by Dick Couch
“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 never 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 Dad? 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 get this deployment under our belt and get you back in time for the birth of your firstborn.” He took up his glass. “Here’s to you, Jackie, and the first of many.”
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 squ
adron 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 minutes 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.
“But, Boss, how did you know we would be going with the detached squad—before we had even discussed it.”
Engel gave him a Cheshire-cat grin. “I’ve got a sharp platoon chief. I knew that’s the way he would want to do it. Why don’t you give the senior chief a call and have him join us tonight?”
Nolan nodded. Another smart call. “Consider it done, Boss.”
The two rose and bear-hugged. Engel scooped up his books and headed out the back. Nolan went to the bar to settle up with Cindy.
* * *
Lisa Morales was an internist and had been with Doctors Without Borders for the past six years. She was Mexican born and U.S. trained. At thirty-four, she was single, attractive, and passionate about helping those who were less fortunate, which is why she found herself working for DWB and was not in private practice. Her current assignment was in Costa Rica. She was tending to a patient in a Spartan medical clinic in the small town of Barranca, about eight kilometers east of Puntarenas near the intersection of highways 17 and 23. Unknown to her colleagues at DWB, she also worked for the CIA.
Had it been known that she worked for American intelligence, her colleagues would have shunned her, and Doctors Without Borders would have fired her. The fact that she would serve as a covert agent was a testament to her commitment to the poor of Central and South America. She knew that much of the poverty in the countries where she worked was a product of corruption promoted by the drug trade. So she was both healer and spy—the former role was her profession, the latter a personal obligation. Lisa Morales felt she simply had to do more than just fight malnutrition and disease. As she worked, she watched a gaggle of small children play soccer on a dusty, makeshift field adjacent to the clinic.
Without warning, an SUV pulled up and Christo got out accompanied by his enforcer, Tommy. The two men were a study in contrast. Tommy was clearly a thug, a blunt object alongside the slim, urbane Christo. Pandemonium broke out as the children rushed Christo.
“Christo! Christo!” they shouted almost in unison.
He patted them on their heads, picked them up two at a time, clearly basking in this sea of adulation. In truth, he loved these children as much as they idolized him.
Christo and Morales made eye contact for an instant. He nodded and moved on. He made a quick tour of the clinic, which his financial assistance made possible, but he was not there to see his pesos at work. He was there for the affection and near worship of the kids. For all his education and sophistication, Christo seemed to need the attention. After passing out coins and candy, he was back in his SUV. With Tommy behind the wheel, the vehicle swerved in a circle and accelerated sharply away, covering the children and the clinic in a fine layer of dust. Still, the children cheered wildly until he was out of sight.
Later that day, as Lisa Morales made her way into the small city after another fourteen-hour day at the clinic, a man on a motorcycle skillfully weaved his way through the afternoon traffic. He was riding a 1961 Triumph split-case TT dirt-racing bike. The rider traveled at breakneck speed, causing pedestrians to scatter and bicycle riders to turn sharply to avoid getting hit. The bike eventually disappeared into the disorder of the crowded streets. That evening, as Lisa Morales was putting a bottle of water in the refrigerator, she heard a motorcycle outside
and headed to the balcony.
The biker, Walter Ross, took off his helmet. Ross was a CIA contract case officer. He was an experienced Latin America division handler and had been running agents in Central America long before Morales entered medical school. He was basically an expat who had not been north in quite a while. He was good at his job and trusted by his own CIA handlers in Mexico City and at Langley.
“Hey, I’ll be right down, all right?”
“Whatever you say, Doctor,” Ross replied.
Morales ran down the single flight of stairs and joined Ross on the dusty street below. After exchanging greetings, they walked toward Barranca’s main plaza.
“How was the ride?”
“Left Colombia this morning,” Ross replied.
“Colombia to here in one day?”
“Piece of cake,” he replied, a tinge of pride in his voice.
“Look, about Christo,” Morales began, getting to the reason for Ross’s visit, “we now estimate he’s worth close to a billion.”
“Was that with a B?” Ross replied, the surprise registering on his face.
“That’s an estimate from Doctors Without Borders. They know a lot about him because he’s one of our primary backers in this area. He gives back a lot to the local people here with medical clinics, schools, and assistance to the elderly. But he’s no fool. He also lines the pockets of the politicians and police. So they’re extremely loyal to him. But why all of the Agency interest in him? I thought this would be a DEA matter.”
