Swanson drank some water, wiped his hands and passed the word to prepare to move out. He called for the guide and when he approached, Kyle kicked the man’s legs from beneath him and dropped him to the ground. Joe Tipp was there to wrap duct tape around the ankles and put plastic flex ties on the wrists. Another strip of tape went over the mouth.
“You have done well so far to get us here, my friend, and we do this not to harm you but just to insure your silence,” Kyle told the guide. “We cannot afford to trust you. Stay still and quiet and you will be fine. I promise that we will pick you up on our way out. Attempt to warn those bastards down there and you will wish you were dead long before you actually are.”
The guide stared into the set of gray-green eyes and the cold face and nodded. He understood.
THE SIX TRIDENT MARINES picked their way downhill, carefully planting their boots to prevent stumbling or sliding on rocks. There was no hurry. It was dark and the terrorists in the camp were still milling around, finishing their food and drink.
This was exactly when Kyle had wanted to strike. He felt no alarm at all about violating any sacred religious rites, because the men in that camp were killers, through and through. This had nothing to do with religion, and everything to do with tactical advantage, for Swanson considered the fasting and prayer times of his enemy to present extraordinary opportunities, small openings during which their guard was down, their alertness dim, and their vulnerability extreme.