Tom Clancy's Act of Valor (14 page)

“Well, what
are
we going to do?” Engel said, looking from Nolan to Miller. “I’d rather send a course of action up the line than have someone else calling our shot. Senior?”

Engel and Nolan were SEAL operators and more than capable of operational planning as it related to the tactical execution of a special operation. But when it came to the evaluation and distillation of intelligence from a variety of sources, assessing various courses of action, and plotting the next move or a succession of moves, Senior Chief Otto Miller ruled. So both Engel and Nolan now sat in silence, waiting for the oracle to speak. They were seated in a quiet corner of the TOC, away from the bustle and activity that buzzed about the rest of the secure facility. Miller carefully stroked his beard, ordering his thoughts.

“There are a lot of unknowns in this, but I do agree that there seems to be an unnerving aggregate of information that suggests some very bad people are up to no good—perhaps some major no good. This Christo is a bad one, but he’s just a businessman. It’s Shabal that has me concerned. He’s ideologically committed, and his kind scares me.” Miller was again silent, then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

“It would seem that the business in Costa Rica had only to do with Morales and Ross getting too close to Christo, and they paid the price for that. But it stands to reason that Christo’s up to something or they would have just killed them—made it look like a drug hit or a botched kidnapping. They took the time and the associated risk of capturing her and conducting an interrogation, which means there’s more to this. But unless I miss my guess, it has nothing to do with Costa Rica—it was about Christo.

“Then there’s this business of what may take place in Somalia. We need to know more about that and how it relates to Christo and any Christo/Shabal tie-in. Is it about drugs? Arms? Money? What’s going on and why? I think we ne [I take place ed to put some eyes on whatever is about to take place there, and since we know where and roughly when, it shouldn’t be too difficult. Logistically complex, but not too difficult. The good news is that since we’re under code-word protocol, we can ask for just about any support we might need for a special reconnaissance mission, and we’ll get it. The bad news is that since it is a code-word operation, we may not have the luxury of assigning that SR mission to another team in the time available to us.”

Miller lapsed into a moment of silence before continuing. “And finally, there’s this business of phone intercepts and traces that lead from Christo’s Costa Rican operation to the Ukraine, Russia, Indonesia, and the Philippines. We have no idea where Shabal is, but we do have indications that Christo is no longer in Central America or Eastern Europe. He does have an oceangoing yacht that was just sighted in the Strait of Malacca. So there’s a good chance he may be coordinating things from there. Or if he’s not there, he soon will be. He’s a careful one, and there’s a good chance that he’d like to be aboard his yacht and halfway around the world if there’s some kind of attack on the homeland. I don’t think that yacht is over there for crew training; he wants it there for a reason. And that brings us to what these two might be planning, and we have to assume it’s an attack on U.S. soil.

“If that’s the case, it seems reasonable that Christo’s connections with the cartels in South and Central American might well figure into this, which means some kind of breach across our southern border. Until we get better information, or information to the contrary, I think we have to play it that way. You currently have only six in your team, and that may be enough for a small direct-action assault or a raid, but not enough for backup or a blocking force. SEAL Team One is midway through their deployment preparation. I recommend that you ask that a full platoon be put on an eight-hour flyaway standby in case you get a mission tasking. No need to read them into code-word protocols, but have them on standby in case you need them, okay?” Both of them nodded, and Engel made a note on his scratch pad. “Then, even though it’s going to be a pain in the ass, send two of your guys on a special reconnaissance mission to Somalia. You can plan it from here while they’re in transit. I know it cuts your team by two more, but it leaves both of you here to work the traffic and intel picture, and plot the next move as more information comes in.”

“Roger that, Senior,” Nolan said, “but couldn’t they pull a small SR team from a deployed East Coast squadron, even maybe one that’s deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan? I hate to be down two more guys.”

Miller lifted an eyebrow as he considered this. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’m thinking you’re going to want your own guys to do this and come back here on a priority airlift to brief you in person. Again, I could be wrong, but whatever Shabal and Christo have planned will probably go down
after
this business in Somalia, right?”

Nolan pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “Yeah, I can see that. And we stay here, read the traffic and plan, and stand ready for a direct-action launch—if and when.”

“That’s it,” Miller replied. “As far as a staging area, you could be here or in San Diego or at some remote location north of the Tex-Mex border, but the security is good h [ityatiere, and we’ll be off Baja before daybreak tomorrow. And since we’re in lockdown, there’s probably no sense in moving until we get better information.”

Engel and Nolan digested this for a long moment. The senior chief’s analysis, as they expected, was linear and logical.

“So what’s your move, Senior?” Engel asked.

Miller smiled. “Sooner or later, our man Christo is going to board his yacht, which, according to their last port call, is moving slowly into the Gulf of Thailand. I’ve asked Squadron Seven to move a Mark V detachment and to get a platoon into the area and have it standing by. Now that we’re code-worded, I don’t see that as a problem. If and when Christo is heloed out to his yacht, I think I’ll pay a call on him.”

“His boat can take a helo aboard?” Nolan asked.

“Well, it’s a Westship 149 that’s been modified to handle a Bell Jet Ranger. Should be easy to fast-rope aboard from an H-60. The man has sold a lot of drugs and arms, and he knows how to travel in style. And we’ll need a Mark V to catch it; a big Westship can do close to twenty-four knots. But as soon as he’s aboard and in international waters, we just might come calling. Any other questions?”

Engel exhaled, checking his notes. “Guess that’ll do it for now. So, Chief, who do we detach for the SR mission?” He already knew the answer, but he had to ask.

“A.J. and Ray. Who else?”

“Then A.J. and Ray it is.”

Suddenly Dave Nolan turned serious. “This thing is starting to heat up. Maybe our little jaunt in Costa Rica was just the beginning.”

“So it would seem,” Engel replied.

They rose and agreed to meet back with Miller later that evening. As they made their way to the entrance to the TOC, Nolan stopped to refill his coffee mug. The
Bonnie Dick
had more coffeepots stashed around the big ship than Starbucks had corner locations in Seattle. “Coffee, Boss?”

Engel looked over the setup. There was hot water, but he saw no tea bags. “No tea?” he inquired.

“Jesus, Boss. Why can’t you just drink coffee like everyone else in the Navy?”

He gave Nolan a curious look. “Sure, why not,” and he splashed some of the muddy liquid into a disposable cup. They were making their way forward toward the SEAL compartment when Engel suddenly took a stairwell up to the next deck.

Nolan paused. “Where you goin’, Boss.”

“Up to the flight deck for some fresh air. Why don’t you join me.”

Nolan hesitated a moment, then followed his lieutenant topside. It was late afternoon, still well before sunset. The sun was off their port bow as the
Bonnie Dick
shouldered her way north by northwest through the gentle Pacific swells. They exited the island superstructure on the starboard side and made their way slowly forward, walking into a twenty-knot wind. Engel tentatively sipped at his coffee, not really wanting to drink it. Then he stopped and turned to Nolan.

“Okay, Chief, let’s have it.”

“Sir?”

“Cut the bullshit, Chief. What’s on your mind?”

Nolan just shrugged. “The op we just finished, this Christo/Shabal shit, the code-word protocols, all of it. Boss, you got a kid on the way, your first kid. Contingency deployments aren’t supposed to be like this—not this active. I was hoping to break you away and get you home for a week or so. Now it looks like we’re trapped. We’re going to be with this for a while, probably to the end. This pisses me off. It’s your first kid. You should be home with Jackie.”

Engel smiled, turned, and they continued to walk. “It’d be nice, but I don’t think that’s in the cards.”

“Maybe it’ll break quickly and go smoothly, hey? Get it done and get you detached.”

“Maybe, but don’t count on it. If it was going to be smooth and easy, they’d send in the Marines or the Army, right?” Nolan said nothing. “You remember our last pump over in al-Anbar, when things got real slow at the end? And you wanted to cut me loose to go home with the advanced redeployment party so I could be home for our anniversary? But in the back of my mind I was thinking, ‘What if something happens and we get a mission tasking? What if something goes down and I’m not there?’ I just couldn’t live with that.”

Nolan was silent now, looking resigned.

“Well, I couldn’t duck out then, and I sure as hell can’t duck out now. If we get this thing resolved, then maybe I’ll catch a flight back and see Jackie for a few days. But let’s just focus on getting it done, which reminds me, we ought to get below and let Ray and A.J. know they’re about to be detached to do the SR. They need to start getting their gear together.”

“Ah, they already know, Boss. I told them to start packing just before we met with the senior chief. I’ve scheduled them out on the fi
rst helo tomorrow morning.”

Engel stopped and faced him. “But didn’t we just decide . . . I mean how did you know . . . ?”

“That’s why you got the number one platoon chief at Team Seven, Boss. I’m paid to be one step ahead. It comes from drinking a lot of coffee—something,” he glanced at Engel’s still full cup, “you’ll probably never get the hang of.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost eighteen hundred. Let’s head f [ettoon or the mess decks and see what this tub is serving for dinner chow.”

SEVEN

“Oh, miss. I’ll have another ginger ale if you don’t mind?”

The flight attendant scowled at him, then headed aft. A moment later she returned with a plastic cup with clear bubbly and no ice. She all but dropped the cup on the generous armrest between the two passengers, slopping a little as she did so.

“And another bag of peanuts would be nice as well.”

She returned with a handful of small packets and dumped them in his lap. “If there’s anything else you need,” she said, “you can damn well get it yourself,” and she was gone.

“You always have to push it, don’t you?” A.J. said to his seatmate. He was seated by the window, thumbing through the latest edition of the special-operations quarterly magazine,
Front Sight Focus
.

“Y’know,” his companion replied as he mopped up the soft-drink spill, “you’d think that when you have your own airplane, you’d get treated with a little more respect.”

“Your own airplane—yeah, right. Let me know if you’re going to give the lady any more shit so I can move. The next drink order is probably going to get poured over your head, and I want no part of it.”

Alfonso Joseph Markum and Ray Diamond were a study in contrast. A.J. was lean and compact, with smooth olive-colored skin and regular features. He had deep-set dark eyes that complemented thick, wavy hair, which he kept well-barbered and just slightly longer than regulation. His mixed lineage allowed him to pass for just about anything but white. There was a sense of effortless dignity to A.J. and an almost natural civility that often caused others to underestimate him. He was polite to a fault. Almost no one would take him for the capable martial artist that he was. When he moved, it was with economy and purpose, like someone with ballet training. And he could be deceptively fast.

Ray was taller and heavier, and bore the scarring of teenage acne that at best gave him a swarthy look. He had royal blue eyes and a James Coburn smile that seemed at odds with the gangland tattoos that covered both arms. He, too, was dark, but not as dark as A.J. His computer and IT skills aside, most of the Bandito SEALs, including his platoon officer and platoon chief, considered him something of a genius. He refused to speak of his past, and his service record listed his education only as a GED equivalent. Yet his military test scores were off the chart.

The two SEALs were traveling in an elevated style, at least on this leg of their journey. The analysis of the computer and cell phone they had obtained from the compound in Costa Rica had produced solid evidence of a terrorist plot. It had also yielded a date and a location in Somalia linked to the plot. This proved to be their only solid lead to what seemed to be plans for an attack on the American homeland ^ sized t. It was decided to send a team on a special reconnaissance mission to that location in Somalia. Since the threat appeared to be significant and credible, the operation had been assigned a code word—which greatly restricted who could be brought into the picture. It was decided to send an element from the small Bandito squad for the SR mission. Both Lieutenant Engel and Chief Nolan had officially requested that an SR team from some other SEAL or special-operations unit be tasked with the mission. For now, those up the chain of command, which reached quite high, wanted as few in on these developments as practical. So Ray and A.J. had been dispatched from the
Bonhomme Richard
for this desert rendezvous.

After Lieutenant Engel and Chief Nolan briefed them on the mission, they had launched from the
Bonhomme Richard
in a CH-53E Super Stallion. It was at the limit of the Super Stallion’s range, but they had made it to the Naval Air Station in Corpus Christi, Texas, in one jump. There they had transitioned to their current ride, a Gulfstream G5. When the commander of the U.S. Special Operations Command in Tampa had been read into the code-worded operation, he had put his personal command aircraft at the disposal of the mission requirements. Now the Bandito reconnaissance team was over the Atlantic. After a refueling stop at Tenerife in the Canary Islands, they would make the final jump across North Africa to Addis Ababa. From there, they were not yet sure of their future travel to the job site. They knew it would be interesting but most likely not so luxurious. In the rear of the Gulfstream, they had several bags of gear and they were not traveling light. Their primary mission would be that they see and not be seen, but if it came to a fight, they had to be ready for that as well. Just then, Ray’s Iridium satellite phone sounded. He had it programmed to loudly play the
William Tell Overture
. The sound carried to the rear of the quiet executive jet, bringing a frown from the single flight attendant, an Air Force master sergeant who was both senior to and a little tired of her two demanding SEAL passengers. Not to mention that both cell and satellite phones were not allowed to be used on military aircraft.

“It’s okay,” Ray called back to her with his best killer smile, as A.J. rolled his eyes. “It’s a business call.” Then into the phone. “Special Operations Executive Service. Wars fought, uprisings quelled, governments toppled, and virgins converted. How may we help you today, sir or ma’am? . . . Oh, yes, sir . . . Understood, sir . . . Yes, sir . . . Absolutely, sir . . . Roger that, sir.” Then after a long pause while he listened, “Just as soon as we’re ready to launch . . . Understood, sir . . . Until then.”

“So what’s up, Mr. Executive Operator? I take it that was the boss?”

“It was,” Ray replied. “He gave me the rest of our travel itinerary. Looks like we’ll do it all on this trip,” and he briefed A.J. on what was ahead for them.

“It seems like a lot of trouble just to cross the beach of a failed state,” A.J. replied.

“I guess it has to do with the pirate thing in Somalia. It seems the Skinnies have a pretty effective coast-watching system set up, and there’s a lot of traffic in the Gulf of Aden. And there are the naval vessels of several nations there on pirat cherliarde patrol. They’re taking no chances getting us ashore unnoticed.”

“Whatever,” A.J. replied. “Let’s hope it’s a walk in the park and not another slugfest like the last one.” He sighed. “But like all our little field trips, getting there is half the fun.” He went back to his magazine. Ray pushed his call button to see if maybe the master sergeant could rustle them up a couple of sandwiches.

*  *  *

Miles away in the Ukraine, two aging Russian pilots climbed into their ancient Albatross aircraft, which was easily five times as old as the Gulfstream that carried A.J. and Ray. They grumbled that their boss had called them at 4
A.M.
and told them to get to their aircraft and start heading south. They knew it would be a rough flight, with multiple refueling stops, many of them in third-world shitholes. With each stop, they risked getting a bad load of fuel that would damage their engines—or worse.

But the money was good, and their employer had promised them a substantial bonus if they arrived precisely on time. They were flying for themselves now, not for the Russian Air Force, which had pretended to pay them decades earlier. Yet the sooner they got the mission done and got back to their adopted country, the better.

*  *  *

The Gulfstream set down at Bole International, just outside the Ethiopian capital, a few minutes before 1700 local time and taxied to a remote section of apron, well off the main service strip. The presence of a G5 was unusual but not unheard of. Since there were no markings, ground personnel assumed the aircraft belonged to some Saudi or Kuwaiti prince, making a refueling stop on the way to Cape Town, possibly on a diamond-buying expedition. While the fuel bowser attended to the Gulfstream, the two SEALs saw their gear off the aircraft and into a small warehouse that had been leased by the American embassy in Addis Ababa. Each had a backpack, a good-sized duffel, and a hard case for their weapon—a short hard case, as they were carrying only M4 rifles. The embassy representative who was there to meet the plane watched the two SEALs make their way inside. He waited a few moments at the bottom of the air stairs for the others. When it became apparent that there
were
no others, he followed them inside.

“Gentlemen, my name is William Leach, and I’m from the embassy. I’m to see to your needs for the short time I understand you are to be here.” He proffered an envelope. “And to give you these sealed orders.”

“Thank you, William,” Ray replied. He took the envelope and stepped away to where A.J. waited for him. Ray broke the seal, then extracted a second envelope with yet another seal. The second envelope was marked T
OP
S
ECRET,
E
YES
O
NLY
, which meant it was not to be copied, only read.

“Concentric Russian dolls,” A.J. offered.

“So it would seem.”

Ray broke the second seal, removed yet another envelope, and removed the message. They read it together. The message contained little new information but did confirm the support and transportation platforms that would be available to them for this special reconnaissance. Then they turned to Leach.

“You know what’s in this?” Ray said, holding up the message.

Leach had the neat look of an embassy gofer—mid-thirties, well turned out in chinos and a starched, open-collar shirt. He had the beginnings of mottling on his cheeks that said he was on the legation cocktail circuit. It was a known fact the embassy staffers in African capitals consumed their share of Beefeater gin and Schweppes tonic.

“Absolutely not,” he replied, “and I’m told that its classification and special-handling protocols are outside my security clearance.”

“So what are we supposed to do with it now?”

Leach took a step back. “Uh, I have no idea. Now that it’s open, I can’t handle it.”

Ray looked at A.J., who just shrugged. “I guess we can eat it, or we can burn it. Probably ought to burn it.”

“Yeah,” A.J. concurred. He pulled a Bic lighter from his shirt pocket and fired it up. He touched the resulting tongue of flame to the corner of the message while Ray held it. Ray let the single sheet become engulfed in flames and nearly singe his fingers before he let it fall to the concrete floor. After it burned out, he scattered the blackened residue with his boot.

“Uh, I’m not sure that’s an approved method for the destruction of a classified document,” Leach said.

“Neither am I,” Ray replied. “But I didn’t want to eat it, and we sure as hell can’t take it with us.”

The embassy man shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “I’ll have to report this,” he said, “when I get back to the embassy.”

“No worries here,” A.J. said, “but in the meantime, what are your instructions?”

“Ah, I’m to remain here and be of any service I can to you fellows.”

“Really? Well, we have some new instructions for you. We have a long night ahead of us and some gear to prep before we leave. Why don’t you see if you can rustle us up something to eat? We like to eat before we go to work, and God knows when we’ll next get a decent meal.”

“I, uh, well. I suppose I could do that. What do you have in mind?”

Without hesitation, Ray answered. “How about a Philly cheesesteak?”

“Exactly,” A.J. chimed in. “With lots of grilled onions.”“Nt>

Leach stood there with his mouth open for several seconds, then said, “I’ll see what I can do.” He turned on his heel and left.

As he left by a side door to the warehouse, they could hear the engines of the Gulfstream begin to spool up. The Air Force master sergeant stepped past Leach as he made his way out.

“He didn’t look too happy,” she reported.

“Embassy business,” Ray deadpanned. “We can’t talk about it.”

She ignored him and handed A.J. a bulky paper bag. “There are a couple of box lunches in there that I liberated from the commander’s personal larder.” She paused a moment, then continued, “Look, I know you two lowlifes wouldn’t be on my bird unless it was something important—and probably dangerous. You guys take care of yourselves, and good luck.”

“Thank you, Master Sergeant,” A.J. replied.

“Yeah, thanks,” Ray echoed. “We really do appreciate it.”

She threw them a casual salute and took her leave. Moments later, they heard the whine of jet engines rise an octave and then grow fainter as the Gulfstream taxied away.

“That was nice,” Ray said, “but I’m holding out for a Philly cheesesteak.”

“Yeah, dream on. But, yes, it was nice of her, and these, my friend,” A.J. replied, sniffing the contents with approval, “are four-star box lunches. Just look at them as backup chow; it may be the only backup we have on this operation.”

“Yep, looks that way,” Ray agreed.

They put the box lunches aside on the floor and, under the fluorescent glow of a single suspended fixture, began to lay out their operational gear. At 2030, shortly before dusk, two Marine CH-53E Super Stallion helicopters set down a hundred yards from the warehouse. While the helos refueled, the two SEALs made ready. A.J. and Ray now wore their kits, but they were not operationally configured. They were kitted up for intermediate travel. They wore their backpacks in normal fashion, but their duffels were clipped to D-rings on the front of their harnesses. The M4s in their hard cases were strapped to their sides. As they stepped from the door of the warehouse, a Land Rover screeched to a halt in front of them. It was Leach. He handed Ray a paper sack that was well stained with large grease spots. The smell alone told them that he had accomplished his mission.