Tom Clancy's Act of Valor (5 page)

Sonny Guibert was perhaps the only one of the group who looked like a SEAL, or what those outside this tight-knit community thought a SEAL should look like. In a word, he was a wall. At six feet two and 225 pounds, he was the largest SEAL in the squad or the platoon, and movie-star handsome. He had thick blond hair and perfect teeth. When the Bandito SEALs parachuted without equipment, they often said they were jumping Guibert rather than jumping Hollywood. He towered over SEALs like Weimy and Ray, who were under six feet and fifty-plus pounds lighter. Dave Nolan accused him of having weight-lifter genes, as he was naturally cut and buffed. For that reason, he did only nominal upper-body work, but he was a highly competitive triathlete. He was the squad’s automatic-weapons man, which meant he carried the M48 machine gun—a compact SEAL weapon that digested the heavy 7.62 NATO rounds—and in a squad action, his weapon was the biggest dog in the fight. He also served as the squad’s armorer, which meant he had sub-custody of all the squad weapons and night-vision equipment. He made sure the detached squad had extra weapons and spare parts, so they could operate independently from the task unit. In one word, Sonny was reliable. It was Chief Nolan’s job to check all those with platoon and squad responsibilities, but he did so very carefully with the big SEAL. Sonny took an immense amount of pride in knowing that he kept the squad’s weapons package up to standards and that everyone’s work gun was up and running. Sonny’s personal responsibilities also extended to a wife who could pass for Miss California and two blond, towheaded daughters. The family was Hallmark material.

Alfonso Joseph Markum had joined the Navy in his late twenties and needed a special waiver to enter basic SEAL training at twenty-nine. A.J. was born in Trinidad and came to Miami with his mother when he was six. She married a Cuban exile and they all settled in little Havana. Neither spoke English; they were poor but proud. A.J.’s stepfather worked as a security guard and his mother cleaned homes. A.J. was left alone after school and had flirted with gangs, black and Cuban, but two things kept him from serious trouble: One was the example and sacrifice of his mother and stepfather. The other was a youth-club mentor who introduced him to Muay Thai fighting, or Thai kickboxing. A.J. was small, compact, and quick. His heroes were ranked fighters like Tony Jaa and Buakaw Por. Pramuk. Had he been introduced to the sport earlier, he might have become a professional, but it was a discipline that took decades to master at that level and he had started too late. His inclinations led him into security work and to several years with the Dade County Sheriff’s Department. But he found police work frustrating, and he ran afoul of department politics. His troubles usually began with a fight between his large Anglo partner and a local gangbanger. When things began to go badly for his partner, A.J. would step in and settle things. Three Miami hoodlums, albeit ones with criminal records and aggressive personal-injury lawyers, were left with permanent physical disabilities. While A.J. Markum was protecting and serving the citizens of Dade County, the C Co crimlawsuits against the county began to mount, and he was let go. So A.J. went looking for work where a man was supposed to have his buddy’s back, and this took him to the Navy SEALs. Most who survive the rigorous SEAL training have to dig deep within themselves to make it through. A.J. was not one of those. He was the squad’s point man, and he was one of the best with Team Seven. Contrary to popular myth, SEALs seldom killed silently with their hands; they had suppressed weapons that did that at long range and up close. But if it came to a quiet kill, hand-to-hand, then the go-to SEAL would be A.J. Markum.

Finally, there was Mike Bennett, or Mikey. The youngest and least experienced SEAL in the squad, this would be his second deployment. Mikey was one of the platoon’s two medics. In dividing up the platoon talent, Chief Nolan had chosen Mikey first. When Engel had lifted an eyebrow in question, Nolan simply shrugged. “He’s good to go, but I’d like him where I can keep an eye on him.” Nolan had no need to explain himself. Engel felt the same way. Mikey would win the nicest-guy-in-the-world award. He’d been an Eagle Scout and a National Science Fair finalist. He had a degree in sociology from the University of San Diego, he’d married his high school sweetheart, and he came from family money. He struggled in basic SEAL training, failing once and finally making it on his second try. On his first deployment, he had done well, both with the dirty jobs assigned new SEALs on their first rotation and with the running and gunning that were an every-night occurrence in Afghanistan. He’d taken life quickly and professionally, so his SEAL skill set was good—even better than good. If Engel or Nolan could put their reservations into words, it would be about the dial. All SEALs have to dial it up in the fight and dial it down in garrison or at home. This allowed them to be tenacious and lethal during the adrenaline high of a firefight and still be able to lose graciously at cards in the barracks or read bedtime stories to their kids at home. Mikey’s dial didn’t seem to be calibrated like the others. On the everyday/normal side, it extended to a range well past the others; he was simply an easygoing, nice person. On the combat side, he did his job, but with seemingly no aggression or emotion. On his first patrol, an insurgent stepped from a doorway and brought them under fire. Everyone reacted, but Mikey was the fastest, ringing the insurgent up with a perfect double tap to the head. He looked back at Chief Nolan with that gee-whiz, how’d-I-do-it grin and simply continued on the patrol. He might well become the best among them, but he
was
different.

Engel surveyed the men around him. “Guys, I only have so many stay-tight, stay-focused, stay-professional speeches in me. You’ve all been there; you all know the deal. I know nothing more about what may be waiting for us downrange than you do. I do know that while we’re detached from the task unit and the squadron, the communications back home may not be what we’ve enjoyed in the past. Let your families know that there may be times when we’ll be in the wind, and they’ll not hear from you.” He paused to carefully frame his words. “Regarding families, I’ll say again what goes without saying. If there are any issues—personal, emotional, financial, whatever—get them fixed. If you need help, there’s the chief and myself. Our wives are there to help as well. We’re all here for you. But get it right and get it locked down. When we leave, I want a total front-sight focus on the mission. Everyone’s got everyone else’s back. That’s how we go to war; that’s how we all come back from war. We good with that?” He met each man’s eyes in turn, and each nodded in agreement. “Chief?”

“You’ve said it all, Boss. So let’s drink to our brotherhood.” Nolan raised his beer and was quickly followed by others, including a few who were raising water bottles. “For all of those who go downrange—to us and those like us—damn few.”

“Here, here.”

“Friggin’ right.”

The two squads broke from their separate gatherings, much like they had peeled from their free-fall V-formations, and rejoined their families. It was full-on dark, and most people had pulled in close to the fires. The wives handed off sleeping kids to their fathers. The older kids drifted back to sit between their parents. Mikey and his wife joined the Nolan tribe and took one of the little boys between them. Ray and A.J. sat near Engel and Jackie and observed a comfortable silence. Some talked quietly, others just listened. An occasional joke or war story kept the melancholy at bay, but it was a holding action. Finally, the Banditos and their families began to drift away. Jackie walked Julia Nolan back to their car, leaving only Nolan and Engel. Always the good Scout, Mikey had doused and inspected all the fire pits. No glowing embers or rekindles while he was on duty.

“That’s it, Boss. I think we’re ready.”

“I think you’re right.”

“And don’t worry about the other squad—they have good veterans and good leadership.”

Engel smiled. His chief knew him well; he was thinking just that. “I’ll do my best. Can’t worry about what you can’t control, right? Just like back here on the home front.”

Nolan nodded. “Two days and a wake up, then the long good-bye.”

Engel again smiled, but it was a sad one. “Yeah, the long good-bye.”

*  *  *

The following day, despite Senior Chief Miller’s best efforts, there was no further clarity on what might await them. Something seemed to be brewing, but no one seemed to be able to communicate what it might be. The day after that, the task unit and their single Bandito Platoon squad mustered at the North Island Naval Air Station for the flight that would take them west, halfway around the world. Actually, they would fly north on a great circle route, pausing at Kadena Air Force Base on Okinawa for fuel before continuing on to Manila. Lieutenant Engel and Chief Nolan were there to see them off. Following the good wishes and the good-byes, the big C-17 swallowed up the SEALs, the task unit combat support team, and their gear. For Engel, Nolan, and the remaining Bandito squad, they and their support team would be staging gear at this same location for most of the day. Their departure was scheduled for early the following morning.

Every SEAL leaves on deployment in his own way. For some it’s highly ritualized and formatted. Others go to great lengths to make it just another day. A few try to make the last minutes pass slowly; others want it over and done so they can be Co ts tgin the countdown to the homecoming. Above all, it’s individual—each SEAL and SEAL family handle it in their own way.

The night before, just as he had for previous deployments, Roark Engel arranged for the Coronado Livery, the oldest cab company on Coronado, to call for him at the street entrance to their condo building. For him, the leaving was in the details, and he busied himself with them. Roark Engel faced a common special-operator’s dilemma. His professional calling was that of a combat team leader in combat rotation. He loved his wife dearly, yet his calling demanded that he leave her for long periods of time. So he immersed himself in the details.

For Jackie Engel, the last days were measured in the degrees of seriousness that began to overtake her husband as the time for deployment drew closer. She knew he held it off as best as he could, but as the time to leave approached, he took on responsibility like the layers of clothing one puts on to go out into a cold night. She could almost see him bend under the weight of it. She knew it was a double burden. He was bending under the weight of the responsibility of taking care of his men
and
of leaving her and their unborn child. She also knew that once he was gone and could focus only on the men and the mission, he would do fine. Jackie Engel didn’t resent this; she understood and accepted it. More than that, a part of her welcomed it. She knew that his total attention to his duties was the best insurance she had that he would come home to her intact.

The day before, he and Jackie had gone over everything that needed to be in place before he left. This morning he wanted to think about nothing; he wanted to make their parting as gentle and painless as it could be. Mechanically, he showered, shaved, dressed, and got ready for the day just like any other. They shared a simple breakfast and tried to be cheerful. These little practiced routines helped him fight through the emotional strain of leaving his wife. So they went through the routines together. They talked about their next breakfast together, and future breakfasts with a high chair between them.

His operational gear, uniforms, files, computer, and the few civilian clothes he would take were long since packed and staged for the deployment. The only thing he put in his bag the night before leaving was always the flag. His flag had adorned the coffin of his grandfather, who was killed in action in World War II. His grandfather on his father’s side had piloted a B-24 during the Ploesti raids. On his final mission, he kept the dying Liberator in the air until the rest of the crew had bailed out. Then he rode the stricken aircraft to a fiery grave. There was no question: Warrior blood coursed through Roark Engel’s veins. Roark always took the flag with him on deployment; he said it kept him safe—that the spirits of the warriors in his family would protect him while he was in harm’s way. The day before, the flag had been over the mantel in a small rectangular shadow box. The next morning, it was gone, spirited quietly into the canvas document case that contained his orders and deployment authorizations.

Then it was time. He was dressed the same as he was every morning—camouflage uniform, rough-out desert boots, and utility cap. For Roark and Jackie, their established point of departure was the front door of their little condo. He would go out the door, and she would remain behind.

“Got the flag?” she asked, C /p> just as she had on previous deployments.

“Got the flag,” he responded. Then came the litany of advice and cautions that she knew was coming and for which she loved him.

“Now, promise me you’ll stay away from your sister Carol. I know it’s only secondary smoke and she sits by the fireplace, but its still bad news.”

“And stay away from processed food,” she said, mimicking him, “and deli meats and diet anything.”

He smiled affectionately and added, “And sushi and ice cream and alcohol,” even though neither had touched a drop, save for his Bushmills at Danny’s, since they learned she was pregnant. She pulled him close and rubbed his closely cropped head. “It’ll be okay, Lieutenant. Just come back to me with a decent head of hair.”

“You know, Jackie, I not only love you, I’m very proud of you.”

“Ditto, Boss,”

“Any other orders?”

“Yes. I want to look into your eyes when our first child is born.”