Tom Clancy Presents: Act of Valor

by Dick Couch

  “You may keep this and leave here with it. It’s nice to have pictures of your loved ones with you, especially when you are in confinement.”

  For several minutes, neither man spoke. It was Christo who broke the silence.

  “You . . . you would hurt my family?”

  Miller held him with those intense green eyes for only a moment, then replied, “I would never hurt your family.” Christo believed him; he was not sure why he believed this man, but he did. “But as you might imagine,” Miller continued in that soft, steady voice, “there are conditions. While I can promise that no harm will come to them, the quality of their life and any future contact you may have with them will depend on your cooperation.” He sat back and exhaled. “Life as you knew it, as a businessman and as a family man, is over. We can and will take all your assets. But your wife, daughter, and extended family will have money to live on—reasonably, if not elegantly. Your wife will not have to take work; your daughter, who we understand is gifted, will be able to go to college. Perhaps even to the University of Virginia if she chooses.”

  As Miller exerted his influence and control over Christo, Christo himself seemed to shrink. He had gone from condescension to curiosity to uncertainty. Now a cold fear gripped him, such a fear as he had never known. “And what of myself?” he asked, barely audible.

  “I can promise only detention and humane treatment. Will you ever see your family again? That I cannot promise, but who knows what the future may bring. However, you do have information about Shabal and what he might be planning. This is information we would very much like to have. So cooperate—by telling all that you know—and you will be kept informed about your family and given proof of their continued safety. On that, you have my word. It all depends on you and your desire to help us.”

  Christo was now slumped in his chair with his eyes pressed tightly closed, as he pinched the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. He was desperately trying to come to grips with a world that was quickly collapsing around him. Christo gathered himself up in his chair to again face Otto’s relentless green eyes, which were still upon him. A small audio recorder had now appeared on the desk in front of him.

  “Very well,” he managed, “what do you wish to know?”

  Miller knew he had broken Christo, but that was just the first step. He wanted everything from Christo, not just what the man thought he wanted to hear. So gently, quietly, professionally, and persistently Otto Miller began to extract every bit of worthwhile information from Christo. This would be a marathon, not a sprint.

  As Miller prompted him, Christo guided the senior chief through the details of the explosive vests with the ceramic balls, the Filipino Muslims who had been recruited to carry out the plan, and how Shabal planned to get them across the border and into the United States. The device on the desk was in fact a recorder, but it was also a radio with limited range. A communications technician had been ferried over to the Osrah from one of the Mark Vs. He and his radio relay equipment were now on the helo deck. A running encryption of Miller’s interrogation of Christo was being beamed by satellite relay simultaneously to NSA headquarters at Fort Meade, Maryland, and to the Nebraska Avenue Complex of the Department of Homeland Security. NSA, being far more entrenched and nimble than DHS, quickly decrypted and collated the information and disseminated it by flash precedence to those recipients with code-word authorization.

  TEN

  It was an excellent night for an over-the-beach operation, as there was no moon, and a spotty cloud cover blocked much of the starlight. But the sea was a problem. Four-foot waves rode atop the long Pacific swells coming out of the southwest, and their initial course for Cedros Island had the three CRRCs running on a due easterly heading. With the swells on their starboard quarter, the CRRCs slid down them in a wrenching, corkscrew motion while they pounded across and through the waves. The SEALs, with their gear tied down, clung to the spray and cross tubes and endured the misery. The fact was that the boats could take more than those riding in them. The SWCC coxswains had wedged themselves in the rear of their craft. They wore night-vision devices and, with one hand on the big outboard tiller and the other on a handheld GPS, guided their craft through the night. The swicks brought two more of their own along for security and to ride in the front of the third CRRC to hold down the bow. After an hour and a half of the continuous, uneven pounding, they skirted past the uninhabited Islas San Benito and rounded the northern tip of Cedros. Turning south, they came into the lee of the island and some relief from the sea conditions. They were well offshore, but they could see the lights of the village.

  The tumultuous ride afforded Engel some time to think. Though he was being physically punished by the pounding of the CRRC, he could still think—and think clearly. Like most SEALs, he could detach mental activity from physical discomfort. So while he was being jerked this way and pulled that way without warning, he carefully reviewed the information Senior Chief Miller had sent to them from his interrogation of Christo. Although Christo had confirmed the nature of the threat and the methods of the attackers, he had few operational details; they knew the how but not the all-important where and when. Christo had known nothing of Cedros Island, but on one thing he had been most specific. The explosive vests that Shabal now had in his possession were virtually undetectable by current screening technologies, and those recruited to carry the vests were from a Muslim sect in the southern Philippines who were completely dedicated. And the explosives were of a new and more powerful design—so new that dogs trained to find explosive materials would not have been trained to detect them. It was a formula for mass casualties and panic. This threat, and the knowledge of casualties these vests could inflict, occupied him as they bounded through the night for Cedros Island. Yet on occasion, his thoughts drifted to Jackie and their new baby. These thoughts were mixed with a longing and a regret that he could not be with her, but with some effort he pushed them aside and focused on the task ahead.

  Cedros Island, or Isla de Cedros, “isle of cedars,” is close to twenty-five miles long and five miles wide, with a population of some fifteen hundred souls—most of whom live along the southern coast. Located sixty miles off Baja California in the Pacific, it was misnamed by early Spanish explorers who took the pine trees on Cedros for cedars. There had not been much activity or anything of real importance in the past two centuries to add to Cedros’s recorded history. Copper and gold were mined on Cedros at the turn of the last century, but the ore was marginal at best. The mining gave way to fishing, and the fishing gave way to ecotourism and smuggling. The small target village on the northern coast of this island was a hotbed of the latter. The village, if it could even be called that, had no name. It was a mile north of the old mining town of Punta Norte and consisted of a few shacks, some trailers, and a cantina. Those who lived there made a poor living from fishing, smuggling, and the transshipment of drugs, and the island authorities from the borough seat of Pueblo Cedros made it a point not to go there.

  The lead CRRC with the Bandito squad aboard finally throttled back, and the other CRRCs followed suit. They drifted forward at idle, swicks and SEALs alike watching and listening. Engel’s coxswain leaned toward him with an iPad in a clear, waterproof housing.

  “Sir, here’s the village,” he said in a low voice, “and here’s the insertion point some eighteen hundred yards due west. We’ll have an offshore breeze, so they shouldn’t hear us coming. I got zero-four-thirty-two. How do you want to handle it?”

  Engel considered this. Not much could be gained by waiting out here; even this mild seaway would wear on his SEALs and make them less combat ready. And the sooner he could get his ground force ashore, the more time they would have with their approach to the target.

  “We’re a little early, but not that early. Let’s stand in.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  The swick coxswain turned the lead CRRC toward the beach, and they began to idle toward the island. Engel had neither to pass word for
the other CRRC to follow, nor to alert those in the raiding force that they were heading for the insertion point. When the boats had come off step and gone to idle speed, the SEALs on both boats began to prepare for going ashore. They snapped their NODs onto their helmets and began to cinch down their body armor and combat vests. Ray, as the lead communicator, quietly began a radio check with the SEALs in both squads and the boat coxswains. They had done this just as they were leaving the Bonhomme Richard, but that was several hours ago and a kidney-pounding ride across forty miles of open ocean. All the SEALs in both squads were up and alert. Ray then shifted channels on his MBITR radio, the one that linked him to the TOC on the Bonnie Dick. He had a light, continuous wire cross-hatched on his combat vest, making himself a human antenna, and the LHD had a helo aloft—shadowing them but well out to sea, to serve as an airborne communications relay.

  “Home Plate, this is Blackbeard, over.”

  “Roger, Blackbeard, this is Home Plate, over.”

  “Blackbeard here, we are at Point Alpha, over.”

  “Roger, Blackbeard, hold you at Point Alpha. Rat Pack turning on deck, over.”

  “Blackbeard, roger, out.”

  Ray, who would never be far from Engel during the raid, touched his elbow. “Comm check good, Boss,” he whispered, “and the Rat Pack is turning on deck.” Rat Pack was the helo support team—two armed Knighthawks with the third squad of SEALs.

  Two of the three CRRCs were now headed toward the shoreline at idle speed. The third CRRC would wait offshore. It was still dark, yet the SEALs now hugged the main and cross tubes of the boats to lower their silhouette. The odd splash of wave against rubber and soft murmur of the outboard were the only sounds. A hundred yards off the beach, the two CRRCs were virtually invisible to the naked eye. At fifty yards from the beach, the boats heaved to while A.J. and a SEAL from the Team One squad slipped into the water and swam ashore. Once they crawled onto the beach, they paused to listen and to survey the backshore with their NODs. Then they scurried up the rocky slope and into the sparse vegetation, pausing once more to look and listen. They could hear distant salsa music coming from the direction of the village, but there was nothing else. They waited for five minutes, then called the boats in. First one, then the other, came through the line of surf, disgorged their black forms, and returned back through the shallow breakers. For the SEALs and the SWCC coxswains, this from-the-sea evolution was a well-practiced maritime skill. It was something SEALs and swicks did again and again during basic training and on every pre-deployment training cycle. Once into the backshore, the SEALs went into a loose security perimeter, the Bandito SEALs rallying on A.J., and the other squad on their scout swimmer. Again they listened and waited. Nolan quietly moved from one Bandito SEAL to another to ensure they were up and ready, and had no equipment issues from the transit or the trip through the surf. The Team One squad chief did the same. At 0540, Engel judged they were fifty minutes from first light. It was time to move; he keyed his tactical radio.

  “Tomcat, Blackbeard. Let’s do it, over.”

  “Tomcat here. We’re moving, out.”

  The Team One point man led both squads quietly toward the village. The music grew louder, but there was no one moving about the half dozen or so scattered clapboard and adobe structures. There was enough light spilling from an occasional window for the SEALs, with their NODs, to see at least ten vehicles, mostly pickup trucks, and a potholed, gravel road running through the village. At fifty yards south of the first building, the Bandito squad halted, and the Team One squad continued on patrol. Their job was to set up fire-support stations between the harbor and village along the eastern edge of the village. They moved slowly and carefully as they skirted the village. The lives of their brother Bandito SEALs depended on their finding and establishing effective support-by-fire positions.

  The Team One sniper and his spotter found an old semitrailer along the harbor-access road and carefully climbed to the top of the freight box. It was as good as they could do on this flat, rocky terrain. The other SEALs found shallow rises to set in an Mk48 machine-gun emplacement and their Mk46 squad assault weapon. They had a reasonable command of the village, and when the sun came up, it would be at their backs. After the platoon officer was satisfied with his squad’s deployment, he keyed his tactical radio.

  “Blackbeard, this is Tomcat. We’re in position. Let us know when you’re moving, and good hunting, over.”

  “Roger that, Tomcat, stand by, out.” Engel nodded to Ray to call in the start of their assault, which he did. On the Bonhomme Richard, two Knighthawk helicopters lifted off into the darkness with four SEALs in each helo. Rat Pack was now airborne, heading for an orbiting station ten miles out to sea and five minutes flying time from their village.

  “Beacons on and radio check,” Engel spoke into his mic.

  “A.J. here.”

  “Ray here.”

  “Weimy here.”

  “Sonny here.”

  “Nolan here.” Nolan rose so he could look along the line of SEALs with his NOD to verify that their IR beacons were all active. “We are up and active.”

  “All right, brothers,” Engel replied, “let’s go take this town. Tomcat, we’re moving, over.” With one squad in an overwatch support position and the other standing by as a quick-reaction element, Roark Engel was free to lead the ground assault.

  “Tomcat copies you moving, out.”

  As one, the Bandito squad rose and approached the village on a skirmish line. One at a time, they crossed a rickety bridge that spanned a dry wash running past the village. On the other side, they reconstituted their line and continued on. From the fire-support positions, it was as if six dull, light-green bulbs in a ragged line moved to and into the small village. As they closed on the first structure, three of them, the clearing team, moved to the front entrance while the other three held security.

  The first two-room hut was empty, as was the second and third. They took them in sequence—carefully, slowly, and quietly, so as to leave cleared and secure structures at their back. The fourth hut was not empty and the two SEALs who entered slowly backed out.

  “Uh, Boss, Weimy here. We got what looks like a mom and a bunch of sleeping kids.”

  “Understood. Tomcat, mark this hut as unsecured with noncombatants, over.”

  “Roger that, Blackbeard. Tomcat out.”

  “Let’s keep moving, guys.”

  “Roger,” Weimy whispered, “moving.”

  There were only two more fixed structures: a small mud-adobe hut and the larger, wooden cantina still playing salsa music. Behind the cantina, the SEALs could now see two single-wide mobile homes. Sonny and A.J., along with Weimy, moved to set up on the adobe. Sonny stepped through the door and found himself standing at the foot of a single bunk with a dirty mattress. There were two children—one sleeping and the other nursing. He put his fingers to his lips to ask for silence, but it didn’t work. The mother screamed, and the scream brought a man from behind a curtained area in the rear of the hut. He wore only a soiled white shirt and undershorts, and held an AK-47 loosely at his side by the trigger grip. He moved, giving Sonny no choice. The element of surprise was now over; it was time for violence of action. Sonny took him mid-chest with a five-round burst from his Mk46 SAW. The woman continued to scream.

  “One Tango down,” Sonny calmly reported on the tactical net, and he backed out the door. “Noncombatants still inside.”

  On the command net, Ray called in the action. “Rat Pack, Home Plate, we are in contact. I say again, we are in contact, over.”

  “Rat Pack, roger. We are inbound, out.”

  “Home Plate, roger, out.”

  North of Cedros Island, two MH-60S Knighthawk helos dropped to five hundred feet and headed south at best speed. The first signs of dawn were now making their appearance over Baja California, yet the aircrews and SEALs still wore their NODs. West of Cedros, the Bonhomme Richard was closing at flank speed.

  Moments earlier in the
cantina, a rough-looking Hispanic and the leader of the Filipino recruit contingent were carefully laying out explosive vests on a long table. Six other Filipinos sat quietly in a corner of the large single room drinking tea. At another table, three other men, with the sun-hardened look of fishermen, sat around a single bottle of tequila, playing dominos. Two others were drinking at a shabby bar made from low-grade plywood. When the short burst of Sonny’s SAW split the night, they all reacted, and within seconds, everyone had a gun. The Mexicans looked wildly around; the Filipinos were more disciplined and carefully moved to the doors and windows. They were Muslim extremists and prepared to die. If it was to be their time, then so be it. One of them quietly slipped on one of the explosive vests.

  “On me, Banditos,” Engel called over the tac net, and the five SEALs took a position on a line abreast with Engel, facing the cantina. “Tom, you have us?”

  “Negative. You must be behind a building.”

  Engel took a portable laser and pointed it skyward, moving it in small circles. The motion created an IR shaft of light marking his position.

  “Now?”

  “We got you, Blackbeard. Stay tight there unless you call out your move.”