The Lions Of Lucerne

31

So far, the JSOC mission was going according to plan. The recovery team rendezvoused with a small fishing boat off the coast of Israel just after 2 A.M. The contingent of Navy SEALs had been tasked to enforce a NATO blockade in the Persian Gulf. Since speed was of the essence for this mission, code-named Rapid Return, they were the best qualified and most readily available choice for the recovery.

The dark, humid air hung over the south Lebanese coast like a wet blanket. It was stifling, yet the team members paid no attention to the heat. Their minds were focused on their assignment and the role each would need to play for it to be successful.

Back in Washington, D.C., safely tucked away in the White House sit room, Scot Harvath knew exactly what the SEALs on that small fishing boat were feeling. Out of habit, his pulse picked up and the adrenaline began to surge as a quiet communication was relayed via satellite halfway around the world through the recessed speakers of the sit room.

“Jonah, this is Ishmael. No bites. We’re headed in,” said the voice of the SEAL team leader.

“Nothing on the nets either. Hope you land a big one. Happy fishing,” came the response from the JSOC command center.

Even though General Venrick wore a headset that kept him continuously in the loop, he had been furious that the vice president had insisted he watch the operation from the sit room. The general trusted his people at JSOC command, but when it came right down to it, he was in charge and should have been there, rather than in the sit room as if it were a skybox at a Redskins game.

The general had explained the codes and call signs to Harvath as they waited for the mission to begin. With that information, Scot was able to translate the exchange he was hearing.

Harvath knew from experience that anywhere from one hundred to two hundred yards out, depending on the conditions, the team would slide over the sides of their inflatable and into the water. Unsheathing their knives, team members would rip holes in the craft, and its heavy outboard engine would pull it straight to the bottom. Before any wreckage could possibly be discovered, the team would be long gone.

All eyes were glued to a series of monitors strategically interspersed across the front of the sit room. There were also individual monitors recessed at each setting in the table. Internal JSOC communications from the command center drifted down from the overhead speakers. The constant narrative relayed data on the mission’s progress and would be automatically interrupted any time a member of Rapid Return’s recovery force broke radio silence.

Glancing around the room, Scot noticed that both the general and CIA director Vaile had laptops plugged into the White House’s secure communication links. Undoubtedly, each was keeping in touch with their respective offices through private means as well. A very smart idea.

Harvath peered at the screens in the front of the room. They were considerably bigger than the monitor recessed within the table in front of him. Even though he could switch from picture to picture from where he sat, he preferred the wider panorama up front.

Each of the SEALs was outfitted with a fiber-optic night-vision wide-angle-lens camera that relayed back exactly what was in their field of view. The largest of the monitors was a flat-panel device showing images collected by an NSA spy satellite network known as Chaperone.

Chaperone was a highly sophisticated reconnaissance system designed to gather intelligence and assist in clandestine operations occurring predominantly at night. Chaperone incorporated night-vision capabilities unrivaled by any other intelligence-gathering system in existence. As it utilized several overlapping satellites, “loitering” time over a target had been greatly increased from times past.

The main flat-paneled screen at the front of the room provided a picture-in-picture view. The largest and most prominent image was of the beach that the SEAL team was swimming toward. In the lower-right-hand corner of the screen was the satellite image of what Harvath assumed was the primary objective, the FRC compound.

When the SEALs made land, they had just under a mile run inland, where a truck and two drivers would be waiting for them. Secreted in the back of the truck, the Special Ops team would be driven to within a few blocks of their target.

No one in the room spoke. The chatter of the JSOC command center and intermittent beeps, presumably from the satellites, had an eerie NASA quality to it all, as if the group were waiting for a fragile capsule to return from the dark side of the moon and report in. Scot realized that there was nothing that could be said at a moment like this. Besides, the general was still in charge and things needed to be kept absolutely quiet so he could work. He had insisted that was the one condition he would not compromise on if he was going to be at the sit room instead of JSOC command when Rapid Return went into action.

The minutes seemed like hours as the SEAL team made their way inland toward the truck. A monitor in the upper-right corner of the room showed a live picture of JSOC command. Harvath’s analogy of a NASA mission hadn’t been far off the mark. JSOC command looked very similar to what he had seen of Mission Control in Texas. JSOC operatives sat at long rows of computer terminals that tiered like amphitheater steps as they rose upward from the many screens covering the wall in front of them. Knowing the military’s penchant for organization, Harvath assumed that the operatives would be grouped according to their skills, such as communications and satellite technology, with the most important operatives being placed in the very back near the top brass.

Each member of the SEAL team wore a special set of wide-view night-vision goggles. Recently developed for Special Operations Forces, the goggles not only improved the soldiers’ field and depth of vision, but also allowed for a small computer screen to be toggled on and off in a preselected part of the goggles. On that screen, a team leader could see whatever any of his men were seeing via the fiber-optic camera attached to the top of the goggles, and it also allowed team members to view any information that their commanders wanted them to see, such as directional maps or the images coming off the Chaperone network.

Harvath stared at the intent faces of the SEALs shown in night-vision green via the cameras of their fellow soldiers sitting across from them in the truck. The detail in the pictures was astounding. The technology Scot had used as an active SEAL had been mind-boggling, but in the short amount of time he had been out, it had morphed to such an advanced degree, he almost couldn’t believe it.

The narrative voice from JSOC command could be heard in the sit room once again, and everyone leaned forward into the table.

“One minute to delivery,” said the voice.

The small picture-in-picture on Chaperone’s screen grew, dwarfing the other as the Rapid Return team entered an area close enough to the objective that everything could be seen on one screen.

Entering a street of decaying buildings flanked by the ever-encroaching desert, the truck slowed. Having used Chaperone to try to scan the immediate area for any potentially hostile targets, JSOC command queried Israeli intelligence as to their ground assets posted at both ends of the street. The word came back all clear, and JSOC hailed the SEAL leader.

“Jonah, this is Ishmael. Time to enter the whale. Over.”

“Enter the whale. Roger. Jonah out,” came the response.

The team leader gave the go command. One by one, the SEALs jumped from the truck, rolled when they hit the ground, and immediately took cover.

Except for the sound of the rapidly receding truck, the street was completely silent. Knowing that police and civil defense patrols were on sporadic and unreliable schedules, the recovery team did a quick check of their equipment and moved out.

Each member of the team had memorized the satellite reconnaissance photos that showed their delivery point, objective, the extraction point, and two backup possibilities that would be used only if needed. Their silenced MP10s at the ready, Rapid Return’s recovery team picked their way through the rubble-strewn alley in front of them and headed east toward their objective.

Advancing cautiously, the team froze sporadically at sounds coming from the windows above. Even though the men were disguised in the robes and headdresses of poor villagers, if any local got a good look at the heavily outfitted assault team, the alarm would surely be raised.

Dangerously close to the objective, the team, as planned, readied to split up. Although the Israelis had cross-trained with the SEALs in the past, General Venrick had insisted they be on-site only for reconnaissance and support if needed. The actual assault would be carried out by Rapid Return’s American recovery team.

“Ishmael, this is Jonah. We are ready to enter the whale. Can you give us a sit rep? Over.”

“Roger, Jonah. Chaperone shows you are all clear.”

Too clear, Harvath thought as he looked at the screen in front of him. If the FRC was hiding the president in this location, it would be much more heavily guarded. Maybe, though, the FRC thought posting guards would attract too much attention. What was odd was that U.S. satellites had been able to show people coming in and out of the FRC building, but had not been able to penetrate to see inside. These mud-and-brick houses were nothing for the NSA’s peekaboo technology, but the target building had been shielded with some sort of protective material, impervious to all the NSA’s gadgetry.

As if reading Harvath’s thoughts, General Venrick spoke into his lip mike. “Jonah, this is the Old Man. Are you in a position to ascertain the nature of the whale’s skin?”

The fact that the satellite hadn’t been able to penetrate the building had bothered Venrick as well.

Speaking quietly into his throat mike, the team leader responded, “Negative. It looks the same as all the others.”

Checking Chaperone one last time, the general responded, “Jonah, you may cast your bread upon the waters. Over.”

“Roger that. Jonah out.”

With a flick of his fingers, the team leader sent two members scurrying around the back of the houses toward the rear of the target building. Two more were sent to the home just adjacent. Moving quickly and using the shadows for cover as much as possible, the remaining four members of the squad headed toward the ugly-crimson-colored door of a house just down the street from the target building.

As arranged by the Israelis, the door was unlocked. Weapons ready, the team entered the house, sweeping the first and then the second floors. Satisfied that it was clean, they carefully made their way to the roof. Slowly, the team leader raised the trapdoor and peered out. Confident there was no immediate danger, he took off his goggles and took a pair of more powerful night-vision binoculars from his pack. From what he could see, everything was quiet. He slid from underneath the hatch and crawled along the roof to its southeast corner.

So as not to give himself away, he balanced his goggles on the parapet wall of the roof and aimed them toward the objective. The team’s second in command toggled to the leader’s vision screen and, not seeing anything in the vicinity of the objective, flashed the leader a thumbs-up.

The man known as Jonah retrieved his goggles, crept forward toward the corner of the roof, and gently raised himself to look over the parapet wall with his binoculars. The objective was perfectly quiet, not even anyone on its roof. These Fatah guys were either very confident or very stupid.

Crawling back to the trapdoor, Jonah put his night-vision goggles back on before signaling the team’s sniper that it was all clear. Squeezing through the tight opening, the muscular and deadly accurate twenty-five-year-old rolled onto the roof and prepped his weapon.

He carried a silenced Walther WA2000 sniping rifle, which fired a.300 Winchester Magnum cartridge. Even without its Leupold night-vision scope and laser range finder, there wasn’t much the sniper couldn’t hit. With the specially designed barrel clamped at the front and rear, the torque from the large bullet wouldn’t lift it away from its intended target. The barrel had also been fluted, further reducing the gun’s vibrations on firing. With its pistol-style grip and customized butt and cheek pads, this weapon would do very nicely if anybody chose to come snooping around while operation Rapid Return was in progress.

Jonah and his two remaining team members were to make the frontal assault. Exiting the house where they’d left their sniper, the men picked their way down the deserted street, breathing a little easier knowing they were under the watchful and protective eyes of one of the best long guns the SEALs had ever trained.

The key elements of the mission were speed, surprise, and overwhelming force. As Jonah and his men neared the target building, all of its shutters were drawn. Adjusting the fine tuning on his goggles, Jonah looked up toward the flat roof and noticed that there were indeed sheets of what looked like lead protruding along the edges, covered with plaster and mud. Confident that the right people back in D.C. had seen what he had and knew what it was, he and his men carefully scanned the perimeter. There were no signs of any intrusion devices, not even dogs.

“Ishmael, this is Jonah,” he whispered, his throat mike perfectly picking up every word. “It is very quiet. Do you detect any motion?”

“Negative, Jonah. You are all clear. Proceed when ready.”

By means of the arched courtyard, two Rapid Return members were able to scale the common wall to reach the adjoining roof next door undetected.

Resisting the urge to make a joke about what a great haircut he could give the two team members who had just climbed upon the roof, the sniper kept his communication to the bare minimum and said into his throat mike, “Alpha, this is Watchdog. I have you in my sights and you are all clear.”

“Affirmative,” responded Alpha’s leader.

Hearing that Alpha was on the next roof, Jonah said into his throat mike, “Alpha, the whale’s skin may be tougher than we thought. Get over and check it out. I want an assessment ASAP.”

“Roger,” came Alpha’s response.

Quietly, the two men picked their way across the roof of the adjoining house, wary of weak spots thanks to a training story of an operative who fell through a roof in Panama.

Jonah and his team members stayed concealed in the shadows just down from the front of the target building as the other team waited behind it.

Finally, Alpha checked back in. “Jonah, this is Alpha. It looks like the roof entry is metal, pretty thick, but the hinges are on the outside. With a little bit of give glue, I think we can breach it.” Give glue referred to the small tubes of specially formulated acid paste that the teams carried with them on missions where doors would need to be breached and hinges couldn’t simply be blown away. Once applied, it ate through almost any type of metal in only a matter of seconds.

“Hold on, Alpha,” said Jonah. “Bravo, are you in position?”

“Roger. Good to go,” came the voice of the Bravo leader.

“Okay then, Alpha. Start the glue, and let us know when you’re ready,” said Jonah.

Creeping beneath the windows of the house, Jonah and his men made their way to the old wooden front door. As he’d figured, it was locked, but it would be nothing for them.

“Watchdog, you got the door in case they don’t like Avon calling?” asked Jonah.

“Knock, knock, motherfucker. Just like when we did Qaddafi. I’ve gotcha covered,” replied Watchdog.

“Alpha, how are we doing?”

“Almost there.”

“Good, listen up. Just like we planned. Fast and furious. Flash bangs first. Does everyone copy?”

“Bravo. Roger.”

“Alpha. Roger…And it looks like we are ready to crash the party. On your command, Jonah. Over.”

The men in the sit room held their breath.

“Okay. On my command. Firemen, take your positions. Pitchers, ready your flash bangs. We go in five…four…three…two…one. Now!”

In sync, Jonah’s men breached their respective entry points, tossed in their flash bangs, and quickly followed once the concussions had detonated.

What Rapid Return’s recovery team never had a chance to see was the white-hot blaze that moments later appeared on Chaperone’s screen as the entire street, and the house they had entered, were reduced to dust. The SEALs, including their sniper, never saw it coming.