Path of the Assassin (32 page)

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.

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 DeWolfe 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.

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.

There was a pause, and then Meg came back. “He says he’s got the stomach to eat if Carlson has the balls to go get the pizza.”

“I knew it,” said Carlson. “He’s fine.”

“How far out is Big John, Gordo?” asked Harvath.

“Ten minutes until they’re on-site.”

“Tell them to hurry up. Any minute now, that other…Scratch that. They’re back.”

Off in the distance, Harvath could distinctly hear the remaining Alouette helicopter as it lined up for another run down the canyon. Seeing their buddies blown to bits had scared off the pilots of the second craft, but Harvath had known it wouldn’t last. He also knew that this time, the Alouette would come at them with everything it had.

Just as the helicopter entered Harvath’s field of vision, the pilots killed their lights. The thunder of the rotors reverberated off the canyon walls as the attack helicopter sped toward them. Harvath had anticipated their move and had grabbed the helmet and night-vision goggles DeWolfe had left behind in the FAV.

He flipped the goggles down, and the night now glowed an eerie green as he got a fix on the speeding Alouette. Its twenty-millimeter canons and machine-gun pods were blazing, and he knew it was only a matter of seconds before the pilots loosed their air-to-surface missiles.

The two major drawbacks to Harvath’s remaining AT4 antitank missile were that it was made for tanks, not aircraft, and that the weapon had no optics on it at all. Harvath did the best he could to line up his target, and without a second thought, let the powerful missile fly.

The bright ignition flash, as well as the phosphorus gas stream that followed the weapon as it streaked toward the Alouette, sent the pilots into immediate evasive action. They banked the helicopter into a steep turn, but it wasn’t steep enough. The missile ripped into the craft’s tail section and detonated, shearing away the rear rotor. The Alouette spun wildly out of control for several seconds until it careened into the high wall of the wadi and exploded, sending shards of searing metal in all directions.

As the Libyan soldiers bolted for cover, Avigliano ran over to Harvath and began yanking things out of the vehicle. “We’re going to have to blow the FAV in place,” he said as he threw a small bag to Harvath. “Big John says uncle Mu’ammar’s got more men heading in our direction, and it looks like they’re scrambling jets out of Tripoli.”

“Super,” said Harvath. “What else could go wrong?”

“How about this? With all the heat, Big John can’t land in the wadi. They’re dropping a rope and we’re going out FRIES.”

“Ask a stupid question…” mumbled Harvath as he unzipped the bag, knowing full well what he’d find inside.

FRIES was a military acronym for Fast Rope Insertion/Extraction System. Harvath had learned the technique when he was in the SEALs, where it was called SPIE, short for Special Purpose Insertion and Extraction, but no matter what you called it, there was one thing Harvath knew for sure—Meg Cassidy was not going to like it.

Harvath pulled out two nylon FRIES harnesses from the bag and asked, “How about some Valium?”

“I thought you were a tough guy,” said Avigliano as he finished placing his explosive charges throughout the FAV.

“It’s not for me. It’s for our friend, Ms. Cassidy. She’s afraid of heights.”

“Then I suggest you don’t tell her until the very last possible moment. I’ll cover you with the 7.62. Get over there and get her geared up.”

Harvath flashed Avigliano a thumbs-up and took off toward the outcropping the minute he heard the heavy machine gun open up.

DeWolfe was feeling well enough to be taking shots at the Libyans with his Mod Zero and helped lay down enough cover fire for Harvath to get across to their end of the wadi. As soon as he got to Meg Cassidy, he handed her one of the FRIES rigs.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“A harness. Now watch how I put mine on, and do the same,” replied Harvath.

“What do I need a harness for?”

“Safety.”

“Safety for what?”

“Meg, I really don’t have time for this now. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s people up there trying to kill us.”

“Scot, what the hell is going on?”

So much for not telling her,
he thought. “The helicopter can’t land in this area. They’re going to lower a rope for us. You clip your harness to it and it pulls you up.”—
with everybody else, and we fly away beneath the helicopter like five fish on a stringer,
but she’d realize that soon enough. That harness was their only ticket out of Libya.

“Like when the Coast Guard picks up somebody out of the water and reels them in?”

“More or less,” said Harvath. He hated not being completely truthful with her, but he knew it was the only way Meg would go along with things.

“Which one?
More
or
less?
” she demanded.

“Take your pick. Listen, we don’t have time for this. Our helicopter is going to be here in a matter of minutes and we both have to be ready to move, so watch me closely and do exactly as I do.”

Harvath finished tightening his FRIES harness and inspected it, then inspected Meg’s and DeWolfe’s. Everyone was good to go. He radioed Avigliano, who told him to stand by. Big John was less than a minute away.

It was amazing to Harvath that he could not yet hear the enormous Chinook, but that was part of the pilots’ M.O. If things went well, you had no idea they were there until they were right on top of you.

Soon enough, the roar of the big MH-47’s rotors was all you could hear. That, and the deafening fire from the Dillon Miniguns, manned by door gunners on both sides of the helicopter, who were throwing down deadly blankets of fire.

As Big John made repeated passes to strafe the Libyan soldiers, Carlson ran out into the wadi with pockets full of Chem-lights to mark their makeshift landing zone. Once Avigliano got the word from Big John that he was coming in to drop the rope, the team made their way toward the LZ.

There was a loud, blowing wind as the Chinook swept in, flared, and then hovered above the wadi. Sheets of sand hitting the rotors gave off sparks making them appear greenish white in the night sky.

One of the Chinook’s crew kicked the heavy FRIES rope out the door, and Harvath and the rest of the team let it hit the ground and stay there for several seconds. Because helicopters weren’t grounded, they generated a tremendous amount of static electricity, which made it necessary to allow the rope to discharge the current before touching it.

Loops were staggered along the thick rope, and Harvath took up the first position, where he rapidly locked his harness in with a heavy metal D ring. Out in the open, even with the heavy fire from the door gunners up above, they were all still sitting ducks. Next on the line came Meg, then Carlson, DeWolfe, and finally Avigliano. Once everyone was clipped in, Avigliano blew the FAV with a remote detonator. He then signaled the pilot with an infrared beam, and the Chinook began its quick ascent.

The key to a hot FRIES extraction was to keep one hand on the rope and the other on your weapon, so you could return fire at the enemy. Harvath, DeWolfe, and Avigliano, along with the gunners in the MH-47, gave the Libyans every single thing they had. With a broken collarbone, it was all Carlson could do to hold on, and it made him madder than hell that he wasn’t able to shoot anybody.

Meg Cassidy’s sheer terror of the FRIES extraction was rivaled only by her newfound hate for Scot Harvath. By the time they had crossed the Tunisian border, she had vowed to herself not only to never trust him again, but never to speak to him either.