Slinging his rifle, Harvath transitioned to the Russian grenade launcher and racked it, loading his last thermobaric round. “Just pin him down long enough for me to get off my shot.”
“A hundred bucks says you’ll miss.”
Harvath shook his head and then pointed forward, signaling that he was ready to go.
Gage was in rough shape. He had trouble supporting his rifle with his left arm. It took him significant effort to raise it high enough. Finally, he signaled that he was ready.
Together, the two men swung out into the street. Gage peppered the building’s second-floor windows with rounds from his M4. Harvath brought the pump-action grenade launcher up, sighted in the window, and fired.
The shot was perfect. It sailed right into the room where the sniper had been and detonated in a blinding explosion.
Glass, timber, and pieces of concrete erupted out onto the street. A pillar of thick, black smoke rose into the air.
“Time to go,” Harvath said, as he transitioned back to his rifle, scanned for more threats, and began issuing orders over the radio.
He was relieved to see Staelin, along with Barton and Morrison, moving Umar Ali Halim quickly down the street. It must have been the little Libyan, the one who had ratted them out back at the compound, who had gotten killed in the exchange of gunfire.
Just beyond them, Harvath could make out their Land Cruiser riddled with bullet holes. The night sky was beginning to give way to morning. They needed to get moving.
Haney quickly backed the technical down the street to pick everyone up. It was a double cab designed to hold five people, but that was going to be pushing it for a team of men in tactical gear. With six shooters, plus a hostage, someone was going to have to ride in the back. Harvath and Barton both offered to do it.
Once they had all been loaded, Haney peeled out and began speeding them out of town.
As Staelin helped Gage pack his wound with hemostatic gauze up front, a call came for Harvath over the radio.
It was the drone team. They had good news, but they also had bad news.
The good news was that they were back overhead. The bad news was that an army of Libya Liberation Front members was headed right at them.
CHAPTER 32
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“How many and from what direction?” Harvath asked.
“There’s a three-vehicle convoy including one technical west of you out of Abu Kammash,” the drone team leader stated. “A five-vehicle convoy is to your east from the port at Zuwara with two technicals. Finally, there’s a seven-vehicle convoy approaching from your south. That one has four technicals, two of which are mounted with antiaircraft guns.”
Shit. “How far out are they?”
“The convoy from Abu Kammash is a little over ten klicks out. The others are closer to twenty.”
That was way too close as far as Harvath was concerned. They’d never be able to outrun them. Not with the piece-of-shit truck they were driving. And definitely not when it was loaded down with six shooters, two of whom were riding in the bed, all their gear, plus a hostage.
“I’ll let you guys call it, but my preference is that you take out the Abu Kammash convoy first,” said Harvath.
“Negative. We’re not authorized to target Libyan militias.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. What do you mean you’re not free to target Libyan militias?”
“Our agreement with the Tunisians is that airstrikes are only authorized when targeting Islamic militants.”
Fucking politics. “Let me talk to your senior.”
“I am the senior. In fact I specifically requested this op to make sure you guys got everything you needed.”
“I appreciate that, but what I need right now is some CAS,” Harvath replied, using the acronym for close air support.
“Don’t worry,” the drone team leader replied. “We’re going to help navigate you out of this.”
Harvath was worried. “What other armed assets do we have in the air that didn’t launch from Tunisia?” he asked.
“There’s another Reaper, west of Benghazi. But it launched from U.S. Naval Air Station Sigonella on Sicily.”
“So what? How quick can we get it on station here?”
“Per our agreement with the Italians, only non-Libyans can be targeted in drone strikes launched from Sigonella.”
The world had lost its mind. “The Tunisians and the Italians realize that the Libya Liberation Front is allied with Ansar al-Sharia, which in turn is linked to Al Qaeda, right?”
“Sorry, sir, I don’t make the rules.”
“Are there any U.S. Navy ships in the Mediterranean right now operating drones?”
“Yes, sir, but none that will be able to get an asset on station for you quickly enough.”
“Give me the name of the nearest vessel.”
The drone team leader confirmed his information and then replied, “It’s the Nimitz-class supercarrier, the USS George H. W. Bush.”
Now they were getting somewhere. “Stand by,” said Harvath as he pulled out his satellite phone and dialed the cell phone of the Director of Central Intelligence.
Back in the United States, it was just past eleven o’clock at night. Bob McGee answered on the third ring.
“Sorry to wake you,” said Harvath. “I need you to make a phone call for me, fast.”
He gave the DCI the details and secured his promise to cut out the U.S. Ambassador to Libya, as well as the Defense Attaché, even though that was protocol. They’d only get in the way.
Within sixty seconds of hanging up, McGee had the Secretary of Defense on the phone. The SecDef personally called the Commander of the Sixth Fleet, who conferenced in the Commander of Carrier Strike Group Two, which was responsible for the USS George H. W. Bush. Once they were all on the line, McGee explained the situation and what they needed.
Five minutes later, a phone rang at the Tunisian air base from which the Reaper tracking Harvath and his team was being piloted.
After authenticating the caller and listening to the Pentagon’s instructions, the drone team commander replied, “Roger that. Right away.”
Relaying the command to the drone pilot, he then turned to his Tunisian liaison and stated, “This drone is being removed from inventory and will not be returning to Tunisian soil. We’re handing over control to the USS George H. W. Bush.”
Within seconds, the drone banked and headed out to sea. As it did, Harvath’s satellite phone vibrated. It was McGee.
“As soon as Strike Group Two has control of the drone, video to the base in Tunisia will be cut. They know what’s going on, but it gives them cover. Once the drone gets beyond Libya’s territorial waters, they’re off the hook.”
“But that’s twelve nautical miles,” Harvath replied, as he stared out from the back of the technical, expecting to see militia members behind them at any moment. “We don’t have that long.”
“Strike Group Two isn’t going the full twelve. The second the handoff is complete, they’re sending it back to you. In the meantime, you’ve got to figure something out, because you are on your own.”