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Out of breath but not the least bit embarrassed by it, Coleman asked, “What’s the sit rep?”
Wicker remained motionless as he peered through the powerful binoculars. “I did a quick check of the perimeter, and it looks like we’re alone.”
“Any sign of Mitch?”
“No, but we’ve got a Huey down there with a pair of hot engines, and a very nervous colonel standing outside of General Moro’s tent.”
Coleman frowned. “How in the hell do you know it’s Moro’s tent?”
“Because someone was dumb enough to hang a sign with his name and rank on it.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
“Nope. Have a look for yourself.” Wicker handed Coleman the binoculars and nestled in behind his high-powered rifle scope.
The former SEAL commander did a quick check of the camp and announced, “Well, if that isn’t one of the stupidest things I’ve ever seen.”
Wicker silently concurred while he used his scope to check out several likely spots where an enemy sniper might be lying in wait. He was a cautious man by nature, but he was also extremely confident in his skills.
This Philippine Special Forces group didn’t appear to be a crack outfit. From the sign hanging on the general’s tent, to the lack of perimeter security, it looked like a truly sloppy operation. The odds that they’d deployed a counter-sniper team seemed unlikely. Even more in his favor, though, was the distance of the shot that he was to take. There were only a handful of men in the world who could execute a head shot at this distance. If there was a counter-sniper team about they would be focusing on a perimeter of 500 meters, give or take 100 meters. Wicker was well outside that range. Even so, he was breaking many of his own rules.
They’d arrived while the sun was up, and he’d slithered into position without donning his ghillie sniper suit. Covered with netting and burlap strips in various shades of green the sniper suit allowed him to disappear into the terrain. If given proper time, he would have added the natural vegetation of his surroundings to the suit, ultimately making him invisible to even the most well-trained pair of eyes.
“What do you think?” asked Coleman.
“I think these guys aren’t real worried about being attacked.”
Next came the important question. “Can you make the shot?”
Wicker brought the crosshairs of his scope back to the general’s tent and centered them on the colonel’s head. Moving his eye away from the glass aperture, he looked to the east at the rising sun. The horizon was ablaze with a brilliant bank of storm clouds. For now the weather was acceptable. There was no wind yet, but that would undoubtedly change as the front approached.
Wicker eased his left eye back behind the scope and said, “Tell him I can handle it.”
Coleman, who was still breathing heavily, marveled at the sniper’s calm demeanor. After retrieving the satellite phone from one of his thigh pockets, he punched in a number and waited.
28
The director general of Mossad leaned forward and stared intently at one of the large screens. It showed a section of one of the nastiest neighborhoods in all of Israel. The analyst to Freidman’s right spoke in hushed tones.
“Look at the roadblocks.” With a laser pointer, the man marked the three avenues of access to the hillside neighborhood. “And look at the four men on this rooftop right here.” He circled the roof of the building in red light.
“Lookouts?” questioned Freidman.
“That and probably more.” The man said something into his headset and the rooftop was magnified. “I’m ninety percent sure two of those men are carrying RPGs.”
Freidman looked at the grainy black, green and white image. It was being shot from the underbelly of a customized DHC-7 four-engine turboprop. Part of an aid package from the United States, the plane was outfitted with the Highly Integrated Surveillance and Reconnaissance System, or HISAR. The plane was designed to provide both image and signal intelligence in real time.
The men on the rooftop with rocket-propelled grenades were not unexpected. Since the Black Hawk Down incident in Somalia back in 1993 every terrorist in the Middle East had realized how easy it was to shoot down a hovering helicopter. For this, and several other reasons, Freidman had ruled out sending in a team of commandos. There were other, less
risky ways to handle the job.
Freidman shifted his glance to one of the other large screens. It gave a broader picture of Hebron. In the center of it a laser dot marked the roof of a sedan that was speeding through the streets. With each passing moment the tiny car worked its way closer to the hillside neighborhood that they’d already identified. It looked like things were going to work.
Suddenly, the sedan stopped at a roadblock that had gone unnoticed. The man on Freidman’s right spoke into his headset and almost immediately the airborne low-light camera zoomed in on the roadblock. The room watched tensely as several people got out of the car. One of them walked to the rear of the sedan and placed two objects on the trunk. Others gathered around.
“Give me full magnification on the trunk of that car,” barked Freidman.
Several tense seconds passed and then they were treated to a welcome sight. It looked like the two attaché cases were still in play. Freidman watched as they were closed. He muttered something unintelligible to himself and blinked several times.
