Executive Power (19 page)

Rapp looked down at the rain-soaked ground and then up at the rising terrain. What would normally be a forty-minute hike on dry ground might easily now turn into a three-hour jaunt. Rapp tried to remain optimistic.

"If we don't run into anybody, I'm guessing two hours, maybe a little less."

"We'll be here."

"What's your sit rep?"

"Same as last time. No one's moving."

Rapp was tempted to ask him how he and his men were doing, but decided not to waste their time. Coleman would say they were fine regardless of how miserable they were.

Jackson appeared at Rapp's side.

"My point man has already found a path and everyone else is ready to go."

Rapp nodded and covered his lip mike.

"Let's move out." Taking his hand off the mike he said, "Strider, we're on our way. I'll give you an update in thirty minutes."

The first squad of eight SEALs started up the narrow footpath into the thickening jungle with the men spaced a little closer than security would normally dictate. Jackson and the second squad, along with Rapp, came next and then the third squad brought up the rear. All twenty-five heavily armed men quietly disappeared into the jungle and the pouring rain.

Something wasn't right. David's eyes fluttered open for a second and then snapped shut. The air was thick with dust and his ears were ringing. Having no idea where he was or what he'd been doing, David tried to sit up, but couldn't. Again he blinked his eyes open, this time only to a thin squint. All of his senses seemed to be off with the exception of his sight, and even that was a little blurry.

David rolled his head to his left and saw nothing, and then to his right, where through the clouds of dust and smoke he saw fire. The flames jogged his memory. He was in Hebron at the meeting. The attachИ cases were filled with the Iraqi counterfeit money. He had stepped outside and climbed into the armored car with Mohammed Atwa and then detonated the cases. A smile crept onto his lips as he remembered the look on Atwa's face when he'd stabbed him in the neck.

David remembered the blood spraying from the man's throat. What a joy it was to see genuine horror on the face of a man who had brutalized thousands.

His eyes fluttered. The haze lifted a bit. He tried to move his left arm but it didn't budge. He struggled with his right arm and after a moment it broke free. David lifted his head and realized that his lower body was covered in rubble. His thoughts again returned to the attachИ cases and the explosives. The technicians at Mossad must have packed even more C-4 than he'd expected into the cases. The entire house where the meeting had taken place appeared to be leveled.

David held his head up and looked up and down the street. The destruction was massive. Half the block appeared to be destroyed. The attachИ cases could not have done all this, he thought to himself. Then he remembered the noise. A noise he had only heard once before, but a noise that was impossible to forget.

With one of his arms free, David propped himself up and looked around. His head was awash with pain and either his ears were ringing very loudly or there were sirens blaring not so far away. From his new vantage point he took in the devastation and was shocked to see the utter destruction. At least three homes in addition to the one where the meeting had taken place were completely demolished; piles of rubble, with pockets of smoke and flames.

The reality of what had happened hit David like a building had fallen on him. He did not mean for all of these innocent people to be harmed. The attachИ cases would have been more than enough to handle the job, but that bastard Ben Freidman wanted to make absolutely sure that he killed everyone.

He'd tracked him to the meeting. This was not a surprise to David.

The fact that Freidman would try to follow him was a foregone conclusion, but David felt the man would not press too hard for fear of blowing what already amounted to the best gift he had ever been given. Somehow he'd managed to follow him, and then to make sure no one made it out alive, including David, he'd launched missiles into the neighborhood. That was the noise he'd heard right before everything went black. The horrible shrieking noise of a missile, a harbinger of death and destruction.

David cleared several smaller stones from his legs and then a few larger ones. Where his black dress pants were torn he could see blood mixing in with the dust from the stones that had covered him. Slowly and carefully he pulled himself out from under the remaining rubble and took an inventory of the various pains that were shooting through his body.

The ringing was still in his ears. David looked around in search of an emergency vehicle but saw none. He came to the conclusion that the explosion had probably damaged his hearing. Carefully, he tried to stand, but quickly found that all was not well with his right leg. David placed only a fraction of his weight on it and hobbled over to what was left of a parked car.

The destruction was horrendous. Half of the block was leveled and of the homes that were still standing, most were either burning or in danger of catching fire. The number of innocent people killed would be enormous. It was time to flee. He did not want to be around to answer the questions of whoever it was who showed up, whether it was the Palestinian Authority or the Israelis. As David limped gingerly down the sidewalk, skirting rubble and leaning on whatever he could find for assistance, he saw an opportunity. Ben Freidman undoubtedly thought he was dead. Maybe there was a way to use that to his advantage.

David picked up the pace, wincing in pain as he put more pressure on his bad leg. Through the smoke and the dust he spotted a woman wandering toward him with a blank expression. As he neared her he noticed she had something in her arms. The look on her face told him she was in shock. Resisting the urge to approach her, he pressed on.

When they were within a few feet of each other he glanced at what was in her arms and instantly wished he didn't. He wanted to believe the tiny frail body was that of a doll, but he knew better. It was a baby and David knew the poor infant would be visiting him in his dreams for years to come.

Peace did not come without a price, he told himself. He continued saying this over and over as he hobbled away from the scene of devastation.

Ben Freidman would someday answer for his callous brutality. It didn't have to happen this way. The children did not have to die. David knew the perfect way to hurt such a man. All he had to do was get to America. Once there he would put into motion a series of events that would bring about the birth of a Palestinian state and the end of Ben Freidman.

Coleman was one of those steady types: never too up and never too down. He had an air of quiet authority about him that commanded a respect among his men. He was never overbearing or brusque, just calculating and decisive. But right now, more than anything, he was wet. The poncho that was draped over him had long ago become useless against the torrent of rain that was coming down by the bucket. The ground was so soaked, it was as if he was sitting on a plump sponge.

With the onset of nightfall and the deluge of rain, visibility had been reduced to the point where they could no longer see the enemy camp. Coleman had moved Stroble and Hackett to a forward position an hour ago to keep an eye on things. They'd reported back exactly what the former SEAL team commander had expected; that nothing had changed. With their report in mind, Coleman dispatched Wicker on a mission to circumnavigate the camp so he could get a better feel for the entire area.

As a general rule, when the weather was inclement people stayed put. It didn't matter if it was the South Pacific or the South Bronx. It was human nature to seek shelter and try to stay either warm or dry or cool depending on the conditions.

SEALs were the exception to this rule. Knowing that they could and would be called on to perform an operation at a moment's notice, regardless of the weather, they took it upon themselves to train in the worst of conditions. It was also why they had to endure hell week during their selection process.

Candidates were deprived of sleep for days on end and marched continually into the cold surf of the Pacific at all hours, in soiled sandy uniforms. Most of them could handle the physical torment, the academic rigors were challenging, but not overtaxing, and the verbal assaults from the instructors were for the most part ignored. It was the cumulative effect of all of these, however, that got to the SEAL candidates.

By the time hell week arrived they were already in a weakened state. Their bodies were sore, their nerves were frayed and then the very bedrock of mental stability was jerked from underneath them. They were robbed of sleep and warmth, and when the human body is deprived of those two basic necessities individuals began to do strange and unpredictable things.

This was when most of the men broke and rang the bell, signaling that they were dropping out. To the average citizen, waking up a group of young men by slamming metal trash can lids together at 2:00 A.M. was cruel enough, but after you added in the fact that the men had just gone to bed thirty minutes earlier and had not been allowed more than an hour of sleep in three days, it seemed downright inhuman.

But the SEALs weren't looking for just anyone. There was nothing nice or normal about warfare. It was mentally and physically exhausting and it was all done without the comfort of a bed, a hot shower and warm food. Most important, it was unlike almost any other job for one plain reason; you couldn't just quit. If you were working for the airlines and you got sick of throwing heavy suitcases around, you could at a moment's notice walk away from it all. If you didn't like your boss at work, you could easily quit.

In Scott Coleman's world, however, there was no quitting, because quitting usually meant that you had to die or someone else did. That more than anything was what hell week was about. The men who ran the Naval Special Warfare Center in Coronado needed to find out who could take it, because in the real world of special operations quitting was not an option.

As miserable as Coleman was right now, he took a small amount of comfort in the fact that he'd been in much worse situations. He did have to admit one thing to himself, however; he wasn't a young stud anymore. Now that he was past forty, it seemed there was a new ache added to his list every month or so. He'd led a hard life for almost twenty years and it was catching up with him.

As he leaned against the base of a hardwood tree he could tell his lower back and knees had stiffened considerably. He looked out into the faint gray light and checked his watch. The sun wasn't even down yet, but it might as well have been. Coleman judged his visibility was a scant twenty feet. Fishing a small packet from his pocket he tore it open and popped two Nuprin into his mouth. The anti inflammatory drug would help ease the aching in his back and knees. Rapp and the other warriors would be arriving shortly, and it would be time to move.

Suddenly a whispered voice carried through the air.

"Coming up behind you, boss."

Coleman heard Wicker's voice and turned to see the sniper standing just ten feet away. The fact that he had gotten so close unnerved the commander. Either he was slipping or Wicker was the sneakiest little bastard he'd ever met.

Coleman got to his feet and looking at the diminutive Wicker said, "You know that's a good way to get shot."

Wicker smiled, his teeth a brilliant white against his camouflage-painted face.

"You have to hear me in order to shoot me."

"How long you been standing there?" demanded Coleman.

"Long enough to watch you pop a couple of pills."

"Shit." Coleman shook his head.

"Boss, don't sweat it. With this rain falling I could sneak up on a buck and kill it with my knife."

I bet you could, Coleman thought. Wicker was a hunter of both the four-and two-legged variety. Having grown up in Wyoming he'd hunted everything from caribou to black bear to timber wolves.

"What'd you find out?"

"I don't want to come off as being too confident, but I think I could have walked right through their camp unnoticed."

"You're serious?" asked Coleman.

"Yeah. It's this rain. It dulls the senses. It dampens the travel of noise to start with, but then after several hours like this it becomes hypnotic."

Coleman nodded while he thought of something Rapp had said on the radio earlier.

"What about that ridge on the other side of the camp?"

"A couple of footpaths and that's it."

"No sentries?"

"None," Wicker said with a disgusted shake of his head.

"And I took my time. I mean they don't have a single person out checking their perimeter. They're all sitting in those shacks or under the lean-tos.

It's a joke these guys didn't get their asses kicked off this island a long time ago."

"Well, when the guy commanding the opposing force is in your back pocket it makes things a little easier."

Looking through the mist in the direction of the camp, Wicker added, "I think the four of us could go in there right now and get this done."

Coleman suppressed a smile. He'd already thought the same thing, but he'd prefer to wait for the additional twenty-five shooters that were on their way. With a little luck they might be able to pull it off, but if there was a single miscue they'd get shredded.

"Any other observations?"

"Yeah." Wicker tilted his head back, looking up at the dark sky through a hole in the canopy. Raindrops pelted his face.

"I don't think this thing is getting any weaker; in fact I think it's intensifying."

Coleman agreed, and looking skyward he said, "The gusts are definitely more frequent."

"And stronger." With caution in his voice he added, "If it gets worse we might want to think about a different way to get home."

Just then a strong gust swept the treetops, shaking loose a curtain of rain. Coleman looked toward the ground to avoid getting his face doused and instead got a stream of water down the back of his neck.

It had already been a long wet day and now it looked like things were only going to get worse.