Brad Thor - State Of The Union

Herman soon returned with several of the MEK members.

“We left one man at the service entrance and we have two more on the roof, ready to rappel down,” said Herman. “If anyone approaches the front door, our operative, Max, who’s in the café, will let us know. Are you ready?”

“For what, I don’t know, but I’m ready,” replied Harvath.

“If they’re holding him in there, we’ll get him.”

Harvath nodded his assent and Herman gave a series rapid orders over his throat mike. One of the men disabled the elevator, and then the team made their way up to the third floor.

By the time he reached the final landing, Herman was breathing heavily, but it was obvious from the look in his eyes that he was thrilled to be back in the game. Harvath wished he could share the same level of enthusiasm. He hadn’t told his old friend the full story of why he had come to Berlin. He couldn’t. All he was able to tell Herman Toffle, former GSG9 counterterrorism operative, was that he needed his help and that he would have to trust him, which he did. A combination of Herman’s word and the reputation of Scot Harvath in the international Special Operations community was all that was needed to get the MEK men onboard. If the truth be told, German Spec Ops operatives were no different from their American counterparts-if there was an opportunity for a little excitement, they were all over it.

The lead MEK agent, a very muscular man of medium height named Sebastian, waved over one of his operatives and instructed him to feed their snake-a long fiber optic camera, underneath the door and into the apartment to give them an idea of what might be waiting for them on the other side. The operative slid the snake slowly into the apartment and spent several moments looking into the monocle viewfinder before raising his head and giving Sebastian theall clear.

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 fanned out, clearing the rooms in a matter of seconds, but there was no sign of Gary Lawlor.

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.”