"We don't have a lot of time to screw around, so let's get you and your men changed and get rolling."

Harris stood and whistled; then he motioned for his men to follow. Rapp led the five SEALs up into the recesses of the pier where it met with the road. While they changed, Rapp kept watch. Each of the SEALs folded up his wet suit once on his legs and again on his arms. Then they pulled djellabas, sandals, and turbans from their packs. Within minutes they were in disguise and ready to go.

Rapp pulled the group into a tight circle. He had worked with all of the SEALs on previous missions and greeted them individually. Harris had brought along four of his best. To Rapp's right was Mick Reavers, a big linebacker type who weighed in at about two hundred fifty pounds. Next to Reavers were Tony Clark and Jordan Rostein, both medium-built demolition experts who had been swim buddies since they went through Basic Underwater Demolition School, or BUDS, as it was known in the SEAL community. And lastly there was little Charlie Wicker, known by his friends as simply Slick.

Barely five foot six. Wicker weighed less than one hundred fifty pounds, but what he lacked in size he made up for in talent.

Wicker could climb, slither, and shoot better than anyone at SEAL Team Six or Delta Force. He was possibly the best sniper in the business, and with that position came a strange respect.

Other soldiers tend to give snipers a wide berth. Their survival instincts tell them it's not a good idea to mess with someone who can shoot you dead in the head from a thousand yards. Harris and his men had received continuous intelligence updates while onboard the Honolulu.

Thanks to Rapp's intelligence from the ground and the high-resolution satellite imaging of Bandar Abbas, Harris and his men had been able to coordinate the formation of their plan with Rapp before leaving the boat.

Rapp, bent down on one knee, looked at the other five bearded Americans and asked, "Any questions before we get started?" Each of the men answered with a simple shake of his head. Rapp nodded and said, "Good. Harry, let's get things rolling."

Harris touched his lip mike and said, "Bravo Six, this is Whiskey Five. What's your status? Over."

There were several seconds of static, and then the reply came back.

"Whiskey Five, this is Bravo Six. We are ready to roll. Over."

"What's your ETA for our extraction? Over."

"Three two minutes. I repeat three two minutes. Over."

Harris looked at his men and Rapp, who were all listening to the same conversation over their headsets.

"Start the extraction countdown on my mark. Over."

"Roger."

All six men sitting under the dark pier synchronized their digital wristwatches accordingly. Harris spoke precisely.

"Three, two, one, mark." Harris pressed the button on his watch and said, "We'll see you in thirty-two minutes. Bravo Six."

Looking to his left, Harris said, "Slick, you hit the road first. "Then, jerking his thumb, he added, "Get going."

The wiry sniper rose and left the group without saying a word. Two minutes later Tony and Jordan moved out, and then finally Rapp, Harris, and Reavers made their way out from under the tangled wooden structure.

Persian Gulf

ON THE DECK of the USS Independence the rotors of the Pave Low and Pave Hawk started their slow drooping turn.

Within half a minute the bend in the long blades was gone and they were spinning level, their rotor wash buffeting the shirts of the deck crew, who were pulling away the fueling hoses and readying the helicopters for takeoff. Another set of sailors scrambled under the desert-camouflaged helicopters and removed the bright yellow metal chocks from around the landing gear. In the back of the big Pave Low the three crew members checked their weapons. Bristling from the port and starboard hatches were two 7.62-millimeter miniguns, and a third was sling-mounted beside the open cargo ramp. The two pilots, crew chief, and three flight crew members were all wearing night-vision goggles mounted over their flight helmets. Fifty feet away, in the sleek Pave Hawk, the same checks were being conducted. The two door gunners sat at the ready with their miniguns pointing out the open sides—the combination of their bulbous flight helmets and awkward nightvision goggles gave them the ominous appearance of modern technological warriors.

The pilot of the Pave Low gave the order to go feet wet, and a second later the large bird lifted ten feet off the fuel streaked black deck of the super carrier The Pave Low immediately peeled to the port side of the moving ship and went nose down for the waves. The Pave Hawk mimicked the maneuver and pulled into formation one hundred fifty feet back and just to port of the Pave Low. The two helicopters raced eastward for the coast of Iran, skimming the water, their radar profiles nonexistent, the digital time display in their cockpits ticking downward.

Bandar Abbas, Iran AS THEY TURNED into a narrow alley, a strong gust of wind smacked them in the face and snapped their flowing clothes against their bodies like a loosely trimmed sail. Rapp lowered his head and squinted as a wall of dust and sand peppered his face. Fortunately, the billowing clouds still filled the night sky, blotting out the moon. The three Americans, with Rapp in the lead, walked down the dirty streets with their weapons concealed.

Rapp was lightly armed with only a knife and a silenced Beretta 9-mm pistol. The two SEALs had their submachine guns ready and gripped just under the folds of their robes. They traveled a circuitous route to move into position. When they reached an alley several blocks away from their objective, Lt.

Commander Harris called the other SEALs for a status report, while Rapp used the time to check on the helicopters.

Everything was proceeding on schedule. Now all they had to do was sit and wait. Rapp looked down the narrow passageway and checked both entrances. They were well concealed.

Harris tapped Rapp on the shoulder and held his watch in front of Rapp's face. The digital countdown read ten minutes and forty-one seconds until the choppers arrived. Harris asked, "When do you want to get moving?"

Rapp held up three fingers, and Harris nodded.

Leaning against the stucco wall, Rapp closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. He began to visualize what was to come. How he would take the guard out. What to expect when he got to the top of the stairs. He thought he knew how many people would be inside, but one could never be exactly sure. That was why Harris and his people were there. Rapp had seen firsthand during the day that almost every man in the neighborhood carried a gun or rifle. This was, after all, Hezbollah's own backyard.

Rapp felt his chest tighten at the thought, causing a spike in his nerves. He reminded himself that a little bit of fear was a good thing.

At T minus four minutes Harris called for another status report, and everyone checked in by the numbers.

Harris gave Rapp the thumbs up sign, and Rapp pulled the arm of his lip mike down.

"Slick, cover me as I come down the street, but don't shoot unless something goes wrong."

The wiry SEAL had picked a three-story clay house that sat atop a slight hill four blocks away and on the same street as the house they were going to hit. He had deftly slithered his way up a drainpipe and set up position on the flat rooftop. With a foam pad under his elbows and chest, the sniper peered through his night-vision scope at the street below. Tucked next to his right cheek was an Israeli-made Galil sniper rifle with a twenty-round magazine. Wicker loved his Galil. The SEAL had more accurate rifles, but none as rugged and compact. With its collapsible stock and attached bipod, the weapon was ideal for the mission.