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Once again, with a full view of the bridge, he found the man he was looking for. The man had flipped his NVGs into the up position and was talking in Filipino to the two men on the far side of the bridge. He pointed in the opposite direction from which he’d come and the two men immediately took off down the trail. The man with the M16 then pulled his goggles back down and began scanning the area. Coleman smoothly drew back behind the tree. The wisest thing for them to do right now was to sit tight. It was better to lie still than risk attracting attention.
Running down the list of possibilities, Coleman wondered if their insertion had been noticed and the guerrillas were attempting to set up a picket. If more men arrived and they began working their way down the stream it would be a foregone conclusion.
Thinking ahead, the commander began to plot an ambush. If they had to, they could do it on the fly.
Coleman would leave Wicker where he was and the commander and Hackett would collapse to the middle. They’d let the enemy work their way down the stream far enough until they were fully flanked by his position and then they’d unload with Stroble and Wicker working their way from the outside in and he and Hackett the inside out. It would not be difficult for them to take down at least twelve men before a warning shot was fired.
Coleman was about to fall back when he felt Wicker tightly squeeze his arm and not let go. Looking over, Coleman saw that his point man was looking at the bridge from the other side of the tree. Slowly Coleman peeked out from behind the right side. He blinked twice in disbelief. It took him a moment to process what was happening on the small bridge and another moment to realize that his finger had moved off the guard and onto the thin trigger of his MP-10.
22
Coleman watched in disbelief as five Caucasians, two adults and three children, passed before him like a dream in the mist, their blond and red hair a stark contrast to the black hair of the armed men who walked with them. They were tied to each other, a sagging link of rope in between each frail, malnourished individual. The mom in front, two kids in the middle and the dad slowly bringing up the rear carrying the youngest of the brood. They looked ragged and underfed, but alive. The column moved across the bridge and down the trail. A rear guard loitered for a few seconds, then wandered off lazily after the group. And just like that, they were gone.
Coleman, who had just moments before cursed their bad luck, was now rejoicing in their fortune. In the midst of a jungle, in the middle of the Philippines, they had just stumbled across a family of Americans for whom thousands of men and women had been searching. Getting into position to support Rapp’s mission was his priority, but this was an opportunity that he might not be able to resist.
Wicker leaned over and whispered in his ear. “I counted twenty-one plus the family.”
Coleman nodded and then pointed for Wicker to move forward and check things out. With his hand cupped over his lip mike he said, “Kevin and Dan, get up here.”
A minute later they were gathered near the bridge. The sky was getting lighter by the minute. While Coleman briefed Hackett and Stroble on what they’d seen, Wicker checked out the path to make sure no one was lagging behind or doubling back. When the point man returned Coleman quickly laid out their options. All four men looked to the top of the mountain where they were supposed to be by the time the sun was up, and then looked down the narrow muddy path where the family of kidnapped Americans and their captors had gone.
More than probably any other military outfit, SEALs were taught to think independently in the field, but none of them were prepared for this. They had a mission to fulfill and Coleman wasn’t about to leave Rapp to carry on alone, but he sure as hell didn’t like the idea of losing the Andersons. His loyalty and respect for Rapp and the SEALs who had been abandoned on the beach was unquestionable, but so was the innocence of the American family held against their will for months on end. Strict protocol dictated that he get his team to the top of the hill as quickly as possible and radio in the sighting of the Andersons. Common sense told him that this accidental sighting of the missing family was too good an opportunity to pass up.
Satellites and reconnaissance flights were incapable of penetrating the dense cover of the jungle, making any hope of searching for the Andersons by air hopeless. If Coleman radioed in their position it would take a day or more to insert a team. By that time the trail was sure to go cold.
Looking again to the top of the hill and then down the trail, Coleman continued to struggle with what to do. The answer suddenly came to him in the form of a question. What would Rapp do? The answer was obvious. The solution was less than perfect, but under the current situation, the best choice. The former SEAL Team commander gestured for his men to take a knee and then very specifically he laid out a course of action.
23
They had traveled north to Ramallah and then to Nablus, changing vehicles in each city. This was standard procedure. Both cities lay on the West Bank, and despite Israeli control, there were certain enclaves in each that the Jews would not venture into unless they were in an armored column spearheaded by tanks.
David hadn’t a clue as to when or where the meeting would take place, only that it would definitely be after dark. Heading north could merely be a diversion before they reversed course, or they might simply meander through one city or the other until they were convinced they weren’t being followed and then stop at the appointed place.
As darkness began to fall they pulled into a parking ramp. David was swiftly ushered from the yellow Palestinian taxi he’d been riding in to a white Israeli taxi parked next to it. David was asked to lie down on the backseat and a blanket was placed over him. The transfer complete, they sped from the ramp and began winding their way through the streets of Nablus.
Approximately twenty minutes later they stopped. The blanket was pulled from David and once again he was told to get out of the car. For a second time he found himself standing in a dimly lit concrete parking garage. He hadn’t the slightest idea where he was other than somewhere on the West Bank.
Across the aisle, three men were standing by the trunk of a car smoking cigarettes. Two of them had machine guns slung over their shoulders and the third one David recognized instantly. His name was Hassan Rashid. He worked for Palestinian General Intelligence, which was the official intelligence organization of the Palestinian Authority. The agency was supposed to help combat terrorism and work toward a lasting stable relationship with Israel, but as with everything connected to the PLO it was rotten to the core.
Hassan Rashid was a street thug who had been a disciple of Yasser Arafat’s since childhood. He’d grown up in Nablus and became very active during the first Intifada of 1987, but not in the way one would expect. As the conflict grew more violent Arafat saw an opportunity to consolidate his power, and he broke with the Palestinian extremist groups by calling for a Palestinian state to coexist alongside Israel.
This was Arafat’s first real gambit to gain respect from the international community. It presented a real risk, however, since it was outright blasphemy for an Arab to want anything other than the complete destruction of the Jewish state. Because of Arafat’s bold move the various groups under the loosely allied Palestinian United National Command splintered. Islamic Jihad and Hamas turned on Arafat and the blood began to flow. Rashid, who had one real talent in life, helped protect the PLO’s standing in Nablus by brutalizing any and all Islamic extremists who stood against Arafat.
It took great effort on David’s part to conceal his hatred for the man. As he stood with his two attaché cases, he watched Rashid flick his cigarette through the air. It hit the ground and cartwheeled toward him, the burning tip breaking apart and showering his feet with red sparks. David looked up slowly from his shoes. Rashid was looking back with a smug look on his scarred face. His longish hooked nose was pulled farther to the side by the lopsided smirk on his lips.
“Well, pretty one, what have you brought for us this evening?”
David decided not to reply. He had risen to untouchable heights, and if Rashid persisted in his schoolyard bullying, he would have to remind him of his place.
Rashid started toward him. “Come now, you’re still not mad at me after all these years?”
“No,” David feigned sincerity, “I love you like a brother.”
“Oh, come now, pretty one. We all know you liked it.”
“Oh, I loved it. In fact, maybe we could get together sometime and I’ll shove a cattle prod up your anus. Knowing your affinity for little boys, I’m amazed you haven’t already tried it.” As David said this he saw the smile vanish from Rashid’s face.
The man raised his right fist, and from two steps away began to let loose an emotional roundhouse punch. Taking David for an easy, defenseless target, h
