State Of The Union

Sebastian tested the doorknob to see if it was locked and then motioned to Herman, who radioed the men on the roof to get ready. The plan was that they would rappel down and smash through two windows in the rear of the apartment at precisely the same moment as the rest of the team came through the front door. After a final check with their man, Max in the café, Herman began counting backwards from five in German, “Fünf, vier, drei, zwei, eins, null!”

At the zero mark, the team sprang. One of Sebastian’s men had a mini-battering ram and with one blow, shattered the lock and flung the door wide open. With their weapons drawn, the men charged into the apartment, right as their teammates from the roof came crashing through the rear windows. Everything had been orchestrated with absolute perfection. The team fa

Harvath began moving from room to room, looking for any clue that Gary had been there or might have left some indication as to where he was going or where he might be, but there was nothing.

Several of the men sat down in the small living room and began disassembling their weapons. As Harvath entered, he noticed Sebastian, the team leader, standing next to a bookcase near the front windows. As Sebastian removed one of the books from the shelf, Harvath noticed a red dot trace along the wall.

“Get down!” he roared, as he leapt across the room.

The pinpoint targeting device came to rest square in the center of Sebastian’s chest and the chance that it had come from the laser site of one of his team members was all but impossible. They were professionals through and through, and would not have played games like that.

As he knocked into Sebastian, Harvath’s highly attuned senses heard the crack of glass, followed by the sensation of being pounded in the chest three times in quick succession by a sledgehammer.

Before he and Sebastian had completely rolled to the safety and cover of a nearby sofa, the room was awash in a sea of splintering wood and crumbling plaster.

“Where is the shooter?” Harvath heard one of the MEK operatives yell in German as he quickly reassembled his weapon.

“Across the street,” responded another who had powered up his night vision goggles and was sneaking a peek out the window. “On top of the roof.”

As the rest of the men crawled over beneath the windowsill and readied to take up firing positions, Harvath’s pain receptors kicked in and he began clawing at his bulletproof vest. His left side was completely on fire. It felt as if a pair of branding irons were searing into his skin.

He reached underneath his coat and unfastened the Velcro straps, which secured the vest in place. He pulled the chest portion away from his body, but the burning continued. His fingers shot frantically inside, trying to assess his injuries, but touching his left side only made things worse.

Sebastian’s men were already at the window, showering the roof of the building across the street with hot sheets of silenced lead as Harvath struggled to get out of his leather jacket. He was able to slide his right arm out with little difficulty, but when he moved to free his left arm, his ribs erupted in even more pain. It was the same area that had been repeatedly kicked by his interrogator before the president had called off Defense Secretary Hilliman’s DOD attack dogs.

With the jacket hanging off his left shoulder, Harvath gave up on trying to take it the rest of the way off and reached as far as he could around his left side to see if he was bleeding. He drew his hand back and looked at it.No blood.

A hail of brass shell casings fell all around him and the air was thick with the smell of cordite as the MEK operatives continued firing at the roof across the street. Harvath wrestled with the vest until he was finally able to slide out from underneath it and then laid there panting, only able to gulp in short, painful gasps of air. Turning the body armor inside out, he noticed that two of the three rounds had actually penetrated the Spectra, but had been stopped short of entering his body. He offered up a silent thanks to Herman Toffle for insisting he wear it.

Taking the sniper fire full force to his side had knocked the wind out of him, and so Harvath focused on his breathing until he slowly got it back under control. He then did a more thorough triaging of his injuries and decided that he had probably received a severe bruising, or worse, several cracked ribs. From his combat medical training, Harvath knew the biggest risk from broken ribs was puncturing a lung. He drew in another painful breath of air and was confident that though it hurt like hell to breathe, neither of his lungs had been punctured. As far as a course of action for his ribs was concerned, there was nothing that could be done. While some people might tape or wrap damaged ribs, all it served to do was remind you of your injury. Harvath didn’t need any extra reminders, he was sure the pain would be reminder enough.

Several of the MEK operatives had already left the apartment in pursuit of the shooter across the street when Sebastian made his way over to Harvath and helped him to his feet. Sebastian was a man of few words. He offered a simplethank you and Harvath shook his hand in return. Herman Toffle, on the other hand, was anything but a man of few words.

“What the hell is going on? It looks like your friend is in more than just a little bit of trouble,” said Herman as he limped over to Harvath on his bad leg. “I know you agreed to pay for the beer tonight, but that’s not going to be enough for Sebastian and his people now. Look at this place.”

Harvath ignored Herman as he worked one of the bullets out of his Spectra vest.

“Are you listening to me?” continued Herman. “Why would a sniper have been staking out this apartment?”

“Whoever it was, that was no ordinary sniper,” replied Harvath holding up the bullet he had retrieved from his body armor. “Nine millimeter. Full metal jacket.”

“Nine millimeter?” said Herman as he accepted the round from Harvath and held it up to get a better look at it. “Why not use a high-velocity rifle round like a 308 or 223?”

“Because the shooter wasn’t using a rifle.”

“Why not? Why take the time to stake out the apartment, but not bring the right equipment?” asked Herman as he handed the round back to Harvath.

“Who said he didn’t bring the right equipment? Nine millimeter is a very fast round. With a ported silencer and a bipod, even a small weapon can be very effective at this range. This is a narrow street. The shot wouldn’t have been that hard. And the best thing about a small weapon is that it’s extremely easy to conceal.”

“Even with body armor on, that was a very brave thing you did,” said Herman.

“I reacted, that’s all.”

“Well, call it what you will, but I’m sure Sebastian appreciates it.”

“He would have done the same thing for me.”

“I’d like to think so. He’s a good man. That’s why I asked for his help. Now, tell me, did you have any idea the apartment was being watched?” asked Herman, his eyes searching Harvath’s for any indication that he might not being telling the truth.

“Of course not. I told you everything I knew,” Scot replied.

“About the apartment, but not about your friend. All you said was that he had gone missing and you had reason to believe he might be being held against his will in here.”

“That’s true.”

“What about the rest of it? Who is this friend of yours and what was he up to?”

Harvath had hoped things wouldn’t come to this. Herman had agreed to help him, no questions asked, but being ambushed by the sniper had now altered the arrangement and Harvath knew it.

“All I can tell you is that he is one of the good guys and we need to find him very soon,” said Scot.