Use of Force

by Brad Thor

  The second-best option was that they divided their forces, sending some to give chase and the others to inspect the compound. What they were doing now, though, was nothing. They were just sitting there.

  Harvath could feel a headache coming on. He was hungry and caffeine deficient. He would have killed for a cup of coffee or an energy drink.

  “Okay, fellas, what’s it gonna be?” he said, as he watched the militia members. “Are we going to fight, or just stand around pulling each other’s dicks?”

  At that moment, the commander got out of his truck and started shouting orders. Up and down the line, militia members began getting out of their vehicles.

  Haney looked at Harvath, who shrugged in response, before turning his attention back to the convoy. He had no idea what they were up to.

  A group began to amass near the vehicles in the middle. They were armed predominantly with AK-47s, but some had M4s. Harvath didn’t need to guess where those had come from.

  When he saw other men begin to hop into the beds of the technicals, he knew they were in trouble.

  The militia was going to send a team in on foot to check the compound while the rest of them, along with their vehicles, hung back. The technicals would provide overwatch for them.

  “This isn’t good,” Haney said over the radio.

  No, it wasn’t. But they were going to have to deal with it.

  “It looks like they’re going to send in about twenty guys,” replied Harvath. “That’s nearly half their force. As soon as they’re closer to us than they are to them, we let them have it.”

  Haney gave him the thumbs-up and got ready. This was their ambush. And while the militia members might not be fully cooperating by driving straight into it, they still had surprise, speed, and violence of action on their side. Harvath planned to leverage that to the hilt.

  Within moments of being assembled, the assault force started moving. But much to Harvath’s chagrin, they weren’t moving alone. One of the technicals was moving with them. Damn it.

  Harvath had to think fast. The moment he and Haney fired their rockets, that machine gun was going to rain a world of hurt down on them. And the closer it was to their position, the more accurate its fire was going to be.

  They needed to find a way to take it out at the same time they took out the antiaircraft guns. There had to be something.

  Harvath racked his brain, but he couldn’t come up with anything. The antiaircraft guns had to be taken out first. If they began firing on their position, it was game over. The technical creeping up on them would just have to come second—an extremely dangerous second.

  The assault force moved rapidly. If the compound was as empty as it looked, they needed to clear it and get back on the road. With every minute that passed, their quarry was getting farther away.

  He watched as the Libyans came down the road, getting closer and closer with each passing second.

  There was a withered crop of shrubs that he had decided on for his marker. Once they had reached that, it would be time to engage.

  Perspiration ran down the back of his neck. His palms were slick with sweat. He rubbed them on his chest to dry them before readjusting his hands on the launcher. All the while, he never took his eyes off the fighters converging on the compound.

  Eventually, he went from measuring the distance to the marker in meters, to feet. “Get ready,” he said over the radio. “Almost there.”

  The technical passed the shrubs first, followed by the militiamen who were on foot. As soon as the last one had reached the marker, Harvath said, “Hit it!”

  Simultaneously, he and Haney leaned out from behind the buildings they were using as cover, sighted in their targets, and fired their weapons.

  CHAPTER 38

  * * *

  * * *

  Before he even knew if he had struck his antiaircraft technical, Harvath retreated back behind the building, dropped his empty launcher, and began running toward the other corner. As he did, he transitioned to his Russian grenade launcher.

  In one of the defeated technicals outside the compound, Morrison had found a handful of HEDP—high-explosive dual-purpose grenades.

  Used for both antitank and antipersonnel assaults, as long as you got them near a target, they were highly effective.

  He heard two explosions up on the road as the technical that was closing in on them then opened up with its .50 cal.

  The gunner strafed the part of the compound where he had seen the rockets fired from. The heavy rounds sent bits of rock and cinderblock in all directions.

  Now at the opposite end of the main building, Harvath leaned out and let loose. He fired all three rounds in his launcher, reracking it as fast as he could. And more important, he did it before the gunner in the technical could swing the heavy .50 cal in his direction and cut him down.

  As he ducked back behind the building, he heard the rounds detonate. There was a massive explosion followed by a roiling fireball that curled up into the sky. He had scored a direct hit.

  Slinging the launcher, he ran for the technical that Haney had parked behind the far building.

  Out on the road, the other heavy machine guns mounted in the beds of militia pickup trucks began firing and chewing up the compound.

  The tailgate to Haney’s pickup had been lowered and Harvath leapt right into the back. Jumping up onto the top of the cab, he then grabbed the edge of the roof and pulled himself up.

  “Haney,” he yelled, as he did. “Don’t shoot. It’s me.”

  The Marine reached down and helped him over the parapet.

  “Give me a SITREP,” he said as he took a fraction of a second to catch his breath.

  “You want the good news or the bad news?” Haney asked. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the gunfire.

  Harvath signaled for him to get on with it.

  “The good news is I hit my target. The bad news is you owe Gage two hundred bucks.”

  “Damn it,” Harvath replied. “How many rockets do we have left?”

  Haney pointed to the fully assembled RPG on the other side of the roof. “Just the one.”

  Harvath patted his chest rig. He had two HEDP rounds left.

  “What are you thinking?”

  Harvath began to speak, but was interrupted by the antiaircraft gun joining the fight. Even at a distance, it was earsplitting.

  Its gunner was focused on the main building. The weapon’s rounds tore through it like an angry child stabbing a gingerbread house with a screwdriver.

  With the antiaircraft gun’s maximum rate of fire of six hundred rounds per minute, the structure wouldn’t last long. It wouldn’t take them long to work their way down to the building they were on. Not to mention if one of them stood up and fired the RPG. They had to risk it, though.

  “We’ve got to knock out that ZU-2!” Harvath insisted.

  Haney gestured to the weapon. “Be my guest. But I don’t want to be up on this rooftop when you do.”

  “How good are you with one of these?” he asked, unslinging the Russian grenade launcher.

  “Good enough to be dangerous.”

  Harvath handed it to him, along with the two rounds from his chest rig. “I’ll give you a head start. Whatever you do, make sure you take out both those other technicals.”

  “Roger that,” Haney replied, as he loaded the weapon and picked up his M4. He stopped for a moment, put his hand on Harvath’s shoulder, and then disappeared over the parapet.

  Staying as low as possible, Harvath moved to the opposite side of the roof. He examined the RPG and made sure everything was in order. Setting it down, he then risked a glance over the parapet.

  The technical he had taken out was a smoldering hulk, surrounded by bodies. Beyond it, the rest of the convoy was still in the same position. As the .50 cal machine guns sprayed the compound, the antiaircraft gun stayed focused on hammering the main building.

  He had no idea why his first rocket hadn’t taken it out, but it was his fau
lt. He wasn’t the kind of guy to blame his equipment. He owned the miss.

  This time he would get it right. He had to. There wouldn’t be another chance. If he didn’t take out that technical, it’d be lights out for him and Haney.

  Being atop the southernmost building gave him a slight advantage for sighting in his target. It also meant he was farther away. His aim would have to be right on the money.

  Cocking the hammer, he raised the weapon and reminded himself to hold it firmly. Closing his left eye, he used his right eye to line up the RPG’s front sight tip with the rear slide notch.

  The moment he launched, he was going to draw enemy fire. He reminded himself to keep his weapon aimed at the target. If he scrambled for cover too soon, it could result in another miss.

  Taking the weapon off safe, he double-checked his sight picture, exhaled, and began applying pressure to the trigger. There was no recoil with an RPG, but if he flinched or jerked the trigger in any way, that could also cause a miss.

  It seemed to take forever for the weapon to engage. Finally, he heard the loud bang and distinctive whoosh as the warhead erupted out of the launcher and went sizzling through the air toward its target.

  If the militia couldn’t hear it over the gunfire, the gray-blue smoke trail headed right at them was unmistakable.

  “C’mon, baby!” Harvath yelled. “C’mon!”

  He watched as the rocket-propelled grenade sliced through the air at almost three hundred meters a second.

  When it struck the antiaircraft technical, it did so dead-on. It was a perfect shot, followed by a spectacular explosion.

  Harvath began running before the .50 caliber machine guns from the two surviving technicals could be turned on his position.

  Reaching the far side of the roof, he leapt over the parapet and landed on the cab of the pickup below. Jumping down, he took off for Haney.

  Using a pile of rubble for cover, the Marine took aim at the first technical and fired the Russian grenade launcher.

  The round soared high into the air, landed right in the bed of the vehicle, and exploded.

  It wasn’t until Haney was preparing to take out the last technical that Harvath saw the second wave of militia members closing in.

  The assault force this time was smaller. There were only six of them. They had used the withering fire from the technicals as cover and had flanked the compound.

  Haney didn’t even know they were there until Harvath yelled, “Contact left! Contact left!”

  The Marine spun just as the final round left his grenade launcher. Dropping the weapon, he went for his rifle, but the Libyans had already begun shooting.

  CHAPTER 39

  * * *

  * * *

  Before Haney could even get his gun in the fight, Harvath was firing in controlled pairs. He dropped one militiaman, then another. “Get cover! Get cover!” he yelled at Haney.

  Out on the road, the grenade landed short of the convoy and detonated. The remaining technical was unharmed.

  The Marine fell back behind the rubble, propped his rifle up, and began to return fire along with Harvath.

  Together, they took out four of the Libyans before the other two retreated behind the wall.

  “Move right! Move right!” Harvath shouted, trying to get Haney to the more secure cover of the middle structure.

  The Marine, though, was having trouble moving. Harvath looked down and saw his upper right thigh wet with blood. He’d been shot.

  Suddenly, the .50 cal opened fire on their position. Seconds later, the Libyans behind the wall joined in.

  Harvath and Haney were now taking fire from two directions. Any chance they had of making it to the middle structure was now gone.

  As soon as the militia realized they had them pinned down, they’d send in a team to hit them from behind, or on their right flank, and finish them off. That was if the .50 cal rounds didn’t eat away their cover first.

  Poking his rifle out from around the rubble, Harvath fired at the two Libyans behind the wall.

  He pulled the tourniquet from his chest rig and tossed it to Haney. “Get this wrapped around your leg. Now.”

  Then, poking his rifle back out, he fired several more shots, before focusing back on Haney.

  “Have I mentioned how much I fucking hate Libya?” the Marine asked as he applied the nylon webbing around his upper thigh.

  “You and me both,” he replied, as he prepared to help cinch the tourniquet down. “On three, okay?”

  Haney nodded.

  Harvath tightened his grip, began the countdown, and then went early, pulling up as hard as he could on the word two.

  The Marine roared in pain. Harvath secured the tourniquet and then fired off several more rounds toward the wall.

  “I don’t want to fucking die here,” Haney said through clenched teeth.

  “Nobody’s dying here,” Harvath reassured him. “Not on my—”

  “Contact rear!” the Marine yelled, raising his rifle and firing behind them. One of the Libyans had split off from his partner and had tried to get the drop on them.

  Haney shot the man several times in the chest until he slumped forward over the wall, dead.

  At the same moment, rounds from the .50 cal shattered the rubble just above their heads, showering them with pieces of rock.

  “We can’t stay here,” said Harvath as he swapped out his mag for a fresh one.

  “Where are we supposed to go?” Haney grunted, as he tried to reposition himself.

  “Over the wall. We stay low on the other side, we can move in either direction.”

  “And then what?” the Marine asked as another barrage from the .50 cal pounded into the rubble pile and sent rocks tumbling down on top of them.

  “Let’s get ready to move. Can you put weight on that leg?”

  Haney half stood, but when he tried to put weight on his right leg, the pain shot through his body like an electric shock, and the leg buckled. “Fuck,” he growled.

  “That’s okay,” said Harvath. “We’ll go with Plan B.”

  “What’s Plan B?”

  “We kill every last one of them.”

  The Marine shook his head. “Negative. I’ll cover you. You go for the wall.”

  “And let you have all the fun? Jesus, you Marines are greedy.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I,” replied Harvath. “We fight together, or we go over the wall together. I’m not leaving you here.”

  “Don’t be an asshole.”

  “Shut up and get ready to fight. That’s an order.”

  Haney did as he was told. Swapping magazines, he made ready.

  As he did, the hair suddenly stood up on the back of Harvath’s neck. Whether it was something he heard, or something he sensed, he knew they were in trouble. “RPG!” he yelled. “Get down!”

  The rocket crashed into the building just behind them and exploded, raining shrapnel and jagged pieces of cinderblock on their position.

  Because Haney was unable to move quickly enough, Harvath had physically covered him and had taken the brunt of the fallout.

  But before he could even brush off the debris, the Libyans launched another rocket-propelled grenade.

  This one exploded even closer. A chunk of concrete hit Harvath’s helmet so hard he saw stars.

  “We’ve got to make for that wall,” he yelled above the ringing in his ears, as he tried to regain his vision. “It’s no good here.”

  He would have given everything he owned for a single smoke grenade to mask their retreat to the wall.

  They didn’t have one, though, and as far as Harvath could see, there was nothing he could use to create a diversion. He and Haney were going to have to fight their way out.

  Even though it had only been a matter of minutes, it felt like they had been in this battle for hours. The only break in fire from the Libyans’ .50 cal came when they were reloading.

  At the rate they were going, Harvath half-expected them t
o melt the barrel, but that was hoping against hope for a miracle.

  Judging the distance to the wall, he plotted the fastest course, and then, after filling Haney in, said, “When they stop to reload that fifty, we haul ass. Copy?”

  Haney had serious doubts about Harvath getting them both across the open compound without getting shot. Nevertheless, the Marine nodded.

  Seconds later, the machine gun fell silent and Harvath ordered, “Now!”

  Getting Haney up onto his left leg, Harvath folded him over his shoulders and took off with him in a fireman’s carry.

  The Libyan behind the far section of wall popped up with his rifle and attempted to fire, but Haney was ready for him. His Beretta pistol was already in his hand.

  He fired six rounds, two of which found their mark, striking the man in the stomach and lower jaw.

  Out on the road, a handful of AK-47s erupted. The rounds popped and hissed all around them.

  Harvath, his leg muscles already burning, focused on the wall and pushed himself to move faster. Haney fired back.

  Weaving was out of the question. One wrong step while carrying his colleague and he could have easily blown out a knee.

  They had barely made it a quarter of the distance, when there was a loud pop from the convoy and a blue-gray trail of smoke sped right at them.

  “RPG!” shouted Haney.

  Harvath immediately changed course and ran for a different section of wall. He only made it three steps before the warhead hit.

  The force of the explosion threw both men to the ground. Harvath landed hard on his left side and once again saw stars.

  When his vision finally cleared, he saw Haney’s pistol lying on the ground a few feet away. Beyond it, Haney was facedown, not moving.

  Harvath began crawling in his direction. As he did, he called out, but the Marine didn’t respond. Harvath crawled faster.

  Reaching him, he placed two fingers on his carotid artery and felt for his pulse. He was still alive.