Use of Force

by Brad Thor

  Harvath tried to remember all the details from the stacks of files he had gone through at the blue lockhouse back in the States. It was less than three days ago, but it already felt like weeks.

  There had been so many horrible refugee accounts, he couldn’t get through all of them. Many hadn’t even been translated, only those the CIA felt had the greatest intelligence value.

  The tales of torture and gang rape by Halim and his men were some of the worst Harvath had ever read. There were two details in particular, though, that he thought might prove helpful, but that he needed more information about.

  As part of the operation, the CIA had assigned a handful of SSOs, or Specialized Skills Officers, to Harvath’s team. SSOs were subspecialists in a wide range of areas. One such SSO was named Deborah Lovett, and she was based out of the U.S. Embassy in Rome.

  Lovett was not only fluent in Italian, but she was well connected and had been working the Mustapha Marzouk/Umar Ali Halim investigation from the Italian side.

  She knew the files backward and forward. Once the Reaper had located Halim’s compound, Harvath had begun asking Fayez about its specifics. He had visited only a handful of times, dropping off phones or coming to deal with technical issues. He didn’t know about secret ways in or out. So, Harvath had reached out to Lovett via text.

  When her number came up on his satellite phone a short time later, he hoped she was calling with good news.

  “What have you got?”

  “I went back through all of the refugee interviews like you asked,” she said. “The beatings usually happened inside the warehouse. They were a form of punishment, as well as a warning to the others. The rapes, on the other hand, happened outside. Apparently, Halim’s men prefer privacy for those.”

  “What about the torture?”

  Lovett could be heard flipping through her notes. “Victims were hooded or blindfolded and then taken someplace else on the property. It was described as dark, with a low ceiling and no windows. Sounds like an interior room or maybe something underground.”

  Harvath doubted it was something underground. In fact, it sounded as if it could have been the windowless structure he had seen in the drone footage.

  Shifting gears, he got to the heart of why he had contacted her. “What about any passageways or tunnels? Anything about alternative means in or out of the compound?”

  “No. Not, specifically. But I may have found something interesting.”

  “What is it?”

  “About a year ago, Halim had raped a Sudanese woman at his compound. Unlike his men, who rape the refugees and then throw them back inside the warehouse, he brings the women to his bedroom.

  “He has a big four-poster bed that was allegedly stolen from one of Gadaffi’s palaces. He likes to tie women to it as he has his way with them.

  “Apparently, the Sudanese woman fought back and he beat her, severely. She lost consciousness. He waited for her to come back around and then he raped and beat her again. She didn’t remember much after that. Except for one thing—being dragged down a long hallway.”

  “Any idea how long?” Harvath asked.

  “No.”

  “That doesn’t help us much.”

  “Maybe this will,” Lovett offered. “Another Sudanese refugee remembered the night the woman was taken and raped. There was a terrible storm. When she was brought back to the warehouse, her clothes were damp, but not soaked.”

  “Which means they probably dragged her outside in the rain, put her inside a vehicle, and drove her back to the warehouse.”

  “There’s just one problem,” Lovett replied. “It was Halim, not his men, who brought her back. And the pair didn’t enter the warehouse through one of the exterior doors. According to the report, there’s a small office at the back of the warehouse that’s always kept locked. Halim stepped out of the office, dumped the Sudanese woman on the floor, and then disappeared back inside.

  “None of them saw him again after that. A truck picked the refugees up the next morning, took them to the coast, and they boarded a boat that actually made it far enough to be rescued by the Italians.”

  It certainly sounded to Harvath like there might be a tunnel, just not connected to the main house. He thought about what Lovett had told him.

  If it was raining, if the Sudanese woman was unconscious and couldn’t reveal its existence, if the front gate was all locked up for the night, and if Halim didn’t want to wake his men to take her back to the warehouse, he might have used the tunnel.

  Those were a lot of ifs. Ifs got people killed. But ifs were a part of what he did for a living—a big part.

  And, as he didn’t want to go over the compound’s wall, there was no other choice but to see if a tunnel existed.

  CHAPTER 23

  * * *

  * * *

  They waited until well after midnight to launch their operation. Harvath tried not to think of everything he was doing wrong.

  One of the things they absolutely should have had before going in was a study of the people in and around the target called a pattern-of-life analysis. By observing a target over time, you could gain a lot of additional intelligence helpful in planning and executing a raid. Harvath, though, had decided to do without it.

  The flat, barren terrain around the smuggler’s compound offered no way to approach it without being seen. There was only one exception, and tonight was it. There was no moon. It was the only advantage they were going to get.

  Harvath tried to reassure himself with the fact that while still a dangerous assignment, they weren’t going up against a professional military or hard-core terrorist organization. Halim’s men were likely to have very little training, and even less discipline.

  What concerned him, though, was the Libya Liberation Front. They were trained, they were disciplined, and they were paid to “protect” Halim.

  Based on the drone footage, there was no sign of them anywhere near the warehouse or the compound.

  More likely than not, they were protecting Halim from rival smugglers trying to cut in on his business, as well as other militias that might want to shake him down for money and refugee women they could sell or use as sex slaves.

  The big question was: Were they being paid enough to come running if Umar Ali Halim was under attack? Harvath already knew the answer.

  Based on the contacts in the dead militia members’ phones, the NSA had already intercepted a significant number of Libya Liberation Front phone calls.

  The men’s bodies had been pulled from the charred remains of the electronics shop. And even though they were burned beyond recognition, the bullet holes in their skulls made it clear that the fire wasn’t the cause of death.

  The militia was out for blood. That meant, whatever happened, Harvath’s team couldn’t let Halim or any of his men raise the alarm.

  It would all come down to three key elements, perfectly summed up in the Delta Force maxim: surprise, speed, and violence of action.

  All of Harvath’s guys knew their jobs. The rules of engagement were simple. Anyone with a weapon was fair game. And that went double for anyone who tried to call for backup.

  The one person the team was not allowed to kill was Halim. Harvath had been adamant about that. Only if there was no other choice was anyone allowed to put a bullet in him.

  Though the moonless night gave them the advantage on their approach, two homes north of Halim’s compound caused Harvath to conclude that they should come in from the southwest. There was no telling if the neighbors were on Halim’s payroll. They couldn’t take a gamble on whether they might tip him off to unfamiliar vehicles in the area.

  They had chosen to bring the technical. If anything went down, Harvath wanted the extra firepower. Before leaving the safe house, they had done a full inventory of its contents and divided them up between the two vehicles.

  In addition to the .50 caliber machine gun mounted in the bed, the Hilux pickup also contained five hundred rounds of .50 cal ammunition, a Rus
sian KBP LPO-97 pump-action grenade launcher with three thermobaric rounds, an RPG-7 shoulder-fired rocket-propelled grenade launcher with two PG-7VL grenades, and one thousand rounds of 7.62 x 39mm ammunition suitable for feeding the three AK-47s they had taken off the dead militia members earlier that day.

  For once, Murphy had paid the bad guys a visit. Harvath was happy to profit from their loss. The question now was whether Murphy would stay out of their way long enough so that he and his team could parlay this small advantage into a win.

  One of the biggest things concerning Harvath was that even though they were all experienced operators, they actually had very little experience operating together.

  Extra training would have fixed that, but with the clock ticking, the CIA couldn’t invest in any. Part of Harvath’s responsibility was figuring out how to make it work. It was why he had been chosen, and why he had been given this team. As had been drummed into him in the SEAL Teams, failure wasn’t an option. He had to adapt and overcome.

  Dosing the shopkeeper with another round of ketamine, they had departed the safe house.

  With Haney and Morrison in the technical, Harvath, Staelin, Gage, and Barton had followed in the Land Cruiser.

  Two miles out from the compound, they pulled off the road and into the desert.

  The terrain was flat. There were no hills, no gullies, no stands of trees—no place to hide their vehicles. If not for the pitch darkness caused by the absence of the moon, it would have been like putting up a billboard announcing their arrival.

  They had pulled the fuses for their taillights back at the safe house. Killing their headlights and instrument lights, they now carefully piloted the vehicles with only their night vision goggles to see by.

  Once they got as close as they dared, they stopped and turned off the engines. Overhead, the Reaper monitored the smuggler’s compound and kept Harvath apprised of any movement.

  His plan had been to hit the compound while Halim and his men were asleep. The only movement the drone had picked up was more than an hour ago. A man had stepped out of the guesthouse, smoked a cigarette, and returned inside. Since then, there had been nothing else. So far, so good.

  Climbing out of the vehicles and gathering at the rear of the technical, they quietly gave their equipment a final check.

  On such short notice, the CIA had done an admirable job. In addition to getting them into Libya, it had secured the safe house, arranged their primary vehicles, and provided a decent array of gear.

  In addition to helmets and night vision goggles, there were six suppressed M4 rifles, all complete with red dot sights and infrared lasers.

  In the sidearm department, it had been a grab bag, but no less impressive. Harvath still had his H&K from earlier, Gage and Staelin had called dibs on the two 1911s, Barton had chosen the Sig Sauer, and Marines Haney and Morrison had each snatched up a Beretta 92.

  Despite most of the equipment being second-hand, the communications gear was top-notch. It was all cutting-edge, fully encrypted, and the absolute best available.

  With the drone as their only backup, Harvath had insisted the team up their combat load. As a result, they had all stuffed their chest rigs with as many extra magazines as they could carry.

  Once everyone was ready, Harvath gave the signal and they crept soundlessly toward the compound.

  CHAPTER 24

  * * *

  * * *

  Gage was the team’s designated marksman. And though Harvath had submitted a detailed equipment list ahead of time, not everything he had asked for was available.

  In particular, Gage had requested a SOCOM MK-13 sniper rifle in .300 WinMag. He wanted a powerful weapon with a solid round that would take care of business in any situation.

  But when they arrived, there was no sniper rifle with their gear. Either someone hadn’t gotten the message, or they just weren’t able to get their hands on one. Gage would have to make do with what he had.

  Just before the team reached the fence at the back of the warehouse, he peeled off. He did a quick sweep for scorpions and any other potential surprises, then lowered himself to the ground and settled in behind his rifle.

  With their overwatch in position, Harvath radioed the drone team for a SITREP.

  “Negative movement at the compound. Negative movement at the warehouse,” came the response.

  “Good copy. Roger that.” Harvath replied, as he then signaled for the rest of the team to approach the fence.

  Along with the gear the CIA had provided, there had been a small breacher’s kit. It should have included bolt cutters, or at the very least a pair of Channellock cutting pliers. Instead, all they had was a Leatherman tool.

  Harvath took one look at the gauge of the fence and waved Morrison forward. Handing him the Leatherman, he motioned for him to get to work.

  The fence was fabricated from heavy, galvanized steel. With such a small tool, it took a ton of force to cut through the links. It was a bear of a job. At least once, Harvath could have sworn he caught Morrison mouthing the words Fuck you at him. He smiled and continued to scan the area for threats.

  There were no guards and no foot patrols. In all likelihood, Halim either didn’t have the manpower, or didn’t think it necessary to post an around-the-clock watch. Big mistake.

  When Morrison had opened a hole large enough for them to slide through, he handed the Leatherman back. Harvath offered him a fist bump, knowing the young Marine’s hands had to be killing him. Instead of responding in kind, Morrison gave him the finger. Off to his right, Haney suppressed a laugh.

  On Harvath’s command, one by one they climbed through and took up positions at the rear of the building.

  The large roll-up door was locked with a heavy padlock. Even if he’d had a pair of bolt cutters, he wouldn’t have bothered. There was no telling exactly who was on the other side, or how much noise it would have made.

  Instead, their objective was a pedestrian door on the north side of the structure.

  With confirmation from the Reaper that the coast was clear, Harvath snuck a peek around the corner of the building and then led his team forward.

  At the pedestrian door, he gave the command for everyone to stop, and then he tried the knob. He had lost count of how many times he had been in some of the world’s shittiest, most dangerous places and doors had been left completely unlocked. That wasn’t the case here.

  Letting his rifle hang against his chest, he removed a set of picks from the breacher’s kit and went to work on the lock. Twenty seconds later, he had it open. Pulling back the door, he stood aside to let the team pour in.

  The first thing they noticed was the smell. Even the large, industrial fans spinning above the doors couldn’t circulate it out. It smelled like despair.

  The odors of vomit and urine mixed with sweat and blood. More than one hundred people slept on the rough concrete floor. Some had blankets. Most did not. A trench drain ran down the center.

  Toward the other end of the structure, several people were coughing. The coughs were deep, wet. Harvath and his team could only imagine the illnesses being suffered, shared, and incubated here.

  Closing the door, he glanced down at the lock. It was keyed from this side as well. If there were ever a fire, the building would be a deathtrap for those caught inside.

  The team moved quietly through the open space, sweeping their weapons from side to side. Considering how unpalatable the conditions were, they weren’t surprised not to find any guards.

  The people sleeping on the floor had paid enormous sums of money to escape their home countries and be smuggled into Europe. They had traveled thousands of miles from places like Gambia, Nigeria, Senegal, and Sudan. Others had come from places like Iraq and Syria.

  Some were sick. Many were malnourished. And even with the horrors that had been visited upon some of their fellow refugees, none of them were going to run. They had come too far to turn back now.

  In the back corner of the building was the office. As
the team cautiously approached, Harvath noticed a young woman leaning against the wall. She was gaunt, her skin sallow. A piece of fabric lay draped over her shoulder. Beneath it, an impossibly small baby breastfed.

  She stared up at Harvath, her eyes unblinking, almost lifeless. He didn’t know how well she could see him in the dark, but she seemed to know he was there. He raised his finger to his lips and instructed her not to make any sound.

  Unwrapping an energy bar he had brought with him, he placed it in her hand. Nearby, was a half-empty bottle of water. He moved it closer so that she could reach it without disturbing the baby.

  He wished he could do more, but already Haney was signaling that the office door was locked and that they needed him to come open it.

  Harvath left the mother and baby to rejoin his team.

  The office door was solid—even more solid than the one they had entered the warehouse by. It reminded Harvath of the security door at the electronics shop. Removing his picks, he got to work.

  This lock was tougher to defeat, but not impossible. As soon as he had beaten it, he nodded at Haney, who signaled the team and then counted backward from three with his fingers.

  On the Marine’s mark, Harvath eased the door open and Haney button-hooked inside, followed by Morrison and Staelin. Harvath and Barton brought up the rear.

  It was a small room, stacked with supplies. There was a metal desk with two chairs atop a faded Persian rug. Tattered binders were jammed haphazardly into a cheap, wooden bookcase. A ten-gallon bucket stood in one corner like an umbrella stand, but instead of containing umbrellas, it contained prayer rugs.

  Along the far wall were several tall filing cabinets. Taped to the wall above them was a nautical chart of the Mediterranean. In it, several small pins had been stuck.

  Harvath examined the map as Morrison and Barton moved the desk and chairs in order to pull back the rug. Nothing said smuggler like a trapdoor.