by Brad Thor
“Tons, but we’ve got that handled,” said Avigliano as he drew a small transmitter from his pocket. “On three. One. Two. Three!”
Avigliano depressed the red and green buttons on his transmitter, and the team ran outside. Explosions ignited at the far end of the canyon, back toward where Harvath had first been held. The canyon floor was littered with dead bodies—the victims of previous explosions. There were still many men left, and they seemed to be running in all directions. It was mass chaos. Trucks drove this way and that, some men apparently fleeing, some trying to help put out the fires and locate the cause of the many explosions. Avigliano and DeWolfe silently took out several terrorists as they made their way to the canyon.
Fifteen yards in, Avigliano’s third operative, a muscle-bound comedian named Carlson, removed two claymore mines from his backpack and handed one of them to Harvath. Where the claymore usually read, “Front Toward Enemy,” Carlson had made a slight change. He had placed a long piece of masking tape with writing on it that read, “Have a Nice Day.” Carlson flashed Harvath a thumbs-up and moved to the other side of the narrow canyon. Once the devices were set, the two men ran to catch up with the others.
Thirty seconds later they heard the sound of the fragmentation grenades detonating inside the rotunda. Someone had found the booby-trapped captain of the guard. Harvath hoped that Adara and her brother had stumbled across the body together, but he doubted they’d been that lucky.
The signature clack-clack-clack of Ak-47 fire erupted from behind them in the canyon. Adara Nidal’s men were hot on their trail.
The canyon was the most dangerous part of Avigliano’s escape plan, as it acted like a funnel, channeling all of the terrorists’ fire right at them. The only thing they could do was keep on running.
They then heard the sound of the claymores detonating behind them. Hailstorms of steel ball bearings propelled by the exploding hunks of C4, showered anyone within fifty meters in front of the antipersonnel devices. Agonizing screams followed from the few men who had actually survived, but had been torn to bits. This bought the team a little time, but not much.
Avigliano worked his radio, calling in their status, as his long legs kept propelling him forward. “Big John, Big John. This is Point Guard. We have the package. I repeat. We have the package. Kick the tires and light the fires. Point Guard out.”
Harvath mouthed, Big John? to DeWolfe, who was running alongside Meg Cassidy and who answered, “That’s our exfil,” short for exfiltration.
It seemed to take an eternity to run the almost mile and a half, but suddenly, the canyon ended and opened up onto a wide, barren plain. Avigliano and his men quickly removed the camouflage netting that disguised their Fast Attack Vehicle.
“Where’s the other FAV?” asked Harvath.
“That’s it. There aren’t any other ones,” said Carlson as he handed Harvath and Meg encrypted radios with headsets. “We’re going tisket-tasket.”
Harvath knew what that meant. He and Meg would be riding in the supply baskets on either side of the vehicle. Harvath quickly helped Meg secure her radio and then belted her into one of the baskets.
“She knows how to use one of these, right?” asked DeWolfe as he handed Meg his Mod Zero.
“I’m a fast learner,” replied Meg, who grabbed the weapon with her right hand and held out her left for extra clips of ammunition.
Harvath hopped in the opposite basket and strapped himself into the modified shoulder straps. Carlson tossed him his Mod Zero, and in less than a minute they were rolling.
Avigliano was behind the wheel with DeWolfe sitting next to him manning the Mark 19 grenade launcher. Up top, Carlson had his choice of either the forward .50-caliber machine gun or a 7.62 millimeter covering their rear. In addition, he carried one Stinger antiaircraft missile as well as an AT4 antitank missile. As it turned out, they were going to need everything they had.
50
With an added fuel bladder, the FAV had a range of approximately five hundred miles. The amount of terrain Avigliano and his team had already covered to locate Harvath and Cassidy, coupled with the fact that there were now five people riding in the FAV, as opposed to the customary three, made for a drastic reduction in the vehicle’s range.
The exfiltration plan called for the team to rendezvous with a Boeing MH-47 Chinook helicopter, code-named Big John. Flying low to avoid Libyan radar, the blacked-out copter would touch down in the uninhabited desert just south of the Tunisian border, drop its rear cargo door, and the team would drive the FAV right up the ramp. Then they would lift off and disappear like shadows in the night. That was the best-case scenario.
The northern edge of the Ubari Sand Sea was a combination of flowing sand dunes and rock-strewn gullies known as wadis. The FAV hammered the terrain, racing straight up numerous steep dunes and tearing straight down the opposite sides. After they crested what DeWolfe said was the last major dune on their topo-map, Harvath caught a flash of something in the distance. Engaging his lip mike, he said, “Contact. Eleven o’clock.”
DeWolfe, the FAV’s navigator, pulled a pair of night-vision binoculars out of a bag strapped down next to him. Though the team were all wearing night-vision goggles, the binoculars afforded greater range.
“What do you have?” asked Avigliano.
“Looks like five Land Rovers, each with 7.62s mounted up top. I’d be willing to bet they’re Libyan regulars.”
“Have they seen us?” asked Avigliano.
“Looks like it. They’re changing course right now.”
Upon hearing that piece of good news, Carlson, sitting in the rear, only had one response, “Fuck.”
“What’s going on?” asked Meg.
“Little change of plans,” said Harvath.
“Hold on, everybody,” yelled Avigliano as he pulled the wheel hard to the right and steered the FAV in a new direction.
“We don’t have enough fuel for this Gordo,” said DeWolfe.
“We’re just going to have to set a new rendezvous point with Big John.”
“Big John is already coming deeper into uncle Mu’ammar’s backyard than he wants to.”
“Tough shit. He’s going to have to come in further,” said Avigliano.
“Roger that. Should we tell him we’ve got company?”
“You bet your ass. Tell him it’s going to be a hot exfil.”
DeWolfe picked a location five miles ahead and radioed the coordinates to Big John.
No longer concerned with fuel consumption, Avigliano pinned the accelerator to the floor. An enormous sand dune loomed in front of them, and they took it at full speed.
As they hit the top of the dune, they found themselves in midair. Instead of a gradual descent down the other side, the dune was backed up against the rugged slope of an incredibly steep drop-off leading into a deep wadi. The FAV launched off the dune and hung in the air for what seemed like an eternity, before crashing onto a treacherously inclined hill of loose and shifting rock.
Avigliano strained against the wheel, trying to prevent the FAV from flipping over. Jagged boulders reached out on both sides and attempted to tear the vehicle to pieces. Avigliano finally got control, but only for a few moments. He attempted to steer it toward the floor of the wadi, but something was wrong. He thought for a moment that the problem was due to the unstable scree that they were driving down. He gave the FAV more gas, then more still. It picked up speed, but it had stopped responding to the steering wheel altogether.
A small dune appeared to their left, and almost as if of its own accord, the FAV headed right for it. Avigliano tapped the brakes, but in the wash of loose rocks, that only sent the back end fishtailing out of control as they continued to pound down the hill.
“Brace yourselves!” he yelled. “We’re going in hard!”
Hard was an understatement. Seconds later, they hit the dune at full speed. Shoulder belts dug into flesh and heads snapped forward, then came racing back. The steering wheel saved Avigliano, but DeWolf
e was not as lucky. Despite his shoulder harness and helmet, he hit his head hard enough to be knocked unconscious. Carlson slammed his left shoulder against the fifty-caliber machine gun. After the HAHO jump and the beating he had taken at the hands of Adara Nidal’s guards, Harvath was sore all over, but no one area seemed to be any worse now than before the crash. He unbuckled himself from the basket and ran around the FAV to Meg who was already undoing her own straps.
“You okay?” asked Harvath.
“Aside from the fact that my rear end feels like I’ve been on a two-year trail ride, I guess I’m doing okay. My shoulders hurt like hell from that harness, though.”
“But nothing’s broken? You’re not bleeding?”
“No. No breaks. No bleeding.”
“Good. Let’s help the others.”
Harvath and Avigliano removed DeWolfe from the FAV, careful to support his neck and shoulders in case he had suffered any spinal trauma. Carlson got himself out of the FAV while Harvath hopped back in and tried to back the vehicle off of the sand dune.
The tires began to catch, but the right front wheel wasn’t responding. Harvath laid on the pedal a little heavier as Avigliano ran to his side of the vehicle. He signaled Harvath to take his foot off the gas while he examined the wheel.
“We snapped the CV shaft. This thing’s not going anywhere,” said Avigliano as he stood up and dusted the sand from his fatigues. He checked his GPS and continued, “Let’s get some cover, and I’ll call in Big John.”
No sooner had Avigliano spoken than a wall of bullets tore up the ground all around them.
Three of the Libyan Land Rovers had taken up positions above them, and the occupants were firing into the wadi with their 7.62s. Everyone took cover behind the ditched FAV.
“Is this any way to treat visitors to their country?” remarked Carlson.
Avigliano was already calling in Big John to their position.
“Big John is on his way. We just need to hold them until he gets here,” said Avigliano.
Meg, who had been taking a look at Carlson, said, “I think he’s got a broken collarbone.”
“I break bones. I don’t get mine broken,” said Carlson as Harvath slid over to him.
The minute Harvath applied pressure to Carlson’s left collarbone area, the pain was so intense the man almost blacked out.
“Well, bone crusher, this time you’re the breakee,” said Harvath as he instructed Meg on how to make up a sling for Carlson.
With DeWolfe still unconscious, that left only Harvath, Avigliano, and Meg to hold off what would soon be five Land Rovers full of Libyan soldiers.
Harvath swung out from behind the FAV with his Mod Zero and, setting the fire selector to single, took several well-aimed shots. Two Libyans, dumb enough to be standing in front of their Rovers looking down into the small canyon, were hit. Though their wounds might not have been fatal, it showed the rest of the soldiers that Harvath and his team were a force to be reckoned with.
It didn’t take the Libyans long to regroup. Soon, machine-gun fire rained down on them from both sides of the canyon. The other two Land Rovers had arrived and took up positions on the high ground on the other side of the wadi.
During a lull in the firing, Harvath unhinged the 7.62 from the back of the FAV. He would have liked to have taken down the fifty or the Mark 19, but it would have been too difficult. He grabbed as much ammo as he could, and when he let loose with it, all of the Libyans, on both walls of the wadi, ran for cover.
Avigliano called Big John for an ETA, but he was still twenty minutes out. According to an AWAC the U.S. had in the area, the team had bigger problems. Two Libyan helicopter gunships were en route to their position.
“Ah, Scot?” said Avigliano.
“I’m kinda busy, Gordo,” said Harvath as he let loose with another deafening volley from the 7.62 machine gun.
“We’re going to have company real soon,” said Avigliano once Harvath stopped to reload the 7.62.
“Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” asked Harvath as he readied new ammunition.
“Aerial. We’ve got an AWAC monitoring our situation. It looks like two Alouette helicopters.”
“Complete with twenty millimeter cannons, rocket pods, and surface-to-air missiles?” said Harvath as if it were a standard sight in the desert.
“Probably a good chance of that.”
“How far out?”
“Five minutes. Tops.”
“What did Carlson say when the Libyans first spotted us?”
“‘Fuck’?” asked Avigliano.
“Yeah, fuck.”
Harvath let loose with another long burst of fire along both sides of the ridge before turning back to Avigliano. “How’s DeWolfe?”
“He’s still out.”
“All right then. Here’s the deal. You and Meg are going to have to move him.”
“Move him? Move him where?”
Harvath took another glance around and found what he was looking for. “That outcropping. Twenty meters to our left. I’ll lay down cover fire for you. Once you’re there, you’ll be safe.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to take care of those inbound helicopters.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Nope. I’m going to send Carlson over to the far side of the wadi to cover my left flank. You and Meg will cover my right from that outcropping. Those Libyan birds will have no choice but to fly right down the center of the canyon. They expect us all to be right here huddled behind the FAV. That’s what the pilots will be targeting. Between you, Meg, and Carlson, the soldiers up above won’t be able to get a shot off. We’ve got one Stinger and one AT4. I’m hoping that will be enough to do the trick.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“Big John better beat his ETA.”
Harvath explained his plan to the others, and everyone made ready. When there was a pause in the Libyan machine-gun fire from the ridge above, Harvath gave the “Go” command. He rolled out from behind the FAV and swung the big 7.62-millimeter machine gun back and forth across the top of wadi, spraying the Libyan Land Rovers full of lead. Once Gordy and Meg had gotten DeWolfe safely to the outcropping, he laid off the trigger and rolled back behind the safety of the FAV.
The next thing he needed to do was unstrap the missiles from the roof rack. Harvath activated his lip mike and said, “Let’s keep it to short bursts to save on ammo. I need to get the Stinger and AT4 off the roof. When I count to three, give them something to chew on, okay? One. Two. Three!”
Carlson started firing first, followed by Avigliano and then Meg. They were each at separate sides of the wadi, with Harvath and the FAV stuck right in the center. He wasted no time and used the distraction for all it was worth. He quickly climbed into the backseat and unfastened the straps that secured the two shoulder-fired missiles to the roof. With one in each arm, he jumped out of the vehicle and hid back behind the defunct front wheel.
“Cease fire,” commanded Harvath over their encrypted radio. “Now, let’s let them come to us.”
The wait wasn’t as long as it seemed. The Libyan helicopters made it to their location ahead of schedule. Harvath kneeled on the ground less than two feet away from the FAV. The minute the choppers swung into the narrow valley, he could hear their cannons chewing up the canyon floor. With his right hand on the Stinger and the parallel trails of bullets racing toward him, Harvath followed a procedure so well known to him he could do it in his sleep.
First, he primed the system by clamping down on the lever that lit the battery and charged the ignition system. He waited as the two helicopters grew closer and closer with every passing second. The rows of cannon fire seemed to only be yards away when Harvath yanked the Stinger from the ground next to him and slapped it onto his shoulder. He centered the first chopper in the Stinger’s viewfinder and depressed the large button on the front of the launcher tube, uncovering the seeker head of the missile.
A tone indicated he had target lock
as the missile began to grumble inside the tube. Harvath reflexively looked behind him to make sure all was clear, and with no one behind him and nothing close enough to reflect the exhaust blast, Harvath squeezed the trigger and said, “One away.”
A cloud of white gas erupted from the back of the tube as the Stinger raced toward the Libyan helicopter. By the time the pilot realized what was happening, it was too late. The rocket slammed into the first chopper and turned it into a torrent of fire and debris that rained down onto the floor of the wadi. Fearing another missile attack was right behind, the second French-made Alouette pulled up and out of the narrow canyon. They had caught a break, but Harvath knew it wouldn’t last long.
51
Harvath adopted the lowest profile he could as machine-gun rounds slammed into the dune-buggy-like frame of the FAV. For a moment, he had toyed with the idea of trying to physically drag the nose of the vehicle around so that they could answer the Libyan soldiers with some forty-millimeter grenade rounds from the Mark 19. That idea, though, even in Harvath’s book, was pure suicide.
“How’s everyone doing on ammo?” asked Harvath over his Motorola, during a lull in the shooting.
“There’s never enough at a time like this,” said Carlson.
“I take it you’re running low. How about you and Meg, Gordo?”
“I don’t suppose in the spirit of fair play, the Libyans would be willing to toss a little down here.”
“Are you kidding? They’re more than happy, as long as it’s delivered via the end of their rifles,” quipped Carlson.
At least morale hasn’t suffered, thought Harvath.
“We do have some good news,” offered Meg Cassidy.
“We can all use some of that,” replied Harvath. “What is it?”
“DeWolfe is awake.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s a little groggy, but it doesn’t look like he’s suffered any serious injuries. Arms and legs work, and he thinks he’ll be able to walk.”
“Ask him if he’s hungry,” interjected Carlson over his headset.
