  “You will too one day. You’re almost there.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Strilzuk looked deflated.

  “Stop beating yourself up, and tell me what he’s going to do next.”

  Strilzuk looked down at the tactical screen and started weighing options. The Kilo really had only two choices. She could head back into port, which based on the f
act that practically the entire Iranian navy had been put to sea, didn’t seem very likely. The most probable scenario was that she would transit the strait and head back into the gulf.

  “She’s going to head back into the gulf, and make a sprint while we’re stuck in the channel.”

  Halberg nodded. “How long will she run?”

  Strilzuk checked his watch, and looked at the tactical screen. It marked the estimated location of the Kilo, the two freighters, and their speeds. Based on the Kilo’s known top speed Strilzuk answered, “Roughly five and a half minutes.”

  “Any other possibilities?”

  “She could head back into port, but I don’t see that happening.”

  “Neither do I. What else?” Halberg asked in a tone that told Strilzuk he was missing something.

  Strilzuk studied the tactical for a moment. He looked at the clump of islands off Bandar Abbas. “She might decide to partially surface, run to the leeward side of one of these islands, wait for us to pass, and then fall in behind us.”

  “That’s possible, but not likely.” Halberg hit a button and rewound the tactical to the point where they lost the Kilo. He pointed to the screen and said, “What if she ran clear across the inbound channel, looped around to the east, and headed back out, or worse, fell in behind us?”

  Strilzuk looked embarrassed. “That’s possible.”

  “But unlikely,” Halberg offered in consolation. He read his friend’s frustration and said, “Dennis, you’re practical and straightforward. This guy,” Halberg pointed at the screen, “is a little crazy. Running across the outbound channel that close to a fully loaded tanker with all this other traffic around is not exactly a conservative move. Would you ever try something like that?”

  Strilzuk sighed, “Not under normal conditions.”

  “Which tells you?”

  “This guy’s either got a screw loose or these aren’t normal circumstances.”