Blowback

When several rounds into the lock and hinges of the reinforced door failed to open it, the unit’s demolition officer placed a shape charge on the door and backed the rest of the men up. Turning away from the blast, he hit a button and blew the door right out of its frame. Another team member then threw two flashbang grenades down the narrow stone staircase.

The flashbangs detonated in quick succession, and the men poured down the narrow opening with the demo officer and Harvath bringing up the rear.

The stairway was incredibly tight, so tight in fact that men had to twist sideways at points just to squeeze through.

Five more feet, and the earsplitting echo of new weapons’ fire filled the confined space along with the thick smell of cordite. With no way to see what was happening, Harvath had no choice but to follow the man in front of him.

Suddenly, though, there was a reverse surge as the men turned and tried to run back up the steps. Before Harvath could move, he heard a series of horrible screams as an explosion detonated and a searing orange wave of fire consumed the stairwell.

He dropped to the ground as the flames roared overhead and tried to protect his already burned face.

After the flames dissipated, Harvath checked himself to make sure he hadn’t been injured. Deciding everything was okay, he stood and then noticed that the rest of the team hadn’t been so lucky. Based on the condition of the demo officer in front of him, he could see that they all had been riddled with shrapnel. Either someone had tossed a grenade into the stairwell or the Special Warfare unit had triggered some sort of antiperso

After grabbing the demo officer’s bag of charges and flashbangs, Harvath carefully picked his way over the other bodies and down the rest of the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he found himself in a tight subterranean chamber. Haphazardly placed beams supported the low ceiling and a string of bare lightbulbs lit a long passageway stretching out in front of him. Just as Harvath had suspected, Hamal’s complex was indeed attached to a tu

With the ringing in his ears somewhat subsided, Harvath could make out the sound of one or more people moving somewhere up ahead. His MP5 up and at the ready, he crept cautiously forward, mindful of the potential for further booby traps.

The height of the tu

Searching through the demo bag he had taken, he found another shape charge. Affixing it to the bottom of the trapdoor, he attached the necessary amount of det cord, climbed back down into the tu

He removed two flashbangs from the bag, scrambled up the ladder, and pitched them up and into the room above him.

Immediately after their detonation, Harvath sprang off the top rung of the ladder and into what could only be described as some sort of bottling plant.

Terrified by the explosions and the heavily armed man who had just crawled out from beneath the floor, workers ran in all directions. They scurried around and beneath rows of automated conveyor belts carrying bottles just like the ones Jillian had recovered from the warehouse in Riyadh.

Heavy stainless steel machines filled the plastic bottles with water and some other compound which Harvath assumed had to be the antidote. They were then sent in orderly rows to be capped, labeled, shrink-wrapped, and stacked on enormous pallets, where they were picked up by a forklift operator and moved to a loading area.

As he was studying the operation, all of a sudden everything around him erupted in a hail of gunfire. Hitting the deck, he saw Ozan Kalachka and the man who would be caliph-Prince Hamal-flanked by two of the meanest-looking, long-bearded, turban-wearing men Harvath had ever seen. With their earth-tone robes and huge machineguns, the bodyguards appeared more suited to the Wild West-style streets of Kabul than a holy city like Mecca.

Harvath rolled beneath one of the conveyor belts and fired his MP5, sending a shower of sparks along the metal platform where the men were standing. Immediately, they returned fire, and Harvath felt water pouring down on him as the bottles up above were sawn in half.

Rolling back out into the open, Harvath applied pressure to the trigger of his MP5 and dropped one of the two Taliban twins bracketing Hamal and Kalachka.

The remaining bodyguard once again returned fire, but this time capped it off with a special twist-a live grenade. As the grenade hit the concrete floor only feet away, Harvath scrambled further beneath the machinery. He crawled in the other direction as fast as his hands and knees would carry him. And then the unthinkable happened-he got stuck.

NINETY-ONE

It took Harvath only a fraction of a second to realize what had happened-the demo bag he had slung over his shoulder had become hung up on a bolt sticking out from one of the legs supporting the conveyor belt above. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t pull it loose, nor could he untangle himself from it. The heavy-duty canvas bag had been meant to take tons of abuse without ever tearing or giving way.

Harvath knew the grenade was only seconds away from going off, and so he did the only thing he could think of. Bracing his back against the underside of the conveyor belt, he planted his legs and gave one big push. He felt the bolts pop away as the conveyor belt tray sprang loose from its supports and flipped over onto the floor, sending a mountain of water bottles along with it. The demo bag was finally free, but all Harvath could do was hit the deck.

As he did, the grenade exploded, the upturned conveyor belt and pile of water bottles absorbing most of the blast.

Raising his MP5, Harvath shook off the effects of the grenade, leapt off the floor, and ran forward shooting. The remaining Taliban twin tried to return fire, but Harvath caught the man just above his eyebrows, killing him instantly. Reflexively, he then turned his weapon on the remaining two targets and focused on the bigger of them-Ozan Kalachka.

In a move that shouldn’t have surprised Harvath, Kalachka grabbed Hamal, swung him around to use as a shield, and put a gun to the prince’s head.

“Descendants of the Prophet Muhammad who also have Turkish blood in their veins must be pretty easy to come by,” yelled Harvath as he kept his MP5 trained on the man, who, just like Timothy Rayburn, had used and betrayed him. The urge to take the shot regardless of the consequences was overwhelmingly tempting. He could always tell the Crown Prince someone else had shot his son, but that wasn’t how Harvath operated. He had given his word. Without a laser sight, Harvath decided against pulling the trigger.

“It would appear we’re at a bit of a crossroads,” yelled Kalachka from the metal observation platform above the bottling plant floor. “For what it’s worth, my offer still stands. What better place for you to convert to Islam than in its holiest of cities?”

“Thanks, but I’ve already converted. Crown Prince Abdullah gave me a nice little ceremony, but I don’t think it’s for me,” replied Harvath as he maneuvered for a cleaner shot. “Bad clothes and even worse holidays. My answer is going to have to remain no.”