Executive Power (15 page)

Rapp was willing to play the general's game for a while. Moro would undoubtedly remain defiant right up to the moment he was confronted with the evidence.

"Tell me, General, do you dislike America?"

Moro pondered the question with a puzzled look on his oily face.

"I'm not sure what you are asking me."

"It isn't a difficult question. Do you like America? Yes or no?"

"That depends. There are things about America that I like, and there are things that I don't like."

"Fair enough. What about China?"

The Filipino's eyes screwed a bit tighter at hearing this.

"I have no opinion on China."

"Really?" asked Rapp in a surprised tone.

"That surprises me."

Any sense of Moro's air of amusement had evaporated at the mention of the world's most populous country.

"What are you hinting at, Mr. Rapp?"

Changing gears, Rapp leaned back and said, "I would like to do business with you, General. As I said, I am a practical man, and I've been told you are too. I want Abu Sayyaf crushed, and I don't care what it takes. If I have to pay a certain person large amounts of cash to make sure the job gets done, then that's what I am willing to do."

"I am not sure," said Moro, squinting up at the tent's ceiling, "but I think I am offended by what you have just proposed."

Rapp looked him right in the eye and shook his head disbelievingly.

"No, you aren't. As I've already said, I know certain things about you, and I know it is impossible that you are offended by what I just proposed."

Moro took in a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. It appeared that the American was privy to his business arrangement. Choosing his words carefully, he said, "What exactly did you come here for, Mr. Rapp?"

"I came to make you a better offer than the one you already have."

"I'm listening. "The general leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.

"We know about your accounts in Hong Kong and Jakarta. We know you've been spying for the Chinese since the early eighties, and we know Abu Sayyaf pays you off so that you don't get too aggressive in pursuing them."

Moro studied Rapp with cautious eyes. Finally he said, "I'm still listening."

"As I've already stated, I'm a practical man. Although I'm not entirely comfortable with your connection to Beijing, I can live with it for the time being. Abu Sayyaf is an entirely different matter. That I cannot live with."

"Mr. Rapp, I still have no idea what you are talking about."

Rapp reached into his vest pocket while keeping his eyes locked on Moro. He pulled out an envelope and tossed it onto the general's desk. Rapp watched as Moro emptied the envelope's contents and began leafing through the various pages. They consisted of bank and phone records.

After Moro was done looking over the documents he placed them back in the envelope and set the package carefully in the middle of his desk. So the American did know his secret, or at least part of it, but Moro was not willing to admit guilt so easily.

"I don't know what any of this is about."

In a deadpan voice, Rapp said, "There's more. We have radio and telephone intercepts. Your voiceprint has been matched beyond any reasonable doubt."

Moro stared unwaveringly at his adversary as he desperately scrambled for a way out of this ambush. After nearly a minute of silence, he decided there was only one option.

"How many people know about this?" Moro nodded at the envelope.

"Enough."

"How many in my country?"

"A select few."

The sour expression on Moro's face betrayed his feelings about this piece of information.

"Does Colonel Barboza know?"

Barboza knew something, to be sure, but Rapp wasn't sure exactly what. Not wanting to complicate things he answered, "No."

Moro nodded. The fact that the colonel was out of the loop seemed to offer him some comfort.

"It appears you have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Rapp. Why don't we get back to what you were talking about earlier."

"The part about large amounts of cash."

"Yes," said Moro, smiling.

Rapp returned the smile despite the fact that he hated the man, "As I already told you, I am a practical man. Your relationship with the Chinese will be handled at a later date. For now my main concern is dealing with Abu Sayyaf."

Moro nodded.

"I want the American family back unharmed, and I want you to pursue Abu Sayyaf with such vengeance that they dare not take another American ever again. In fact I would prefer it if you -wiped them out entirely."

"This will not be easy."

"Rotting in a Philippine prison for the rest of your life would be much more difficult."

The general's entire body tensed at the thought.

"I did not say it couldn't be done."

Rapp nodded his approval.

"General, fear can be a wonderful motivator, but it does nothing to build long-term relationships. That is why I am going to make you an offer that I think you will like very much." Leaning forward, Rapp lowered his voice and said, "If you return the entire Anderson family to us unharmed, I will see to it that one hundred thousand dollars will find its way into an account of your choosing. If by year's end you have managed to pursue Abu Sayyaf to my satisfaction you will receive an additional one hundred thousand dollars. If you succeed on both of these fronts we will sit down and explore the possibility of further compensation in regard to your relationship with Beijing."

With a wry smile Moro said, "You would like to turn me into a double agent."

"Like I said," said Rapp, shrugging, "let's see how our first two deals turn out and then we'll go from there."

Moro sat there for a long moment pondering the offer that had just been made to him. Rapp had played all of this out beforehand in his mind and had a pretty good inkling of what would happen next.

In fact, he would be disappointed if Moro didn't do as he'd predicted.

Finally, Moro tilted his head back slightly and said, "Mr. Rapp, America is a very wealthy country. What you ask of me will take more resources than you have offered. If you wish to get the family of Americans back safely, I'm going to need more."

Rapp remained impassive, meeting the general's gaze with his own.

Coleman and his men were obviously not in the position yet to carry out the mission or they would have called, so it was up to him. The entire time he'd been talking to Moro, he'd been refining a new plan. It would have to look like Moro had shot himself rather than face a court-martial for committing treason. The general carried the standard Special Forces 9mm Beretta pistol. Rapp would use his own suppressed 9mm Beretta to shoot him in the side of the head and then eject a round from the general's gun and place the weapon in his hand. Rapp would then ask Colonel Barboza to come into the tent. They would wait for a minute and then leave. Barboza would then instruct the general's aide-de-camp that the general was considering something very important and did not want to be disturbed under any circumstances.

They would then get on the helicopter and leave. Everyone would assume that the sound of the gun shot had been lost in the noise of the helicopter's departure. Then General Rizal would just have to make sure that only a cursory investigation of the body and the weapon took place. The general's body would be found sometime later along with the evidence of the bank accounts and phone records. It would be plain to even the most simpleminded officer that Moro had committed suicide rather than be publicly tried for crimes of high treason. The generals back in Manila would make sure the military investigators didn't delve too deeply into the forensics surrounding Moro's death.

Most people would understand that the proud and arrogant general would rather commit suicide than face a humiliating court-martial.

Rapp finally answered the general.

"I am prepared to go to two hundred thousand dollars to gain the safe return of the Andersons, but not a penny more."

Moro frowned.

"That is still a little light. I'm afraid this is a game you are not well versed in, Mr. Rapp."

"Is that right?" Rapp asked in a doubtful tone.

"General, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm the one holding all the cards. My offer is final. Two hundred grand to get the Andersons back and another hundred grand when you have effectively decimated Abu Sayyaf."

"I'm not so sure," said Moro with a shake of his head.

"Well, I am," added Rapp quickly.

"Push me any further, General, and you will be arrested right now and returned to Manila to face a court-martial. Colonel Barboza will replace you, and with the help of the U.S. Special Forces, he will free the Andersons and rid this island of any and every terrorist connected to Abu Sayyaf."

The general scoffed at his adversary's remark.

"Colonel Barboza is an incompetent fool. If you want the Andersons back alive I am the man to do it. Give me three hundred thousand dollars and I will make it happen within forty-eight hours."

Rapp was straining to keep his temper in check. The sheer arrogance of Moro was getting under his skin. He flexed his hands and then clenched them into tight fists, reminding himself that none of this mattered. It was all a ruse to get Moro to relax. A look of calm washed over his face and he said, "All right, General, I'll agree to your terms."

"Good," said a jubilant Moro.

"Now here is what we will do."

Rapp smiled and nodded as Moro enthusiastically talked about how he would deal with Abu Sayyaf. He was saying something about arranging for the release of the American family. Rapp continued to look interested while his left hand slowly moved toward his gun. His fingers were just parting the folds of his vest when it happened. His hand froze with indecision, and Moro, noticing the change in his demeanor, stopped talking.

Coleman reached the summit of the small mountain huffing and puffing from the breakneck pace he'd kept for nearly twenty minutes. With sweat covering every inch of his body he took a knee and did a quick one-eighty of the relatively minute area before him. The summit was not big. A large, dark gray, almost black, rock occupied almost one entire side of the crest. It was covered with a few stubborn trees and bushes, their roots running down into the rock's deep fissures. Directly in front of Coleman lay a gently sloping shelf covered in grass and shielded from the sun by several twisted trees.

On first glance he missed Wicker.

Positioned between the base of a tree and a clump of bushes, the soles of Wicker's jungle boots were all that was visible. Coleman dropped to his belly and crawled through the knee-high grass.

When he reached Wicker he noticed that the more agile man had already unpacked and assembled his. 50-caliber Barrett M82A1 rifle and was surveying the lay of the land through a pair of M19/22 binoculars.

Out of breath but not the least bit embarrassed by it, Coleman asked, "What's the sit rep?"

Wicker remained motionless as he peered through the powerful binoculars.

"I did a quick check of the perimeter, and it looks like we're alone."

"Any sign of Mitch?"

"No, but we've got a Huey down there with a pair of hot engines, and a very nervous colonel standing outside of General Moro's tent."

Coleman frowned.

"How in the hell do you know it's Moro's tent?"

"Because someone was dumb enough to hang a sign with his name and rank on it."

"You're shittin' me."

"Nope. Have a look for yourself." Wicker handed Coleman the binoculars and nestled in behind his high-powered rifle scope.

The former SEAL commander did a quick check of the camp and announced, "Well, if that isn't one of the stupidest things I've ever seen."

Wicker silently concurred while he used his scope to check out several likely spots where an enemy sniper might be lying in wait. He was a cautious man by nature, but he was also extremely confident in his skills.

This Philippine Special Forces group didn't appear to be a crack outfit. From the sign hanging on the general's tent, to the lack of perimeter security, it looked like a truly sloppy operation. The odds that they'd deployed a counter-sniper team seemed unlikely. Even more in his favor, though, was the distance of the shot that he was to take. There were only a handful of men in the world who could execute a head shot at this distance. If there was a counter-sniper team about they would be focusing on a perimeter of 500 meters, give or take 100 meters. Wicker was well outside that range. Even so, he was breaking many of his own rules.

They'd arrived while the sun was up, and he'd slithered into position without donning his ghillie sniper suit. Covered with netting and burlap strips in various shades of green the sniper suit allowed him to disappear into the terrain. If given proper time, he would have added the natural vegetation of his surroundings to the suit, ultimately making him invisible to even the most well-trained pair of eyes.

"What do you think?" asked Coleman.

"I think these guys aren't real worried about being attacked."

Next came the important question.

"Can you make the shot?"

Wicker brought the crosshairs of his scope back to the general's tent and centered them on the colonel's head. Moving his eye away from the glass aperture, he looked to the east at the rising sun. The horizon was ablaze with a brilliant bank of storm clouds. For now the weather was acceptable. There was no wind yet, but that would undoubtedly change as the front approached.

Wicker eased his left eye back behind the scope and said, "Tell him I can handle it."

Coleman, who was still breathing heavily, marveled at the sniper's calm demeanor. After retrieving the satellite phone from one of his thigh pockets, he punched in a number and waited.

The director general of Mossad leaned forward and stared intently at one of the large screens. It showed a section of one of the nastiest neighborhoods in all of Israel. The analyst to Freidman's right spoke in hushed tones.

"Look at the roadblocks. "With a laser pointer, the man marked the three avenues of access to the hillside neighborhood.

"And look at the four men on this rooftop right here." He circled the roof of the building in red light.

"Lookouts?" questioned Freidman.

"That and probably more." The man said something into his headset and the rooftop was magnified.

"I'm ninety percent sure two of those men are carrying RPGs."

Freidman looked at the grainy black, green and white image. It was being shot from the underbelly of a customized DHC-7 four-engine turboprop. Part of an aid package from the United States, the plane was outfitted with the Highly Integrated Surveillance and Reconnaissance System, or HI SAR The plane was designed to provide both image and signal intelligence in real time.

The men on the rooftop with rocket-propelled grenades were not unexpected. Since the Black Hawk Down incident in Somalia back in 1993 every terrorist in the Middle East had realized how easy it was to shoot down a hovering helicopter. For this, and several other reasons, Freidman had ruled out sending in a team of commandos. There were other, less risky ways to handle the job.

Freidman shifted his glance to one of the other large screens. It gave a broader picture of Hebron. In the center of it a laser dot marked the roof of a sedan that was speeding through the streets. With each passing moment the tiny car worked its way closer to the hillside neighborhood that they'd already identified. It looked like things were going to work.

Suddenly, the sedan stopped at a roadblock that had gone unnoticed.

The man on Freidman's right spoke into his headset and almost immediately the airborne low-light camera zoomed in on the roadblock.

The room watched tensely as several people got out of the car.

One of them walked to the rear of the sedan and placed two objects on the trunk. Others gathered around.

"Give me full magnification on the trunk of that car," barked Freidman.

Several tense seconds passed and then they were treated to a welcome sight. It looked like the two attachИ cases were still in play.

Freidman watched as they were closed. He muttered something unintelligible to himself and blinked several times.

The entire room watched in silence as the man with the cases was led through the roadblock and into a waiting van. The camera zoomed out, following the van as it wound its way up the narrow streets. A digital clock on the wall above the TVs crept downward from five minutes.

In two minutes and twenty-eight seconds the burst transmitter would send confirmation of the location of the attachИ cases and then the waiting would be over.

All at once the four large screens fell into sync, and at the center of each was the house they had expected to see. Freidman watched as the van carrying his instrument of retribution stopped directly in front of the target. Needing no further confirmation, he turned to the general on his left and nodded.

hovering AT 500 feet, on the outskirts of Hebron, lurked two of the most efficient killing machines ever built by man, or more precisely, the Boeing Corporation of America. The AH-64D Apache Longbow helicopter was an unrivaled lethal machine. Its fire control radar target acquisition system allowed it to classify and prioritize up to 125 targets in just seconds. Even more impressive was the system's ability to designate the sixteen most dangerous targets and engage them with the Longbow's fire-and-forget Hellfire laser-guided missiles or AIM-9 Sidewinder air-to-air missiles. The Apache Longbow is the most advanced attack helicopter in the world, and in some people's minds the most advanced flying machine in the world.

The two birds had been on station for thirty-six minutes, patiently awaiting their orders. They'd lifted off from their airfield in the Negev and proceeded north, avoiding all towns and roadways. The Longbows that had been on station since late afternoon had returned to base to refuel.

Floating on the other side of a small ridgeline, eight kilometers from Hebron, the two choppers were running dark, their navigation lights extinguished. Each helicopter was configured for a multi-role mission. They carried eight Hellfire missiles, thirty-eight Hydra 70mm folding-fin aerial rockets and 1,200 rounds of 30mm ammunition for their belly-mounted chain guns.

The amount of firepower that the Apache could carry was not what set it apart from other helicopters. The chopper, in fact, had rivals that could carry almost twice the amount of firepower. What set the Apache Longbow apart was its accuracy, stability and maneuverability.

It was an all-weather attack helicopter designed to engage multiple targets with a focus on armor.

The Apache had been designed as a tank killer, but its designers had been so successful that its mission had grown. At the start of the Gulf War in 1991 it was the Apache that fired the first shots. Led by a Pave Low helicopter, a flight of Apaches snuck into Iraq under the radar and using their Sidearm anti-radar missiles, they punched a big hole in Iraq 's air defense network. Through that hole poured hundreds of coalition fighters and bombers. Within hours, virtually the entire Iraqi air defense network was shut down.

And that was more than a decade ago. Since then the Apache had been given a complete overhaul that included the Longbow fire control radar, an improved navigation system, air-to-air capability, fire-and-forget missiles and increased battlefield survivability due to improved engines, electrical systems and avionics.

Taking on buildings and lightly armed men was not what the platform had been designed for, but the men flying the machines were not about to argue with the bosses in Tel Aviv. If they wanted to use a hammer to kill a fly that was their decision. The pilots and copilot gunners waited for their orders and monitored their various instruments.

The pilots looked out at the surrounding area with their Night Vision Sensors and monitored their ships' vitals, while the copilot gunners looked through their Target Acquisition Designation Sights. The surveillance plane circling above the city at 15,000 feet was sending a constant stream of information to the onboard fire control computers of the Longbows. Multiple targets were painted with lasers. All that was left to do was arm the missiles and engage.

The order to move came over the encrypted digital communications link. Simultaneously the twin General Electric gas turbine engines on each bird increased power and the helicopters began to climb.

They moved over the ridgeline, closing on the city of Hebron at a cautious fifty knots. With each passing second the fire control computers effortlessly calculated a new solution to each target. In less than a minute the town of Hebron would be ablaze.