Executive Power (21 page)

C
oleman 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.

R
app was relieved to see Coleman. He wasn't crazy about jungles. They were great for concealment, but that went both ways. Behind every tree and bush loomed the threat of death. Moving through a jungle, even in the best of conditions, was physically draining. The humidity, the bugs and the heat all took their toll, but that wasn't the nastiest part. It was the manifestation of paranoia that really wore you down. The psychological toll it took on your nerves was far greater than the way the heat and humidity sapped your strength. The constant threat of ambush or booby trap meant that every single footfall on the path was taken with trepidation. Every bush and tree potentially concealed an enemy waiting to cut you down.

Throughout the two-hour march from the beach Rapp took comfort in the fact that Coleman kept reporting that the enemy appeared to be sitting the storm out. Hopefully, any of the MILF guerrillas on the island were doing the same. An ambush was unlikely, but a booby trap was still a real possibility.

They'd stopped twice for brief breaks so Jackson could get a head count and check in with Coleman. The storm seemed to gain strength as they made their way inland. Both Rapp and Jackson understood what this could mean, and they'd already discussed it with Captain Forester. Back on the bridge of the
Belleau Wood
Forester had a much better handle on the big picture.

Gale-force winds were now buffeting the flattop with speeds hitting forty miles per hour. And that wasn't the end of it. The ship's meteorologist was giving even odds that the front might turn into a full-blown tropical storm with winds hitting seventy-plus miles per hour. With the increased threat the amphibious group was now steaming toward Surigao Strait and the relative protection of the leeward side of the island. The weather had been an asset until now, but it could quickly become a hindrance to a very important part of the operation.

Jackson's men were spread out in a defensive perimeter around Coleman's position. Radio silence was to be strictly obeyed unless there was something important to report. This had nothing to do with a fear of their conversations being intercepted. Neither Abu Sayyaf, MILF or the Philippine army had the technology to decipher their transmissions. Radio silence was simply standard operational procedure so the commanders could concentrate on the task at hand and keep the airwaves open.

Brief introductions were made. Rapp had already brought Jackson up to speed on Coleman's distinguished Special Forces career, and Coleman was still connected enough to the teams that he personally knew all of Jackson's commanders.

“To start things off,” said Rapp, looking mostly at Jackson, “I want to establish the chain of command.” Glancing at Coleman, he continued, “Scott, you're running the show. No offense, Lieutenant, but he has more experience with this type of stuff than you.”

“No offense taken,” Jackson replied with sincerity. He was not so dumb as to think he was going to give orders to the former CO of SEAL Team 6, retired or not.

Wicker was brought in on the discussion to try to give them the best picture of what they were up against, and then the four men headed off through the soaked jungle to get a firsthand look at the enemy encampment. Coleman alerted Hackett and Stroble to expect visitors. A short while later four rain-soaked figures slithered on their bellies into a position just abreast of the other two men. It was now so dark that the recesses of the camp could only be seen with the aid of night vision devices.

Rapp placed a wet eyebrow up against the rubber cup of his gun scope. He was treated with a picture of the camp illuminated in shades of green, gray and black. It was pretty much what he'd expected from listening to Coleman's reports: four ramshackle lean-tos and two large tents. Faint light shone from under the bottom of both tents and the lean-tos were lit with lanterns. From their position Rapp could see directly into two of the lean-tos. He counted eight terrorists in one structure and nine in the other.

Taking his eye off the scope, Rapp asked, “Which hut has the hostages in it?”

Coleman was wearing a pair of night vision goggles with a single protruding lens, the type that made the wearer look like an insect. “The one on the right.”

“Anyone in there with them?”

“There was.” Without looking away from the village, Coleman asked Hackett, who was lying next to him, “Kevin, how many tangos are in the tent with the family?”

Whispering, he replied, “Eight at last count.”

Coleman relayed the number to Rapp, who estimated the size of the hut and then tried to imagine how the people would be laid out inside. “Is the total enemy count still at sixty?”

“Give or take a couple,” replied Coleman.

Rapp looked at the two tents and four huts. If the numbers were right, he'd accounted for twenty-five of the sixty terrorists. That left roughly thirty-five others divvied up between the other tent and two lean-tos. Fortunately, it appeared those three structures could be assaulted without the hostages being caught in a cross fire.

“What are you thinking, Scott?”

Coleman took a while to answer. He'd been thinking about his strategy all day. “We send two four-man teams around each side of the camp. They take out the lean-tos while a four-man team takes out the one tent and a five-man team handles the rescue.”

Rapp ran the numbers. “That leaves a cover force of only five.”

“We could increase the cover force if you want to just lob grenades into the other structures, but my guess is you won't like that.”

Rapp frowned. He instinctively disliked anything that made too much noise. “It might attract some unwanted attention.”

“Shit,” answered the young lieutenant on Rapp's other side. “Who's going to hear it on a night like this? Besides, we're going to have to blow some trees to clear a landing area for the choppers.”

This was a part of the plan that Rapp had never much liked. There was a small clearing about a quarter mile from where they were that was to be used as their extraction point. In order to make it big enough for a CH-53 Sea Stallion to land they would have to enlarge the landing area by attaching explosives to at least a half-dozen trees and shearing them off. It was sure to attract some attention, storm or no storm.

“I'd prefer to avoid the grenades if possible.”

Coleman flipped his goggles into the up position and looked at Rapp. “Then we stick with a five-man cover force.” Rapp still seemed not entirely enamored with the plan. “Trust me on this. We'll use one of the SAWs to hit the big tent and take the other two and set them up for cover. In addition to that I'll be up here with Kevin and Slick Wicker. They've already got their line of fire figured and the camp divided into three sectors. If anything pops up they'll take care of it before you even know it's a problem.”

The SAW Coleman was referring to was the M249 Squad Automatic Weapon. A light machine gun, the SAW was capable of firing up to 700 rounds per minute and in the hands of a trained operator the weapon could lay down a withering amount of suppressive fire.

Rapp nodded. “You know more about this stuff than I do.”

Flashing his teeth behind his painted face, Coleman smiled and said, “Yeah, you're a real Girl Scout. Let me take one guess where you're going to be during all this.”

Rapp allowed himself a small smile. Coleman knew him well. “Let's get back to picking your plan apart for a minute.”

“Nope. Not until you tell me what you've got planned for yourself.”

“You know where I'm gonna be. Someone has to go in there and check things out before we hit the tent.”

“Aren't you married now?” asked Coleman in a smart-ass tone.

Rapp ignored him. Coleman knew the answer. “Let's get back to the CP and put the finishing touches on this thing before this storm gets any worse.”