Path Of The Assassin

“‘Flashlight’? I didn’t see any flashlight. I’m talking about that goddamn music.”

“It’s the name of the song. ‘Flashlight,’ by Parliament. They may hate us, but they love our music.”

“Fuckin’ no-taste ragheads,” spat one of the operatives.

“Actually,” whispered Harvath, “‘Flashlight’ is considered far and away a seventies funk classic.”

“Both of you shut up,” commanded Morrell. “Obviously, our real players haven’t arrived on the scene yet. Let’s get into place.”

Morrell gave the signal for the team to split up, and the members fanned out in separate directions. Two men went off to recon the suspected training camp as the sniper teams took up strategic positions overlooking the striped tent. Harvath and Meg were directed to stay behind a large outcropping of rocks while Morrell took several more men and his operative who had somehow managed to repair the mini-drone further down the hill.

Harvath scanned the scene below with one of the next-generation AN/PVS starlight scope systems he and Meg had been given to identify Hashim Nidal with. The music seemed to have had the desired effect. The men were now unloading the trucks at a much improved pace. Harvath noticed that not all of them were dressed in robes. Some wore civilian clothes, and one even had a Chicago Bulls T-shirt on. He loved the hypocrisy of it all-The U.S. is the Great Satan, but Michael Jordan? He’s number one!

The radio silence was interrupted when Rick Morrell whispered, “Marty away.” Harvath and Meg both tried to locate the mini-drone through their starlight scopes, but at half the size of a wine cork, it was next to impossible to see.

For a moment, they heard what sounded like the beginning strains of “Kung Fu Fighting”; then an irate and obviously very senior member of Hashim Nidal’s staff began yelling at the men near the tent and the music was immediately turned off.

The wind picked up, and rough sheets of sand blew across the narrow streets of the oasis town. The workers wrapped their kaffiyeh headdresses across their faces to keep the sand out of their mouths and noses. Over the plastic earpiece wedged deep within his ear, Harvath heard one of the operatives say, “We’ve got an inbound aircraft.”

As Harvath turned his eyes to the north, he could make out the lights of a small plane off in the distance. A moment later, the landing strip lit up like a Christmas tree. The man taken into custody in Helsinki had indicated that the Saudi would be arriving via private jet and he was right on time. That meant Hashim Nidal couldn’t be far behind.

One of the sniper teams quietly hailed Meg and asked her to call out various points and distances around the tent. Meg pressed her face against the rubber blinders of the starlight scope and synced with both spotters to make sure they were on the same page. She didn’t dare remove the device from her face. Her vision was now acclimated to the greenish glow, and the last thing she wanted to do was expose her eyes to any of the blowing sand. The mission could not afford her missing the target.

She was still scanning the area around the tent when another voice came over the team’s earpieces and said, “Two convoys approaching target area.”

Meg knew that one of the convoys approaching from the direction of the airstrip would belong to the Saudi, while the other would most likely belong to Nidal. She noticed her hands were shaking, and she tried to steady them by resting her elbows on the boulder in front of her.

“You okay?” asked Harvath, whose eyes were also glued to the scene unfolding through his starlight scope.

“A little nervous.”

“That’s good. It’s to be expected. Just ID Nidal to the snipers the way we practiced it. You’re going to do fine.”

“I hope so. I want this to be over with.”

“It will be soon enough. Don’t worry. It looks like the convoys are about to enter the perimeter.”

The voice came back over their earpieces. “Convoys entering perimeter. All teams stand by.”

Two sets of Land Rovers came to a stop twenty meters away from the tent. As the doors to the vehicles opened, another gust of wind erupted, sending sharp blasts of sand in all directions. The men momentarily retreated into their vehicles until the wind passed, then reemerged with their kaffiyehs drawn tightly across their faces, like the guards and workers.

“Wild Onion, have you identified the target?” came the voice of one of the spotters over Meg’s earpiece.

As Meg was from Chicago, Morrell had assigned her a code name based on what the Native Americans had originally called the Windy City.

“Target not yet identified,” said Meg as she strained to get a better view through her starlight scope.

Seconds passed and the men moved toward the tent, their bodies bent against the force of the wind and blowing sand.

“Wild Onion,” came the voice again. “Do you have the target?”

“Negative. Target not yet identified.”

The men had now covered half the distance to the tent and would be inside within the next ten seconds.