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When the guy finished his business and let the flap of the tent close there was a collective sigh of relief. The fording continued and before long all of the men were across and in position to move should Rapp be discovered.
Sitting atop the slight ridge just 200 feet from the village, Coleman had an unobstructed view. He’d watched intently as Rapp and then the others crossed the rushing stream. Both flanking elements were not visible as they worked their way through the jungle. Wicker had already scouted that terrain and reported that it was free of booby traps. When each element was ready Coleman spoke to Rapp.
“Mitch, when you’re ready, go sneak a quick peek and then get out of there. Lieutenant, have your conga line ready.” The conga line Coleman was referring to was an entry technique the SEALs used. The men lined up as if dancing the conga and then entered the structure, every other man peeling off and responsible for clearing a given area within the room. It was a tried-and-true technique used by all hostage rescue teams.
Whispering into his mike, Rapp let Coleman know he was going in. Crawling through the grass he inched his way forward toward the tent. Now out in the relative open, protected only by darkness and rain, he moved quickly. Across a muddy path and then up a slight slope of shorter grass, he was careful to keep the barrel of his weapon clear. Less than ten feet from the tent now, he began to hear voices. He continued toward the far side of the tent where the Andersons were most likely situated. He was now within the stakes.
Carefully, he crept up to the edge of the tent. A thin sliver of light spilled out from under the green canvas where it floated just above the wet ground. Rapp made no effort to look under the side at first. Instead, he repositioned himself so he was lying in the right direction and listened to the voices.
Over the din of the rain pelting his hat, the tent and the ground, he could barely make out the voices of men speaking Filipino. Rapp crawled toward the other end of the tent and the voices grew louder. He also saw shadows cast from the interior down along the gap at the bottom. Satisfied that they’d guessed right, he scooted backward through the grass and mud to the other end.
Before looking under the side of the tent, Rapp stared momentarily at his suppressed MP-5 with its night vision scope and long thirty-round magazine extending from the underside. If he had to shoot, the weapon might be difficult to bring up under the side of the tent. Rapp laid the weapon down on the ground in front of him and reached for his silenced 9mm Beretta. After quietly drawing it from his thigh holster, he held the weapon lightly in his left hand. Unlike the movies, there was no need to chamber a round, take the weapon off safety and cock it. Rapp operated with his weapons hot at all times.
He listened for another moment, but gleaned nothing further. If the hostages were inside they weren’t making any noise. Cupping his hands over his lip mike he whispered, “I’m going to sneak a peek. Be ready to move.”
Twisting onto his back he positioned himself so he could look under the side by pulling the bottom up slightly with his right hand, leaving his left hand free if he needed it. Laying his head almost on the ground he took a look. He was rewarded with nothing more than the sight of the rotten wood boards that served as a floor for the tent.
Cautiously he lifted the side of the tent. Only an inch at first, though he was confident that the wind and rain would conceal any noise that he made. Rewarded with an up-close look at a dirty foot, he paused, not knowing if it belonged to a Filipino or an American. Raising the side another inch, and pulling it out slightly, he saw part of a hairless calf encrusted in mud and bug bites and a separate foot that was so small it could have belonged only to a child.
Rapp’s spirits instantly rose and he pulled back the bottom of the tent a little farther. As in the other tents, a single lantern hung from the ceiling. In the dim light he spied two of the children and the back of the mother, their red hair making them instantly recognizable. Rapp continued to scan for the father and the other child. Knowing exactly where everyone was would allow them to execute a clean takedown.
Rapp thought he could make out part of the father’s leg on the far side of the tent. Pulling on the side a little more he lifted his head to try to get a better angle. Suddenly he was met with a pair of wide eyes, and that was when it happened.
40
Coleman watched everything from his perch. Even in the relatively warm air, he was chilled. He ignored the physical signs that he needed to find a dry, warm place. His body had been through worse. Even at his age, he knew he could tolerate quite a bit more.
Silently, he urged Rapp to hurry. It was important that they verify the position of the Andersons, but it was not imperative. He’d never gotten used to the anxiety that went along with these types of operations. That was probably a good thing, but one would think that after all the operations he’d been part of, it would get a little easier.
Looking through the scope of his M4 ca
rbine, he watched Rapp draw his pistol and then roll onto his side. Then he heard Rapp’s voice warn everybody to be ready. Coleman kept the scope on Rapp. His finger was nowhere near the trigger. If things got hot, his eyes and commands were more important than his shooting skills. That was unless they were routed into a full retreat. In Coleman’s mind that wasn’t even a possibility. Not with surprise on their side and the skill of the shooters he’d deployed.
As someone who had often commanded men in battle, Coleman had a real feel for when things weren’t going well, and conversely, when they were. So far all seemed to be going very well.
That sentiment instantly died when a scream came clamoring over his earpiece. Coleman instinctively winced at the sound of something so ominous and unwanted. Before he had a chance to find out what was going on, Rapp began shouting orders over the net.
Rapp saw the look of fear begin to form on the face of the young redheaded girl cradled in her mother’s arms. In an effort to forestall the inevitable, Rapp smiled at the girl and mouthed the words, it’s okay. It was about this time that he remembered his face was smeared with green, black and brown paint. He could smile at this young child all he wanted, but it wouldn’t change the fact that he looked like a monster coming to get her and her family.
As soon as the little mouth started to open, Rapp knew what would follow. He hesitated for only a fraction of a second and then brought his gun up just as the girl let loose a bloodcurdling shriek. A subsonic 9mm round spat from the end of the silencer striking the nearest kidnapper in the side of the head, instantly dropping him into the lap of the man who was sitting next to him. The terrorists were sitting around a rickety table, and for the briefest of moments they froze.
With a tone of urgency, but not panic, Rapp shouted the Go word over and over into his lip mike, as he moved from one target to the next. His gun moved as an extension of his arm, efficiently seeking out targets, sweeping from left to right. The pistol carried sixteen rounds, one in the chamber and fifteen in the grip. Each depleted round registered in his mind as its brass casing was ejected.
He got off three clean head shots before the tent became so filled with terrorists diving and lurching every which way that he had to resort to aiming for chests and backs. One of the men got hold of his weapon and Rapp shot him in the shoulder, sending him sprawling and the gun clattering to the floor.
Remembering Jackson and his men, Rapp yelled, “Spray down the right side of the tent! The hostages are all down by me!” The last thing he wanted was to hit one of them with a stray bullet as they came through the tent. Or worse, have one of them hit him coming the other way.
Rapp saw two muzzles coming around. One was tracking toward the hostages, but Rapp couldn’t get a clear shot. A body was in the way. Screaming “Shoot at the damn tent!” he squeezed off three quick rounds directed at a target he couldn’t fully see.
The terrorist teetered backward, the dead body of his comrade knocking him off his feet. His finger squeezed the trigger on the way down, sending a three-round burst tearing through the wall and roof of the tent. Rapp saw more movement to his right. His eyes moved faster than his gun. He saw the flash of the rifle muzzle and then the wood floor in front of him splintered with the impact from a bullet, followed by another flash and another. The man was shooting the assault rifle on full automatic, shredding the rotten floorboards before him.
Rapp rushed his first shot, hitting the man in the shoulder. He needed only a split second more to place the terrorist’s head in his sights, but he never got the chance. The searing pain of a bullet slammed into his flesh, sending his shot wide of the target.
Before he could react to what had just happened, a fusillade of bullets ripped through the canvas wall of the tent, sending the terrorist who had just shot him into a spastic sideways dance. No fewer than six shots propelled the man over a plastic chair and to the ground. The bullets did not stop coming for another five seconds, over a hundred of them in total.
Rapp finally called out for Jackson and his men to secure the hostages. Keeping his weapon and eyes trained on the mass of bodies at the other end of the tent, he tensed as the first wave of pain radiated to the extremities of his every limb.
He watched as Jackson’s men came into the tent. Several quick shots were fired from the end of the thick silencers, but most of the work had already been taken care of. They were just mopping up. Letting his head rest on the ground, he looked over at the huddled family in the corner. He was about to call out over the radio that he’d been hit, but stopped. The other elements would still be in the thick of it. Coleman didn’t need the distraction just yet. No, Rapp decided he would just lie there and relax for a bit.
