Dead or Alive (23 page)

“You think the Swedes would—”

“No, not intentionally, but who knows who they’re talking to.” Though Clark thought it unlikely, he couldn’t discount the possibility of the Libyans throwing a wrench into the works: The Americans came here, failed in their mission, and now people are dead. A publicity coup for the colonel.

It had been nearly twenty-four hours since the embassy had been stormed, and still no sign of life from inside. Clark had chosen 0215 as their go-time, reasoning that the terrorists were likely assuming any assault would come with nightfall. Clark was hoping the delay would cause them to relax, even if only a bit. Plus, statistically, the hours between two and four in the morning were when the human mind starts to lose its edge—especially human minds that have been saddled with the twin demons of stress and uncertainty for the past twenty-eight hours.

 

 

 

A
t 0130 hours Clark told Johnston and Loiselle to get ready, then gave the nod to Richards, who in turn gave it to Lieutenant Masudi. Five minutes and an extended walkie-talkie discussion later, the Libyan reported back: the perimeter guards were ready. Clark didn’t want some nervous grunt taking a pot-shot at his snipers as they moved into position. Similarly, he had Stanley and Chavez on the binoculars, keeping a close watch. However unlikely, there was always the possibility that someone—a sympathizer or just some asshole private who hated Americans—might try to signal the terrorists that the game was about to start. If this happened, there wouldn’t be much Clark could do except recall Johnston and Loiselle and try again later.

With Johnston and Loiselle geared up, M110s draped across their shoulders, Clark waited five minutes, then whispered to Stanley and Chavez, “How’re we doing?”

“No change,” Ding reported. “Some walkie-talkie action, but that’s probably the word getting passed.”

At 0140 Clark turned to Johnston and Loiselle and nodded. The two snipers slipped out the door and disappeared into the darkness. Clark donned his headset.

Five minutes passed. Ten minutes.

Over the radio came Loiselle’s voice: “Omega One, in position.” Followed ten seconds later by Johnston: “Omega Two, in position.”

“Roger,” Clark replied, checking his watch. “Stand by. Assault teams moving in ten.”

He could hear a pair of “Roger” double-clicks in reply.

“Alistair . . . Ding?”

“No movement. All quiet.”

“Same here, boss.”

“Okay, get ready.”

At this, Chavez handed his binoculars to Clark and joined his team at the door. Weber and his team, who were tasked with the ground-floor breach on the front/west corner wall, had farther to go to get into position, so they would go first, followed four minutes later by Chavez and his shooters.

Clark scanned the embassy compound one more time, looking for movement, changes—anything that didn’t pass his k-check, or kinesthetic check. Do this kind of thing long enough, he’d learned, and you develop something akin to a sixth sense. Does it feel right? Any nagging voices in the back of your head? Any unchecked boxes or overlooked details? Clark had seen too many otherwise good operators ignore the k-check—more often than not to their detriment.

Clark lowered his binoculars and turned to his teams, poised in the doorway. “Go,” he whispered.

C
HAVEZ WAITED the requisite four minutes, then led his team down the steps and to the head of the alley. As Clark had requested, the Libyans had turned off the streetlights for a block around the embassy, something they all hoped the bad guys wouldn’t notice, since the compound’s pole lights were still on and pointing inward. Also by request, a trio of Army trucks had been parked single file down the middle of the street between the command-post apartment and the east side of the compound.

Using hand signals, he sent each man down the sidewalk, using the shadows and the trucks as cover until they reached the next alley, where a line of hedges ran in front of the next building, a private medical practice, Ding had been told, cleared of civilians earlier that day.

Once the team was safely behind the hedges, he followed at a walking pace, half hunched over, MP5 at ready-low, his eyes scanning ahead and to the right and over the top of the embassy compound’s wall. No movement.
Good. Nothing to see here, tango.

Chavez reached the hedges and stopped in a crouch. Over his headset he heard Weber’s voice: “Command, Red Actual, over.”

“Go, Red Actual.”

“In position. Setting up Gatecrasher.”

Chavez half wished he had Weber’s job. Though he’d used Rainbow’s newest toy in training, he’d yet to see it in live action.

Developed by Alford Technologies in Great Britain, the Gatecrasher—which Loiselle had dubbed the “magic door maker”—reminded Ding of one of those tall, rounded rectangular shields the Spartans carried in
300,
but a more accurate analogy would be that of a quarter-scale rubber raft. Instead of air in the outside ring of tubes, there was water, and opposite them, on the hollow side of the Gatecrasher, a sunken strip into which strands of PETN detonator cord were packed. The det cord, backed by the water jacket, created what was known as a tamping effect, essentially turning the det cord into a shaped charge—a focused explosive cutting ring that could cut through a foot and a half of solid brick.

The Gatecrasher addressed a number of issues that had long plagued special operators and hostage rescue teams: one, booby-trapped entry points, and two, the “fatal funnel.” Terrorists, knowing the good guys had to come through either doors or windows, often rigged them with explosives—as they did during the Breslan school massacre in Russia—and/or concentrated their firepower and attention on likely entry points.

With the Gatecrasher, Weber and his team would be through the front west wall of the building about three seconds after detonation.

“Roger,” Clark replied to Weber. “Blue Actual?”

“Three minutes to wall,” Chavez reported.

He scanned the compound one last time through his night vision, saw nothing, then moved out.

F
or getting over the wall, they’d chosen a decidedly low-tech method: a four-foot stepladder and a Kevlar flak jacket. Among the many axioms special operators lived by, KISS was one of the most important: Keep it simple, stupid. Don’t over-think a simple problem, or as Clark often put it, “You don’t use a shotgun on a cockroach.” In this case, the stepladder would get them level with the top of the wall; the flak jacket, draped over the glass shards jutting from the top of the wall, would keep Chavez and his team from losing some fluid while going over.

Chavez slipped out from behind the hedges, dashed to the wall, crouched down. He keyed his headset: “Command, Blue Actual. At the wall.”

“Roger.” Stanley’s voice.

A few seconds later a red laser dot appeared on the wall three feet to Chavez’s right. Having already mapped out the surveillance camera’s blind spots, Alistair was using his MK23’s LAM to show Ding the way.

Chavez sidestepped until the laser dot was resting on his chest. The dot disappeared. He quickly and quietly set up the ladder, then gave the
move up
signal to the rest of his team.

Showalter went first. Chavez handed him the flak jacket, and he mounted the ladder. Ten seconds later he was up, over, and out of sight. One by one, the rest of the team followed suit until it was Ding’s turn.

Once on the other side, he found himself standing on a plush green lawn bordered by hibiscus bushes.
The Swedes’ monthly sprinkler bills must be a bitch,
he thought absently. To his right lay the front of the building, and directly ahead, twenty feet away, the east wall. Showalter and Bianco had taken up over-watch at each corner of the building. Ybarra sat crouched beneath the balcony. Ding started toward him.

“Hold.” Loiselle’s voice. “Movement, south side.”

Ding froze.

Ten seconds later. “Clear. Just a cat.”

Chavez crossed over to Ybarra, slung his MP5, then climbed on the stout Spaniard’s back. The balcony’s lowermost rail was just beyond finger reach. Chavez stretched. Ybarra steadied himself and stood a little straighter. Chavez caught the railing, first with his right hand, then with his left, then chinned himself up. Five seconds later he was crouched on the balcony. He un-clipped a section of knotted rope from his harness, clipped the D ring to the rope railing, and dropped the end over the side.

He turned to face the door. Like the windows, it was shuttered and, of course, locked. Behind him he heard a faint creaking as Ybarra came over the railing, then felt an “I’m here” pat on his shoulder.

Chavez keyed his headset. “Command, Blue Actual, at the door.”

“Roger.”

Ding pulled the flexi-cam from his right-thigh cargo pocket, linked it to his goggles, then slipped the lens beneath the door, slowly, gently, going almost as much by touch as he was by sight. Like everything they did, each Rainbow member had trained and retrained, then trained some more, with every tool in their arsenal, the flexi-cam included. If the door was wired, Chavez was just as likely to feel it as he was to see it.

He scanned first the bottom threshold, then, finding nothing, he moved on to the hinges before finishing with the doorknob and striker plate. Clear. There was nothing. He withdrew the cam. Behind him, Showalter and Bianco had made it over the railing. Ding pointed at Bianco, then at the doorknob. The Italian nodded and went to work with his pick set. Thirty seconds later the lock snicked open.

Using hand signals, Ding gave them final instructions: He and Bianco would take point and clear the rooms on the right; Showalter and Ybarra the left.

Ding gently turned the knob, opened the door a crack. He waited for ten beats, then swung the door open another foot and peeked his head through. The hall was clear. Three doors, two on the right, one on the left. In the distance he heard murmured voices, then silence. A sneeze. He withdrew his head and swung the door open all the way, letting Showalter catch it and hold it.