Tom Clancy's Act of Valor (6 page)

“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 closely 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 ro Cd icast her som, 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.”

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 America FT StdAfghanisns did not particularly want
Norte Americano
bases on their soil. So U.S. force projection 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.

The only part of the complex that was habitable by accepted standards of comfort or military-like in its construct was their little tactical operations center, or TOC. In deference to the computers, the communications equipment, and the large flat-screen monitors, the temperature in this small enclosed area tucked into a corner of one of the warehouses bordered on chilly. There, Senior Chief Otto Miller set up shop, directed his two intelligence specialists, and coursed through the volumes of electronic message traffic that came across his comm nets. Everything about where they now found themselves was an inconvenience or an accommodation, but their computer and communications suites were state of the art. The operational SEALs could live anywhere and under any conditions—not so their hardware. In his little TOC, the senior chief could video-teleconferenc Ktele ae with anyone, anywhere, and transmit and receive text and imagery to and from anyone, anywhere. The senior chief even had an espresso coffee machine set up and was seldom without his favorite coffee mug, a chipped ceramic relic that had been around since Moby Dick was a minnow. Engel and Nolan began to find reasons to visit the TOC—for the coffee, for the company of the senior chief, and for the chance to learn if there might be a target folder taking shape. The latter came about on their fourth day there, but not during one of their nightly visits.

*  *  *

Roark Engel was back on the beach on Coronado with Jackie. The tide was way out, and they were running on a flat, firm expanse of wet sand. He was pushing one of those jogger’s strollers in front of him, and he could just see the sunbonnet of their child over the stroller canopy. For some reason, his dream’s eye could not tell, nor could he remember, if they had a little boy or a little girl. Jackie was radiant, running beside him and smiling. She knew, but somehow he didn’t. He kept trying to peer around the bonnet for some clue—boy or girl. Jackie laughed gently, as she often did when she understood something and he didn’t. Then she put a hand to his shoulder. Only it wasn’t
her
hand.

“Hey, sir, wake up.” Suddenly, Engel clamped the offending wrist in a viselike grip. “Easy there, sir. It’s just me, Lance Corporal Jennings from security. The senior chief wants you in the TOC right away.”

Engel shook himself awake. “Sorry, Corporal. I’ll be right there. Wake Chief Nolan as well.”

“That’s already been done, sir. He’ll meet you there.”

Engel glanced at his watch; it was 2:00
P.M.
local time—1400. If they were assigned a mission, they would undoubtedly go in at night, so the SEALs were already into their daytime sleep cycle. They called them vampire hours. Engel and Nolan arrived dressed alike: olive drab T-shirts, running shorts, and shower shoes. Both had the beginnings of an on-deployment beard. Nolan’s hair was matted and askew, while Engel was still resplendent in his pre-deployment buzz cut. Nolan headed for the coffeepot, Engel for Miller.

“What’s up, Senior?”

Miller didn’t answer immediately. He was focused on his secure laptop, electronically flipping through secret message traffic. Engel waited patiently while Nolan joined them. The senior chief then turned from his computer, all business.

“Lieutenant, Chief,” he began. “The listening posts down here have been following a series of intercepts that are a little out of character for the normal flow of druggie chatter. We have computer programs in place that listen, sift, track, and correlate information—words, speech patterns, voice inflections, and a whole array of programmable anomalies. They’re at work twenty-four/seven. Over the past several weeks, there seemed to be some new players in the game. At first the analysts weren’t sure if it was a rival cartel or someone else. We’re not here to get involved in turf wars or domestic disputes. We were sent down here to stand ready if it was, in fact, something else. That now appears to be the Krs or case.

“Three days ago, two CIA types were attacked in a residential apartment complex outside of San José. One was a case officer and the other an agent. The case officer was killed and the agent abducted. There was gunfire and a lot of blood, and in the commotion, one of the opposition was killed and left behind. The dead guy didn’t fit the mold of your run-of-the-mill druggie. And as you know, druggies here in Central America don’t grow or refine the product; they’re just in the distribution chain. From what we can gather from the local
gendarmes
, he may be Eastern European. On top of that, there’s something of an unwritten rule that the cartels leave Agency personnel alone, and we don’t bother them. The CIA’s priority is terrorism, and as long as the spooks are looking for terrorists, they’re given a free pass. Also, the agent in question was someone special and something of an embarrassment. She was a medical doctor associated with Doctors Without Borders.”

“Aw, for Christ’s sake,” Engel blurted. “What the hell’s the Agency doing putting someone like that at risk?”

“You gotta be shitting me,” Nolan added.

“Yeah, I know, but it is what it is, and it looks like we might have to deal with it.”

The CIA recruits their agents from any number of sources, always looking for a way inside the group they wish to penetrate. They often provide intelligence to other agencies on the illegal drug traffic, but they seldom work penetration agents on the cartels. The Agency also made a point of staying away from NGOs, especially the big ones like Oxfam, World Vision, and Doctors Without Borders. Everyone recognized and applauded their work, and to use someone under the cover of an NGO or even a nonprofit was a big no-no.

“Susan, maybe you can help us out with this.”

Lieutenant Susan Lyons was a trim woman in her mid-thirties with wavy, auburn hair pulled back in a short, no-nonsense ponytail. She was dressed in the khaki uniform of a Navy lieutenant, complete with a Surface Warfare pin and a modest row of campaign ribbons. Ostensibly, she was a Navy intelligence officer. She’d arrived in a light plane early this morning and immediately met behind closed doors with the senior chief. She seemed to wear the uniform well, Engel noted, thinking that she might even be a reservist. But he doubted that she was active-duty Navy. The senior had called her by her first name, and he was religious about military courtesies. Whoever she was, she was something more than a Navy lieutenant.

“My name is Lieutenant Susan Lyons, and I’m attached to the embassy,” she began, casting a thanks-a-lot look at Senior Chief Miller. “I’m going to give this to you as straight up as I can, and I hope it’ll be enough. The two people involved are Walter Ross and a Dr. Lisa Morales, both U.S. citizens. Your concerns about Dr. Morales working for American intelligence and an NGO are noted. But why she was doing this is not relevant; that’s well above all our pay grades. I can, however, tell you that issues of national security and homeland defense are very much in play here. She was not there just to spy on drug lords, okay?”

It was not okay, but Engel held his tongue. Nolan started to say something, but Engel put a hand on his knee. “Okay for now, Susan. Please, we’re all ears.”

She gave him a measured look and then continued. “Ross and Morales were tracking some undesirables that were known associates of one Mikhail Troikawicz, better known in the international arms trade as Christo. Morales had even had contact with Christo in her DWB work. Now, we care a great deal about Christo. He supplies a lot of people with a lot of weapons.” She pulled a notebook from her briefcase, flipped to a page, gave it a quick glance, but never looked at it again. “Christo was born in Grozny on 15 April 1964. His uncles were all Chechen separatists; they fought the Russians and profited from the fighting. Christo was not a fighter, but he gravitated to the profit side of the war. After most of his relations were killed, he relocated to Central America, retaining his Chechen clients and taking on the Sandinistas and cartels. He’s a smart guy, with a degree in business from the University of Virginia and an MBA from Wharton. He works all sides of the street, to include legal government purchases for many Central and South American nations.” She hesitated a moment, then continued. “Our side has even used his organization to get weapons to national liberation movements we support. He also supplies weapons to the Russian mafia, the FARC, the Muslim Brotherhood, and just about every al-Qaeda splinter group you can name. When he can, he stays away from the business of drugs, sort of a self-imposed, non-compete agreement. When he can’t, it’s usually as an accommodation for one of his cartel clients. He’s important, and he’s a bad guy. We’ve wanted him for a long time. But he’s a slick one. He’s very wealthy, and he spreads a lot of money about—in the pockets of politicians and for worthy regional and local charities. He makes a sizeable annual contribution to Doctors Without Borders.

“While he’s tried to upgrade his image, Christo’s Chechen roots have recently dragged him back into the sewer. He’s had a long-standing, on-again/off-again relationship with a character named Abu Shabal. Shabal
is
 a terrorist—a terrorist bent on mass murder. He was involved in the Beslan School Massacre in 2004, and the Russians have a price on his head. He’s reportedly been jumping in and out of training camps in the southern Philippines and in Indonesia. We think he may have even been personally involved in the killing of Ambassador Marguilles in Jakarta, along with thirty-seven schoolchildren. If Christo is bad, then Shabal is evil—evil in the worst kind of way. This is what may have gotten Ross killed and Morales taken alive, and God only knows what they’re doing to her.”

“All this is interesting, ma’am,” Nolan said, “but what’s the executive version of all this; what’s our bottom line here?”

Senior Chief Miller smoothly intervened. “Just before sunrise today, we got an ISR platform aloft and on station near where we think they might be holding her. Here’s an overhead shot of the place about a week ago.” He brought up a blurred, thermal image of a scattering of huts that appeared to be a small base camp most likely used for transshipment or repackaging of narcotics on their way north. There was modest activity. “Now this is the way it looked earlier this morning.”