Tom Clancy's Act of Valor

by Dick Couch

  “We’ve already received some help from the GAFE. They operate almost exclusively against the drug smugglers, and they say that the most numerous routes and most porous border points along the southwest border regions are in and around Mexicali. We understand that these crossing points are also the most closely guarded and defended by the cartels. They feel that if the terrorists and the smugglers are indeed in bed with each other, then they will try to cross in the Mexicali area. But that still takes in a lot of border. Meanwhile, I recommend that your team get ready to marry up with the Mexican GAFE team. They’re already set up at a small airstrip just outside of Mexicali. We can fly you off as soon as you’re ready.” She paused and seemed to soften a little. “And, I understand that you, Lieutenant, were hurt on the island raid. Are you up to this?”

  “I’m up to it,” he answered, then paused to frame his words. “We can be ready to go in two hours, three at the outside. It’ll take that long to set up a communications plan and get our radios encrypted. We also have to put together a small support package. I’ll take my squad, all six of us, as the primary as {he lan andsault element, and I’ll want a sniper and a communicator from the Team One platoon, if their platoon officer approves.”

  Nolan started to say something, but Engel again put his hand on his shoulder. “We need to get to our SEALs and start getting them ready. We’ll keep you advised on the progress of our preparations. You don’t have anything, do you, Chief?”

  “Well, since you put it that way, Boss, I guess I don’t.” He rose and walked out of the TOC with Engel on his heels.

  When they were out of earshot, Nolan turned to face him. “Look, sir, this is fucked. We don’t even know . . .” Engel raised his hands in an act of surrender and to interrupt.

  “I know, and I hear you, Chief. We have no intelligence, and we know nothing about these Mexican special operators. But I think we have no choice but to go along, at least for now. We need to get ashore and in a position to react if we do get better intelligence. And I’ve got some ideas on how we can work around this. Now I want you to go and get the guys turning and burning. And talk to the Team One platoon chief; see if we can borrow a sniper and a backup SEAL communicator. I’m going to have a private little chat with Ms. Lyons to see if I can get some ground rules in place as well as a little more detail.” Engel paused and looked at his chief, who waited, arms folded, to hear him out. “I know this is not how we like to do business, but this could be a crucial operation, Chief—one that could prevent a lot of Americans from getting killed. So I, we, have to bend a little and go with the flow. As always, none of us steps out into the deep linguini unless both of us say it’s a go. Fair enough?”

  Nolan smiled, relenting. “Fair enough, sir. But this Mexican SPECOPs unit bothers me. What do we know about them? How do they operate? Hell, we don’t even know what kind of radios they have.”

  “Again, I hear you, Chief. Seems a bit strange, doesn’t it? We’ve worked with the Iraqi SOF and the Afghans and the Canadians and just about every NATO SPECOPs component in the world, but never with the Mexicans. And now, to have a shot at some really bad guys who are about to attack our country, we may have to. So?”

  Nolan shrugged. “So we go with the flow, I guess. I’ll go and get the boys cracking, and I don’t think there’ll be an issue with the two guys from Team One. Hell, they’ll all want to go.”

  Engel started to head back to the TOC, thought better of it, and headed up to the flight deck, where his Iridium sat phone worked best. He hit number one on the speed dialer. It took a few moments for the encryption to click in and the call to go through.

  “Extension 3725,” came the sleepy voice on the other end.

  “Good afternoon, Senior Chief, or I guess it’s good morning there.”

  “It’s morning all right, very early morning. What can I do for you, sir?”

  “You still have our friend there, right?”

  “We do. He’s no longer on his yacht but doing nicely in a guarded stateroom here on the Makin Island. He’s in isolation and, so far, very cooperative. I’m just not sure that operationally, he knows all that much.”

  “Here’s where we are, Senior,” and he gave him a brief breakdown of the Cedros Island operation and of the missing terrorists and explosive vests. “We don’t know where they are, and we don’t know where Shabal is. If there’s anything you can get from him that might lead us to where they are or where they might cross the border, it might be our only shot. Otherwise, they could slip into the country, and we’ll never know where they are until they strike.”

  “Understood, sir. Give me a few hours. No promises, as he just may not know, but I’ll do what I can from this end.”

  “Thanks, Senior. That’s all we can ask.”

  “And, sir, you take care of yourself. I understand that you’ve been confronting large-caliber objects at close range. Most unwise, sir.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Senior,” he said and cut the connection.

  As he headed for the TOC, he wondered how Miller had heard about his close call with the 40mm grenade. On further consideration, he realized there were Navy communication channels and Navy chief-to-chief communication channels. And the latter were the faster of the two.

  When he reached the TOC, one of the ship’s communicators handed him a message. It was a set of orders—and a notice of his promotion to lieutenant commander. The orders were to the White House for a two-year tour as a junior military aide-de-camp. He smiled. For the first time since he was a high school running back, he would carry “the football.” He couldn’t wait to tell Jackie—two full years and he’d be home most every night. This would please her to no end. Then he frowned as he thought about telling Dave Nolan and the others that he was leaving. He’d wait until after this operation was over. And, he reflected, it would probably be his last one as leader of the Bandito SEALs. Promotion to lieutenant commander meant that he would be leaving the operational platoons.

  He tucked the message into his shirt pocket and set off to find Lieutenant Susan Lyons.

  * * *

  “You say that they are all dead? All dead! And the vests gone as well?” Shabal paced as he shouted into the cell phone. “How could this have happened? . . . Very well . . . There is nothing to be done. Immediately destroy your cell phone and stay out of sight!”

  Shabal threw his own phone to the floor and crushed it underfoot. He continued to pace while several swarthy Mexican smugglers sat at a nearby table and watched him. These were hard, fierce men, but this violent and mercurial Chechen scared them. They watched as Shabal paced, the rage etched on his feature {n hhe rs. How could they have found the other contingent of recruits on Cedros, he wondered? And what bad luck. In another few hours, they, too, would have been on the mainland and moving to their border-crossing point. So be it, he reasoned, we will make do with what we have left.

  For his part, he had done everything he needed to do, and done it to perfection. He shook his head. Was it ego, or was it just a fact of life? If he left it to others, they made a mess of it. And Christo wanted him to deal with his intermediaries. What a crock! This was too important to leave to intermediaries. Perhaps too important to leave to those who did not believe as he believed.

  They had made it to Cedros Island and made the channel crossing to Baja. Now they were in a safe house in Mexicali. He didn’t trust these Mexicans, but they were useful to him—at least for the moment. He pulled aside the dirty window shade on the second floor bedroom and looked down on the dusty Mexicali street below. A hairless dog wandered down the street, looking for food scraps. Soon they would be at this place they called the milk factory and their border-crossing point, and nothing could stop them from there.

  Long ago Christo had explained the vast tunnel system running from Mexican border towns north into the United States. It was one of the things he liked about Christo. He didn’t describe them as a clandestine or an illegal network for smuggling drugs and people into the United
States—a network that had made Christo wealthy beyond imagination. These details were simply a part of his business empire. They were but a means of transportation as normal to Christo as the U.S. Interstate Highway system was to truck drivers.

  But now that Shabal was here, the tunnels were no longer an abstraction. They were part of the tactical plan he needed to execute to consummate his assault on America. With half of his recruits dead and half of his vests gone, he needed to ensure the remaining vests produced maximum carnage. He must now carefully prioritize the targets. Even so, he thought, with eight targets and thousands dead, it will still make 9/11 pale by comparison.

  He now sat with the one Mexican he could communicate with—but never fully trust. Christo had already transferred a considerable sum of money to the man’s offshore account. The man knew that once Shabal told Christo this part of the mission was complete, and Shabal and his eight martyrs were safely across the U.S. border, another great sum of money would be sent to that same offshore account. The man needed no further motivation. Money, Shabal knew, was all these Mexicans wanted.

  “So tell me again why you picked this tunnel system here,” Shabal said as he stabbed his finger at a hand-drawn map.

  “Yes, well, you can see, my friend, it is close to this safe house,” the man who called himself Sanchez began. He was a younger man, handsome in a vaguely exotic way, and urbane compared to the thugs who guarded the safe house. “And even more importantly, the entrance to the tunnels is as well guarded as anything in this country.”

  “How do you mean?” Shabal asked.

  “Look, it is vastly m {t i>only business. You looked around this town as the bus brought you here, no?”

  “Yes,” Shabal replied. He wanted information, not a lecture, and Sanchez was starting to irritate him.

  “Yes, just so. Forget about the drugs for a minute, something that made our friend Christo a wealthy man. Think about people. Think about how many millions of poor Mexicans want to enter the United States. If we just let anyone into these tunnels, they would be clogged with many thousands wanting to go north. No, we control who enters, eh?”

  “All right, I see that.”

  “I’m not sure you do, or if you realize how lucrative it is for us, and important for us to control this access.”

  Sanchez nodded toward one of the big men sitting on a battered sofa.

  “See Antonio over there. He has two sons. One is at Duke, the other is at Colgate. Most Americans can’t afford to send their children to private colleges, let alone Ivy League schools. Antonio has three more kids, younger ones, and they’ll all attend university in the United States. So, you see, we control it. We control the access, and so we control the profits.”

  “I see,” Shabal replied.

  “So, here, here is where we will insert you,” Sanchez said, drawing his finger to a point on the map. “It is our most well-protected location. It is a compound that is as closely guarded as the homes of some of our richest citizens. No residents of this city dare come within a hundred meters of it. You are paying us well, so we will take you to our best and most secure route to the north.”

  “How will we get there?”

  “Not by the bus that brought you here. That would attract too much attention. No, we move in thirty minutes. This is the time of day when the delivery trucks make their deliveries to the restaurants and cantinas. We can fit all nine of you in the back of one of them. In the compound they know we are coming, and they know what our truck looks like. It is as simple as that, my friend.”

  “It is never simple,” Shabal snarled.

  * * *

  The two MH-60S Knighthawks set down on a hardstand near the small airport’s single strip. The reinforced Bandito squad and their gear were quickly unloaded, and the Knighthawks lifted off. They would await any call to action from a military airfield twenty miles to the south. There was little to be gained by the conspicuous presence of two American military helicopters sitting on a civilian airstrip near Mexicali. After the helos lifted off, the SEALs surveyed their surroundings. Just off the airstrip were a series of heavily locked self-storage units and a few light aircraft tied down nearby. Most were old tail {werings-draggers. The complex was surrounded by an eight-foot chain-link fence with coils of razor-wire running along the top. Captured plastic shopping bags dotted the rusty chain link. But most noticeable and pervasive was the smell. Nearby and, unfortunately, upwind, a large column of birds circled over a garbage dump. A parade of open dump trucks were making their pilgrimage to the waste site, dumping loads of refuse, and heading back into Mexicali for more.

  Parked near the hardstand, well back and off to one side, were four battered Ford Explorers. As the SEALs moved toward the vehicles, a single figure in a tailored black combat uniform stepped out from a group dressed in a variety of shabby, civilian attire. Except for the lone figure in black, they looked like an undercover narcotics squad. Given their area of operations, this was not surprising.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” Nolan said quietly.

  “I’ll talk to the jefe,” Engel replied under his breath. “Why don’t you and the others mingle with their troops and get a feel for them. I’ll want to know what you, A.J., and Ray think of these guys.” Nolan could understand more Spanish than he could speak. A.J. and Ray were fluent. As the other Banditos peeled off to one side, Engel made straight for the tall man in black. He dropped his gear, came to attention, and saluted.

  “Good afternoon, or buenos dias, sir. I’m Lieutenant Engel, SEAL Team Seven.”

  The man was tall and slim with fine Castellón features. He wore only the oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel on his buttoned-down cloth epaulettes and a badge on his left breast that read Todo por México—“all for Mexico.” Stopping in front of Engel, he, too, came to rigid attention and rendered a parade-ground salute. He had high cheekbones and a pencil-thin mustache. Yet for all his bearing and formality, Engel thought he detected a twinkle in his eye.

  “Welcome to México, Teniente. I am Commandante Juan de Rio de la Ribandeo. Or,” an easy smile now accompanied the twinkle as he extended a hand, “until we finish this unpleasant business, please call me Juan. And your Christian name is?” His English was precise and impeccable.

  “Uh, it’s Roark, sir.”

  “Please, Roark, it’s Juan—I insist. And before we get started, let me say it is a privilege to be working with the Navy SEALs. We are honored—all of us.” He paused to regard his men, who were now mingling with the Banditos. “They may not look like much, but they are good boys, and brave. You Norte Americanos have your overseas ventures that keep you quite busy. We here in Mexico don’t have to go far to confront evil. Our war is right here. Our enemies are well financed, well armed, and committed to their enterprise. So our operations, like yours in Afghanistan and Iraq, are deadly and ongoing. Like you, I’ve lost some good men, and as with you and your wars, there seems to be no end to it.” He paused a moment, “But then, we are not here today to talk about the burdens we warriors must bear. We have our duty. More to the point, I understand we have a job to do. I look forward to hearing all about it.” And Roark Engel brought him up to speed with what he knew so far.

  Dave Nolan spoke just enough Spanish and Sargent Primero Lopez just enough English for them to get a feel for not only each other but the capabilities of their special operators. Senior enlisted leaders the world over are very good at getting to the point, and when it comes to the issues that relate to risking their men in battle, brutally honest. Nolan could have this same conversation with an Israeli Rav Samal Rishon or a German Hauptfeldwebe, and with the same results. There is something about the prospect of mortal combat that causes men who must lead other men into danger to be candid and truthful. Up the chain of command, politics might enter into the equation, but not at the troop level. In the U.S. and other armies, they call it ground truth, and that was what was taking place between Chief Nolan and Sergeant Lopez.

  “So what do you think o
f these guys?” Engel asked after they were off by themselves. He watched as Sergeant Lopez and De la Ribandeo, over by their vehicles, seemed to be having the same conversation.

  “They’ve seen a lot of combat and probably have more trigger time than our guys do. Tactically, I doubt they are as good as we are, but they’ve been in a fight, and it seems they know how to fight. I don’t think there’s anything to be gained by integrating our guys with theirs unless we’re dealing with local noncombatants. But if it comes to a fight, I believe they’ll stand tall. How about their jefe?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think he’s okay. More to the point, what do his troops think about him?”

  “They seem to like him. He’s obviously a dandy and a blue blood, but they call him El Lobo, “the wolf.” It seems he’s been known to show up before a raid and jump into the assault element. He’s a fighter. He’s also the number two guy in the GAFE. I guess the commander is a regular-army colonel who no one ever sees. But the operational teams see a lot of this guy.”

  While the other SEALs continued to mingle with the GAFE soldiers, Nolan and Engel were joined by A.J. and Ray.

  “What’s your take?” Nolan immediately asked them.

  “I think they’re all right,” Ray said. “They seem to have both a respect and a hatred for the druggies. For them it’s personal. It’s like if the Taliban or al-Qaeda controlled some of our neighborhoods in San Diego, and we had to fight them here, not over there.”