"Can it wait?" he asked, as he surveyed the situation.

Before the man could answer, the thunderous reports of a heavy-caliber machine gun boomed above the din of the steadily building rifle fire. A fist-sized hole was punched in the wall a few feet from Corrigan. The master sergeant hit the floor instantly as chunks of the dry mud brick rained down on him. He crawled back to the front door swearing under his breath.

Thumbing the switch on his radio for the command net, he said in an angry growl, "Condor Five, this is Rattle Snake, where is my air cover?"

"Air cover is on its way in, Rattle Snake. Sit tight."

The voice was calm and professional and it irritated Corrigan to no end. It was easy to stay cool when you were safely above the fray circling at five thousand feet. Come down here on the street and get your a.s.s shot at and see if your voice takes on a more urgent tone.

"I've got a heavy-caliber machine gun firing on my position from the east!"

"I see it, Rattle Snake. Raptor One is inbound."

Before Corrigan could ask for an ETA he heard the telltale "whoosh" of aerial rockets pa.s.sing overhead. A split second later there was a series of thunderous explosions.

CAPTAIN MILTGuerrero stood at the edge of his hastily established forward command post and looked out across the field through a pair of night vision binoculars. He and his command staff had come in on a Blackhawk and landed at the forward command post set up by the Air Force STS Team. He watched his three platoons, 144 men strong, rush across the open field. Even with their heavy gear they would cover the distance to the edge of the town in five minutes or less. If they ran into any resistance, that estimate could easily double or even triple, but the company commander had contingencies ready in case the enemy put up an unexpected early fight.

General Harley's original plan had called for the Rangers to march immediately to Rattle Snake One's position and create a secure perimeter for the exfiltration of the Delta Team and any prisoners, but after studying the objective, and the surrounding terrain further, General Harley came up with a bolder plan-a plan that was more reminiscent of the way Rangers fought in WWII. They were too far afield to fight with one hand tied behind their backs, and Harley had no desire to lose any of his men due to limited rules of engagement.

For an American officer, however, the desire for force protection always had to be balanced against the lives of innocent civilians. In almost any battlefield situation this was an area as murky as a Louisiana swamp, but here in Southwest Asia the lines between innocent civilian and guerrilla fighter were almost completely indistinguishable. Virtually everybody carried a weapon of some sort, even the young boys. A farmer was rarely a simple farmer. This village was an al-Qaeda and Taliban stronghold used to ferry men and supplies across the border into Afghanistan. Those supplies were used to kill American soldiers. There wasn't an adult in this village who didn't know what was going on.

The brutal reality of war in this violent, fanatical region was that every child over the age of ten was a potential threat, as were their mothers. If they didn't move decisively, if they didn't shock the enemy and keep them off balance, they could quickly find themselves bogged down in a house-to-house fight where they would be outnumbered-an entrenched street-by-street battle against a well-seasoned force that was not known for taking prisoners. If that happened they would have to call in the A-10 Warthogs and possibly a Spooky gunship that would undoubtedly lead to many more civilian deaths. Guerrero bought into the General Patton creed: engagements, battles, wars that were fought quickly, decisively, and with brute force saved lives in the long run. Patton knew well after fighting in WWI what happened when forces got bogged down.

The loss of innocent life was to be avoided if possible, but not if it meant risking the life of a Ranger. Quick and decisive force on the front end would save lives in the end. It was Captain Guerrero who had pushed for the battle's more traditional rules of engagement. Anyone seen running toward the battle carrying a weapon, man, woman, or child, was to be considered hostile and engaged, and any house or structure that was used to fire upon American forces was to be pulverized.

That was worst case and they were hoping to avoid it completely by separating the proverbial wheat from the chaff. Guerrero had a great respect for General Harley that bordered on reverence. Harley had studied the enemy, had gone back and read the history of the country. He'd talked with Soviet officers who had fought and lost in Afghanistan. Harley knew the enemy well, and he knew with relative certainty what they would do when confronted with a surprise attack in the dead of night.

"Sir," a young lieutenant approached the company commander, "the mortar teams are ready."

Part of General Harley's ingenious plan for tonight's operation was to reinforce the young captain's two 60mm mortars. "Have sections one, two, and three begin laying down a barrage at the southern edge of the town, have sections four and five coordinate with Rattle Snake One on where they'd like them dropped, and have section six look for targets of opportunity as directed by the forward observers."

The lieutenant snapped off a salute, glad to hear that the plan hadn't changed. He and his mortar teams had worked diligently to prepare precise coordinates for virtually every intersection and target of potential interest in the village. They had already been in contact with the Air Force forward observer who had reached the edge of town, and one of the Delta shooters on the roof of the target building. The mortar teams were eager to show their stuff. Working in conjunction with forward observers, and using their M-23 mortar ballistic computers, they could drop their 60mm rounds through the sunroof of a parked car. Twelve of the lethal tubes stood ready with enough rounds to level the entire town if necessary.

CORRIGAN LOOKED ATthe twisted, blazing hunk of metal that had almost blown his head off only a few moments ago. Not wanting to diminish his vision he then turned away from the burning wreck and told himself he'd have to remember to buy the boys flying the Apache a cold one.

"Rattle Snake One." The scratchy voice came over his radio. "This is Mustang One. We're going to be at your front door in about thirty, coming in from the west. Do you have any targets for us?"

The SEALs were on their way in with their fast Desert Patrol Vehicles. Great news as far as Corrigan was concerned. The sergeant didn't like a fair fight. He glanced up and down the street. Now that the rocket strike by the Apache had pa.s.sed he could see the enemy was renewing their efforts. Several rounds struck the road in front of Corrigan, kicking up geysers of dirt. He casually stepped back into the house. "Nothing specific, but watch out for the rooftops."

Corrigan called out for a quick "sit rep" from his team. One by one each man checked in. There were a few minor sc.r.a.pes, but nothing serious, and his machine gunners asked for some more ammunition for their M240B medium machine guns. Corrigan knew they weren't critically low on ammo, but the plan was for the Desert Patrol Vehicles to drop off some extra supplies and two light machine guns in case the Rangers got held up.

Corrigan looked out onto the street just in time to see the two low-slung dune buggies come skidding around the corner, guns blazing, their big.50-calibers chewing up the rooftops on either side of the street.

The first vehicle pulled right up to the door, its fat k.n.o.bby tires gripping the packed dirt road like claws. The second vehicle swung out into the intersection and stopped in the middle of a right-hand turn. The crews in the two vehicles began furiously pumping rounds into anything that moved. Corrigan set his weapon down and grabbed a couple of extra ammo pouches from the vehicle. He tossed them back in the house and grabbed an M249 SAW and more ammo.

The vehicle commander, a chief and a perpetual smart-a.s.s, yelled to Corrigan over the roar of the guns, "Once again, it's the Navy to the rescue!"

Corrigan grabbed his weapon and yelled back, "Rescue my a.s.s! You wanna change spots?"

The Navy SEAL shook his head vigorously. "No thanks! I don't like staying in one place if I don't have to." With his left hand up in the air he gestured wildly for the driver to move out. Turning back to Corrigan, he smiled again and yelled as the driver gunned the engine, "We'll be in the neighborhood! Just call if you need us!"

The two crews were in contact via radio and as soon as the one vehicle began to move, the one holding the corner took off. As per the plan, they were now to drive around the back of the house and drop off more ammunition and another machine gun, and along the way knock the enemy back a bit. After that they were to proceed to the western edge of town where they were to look for targets of opportunity and hold the flank. If needed, they were also in reserve to evacuate any seriously wounded. The six SEALs knew the key to their effectiveness was to hit and move. If they stayed in any one place for too long they might be the ones needing a medical evac.

Twelve.

Circling directly over the town at 10,000 feet, Rapp watched the fight taking shape on the screens and resisted the urge to ask Rattle Snake One for an ID on the prisoners. Right now the Delta boys were busy using their well-honed skills to make sure the engagement didn't turn into their own private Alamo. General Harley's plan was proceeding as they'd expected, but military engagements had a way of changing in the blink of an eye. If the enemy could get organized, there was still a very real possibility that they could overrun Rattle Snake One and his men, but Harley had bet the farm that the enemy would opt for another strategy, especially now that the other a.s.sets were joining the battle.

For thousands of years the people in the village below and their ancestors had used the mountains to hide from invaders. They were masters at guerilla warfare. Hit the enemy and then disappear into the mountains where the inhospitable terrain and climate could wear down the best that the conquering armies could throw at them. Most recently, the Soviet Union had learned this modern military axiom: don't use conventional forces to fight a guerilla war. There was a major difference, however, between the war with the Soviets and what was going on now. Back in the eighties, the CIA and U.S. Special Forces provided crucial training and supplies that helped turn the tide against the communist aggressors. Most notably the mujahideen was given the highly effective Stinger surface-to-air missile.

The Taliban and al-Qaeda had the misfortune this time of going up against the same benefactor who had supported them against the Soviet aggression. Those high-tech Stinger missiles were now old technology. Every helicopter and plane under Harley's command was equipped with state-of-the-art missile countermeasure systems more than capable of defeating all but the newest and most advanced surface-to-air missiles. The few Stingers that were still in the Taliban's a.r.s.enal had deteriorated over time and were highly unstable.

That meant the enemy had to try and use more antiquated methods to bring down the American helicopters-antiaircraft guns and RPGs. Both were all but useless against the st.u.r.dy American helicopters unless they were caught in a low hover, and even then, with the firepower the helicopters could bring to bear, it was all but suicide for the man firing the weapon. Harley had no desire to lose a bird, so he constantly changed tactics and kept his helicopters above two thousand feet and moving at a good clip whenever possible.

The general and his task force were beating the Taliban at their own game. They were using guerilla warfare tactics coupled with air mobility and firepower to choose the time and location of the battle. They hara.s.sed their opponent, and then retreated to their base hundreds of miles away, frustrating the enemy and inflicting ma.s.sive casualties. Harley and his warriors were wearing the bad guys down.

Rapp listened to the chatter amongst the various officers in the command-and-control bird who were directing the action below. The Apache flying cover had destroyed another mounted gun and several buildings at the far end of town, and the Ranger's mortar barrage had just commenced, peppering the southern edge of town with bright flashes. After another minute the Rangers would begin marching their mortar fire through the village in a slow methodical pounding, intersection by intersection. The idea was to leave the enemy only one direction to flee-toward the mountains. The homes were not to be targeted unless individual Ranger units called in a strike. The Rangers would then sweep in and take the entire village one block at a time. General Harley wanted, if at all possible, to separate the terrorist and Taliban thugs from the noncombatants.

Harley knew his enemy, and had told Rapp they would do what they had done for centuries-they would flee to the mountains, and that was where the general had one more surprise waiting for them. Rapp couldn't help feeling satisfied at the hand he'd had in bringing this about. These were the fighters who smuggled weapons and explosives and fresh recruits across the border. These were the men who ambushed U.S. troops who were building roads and hospitals and bringing sanitary drinking water to people for the first time in their lives. These were zealots who hated America, and hated freedom whether it was religious, political, or otherwise.

They had miscalculated, thinking they were safe sitting on the Pakistani side of the border. Once again they had underestimated their enemy. They thought America lacked the courage and resolve to take them on. They were bullies and thugs blinded by their misguided righteousness. War was the only thing that would ever dissuade them of their ways, and they'd picked a fight with the wrong enemy.

THE FIRST60MMmortar sh.e.l.l came inbound, its high-pitched, ominous whistle giving anyone experienced enough in battle a second or two to find cover. Corrigan was one such man and he got small quick, hitting the ground and curling up in a ball. The Ranger mortar teams were good, but until they were zeroed in on a target anything could happen. Fire support and close air support were the number one cause of fratricide amongst American forces.

Thankfully the sh.e.l.l exploded three full blocks away. There was a brief pause followed by the cry of a second round on its way in. This explosion was a bit closer and was followed a few seconds later by yet another one. Corrigan raised himself up to one knee and looked out the window in time to see the light show swing into full gear. The mortar teams were zeroed in and were bracketing his position with lethal indirect fire.

For the briefest of moments the sergeant felt sorry for the men on the receiving end of the barrage. War was infinitely unpleasant with all of its hardships and death and mayhem, but to a foot soldier, there were few things more frightening than being sh.e.l.led. The entire method of indirect fire was frustrating. Someone who was far away, too far away to shoot back at, was dropping high explosives on your position. With no way to fight back, your instinct for survival kicked in and your brain told you to run.

There was only one problem, however. If you tried to run you'd almost certainly get cut to shreds by shrapnel, if not pulverized by a direct hit, so you were left to wrestle with one of your strongest survival instincts. You had to learn to ignore and override thousands of years of human evolution and stay right where you were. If possible, you had to try to squeeze your body into some depression or behind a heavy object. Crawl if you must, but never stand up and run.

Corrigan saw a muzzle flash across the street and down a ways. He shouldered his rifle and looked through his night vision sight. The scope was able to pierce the shadows just enough to catch some movement, and he let loose with a three-round burst, knowing that the guy on the receiving end was either dead or seriously wounded. Not wanting the same thing to happen to him, Corrigan moved to the other side of the window.

Over the rooftop of the building across the street the sky was alight with strobelike flashes from the mortar barrage that was. .h.i.tting the southern edge of town. Between the explosions he could make out the building staccato of gunfire that meant the Rangers were joining the battle.

Corrigan relaxed just a notch, taking comfort that things were proceeding as planned. Then his momentary relief vanished when he heard one of his men let loose with a string of expletives. The sergeant craned his neck skyward to look up at the ceiling. The swearing didn't sound like it had come from inside the house and he thought he recognized the voice. "Brian," he called out over his radio, "what's going on up there?"

The reply came back as a torrent of profanity that ended with the dreaded phrase, "I'm hit."

Before Corrigan could respond, Danny Goblish, one of the two medics that was with the team said, "I'm on it, Cor."

"How serious is it?"

"Direct hit to the shoulder. I'll know more in a minute."

"Roger. Keep me in the loop." Corrigan took a sip of water from his camel pack and walked back to the front door.

"Hey, boss, it's Lou."

"What's up?" asked Corrigan.

"I think one of these tangos was trying to get at a trap door in the floor before I pasted him."

Corrigan frowned, momentarily wondering if any of these houses were connected by tunnel. That could be a problem. "I'll be right there."

The master sergeant looked at the other troopers in the front room. All three of them flashed him the thumbs up sign. "I'll be back in a minute," he snapped, as he headed down the dark hallway.

Thirteen.

Rapp watched as the rifle teams moved into the city, leapfrogging their way from one building to the next. The forty-two Rangers that made up the first platoon were in the middle, out in front of the other two platoons. Their mission was to head straight for Rattle Snake One's position and secure a perimeter. In the process they were also supposed to secure a two-block corridor from the target house to the southern edge of the village. The other two platoons were to act as flanking forces driving just one block into the village and then digging in. Each platoon had one squad in reserve to use as a reaction force if a particular area of the battle got too hot, but ideally the mortar teams would take care of any stiff resistance.

The first sign of an exodus was reported by the Apache pilot as he made a quick pa.s.s over the northern edge of the town. Men were seen moving on foot for the mountain pa.s.s. Rapp checked one of his monitors, and could just make out the shapes of people walking up a trail. As he looked at the streets of the village he counted another dozen or so individuals making their way toward the mountains. The general's prediction was proving true.

Rapp watched his monitor as the lead element of the Ranger force cut through the village with little trouble. It took them no more than two minutes to reach Rattle Snake One's position, where they quickly set up a perimeter. Rapp smiled with satisfaction. If things stayed on course, they would begin evacuating the prisoners shortly.

Individual units began reporting in that their sectors were secure, and as the enemy resistance began to fade, the exodus for the mountains gained momentum. Rapp was caught slightly off guard when he heard himself referenced over the command net. It was Master Sergeant Corrigan talking to General Harley.

"Eagle Six*Rattle Snake One here. We've found something down here that I think our visitor might want to take a look at."

General Harley looked at Rapp and asked, "What've you got, Rattle Snake?"

"We found a room under the house. A couple of computers, a lot of videos, some files, and a couple of maps."

General Harley was surprised by none of this. They almost always found stuff on these raids. As to why the master sergeant thought Rapp would want to take a look, he was not sure. "Why would our visitor be interested in what you've found?"

Corrigan's answer caused Harley and Rapp to exchange nervous glances. "Say again, Rattle Snake."

The Delta trooper repeated himself more loudly this time. As soon as he was done Rapp covered his lip mike and yelled at the general, "You need to set this bird down right now."

Harley didn't argue, and within seconds the Blackhawk was headed for the landing field.

BY THE TIMEthey touched down the two Fast Attack Vehicles were waiting for them. Rapp hit the ground and Harley followed him. The two men ran clear of the spinning blades to the waiting vehicles. Rapp jumped into the recently vacated pa.s.senger seat of the second one. The Navy SEAL standing next to it offered Rapp his helmet. He declined the helmet but took the man's clear ski goggles. While Rapp buckled himself in, General Harley leaned on the cage.

Shouting above the noise of the idling Blackhawk, Harley said, "No d.i.c.king around, Mitch. You get in, take a look and then I want you the h.e.l.l out of there. I've got a schedule to keep. The sun's going to be up in a couple hours, and I want all of my men back across the border before then."

Rapp nodded. "Don't worry, general, I have no intention of hanging around."

Harley stepped away from the vehicle and yelled, "And don't get shot!" He jerked his thumb toward the village, "Now get the h.e.l.l out of here and hurry up!" With that the two vehicles tore off across the field and onto the main road.

The mortar teams had taken the fight out of the enemy and they were in a full retreat toward the mountain pa.s.s where a very nasty surprise was waiting for them. A platoon of Navy SEALs was lying in wait ready to spring an ambush. Individual Ranger units were reporting sporadic potshots from the enemy, but any concerted effort to try and launch a counterattack was gone. The Rangers had created a safe corridor around Rattle Snake One's position that they alone controlled. This made the ride into the village very uneventful. Neither of the Fast Attack Vehicles drew or fired a shot.

They stopped in front of the bullet-riddled house, and Rapp was met immediately by Corrigan. The master sergeant brought him inside. Rapp ignored the bound-and-hooded prisoners on the floor and followed Corrigan down the hallway to a bedroom. The Delta trooper turned on a flashlight and pointed it into the subterranean room.

"We gave it a quick check for b.o.o.by traps, but be careful."

Rapp nodded and took the flashlight from Corrigan. Dropping to the floor he swung his feet into the hole and took one last look before putting the flashlight in his mouth. Leaning forward he grabbed onto the other side of the opening with both hands and let himself drop down until his feet found the damp earth floor. Rapp grabbed the flashlight and slowly did a full turn. There were several computers, along with a number of boxes and files stacked haphazardly all around the room. He found what he was looking for on the last wall and froze, a combination of fear and disbelief coursing through his veins.

He moved closer, studying the map that he knew all too well. The rivers, roads, parks, and landmarks were all infinitely familiar to him. Finding such a map in this remote village was enough to give him pause, but in and of itself, it was not enough to explain his growing alarm. That was caused by what had been drawn over the map. Concentric circles emanated from the center, each one with two numbers written next to it. One was a temperature and the other a body count. The margins were filled with notes written in Arabic a.n.a.lyzing the weather patterns for the region in question.

Rapp stepped back, wondering how much time he had, his head swimming with disastrous possibilities. He had seen this type of map before. It was used to measure the destructive power of a nuclear weapon, and it appeared Washington, D.C., was the target.

Fourteen.

FLORIDA STRAITS.

Some 8,000 miles away, as nightfall descended on the eastern coast of Florida the forty-four-foot power yacht made its way between the channel buoys and headed for the inlet of the Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge. It had been a long day for al-Yamani. After killing the captain of the boat, he'd traveled 360 miles, stopping only once in Fort Pierce to top off the fuel tanks. Fortunately, the weather had cooperated and he'd been able to engage the autopilot for at least a third of the journey. Still, the bright sun and wind had beaten his senses relentlessly for twelve hours straight and left him a bit off-kilter.

Now with the boat moving at just under five knots through the calm narrow inlet he was met with an eerie silence punctuated only by the occasional nocturnal cry of animals he couldn't even begin to identify. Al-Yamani was not a man of the sea. He'd grown up in the al-Baha Province of Saudi Arabia, and until recently, he couldn't even swim. His knowledge of boats had been gained entirely in the last year as he'd helped transfer his martyrs on the Caspian Sea from Northern Iran to Kazakhstan. He'd paid close attention to their Iranian captain and how he maneuvered their decrepit flat-bottomed barge. After much cajoling, the captain had agreed to teach the Muslim warrior the ways of the sea, for even then al-Yamani knew he would have to find an unconventional way to enter the United States.

The twin diesel engines purred while the exhaust ports gurgled at the water line and al-Yamani prayed yet again that he would avoid running into any alligators. The thought of such an encounter sent a shiver down his spine. He was a brave man, but he had grown up in the barren landscape of Saudi Arabia and such reptiles gave him near fits. He'd already heard several splashing noises and could imagine the scaly beasts following him up the narrow ca.n.a.l.

He had the running lights on but resisted the urge to use the bright search light. He would have preferred dousing the lights entirely, but if he by chance happened to stumble across some local law enforcement officer, or worse, a DEA agent, he didn't want them to think he was running drugs. His purpose was far more n.o.ble than the importing of an illicit substance. It was part of an ongoing battle between his people and the nonbelievers. A battle that had been waged for more than a thousand years.

Al-Yamani kept one hand on the throttle and the other on the wheel while he consulted the GPS readout on the dash. He had memorized all the coordinates. Satellite maps had been purchased on the black market from a retired Russian intelligence officer in the northern Pakistani town of Peshawar. The Russian even helped him pick the point at which he should come ash.o.r.e. The 140,000-acre refuge was owned and operated by NASA. For years the KGB had moved people in and out of the refuge so they could monitor what the Americans were up to in the race for s.p.a.ce.

Mustafa al-Yamani was a cautious man by nature, but when he was pitted against an enemy with almost endless resources, like America, his instincts bordered on paranoia. Before embarking on this mission, he had sent encrypted e-mails to followers who had been in place for years. None of them knew the face or name of the man they were told to meet, only a time and place and that their mission was of the highest order. There were two more locations to be used as backup if something went wrong.

The FBI had increased its surveillance of American Muslims significantly, so they had to be careful. That meant using contacts who did not adhere to the strict Islamic teachings of the Wahhabi sect, which was most unfortunate. Al-Yamani was used to working with those who were truly devoted-men who were willing to martyr themselves without question. He had known many such men over the years and in the past months he had seen dozens of them forfeit their lives to a silent killer they could neither see nor understand. It had happened in a G.o.d-forsaken land on the northern edge of the Caspian Sea where the earth was so poisonous only a few mutated forms of life could survive.

Al-Yamani's days were numbered. He too had been exposed to the lethal levels of radiation, but not to the extent of his brave mujahideen. He took pills that helped fight off the nausea and fever, but there was no cure. Mustafa al-Yamani was a dead man walking, but he had just enough life left in him to strike a glorious blow for Islam.