Path Of The Assassin

“What about you?”

“I’m going to take care of those inbound helicopters.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Nope. I’m going to send Carlson over to the far side of the wadi to cover my left flank. You and Meg will cover my right from that outcropping. Those Libyan birds will have no choice but to fly right down the center of the canyon. They expect us all to be right here huddled behind the FAV. That’s what the pilots will be targeting. Between you, Meg, and Carlson, the soldiers up above won’t be able to get a shot off. We’ve got one Stinger and one AT4. I’m hoping that will be enough to do the trick.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“Big John better beat his ETA.”

Harvath explained his plan to the others, and everyone made ready. When there was a pause in the Libyan machine-gun fire from the ridge above, Harvath gave the “Go” command. He rolled out from behind the FAV and swung the big 7.62-millimeter machine gun back and forth across the top of wadi, spraying the Libyan Land Rovers full of lead. Once Gordy and Meg had gotten DeWolfe safely to the outcropping, he laid off the trigger and rolled back behind the safety of the FAV.

The next thing he needed to do was unstrap the missiles from the roof rack. Harvath activated his lip mike and said, “Let’s keep it to short bursts to save on ammo. I need to get the Stinger and AT4 off the roof. When I count to three, give them something to chew on, okay? One. Two. Three!”

Carlson started firing first, followed by Avigliano and then Meg. They were each at separate sides of the wadi, with Harvath and the FAV stuck right in the center. He wasted no time and used the distraction for all it was worth. He quickly climbed into the backseat and unfastened the straps that secured the two shoulder-fired missiles to the roof. With one in each arm, he jumped out of the vehicle and hid back behind the defunct front wheel.

“Cease fire,” commanded Harvath over their encrypted radio. “Now, let’s let them come to us.”

The wait wasn’t as long as it seemed. The Libyan helicopters made it to their location ahead of schedule. Harvath kneeled on the ground less than two feet away from the FAV. The minute the choppers swung into the narrow valley, he could hear their cannons chewing up the canyon floor. With his right hand on the Stinger and the parallel trails of bullets racing toward him, Harvath followed a procedure so well known to him he could do it in his sleep.

First, he primed the system by clamping down on the lever that lit the battery and charged the ignition system. He waited as the two helicopters grew closer and closer with every passing second. The rows of cannon fire seemed to only be yards away when Harvath yanked the Stinger from the ground next to him and slapped it onto his shoulder. He centered the first chopper in the Stinger’s viewfinder and depressed the large button on the front of the launcher tube, uncovering the seeker head of the missile.

A tone indicated he had target lock as the missile began to grumble inside the tube. Harvath reflexively looked behind him to make sure all was clear, and with no one behind him and nothing close enough to reflect the exhaust blast, Harvath squeezed the trigger and said, “One away.”

A cloud of white gas erupted from the back of the tube as the Stinger raced toward the Libyan helicopter. By the time the pilot realized what was happening, it was too late. The rocket slammed into the first chopper and turned it into a torrent of fire and debris that rained down onto the floor of the wadi. Fearing another missile attack was right behind, the second French-made Alouette pulled up and out of the narrow canyon. They had caught a break, but Harvath knew it wouldn’t last long.

51

Harvath adopted the lowest profile he could as machine-gun rounds slammed into the dune-buggy-like frame of the FAV. For a moment, he had toyed with the idea of trying to physically drag the nose of the vehicle around so that they could answer the Libyan soldiers with some forty-millimeter grenade rounds from the Mark 19. That idea, though, even in Harvath’s book, was pure suicide.

“How’s everyone doing on ammo?” asked Harvath over his Motorola, during a lull in the shooting.

“There’s never enough at a time like this,” said Carlson.

“I take it you’re running low. How about you and Meg, Gordo?”

“I don’t suppose in the spirit of fair play, the Libyans would be willing to toss a little down here.”

“Are you kidding? They’re more than happy, as long as it’s delivered via the end of their rifles,” quipped Carlson.

At least morale hasn’t suffered, thought Harvath.

“We do have some good news,” offered Meg Cassidy.

“We can all use some of that,” replied Harvath. “What is it?”

“DeWolfe is awake.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s a little groggy, but it doesn’t look like he’s suffered any serious injuries. Arms and legs work, and he thinks he’ll be able to walk.”

“Ask him if he’s hungry,” interjected Carlson over his headset.