by Brad Thor
“Bad news,” the Delta Force operative said.
“What is it?”
“We’re starting to run low on fuel. There isn’t enough to bounce all over hell and back.”
“But there’s an extra two—” Harvath began, then caught himself. They had used the extra cans of fuel to burn down the electronics shop. “Fuck.”
“Yup,” Staelin replied. “Exactly.”
“So we’ve got no choice.”
“Not unless you brought a siphon with you and want to suck the gas out of the technical.”
There was some surgical tubing in the med kit, but nowhere near enough. “We could cut the fuel line or puncture the tank. Put something underneath it to catch everything.”
“That sounds like fun,” Staelin replied, as he turned and walked away. “If you need me, I’ll be in the Land Cruiser.”
Harvath turned back to Haney and Gage. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s late,” said Gage. “And anyone with any sense in that town is asleep. We keffiyeh up, we roll hard and fast, and nobody’s the wiser.”
“Mike, what do you think?” asked Harvath. Even though he was the leader, it was important to get buy-in from the entire team.
“I think there’s no good answer. That’s what I think.”
“So is that a yes, or a no?”
Haney thought about it for a moment and then looked at him. “I don’t want to miss Bomb Jovi, so I guess it’s a yes.”
Harvath smiled and turned to follow Staelin back to the SUV. As he was walking away, Gage imitated a goat and sang, “You give love a baaaaaad name.”
Back at the Land Cruiser, he spoke with Barton and Morrison. They both agreed with the plan, especially in light of the fuel situation. Neither wanted to court trouble, but they couldn’t see a way around it either. All things considered, it seemed worth the risk.
Climbing back into the vehicle, Harvath double-checked his map and after a final check with the drone team that their ruse had worked and the sparkle was leading the militia vehicles away, he gave the order to get moving.
This was either going to be one of his best or one of his worst ideas ever. Only time would tell.
As Staelin got back onto the road and started rolling, Harvath looked at his watch. There wasn’t much darkness left.
Quietly, he said a little prayer. All he asked was that they be allowed to get back to the safe house without any problems.
But something had attached itself to his vehicle. A little something called Murphy.
CHAPTER 30
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Zelten was cut in half by the east–west road that ran to the border with Tunisia. The most densely populated neighborhoods were south of the road, and as luck would have it, that was the direction from which Harvath and his team were approaching. The road they needed to get to, which would take them to the coast, was on the north side of town.
The fastest and most direct route would have been to travel right through the center of Zelten. It would have also drawn the most attention. The dawn prayer, known as the Fajr, was only an hour away. There were going to be people making their way to local mosques.
Harvath decided to trade a little expediency for some added safety. They would loop around the west side of town to avoid as much as possible.
The road system, though, was medieval. Narrow, dusty streets sometimes ran for only a couple of blocks before looping back on themselves or dead-ending. It reminded Harvath of the maze of streets on the Greek island of Mykonos designed to disorient pirates. It was going to be a nightmare getting through.
They took their NVGs off and turned their headlights on. With their keffiyehs helping to disguise them, they moved quickly around the southern edge of the town.
If Zelten was a watch face, they were at about the eight-o’clock position when Haney radioed that they had someone on their tail.
“Everyone stay cool,” said Harvath as he instructed Staelin to make the next right turn. “Let’s see if this is for real.”
The Land Cruiser made the turn, followed by the technical. It was one of the neighborhoods Harvath had wanted to avoid.
The houses, pockmarked and scarred from fighting during the revolution, were packed tightly together. Some were in better shape than others.
Parked cars lined the street. Electric lines were strung from one building to the next. There was no movement. It was quiet. Very quiet.
“He’s still behind us,” said Haney.
“Roger that,” Harvath replied. Turning to Staelin, he said, “Take the next right.”
The Delta Force operative obeyed and they headed down another crowded block of homes.
“How are we looking now, Haney?” Harvath asked, as he tried to get a good view with his side mirror.
“Not good. Still on my six.”
Pointing out the windshield, Harvath told Staelin, “Take this next turn up ahead,” and repeated the same to Haney over the radio.
“Roger that,” they both replied.
As soon as they had made the turn, Harvath said, “Now floor it.”
The big SUV’s engine roared as it rocketed down the street—this one paved and complete with intermittent streetlights. Looking in his side mirror, he was finally able to see the vehicle tailing Haney. It was another technical.
Either this guy had just gotten lucky or somewhere someone had spotted them and had called it in. It didn’t make a difference now. They needed to lose him.
“Three o’clock,” Barton exclaimed from the backseat.
Harvath swiveled his head to the right. Paralleling them one road over was an additional technical. Fuck. “Make sure they don’t box us in,” he told Staelin.
The Delta Force operative nodded. “What do you want to do?”
He wanted to get the hell out of there, but with two tails and more likely inbound, that was impossible. He had to come up with an alternative plan, fast.
Keying up his radio, he announced to Staelin and Haney, “Left turn up ahead. Then the second right.”
When the men acknowledged the directions, Harvath turned to Barton. “Hand me that Russian grenade launcher.”
Once he did, Harvath double-checked to make sure it was loaded and then told everyone what he was going to do.
Suddenly, there was the crack of gunfire from behind. The militia was shooting at them.
“Contact rear! Contact rear!” Gage shouted over the radio, as he turned in his seat and began firing through the shattered rear window of their pickup.
“Don’t slow down,” Harvath ordered his team. “Left, then second right.”
Arriving at the left turn, everyone braced as Staelin pulled the wheel hard. The tires screamed as the heavy SUV spun around the corner.
“Push it! Push it!” Harvath urged, and Staelin gave the Land Cruiser even more gas.
They had to be doing at least eighty. Next to them building facades whipped by. Then, an intersection. Had a car been passing through at the same time, it would have been a coffin-measuring festival.
There was a blur of more buildings and finally the next road.
“Right turn. Right turn,” he announced.
Staelin applied the brakes, but only enough so as not to lose control in the turn. As soon as he was through it, he slammed the gas. Up ahead was their target—an Islamic cemetery.
“Get ready to jump,” said Staelin.
Making sure his gear was secure, Harvath cracked open his door and then nodded.
When they reached it, Staelin slammed on the brakes and yelled, “Go! Go!”
Harvath hadn’t even hit the ground before the Delta Force operative had once again put the pedal to the floor.
Jumping from a moving vehicle, even one that had just slammed on its brakes, was an invitation for a serious injury. It became an engraved invitation when you did it in the dark. As he hit the ground, Harvath rolled, and kept on rolling, until all his momentum was dissipated.
In Islam, the deceased
are buried in a shroud and placed on their right side without a coffin, facing the Kaaba in Mecca. A small grave marker is used—usually less than twelve inches high.
Getting to his feet, he ran for the only cover available, a small row of date palms.
But Harvath hadn’t come to the cemetery to hide—at least not totally. He had come to take out the two technicals that were following his team.
By the time he reached the trees, Haney had already raced by. Now came the gray pickup that was chasing him, with its heavy machine gun mounted in the back. A militia member with an AK-47 was leaning out the front passenger window, firing.
He had no idea where the second technical was, but it had to be close. Without wasting any more time, Harvath ran for the other side of the cemetery.
At the corner of the property was an intersection where three roads came together. It would give Staelin and Haney a greater opportunity to bring the technicals into his crosshairs.
As Harvath ran, he hailed the drone team and told them to get the Reaper back over his location. Killing the sparkle, they turned it around and set it on a heading for Zelten.
In the distance, Harvath could hear sporadic gunfire. “Haney,” he demanded over his radio. “SITREP.”
It took a moment for the Marine to reply. “Three blocks out,” he finally yelled. “Still taking fire.”
Switching his attention to the other vehicle, he said, “Staelin. SITREP.”
“Four blocks away. No sign of—” the Delta Force operative began.
He was interrupted by Morrison. “Contact left! Contact left!”
From their direction, Harvath could hear another barrage of gunfire. He broke into a sprint.
At the edge of the cemetery was a rock the size of a Dumpster. What its significance was, or what it was doing there, was beyond him. All he knew was that it had an unimpeded view of the intersection and provided a perfect place to set up shop.
As he reached it, he relayed to the team that he was in place and ready for them to draw their tails into the kill zone.
“Coming in hot!” Haney immediately replied. “From the west.”
“Roger that,” Harvath answered, as he unfolded the grenade launcher’s stock and flipped up its rear sight. Shouldering the weapon, he disengaged the safety, and positioned himself against the rock.
“Thirty seconds,” Haney said over the radio.
Harvath took one last look around the area to make sure no one was sneaking up on him, and then made ready to fire. “Bring it.”
The sound of gunfire got louder as Haney and his pursuer got closer to the intersection.
Soon enough, Harvath could see him flashing his high beams. The next thing he knew, Haney was in the middle of the intersection, and his truck had been sent into a spin.
It was at that moment that time seemed to slow down.
CHAPTER 31
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It was called a bootleg turn. Dropping into second gear, Haney gave the wheel a quick jerk to the right, and then spun the wheel all the way to the left.
As Haney’s vehicle fishtailed into a 180-degree turn, the men behind him had no idea what was going on.
Gage, who had already inserted his third fresh magazine into his M4, opened up full auto on the cab of the other vehicle. The rounds punched holes through the sheet metal and shattered the rest of the glass.
Both vehicles came to a stop, facing each other, fifteen feet apart in the middle of the intersection.
“Any time, Harvath,” Haney said over the radio. Throwing his vehicle in reverse, he began backing out of the intersection as fast as he could.
Harvath’s grenade launcher was loaded with high-explosive thermobaric rounds, which produced little to no shrapnel. Nevertheless, the minimum safe distance from detonation was thirty feet. As soon as Haney got to twenty-five, Harvath warned, “Going hot,” pressed the trigger, and let it rip.
The fuse on a thermobaric round armed itself three meters after leaving the launcher’s muzzle. In this situation, there was plenty of time for it to arm before hitting its target. Except for one thing—Harvath’s aim had been off.
It wasn’t like shooting a rifle. It was more like lofting a tennis ball the length of a long swimming pool and trying to land it in a wastebasket.
The round sailed over the militia technical and detonated in front of a building on the other side of the intersection.
“Damn it!” he cursed. Racking the weapon, he loaded another round and readjusted.
Before he could press the trigger a second time, the driver of the militia vehicle had already popped the clutch and was squealing his tires. Harvath fired anyway.
This round was on the money. It took off in a high arc from the cemetery and landed squarely in the bed of the militia technical.
It exploded hot and bright, melting the pickup truck’s frame, killing all four people inside, and cooking off all of their ammunition.
Over the radio, Harvath could hear Haney and Gage cheering. But nearby, he could also hear the sound of automatic weapons fire.
Slinging the grenade launcher, he transitioned to his M4 and ran for Haney’s technical.
As he ran, he scanned for threats and hailed Staelin. “Tyler, give me a SITREP.”
The Delta Force operative’s transmission crackled in and out and came in pieces. “Vehicle inoperable . . . Four tangos . . . Returning fire . . . One prisoner KIA.”
One prisoner KIA? “Fuck,” said Harvath as he increased his speed. When he got to Haney’s pickup, he didn’t bother climbing into the cab. Leaping into the bed, he pounded on the side and yelled through the broken rear window, “Move! Move!” as Haney peeled out.
Harvath had no intention of losing anyone from his team. He had to go in and pull them out before things got any worse.
The Reaper pilot didn’t need to tell him a swarm of militia members were already headed their way. He knew it just as surely as he knew the sun would soon be up. Too much had gone sideways. They needed to regain the initiative.
“Corner!” yelled Haney. “Hold on.”
Harvath did as he was told.
Haney hit the turn so hard, Harvath was almost thrown from the truck.
“Where the hell are you guys?” Staelin yelled over the radio.
“Inbound hot,” Harvath replied. “Less than sixty seconds out. Coming in east of your position. Hang in there.”
All of a sudden, he heard thunder. Except he knew it wasn’t thunder. The militia technical had opened up its powerful .50 caliber machine gun.
Harvath didn’t need to tell Haney to hurry. He’d heard it too. Dropping the hammer, he pushed the pickup as hard as it would go.
Thirty seconds later, Harvath pounded on the cab and yelled for Haney to stop. He had just caught a glimpse of the militia vehicle.
Jumping out of the bed of the truck, he yanked open the rear door and grabbed the RPG launcher from the backseat. As he loaded a grenade, he hailed Staelin over the radio. “RPG incoming. Take cover. Now.”
Running back to where he had seen the technical, he mounted the weapon, took a knee, and after checking his back blast area, sighted in his target.
The flashes from the monster .50 cal machine gun as it spat its rounds looked like lightning.
“Smoke-check that motherfucker!” Staelin shouted over the radio. “If you don’t, we’re dead!”
Harvath didn’t wait. Pressing the trigger, he sent the 93 mm, single-stage HEAT warhead sizzling toward its target.
The militia member firing the machine gun never saw it coming. The grenade hit the technical, and it exploded in an enormous fireball.
Flaming pieces of wreckage littered the street, and a hail of razor-sharp shrapnel rained down as Harvath leapt back into Haney’s truck. “Let’s go!” he ordered.
A block down, Haney turned to the left. There was still the sound of sporadic gunfire.
He drove as close to it as he dared, then Harvath and Gage hopped out and mov
ed to the battle on foot.
Locals peered out windows or stood in doorways to watch what was happening. When they saw the Americans, some retreated inside. Many simply stayed in place, as if rolling gunfights happened every day in their neighborhood.
As they neared the corner, Harvath asked for one more SITREP. Staelin radioed that there were two militia members remaining and gave their location. They had gotten onto the roof of a house. Every time Staelin and his team tried to move, the militia showered them with rounds. Harvath ordered him to sit tight.
When he and Gage got to the corner, he radioed Staelin and then counted down from three.
On cue, Staelin drew out the snipers.
As soon as the militiamen popped up, Gage stepped out from around the corner and, with Harvath covering him, shot them both.
But the moment Gage had gotten his rounds off, another sniper materialized in the window of a different building and fired.
The bullet entered the back of Gage’s left shoulder. “Fuck!” he cursed, as Harvath grabbed him by his vest and yanked him back around the corner.
Harvath radioed everyone that there was a third sniper and for Staelin and his team to stay put.
“Where the hell did that guy come from?” Gage asked through gritted teeth.
“Second-story window across the street,” Harvath replied. He hadn’t seen the shooter until the flash had erupted from the end of his muzzle, and by then it was too late. “Can you still fight?”
Gage nodded.
Slinging his rifle, Harvath transitioned to the Russian grenade launcher and racked it, loading his last thermobaric round. “Just pin him down long enough for me to get off my shot.”
“A hundred bucks says you’ll miss.”
Harvath shook his head and then pointed forward, signaling that he was ready to go.
Gage was in rough shape. He had trouble supporting his rifle with his left arm. It took him significant effort to raise it high enough. Finally, he signaled that he was ready.
Together, the two men swung out into the street. Gage peppered the building’s second-floor windows with rounds from his M4. Harvath brought the pump-action grenade launcher up, sighted in the window, and fired.
