Tom Clancy's Act of Valor (12 page)

Shabal turned his back on Christo and walked to the other end of the massive office suite, muttering to himself, too agitated to continue or to stand still.

Christo lowered himself to his chair and watched Shabal closely, unsure of how to proceed. And, he asked himself, could this have gone down any worse? Or any better? He had counted on Shabal wanting to go forward, with or without him. Now he was not sure. Dealing with men who refused to compromise was difficult at best. In business, Christo reflected, one compromises often.

He had tried to put himself in Shabal’s shoes. He knew Shabal was a Muslim zealot with a single mission. He had no family, no money, and no other life. He had nothing Christo had, nor at this point, did he want to. He, Christo, was a businessman. Yet they had a common interest, did they not? There was no reason they shouldn’t be able to come to an understanding.

Shabal wanted to kill as many Americans as he could, and he had recruited and trained a small army of martyrs committed to this same goal. And now he had just the right weapon—these vests Shabal had told him about—but he would need Christo and his resources to purchase them and to get them onto American soil.

While Shabal paced, Christo considered his position. The CIA was on to him. They had been on to him for some time, but then he was just
another
drug smuggler. It had been his ties to Shabal and the issue of terrorism that had elevated his profile at Langley. Otherwise, he would have been content to keep plying his trade and adding to his billion-dollar-plus net worth. Thanks to his links to Shabal, that was past. And now this new plan promised to double—or triple—his net worth overnight.

And he marveled at the simplicity of the plan. Just before Shabal unleashed his legion of martyrs armed with their explosive vests in the United States, Christo would short-sell a broad bundle of U.S. stocks. Others, such as American defense stocks, he would buy long on margin. When the markets crashed and corrected following the attack, he would sell. Then and only then would he have all the money he, Dominga, and Solana would need for the rest of their lives. They would relocate far from Costa Rica, in some Muslim country where the CIA was unwelcome.

It was a brilliant plan, and the only thing that could wreck it was for Shabal to balk. And now he had—or seemed to have. He had to fix that. This was business, he reminded himself, and there was always room for compromise. He would simply have to reason with the man.

“Abu Shabal, please, sit down. I know we can work this out . . .”

*  *  *

Later that morning, as the
Bonhomme Richard
steamed north off the west coast of Guatemala, Lieutenant Roark Engel made his way to the ship’s sick bay
.
He had changed from his blood-and-mud-encrusted battle dress into a clean set of camouflage utilities, but his face was marked by dried sweat and residual black face paint that still rimmed his eyes and mouth. He looked like a Shakespearean actor who had only partially removed his makeup.
The medical facility was amidships near the waterline, so the movement of the big ship was barely discernable. He stepped through a bulkhead coming just outside the door to sick bay and into a large triage area. In doing so, he moved from Navy haze gray into a world of white linen and stainless steel. The sick bay suite was quite spacious, as it was designed to handle the combat casualties of a Marine Expeditionary Unit. There was no reception area, just a large treatment room that ran athwartships with a long line of critical-care treatment tables. Engel paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the bright lights, and then moved cautiously past the line of tables. A corpsman, recognizing him as one of the embarked SEALs, pointed him to a series of patient bays off an adjoining corridor. He nodded his thanks as he moved along the line, glancing into two empty bays before finding the one that was occupied.

Mikey was awake and lying on his back. He had tubes in each arm and one running up his nose. His head was wrapped in white gauze, with one bandage drifting down to secure a cotton pad that covered his left eye. A monitor just above his head beeped regularly as it issued a series of green squiggles that marched left to right across the screen. Mikey sensed someone at the foot of his bed and lifted his head. He regarded Engel with his one good eye and smiled.

“Hey, Boss, what’s happening?”

“The usual after-action debriefings.” Engel stepped to the side of the bed. “I hope you feel better than you look, Mikey, ’cause you look like someone in an
ER
episode.”

“I think I’m good, but there may be an issue with my left eye. The doc says there’s a lot of nerve damage and that I might lose the eye. The bad news is that I can’t see out of it; the good news is that it’s my non-shooting eye. How’s the rest of the squad? Am I the only malingerer?”

“We’re all good. As you may or may not remember, it was touch and go for a while, but the boat guys pulled our chestnuts out of the fire—once again.”

Mikey looked off into space for a second. “Yeah, I kind of remember that. Sort of like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. And the Morales lady. We get her out all right?”

“We got her, but she’s pretty be [sv haten up. They really worked her over. Anything I can do for you?”

“Has anyone told Debbie yet? She’s gonna freak out when she hears about this.”

“I talked with Jackie before I came down here. She and Julia Nolan are on their way over to your place now.” Engel took an Iridium satellite phone from a cargo pocket in his trousers and put it on the nightstand. “This is tied into the ship’s comm system and will ring down here. Jackie will give you a call when she gets there. She’ll break the news to Debbie, and then you can talk to her yourself. And talk as long as you like; it’s the Navy’s nickel. Just no operational details, okay?”

“Got it, Boss.”

Normally, Engel would not have to caution him about security, but he had no idea just what kind of pain medicine he was on. Given what had happened, he seemed remarkably coherent, with only a slight slur to his speech. He was also just a little drifty, but then he was Mikey.

“You going to be okay there, brother?”

“I’m okay, Boss, really. My head throbs and I get nauseous now an’ then, but it’s not bad. I’d like to get some sleep, but I think Doc wants me to try and stay awake. I will until I talk to Debbie, then I’m going to get some shut-eye—shut-eye, get it?”

“Yeah, I get it.” Engel had spoken earlier with the doctor, who was guardedly optimistic about Mikey’s overall condition but was worried about the eye. Still, he had no clue why Mikey had no sight in his left eye—or why he was otherwise fine. The bullet entered his left temple, skirted his cranial cavity, and exited through the back of his head. That the apparent damage was no worse was something of a miracle; just how bad it
really
was or how much permanent damage there might be was still unknown. The
Bonnie Dick
was now steaming north at twenty knots, and they’d soon be within CH-53E Super Stallion range of San Diego and Balboa Naval Hospital. If he remained stable, they would fly him off as soon as they were in range.

“I’ll check back with you later. Take it easy and do what the docs tell you.”

“Roger that, Boss. Oh, what about my gun, radio, and NOD? Sonny will have my ass if I’ve lost my gun and any of the other gear.” Engel grinned. By nature, SEALs were hard on their equipment, but they were paranoid about losing sensitive equipment—equipment they were signed out for. The paperwork was onerous.

“We left a lot of shit back in that river, including your gun. Your night-vision goggles and MBITR are trashed, but Sonny has them, and the serial numbers are readable. We’ll get you a new gun when we get back to Coronado.”

“Thanks, Boss. Thanks for everything.”

Thank you, Mikey,
Engel thought as he stepped from the bay. Just as he did, he heard the electronic ring-tone of the Iridium.

<-1" face="ITC Galliard Std">“Hello? . . . Hi, honey . . . Yeah, but it’s not all that bad . . . Well, sort of in the head, but it’s not all that bad . . . Aw, don’t cry, baby. The round went in just above my hairline, so I’m still a handsome devil . . . That’s right, the hair will grow right over it.”

Engel smiled, shaking his head, and headed for the SEAL berthing area and his communications laptop. He had more combat duty ahead—his after-action reporting.

*  *  *

In another portion of the sick bay, there was yet another visitor to yet another patient, only this visit was not going well at all. The visitor was confronted just outside the patient bay by an attending hospital corpsman who was standing his ground.

“I’m sorry, but it’s like I said before. She’s a very sick lady, and that means no visitors and no exceptions.”

“Look, I’m only going to need about five minutes tops. It’s really important, or I wouldn’t be asking.”

“Hey, I hear you, but this is from the senior medical officer—no visitors, period. And besides that, the lady’s had a pretty rough go of it. She was semi-coherent when she arrived here, and they’ve got her pretty well sedated. Not sure if she could be of any use to you even if I could let you talk to her. Besides, we’ll be flying her off sometime this afternoon, along with the wounded SEAL.”

“Yeah, I know that, and that’s why I need a few minutes with her now, before she gets flown off.”

“Hey, I’d like to help, but I have my instructions. There’s nothing I can . . .”

“Are you one of the SEALs?” Both men turned to see Morales standing at the door of the bay, dressed in a hospital gown. Her face was swollen and starting to bloat from the beatings, and both her hands were bandaged like those of a prizefighter before the gloves are laced on. There were dark rings under both eyes, and one of them was swollen shut. Several of her front teeth were chipped.

“Close enough,” Senior Chief Otto Miller said as he tried to step past the corpsman, but the young medic intervened.

“Hey, look, I said no visitors—doctor’s orders. And, ma’am, you need to get back to bed.”

“I am a doctor,” Morales replied with some effort through puffy lips, “and I’m giving new orders. Let this man through.”

Miller followed her into the small bay, catching her by the arm and helping her back into the hospital bed. She was very unsteady.

“And you are?” Morales asked as she gathered the sheet up around her chin. The bile rose in Miller’s mouth as he saw the still-weeping cuts and cigarette burns on her arms. [on t>

“Ma’am, I’m Senior Chief Otto Miller. I run the intelligence section for this SEAL detachment. I’m no longer operational, but I am a SEAL. Listen, I know you’re hurting, but I’ve got just a few questions if you can manage it. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“Sure, fire away,” she replied, avoiding Miller’s gaze, seeming to look past him.

“Thank you. I know you’ve had a rough time of it, but we’re trying to track down those responsible.” Miller fished a small notebook from his pocket and flipped a few pages back. “We picked up a cell phone, a laptop computer, and some flash drives at the compound where they were holding you, and there are some things on those devices that are both troubling and confusing. I was hoping that you might be able to help us with this.” He looked at her closely, but she remained passive, still looking past him. A single tear rolled down a bruised cheek from the one open eye. “There were cryptic references to ‘transportation support’ and ‘critical funding requirements’ and finally to ‘the pilgrims.’ And the cell phone we recovered had several calls to numbers we’ve traced to the Philippines and to Indonesia. Does any of this mean anything to you, or did you hear anything while you were being held that might help us—anything at all?”

Miller waited for close to a minute and was about to repeat himself when she held up a hand, a white mitt actually, to forestall him. She then wetted her lips.

“Th-the man who beat me was on the phone a great deal. He spoke a language I did not understand, but I think it was Russian. But I understood a few words, or at least I thought I did. One was ‘Christ’ or ‘Christo,’ but it did not seem to be in reference to God. Perhaps someone’s name. And I distinctly heard the word ‘Somalia,’ but I had no way of knowing if they were referring to the country or something else. I don’t know if it was in the context of funding, but they did talk about euros. On occasion they lapsed into English, and on one of those occasions I heard him mention ‘the big event.’ ” She paused and then slowly shook her head. “I’m sorry, that’s all I can remember. I wish it were more, I really do.”

Miller was about to respond when she raised her hand. “One more thing. I was aware when it was daylight and when it was dark. Most of the calls were late at night or early in the morning, like he was calling someone somewhere around the globe. And when the locals there spoke to him, they addressed him as ‘Señor Thomas.’ ” She paused, and what might have been a frown crossed her swollen features. “I-I guess that’s about it. Sorry.”

“That’s just fine. Every little bit helps.” Miller quickly scribbled a number on a page of his notebook. Then he tore it from the pad, folded it, and tucked it in the wrapping on top of her wrist. “If you think of anything else, call me from any secure military or government phone. That number will reach me anytime, anywhere in the world. Thank you for this, and thank you for what you’ve had to endure. You’re a very brave lady.”

Just then, the curtain to the bay was jerked back, and a Navy commander in a white smock ste [iteI don’t pped in. He had a stethoscope draped around his neck, as if to announce that he was indeed a medical officer. “I thought I left instructions that this patient was not to be disturbed.” He was about to continue, but then he glanced from the determined look on Morales’s face into the cold green eyes of Senior Chief Otto Miller.