by Brad Thor
They had driven the routes between Yaqub’s safe house and his favorite restaurant multiple times. The team knew every intersection and had plotted multiple points where they could grab him. When they did, the Peshmergas would have to move fast. The key was incapacitating his bodyguards as quickly as possible.
Yaqub’s destination was a popular restaurant called Bar-B-Q Tonight. It was close to the Karachi Yacht Club and just across the street, ironically enough, from Benazir Bhutto Memorial Park. Whether that provided an added sick appeal for Yaqub was anyone’s guess.
“Fifteen meters to the intersection,” Sloane called out.
“Damn it,” Chase swore as the car immediately in front of them began to slow. “We’re going to lose them. The light’s changing.”
Yaqub’s two-car motorcade had already entered the intersection, trailed by the Peshmergas.
“Try to stay with them,” Harvath replied.
Chase leaned on the horn. “C’mon, Chicken Little. Be a man. Move your ass.”
“Easy with the horn.”
“This guy’s gotta be the only idiot in Karachi who doesn’t push through a yellow light.”
“We’ll be okay,” said Harvath. “Let’s just not draw attention to ourselves.”
Chase tried to steer around him, but there wasn’t enough room.
“Not good,” Sloane stated from the backseat.
“Everybody, stay calm,” Harvath instructed. He didn’t like the idea of being separated from the motorcade or the rest of his team either, but there was no use blowing their cover. They’d been very careful and had made sure not to get too close, repeatedly switching positions. The ISI was well trained and would be looking for a tail. There was also no telling how many of the motorbikes or scooters zipping through traffic might have been spotters.
“We know where they’re going,” Harvath continued, “and we’ve got eyes on—”
Before he could finish his sentence, a massive truck came barreling through the intersection and slammed right into the car carrying the Peshmerga fighters.
CHAPTER 4
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* * *
Go, go, go!” Harvath shouted as Yaqub’s motorcade began to speed away.
Chase rolled into the car in front of them and then stepped on the gas. The tires of their heavy SUV smoked as he pushed the smaller vehicle into the intersection.
“Contact left!” Sloane yelled as gunfire erupted between the Peshmerga fighters and eight armed men who had leaped out of the truck.
Picking up Chase’s rifle, Harvath shouted out what he wanted. They weren’t going to leave any of their team to die.
Chase braked and pulled the steering wheel hard to the left. The large SUV skidded sideways and as it did, Harvath and Sloane aimed their suppressed weapons out the window. Coming parallel across the intersection with the truck that had plowed into their Peshmergas, they began firing.
The compact MP7s Harvath and Sloane had brought were personal defense weapons designed for close-in work. They fired the HK 4.6x30mm round, renowned for its ability to penetrate body armor. In order to have further reach, Harvath had grabbed Chase’s Hoplite. It was a lightweight, concealable “truck gun” built by a company called Citizen Arms. The extremely accurate rifle fired the 5.56 round and was made even more effective by its Aimpoint Micro T-1 quickfire red dot sight. Sloane took the attackers closest to them and Harvath focused on the ones farther away.
Harvath dropped the first man he fired on and then readjusted and took down a second. Sloane nailed one in the throat and a second with a headshot. The attackers moved to take cover behind their vehicle. As they did, Harvath and Sloane continued to fire. It gave the Peshmergas enough time to move to a better position. The last man on their team punctuated the fight by throwing a fragmentation grenade into the attackers’ truck.
“Grenade!” Harvath yelled. “Go, go, go!”
Chase stepped on the gas and sped out of the intersection just as the grenade detonated. Windows shattered behind them and a massive column of fire raced up into the night sky. Within seconds, shards of debris rained down on the roof of their SUV like a metallic hailstorm.
Harvath and Sloane had cut the team who ambushed their Peshmergas in half and had helped them get out of the kill zone. If any of the attackers had survived the grenade attack, they were going to wish they hadn’t. Right now, some very pissed-off Peshmergas would be enacting their revenge. They wouldn’t stop until all of their attackers were dead. Once they were, the Peshmergas would disappear into the night. They’d split up and regroup at their own safe house outside the city. Within twenty-four hours they’d be out of the country. Harvath had no further use for them. They were compromised. He was moving to his contingency plan.
Somehow, the Peshmergas had been spotted. Did the ISI also know about Harvath, Sloane, and Chase? Did they have another ambush planned? There was no way to know. They had to remain ready for anything. Better yet, they needed to spring their own trap before Yaqub’s ISI handlers could get him to safety. No doubt, they were already on their cell phones summoning reinforcements and putting the entire city on alert.
Harvath radioed his motorcycle team and plotted their location on his map of Karachi. The ISI wouldn’t be taking Yaqub back to the same safe house. They’d use an alternate. Not that it mattered. Harvath planned to hit their motorcade within the next three blocks. They couldn’t let Yaqub get away.
They were headed away from the water, deeper into the city. Not a good thing. Too many one-way streets, back alleys, and warehouses where the ISI could vanish. Yaqub would go to ground and the ISI would help keep him hidden. It would be a long time, if ever, before he returned to his compound in Waziristan. Harvath and his team were only going to get one last chance. He decided to throw everything they had at it.
Pronouncing the name of the street as best he could, Harvath radioed his Pakistani assets to tell them what he wanted them to do. What they carried in their backpacks was now critical to the survival of the United States.
Harvath pointed to the street coming up on their right and said, “This one. Here.”
“Hold on,” Chase replied.
The tires of the big SUV screeched in protest as it swung around the corner and Chase punched the accelerator once more.
They were on a parallel street to Yaqub’s motorcade, but they were still behind. Harvath could see traffic in front of them beginning to slow.
“Hold on,” Chase instructed again.
Jumping the SUV up onto the sidewalk, he honked his horn and yelled for people to get out of the way.
As Harvath squinted at his map, the voices of the Pakistanis could be heard over the radio.
“We’re here!” they replied in unison.
“Don’t do anything until you see their vehicles. Understood?” he ordered.
“Understood.”
Turning his attention to Chase, Harvath said, “Two blocks down we make a left turn and we go hard. Got it?”
“Got it,” Chase confirmed.
Two blocks later, Chase jerked the SUV back into the street, pulled a hard left turn, and sped toward their rendezvous with Yaqub’s motorcade. The key was to get there before the ISI agents could get out of their vehicles.
“They’re coming,” said one of the Pakistanis over the radio. “Very close. Almost here. Almost here,” he continued.
There was complete radio silence for several moments until one of the Pakistanis commanded his colleague, “Now! Now! Now!”
Harvath could envision what was happening. Both of the men would have taken off their backpacks. The first man would remove what looked like a large black wheel of Swiss cheese. Inspired by the Spider-Man character, the SQUID—or Safe Quick Undercarriage Immobilization Device—deployed sticky webs of netting from its holes that would entangle a vehicle’s axles and bring it to a complete and almost immediate stop. It was safer and far more effective than strip spikes and could stop anything from a Mini Cooper to a Chevy Suburban.
The second Pakistani was carrying two magnetized explosive devices developed by the Israelis to kill Iranian nuclear scientists. While the scientists sat in traffic, an operative on a motorcycle would pull up alongside, affix the bomb to their vehicle, and speed off just before it detonated.
According to the Carlton Group’s intelligence, Yaqub was accompanied in his vehicle by two of his fighters from Waziristan, plus an ISI driver. Two more ISI operatives followed in the second vehicle. As far as anyone knew, both vehicles were thin-skinned and not armored. Nevertheless, Harvath believed in the SEAL motto that two is one and one is none. He would rather do too much damage than not enough.
As Yaqub’s vehicle passed, the first Pakistani would activate the SQUID, bringing it to a halt. As the ISI chase car following behind slammed on its brakes, the second Pakistani would emerge from hiding and affix one bomb to the chase car’s undercarriage and another to the side. The Pakistanis would then retreat to cover and Pakistani number two would detonate the devices.
Chase, Harvath, and Sloane were less than thirty seconds away when they heard the first explosion, followed by the second.
Skidding into the intersection, they could see everything had worked. Netting was twisted around Yaqub’s axles and behind it, the chase car was on fire, the two ISI agents inside either dead or dying.
As Chase brought their SUV to a screeching halt, Harvath was like ice. He felt nothing for the ISI operatives or the fighters from Waziristan. They were giving aid and protection to a terrorist planning to help murder hundreds of millions of Americans. The men had made their bed, and now they could burn in it.
Harvath and Sloane jumped out of their SUV, MP7s up and at the ready, followed by Chase, who had reclaimed his Hoplite. Together, they rushed Yaqub’s car.
From the front passenger seat, one of Yaqub’s fighters produced a short-barreled shotgun. As soon as Harvath saw it come above the line of the dashboard, he yelled, “Gun!” and fired multiple rounds through the windshield, killing the man instantly.
The ISI driver tried to unholster his weapon, but Sloane was already at his window and fired two shots at his head, shattering the glass and killing him.
When the fighter in the backseat on the passenger side made himself known, Chase had almost been on top of him. The man didn’t wait to get the door all the way open before firing. He sent heavy 7.62 rounds from his AK-47 slicing right through the door panel. Chase had to lunge between two parked cars to take cover and avoid being hit. Had they not been taking such great pains to make sure Yaqub didn’t get shot, he would have fired and nailed the guy.
The Waziristani fighter had been trained well and took advantage of Chase’s predicament to keep firing and move to cover. Gunfights were louder than most people realized and the reports from the AK-47 were deafening.
The man had Chase pinned down and was about to fire at Sloane when Harvath appeared. He had maneuvered behind the burning follow car and, taking aim, pressed his trigger.
There was a spray of blood, accompanied by an explosion of bone and brain matter as the rounds entered the back of the man’s head and blew out an eye, teeth, and half of his face. He looked like he’d been hit with a missile.
Harvath picked his way forward, using a parked car for concealment. He couldn’t see Yaqub. He assumed he was crouched in the backseat and likely armed. “Hands up!” he yelled in Arabic.
Yaqub didn’t comply.
Harvath fired a three-round burst through the rear window, showering the backseat with broken glass. He then yelled his command in Arabic again.
Slowly, Yaqub sat up and raised his hands.
Keeping his weapon trained at the man’s head, Harvath approached the rear passenger door. He nodded at Sloane, who slung her MP7 and transitioned to her Glock. Removing her flashlight, she sent a blinding beam of light into Yaqub’s eyes, illuminating the entire backseat.
“Gun!” she shouted. “On his lap!”
Chase repeated in Arabic for Yaqub to keep his hands up. “Raweenee edeek. Raweenee edeek!”
Slinging his MP7, Harvath said, “If he moves, kill him.”
Both operatives nodded.
In Yaqub’s lap Harvath saw a 9mm Beretta pistol. Keeping his eyes on Yaqub and his hands, Harvath reached through the shattered driver’s window, unlocked and then slowly opened the rear passenger door. Yaqub never moved.
Fixing him with his gaze, Harvath reached in and retrieved the weapon. Making sure it was on safe, he tucked it into his waistband at the small of his back and ordered in Arabic, “Get out of the car. Do it now!”
Slowly, Yaqub complied.
He was big and ugly. While Harvath stood five-foot-ten, Yaqub was at least two inches taller. It looked like the doctor had delivered him with ice tongs. His face was a roadmap of pockmarks and scars.
Harvath spun him around, bent him over the trunk, and patted him down. He found the Arab’s cell phone and tossed it to Chase. Police klaxons could be heard in the distance.
Removing a pair of FlexiCuffs, some duct tape, and a black hood from his pocket, he told Sloane and Chase, “Secure everything. We’re out of here in forty-five seconds.”
After securing Yaqub’s wrists behind his back, he stood him up and turned him around. “Do you know who I am?” he asked in Arabic.
The terrorist studied him for a moment and then responded in English. “A dead man.”
Harvath smiled. “Wrong,” he said, before whipping his head forward. There was a crack of cartilage and a spray of blood as he shattered the man’s crooked beak of a nose.
The Saudi’s knees went weak as a wave of agony swept through his body.
Harvath held on and steadied him. As he did, he leaned forward and whispered into his ear, “I’m the Angel of Death, and I’m taking you back to hell where you belong.”
CHAPTER 5
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The USS Florida was an Ohio-class ballistic missile submarine just off the Pakistani coast. Fitted behind its sail structure, piggyback style, was a pressurized garage called a dry deck shelter, or DDS for short. It was capable of launching not only SEAL Delivery Vehicles, but also the SEALs’ fast, highly maneuverable inflatable Zodiac boats known as combat rubber raiding craft, or CRRCs. These boats could be launched or recovered regardless of whether the Florida was on or beneath the surface.
Harvath would have loved to have brought Ahmad Yaqub aboard the Florida via a subsurface recovery. It would have scared the hell out of him and made him even more pliant to interrogation. Trying to get him to calmly breathe oxygen from a SCUBA tank while dragging him underwater, though, was a disaster waiting to happen. Instead, Harvath had another plan.
A SEAL team from the Florida had rendezvoused with Harvath and his prisoner near Karachi’s Clifton Beach. After hog-tying Yaqub and placing him facedown in the CRRC, Harvath hopped in with the SEALs and headed out into the open ocean. Chase and Sloane would link up with the rest of the team who had hit the ISI safe house, review any materials they had found, and prepare a report to be transmitted back to the States. After that, a private plane would return them to the United States.
Powered by its fifty-five-horsepower outboard motor, the black, fifteen-and-a-half-foot-long CRRC skipped over the top of the water, but landed hard off a couple of particularly large waves. Each time it did, Harvath heard Yaqub grunt as the terrorist took the brunt of the impact via his face and his already broken nose. That was nothing compared to what was coming.
With a spray of water, the USS Florida broke the surface. It was an impressive sight to behold even through the gray-green of the night vision goggles Harvath and the other SEALs were wearing. Prepping the team, the SEAL helming the CRRC signaled for everyone to make ready. Adjusting his throttle, he aimed right at the massive vessel.
Seconds later, there was the whine of the outboard’s engine as the rubber boat came up out of the water and skidded to a stop atop the Florida. Instantly, there was a flurry of activity.
> Pulling out his knife, Harvath cut Yaqub’s feet free. Two SEALs grabbed him under the arms and lifted him out of the boat. There was the distinct clank, clank, clank as the heavy locks of the DDS were released and its large hatch began to open.
Members of SEAL Delivery Vehicle Team 1 hurried out to help drag the CRRC inside. As they did, one pointed Harvath to the gear he had requested.
Once the boat was inside, they began to rapidly deflate and dismantle it as the hatch closed.
The DDS was shaped like an airplane fuselage. It was nine feet high, nine feet wide, and thirty-eight feet long. It consisted of three separate compartments, all capable of being pressurized. The compartment they were in now was known as the “hangar.” This was where the SDVs and CRRCs were stored, and could be flooded to launch SEALs and their equipment from underwater.
At the other end, opposite the hatch, was the “bubble”—a Plexiglas booth that came halfway down from the ceiling. It was pressurized, and as water filled the DDS, it would only come up waist-high for those inside the bubble. It was where the controls for the DDS were located and where a member of SDV Team 1 communicated with the crew down inside the Florida. When everyone in the DDS was ready, the SEAL in the bubble relayed the message to the Florida.
Moments later, the chamber operator passed the warning that the Florida was preparing to dive. Harvath reached over and removed the hood from Yaqub’s head and ripped off the piece of duct tape covering his bearded mouth. The tape was covered in dried blood and pulled a lot of hair with it. Yaqub grimaced.
Even though the lights inside the DDS weren’t particularly bright, it took the Saudi’s eyes a moment to adjust. The first thing he noticed was that everyone around him was suiting up in SCUBA gear. Harvath nodded and the two SEALs who had walked Yaqub into the DDS took turns minding him as they also suited up.
