The monocular amplified the available light, turning the darkness into palettes of green as he panned the scope picture between them, working the timing for the shots.
Flipping the safety and making sure that the fire-selection level was set in semiautomatic mode — or single-shot — Russo leveled the integrated stainless steel sound suppressor, designed to be fired with water inside, on the closer of the two guards.
Then he tapped his throat mic once, marking the start of the raid.
A moment later, water splashed on the starboard side of the platform. Both guards immediately swung toward the noise, away from Russo, Uzi Pros ready as they stepped up to the edge to inspect the dark waters.
Russo fired once, scoring a direct hit into the back of the guard’s head, the momentum pushing him and the Uzi Pro overboard.
He switched targets just as the guard fell right on top of Pacheco and another SEAL, who caught him to avoid unnecessary splashing.
Russo squeezed the trigger again, scoring a second head shot. And once again, the energy transfer pushed the guard over the edge and into the waiting hands of his team, who dragged him under quietly.
The SEAL commander paused, his eyes surveying the vacated platform, waiting to see if any of the 176 wireless security cameras identified in the blueprints of the high-tech yacht had captured the event.
The silence that followed made him grin, for he knew why the yacht’s internet wasn’t working, as well as the cameras and anything else with a signal.
Two EA-18G Growlers, specialized electronic warfare versions of the dual-seat F/A-18F Super Hornet, were flying a racetrack pattern thirty miles northeast of Azzam, blasting the yacht with their AN/ALQ-99 High Band and Low Band jamming pods.
Satisfied the element of surprise remained intact, he tapped his mic again and whispered, “Let’s roll.”
A noise made him sit up in the spa, and Al Saud saw his men moving about with sudden purpose. Turning to the closest guard, he said, “What is happening?”
“Maybe nothing, sir, but the video cameras have stopped working. Could be related to the internet problems.”
For the love of…
Al Saud’s pulse quickened as he thought of another possible explanation for the evening’s electronic blues. But he had been very careful, staying clear of the scene of the crime, just another yacht enjoying a Mediterranean cruise. Then he had left the area well before any of those missiles had reached Lincoln. And by the time the Americans had figured out what had hit them, he had landed in Jeddah and even changed helicopters just to be on the safe side—
Before he finished the thought, he saw three guards collapse at the edge of the deck overlooking the stern, the backs of their heads exploding in small clouds of crimson.
Leaping from the spa, the naked Al Saud rushed belowdecks as alarms blared across the large cruiser.
Russo moved methodically across the teak floors of the large salon on the main level. He led a four-man stack, covering the front, while Pacheco and a third SEAL handled their flanks and a fourth operator took the rear. A second team of three managed the violence one level above.
His trained eyes looked past the luxurious interior, ignoring the lavish furnishings as he searched for—
A guard emerged from behind a glass and steel bar, his features washed in hues of blue by accent lights.
Russo put two rounds through his chest as Pacheco handled a second threat coming at them from behind a grand piano along the panoramic windows lining the starboard side of the massive room.
The team above reported three more guards down, bringing the count to ten.
Russo reached the two glass doors at the front of the salon leading to the helipad… and paused. The craft was still tied down. Checking with his man at the SDV, he got confirmation that the PWCs and the runabout boat were still secured to the stern platform, where the SEALs had also shed some of their underwater gear.
“Clear,” his team above reported.
“So, where is the bastard?” Pacheco whispered behind him.
Russo frowned at his decision to head straight for the two main levels to cut off any chance of Al Saud reaching the bow helipad, while his guy in the water managed any attempt to escape by water.
“Below,” he said to his stack, before ordering the second team to check the top two levels.
Rushing back into the salon, they made it to the level below without encountering any resistance, checking ten cabins, each with a spectacular view of either the Abu Dhabi skyline or the ocean.
But no sign of Omar Al Saud.
Too long, he thought. This is taking too long. They approached the final set of stairs winding down to the lowest level, and Russo came up to two guards protecting the landing. They fired their Uzis in unison.
He jumped back up as a volley of 9 mm rounds pounded the wood veneer on the stairwell wall where he had just been.
“Having fun, boss?” Pacheco asked, reaching for an MK3A2, the waterproof version of the standard MK3 concussion grenade.
Russo checked himself, and Pacheco pulled the ring atop the cylindrical weapon, counted to three, and then tossed it down the steps.
The eight ounces of TNT detonating inside the stairwell reverberated in his ears as the SEAL commander paused before rushing through the haze, finding the guards rolling on the floor, disoriented and unable to stand.
He let his team handle them, focusing on the hallway leading beyond the landing, spotting three more guards huddled by a pair of metal double doors a dozen feet away, seemingly disoriented.
Russo and Pacheco fired their suppressed MP5SD-N weapons in unison as they ran toward them, the barrage lasting just two seconds. Kicking the bodies aside, Russo reached for the door handle and signaled to Pacheco, who removed a second MK3A2.
Inching it open just enough to toss the grenade inside, Russo let go before both stepped back into the hallway.
The blast swung the heavy doors outward, and Russo grabbed one before it closed, scurrying inside. Scanning the smoky interior, he ignored four more guards rolling by the side of a large interior pool with their hands over their ears.
The smell of seawater tickling his nostrils mixed with the cordite hazing the air.
Though the smoke, he saw an Aurora-3C personal submarine hanging from a thick cable, connected to an electric winch on a steel beam running the width of the compartment.
“Shit,” Pacheco said, pointing his MP5SD-N at the bubbling surface a dozen feet from the minisub, where lights suddenly glittered below, under another cable already in the water.
Russo instinctively opened fire, and so did Pacheco and the other two operators, emptying their magazines in the hopes of collapsing the acrylic clear dome of the runaway minisub. But instead of a sudden burst of bubbles, the lights slowly dimmed as the getaway vehicle vanished in the dark waters.
The SEAL commander stood there for a moment, as alarms continued blaring across the vessel. The second team, upon reaching the yacht’s top level, reported a flurry of activity by the shoreline, presumably coastal law enforcement.
Pacheco leaned over and said, “Don’t know about you, boss, but I’m getting that sitting-fucking-duck loving feeling again.”
President Cord Macklin sat in the Treaty Room with DNI Hartwell Prost and Secretary of Defense Pete Adair. Like most of his predecessors, the president used the historical room as a private study, a place to work alone or in the company of his closest advisers.
While Adair briefed the president on Chinese movements in the South China Sea, an aide to Prost stepped into the room, passed him a folded note, and conferred with him in a hushed voice.