Read Tom Clancy's Act of Valor Online
Authors: Dick Couch,George Galdorisi
Tags: #War & Military, #Historical, #Fiction
It was the flying boat that was the first to leave. The pilot cranked one of the old radials for what seemed to be a long while before it exploded with a burst of smoke and noise, followed by the second. The little amphibian then pirouetted to an easterly heading and began to crawl across the desert. It slowly gathered speed and finally clawed its way into the air, turning north for the Gulf of Aden. The Tupolev was next. This pilot brought the jet engines up to takeoff power and then released the brakes. The long fuselage darted across the desert floor and pulled up steeply, then quickly leveled off. The SEALs watched as it banked to the south and banked again to a westerly heading.
The driver of the tank truck jumped onto one of the picku k oft="0">
“What the hell just happened?” A.J. said to Ray as he clicked off one last frame of the retreating convoy.
“Ours is not to reason why; ours is but to catalog what we see and call it in.” Ray then took up the handset of the PSC-5. “Bulldog, Bulldog, this is Redrum, how copy, over?”
“This is Bulldog, hear you, lima charlie. Do you have traffic for us?” The speaker was an Air Force controller at the console of an E-3C Sentry Airborne Warning and Control System, or AWACS, aircraft. The Sentry’s Boeing 707 airframe had entered into service in 1977, making it older than most of the eighteen-person crew who were flying this mission. They had been on runway standby at Al Ta’if Air Force Base, a hundred miles west of Jiddah and the Red Sea in Saudi Arabia. The Sentry had been launched immediately after the recon SEALs had spotted the inbound Somali convoy and was now orbiting over the Gulf of Aden.
“Roger that, Bulldog, and good to have you with us. We have two aircraft outbound from location Ten Hopper Lima Sierra 53260089. One is a slow mover headed northbound, the other is a commercial fast mover headed west, over.”
“Thank you, Redrum. We have them, and we are tracking them both. Did you have eyes on those aircraft, over?”
“Affirmative. One was an old, two-engine amphibian flying boat. The other was a Russian Tango Uniform One-Three-Four. Neither had tail numbers nor any other identifying markings, over.”
“Understand an old amphibian and a Tupolev 134 with no markings, over.”
“You got it, Bulldog, over.”
“Roger, Redrum. We’ll take it from here. Bulldog, out.”
While Ray made a final radio contact and data download to Lieutenant Engel on the
Bonhomme Richard
and to Senior Chief Miller and their task unit on the
Makin Island
, A.J. began to pack up their gear. Their orders were to leave the hide site and make their way north to the coast for a dawn pickup by helo. It would not be as stealthy as their arrival in Somalia, but then it didn’t need to be. The job was done. They would be traveling lighter than when they made their way inland two nights ago, but they would have to cover close to twenty-three miles to get to the coast before dawn. They knew they could do it, but they also knew they’d have to bust their balls to get there before sunup.
“Well,” A.J. said stoically, “I guess we better get some rest while we can. That’s one helluva hump we have to make.”
“I got a better idea,” Ray said, taking his binoculars from his eyes and handing them to A.J. “See what it says on the d ksay">oor of that tanker?”
“Uh, Botiala Municipal Airport,” A.J. replied, adjusting the focus. English was the language of aviation worldwide, and that convenience extended to aviation service providers.
“And Botiala,” Ray said, moving his Toughbook computer screen so that A.J. could see it, “is only about seven miles up the coast from our pickup coordinates—practically on the way.”
“You’re not suggesting that we take the truck . . .”
“And only drive it part of the way,” Ray cut in. “We can drop off the truck on a side road and hoof it back along the coast to our pickup point. Besides, the cover is better just inland from the coastline, and it’s a lot easier than busting our ass for twenty-some miles over land. And it’d be a nice gesture to return the truck or at least leave it closer to the airpo
rt.”
“I don’t know about this, Ray. I’m not so sure.”
A half hour after sundown, they were in the tanker and traveling on secondary roads, with an enhanced version of Google Maps as their guide. A.J. drove and Ray navigated. They drove at twenty miles per hour, both SEALs continually scanned the barren terrain with their night-vision devices. Both had their M4s at the ready. The truck ran out of gasoline six miles from the location for their pickup. As Ray had predicted, it was an easy six miles with good cover. They arrived at the coastal rendezvous site just after 0100 in the morning. At 0530, a pair of Navy H-60s came in low over the water, homing in on the SEALs’ IR beacon. Moments later, they were aboard and over the Gulf of Aden, headed outbound from the Horn for the USS
Bataan.
NINE
Thirty-six hours later, they were on the flight deck of the
Bonhomme Richard
—Chief Nolan, A.J., and Ray. The ship was steaming at a leisurely six knots some seventy miles off the coast of Baja California. The three had been in deep conversation for some time; now they were silent. After a long pause, it was Nolan who finally broke the silence.
“I still don’t get it. What the hell were you thinking when you stole a Somali tank truck?” His voice was low and controlled, but he was seething. “What if you’d been stopped by the local
gendarmes
? What were you going to do, shoot it out with them?”
Ray shrugged his shoulders sheepishly and gave the standard SEAL-called-on-the-carpet reply: “Well, y’see, Chief, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“And you,” Nolan said sharply, turning to A.J., “I could expect this from Ray, but not you. Part of your job was to keep an eye on him. That was a dumb stunt—really dumb. It could have jeopardized the entire mission.”
“Sorry, Chief.” A.J. was contrite, but not as overtly submissive as Ray. “I guess we did it because we could ndiv hei. We’re SEALs, and SEALs are opportunists. I could have said no, and I probably should have, but I didn’t. Chief, I’m sorry I let you down.”
“It’s not about me or you; it’s about the mission and the Team. And to save yourself a long walk, you put yourselves first and the mission and your teammates second.” Nolan paused, looking from one to the other, letting his words sink in. “Okay,” he continued, “it’s done and over with. Let’s move on. For now, this will stay between the three of us, okay?” Both nodded. “Now get below and see to your gear.”
Nolan then made his way inside the ship’s superstructure and down one deck, heading for the
Bonnie Dick
’s
combat information center, or CIC. He was still not sure whether or not he wanted to tell his officer about the caper with the tanker truck. They were a leadership team, and keeping information from each other was not how the two of them worked. It was an issue of trust. Nothing could be done about it now, he reasoned, and it was just one more thing for Roark Engel to worry about. God knew he had enough on his plate. Nolan was still turning the matter over in his mind when he arrived at the CIC. One corner of the center had been sectioned off and converted to a small tactical operations center for the SEALs and those read into the operation. A marine sentry stood guard at the partitioned entrance. The guard knew Nolan by sight but still asked to see his ID. The marine matched the face on the ID with Nolan’s and let him pass, logging in his arrival. When Nolan saw Engel, he immediately knew something was up. That knowledge seemed to be confirmed as he felt the
Bonnie Dick
heel into a port turn and shudder imperceptibly as she gathered speed.
“Hey, Chief. I was just about to have you paged. You know that Russian passenger jet Ray and A.J. tracked in and out of the Somali desert rendezvous?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, the guys at NRO and NSA managed to follow its movements. It flew into Lagos, refueled, made the jump across the Atlantic, and landed at Rio. There it took on more fuel, flew to a remote airfield in Colombia, probably a strip controlled by the cartel, and then made the jump up to guess where?”
“Uh, lemme guess: Cedros Island,” Nolan deadpanned.
“Give the man a cigar—Cedros Island. It landed at night, so we don’t know who got on or off, but it would seem likely that at least some of the sixteen Filipino pilgrims put down there.”
“Where’s the plane now?”
Engel grimaced. “That’s a problem. It immediately returned to the airstrip in Colombia and is still there. If it leaves and returns to Rio or some other commercial destination, then there’s a chance we can detain the aircraft and maybe even interrogate the flight crew. But there’s not much we can do as long as it’s sitting on that strip in Colombia.”
Nolan considered this. “This operation has top priority. Couldn’t we whistle up a Ranger battalion and have them take that airfield down?”
< swidolan cfont size="-1" face="ITC Galliard Std">“That’s been considered, Chief, believe me it has. But the Colombians probably wouldn’t sit still for it, and it probably couldn’t be kept quiet. And it would also tip our hand that we’re on to them.”
“So what?” Nolan offered. “Wouldn’t that be better than letting whatever they’re planning go forward?
Engel considered this. “Maybe, maybe not. But that’s not our call. For now we’re headed for Cedros Island to stand by for an over-the-beach operation. I don’t think much else will happen until we get more intelligence.”
“Any chance of that?”
“Good chance. Senior Chief Miller and the task unit are tracking a yacht in the South China Sea that may have Christo aboard. If they can verify he’s on the yacht, they’ll board it and have a chat with Mr. Christo.”
With that, Dave Nolan smiled. “If the senior chief can go eyeball-to-eyeball with that bastard, then maybe we can get to the bottom of this.”
“Just maybe. Meanwhile, get the guys ready to go ashore tonight. It might be by CRRC, or it might be by helo. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
“On it, Boss, and whatever happened to those drugs that were flown into the desert, the ones loaded into that panel truck and put aboard that old flying boat?”
“I wondered about that myself,” Engel replied. “I thought it might lead to a big drug bust, as that seemed to be a large shipment of cocaine. From reading the traffic, the powers that be let the shipment go through. The priority is finding out what Shabal is up to and stopping him. So the druggies get a pass on this one.”
Nolan just shook his head. “I’ll go check on the guys. We’ll be ready, if and when.”
* * *
In the South China Sea, it was half past midnight, and the
Makin Island
was just over the radar horizon from the
Osrah
and matching her course and speed. Senior Chief Otto Miller was pacing
his
task unit’s small TOC in
that
ship’s combat information center. They were waiting for the Global Hawk from Diego Garcia to arrive on station. Meanwhile, the rest of the task unit was busy getting their boats ready. The SWCCs and SEALs assigned to the two Mark V patrol craft crawled over them, checking and rechecking everything—engines, fuel cells, radios, weapons stations, and ammunition. The same thing was happening with the SWCC crews on the two 11-meter rigid-hull inflatable boats, or RHIBs. Up on the flight deck, two MH-60S Navy Knighthawk helos were being readied and armed. The Knighthawks would carry a pair of Hellfire missiles each, but their real cargo would be SEALs—eight SEALs from the
other
Bandito squad, four in one helo and four in the other. Additionally, there would be a task unit sniper in each bird. While the
Osrah
was ostensibly a pleasure yacht, it could prove to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Quite often, world-class cruising yachts were armed against pirates, and sometimes that armament incl sarm couuded heavy-caliber weapons. And given the background of the yacht’s owner, they were taking no chances.
The Mark V Special Operations Craft was an eighty-two-foot patrol craft that could carry up to a platoon of SEALs, and like its freshwater little brother, the SOC-R, it was armed with mini-guns and .50-caliber machine guns. And it was scalded-dog fast. The twin 2285-horsepower turbo-blown MTU diesels could push the Mark V over a flat sea at close to seventy miles an hour. The 11-meter Special Warfare RHIBs were both smaller and more lightly armed. Their main gun was a center-mounted .50-caliber supported by a 7.62 machine gun and a Mk19 grenade launcher. Its dual 6-cylinder Cat turbo-diesels gave it a top speed of 50 mph. The value of the Special Warfare RHIBs, especially when working with the Mark Vs, was that they were agile crafts, and because of their soft-sided tubes, they could hold themselves against the side of a larger craft, like the
Osrah
, and quickly put SEALS aboard. The boats themselves were carried in the well deck of the
Makin Island
. This well deck occupied the stern one-third of the ship’s 850-foot length and could be flooded so that small craft could become waterborne while in the well-deck bay and leave the ship by way of the stern gate that opened to the sea. The
Makin Island
could carry a mix of watercraft, but the two Mark Vs and the two RHIBs assigned to the embarked SEAL task unit left only a little space for the single Marine RHIB detachment. But the ship’s current mission was all about SEAL support.
Up in the TOC, a shipboard controller had just taken command of the Global Hawk and brought it down from its cruise altitude of fifty-five thousand feet to a lazy orbit over the
Osrah
at a comfortable twenty-five thousand feet. It could neither be seen nor heard, and the big yacht hadn’t the radar to find it. There it orbited and listened while Senior Chief Otto Miller hovered over the controller, making him more than a little anxious.
“You got anything yet?”
“Relax, Senior. We’re still running a bandwidth search to see if there’s any traffic. They have to be using satellite phones out here, as there’s no cell coverage. It’ll take a minute to see if they are, in fact, transmitting and then to see if there’s any volume. If they’re talking, I’ll know about it.”
Miller prowled the small space, periodically pausing to look over the controller’s shoulder, then continuing his pacing of the TOC.
“Hello there,” the controller said, barely audible, but Miller was instantly at his elbow. “Here they are at 1620 megahertz.”
“What?” Miller asked.
The controller turned with a grin. “Coded chatter—and a lot of it. We have incoming calls and outgoing calls. Have no idea what’s in the transmissions, but it’s active. We’re recording them, though. If you can get aboard and get their phones, maybe the guys at NSA can go back and unscramble the text. But for now, it’s my guess that there’s more going on than some crewman calling his girlfriend in the next port.”
“Good work,” Miller said, clapping the controller on the shoulder. “Let me know if st m next panything changes.”
Moments later the little TOC became more populated as both the task unit commander and the captain of the
Makin Island
crowded in. Miller quickly briefed them on the cell-phone activity; everything was pointing to the presence of Christo aboard the yacht. Captain McMasters stepped away and made his way to one of the CIC’s radar repeaters. It was a sophisticated display that featured data from the
Makin Island
’s
powerful surface-search radar and imagery from both the Global Hawk and any passing naval ocean surveillance satellite that might be prowling the skies in low-earth orbit.
“Where is she now?” he asked the technician at the scope.
“Right here, sir—designated skunk Bravo Delta. She crossed into international water about twenty minutes ago. I hold her about fifty-five miles from us on a bearing of two six five. She’s on a course of three one seven and making about twenty-two knots. We’re closing on her, but it’s a stern chase, and it’ll take a while.”
“Good job, Sullivan. Stay on it.” McMasters returned to the TOC, where Miller and Lieutenant Commander Crandall were huddled with two other SEALs. One was the Bandito Platoon AOIC, or assistant officer in charge—a junior grade lieutenant and Roark Engel’s number two in the platoon. The other was a first-class petty officer and the Bandito Platoon leading petty officer. Since it had been the detached Bandito squad that had begun all this, it had been Crandall’s decision to read the other Bandito squad into this portion of the operation and assign them to take down the yacht. SEALs from the other task unit platoon would be on the Mark Vs and RHIBs in a support role. They would do as ordered, but they were disappointed not to have been assigned a more active participation. The Bandito SEALs were in black one-piece coveralls, with assault vests over body armor. The platoon officer’s helmet and weapon were already aboard one of the helos, the leading petty officer’s on the other. The task unit commander was in like coveralls but no kit.
“How soon can you go?” McMasters asked.
“Sir, we can have boats away within the hour depending on the well-deck flooding. The helos are standing by. I’ll be on one of the Mark Vs as the surface-force commander.”
Captain McMasters paused a moment in contemplation. “Okay, gentlemen, get to your stations and stand by. Commander, a word.”
Everyone left but McMasters and Todd Crandall. “I’ve been authorized to proceed at my discretion when this yacht leaves Malay territorial waters,” McMasters told his embarked SEAL commander. “That’s already happened. You are clear to launch as soon as you’re ready. I’ll alert those up the chain of the pending action. Go do what has to be done. I’ll not tell you how to do your job, but those are my aircrews that will be supporting you. They are your SEALs, but since it’s my ship, you are also my SEALs. I take this personally. Get this job done—swiftly, professionally, safely, and, if you can, bloodlessly. If not, kick some ass. In any event, good luck.” He held out his hand and Crandall took it.
“Roger that, sir,” Cra s, snt>ndall replied. “And thanks—for everything. For us it’s always personal.” With that he took his leave and made his way down to the well deck, where his Mark V waited in its cradles on the bottom.
In the task unit spaces belowdecks and on the well deck, the SEALs were making their final preparations, which amounted to a rechecking of everything, from their weapons loading to their tactical radios. Then they made their way up to the flight deck to the helos or down to the well deck to the boats. One of those who was making ready did so a little differently from the others. Senior Chief Otto Miller looked as if he were going nightclubbing rather than embarking on a special operation. His hair and beard were freshly barbered and combed into place. He was dressed in a cream-colored linen suit, a blue oxford-cloth shirt, and a tasteful, paisley ascot. Tasseled loafers and Norte wire-rimmed aviator sunglasses completed the look. His only concession to anything military was a Glock 9mm he kept well concealed in a shoulder holster and an MBITR tactical radio and headset that he would hand-carry.