Executive Power

by Vince Flynn

  Coleman took a quick look through his binoculars to make sure someone wasn’t about to enter the line of fire. Satisfied that no one other than the target was at risk he said, “Take the shot.”

  Wicker inhaled a slow steady breath and then stopped all movement. Gently, evenly, his left index finger increased its pressure on the metal trigger. There was the gentlest of clicks and then a thunderous report as the massive fifty-seven-inch rifle let loose its Raufoss grade A round. The crack of the .50-caliber round shattered the calm of dawn and sent every bird in the valley screeching into the air.

  One second the general was standing there, yelling at his subordinate, and then in the blink of an eye, he was yanked, as if by some unseen force, off his feet. There was a full second or two of confused inaction as brains tried to process the strange thing their eyes had just witnessed. Only Rapp knew what had happened. He was already moving, not toward the chopper, but in the opposite direction. The force with which the general’s body was propelled to the ground suggested that Wicker’s shot had done the job, but Rapp wanted to make sure, and he also wanted to have a word with Colonel Barboza before things got really ugly. The original plan was to be in the air when the shot was taken, but Rapp had seen an opportunity and taken it.

  He reached Barboza just as the general’s aide-de-camp began to realize what had happened. The lieutenant, after all, had the best view of the general’s body. Rapp had his eyes on him as he reached Barboza’s side. He could tell by the look of absolute shock on the young Filipino’s face that it was likely his commanding officer had suffered a mortal wound.

  Rapp grabbed Barboza by the arm, pulling him toward the fallen general. In a low voice he urged, “You have to take charge. There are enemy snipers in the hills. Get these men moving and then start chewing some ass.” Rapp propelled him forward and the two men broke into a run.

  Barboza’s mind was moving fast, already wondering if this mysterious American knew more than he was letting on. Those questions would have to wait until later, for indeed it did appear that there was a sniper about. And nothing made a professional soldier’s skin crawl more than the specter of an enemy sniper lurking nearby. Barboza had seen enough live combat to know a moving target was harder to hit than a stationary one, so he set a course for the shocked soldier in his path. Gathering speed he literally tackled the general’s aide-de-camp and sent him sprawling across the dew-laden grass. “Take cover, you fool. There is a sniper shooting at us.”

  Rapp ran past the fallen body of Moro, taking a quick look to make sure the job was done. The evidence was stark; the entire back half of the general’s head was missing. As Rapp continued along the side of the general’s tent he felt nothing but satisfaction. Moro was a traitor to his country, his uniform and to the best ally his country had ever known. He had spilled American blood to suit his own selfish desires, and now he was lying in an expanding pool of his own. He alone had chosen his treacherous path.

  30

  David turned sideways on the plush leather seat. He had put a lot of thought into this moment while he’d been driven all over the West Bank. From this position he could better access the knife concealed in the heel of his right shoe.

  “Where is Hassan?” asked an agitated Atwa.

  David frowned and said, “I want you to know that I am not happy about this. It was he who provoked me. I simply responded in kind, and he being the pea-brained thug that he is decided to charge me.”

  “I said, where is he?” snapped Atwa.

  David’s fingers felt for the watch on his left wrist. “The last I saw of him, he was lying on the ground unconscious, but not seriously hurt.”

  “How?”

  “I did it.” David began pressing buttons on the watch. When he pressed the last button he closed his eyes and bowed his head as if he were ashamed of what he’d done.

  The explosion rocked the car, catching Atwa completely off guard. As debris pelted the bulletproof Plexiglas, David dug a thumbnail into the heel of his shoe and pried open the secret compartment. Deftly, he snatched a small, sturdy switchblade. Before Atwa knew what was happening, David was on top of him. His left forearm pinned Atwa’s head against the side of the car and the razor-sharp, three-inch blade slashed the older man’s jugular vein deep and clean. Warm blood spurted from the wound and sprayed David in the face. As Atwa brought his hands up to cover the wound on the right side of his neck, David reached around the other side and slashed Atwa’s left jugular vein. A fresh spray of blood erupted, splattering the window.

  The director general of Mossad sprang to his feet. Leaning over the desk in front of him he stared at one of the big screens with a maniacal intensity. He squinted his eyes in an attempt to decipher who the two men were who had just left the house. He swore one of them was Jabril Khatabi and there was something familiar about the other man. Before he could make up his mind they were gone, disappearing into the backseat of a parked car. Still on his feet and frowning, Freidman turned to the general on his left and barked, “Target that car!”

  Freidman returned his attention to the screen and the parked car, wondering if it were going to pull away from the house. Suddenly, without warning, there was a bright flash and the entire street side of the house appeared to blow outward.

  The confused frown vanished as Freidman realized what had just happened. The room quickly erupted in frenzied conversation as tapes were rewound and new commands were barked.

  Freidman turned to the general and in earnest said, “Give the Apaches the green light.”

  “What about the car?”

  Freidman looked back at the screens. All he could see was a cloud of dust and flames. He was fairly certain Jabril Khatabi was one of the men who had gotten into the car, and he had a good inkling who the second man might be. If it was who he thought, he doubted he would get another chance like this. With no reluctance, he said, “Destroy the car.”

  The analyst on Freidman’s other side stood up and said, “What about our asset, sir? I’m almost positive he’s in that car.”

  Freidman ignored the analyst and looking to the general said, “My order stands.” Ben Freidman would lose little sleep over the death of Jabril Khatabi.

  David stepped from the back of the Mercedes into a cloud of dust. His eyes fluttered, but closed immediately, stinging from the cement dust and cordite. When he tried to take a breath the result was much the same. Gasping through tight lips and clenched teeth, he brought his T-shirt up over his nose and mouth and tried again. After taking several breaths he reached back in, grabbed Mohammed Atwa’s body and pulled him into the street. David could see almost nothing and stumbled over several chunks of stone as he dragged the body with him. To his left, through squinted eyes and the haze he could see several pockets of fire where a house once stood. He stepped on something that gave a little and on closer inspection he discovered it was one of the men who had been standing guard at the door.

  David dropped Atwa next to the guard and then moved away to the other side of the street and down several doors. According to his agreement with Freidman he would wait around until the Israeli Defense Forces showed up and allow himself to be arrested. He was wondering how long it would take for them to fight their way through the roadblocks, when he heard a horrible shrieking noise. Instinctively, he dove to the ground, knowing what was about to follow.

  31

  The Philippine army helicopter approached the Amphibious Readiness Group from the west. In the middle of the formation sat the intimidating USS Belleau Wood. Rapp couldn’t wait for his transport to land. The morning had gone from bad, to better, to good, to too good to be true, and then just when things looked like they would all fall into place he was thrown a curve ball. A little more than an hour after General Moro had been nearly decapitated, Coleman called to report an interesting piece of information. Initially, he regarded the news of the Anderson family as a gift, but then Rapp began to see a problem.

  The Filipino Special Forces had been whipped into an
uncontrollable frenzy by the death of their commanding officer, just as Rapp had hoped they’d be. The 200-plus-man force began loading up for war. Two counter-sniper teams had been sent out to see what they could find, while Colonel Barboza took charge and prepared to send out additional patrols to find the enemy. The men wanted blood, and as soon as they got a whiff of their opponent they were going to engage them with everything they had.

  Rapp had watched all this unfold with a feigned grave concern. Inside he was very pleased. Everything seemed to be going according to plan. The Special Forces group would go after Abu Sayyaf with a rabid vengeance, and back in Manila, General Rizal would strongly advise that the U.S. military be allowed to join in the hunt. With this new cooperation they would locate the Andersons, rescue them and once and for all deal with Abu Sayyaf.

  Coleman changed all that when he called to inform Rapp of the vision he’d witnessed in the wet predawn jungle of Dinagat Island. In addition, Coleman reported that the Abu Sayyaf camp was only four miles from the Filipino Special Forces camp. The original plan had been for Coleman and his team to take the shot and then move to the beach and swim out for an extraction. That was now off. Coleman did not want to lose contact with the Andersons and Rapp agreed.

  So now they were left with an enraged group of Filipino Special Forces soldiers who wanted revenge. Sitting between them and their retaliation just happened to be four U.S. covert operatives. In addition, the Filipino soldiers were so agitated that Rapp doubted they would perform a well-thought-out, deft hostage rescue once they found the Abu Sayyaf camp.

  If the two forces met, it could quickly disintegrate into a massacre with the odds of the Andersons making it out alive not good. Fate had moved all the players into a very tight area and moved up the timetable, as well, and if Rapp couldn’t rein in the Filipino soldiers, his trip to the opposite side of the globe could quickly become a disaster.

  Having just a few avenues open to him, and not able to talk freely at the Special Forces camp, Rapp made a single call. It was to his boss. Washington was fourteen hours behind, so while Rapp was already starting his day in the Philippines, Irene Kennedy was ending hers at Langley. Rapp made two requests. The first was that she get General Flood to lean on General Rizal in Manila to keep his troops in camp until they could come up with a strategy. The second request now loomed large beneath him.

  The USS Belleau Wood churned through the Philippine Sea at twelve knots, its massive twin screws leaving a white frothy wake as far as the eye could see. Her escort and support ships were arrayed around her in a diamond formation that stretched for miles. To the east storm clouds loomed. Rapp cursed the weather at first, but then wondered if it could be used to their advantage.

  The Philippine army helicopter landed on the massive nonskid deck of the USS Belleau Wood well forward of the looming superstructure. Mitch Rapp was out the door like a shot, heading straight for the only piece of ship that wasn’t belowdecks. He’d been on U.S. naval warships before and knew for the most part where to go. When he neared the towering superstructure a navy lieutenant approached him and extended his hand.

  “Mr. Rapp,” yelled the officer, “I’m Lieutenant Jackson. Damn pleased to meet you.”

  Rapp allowed the officer to pump his hand with enthusiasm. Without having to look for the shiny trident on the officer’s khaki uniform, Rapp immediately knew by the man’s longish hair, physical build and goatee that he was a SEAL. “You’re just the man I wanted to see, Lieutenant.”

  Jackson grinned. He, like most of his colleagues, knew all about Mitch Rapp. His appearance on the Belleau Wood was a good sign. “My orders are to bring you straight to the captain’s quarters.”

  Jackson disappeared through the hatch and Rapp followed him. They walked down the metal stairs for several decks and then down a narrow passageway. They stopped in front of a gray door with the name CAPTAIN FORESTER stenciled in black.

  Jackson rapped on the door twice with his knuckles and waited for permission to enter. It came almost instantly. Jackson crossed the threshold first and came to attention. He held a salute and said, “Captain, as you requested: Mr. Rapp.”

  Captain Sherwin Forester set down a book he was reading and stood. At six foot four, Forester looked cramped aboard the space-conscious ship. The ceiling of his quarters was only a few inches from the top of his head.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. As you were.” Forester strode across the blue carpet, raising a bushy eyebrow as he sized up his visitor. With a grin he said, “Well, Mr. Rapp, today marks a first for me. In my twenty-one years of service I have never received a direct call from the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and most definitely not while I’ve been at sea.”

  Rapp smiled. There was something instantly likable about Forester. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing, sir?”

  Forester chewed on the question for a second. “I don’t like waiting around sitting on my hands. Especially after what happened the other night. So I’m going to guess someone with a reputation like yours showing up on my ship like this just might be a good thing.”

  Rapp nodded. It appeared Forester was a warrior and not some bureaucrat masquerading as an officer. “I think you’re going to like what I have to tell you.”

  “Good. Let’s sit down.” The captain led the way over to a couch and four chairs. The suite wasn’t big by normal standards, but as far as ships went it was huge. Forester and Jackson took the couch while Rapp sat across from them in an armchair.

  “So, Mr. Rapp”—Forester crossed his long legs—“what are you doing so far away from home?”

  Rapp had already thought about much of what lay ahead. It was going to be a busy day and he needed these two men fully committed to what he would eventually propose. Having worked in an environment that was obsessed with secrets had not always gone over well with Rapp. He could appreciate the need for it, but there were times when the entire cause would be better served if the people in the field knew what was going on.

  In Rapp’s mind this was one of those cases, plus these two naval officers were not a security risk. They all wanted the same thing; in fact, Forester and Jackson probably wanted it even more. They’d been out here on patrol for more than a month with the Anderson family fresh on their minds, and it had been their brethren who’d been gunned down on the beach not too many nights ago. They could be trusted.

  “What I’m about to tell you can’t leave this room. In fact, if you breathe a word of it to anyone, it could end your career.” Rapp clasped his hands in front of him and looked at both men to make sure they got his message. “Have I made myself clear enough?”

  They nodded. “Good.” Looking at Forester, Rapp said, “The SEALs you put ashore the other night that were ambushed … their mission was compromised by a leak that we traced all the way back to Washington.”

  After a long pause Forester asked, “Where?”

  “The State Department. Some of this you’re going to hear in the press. Assistant Secretary of State Amanda Petry sat in on the National Security Council briefings on the operation. She was told point-blank that she was not to share any information regarding the hostage rescue of the Anderson family with our embassy in Manila. Once the Andersons and all of our assets were safely out, we’d let the Filipino government know. If they got upset”—Rapp shrugged his shoulders—“our attitude was tough shit. The family’s been held hostage for six damn months, and they haven’t done shit to free them. In fact, we’ve discovered that they’ve actually hindered our efforts.”

  Hindered was a kind choice of words. “After our boys were ambushed Director Kennedy launched an investigation. It appears that for some time she’s had people at Langley monitoring the situation out here. What she discovered you’re not going to like. Prior to the rescue operation Amanda Petry e-mailed Ambassador Cox in Manila the general plans of the mission. Ambassador Cox in turn relayed this information to someone in the Philippine government.”

  “Who?” asked Jackson.

  After
hesitating Rapp replied, “That I can’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” asked the ship’s captain.

  “Won’t,” conceded Rapp, “but that doesn’t matter. It’s the next part that you’re going to be most interested in. Have either of you met General Moro?”

  Forester shook his head while Jackson said, “Several times.”

  “What’d you think of him?”

  Jackson seemed to consider the question carefully and then said, “I think he had a real hard-on for me and my boys. A big chip on his shoulder.”

  “Yeah,” Rapp agreed. “Like maybe he didn’t like Americans running around on his little island?”

  “That and the fact that he was always trying to prove that his boys were better than us.”

  Rapp sensed some potentially important information here. “Were they?”

  Jackson laughed. “No way.”

  Rapp hoped the answer was based on more than bravado and unit pride. “Be more specific. How’d they shoot? How were they in the jungle? What was their discipline like?”

  “They were extremely disciplined. Moro was a real sadist in that regard. They were in great shape. They could handle the long marches, with the big packs and not a one of them would piss and moan. I was a little disappointed in their shooting, but they don’t fire anywhere near the amount of rounds as we do on the Teams.”

  This was important information. “How were they in the jungle? Were they good trackers?”

  “It’s funny you ask that,” said Jackson, frowning. “They were great trackers. They’d pick up shit in the jungle before every single guy in my platoon with the exception of maybe one.”