Tom Clancy's Act of Valor (16 page)

“Captain, I’m going to let Senior Chief Miller read you into this. He’s been with the operation since the beginning, and he has a good handle on the situation.”

“Okay, Senior, let’s have it.”

“Uh, it’s a rather long story, sir. Before we begin,” he said as he sipped appreciatively at the coffee, “let me apologize for your not being read in to this operation from the beginning. Sometimes those up the line, in the interest of security, get a little stingy with the information. So let’s take this from the beginning.”

*  *  *

Aboard the USS
Michigan
,
Ray and A.J. stood off to one side in their dry suits. The previous sixteen hours had been occupied with a few hours’ sleep and a lot of preparation and briefings, along with a final text message from Lieutenant Engel and Chief Nolan. They were now in the metal chamber on the deck of the
Michigan
called the dry deck shelter, a pressurized garage whose interior walls were a maze of pipes, air flasks, and fittings. In the harsh fluorescent glow of the crowded space, a single SEAL delivery vehicle rested in its cradle.

For now, there was little for the recon SEALs to do; they were merely spectators to the preparations that would see them from the
Michigan
to their drop-off point off the Somali coast. They wore only their Mk15 scuba rigs, which had been meticulously prepared earlier that afternoon. Since the depth of the dry deck shelter would be close to sixty feet, they would use the more sophisticated Mk15 mixed-gas diving rig rather than the standard Dräger rebreather. While the SDV SEALs and their diving-submersible technicians made their final checks, the speaker overhead barked out the launch countdown.

“Ten minutes to launch sequence—ten minutes to launch sequence. All nonessential personnel should now exit the shelter.”

Then, “Five minutes to launch sequence initiation. All craft personnel should be in place. All hanger handlers should be in place.” The hatch that mated the dry deck shelter to the
Michigan
was now closed, and they were environmentally segregated from the mother submarine.

Ray and A.J., helped by two SDV SEALs, climbed into the rear compartment of the SDV. Up in the forward compartment, the pilot and navigator were already in place, powering up their propulsion and navigation systems. Both had done this dozens of times before in training, but given that this was an operational mission, they went through their checklists with additional attention to deta cntihistiil. The SDV master chief, in dry suit and traditional scuba attire, stepped to the side of the submersible and offered his hand, first to A.J., then to Ray.

“You sure that you don’t need me to go along to keep you two out of trouble?”

“Thanks, Master Chief. We could probably use the help, but three’s a crowd, and this one’s a sneak and peek.”

“Then good luck to you both. The SDV will stand offshore and surface at half-hour intervals for a comm check and in case you need an emergency extraction. They’ll stay on station for about four hours before they head back to the
Michigan
.”

“Thanks for everything, Master Chief. Your guys are great.”

“Ditto, Master Chief,”
Ray echoed. “
Mahalo
and
aloha
.”

The senior chief took his position along the forward bulkhead of the shelter, from where he would direct the launch. The SDV pilot and navigator signaled that their systems were up and they were ready to launch. Two SEALs and two SDV Team diving technicians stood by on either side of the SDV to assist with the launch. On the signal of one of the diving techs, Ray and A.J. began to purge their scubas, breathing in from the rig and exhaling through their nose and mask so as to replace the air in their lungs with the nitrogen-oxygen mix in their scubas. A loud buzzer sounded, and the dry deck shelter began to fill with water. As it filled, swallowing up SDVs, SEALs, and divers, the pressure inside the shelter was gradually increased to equal that of the sixty-foot depth at which the
Michigan
was moving through the Gulf of Aden. Her forward progress was about three knots, just enough to make steerageway and to hold depth. The fluorescent lights in the shelter now took on an emerald shade. Then the launch crew began the much-rehearsed and well-choreographed sequence of events that undocked the SDV, attached the bow planes, and eased the craft gently aft and out from its underwater hanger. A.J. and Ray felt rather than saw the big pressure door hinge back to open the dry deck shelter to the open ocean. They did notice the fluorescent lighting of the shelter give way to the blackness of the open sea.

The SDV was towed by a steel cable as it followed the mother sub, hovering just behind and above the shelter. When the pilot and navigator were again satisfied with their systems and instrumentation, the pilot turned on his lithium-ion-powered electric motor and began to match the speed of the
Michigan
. He then dropped the tow cable. For several minutes, the SDV matched the course and speed of the big submarine, like a small pilot fish keeping station on a whale shark. Then it veered to port and took a southerly heading for Somalia.

At the SDV’s six-knot cruising speed, they had a three-hour run to their offshore insertion point. The little craft finally leveled off at its cruising depth of fifteen feet, as the four SEALs aboard shifted from their Mk15s to “boat air,” or the SDV’s internal supply of breathing air from the onboard compressed-air bottles. Their scubas were now backup/bailout rigs. The onboard breathing m
outhpieces were modified for speech. Hearing was achieved through the use of a “bone phone,” a circular transducer held to the diver’s temple by his diving cby ari hood. The speech was garbled and understandable, and the bone phones transmitted sound quite well. Yet both the SEALs in the rear compartment were surprised when Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto no. 2 in C Minor floated over the SDV’s comm system. A.J. appreciated both the music and the skill of the SDV’s navigator, who had found a way to hook his iPod into the underwater sound system. Ray was a little miffed that there was no salsa music on board, but he’d brought a book. He read with a waterproof mini-headlamp, and after finishing a page, he pulled it from the soaked book and jettisoned it from a crack in the canopy of the SDV. He did this because it passed the time and because he could.

EIGHT

On the
Bonhomme Richard
, Lieutenant Roark Engel and Chief Dave Nolan read message traffic and followed events as they unfolded in the Gulf of Aden and the South China Sea. Each morning they, along with Sonny and Weimy, met on the flight deck for a physical training session. The Marines aboard jogged around the perimeter of the flight deck. The four SEALs jogged bow to stern, then sprinted into the wind, stern to bow. Following forty minutes of these wind sprints, they retired to the
Bonnie Dick
’s extensive weight room for more punishment. On the third day, Nolan found Engel in the compartment assigned to the SEALs and their equipment and took him aside.

“Look, sir, we’re within helo range of the beach, and you got a kid on the way. There’s a good chance that this, whatever might be developing, is not going to mature into a real threat. Or if it does, some other agency or strike element is going to step in and handle it. Or the bad guys, if we just stand back and keep an eye on them, will fuck it up themselves without any interference from us. As you well know, they’ve been known to do just that. So go spend a few days with your wife. I can handle it, and if something breaks, I’ll give you a shout and you can get right back down here. Right now it’s a wait and see. Until we get more from A.J. and Ray or from Senior Chief Miller, there’s not a lot we can do. Seriously, man, family is important.”

Engel allowed himself to consider what Nolan was saying. As the
Bonnie Dick
steamed north, there was little for him and the others to do but await developments and more intelligence. As the Bandito Platoon commander, Roark Engel was the only one who did not have to surrender his satellite phone. He was now the sole link between his SEALs and their families back home. Jackie understood this and so when he called, he let her know all was well with the men and she passed on family news as needed. His men needed to know their families were okay, and in turn, the families wanted to know their men were fine. In her conversations with Roark she had made no demands, but he knew she would like him home if that was at all possible—he could hear it in her voice, and he knew all too well this was a challenging pregnancy. He
ached
to be there for her. It
was
possible for him to make a trip home, but not easy—at least not easy for him. First of all, there was the operation—one that could quite possibly be a big one if it did go down. And though there was little for him to do right now, if things did begin to break, they might break very quickly. What if the mission went down and for some reason he couldn’t get back in time? Past the operational issues, there was the fact that he
was
on deployment. Special operators often allowed themselves privileges not normally afforded others ferty.s did in the military. Yes, they deployed often, and they often went in harm’s way. They also spent much more time away from their families than almost anyone else in the military. But no male sailor or officer on the
Bonnie Dick
could simply have himself flown off the ship because his wife was having a baby, unless, of course, there were serious complications. Roark Engel was not someone who could easily take advantage of his position or leave what he considered his duty post. And then there was the priority of the mission. It was, after all, a code-word operation.

“Understood, Chief, and thanks. I’ll think about it and get back to you.”

That evening while at his small desk in the SEAL compartment, he called Jackie on his Iridium satellite phone. It was one of the few times he called his wife while on deployment when they were in the same time zone. He found her at home, folding clothes with the TV on in the background.

“Hi, darlin’. How’s my favorite expectant mother?” he began.

“Roark! I’m so glad to hear your voice.” She was about to ask, “Where are you?” but stopped herself in time. “How is everything wherever you are?”

“All is well here, and for the moment, things are pretty quiet.” He could never discuss operational matters over the phone, but he knew that saying they were inactive would cheer her up. “The question is, how are you and the little one getting along?”

“I’m a little tired, but everything’s fine.
Your
child kept me up most of last night. Wouldn’t stop kicking me. Oh, and I’m as big as a house.”

Engel ached to be home, to be able to hold his wife—to spoon up with her in bed and run his hand over her belly. “Listen, hon, there’s a chance I may be able to break away and get home for a few days—just a chance,” he quickly added.

“Oh, Roark. That would be wonderful.”

“There’s a project I’m working on,” he said guardedly, “that could go either way. It could turn out to be nothing, in which case Dave Nolan can keep an eye on things while I’m gone. But it could be something that will keep me tied up here. I’m telling you this, as there may be a chance I can get away, but right now it’s up in the air. I wish I could be more definite, but that’s just the way it is.”

Jackie Engel considered this and her response carefully. She sensed that her husband was torn between his duty to her and his job—more specifically his duty to his men. She’d give anything to have him with her, even for a few days. Well, almost anything. She knew that if she pressured him, he’d come, and at the expense of shortchanging his strong sense of duty.

Well before the baby, before they had even talked about marriage, Roark had made it clear to her that she would have to share him with the life he’d chosen and his duties and responsibilities as a professional warrior. She’d accepted that, even thought it noble and romantic. But that was then and this was now. She always k. Std"missed him when he was gone, but she’d never needed him close more than at this very moment. Yet she somehow knew that the man she loved and needed would somehow not remain the same man if she forced him to leave his post on the eve of a mission or if his men should have to go into harm’s way without him. If Dave Nolan and the others needed him and he wasn’t there for
them
, then something between the two of them would be lost, perhaps lost forever.
My God,
she briefly reflected,
before I met Roark, I would never have considered marriage with someone who was gone half the time and in mortal danger on the job. But that was before. I’ve accepted the role of the spouse of a warrior, and now I have to accept this. I love him dearly, and he’s worthy of this sacrifice, but still
 . . . “Hon, you still there?”

“I’m here, Roark. Listen, if you can get here, nothing would please me more. If you’re really needed there, then don’t come. My mom will be here day after tomorrow, and Julia Nolan looks in on me daily. It would be wonderful to have you here, and I do miss you. But it’s your call; only you know where you’ll be needed most. If you can’t come or even if you can’t be here when the baby’s born, I know it’s because you’re needed elsewhere, and I can deal with it. I do understand.”

There was a pause before he replied, “God, I love you.” Another pause. “If it’s possible, I’ll be there. I’ll even let your mom boss me around and do what she tells me. If I can’t be there, you’ll know that I’m on a project and I can’t leave—that it’s not where I want to be; it’s where I have to be.”

“I know, Roark, and I know that what you decide will be the right thing for all of us.” All of us, she mused—her, the baby, and those SEALs who depended on him. “And I love you more than words can say.”

They talked for another ten minutes and swapped platoon-family news, but what needed to be said had been said. And yet nothing had changed; it was as they both knew it would be, but that did not make it any easier or less painful. After Roark rang off, Jackie sat in their small Coronado living room, one hand on the cradled receiver and the other resting on her swollen belly. Tears found their way down her cheek, dripping off her chin and falling on the hand that caressed their child.

Roark Engel slipped the Iridium phone back into the cargo pocket of his trousers. He felt equal measures of relief and longing. She had made it clear that it was his call, and she supported whatever he would decide. Still, it was not an easy call. He wanted to be with her and to share in this miraculous journey they were on—this child, their first child. Yet he knew he could not leave unless this potential threat was somehow eliminated. Navy SEALs often find themselves hoping that conditions align themselves such that they are cleared for a mission. More often than not, conditions don’t align and the mission is canceled. For the first time, Roark Engel found himself hoping that this one would get canceled or go down quickly, so he could somehow get home to his wife and unborn child.

He pushed himself to his feet and headed for the
Bonhomme Richard
’s communications center to see if there was any recent message traffic about Shabal and the threat. He moved with a clear head and a heavy heart. He was not the first Navy SEAL, nor the last, to find his calling in confli king Hect with family responsibilities.

*  *  *

Another LHD was steaming south at best speed in the South China Sea. Senior Chief Otto Miller and his task unit commander, Todd Crandall, were again with the captain of the
Makin Island
and gathered over a chart of the coast of Malaysia.

“Sir, we are looking for a private yacht that we know from satellite imagery is somewhere off the coast of Sarawak. It was physically last seen in the Bay of Brunei, anchored several miles from the capital of Bandar. The British consulate there made some inquiries for us, but we really only know that she sailed in two nights ago, apparently coasting in Malay waters. The game here is to track her and, if possible, catch her in international waters and board her.”

“What kind of a craft are we looking for?” Captain McMasters asked.

“A nice one,” Miller replied. “She’s a Westship Tri-Deck 149, with the ability to take a small helo aboard. Her name is the
Osrah
, which means ‘family’ in Arabic, and she was built in 2002 in Westport, Washington. The out-the-door price was just north of sixteen million. She has a range of twenty-five hundred nautical miles and a cruising speed of eighteen knots. Her top speed is twenty-two, which makes her about as fast as your ship . . . sir.”

“And you think this Christo fellow is aboard.”

“We believe so. Once we pin down her exact location and can get close enough to launch a drone, we think that we can confirm his presence by cell-phone activity. This guy has a lot of money and a lot of interests worldwide. When the owner is not aboard the luxury yacht, there’s minimal cell traffic. When the owner and his party are aboard, that activity goes up dramatically. We don’t necessarily need to decode his transmissions, which would be difficult, as we know he uses some very sophisticated encryption, but we can be pretty certain he’s aboard by the volume of traffic.”

“If this guy is just a Central American drug smuggler, tell me again why it’s so important that we had to break off from our work in the Philippines and have my ship apprehend him at sea?”

Miller began in a soft, professorial tone. There’s a compelling body of evidence that those linked with our friend Christo, aka Mikhail Troikawicz, are planning a 9/11–type event in our country. Christo is not a doer, but he’s a supplier—an arranger, if you will. His main enterprise is the transshipment and smuggling of drugs. Yet his Chechen roots have on occasion led him to aiding and abetting terrorists. On those occasions when he has allowed his organization to support terrorism, it has been to help one Shabal Khanov Kasparian, or Mohammad Abu Shabal, or just Shabal, as he is generally called. Christo is a capitalist—an evil, mercenary, and ruthless drug dealer, but still a capitalist. Shabal is another animal. We don’t know where he is, but there’s every indication that he’s up to something big. Yet we do know where Christo is, or where we think he is. He may or may not know the whereabouts of Shabal or his plans, but it’s our best lead. I, or rather we, very badly want to have a conversation with Shabal.”

The
Makin Island
’s skipper digested this and slowly nodded his head. “So how do you want to play this?”

Miller looked to Lieutenant Commander Crandall, who picked up the narrative. “Sir, once we have a good location of the
Osrah
, we shadow her at a safe distance while we observe her electronically. Given the priority of this operation, there’s a Global Hawk standing by at Diego Garcia at our disposal. While the drone gets on station, we close in just out of visual and radar range, and get our Mk5 detachment and two of our RHIBs ready to launch from the well deck. If and when the Global Hawk sees a spike in cell-phone traffic, we take the yacht, and we take Christo.”

“And what if the yacht is in Malaysian territorial waters?” Captain McMasters asked.

“If we have anything to say about it, we move on the
Osrah
whether it’s in Malaysian or international waters, but that call will be made well above my pay grade.”

“Mine, too,” replied McMasters. “Okay, we make all preparations for an interdiction at sea. Let me know when there’s a sighting of the yacht. That’s a pretty big boat, and there are not a lot of islands off the Sarawak coast where it could hide. It shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

*  *  *

They had only their operational, desert cammies under their dry suits, but even though the water was in the low 80s, the two SEALs in the rear of the SDV were becoming chilled. Up front, the pilot and his navigator were toasty. This was their element, and they wore half-inch thermals under their dry suits. But for them, the mission would have them underwater for close to ten hours, and by that time, they also would be feeling the effects of the not-so-cold water. Suddenly the music, a superb rendition of Bach’s Suite No. 2 in B Minor by the Münchener Bach-Orchester, stopped and was replaced by the burbly voice of the pilot.