General Rizal closed the file and removed his reading glasses. His expression was unreadable. In a very precise manner, the older man placed his reading glasses in a case and stowed them in his breast pocket. He looked down at the file resting on his knee and sadly shook his head.

"So General Moro is a traitor."

"Unless you have another explanation, that would appear to be the case."

The general frowned.

"I have none." Rizal still had yet to make eye contact with Rapp.

"In fact, when I look back on certain events, this makes sense." Rizal's stubby fingers tapped the file.

"Abu Sayyaf, moving so freely, twice being cornered, but miraculously escaping both times. We were all convinced that if Moro and his vaunted commandos couldn't hunt down the rebels then no one could." The general shook his head.

"How could I have been so blind?"

"Were you friends?" asked Rapp.

"No," said Rizal without emotion.

"I never liked the man, but he has his supporters. He is very smooth politically, and his men love him.

He has created his own cult of personality, something that has concerned me and a few others for some time."

Rapp liked the sound of that. Through the profiles that the CIA and Defense Intelligence Agency had provided, Rapp already knew Moro's commandos were fiercely loyal to him. This, combined with the new information that Moro had enemies within the general staff, made Rapp confident that he could sell his plan without having to twist any arms.

"What would his men do if he was relieved of his command?"

"I'm not sure." The American's implication was obvious.

"I can recall him to Manila on any one of a dozen pretenses, all of them seemingly legitimate, but going public with arresting him, that will be the tricky part. He has many allies, some of them wildly popular and very anti-American. They will say that you framed him." Rizal sadly shook his head and added, "And there are many people in my country who will want to believe that." Looking out the window he added in a defeated voice, "Our military is very weak right now. I don't know how we will survive a scandal of this magnitude."

Rapp saw his chance.

"There's another way out of this, sir."

For the first time Rizal made eye contact.

"Moro has broken his oath as an officer," Rapp started.

"He's a traitor plain and simple." Rapp pointed to the file.

"This is just the tip of the iceberg, by the way. If you brought him up on a court-martial he'd be buried under the evidence and ultimately sentenced to death. You can choose to go that route or we can try something else."

"I'm listening."

Rapp hesitated only briefly.

"I want his head." His dark eyes never left the general's.

"Two U.S. Navy SEALs are dead because of him, and a family of innocent noncombatants are still being held hostage because Moro has aided and abetted the enemy. If we arrest him he will be court-martialed, and despite the politics of the situation, he will be convicted and more than likely sentenced to death. But as you've pointed out, such a trial will severely damage our two countries' relationship and the image of the Philippine army." Easing back, Rapp added, "I think both of us would prefer to see this problem dealt within a more subtle way."

Rizal thought about this for a minute. He knew exactly what the American was getting at.

"What would you need from me?"

Rapp carefully examined the general and then began to lay out his plan. By midmorning the problem would be neutralized and the Philippine people would have a martyr to rally behind in their battle against the Muslim rebels.

SEVENTEEN.

Cruising at 600 mph the Gulfstream jet made the relatively short hop from Manila to Samar Island in just under an hour, and touched down at an unlit private landing strip near the southern tip of the island. It came to a brief stop at the end of the runway, just long enough for Coleman and his men to deplane, and then raced back down the asphalt and into the star-filled sky.

The four men stood in silence as the roar of jet engines was replaced by the jungle's nocturnal murmuring. They were still well outside the combat zone, but they all instinctively spread out, each man putting his eyes on a different sector. They were in jungle fatigues, their faces smeared with greasepaint and their weapons dangling at their sides.

The airstrip and the acreage surrounding it belonged to a Japanese businessman. He'd bought the 1,200-acre plantation and built himself a magnificent home overlooking the ocean and an eighteen hole golf course for his private amusement. Rapp had his people at the CTC (CIA's Counterterrorism Center) do a few discreet inquiries and discovered that the home was rarely used during the week and was currently unoccupied. There was a caretaker on the premises, but they would be long gone by the time he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and came to investigate.

Two of the former SEALs, Kevin Hackett and Dan Stroble, donned their night vision goggles and moved off in opposite directions, their MP-10 suppressed submachine guns hanging at their sides. Coleman chose not to put on his NVGs, looking off in the distance at the big house on the hill, now washed by moonlight. He took a small pair of field binoculars from his chest pocket to get a closer look at the house.

A couple of exterior lights were on, but otherwise the place was black.

A single light shone from the gatehouse across the drive from the main house. Coleman studied the structure for a time and was looking at the front door when the caretaker stepped outside. A slight frown creased his brow as he silently hoped their ride would arrive before he had to deal with this problem.

The fourth man arrived silently at Coleman's side.

"The chopper's on its way in."

Coleman tilted an ear toward the sky, but heard nothing. He looked down at Charlie Wicker and nodded. He trusted Wicker's senses more than his own. In fact, he trusted Wicker's eyes and ears more than probably any other soldier he'd ever worked with. Barely five foot six, Wicker was almost elfish in appearance. He was the best sniper Coleman had ever seen in action and had been handpicked by Rapp for the operation. Wicker was the only active-duty man on the team. Rapp had sheep-dipped him from SEAL Team 6. When they got into position Wicker would be the star of the show.

A full ten seconds after Wicker had alerted him, Coleman heard the thumping noise of helicopter rotors against the heavy tropical air.

The MH-60G Pave Hawk helicopter came in fast, skimming the tops of the trees and then passing over the heads of Coleman and his men.

It flared out immediately like a horse being pulled back in by its reins, its tail landing gear looking like it would hit the tarmac hard. At the last minute the wheel stabilized a mere foot above the ground until the front landing gear came into line. The menacing bird set down gently without the aid of its heavy-duty shock absorbers.

Coleman and his men watched all of this with great interest. They expected the best, and it looked like they'd got it. The bird belonged to the Air Force Special Operations Command. It was part of the 353rd Special Operations Group out of Kadena Air Base in Japan. The specifics of the op had been taken care of on the flight over. Rapp had given Coleman the mission objective and told him to organize the details.

Anything he needed was to be routed through General Campbell at the Joint Special Operations Command back at Fort Bragg. Coleman had one request and it was pretty simple, but very important. He asked for the best flight crew available. As evidenced by the failed mission to rescue the Andersons, the most dangerous part of any op was usually the insertion and the extraction.