by Dick Couch
“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 begin 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, 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.”
“Honey, you know I’ll do my best.”
Both were misty eyed and holding each other closely. He bent over and kissed her gently on the mouth. “I love you.”
“And I love you.”
They continued to hold each other for another long moment, then he took up his document case, turned, and walked away. Only after she had gently closed the door did tears flow, and once they started, there seemed to be no end to them.
At the North Island terminal, there were the squad SEALs and the hastily configured support package that would accompany the squad. The aircraft, a newer C-130J, had arrived at noon the day before, so all of the gear was aboard and strapped down. Those like Engel who had said their good-byes at home were essentially already on deployment. For those whose families came to see them off, they were still multitasking—juggling their family and team responsibilities. Julia Nolan was there with all five kids and seemed surprisingly cheerful, but then she’d had far more practice at this than Jackie. Engel greeted each of the kids, then turned to Julia.
“Ready to go, Roark?” she said as he hugged her.
“As ready as I can be,” he replied.
“Got a deal for you. You take care of Dave and I’ll look in on Jackie, okay?”
He gave her a feigned look of surprise and a smile. “But isn’t it Dave’s job to look after me?” Then more seriously, “You got a deal, Julia, and thanks—I really appreciate it.”
Engel said hello to Mikey’s wife, who was dressed as if she were going to a garden party and crying as if she were at a funeral. Like himself, Sonny had also said his good-byes at home and was ready to launch. At this point, there was little else for Engel to do. The loading and the manifesting were Nolan’s responsibility, and he knew that all was well in hand. Senior Chief Miller had taken charge of their support package, and that, too, was done. He found the pilots standing off to one side and joined them. They looked on while the others completed their farewells.
“Ready when you are, Lieutenant,” the pilot said.
“Then let’s do it,” Engel announced. Nolan had kept an eye on Engel for the high sign, even as his family pressed clos
ely about him. Engel had only to nod his head; his platoon chief would do the rest. Engel boarded the plane, stowed his case under his seat, and strapped himself in. Then he closed his eyes and thought of Jackie, totally detached from the commotion of the others clamoring aboard the aircraft. Twenty minutes later they were climbing out over the Pacific and turning south.
* * *
The compound was designed to blend into the dense foliage and surrounding mangrove, and it did just that. The few dilapidated buildings that were scattered over the five-acre compound were completely hidden by the vegetation. It would have looked like any other poor Costa Rican jungle enclave were it not for the eight-foot-high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire surrounding it, the two forty-five-foot wooden guard towers, and the armed men patrolling the area. The property was ten miles from the coast but at least an hour’s travel over the unimproved roads. There was standing water on one side of the compound and a brown, slow moving river that crawled past a quarter mile north. Any aircraft flying over would not know it was there, save for the two rut-filled dirt roads barely wide enough for one car to navigate, and they were but shadowy creases in the canopy. The small compound was protected by its remoteness as well as its security force.
Several miles away, a small village provided a link to civilization and housed an additional security force. Like numerous small inland villages, there was a main road; a cluster of huts; and a central building that was a cantina, a general store, and a Pemex station. There were two armed forces in the area: the Costa Rican national army and the local drug cartel. The cartel considered the village and this isolated compound a part of its turf and under its protection. These two forces seldom confronted each other. This was not because of the normal practice of bribing officials, at least not out here at the foot-soldier level. Theirs was a practical accommodation. Both were well armed, and neither the cartel security men nor the federales wanted to end up facedown in the mud and the mangrove. So they gave each other a wide berth.
Inside the compound’s largest building, a long, low structure, Lisa Morales hung from a rafter in a 20x20 foot end room—the tips of her bare toes just able to gain a purchase on the plank flooring. Old Spanish newspapers and mildew covered the room’s peeling clapboard walls, and a single yellow bulb dangled overhead. It was just enough light to cast her slim shadow on the wall and floor. The door pushed open from the exterior and filtered daylight spilled into the room, illuminating Morales’s bloody face and filthy clothes. Tommy filled the door for a moment, then walked up to the battered physician. She raised her head and peered at him through slitted, swollen eyes.
“I am a doctor, and my organization will pay a generous reward.”
Tommy stood a foot from Morales and smiled. He was a brutish figure with a pocked face, narrow eyes, and a thatch of unruly, unkempt hair. He wore a rumpled polo shirt and pleated slacks—both with streaks of blood on them. Just under six feet, he weighed close to 250 and was running to fat. Yet he exuded a raw animal power that was both compelling and cruel. He held a cell phone on speakerphone in front of her swollen and bruised lips.
“I am a doctor, and my organization will pay you a reward,” Morales said again, her voice pleading and weary.
Half a world way, sitting in a Lincoln Town Car on a deserted street in Brovary, Ukraine, Christo sifted through a collection of photos of Morales and Ross. They showed the two of them in her apartment window, sitting at a café, and walking through the streets of Barranca. Christo himself was dressed in a hand-tailored Bond Street suit, with a crisp white shirt and floral tie. He frowned, shifted in the soft leather seats, and gave his attention to the image of Morales on his iPhone.
“Tell me, what is it about you Americans that makes you feel entitled to interfere in my affairs—affairs which are of no concern to you whatsoever.” He was smiling, but there was a hard edge to his voice.
“What . . . what are you talking about? My name is Lisa Morales. I am a physician, nothing more.” She struggled to continue as Tommy held the phone closer in his enormous hands, but she could only squint at the cell-phone screen through blood-laced eyes.
“I know who you are, Miss Morales, and I know who you work for. I know who Mr. Ross works for, or worked for. What I don’t know is how much you know. So why don’t you make this easy on both of us and tell me just exactly what you think you know.”
“I’m a doctor. I try to prevent mothers from dying at childbirth,” she replied, rallying somewhat. “I treat children with malnutrition who are half starved because of you and your dirty business. I work with—” but her sentence ended when Tommy slammed his open palm into the side of her head.
“How did that feel, Miss Morales? Not good, I think. So I want you to think about what I have just said,” Christo replied with the same forced smile, “and what I want from you. Now, you have a nice day at the spa.” Then to Tommy, “Take me off speakerphone.”
Tommy disengaged the speakerphone, put the cell phone up to his ear, and stepped away from her.
“Keep her alive, and don’t call me back until she talks.” Then, thinking of Tommy and the headache that this meddlesome woman and her CIA handler had caused him, he added, “And after she talks, you may do what you want with her.”
“As you say, Patron,” Tommy replied with a twisted grin.
Christo rung off and exhaled deeply, suspecting it would take a while to get what was needed from Morales. He sensed that she might be a tough one. The women, he mused. They were always the tough ones. He paused a moment to reflect on the passion and stubbornness of the ideologically committed. Fools, he concluded—an irritant but nothing more. He sighed and stared passively out the window of the Town Car into the bland Brovary landscape.
At the compound, Tommy cupped his hand and slammed it against Morales’s left ear.
“Diga me,” Tommy shouted. He was close enough to spray spittle across her cheek.
“Diga me,” he shouted even louder and aimed another blow at the near-lifeless Morales.
* * *
High above the dense, emerald-colored jungle canopy, a King Air 350 twin-engine turboprop flew at fifteen thousand feet. It was stacked with the finest high-end monitoring equipment U.S. taxpayers could buy, all focused on the compound directly below.
The American Surveillance Technical Officer—or STO—monitoring the plane’s equipment had his headphones on as he huddled against a rack of electronic listening gear. He put his hands over the headphone ear cups to seal out the whine of the aircraft’s twin PT6A-60A engines. The STO nodded his head slowly as he listened.
Finally satisfied that he had heard all he needed to hear, his hands flashed to his laptop and raced over the keys. After no more than a few minutes of typing, he hit the SEND key. His message, and a copy of the intercept, was encrypted and uploaded to an orbiting communications satellite.
FOUR
Prior to 9/11 and the ramped-up tempo of operations that evolved in Iraq and Afghanistan, the work of U.S. Special Operations Command and their ground-combat components revolved around proficiency training here at home and joint training exercises with allies overseas. Periodically, they were called into action for short engagements like the incursions into Panama, Grenada, and Somalia. Even the Gulf War was short-lived. The pre-9/11 life of a special operator was one of continuous training and perhaps, if he were lucky, an isolated mission tasking. Things began to get interesting during the 1990s as terrorists were tracked and chased, but SEALs, Green Berets, and Rangers, like most of the conventional forces, remained a garrison force and a force in waiting.
To keep forces poised in a forward-deployed position, the United States had gone to great lengths and expense to maintain bases around the world. Yet the United States had few such bases in Central and South America. One reason for this was that, aside from the issue of drugs, there was no threat from this region. The other was that the Central and South Americans did not particularly want Norte Americano bases on their soil. So U.S. force proj
ection into this area was done offshore from units of the fleet or from hastily constructed, temporary land bases, usually at some leased complex near some little-used outlying airstrip. This was where the Bandito squad found themselves shortly after their departure from Coronado.
They occupied a portion of a disused industrial park next to an abandoned airstrip, surrounded by dense tropical vegetation. Occasionally, some unidentified aircraft set down and quickly took off at the nearby strip, usually at night, but there were no aviation services. Their own C-130J delivered them at night and quickly departed. A single dirt road serviced the airstrip. They occupied two warehouses that had cracked concrete floors and leaky roofs but were nestled inside a surprisingly secure chain-link enclosure. Periodically, they were visited by two dated tanker trucks that alternately delivered water and diesel fuel. All business was done in cash, American greenbacks. The buildings where the SEALs and their support team slept on folding cots were kept at a habitable human threshold by generators. Everyone wore civilian clothes—mostly cotton slacks, T-shirts, and shower shoes. There were portable restrooms and a single makeshift shower. They ate MREs and drank bottled water. Two very hardworking Navy Seabees kept the mini-base functioning, and a security detachment of Marines dressed like locals provided unobtrusive security. Lieutenant Engel, Chief Nolan, and the other SEALs went out of their way to thank those who worked around the clock to provide for them and watch over them.
The seemingly hasty operating base was, in fact, a very well-rehearsed and orchestrated mobile presence. It could be set up and taken down in a matter of hours, and moved as conditions dictated. Even though a temporary, transitory facility, it was still an armed presence in a foreign country. Yet it was no rogue operation. This forward operating base was established after careful negotiations with the host nation and the U.S. State Department. While it could have been anywhere in the world, this particular base was in a remote area of Costa Rica, an allied nation. And it was of no small concern to that nation’s American ambassador and his country team. Engel and Nolan had flown to the capital to meet with the embassy chief of staff and the CIA station chief. The two were supportive but cautious; they engaged in diplomacy and espionage, not shooting and killing. Yet they had read the message traffic, and they saw much of the raw intelligence. They knew that there indeed might be a need for a special-operations direct-action team. So the presence of this special-operations strike element was official and sanctioned but could be denied by all concerned should that become necessary—clandestine but not necessarily covert.
