Read Tom Clancy's Act of Valor Online
Authors: Dick Couch,George Galdorisi
Tags: #War & Military, #Historical, #Fiction
TWO
As he surveyed the vast Pacific Ocean from his palatial mansion near the city of Puntarenas, Costa Rica, Christo had the world in the palm of his hand—for the moment. Perched on a mountaintop on more than twenty acres of pristine forest, the twelve-thousand-square-foot manse was far more than he needed for his small family—his wife, Dominga, and four-year-old daughter, Solana—but he had worked hard to get where he was, and he felt entitled to enjoy the fruits of his labor. There were, of course, close to a dozen servants and caretakers that Christo considered an extended part of his family. It was a part of his patron image.
“Daddy, jump in the pool and play with me,” Solana squealed as she frolicked in the 80-degree water of their Olympic-size, zero-level pool.
“In a moment,” he replied, holding the satellite phone away from his mouth. Then back to the caller, “So you are telling me that the ambassador is no longer with us . . . I see . . . and it was the work of our associate . . . Quite right, my friend. Well then, I guess that’s how it is . . . Yes, thank you for the call, good-bye.”
“Please, Daddy, please,” Solana pleaded.
“You’d better jump in soon,” Dominga encouraged him. “I’m almost finished preparing lunch, and I want you to eat it while it’s hot.”
“As you say, my love,” Christo replied.
He stood up and stripped off his shirt. He was vain enough to admire his own body—if only for a moment. At just under six feet and a well-muscled 185 pounds, Christo cut an imposing, athletic figure. He had jet-black hair that he allowed to grow to shoulder length, deep-set blue eyes, and dazzlingly white capped teeth. Only a narrow, prominent hawklike nose saved him from movie-star good looks. The hair and the nose gave him something of an academic bearing, on which he was quick to capitalize. Before entering the water, he took a moment to look around. He saw all that was his and realized, not for the first time, that he, in fact, did live the life as
capo
in this part of his adopted country. He dove into the pool, coming up directly underneath his daughter and giving Solana’s leg a gentle tug, bobbing her in the water.
“Daddy, Daddy, let me ride on your shoulders,” Solana shouted.
Christo obliged, taking big, monsterlike steps in the shallow end of the pool, giving Solana a ride up and down in and out of the water. Dominga looked on, seeing the genuine love he had for their daughter.
Christo reflected as he bobbed up and down, carrying the squealing Solana all around the shallow end of the pool. Yes, he had untold riches, close to a bi"-1llion U.S. dollars, gained in part from narco-trafficking and later in the even-more-lucrative arms-for-drug trade. But hadn’t he lavished his largesse on a range of worthy causes in his adopted country of Costa Rica? Were not the Catholic Church, medical clinics, schools, and other worthy undertakings he funded for the still-poor inhabitants of this coastal section of Costa Rica all the better because of his generosity?
He had certainly lined the pockets of local politicians, and they had, in turn, protected his estate and turned a blind eye to his illegal activities. But that was just how business was done in Central America—and everywhere else, for that matter. For the Wharton-trained Christo, it was, in fact, all business—nothing more. Whatever damage his dealings did, and he wasn’t convinced any of it really did any damage, he more than made up for it in the millions of dollars he gave back to the people—his people. In many ways, Christo saw himself as a modern-day Robin Hood. He took from the wealthy, drug-addicted Europeans and
Norte Americanos
, and gave back to the
campesinos
who lived at the subsistence level.
Yes, life was good, but good by his own initiative. But now they were closing in on him, and it was getting too risky—for him and for the fanatical elements with whom he now dealt. All he needed was one final score, and he would leave this life behind and escape with his small family. He had put the wheels in motion. Now he just needed it to play out. He had made it happen in the past; he would do it again—one more time. Let someone else take care of the less fortunate for a change, he told himself. It was time for him to take care of those closest to him. In the final analysis, they were his world.
* * *
It was Sunday, just before noon, when Dave Nolan arrived at Danny’s—Home of the Slamburger. Danny’s was one of the older, and some would say shabbier, burger joints on Coronado’s Orange Avenue, and yet it was a favorite among Team guys. The slamburger was indeed impressive—a third of a pound of very lean beef that came in a variety of configurations. Lieutenant Engel had asked Nolan to meet him for lunch, which in itself was strange. Engel and his wife were both avid surfers and could usually be found at the break in La Jolla on Sunday mornings. Nolan was there ahead of his platoon officer. He worked his way down the long bar, exchanging hellos with a few of the SEALs seated on barstools. Everyone knew Dave Nolan. In decades past, SEALs would be there to nurse hangovers. Now, after ten years of war, most of them were there for a late breakfast after a morning workout. Nolan found a booth in the rear. As he swung into the booth, the waitress set a mug of coffee in front of him. On the wall-mounted TV, CNN was replaying the graphic footage of a terror attack in Indonesia. “Ain’t it just awful what those bastards did to those kids,” the waitress said. “How can someone go out and blow up a bunch of kids?”
Nolan glanced at the wall-mounted TV. He’d seen the coverage of the school bombing in Jakarta earlier that morning. At first, the act itself made his blood run cold, then it began to boil as he considered the animals who would commit such a thing. For Dave Nolan, things like this were black-and-white; there was good and bad, us and them. He didn’t like the bad, and he didn’t like people who did bad things. So he drew no small measure of comfort from the fact that it was his sworn duty to find these bad people and deal with them. A duty and a privilege.
“That’s why they call them terrorists, Cindy, and that’s why we chase ’em. Don’t look for it to get better anytime soon. But point taken: They are a bunch of assholes.”
“You’d think that things might get better since you guys got Osama.”
Nolan smiled to himself. It was an East Coast SEAL element that led the raid on Bin Laden’s compound in Pakistan, but all SEALs seemed to get credit for what they had done. Dave had just finished dinner that day and was in the front yard playing with Gretchen, his oldest daughter, when a neighbor came over to congratulate him—as if he’d personally shot the guy. As with nearly all SEALs who were not directly involved with the operation, he’d learned of the raid like any other American, at home on a Sunday evening. And that, thought Nolan, was as it should be. If he and the Banditos were ever lucky enough to go in on a super-high-value target, he could only hope that few people, SEALs or otherwise, would know about it. Mission success depended on absolute security.
“Osama was just one big turd in the sewer. It seems there are a lot more floating along behind him.” Sometimes, Nolan thought to himself, the world was awash in a sea of assholes.
Cindy shook her head in disgust and took a pencil from behind her ear. “Still. What kind of animals kill kids, for Christ’s sake? Bacon slam?”
“Not just yet. I’m meeting Roark, so I’ll wait for him.”
She moved back to the bar, and Nolan sipped tentatively at the mug of coffee. He used to take his coffee with cream and sugar, but since he made chief, he drank it black. He might be a SEAL chief, but he was still a Navy chief, and that’s how Navy chiefs drank their coffee. It was interesting, he mused, referring to his officer as “Roark” with Cindy. He and Engel had known each other for nearly four years, and in that period of time, they had become tight—more than tight. They were perhaps closer to one another than to anyone else but their wives. Yet even when they were alone, just the two of them and well away from the teams, the platoon, or the Navy, he would always address Engel as “Boss”—and Engel would never call him anything but “Chief.” Cindy, or just about anyone else outside the military, would call him
Dave
and Engel,
Roark
, but between the two of them it would always be
Boss
and
Chief
. Nolan had seen Vietnam-era SEALs meet and embrace each other as brothers in the same way. One would say, “Good to see you, Boss,” and the other would reply, “Good to see you, too, Chief.” That was just the way it was, and it was good.
Engel came in the back door to Danny’s and slid onto the seat across from Nolan. He had two books with him that he set on the table, out of the way. Engel was a voracious reader and was seldom without a book. They exchanged greetings and ordered, Nolan his bacon slam and Engel a garden burger.
“Thought you and Jackie would be up in La Jolla this morning,” Nolan offered.
“It’s pretty flat out there today,” Engel replied. It always amazed him that his chief seemed to n to seemedever be aware of the ocean—like today it was almost a dead calm with no chance of finding a wave to ride. But if they were on an over-the-beach operation or parachuting into the ocean for an over-the-horizon penetration, Nolan would know everything about the conditions. For Engel, the ocean was a thing of beauty to be enjoyed and appreciated all the time; for Nolan, it was just part of the commute to the job site.
“And besides, I got a call from the skipper late last night and had to go into the Team area this morning.” This piqued Nolan’s attention, yet he said nothing. Something was going down, probably something that would impact their deployment, but he knew from experience that Engel would tell him in his own good time.
Cindy arrived with their burgers, and they ate in companionable silence, both drinking large glasses of water. SEALs were like camels; they stayed ahead of their hydration needs. They knew your performance today depended on what you drank yesterday, so you always remained topped off. Engel finished ahead of Nolan, in part because his chief ate two of his fries for every one that Nolan ate. Not for the first time, he regarded Nolan across the table.
Dave Nolan,
Engel thought,
is a study in what is both good and noble.
At home, he lived for his family. He’d tell anyone who would listen what a wonderful woman he’d married—how lucky he was to have found such a fine lady. He worshipped her. He and Julia had five kids; he doted on them, and they idolized him. They were a wild bunch and uninhibited around him, yet he had power over them. If they were fussy or throwing a tantrum or out of line, he had only to speak. No baby talk—he simply dropped to one knee and asked them to take a breath and talk to him. Then father and child decided on a course of action, and the issue was resolved. He had the same effect on the men in the platoon. Like his kids, the Bandito SEALs seemed to want to please him. It was as if his kids and his platoon SEALs somehow knew that if what they were doing would meet
his
approval, then all was okay. On deployment, he was totally focused on the mission and the men and seldom spoke about his family. At home, he was all about family.
Nolan finished his slam and fries, then inspected Engel’s plate for any alibis. It was then that he noticed the books on the table.
“So what does Oprah have you reading this month?” Nolan asked as he picked one up. He was trying for levity, as he already knew the answer. “
Churchill: A Biography
,” he read from the spine. “Something new and different.” It was a serious book—well over nine hundred pages. Last week it was
Winston Churchill
by John Keegan. “How much do you have to know about a guy who’s been dead for a century?”
“He died in January of 1965.”
“Okay, a half century.”
Engel smiled. “You can never know too much about a great man. He stood against the dark forces of tyranny, just like you and me, Chief.”
“Yeah, right,” Nolan replied. “What else we got here?” Engel reached for the other book, but Nolan was too quick for him. He again read from the spine, “
How to Be a Dadn i to Be
? This for real? You and Jackie going to launch one?”
Engel leaned forward. “Yeah, it’s for real, but we’re not telling anyone just yet.”
Stunned, Nolan just sat there a moment staring at Engel. For Nolan, children were happiness—the more kids, the more happiness. Though he would never have voiced it, he had long wished this for his friend and lieutenant. There were tears forming in his eyes.
“Aw, man, I’m so happy for you.” He bolted from his seat and leaned across the table to execute an awkward hug. He pressed his forehead against Engel’s. “You’re gonna be a great dad, and you and Jackie are going to be so happy. And I’m happy for you. Wait’ll I tell Julia. She’s going to flip.”
“Okay,” Engel said, his palms hovering above the table in a hold-it-down motion. “Just Julia. We want to keep this quiet for a while.”
“Ab-so-lute-ly,” Nolan said in a whisper. “I get it. No problemo; mum’s the word.”
“Can I get you guys anything else?” Cindy said as she refilled their water glasses.
“You sure can,” Nolan replied. Then in a louder voice, “We’ll have two shooters of Bushmills, and I’ll buy the bar. My lieutenant is going to be a father!”
“Oh my God, Roark!” Cindy blurted. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.” The sentiment rippled along the bar.
“Aw right!”
“Well done, El Tee.”
“Good on you, sir.”
“To the new little girl. Frogmen always have little girls.”
“Here’s to you, sir.”
Engel simply lowered his head in mock surrender. This was typical Nolan and, with but a moment’s reflection, it was just fine. Had their situations been reversed, his reaction would have been much the same as his chief’s. It was simply the joy of one SEAL brother for another.
“Here you go,” Cindy said as she placed two shots on the table. “These are on the house. Dave, I’ll let you get the bar. Congrats again, Roark, and my love to Jackie. This is so exciting.”
Nolan handed her a credit card. “Put the chow on here as well.” After she left, he placed a hand on Engel’s shoulder. “Seriously, Boss, this is terrific. You were born for this. Trust me, I know about these things. How far along is she?”
“About nine weeks.”
“Great, and your timing couldn’t be better. We’ll ">
Nolan knocked back the shot, and Engel followed suit. Both winced. Nolan drank only beer and that sparingly; Engel was seldom good for more than a glass of red wine at dinner. They talked for a while about kids, kids’ names, and the inevitable changes that they brought about when they arrived—all good, Nolan resolutely claimed. Then Engel got around to the real reason he’d wanted to meet for lunch, just as Nolan knew he would.
SEALs deployed in squadrons composed of a full SEAL Team along with an expanded intelligence collection and combat-support package. Once deployed, SEAL Team Seven became SEAL Squadron Seven. The squadron was further broken down into three task units, with two SEAL platoons per task unit—each TU with a stand-alone intelligence collection and operational capability. As needed, the two TU platoons could operate independently or together as a two-platoon troop. The Bandito Platoon was currently assigned to a squadron task unit that would be operating out of the Philippines. But, as Engel was about to explain, that had just changed.
“I went in this morning for a meeting with the squadron skipper and an intel update,” he said, lowering his voice. “It seems that al-Qaeda has put out some kind of a fatwa on all Americans. They’re calling for all related AQ splinter groups to strike hard and strike now. The good news is that this leaves little time for a well-planned attack like 9/11. The bad news is that there will probably be a lot of smaller attacks, and given the fanatical nature of the remaining al-Qaeda cells, they may be vicious attacks. And it may not just be al-Qaeda. They have allies in the criminal world as well. So while the task unit will still be headed for the Philippines, the squadron has been asked to spread out to cover more territory. And we’ve been asked to send one of our squads with an intelligence-support package to a fleet unit off Central America. They are to join an amphibious ready group in the Pacific that’s cruising off Colombia.”
“So we have to send one squad with the TU to the Philippines and another squad to an afloat unit—probably a big-deck amphib?”
“That’s about it, Chief. How do you want to play it?”
Nolan paused to give this some thought. “Boss, where do you think the action will be?”
“Who knows,” Engel replied. “But they wouldn’t split a platoon and put a squad down there without some indication of terrorist activity. If something goes down in the Philippines or Indonesia, our one squad there will be just one of the SEAL squads that might be tasked. And if it’s a full platoon operation, we’ll see none of it. But if something happens in Central or western South America, that afloat squad will get the call.”
Again, Nolan paused to think. “It seems like the best bet for a mission tasking is with the amphibious ready group. And since it’s independent duty away from the rest of the task unit, let’s you and I take the Bandito squad afloat.”
It took them another fifteen minutd fifteen es to make personnel assignments and decide who would go west with the task unit and who would go south. Engel, Nolan, and five other SEALs would go south to rendezvous with the afloat units; and the rest of the platoon, with the other platoon officer and the platoon leading petty officer, would stay with the task unit main body and head for the Philippines. This would require a re-palletization of equipment, but nothing more than that. The Bandito Platoon had trained to operate independently in squad units. The only thing that was on each of their minds was the issue of where the action might be. If they had chosen unwisely and the key mission tasking went to the other squad, neither would be there to help. Yet the platoon was deep in talent; there were plenty of veterans to carry the load. Bottom line: All of them wanted to get their guns into the fight. On balance, those who went south seemed to have a better chance. In addition, Roark Engel and Dave Nolan had a responsibility to place the platoon’s two most experience leaders—in this case the two of them—in harm’s way and where they thought the action would be the most intense.
“When do we tell them?” Engel asked. “Tonight?” The platoon was having a family barbeque at Gator Beach, just north of the SEAL Team Seven complex and only a few hundred yards south of the Hotel del Coronado. It was the last platoon social before deployment.
“The guys will want to know as soon as possible—give them some time to get their heads around the change. Besides, dad-to-be, tonight’s family night. So let’s do what we can to concentrate on the families. I’ll initiate a call-down this afternoon and let everyone know about the change.” They were silent a moment before Nolan continued. “Not that it changes much.” As they both knew, most SEAL operations outside of Iraq and Afghanistan, the ones you never hear about, were squad operations. “We’re nothing if not versatile. If there were no last-minute changes, the guys would get suspicious.”
Engel grinned and nodded. “One thing I did do. I asked the skipper if he would assign Senior Chief Miller to our detached squad. I figured we would need him if we have to launch a mission with a short time fuse, which is probably how it will go down.”
Nolan sat back and regarded his platoon officer. Engel was not only looking ahead but also looking out for the mission and the men. And it was a smart call. Senior Chief Miller was the best operational planner at Team Seven. This was yet another reason Nolan respected Engel as well as liked him. He was always thinking about the mission as well as the men. He was also a little sneaky.