THE PRESIDENT’S SECRET WEAPON AGAINST TERROR
CHAPTER 1
JUNE 30, 9:55 P.M.
IN THE FOOTHILLS
OF THE MOUNTAINS
IN NIGERIA
“Alpha’s in position—over.”
“Copy that, Alpha. Bravo, report.”
“Bravo’s in position—over.”
“Copy that, Bravo. Charlie, what’s your status?”
“Charlie is thirty seconds to ready—over.”
Hidden high above the compound, Sergeant Aaron Hardy moved his legs and body as much as he could. He had been in the prone position for the last seventeen hours, and his muscles were cramping. In two days, he would celebrate his thirtieth birthday; however, at this moment, he felt twice that age.
Hardy had enlisted in the United States Marine Corps upon graduating from high school. He had spent the first four years of his career serving overseas, primarily in Iraq, before becoming a member of the Second Marine Special Operations Battalion, headquartered at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. For the next five years, he had been involved in numerous direct-action, special reconnaissance, and counter-terrorism missions until he had been asked to command a team of his own and conduct top-secret missions all over the world.
Lately, Hardy had been considering a new line of work. During the last five years, his body had been under an extreme amount of stress, and he did not recover as quickly as he once did. He was still in great physical shape, but he knew if he maintained this breakneck speed, his body would fail much quicker. He still wanted to be part of Special Operations, just in a little less intense setting that did not require so much scouting. The countless hours spent waiting for the action were making him grow restless. And, in many ways, they took a greater toll on his body than did the gunfights. He wanted to see more action, and he wanted more control over the action. He wanted to take the fight to the enemy, not wait for the enemy to dictate the terms of engagement.
Hardy peered through his binoculars and scanned the area.
Milling around, two sentries guarded the main gate. Located in the center of the compound, the main building was dark and quiet. Fifty meters to the rear, two buildings—ten meters apart from each other—served as living quarters for the soldiers. Both structures were alive with activity. The men inside were raucous. Music blasted from one of the buildings.
80s punk rock, thought Hardy, lowering the binoculars to glimpse his watch. He raised the eyeglasses again, as his earpiece crackled.
“Overwatch, this is Charlie. We’re in position awaiting your orders—over.”
“Copy that.” Hardy slowly swung the binoculars to the right. “All teams, standby.”
Hardy checked his watch numerous times in the next few minutes. This was exactly what was making him grow restless—the waiting. His teams were in place, ready to carry out their tasks, but everything hinged on the target.
The voice of another team leader filled the airwaves. “Inbound vehicles eight hundred meters out and closing fast.”
Finally. Through the field glasses, Hardy caught sight of the approaching headlights to his left. He watched two SUVs speed toward the compound and come to a stop outside the main gate. The guards opened the gate and waved them through.
Once the vehicles were at the main building, the second SUV’s occupants jumped out and took defensive positions around the first SUV. Armed with AK-47 rifles, four men dressed in black suits, white shirts, and black ties stood guard. Their heads rotating left and right, they searched for security threats.
The driver and the front passenger of the first SUV, both similarly dressed and armed, hurried inside the main building. A few moments later, they emerged, stood on either side of the front door, and surveyed the landscape. The one to the left put his wrist to his mouth.
AK-47 in hand, a man got out of the left-rear door of the first SUV, hurried around the back bumper, and opened the right-rear passenger door.
Two feet swung around and landed on the ground. A second later, their owner—a Nigerian warlord—threw his upper body forward and rose to his feet. Nigerian oversaw the most powerful drug cartel in the country. He stood six-two and tipped the scales at more than three hundred pounds.
Hardy spun the wheel on the binoculars, zooming in on the man’s face. He needed visual confirmation to proceed with the mission.
His back to Hardy, the man examined his surroundings. He buttoned his suit coat and took a few steps toward the main building before stopping.
“Come on,” Hardy said under his breath. “Show me your face.”
Continuing his journey, Nigerian turned his head.
Hardy’s middle finger rotated the focus dial a hair, and his eyes narrowed. Gotcha. “All teams, this is Overwatch. We are a go. I repeat. All teams, we are a go on my command—over.”
“Copy that,” replied all three team leaders.
Hardy dropped his binoculars, wrapped his right hand around the stock of the M40A5 sniper rifle in front of him, and shouldered the weapon. He closed his left eye and acquired the two guards at the main gate through the rifle’s scope. Swinging the rifle to the right, he placed Nigerian in his crosshairs. When the man was two steps away from the front door of the building, Hardy had the two guards in the scope again. “Go, go, go!”
While the men from the SUVs fell to the ground, shot by his teammates, Hardy eased back his weapon’s trigger. Two muffled ‘pops’ from his rifle later, the 7.62x51mm NATO bullets found their targets, and the sentries dropped.
“This is Alpha. All tangos are down. I repeat. All tangos are down—over.”
Two massive explosions lit up the night sky, as the two structures to the rear of the main building blew apart. One huge fireball rose from the remains.
Hardy heard small arms fire before his earpiece came alive.
“This is Bravo. All tangos have been neutralized—over.”
Hardy held his breath waiting for the next situation report.
Charlie Team had the most delicate part of the operation. Their orders were to secure Nigerian. They were to engage him only if he returned fire, and they were to shoot to incapacitate, not kill.
Balling his hand, Hardy called for a situation report. “Charlie, I need a sitrep—over.” In his ear, he heard sporadic weapons’ fire, team members shouting, scuffling. Moments later, the commotion stopped, and silence ensued.
“What’s your sitrep, Charlie?” No response. “Bravo, advance on the main building. I repeat. Bravo—”
“Overwatch, this is Charlie.”
Hardy squinted through the binoculars. “Bravo, stand down and await further orders. Go ahead, Charlie.”