Tom Clancy Presents: Act of Valor

by Dick Couch

  “So it would seem reasonable,” Engel offered, “that what is going down in Somalia has nothing to do with Costa Rica and everything to do with Christo.”

  “That’s right,” said the man with the mustache, “and with the other mystery man, Shabal. We know he’s a sometimes associate of Christo, and he was referenced on yet another text message on the encrypted cell phone. Besides the texting, we’ve seen a spike in suspicious cell-phone traffic that relates to this quote, ‘big event.’ A lot of this traffic is localized along the known drug transshipment points as well as Cedros Island off Baja. Cedros is well down the coast from the border, but it’s a known transshipment point for maritime smuggling.”

  “And it gets even better,” the intel commander continued. “With all this information in place and collated, the red lights are flashing all over the alphabet agencies. The General has just made this a code-word operation. From now on, you, your detachment, and all of us are effectively in isolation until this gets resolved. So, Lieutenant, let your people know that their movements and communications are now restricted. And be ready to go operational as required. I know you’re a man down in your assault team. If you need additional personnel, let me know, and I’ll see that the request gets priority going up the line. You might also want to start thinking about an SR mission to Somalia. Since we’re code-worded, they may want you to conduct the mission rather than assign it to another unit.” He looked at his senior enlisted advisor. “I miss anything, Master Chief?”

  “No, sir. I think that about covers it, at least for now.”

  “Lieutenant Engel?”

  Engel looked from Nolan to Miller and back. Both their looks said they had nothing now but that there was a great deal they needed to talk about as soon as they could get off by themselves.

  “Sir?” the commander said to the NSA man, who was now camped behind a laptop that was configured to handle classified message traffic.

  “I have nothing else, but my boss at NSA just sent me a back-channel text. He says this has the look, feel, and smell of the real thing. I agree with him. And by the way,” he glanced at his screen. “This is now Operation Desert Flower. Makes you wonder what idiot comes up with these supposedly random code words and phrases.”

  Nolan headed back to the SEAL compartment to get the other SEALs up to speed on the recent developments and to let them know they were now code-worded and in isolation. Code-word protocols were both precise and strict. When a situation or series of events reached a certain threat level, it was assigned a code word. This segregated all message traffic that referred to the code-worded operation; it was classified top secret, special handling. Those associated with or read into the operation were restricted in their movements, and their contact with those not associated with the operation or situation was also restricted. A Marine sentry would be stationed at the door to the SEAL compartment, and all comings and goings would be logged, along with the destination and purpose of any time away from their compartment. The decision to make this a code-word operation could only come from a very senior level. In this case it came from the man whom they now referred to as The General—General David Petraeus, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

  A code-worded operation was indeed rare, and many SEALs and special operators went their entire careers without being assigned to one. They were reserved for issues of immediate national security. But a code-worded op was a dual-edged sword. On the positive side, it was a chance to be part of a meaningful operation—something important. On the negative side, their movements would be severely restricted, and they would have little contact with the outside world. They could receive e-mails from their families, but there would be no outgoing replies. As far as those back home were concerned, they would have dropped off the face of the earth.

  Engel followed Senior Chief Miller back to the Bonnie Dick’s tactical operations center and began to log into the special, stand-alone communications nets that had been set up for this operation. It was a lengthy login process, one that isolated any code-worded message traffic from the normal military and government-agency communications channels. This procedure would not only provide hypersecure comm links but also, in the unlikely compromise of security, would track the security breach to its source. There were few security services capable of tracking the telltale nuances of military-activity and communication-traffic spikes. Only the Chinese, Russians, British, Israelis, and possibly the Iranians could do this, but they were taking no chances, or at least The General wasn’t. Engel had just finished his log-in procedures when Nolan stepped into the TOC.

  “Hey, Chief,” Engel said as he turned from the computer console, one specially shielded to allow for top secret traffic. “How are the boys taking to their first code-word operation?”

  Nolan shrugged as he handed a small canvas bag of cell phones to Engel. “They’re pretty stoic about it. Excited but stoic. That little adventure in Costa Rica has left them a little spent. Give them a little time and they’ll start to whine about the restrictions. And they all want to know what our next move might be. I told them we’d get back to them when we know.”

  Engle nodded. He took out his personal cell phone and dropped it into the bag and handed it to the senior chief. They would be locked up for the duration of the operation. It wasn’t that Engel or Nolan didn’t trust their SEALs not to sneak a call home, but if there was a security breach, it would probably come from the unauthorized use of a cell phone. If their phones were all locked up, they would not be hassled by the cell-phone traces and embarrassing questions.

  “Well, what are we going to do?” Engel said, looking from Nolan to Miller. “I’d rather send a course of action up the line than have someone else calling our shot. Senior?”

  Engel and Nolan were SEAL operators and more than capable of operational planning as it related to the tactical execution of a special operation. But when it came to the evaluation and distillation of intelligence from a variety of sources, assessing various courses of action, and plotting the next move or a succession of moves, Senior Chief Otto Miller ruled. So both Engel and Nolan now sat in silence, waiting for the oracle to speak. They were seated in a quiet corner of the TOC, away from the bustle and activity that buzzed about the rest of the secure facility. Miller carefully stroked his beard, ordering his thoughts.

  “There are a lot of unknowns in this, but I do agree that there seems to be an unnerving aggregate of information that suggests some very bad people are up to no good—perhaps some major no good. This Christo is a bad one, but he’s just a businessman. It’s Shabal that has me concerned. He’s ideologically committed, and his kind scares me.” Miller was again silent, then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

  “It would seem that the business in Costa Rica had only to do with Morales and Ross getting too close to Christo, and they paid the price for that. But it stands to reason that Christo’s up to something or they would have just killed them—made it look like a drug hit or a botched kidnapping. They took the time and the associated risk of capturing her and conducting an interrogation, which means there’s more to this. But unless I miss my guess, it has nothing to do with Costa Rica—it was about Christo.

  “Then there’s this business of what may take place in Somalia. We need to know more about that and how it relates to Christo and any Christo/Shabal tie-in. Is it about drugs? Arms? Money? What’s going on and why? I think we need to put some eyes on whatever is about to take place there, and since we know where and roughly when, it shouldn’t be too difficult. Logistically complex, but not too difficult. The good news is that since we’re under code-word protocol, we can ask for just about any support we might need for a special reconnaissance mission, and we’ll get it. The bad news is that since it is a code-word operation, we may not have the luxury of assigning that SR mission to another team in the time available to us.”

  Miller lapsed into a moment of silence before continuing. “And finally, there’s this business of phone interc
epts and traces that lead from Christo’s Costa Rican operation to the Ukraine, Russia, Indonesia, and the Philippines. We have no idea where Shabal is, but we do have indications that Christo is no longer in Central America or Eastern Europe. He does have an oceangoing yacht that was just sighted in the Strait of Malacca. So there’s a good chance he may be coordinating things from there. Or if he’s not there, he soon will be. He’s a careful one, and there’s a good chance that he’d like to be aboard his yacht and halfway around the world if there’s some kind of attack on the homeland. I don’t think that yacht is over there for crew training; he wants it there for a reason. And that brings us to what these two might be planning, and we have to assume it’s an attack on U.S. soil.

  “If that’s the case, it seems reasonable that Christo’s connections with the cartels in South and Central American might well figure into this, which means some kind of breach across our southern border. Until we get better information, or information to the contrary, I think we have to play it that way. You currently have only six in your team, and that may be enough for a small direct-action assault or a raid, but not enough for backup or a blocking force. SEAL Team One is midway through their deployment preparation. I recommend that you ask that a full platoon be put on an eight-hour flyaway standby in case you get a mission tasking. No need to read them into code-word protocols, but have them on standby in case you need them, okay?” Both of them nodded, and Engel made a note on his scratch pad. “Then, even though it’s going to be a pain in the ass, send two of your guys on a special reconnaissance mission to Somalia. You can plan it from here while they’re in transit. I know it cuts your team by two more, but it leaves both of you here to work the traffic and intel picture, and plot the next move as more information comes in.”

  “Roger that, Senior,” Nolan said, “but couldn’t they pull a small SR team from a deployed East Coast squadron, even maybe one that’s deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan? I hate to be down two more guys.”

  Miller lifted an eyebrow as he considered this. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’m thinking you’re going to want your own guys to do this and come back here on a priority airlift to brief you in person. Again, I could be wrong, but whatever Shabal and Christo have planned will probably go down after this business in Somalia, right?”

  Nolan pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “Yeah, I can see that. And we stay here, read the traffic and plan, and stand ready for a direct-action launch—if and when.”

  “That’s it,” Miller replied. “As far as a staging area, you could be here or in San Diego or at some remote location north of the Tex-Mex border, but the security is good here, and we’ll be off Baja before daybreak tomorrow. And since we’re in lockdown, there’s probably no sense in moving until we get better information.”

  Engel and Nolan digested this for a long moment. The senior chief’s analysis, as they expected, was linear and logical.

  “So what’s your move, Senior?” Engel asked.

  Miller smiled. “Sooner or later, our man Christo is going to board his yacht, which, according to their last port call, is moving slowly into the Gulf of Thailand. I’ve asked Squadron Seven to move a Mark V detachment and to get a platoon into the area and have it standing by. Now that we’re code-worded, I don’t see that as a problem. If and when Christo is heloed out to his yacht, I think I’ll pay a call on him.”

  “His boat can take a helo aboard?” Nolan asked.

  “Well, it’s a Westship 149 that’s been modified to handle a Bell Jet Ranger. Should be easy to fast-rope aboard from an H-60. The man has sold a lot of drugs and arms, and he knows how to travel in style. And we’ll need a Mark V to catch it; a big Westship can do close to twenty-four knots. But as soon as he’s aboard and in international waters, we just might come calling. Any other questions?”

  Engel exhaled, checking his notes. “Guess that’ll do it for now. So, Chief, who do we detach for the SR mission?” He already knew the answer, but he had to ask.

  “A.J. and Ray. Who else?”

  “Then A.J. and Ray it is.”

  Suddenly Dave Nolan turned serious. “This thing is starting to heat up. Maybe our little jaunt in Costa Rica was just the beginning.”

  “So it would seem,” Engel replied.

  They rose and agreed to meet back with Miller later that evening. As they made their way to the entrance to the TOC, Nolan stopped to refill his coffee mug. The Bonnie Dick had more coffeepots stashed around the big ship than Starbucks had corner locations in Seattle. “Coffee, Boss?”

  Engel looked over the setup. There was hot water, but he saw no tea bags. “No tea?” he inquired.

  “Jesus, Boss. Why can’t you just drink coffee like everyone else in the Navy?”

  He gave Nolan a curious look. “Sure, why not,” and he splashed some of the muddy liquid into a disposable cup. They were making their way forward toward the SEAL compartment when Engel suddenly took a stairwell up to the next deck.

  Nolan paused. “Where you goin’, Boss.”

  “Up to the flight deck for some fresh air. Why don’t you join me.”

  Nolan hesitated a moment, then followed his lieutenant topside. It was late afternoon, still well before sunset. The sun was off their port bow as the Bonnie Dick shouldered her way north by northwest through the gentle Pacific swells. They exited the island superstructure on the starboard side and made their way slowly forward, walking into a twenty-knot wind. Engel tentatively sipped at his coffee, not really wanting to drink it. Then he stopped and turned to Nolan.

  “Okay, Chief, let’s have it.”

  “Sir?”

  “Cut the bullshit, Chief. What’s on your mind?”

  Nolan just shrugged. “The op we just finished, this Christo/Shabal shit, the code-word protocols, all of it. Boss, you got a kid on the way, your first kid. Contingency deployments aren’t supposed to be like this—not this active. I was hoping to break you away and get you home for a week or so. Now it looks like we’re trapped. We’re going to be with this for a while, probably to the end. This pisses me off. It’s your first kid. You should be home with Jackie.”

  Engel smiled, turned, and they continued to walk. “It’d be nice, but I don’t think that’s in the cards.”

  “Maybe it’ll break quickly and go smoothly, hey? Get it done and get you detached.”

  “Maybe, but don’t count on it. If it was going to be smooth and easy, they’d send in the Marines or the Army, right?” Nolan said nothing. “You remember our last pump over in al-Anbar, when things got real slow at the end? And you wanted to cut me loose to go home with the advanced redeployment party so I could be home for our anniversary? But in the back of my mind I was thinking, ‘What if something happens and we get a mission tasking? What if something goes down and I’m not there?’ I just couldn’t live with that.”

  Nolan was silent now, looking resigned.

  “Well, I couldn’t duck out then, and I sure as hell can’t duck out now. If we get this thing resolved, then maybe I’ll catch a flight back and see Jackie for a few days. But let’s just focus on getting it done, which reminds me, we ought to get below and let Ray and A.J. know they’re about to be detached to do the SR. They need to start getting their gear together.”

  “Ah, they already know, Boss. I told them to start packing just before we met with the senior chief. I’ve scheduled them out on the first helo tomorrow morning.”

  Engel stopped and faced him. “But didn’t we just decide . . . I mean how did you know . . . ?”

  “That’s why you got the number one platoon chief at Team Seven, Boss. I’m paid to be one step ahead. It comes from drinking a lot of coffee—something,” he glanced at Engel’s still full cup, “you’ll probably never get the hang of.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost eighteen hundred. Let’s head for the mess decks and see what this tub is serving for dinner chow.”

  SEVEN

  “Oh, miss. I’ll have another ginger ale if you don’t mind?”

  The flight at
tendant scowled at him, then headed aft. A moment later she returned with a plastic cup with clear bubbly and no ice. She all but dropped the cup on the generous armrest between the two passengers, slopping a little as she did so.

  “And another bag of peanuts would be nice as well.”

  She returned with a handful of small packets and dumped them in his lap. “If there’s anything else you need,” she said, “you can damn well get it yourself,” and she was gone.

  “You always have to push it, don’t you?” A.J. said to his seatmate. He was seated by the window, thumbing through the latest edition of the special-operations quarterly magazine, Front Sight Focus.

  “Y’know,” his companion replied as he mopped up the soft-drink spill, “you’d think that when you have your own airplane, you’d get treated with a little more respect.”

  “Your own airplane—yeah, right. Let me know if you’re going to give the lady any more shit so I can move. The next drink order is probably going to get poured over your head, and I want no part of it.”

  Alfonso Joseph Markum and Ray Diamond were a study in contrast. A.J. was lean and compact, with smooth olive-colored skin and regular features. He had deep-set dark eyes that complemented thick, wavy hair, which he kept well-barbered and just slightly longer than regulation. His mixed lineage allowed him to pass for just about anything but white. There was a sense of effortless dignity to A.J. and an almost natural civility that often caused others to underestimate him. He was polite to a fault. Almost no one would take him for the capable martial artist that he was. When he moved, it was with economy and purpose, like someone with ballet training. And he could be deceptively fast.

  Ray was taller and heavier, and bore the scarring of teenage acne that at best gave him a swarthy look. He had royal blue eyes and a James Coburn smile that seemed at odds with the gangland tattoos that covered both arms. He, too, was dark, but not as dark as A.J. His computer and IT skills aside, most of the Bandito SEALs, including his platoon officer and platoon chief, considered him something of a genius. He refused to speak of his past, and his service record listed his education only as a GED equivalent. Yet his military test scores were off the chart.