“Jake, you and Gregg take a look at this.” Fontaine said.
The next forty minutes were spent planning and discussing the exact timing of the raid on the training camp. The execution had to be flawless or else Australian SAS soldiers could die. Jake and Kaplan could die.
Kaplan would brief the SAS soldiers on the raid. Each soldier would know his assignment. Each soldier would know his target. Each man in the unit was a trained professional and Jake was certain the mission would succeed. He lived for these moments.
Fontaine finished the briefing and Bentley’s voice crackled in the speaker. “Jake? Gregg? You still there?”
“Yes sir. We’re right here.” Jake looked at Kaplan who returned the stare. “What do you have for us?”
“Isabella Hunt has gone missing.”
CHAPTER 5
“What?” Jake said.
“Gone missing?” Kaplan asked. “How so, sir?”
“Just that.” Bentley’s voice in the speaker. “She was working an op in Aden, Yemen when we lost contact with her. We believe her cover was compromised and she’s been taken captive. We’ve tracked her as far as Sana’a, Yemen where we had our last confirmed ID. After that visual, they went underground, perhaps literally. We don’t know if she’s still in Sana’a, whether they’ve moved her to another location, or if she’s even in Yemen. The trail has gone cold. We have assets combing the streets and countryside, asking questions from every source in the field. So far we’ve turned up nothing.”
“What makes you think she blew her cover?” Kaplan asked. “She’s good. She doesn’t panic. It’s unlikely she tipped anyone off to her identity.”
“We’re confident they’re on to her.” Bentley hesitated. “No other scenario makes sense.”
“We have to go after her,” Kaplan said.
“First things first, gentlemen. Neither of you is going anywhere until this mission is complete. I need you both focused on the job at hand, not distracted. I hesitated even telling you about Isabella until the mission was over and under normal circumstances I would never have revealed anything that would jeopardize team focus, but since both of you have worked with her, I thought you deserved to know. When you get back, both of you will come here first and we’ll discuss our options for rescuing Isabella.” Bentley paused. “Gregg, I know you and Isabella have worked together over the past few months — but I need you at a hundred percent on this raid. Don’t let this distract you from your primary mission.”
“No, sir." Kaplan said. “But after we finish here, I want to help find Isabella. You have nothing to be worried about.”
Matter of fact, Jake was worried. Kaplan seemed to be getting close to Isabella Hunt. Too close. After she was shot in the leg when they were in Ireland, Kaplan had taken more than a platonic interest in her recovery — and she in his.
Jake and Kaplan became good friends during their ordeal in Savannah and Ireland, but the abruptness of Beth’s death caused Jake to distance himself from everybody. Kaplan and Hunt tried to comfort him. It was obvious they wanted to be understanding, compassionate friends, but the trauma of his loss made him bitter and he resented their intrusion into his pain. A suffering he’d rather not share. He couldn’t explain why, but he wanted to feel the suffering. He needed it. He deserved it.
His friend had tried to draw a common denominator since they both lost a loved one. But like Kaplan said, his girlfriend, Annie, had a secret side. He said he never really knew her and felt betrayed. Betrayed by her double identity. Betrayed by her involvement in the Savannah conspiracy. Jake didn’t buy any of it. Kaplan was making excuses, probably to himself, to mask how he really felt.
Kaplan and Hunt’s budding relationship wasn’t lost on him either. He’d noticed them spending more time together. He was still grieving the loss of Beth, so how could Kaplan flaunt his newfound friendship with Hunt in his face like that? How could he even have a relationship with Hunt? It wasn’t right. It was too soon.
“Don’t worry about Gregg, sir.” Jake grabbed Kaplan’s shoulder. “As always, he’ll give you his best.”
“No problem, sir. I’ll remain focused.” Kaplan glared at Jake. “But like I said, when we get back, I’m going after her.”
“Don’t forget who gives the orders, Gregg.” Bentley said. “Right now, back to work. Get some rest. Keep your wits about you tonight men and bring those two terrorists back alive.”
Jake and Kaplan, together with a team of nine specialized SAS soldiers were secured in their prearranged positions surrounding the terrorist training camp. Counting Jake and Kaplan, four ground teams of two each and three strategically located snipers.
Two snipers positioned themselves along the surveillance ledge, both with optimal viewpoints of the camp below. A third sniper, the only man not paired, was situated along an adjacent ridge covering the only potential escape route for the terrorists.
Every man was dressed in full black. Black clothes. Kevlar vests. Boots. Nomex gloves. Guns. Faces painted black. Black helmets outfitted with earpieces and voice activated microphones and night vision goggles.
Eleven men, set for a surgical strike against the camp under the command of Gregg Kaplan. Only at his direction would the precision assault begin.
During their briefing with Fontaine, they had developed the strategy based on the timing of the guards and the direction of their watch rounds. The total number of terrorists in the camp had been determined, confirmed, and reconfirmed through several nights of constant surveillance. Visual and satellite imagery, using thermal detection, had projected a camp occupancy at sixteen.
Eleven highly skilled soldiers and operatives with the element of surprise on their side against a rag-tag group of sixteen terrorists in the desert, in the middle of the night — in Jake’s opinion the deck seemed stacked.
In and out, he thought. There would be bloodshed. He’d capture Khan and Yasir, then he’d call for ASIS and SAS to clean up the mess.
Kaplan keyed his microphone. “Everyone in position? Check in.”
In prearranged order, all nine SAS soldiers checked-in, their positions secured and ready for the first strike. The snipers lined the ridges with the task of eliminating the patrolling sentries and to provide overhead cover, if needed. Four two-man teams advanced on the camp, each team given a quadrant to secure with instructions to neutralize any threats.
Jake looked at Kaplan. “Here we go, buddy.”
Kaplan nodded. “Yep. Keep your head down.”
Kaplan switched on his voice-activated microphone. “Snipers, take down the sentries on my mark.”
Four terrorist sentries patrolled the camp at any given time, two working the perimeter of the camp clockwise. The other two counter-clockwise. It had been nearly an hour since the shift change, which Jake concluded had been ample time for the previous four guards to fall asleep and long enough for boredom to dull the guards’ awareness.
When the guards on the cliff side of the camp passed each other Kaplan said, “Engage.” The ledge snipers fired the silenced rifles, 7.62 NATO match ammo. The only sound was the al Qaeda sentries falling to the sand. Body shots. Each bullet perfectly placed, right through the heart.
“Sentries one and two down. I say again, one and two down.” The voice whispered through the earpiece.
A second later, another muffled pop. “Sentry three down. Repeat, three down.”
As if he recognized the sounds, the fourth sentry began to run. Before he could take two strides, another silenced round dropped him. He fell face down into the sand sending his rifle crashing against the side of a wooden crate.