by Brad Thor
Having served as both himself, he could usually spot military or law enforcement personnel the moment he saw them. There was something not only about their bearing, but also about their eyes. They were always moving, always taking everything in. It wasn’t normal.
Normal, everyday people were unobservant. Only those used to dealing with danger, or those expecting trouble, continuously swept their gaze from side to side. They were always searching for anything that seemed out of place or that might be a warning something bad was about to happen. It was a habit born of close calls and hard-won experience.
As the sunrise prayer service ended, Tursunov paid his bill and stepped outside to have a cigarette. As he lit the Gauloise, he leaned against the building and watched as the mosque emptied out.
There weren’t many attendees—twenty at most. As the men reached the sidewalk, some lingered, but most said their good-byes and were on their way. There were still no signs of any surveillance that he could detect.
Tursunov watched as the last of the men exited the small storefront. He was concerned that Younes might have chosen to skip prayers that morning. Then he finally saw him in the doorway.
He and two other men were saying good-bye to an older man with a thick, gray beard who must have been the Imam.
The Tajik was struck by how much Younes looked like his father. Tall, the same intelligent eyes, the same broad nose. The resemblance was uncanny. The photo Abdel provided hadn’t done him justice.
Younes and the two other young men embraced the Imam, stepped onto the pavement, and went their separate ways. Tursunov pretended not to be paying attention and continued to smoke his cigarette. He wanted to give any surveillance the opportunity to fall in behind the young chemist.
Once he felt he had allowed enough time, he flicked his butt into the street and headed off in the same direction.
He was careful to stay back and on the opposite side of the street. He didn’t want to crowd anyone.
Two blocks away from the mosque, he was beginning to feel confident that the chemist wasn’t being followed. But then a figure appeared from around the corner.
It was a man. He was dark-skinned and dressed like many of the men he had seen in Aubervilliers. On the surface, there was nothing to suggest anything out of the ordinary. There was something about him, though, that radiated police. He could sense it, even though the man was so far up ahead of him.
Younes must have sensed it as well, because at one point he turned around and looked back. Shortly thereafter, the dark-skinned man turned the corner and broke off. A block later, he was replaced by another cop. The chemist was definitely under surveillance.
That complicated things. Enormously.
The Tajik had to assume that in addition to following the young man, the French authorities were also listening in on his calls and reading his emails. They might have even bugged his apartment.
The big question was why? What had Younes done to draw such attention? Abdel claimed that he was clean, that he had not been involved with plotting any sort of jihadism. Was he correct?
Tursunov wondered if the answer might lie with the second cop on the surveillance team. He was lighter-skinned, with longer hair and a goatee. He could have passed for an Arab, but there was something else about him—something that gave Tursunov pause.
Making a right at the next corner, he broke off his pursuit and doubled back toward the Metro. He would wait until it was dark and come back then.
CHAPTER 35
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LIBYA
The cluster of sand-colored, one-story buildings was just off the road. They were abandoned and in an advanced state of disrepair. In multiple places, the three-foot-high stone wall surrounding the property had crumbled.
Harvath, Barton, Staelin, and Morrison hopped out of the truck to quickly clear the structures. Once they were confident no one was there, they helped Gage climb out and directed Haney around back.
A thatched roof over a long covered patio had partially collapsed. Moving some of the refuse beneath it, they were able to make enough room to park the technical. Then they rapidly piled up garbage around it.
It wasn’t the perfect camouflage job, but considering the circumstances, it would have to do.
Of the three buildings, the one to the north was the most secure. It had the thickest walls and an interior access to the roof.
After hustling the weapons and ammunition in from the truck, Harvath grabbed a length of tattered blue tarp from the pile of junk and climbed up to the roof.
It was flat and surrounded by a low parapet. In several places, pieces were missing. Whether that was by design or through neglect, the holes provided good spots for him to observe the road without being seen.
Crawling over to one, he raised a small pair of binoculars and peered out. There were no signs of any approaching vehicles.
Over his shoulder, the sun had cleared the horizon and was beginning its slow crawl into the morning sky.
Activating his satellite phone, he extended its antenna and waited impatiently for it to acquire a signal. Once it did, he sent a text back to Langley with his exact GPS coordinates.
Next, he punctured the blue plastic tarp with his knife and cut it in half lengthwise. Then, using pieces of concrete block to hold it down, he fashioned a large blue plus sign in the center of the roof.
Between that and the GPS coordinates, the drone should be able to pinpoint their location.
They had risked a tremendous amount in snatching the smuggler. If he didn’t help them connect any dots regarding the drowned chemistry student and the impending attacks, Harvath was going to put a bullet right between his eyes.
Hearing something behind him, he turned to see Haney with the remaining rocket and RPG launcher. “Everything good downstairs?” he asked.
The Marine nodded as he set the gear down and joined him. “Gage is stable. Staelin tried to give him something for the pain, but Gage told him to fuck off. Says he can’t fight if he’s high.”
Harvath smiled.
“Halim is also stable,” Haney continued, “but in a lot of pain. Gage told him to fuck off too.”
Harvath smiled again. “What about Barton and Morrison?”
“I’ve got Barton on the roof of the south building. Morrison is inside the one in the middle. In addition to their own weapons, they each took an AK and extra ammo.”
No matter what needed doing, Haney was always on top of it. He was about to thank him when his satellite phone vibrated. It was a text from Langley.
“What’s up?” Haney asked.
“Remember the Glocks the militia members were carrying at the electronics shop?”
The Marine nodded.
“I emailed the serial numbers to the Agency. DOD finally tracked the paperwork down. They were stolen from Camp 27.”
“The Special Forces training base outside Tripoli?”
“Yup,” said Harvath. “The one that got looted.”
“Uncle Sam doesn’t like when you steal from him.”
“No, he doesn’t. In fact, he gets very—”
Harvath was suddenly quiet. Picking the binoculars back up, he looked out through the hole in the parapet again. A multivehicle convoy was headed their way from Zelten. Keying up his radio, he notified the team.
Before he could tell Haney to head back downstairs, the Marine was already on his way.
Raising Strike Force Two’s drone team on the USS George H. W. Bush, he updated them and asked, “What’s the ETA on that Reaper?”
“There’s been some complication with the handoff.”
“We need that drone ASAP,” Harvath replied.
“We’re working on it. Stand by.”
He wanted to tell them to hurry the hell up. Instead, he confirmed the transmission and told his team, “Weapons hot, but nobody shoots. Only if we absolutely have to.”
They all hoped that the militia would just pass right by, but that wasn’t the kin
d of day they’d been having.
The prior drone team had counted fifteen vehicles vectoring in on them. If there were four men in each, that could mean up to sixty fighters. Maybe more.
As the column got closer, Harvath counted ten vehicles. Half of them were technicals.
Of those, two were mounted with the massive antiaircraft guns he’d been warned about.
It looked like the convoy from Abu Kammash had linked up with the convoy pursuing them out of the south.
Keep going, Harvath said to himself, nodding his head down the road. Nothing to see here.
As the convoy rolled closer to their location, every muscle in his body tensed and adrenaline coursed through his veins. He was like a coiled snake, ready to strike.
Taking a deep breath, he willed himself to relax. Slowly, he got his heart rate under control. The SEAL mantra, Slow is smooth and smooth is fast, popped up from somewhere deep in his mind. Be calm. Don’t rush, he reminded himself as he began to depress the trigger of his M4.
Near the entrance of the derelict compound, the convoy slowed. Fighters in the lead vehicle seemed to be trying to decide whether it was worth their time to check it out.
He could see the antiaircraft guns clearly now. If they were turned on the compound, they’d chew through it like a fat man going through a box of Thin Mints.
The militia must have decided the buildings weren’t worth it as they picked up speed once again and proceeded past.
Harvath kept his finger on his trigger and followed the convoy with the suppressor on the end of his rifle. He didn’t even take a breath until the last vehicle had gone by.
Once it had driven down the road, he radioed his team and said, “We’re clear.”
A feeling of relief washed over him as he set his rifle down and unkinked his neck. For a moment, he allowed his eyes to close. He was beginning to think that they just might make it out of this after all.
Then he heard Barton’s voice over the radio. “Second convoy inbound,” the SEAL said.
Opening his eyes, Harvath snatched up his rifle and looked. He already knew how many vehicles there’d be. He didn’t need to count. Based on the math, this had to be the remaining five—including two technicals.
As they neared, he saw that he was right. It wasn’t much consolation. The moment they pulled even with the compound, the two technicals came to a stop on either side of the entrance, turned on an angle to block traffic, and took up firing positions.
The other three vehicles were SUVs. One stayed outside the compound, a little farther down the road, while the other two slowly rolled inside and stopped. They were here to search the property. Fuck.
Harvath took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and began applying pressure to his trigger once again.
CHAPTER 36
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The militia members didn’t seem keen to get out of their SUVs. Rolling their windows down, they pointed their guns out and waited. They were so close and the desert so quiet that he could hear them whispering to each other in Arabic.
Finally, one door opened. Then another. Out on the road, fighters had already climbed into the beds of the technicals, chambered the heavy machine guns, and pointed them at the buildings.
Harvath focused on the closest technical to him. Barton would take the other. Haney, Staelin, and Morrison would handle the men on the ground inside the compound.
There was still time for them to get back inside their vehicles and drive away. He knew, though, that they wouldn’t.
There were eight of them. Slowly, they began to walk away from the SUVs and toward the buildings. That’s when Haney gave the command to light them up.
As soon as they heard the word “Now” over the radio, the entire team began firing.
Harvath dropped the machine-gunner first, and then locked in on the ammo feeder standing in the truck bed next to him. He caught the man in the lower back as he was diving out and then lost sight of him.
Adjusting his rifle, he turned his attention to the windshield of the technical and pumped the cab full of hot lead.
Both the driver and passenger had been trying to get out and now fell to the ground dead.
When the ammo feeder popped his head up at the rear of the vehicle, Harvath was ready for him.
Pressing the trigger of his M4, he sent a round through his skull, just above his left eyebrow. There was a spray of blood across the tailgate as the man fell dead.
Sweeping his rifle toward the other technical, he saw Barton had already taken out its crew and had focused on a new target.
Out on the road, the remaining SUV was trying to make a run for it. Harvath added his rifle to the fight, sending round after round into the vehicle.
From downstairs, a round from Gage’s M4 ripped through the air and entered the rear passenger side window, tearing through the back of the driver’s head.
The fighter was killed instantly.
With no one controlling it, the SUV caught its tire as it veered off the side of the road and flipped over.
A fraction of a second later, Gage could be heard on the radio, “Enjoy the virgins, you assholes!”
Harvath and Barton remained on their rooftops to provide overwatch while Haney and Morrison patrolled out to the road to make sure there were no survivors.
They had checked the bodies around both technicals and were halfway to the overturned SUV when Harvath thought he noticed something in the distance. Raising the binoculars, he saw a string of militia vehicles coming back from the other direction.
And even at this distance, he could tell that two of them were the technicals with the antiaircraft guns mounted in back. The fleeing militiamen must have raised the alarm before Gage shot their driver and their SUV flipped.
Grabbing the RPG, he radioed for Haney and Morrison to get back to the compound as fast as they could.
His next transmission was to the USS George H. W. Bush. “Where the hell is my drone?”
“Ten minutes out,” a voice responded. “Max.”
“There’s a convoy of technicals headed right at us. Two with ZU-2 antiaircraft guns. This is going to be over in less than five if you don’t get that drone here now.”
Ending the transmission, Harvath had a decision to make. The RPG-7 had a maximum effective range of five hundred meters. But that was for stationary targets. If the target was moving, the range was cut down to three hundred meters.
Once he fired, they’d know exactly where he was and where to shoot. Looking at the militia vehicles down in the compound and shot up out on the road, he came up with a plan.
It wasn’t a great plan, but given how rapidly things were deteriorating, it was the best he had.
As Morrison and Haney came running back, Harvath had them stop at the bullet-ridden technicals only long enough to grab what they needed.
Barton leapt down from his roof and helped Staelin secure Halim in the bigger of the two SUVs. Morrison hopped into the smaller one and fired it up. Haney then brought their technical out of hiding and parked it alongside the rear of the far building.
When everyone was loaded, Harvath didn’t waste any time. “Let’s go!” he shouted, pounding on the sides of both SUVs. “Move! Move! Move!”
The vehicles sped out of the compound. Out on the road, they swerved around the perforated technical and headed in the opposite direction of the approaching column.
Back in the compound, Harvath and Haney took up their positions and readied their weapons. They were the leave-behind force. No matter what the militia decided to do, it was their job to wreak as much havoc on the convoy as possible.
Shouldering his RPG, Harvath looked over at Haney. The Marine, who had pulled an RPG from one of the technicals out front, was doing the same.
He flashed Harvath the thumbs-up, and then, over the radio, said, “Gage told me to tell you double or nothing you miss this shot.”
Harvath just shook his head.
Normally, he was full of s
martass rejoinders. Not now, though. His body was beat to shit from jumping out of the Land Cruiser, he’d spiked his adrenaline multiple times over the last eighteen hours, and he and Haney were severely outnumbered by an approaching force. He was saving all of his energy for the ass-kicking they were about to unleash.
As the convoy neared the compound, Harvath signaled Haney. Everything was going to be decided by what happened in the next thirty seconds.
CHAPTER 37
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The column slowed as it approached. Then it came to a complete stop. The militia members could see the technicals blocking the road, the overturned SUV, and the corpses of their compatriots—all covered with bullet holes.
If they were paying attention, they would also notice that two vehicles were missing. It was decision time.
The compound was quiet. The only things moving were the flies on the dead bodies.
A militia commander rolled down his window and lifted a pair of binoculars to get a better look. With the right rifle, Harvath probably would have been able to take him out. But his focus wasn’t the militia’s command structure.
He wanted to knock out their technicals—first and foremost the two with the antiaircraft guns. Something easier said than done.
To their credit, these guys weren’t stupid. There was plenty of spacing among all ten of their vehicles. They weren’t bunched up on the road, bumper to bumper, unable to maneuver if they had to.
Two technicals with .50 cal machine guns were near the front and another was in the middle. The technicals with the antiaircraft guns were all the way at the back.
By coming to a halt, the convoy was now in RPG range, but just barely. Harvath wanted them closer. He wanted to stack the deck as much as he could in his favor.
So they continued to wait while the Libya Liberation Front tried to make up its mind.
What he had hoped for was that upon seeing the missing vehicles, the entire column would give chase. As they drove by, he and Haney would then pick them off, one by one, focusing on the two key technicals.
