by Brad Thor
A wave of polite laughter swept the breakfast room. When it died down, he continued. “You’ve got ten minutes to load up on caffeine, aspirin, whatever it is that helps make you human, and then I want to see everyone in the lobby, checked out, with their bags ready to go. Okay?”
Heads nodded and with the scrape of chair legs across the tile floor, the students rose to get more coffee and return to their rooms to finish packing.
Depending on traffic, the professor knew that the drive south from Rome to Pompei would take a little over two and a half hours. Halfway there was a church with amazing mosaics that he wanted them to have plenty of time to study and sketch. After that, they had reservations for lunch at one of his favorite trattorias overlooking the Bay of Naples.
Half an hour later, the tiny hotel lobby was awash in a sea of suitcases and backpacks. As a handful of students made one last dash to the breakfast room for coffee, others helped the program’s bus driver, Angelo, load the bags into the belly of the bright yellow motor coach. In the chaos of everyone checking out, none of them noticed that one of the bags didn’t belong to their group.
After a final head count to make sure everyone was on board, Tony Carafano gave Angelo the okay to depart.
As the Italian maneuvered the coach through Roman traffic, the professor distributed the day’s itinerary. Walking down the aisle, he found his students engaged in their morning ritual of texting friends back home, checking e-mail, and listening to their iPods. Few were bothering to take in their last glimpses of one of the most beautiful and historically significant cities in the world.
With one of Rome’s most popular landmarks drawing near, Carafano called his students’ attention to it. “If anyone’s interested, we’re about to pass the Colosseum on our left.”
Some of them looked up. Many, though, were too busy. It was a shame that even though they had all seen it before, a thing of such wondrous beauty should go ignored. Especially considering what was about to happen.
As the bus pulled even with the ancient arena, a spotter on a rooftop half a mile away removed a cell phone from his pocket and dialed the number he had been given.
Six seconds later, an enormous explosion rocked the city as the motor coach erupted in a billowing fireball.
CHAPTER 3
FALLUJAH, IRAQ
THE NEXT DAY
As his Russian GAZ sped down the dusty road, Omar-Hakim was fuming. The local Iraqi National Guard commander had been engaged in plenty of blackmail schemes, but always as the perpetrator—never the victim.
Next to him sat the man who had ensnared him and who had broken his hand when he had gone for his gun. He never should have agreed to meet with him. In fact, he should have shot him on sight. But now it was too late. He was trapped and there was nothing he could do.
The man in question was a forty-year-old American who spoke Arabic as well as Omar-Hakim spoke English. He was five-foot-ten with light brown hair, blue eyes, and a well-built physique. A Navy SEAL who had been recruited to the White House to help bolster the Secret Service’s counterterrorism expertise, the man had become a previous president’s favorite weapon in the war on terror. But when that president had left office, the man’s tenure had expired. Now, he was working for a private organization.
His employer was a legend in the intelligence world and had spent the last year polishing and honing the skills of the man who, always deadly serious about his work, now approached his life with a renewed sense of vigor.
He had a sense that somewhere a clock was ticking down. It was due, in part, to a realization that his own time on the playing field was winding down, but there was something more to it. There was a sense of foreboding; a sense that a storm was gathering and picking up strength as it sped toward shore—his shore—America.
There wasn’t a specific act or event he could pin his sense of foreboding on. It was everything; the movements and chatter and unending determination by America’s enemies to hit again and again and again. He and others like him believed that something else, something different was on the way, and they constantly reminded each other to keep their “powder dry.”
There were only two things any of them could do about it—hunker down and wait for it to happen, or get out there, locate the threat, and take the fight to the enemy head-on. Scot Harvath wasn’t the hunker-down-and-wait-for-it-to-happen type.
Looking at his GPS device, he activated his radio and said, “Two minutes. Stand by.”
“Roger that,” replied a voice from the neighborhood up ahead. “Standing by.” The snipers had been in place for hours. It was now nearing four a.m.
Even though he couldn’t see it, he knew the drone was still above them on station. Via the Combined Air and Space Operations Center, he radioed for a final situation report from the drone pilots back at Creech Air Force base northwest of Las Vegas. “Press box, are we still good to go?”
“That is affirmative,” came the reply. “Tangos one through four are still in place. Thermals show that the heat signatures inside the target have not changed.”
Harvath didn’t bother asking about the hostages. He knew why there were no longer any heat signatures from them.
As they turned the corner, the outline of their target could be seen silhouetted against the night sky. It was time to go to the next phase of their operation. “This is it,” he said over his radio as he set the GPS down on the seat next to him and adjusted his beret. “We’re going to sterile comms,” which meant from this point forward they would communicate only via a series of prearranged clicks.
In the two trucks following his, the rest of the team made ready. After checking their weapons, they straightened the uniforms Omar-Hakim had provided and donned their Iraqi helmets.
Power outages were a common occurrence in Iraq. Per Harvath’s request, the power to this neighborhood had been cut earlier in the evening. The streets were completely dark. At this hour, even families with their own generators were sleeping.
“Remember what we discussed,” Harvath said to Omar-Hakim when the vehicles pulled up in front of the target.
“I remember,” said the man.
Harvath then motioned for him to get out.
In front of them was a house surrounded by a thick mud wall. Its entrance was a set of wide double doors fabricated from sheet metal and scrap wood. A fist-sized hole had been punched through each side. A heavy chain padlocked from the inside kept them securely closed.
There wasn’t a sound to be heard.
Omar-Hakim sucked in his gut and attempted to ignore the throbbing pain from his broken hand. Harvath had warned him to leave it by his side and not draw attention to it.
The commander walked up to the gate and whispering, so as not to awaken anyone, addressed the sentry inside. “Abdullah. Open up.”
“Who is it?” replied a voice in Arabic.
The Iraqi bent his face down to the hole and spoke over the chain. “Commander Hakim, you idiot.”
“What do you want?”
Omar-Hakim came from a large, powerful Fallujah family. He was accustomed to being respected. The insolence of the al-Qaeda sentry grated on him. “Open these doors right now or I’ll tell Assad you’re the one who betrayed him to the Americans.”
“The Americans?”
“Yes, you idiot. The Americans. They know you’re here. Now open up so I can speak with Assad before they arrive.”
The sentry bent down and looked through the hole. He studied the Iraqi National Guard vehicles.
“I’ve brought extra uniforms and men to help you,” added the Iraqi. “Hurry up.”
Slowly, the sentry removed a key from his pocket and placed it in the lock. As he removed the chain, Harvath toggled the transmit button of his radio and sent two distinct clicks.
When the al-Qaeda man designated as “Tango One” pulled back the gate, the snipers engaged their targets.
Muffled spits raced through the air. The sentry on the roof was killed instantly, as was the
covert sentry positioned a block away. A burst of radio clicks over the team’s earpieces served as confirmation.
With his suppressed Russian Makarov, Harvath stepped from behind Omar-Hakim and placed two rounds into the gatekeeper’s head.
The corrupt Iraqi commander was no stranger to killing, but the suddenness and violence of the act froze him in place. He had no idea that this was part of the plan, though he should have expected a raid on an al-Qaeda safe house to result in a bit more than hurt feelings.
While Omar-Hakim was staring at the dead man, Harvath struck him in the head with the butt of his weapon. The overweight Iraqi collapsed to the ground as the rest of the team exited their trucks.
Two men from the lead vehicle bound the commander with zip ties, gagged him, and threw him in the back. They then took up lookout positions.
The rest of the team fanned out into the compound.
Based on their intelligence, there was only one obstacle remaining. He was inside the rear of the house near the back door.
Harvath had conducted raids like this so many times before that he could picture exactly what was going on inside.
All of the men, save the remaining sentry, would be gathered in the large room at the front of the house. They would be sleeping on heavy fleece blankets purchased at the local market. One or two might be up having tea. If the power had been on, a few more might have been watching jihadi videos. More than likely, a couple of them were having sex with each other. Homosexuality was so rampant among the jihadists that catching them in the act had stopped surprising Harvath a long time ago. As a matter of fact, very little surprised him anymore; even less shocked him.
A colleague of his in Fallujah named Mike Dent had told him the story of a six-year-old boy named Khidir. Khidir was the son of a local police officer. Two years ago while his father was at work, members of an Iraqi al-Qaeda cell had burst into his home and savagely torn him from where he was hiding behind his grandmother, desperately clinging to her skirt.
The kidnappers wanted Khidir’s father, Shafi, to help free several al-Qaeda members being held in his jail. Shafi knew how dangerous the prisoners were and refused to set them loose upon the citizens of Fallujah. He knew full well they would conduct more killings and put more families through the same horror he was experiencing. The kidnappers promised to slit his little boy’s throat if he didn’t comply, but Shafi refused to give in to their demands. Khidir had not been seen since.
Dent had been so moved by Khidir’s story that he had made it his goal to help find out what had happened to the little boy. As a civilian trainer for the Fallujah police, he spent a lot of time building a network of informants. After a while, he started to wonder if it had all been a waste of time when one day a contact passed along a rumor that a group of al-Qaeda members was holding several children hostage on a small farm outside the city. With no funds to pay for any more intelligence, Dent had reached out to Harvath. He knew how Harvath felt about children, and to cement his assistance had e-mailed him a picture of a bright-eyed, smiling Khidir taken before the little boy’s nightmare had begun.
Three days later, Harvath landed in Baghdad with his new boss’s blessing, an expense account, and permission to do whatever necessary to bring the al-Qaeda cell to justice.
It took Harvath, Dent, and the team of contractors they had assembled $20,000 in bribes and ten days to find the location of the terrorists.
Pure hate for what they had done fueled Harvath as he cobbled together the operation. Like Dent, since hearing the little boy’s story, he had been living for this very moment. Each of the men would be the first through his respective entry point.
They moved quickly and quietly across the cracked, brown earth of the courtyard. Harvath’s team went to the front door while Dent took the other half of the men to the back.
Harvath’s team put on their night vision goggles and when they all flashed him the thumbs-up, he signaled for the battering ram to come forward.
With his team in place, he “clicked” Dent’s team in back and gave them the go-ahead. Moments later, there was the sound of splintering wood as the rear door was battered open and the remaining sentry was taken out.
Harvath counted down from fifteen. He could hear the shouts of the al-Qaeda operatives in the front room as they leapt from their beds and scrambled into the hallway that led to the back door.
Harvath reached the end of his countdown and motioned for the assaulter with the ram to hit the front door.
The entry tool knocked the door completely off its hinges and Harvath charged through, followed by the rest of his team.
Bottlenecked in the hallway, the AQ operatives were mown down with bullets from both sides.
The air was thick with the smell of blood and gun smoke. When Harvath called cease fire, Dent’s team moved up from the back of the house to secure the hallway while Harvath and his team cleared the rest of the house.
They found the entrance to the “spider hole” beneath a stained rug in the main room. One of the men said it reminded him of the hole Delta Force operatives had pulled Saddam out of.
Harvath looked down into the pit. It smelled atrocious. Six sets of hollow, half-dead eyes stared up at him. “Everything is okay,” he said in Arabic as he removed his night vision goggles. “We’re Americans. We’re going to take you home to your families.”
In the beam of his flashlight, he could see a shaft six feet deep that opened into a pit five feet square by three feet high. For their bodily functions, the al-Qaeda animals had left their child hostages only a rusted coffee can. Disgusting didn’t even begin to describe the scene.
Harvath sent one of his men outside to find a ladder and when he returned, they lowered it into the pit.
The children were all male, between four and eleven years old, and were all sons of Iraqi police officers in Fallujah.
They had another thing in common. All of them had been brutally tortured. The oldest boy took charge and sent the others slowly up the ladder. As they emerged, they were assessed by the men of the team, medically treated as necessary, and wrapped in blankets.
As the oldest boy came into view, he was quite upset and explained that there was still one child left behind, badly in need of help.
“Is it Khidir?” Harvath asked hopefully.
The boy nodded.
Gently moving him away from the shaft, Harvath climbed down into the pit. What he discovered wrenched his heart out.
Khidir was now eight years old and severely malnourished. His eyes were set deep in their sockets and surrounded by black circles. His once thick head of black hair had fallen out in clumps and he looked as if he had probably soiled himself repeatedly.
As Harvath triaged the little boy, he discerned that both his arms and legs were broken. His left knee had a large iron nail driven through it, and all the teeth in his mouth had been pulled out, leaving behind infected gum tissue.
His breathing was shallow and came in rapid gasps. Harvath noted his elevated temperature and pulse. The boy was shocky.
Dosing a child for a morphine injection was a tricky gamble. Getting him up the ladder and out of the pit was going to be extremely painful. Harvath removed a preloaded syringe and injected half.
“Prep an IV!” he yelled up the shaft.
Khidir was becoming unresponsive. He needed to move him now.
Cradling the child to his chest, Harvath shifted to the ladder and climbed using one arm. At the top, the medic gently took the little boy from him, laid him down, and began an IV.
“Assad’s dead, but we’ve got two survivors from the hallway,” said one of the men from the team. “What do you want to do?”
“Where’s Dent?”
“He’s processing them outside.”
“Are they stable enough for transport?” asked Harvath.
The man nodded.
“Cuff ’em and stuff ’em with Omar.”
“You got it.”
The medic looked up from Khidir
and said to Harvath, “In addition to four broken limbs and septic shock, he has a collapsed lung. I can give him some more morphine so he’ll be comfortable, but he’s not going to make it.”
That was unacceptable. The little boy didn’t deserve to die. Being the son of a policeman should be an honor, not a death sentence. “Can we get him to the hospital in Fallujah?”
“Even if we could, it will be too late.”
Harvath knew both Camp Slayer and the Green Zone were too far. “What about the Norwegian facility near the airbase at Ramadi? They’ve got a fully staffed MSF clinic there.”
The medic shook his head.
Harvath looked down as Khidir started guppy breathing.
“It’s your call,” said the medic. “What do you want to do?”
Harvath couldn’t take his eyes off the boy. “Can I hold him?”
The medic thought about it a minute. “Of course,” he said as he prepped a second syringe of morphine.
Once Harvath had the boy cradled in his lap, the medic piggybacked the drug into the IV.
“His breathing is probably going to stop soon, but I promise he won’t feel any pain.”
Harvath wanted to say Thank you, but the words didn’t come.
“These people are savages,” said the medic as he stood.
Harvath nodded. “Have Dent bring the two survivors from the hallway back in here. I want them to see this.”
The medic nodded. Moments later, Dent and one of his men brought the al-Qaeda operatives back into the room. Harvath nodded at the opposite wall and Dent shoved them down into a sitting position. He told the team member who had helped him bring the prisoners in to go wait outside. Once he was sure the entire house was empty, he came back into the room and nodded to Harvath. He had a feeling he knew what was going to happen next.
One of the al-Qaeda operatives turned his head away. Harvath yelled at him in Arabic to watch. The man reluctantly complied.
The other sat there with a smile on his face and Harvath bored holes into the man’s head with his stare.
Harvath wished the little boy could live, though he knew it wasn’t going to happen. The extra morphine had sealed the deal.
