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CHAPTER 53

RAPP lay on his stomach in the sand, completely motionless. There was no sign of life in the oil-production facility intermittently visible four hundred yards away. But that was expected. His gut told him the ISIS men were there. The question was how many, how well armed, and in which of a thousand tactically viable positions?

A particularly strong gust tore across the landscape and Rapp leapt to his feet, running almost fifty yards before being forced down again by the clearing air.

While waiting for another opportunity to advance, he examined the details of the structure. At this range, the size and complexity of it made a serious impression. Countless thousands of tons of steel had been fashioned into a maze of pipes, ladders, and walkways. The sand was drifted up beneath one end but otherwise the facility looked like it could still be in operation.

His earpiece started to crackle, but the bulky radio clipped to his belt wasn’t enough to fully pick up the signal. He maxed out the volume and a few intelligible words emerged from the static. Bazzi checking in with his men. Responses were spotty due to the limitations of Rapp’s equipment, but the Saudi officer’s calm tone suggested that the remaining choppers were all still in the air.

“This is Scout Six,” Rapp said into his throat mike. “Come in, command.”

“Go ahe—” Static drowned out Bazzi’s voice. “I repeat. Go ahead, Scout Six.”

“I’ve got too much ground to cover and not enough time, Captain. If I move fast, I’m going to risk being spotted and blowing this whole thing to shit.”

“Copy that, Scout Six. I understand that you’re going to hold your position until I give the attack order. Please confirm.”

“That’s an affirmative, command. Good luck.”

“May Allah be with you, Scout Six.”

• • •

“How much longer?” Captain Bazzi said into his headset.

“The ETA on your screen’s about right,” Mason responded. “A little less than five minutes.”

“That’s cutting it very close, Mr. Mason.”

“I’m dealing with the laws of aerodynamics up here, Captain. Unless God owes you a serious favor, this is as fast as we go.”

Bazzi saw no reason to question the man further. He had flown with Saudi Arabia’s best pilots and none were even remotely as skilled. The engines were pushed to—or perhaps past—their limit and no compromises were being made in the interest of safety. Outside the door to his left, the desert floor was speeding by far too close for the conditions and visibility had gone from poor to disastrous.

On the laptop screen, the dots continued to glow, indifferent to his situation. The CIA was constantly updating the data and as of now they were projecting the soonest possible detonation at approximately seven minutes.

“Status report,” he said into his headset.

Every one of his men responded that they were in position and holding, one minute out from their target.

Bazzi wiped the gritty sweat from his forehead and continued to stare at the screen. In the end, there was only on realistic option—to follow Mitch Rapp’s orders to the letter. The man had more experience in these kinds of operations than anyone alive and his list of failures was shockingly short. Further, if the worst happened, his reputation suggested that he could be counted on to take responsibility and stand in support of a meaningless young Saudi captain. Men like him—and American soldiers in general—were loath to turn their backs on people loyal to them.

“Hold your position and await my orders,” Bazzi said, realizing that those were likely the most critical words he would ever speak. “We will be going in approximately two minutes.”

Those one hundred twenty seconds seemed to stretch into infinity as he stared blankly at the seat that he wished Mitch Rapp still occupied. Finally, Mason’s voice came over his headset.

“We’re one minute out, Captain.”

Bazzi activated his own microphone. “Attack. I repeat. Attack.”

He took a position at the helicopter’s door gun as his teams confirmed his orders.

A few moments later, Mason came back on the comm. “I have a visual. Northwest about a kick. Hold on to your ass.”

Bazzi was slammed into the bulkhead and then into the gun as the pilot fought to put them into an attack posture. The helicopter circled east and Bazzi saw the target vehicle’s trajectory turn evasive. They’d been spotted.

Mason came to the same realization and immediately rotated the aircraft to bring the door gun to bear. The wind was now hitting them broadside and the chopper pitched wildly as Bazzi depressed the trigger.

The first rounds stitched across the SUV’s hood and he fought to adjust his aim to its passenger compartment. The CIA’s best guess was that the terrorists would be using military-grade C-4, a stable explosive that was unlikely to detonate even if it took a direct hit. The danger was that one of the men in the vehicle had the detonator in hand and at the ready.

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