“Falcon 3, this is Falcon 4, target identified: eight hundred meters, zero-eight-five degrees. Over.”
“Good copy, 4. We are seventy-five meters off your port side, confirm eyes on the objective.”
We had been flying blacked out at 150 knots since Tristan’s two modified OH-6 helicopters had picked us up on the beach at Sconset. We’d radioed ahead to let them know the latest plan.
“Falcon 3, this is Falcon 4, one minute. Over.”
“Roger, Falcon 4, I copy one minute. See anything?”
I’ll admit it was a dumb question. I’d known our pilot in Falcon 4, Tommy Lopez, for ten years and knew he would never shortcut any detail of a mission. He was as good as they come.
“Besides the really bright white lights inside the cabin of the really big fucking boat we are about to take down? Is that the sort ofanythingyou mean, clown face?”
I laughed out loud. Even in the midst of a dangerous operation, Lopez was cool as ice.
One boat heading south and the other heading north. Both appeared to be about 150 to 175 feet in length, with access to the interior of each craft possible from the bow and most likely from the upper deck astern.
Tommy and his crew had planned our approach to the southbound yacht down to the second. In sixty of them, we would be sliding down fast ropes both forward and aft of the yacht in hopes of finding Senator Harrison—and, with any luck, Special Agent Rowan Anderson. Chances were fifty-fifty that we’d picked the right boat.
I had only four from Team Rhino to play with, so I’d put Oliver, Meg, and JP on Falcon 3 to clear from stern to bow. Wolf and I would rope onto the bow from Falcon 4 and rush the cockpit, stopping the boat and controlling the operation from there. Oliver, Meg, and JP would search and attack until they found Harrison—or anyone with guns.
Simultaneous insertion would be the key to success. It would enable us to maximize our firepower by putting five rifles on the ship at practically the same moment. The one thing I was confident about was our fire discipline: With all the unknowns in this harebrained scheme, I knew we could converge from opposite ends of the target at pretty much a full sprint and not shoot each other.
The modified OH-6s would hover overhead, shining their searchlights directly into the cockpit and covering us with the helos’ MP5s. Not the most lethal protection, perhaps, but with surprise and speed on our side I figured we could get a jump on any bad guys who opted to fight.
We’d devised the master plan by hand-drawing the outline of the yacht on my living room wall and studying the crude schematic. Oliver gave a little color commentary based on some previous operations he had pulled. We could plan on there being at least two decks to clear from the stern down into the main cabin, while the cockpit would have a couple of breaching points from either side of the ship. Basically, we would make it up as we went.
“Falcon 3, ten seconds, I’m gonna hit the lights. Stand by.”
Showtime.With one hand, Tommy and his copilot lifted their night-vision goggles and hit the cockpit of the yacht with the 1,600-watt xenon short-arc lamp at almost forty million candlepower.
Night instantly became day. I could neither see nor hear Falcon 3 as we maneuvered into our assault position, but I could feel the sense of panic radiating from our target.
Falcon 3 hit the insertion about two seconds before us. With zero hesitation, Oliver tossed the fast rope and led the assault. Within another five seconds, Meg and JP were on a knee with weapons up, scanning the deck for signs of movement.
No need to toss the fast ropes from Falcon 4. Tommy was able to bring us to a hover about three feet above the deck of the bow. I gave him a thumbs-up, double-checked where I’d land, unhooked my tether, and jumped.
“Rhino 3, this is Rhino 1. We are on the deck and moving toward your position. Over.” Oliver nodded to JP and the hunt began.
“Rhino 3, this is Rhino 1—how copy? Over,” Oliver said again.
I fumbled for the radio call button. “Roger, good copy.”
Although the 160-foot Benetti yacht was rolling slightly withthe ocean swells, I made a solid insertion. I was counting on my trusty pair of Adidas GSG-9 assault boots for traction. But as soon as my boots hit the wet deck, the combination of gravity, choppy waves, and slippery conditions knocked me down.
“You okay, Tinkerbell?” Wolf asked. I was on my ass and Wolf thought it was funny.
“Fuck you, Wolf.” I wasn’t quite seeing stars, but I would surely have a monster headache tomorrow.
Tommy Lopez continued to train the helicopter’s powerful searchlight on the cabin. The tactic was effective against whoever was driving because the yacht’s forward motion stopped, almost on a dime.
The sleek Italian design allowed us to run directly up the slight incline of the bow toward the cockpit. Wolf broke left and I ran to the right. I saw two people inside the cockpit but no weapons.
“Bang it!” I called over the radio.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Wolf with a flash-bang grenade in his left hand and his Colt 1911 in his right. He had decided to use his secondary weapon during the breach of the cockpit.
By the time he said “Roger,” I was already outside the cockpit with my own flash-bang in hand.
