Hunt the Falcon

Chapter Six

Forty minutes later Crocker, Anderson, and Mancini sat in Crocker’s room at the Viengtai Hotel, examining a map of Thailand with three of the other four SEALs and Anderson’s assistant Daw, a former sergeant in the antiterrorism unit of the Royal Malaysia Police. Akil was the only one missing.

“Where is he?” Crocker asked.

“Chatting up some Thai babe in the lobby,” Ritchie responded. “Hopefully, it isn’t a dude. I’ve heard some of the best-looking girls here are really guys.”

“Tell him to get his ass up here.”

Daw was pointing out the location of the farm in Kanchanaburi when Akil entered quietly.

“Sorry, boss,” Akil said.

“You’re going to have to stop thinking about pussy until this op is over.”

“I was in the lobby. I didn’t know you were back.”

With a hand missing two fingers Daw traced Route 323 to the farm, which was a few miles east of Kanchanaburi, a rural town and popular tourist destination of roughly thirty thousand people located at the base of the western mountains.

Transportation wasn’t a problem, thanks to the two Lexus SUVs Anderson had at his disposal. Mancini made a quick list of supplies, including automatic rifles and pistols with silencers, stun and tear-gas grenades, explosive material for breaching doors and windows, tie-ties, rope, axes, KA-BAR knives, and blowout patches.

Crocker and his men had raided dozens of buildings, houses, and apartments before, but the logistics and restrictions regarding this particular mission were unique. Turning to Anderson, he said, “We generally attack in quadrants. So if we hit the front first, we have men stationed at angles to cover any escape from windows or the back door.”

Anderson said, “I don’t see that as a problem.”

“No, the problems are twofold. One, subduing the terrorists without a prolonged gunfight. And two, dealing with possible booby traps on doors and windows.”

“Why’s that a problem?” Ritchie asked. “As long as I can get my hands on some C-4, I’ll blow right through them.”

“Because Colonel Petsut wants us to do this as quietly as possible.”

Akil posed the million-dollar question: “How do we accomplish that?”

“How about we have someone posing as a neighbor or local official knock on the door?” Davis asked. “That way we can catch them off guard.”

“Good idea,” Crocker said. “But who do we know who can pull that off?”

“You mean pass as a local?”

“Exactly.”

He was waiting for Daw to volunteer. Cal spoke first.

“I can, boss.”

Cal did look Asian, and could probably pass for Thai.

“You can?” Crocker asked.

“I speak some Thai,” Cal added.

“Since when?”

“Since I lived with this Thai chick when I was stationed in Coronado with SEAL Team One.”

This was news to Crocker and all the guys in Black Cell. Nobody had ever heard Cal refer to a girlfriend before-Thai or otherwise.

“You lived with a chick?” Ritchie asked. “No shit.”

“Sarai Wattana.”

“Pretty?”

“Beautiful.”

Crocker was determined to shift everyone’s attention back to the mission. Directing his question to Cal, who was leaning against the wall, he asked, “You sure you have no problem claiming to be a local official?”

“Not at all.”

“And you speak enough Thai to pull it off?”

“I do. Yes.”

Daw drew a detailed map of the farm based on surveillance photos. Then Crocker spelled out a modified version of the patrol leader’s order, or PLO. First he covered points of engagement and firing positions. “Before Cal approaches the door, I want Akil and Davis positioned behind trees or bushes on the right side of the house. Akil, you’ll try to establish line of sight through the right window.”

“Got it.”

“Ritchie and Mancini will be stationed out front. We’ll try to get at least some of them to surrender. If that doesn’t work, I’ll give the order and we’ll fire from the right-front quadrant, then shift to cut down or capture anyone fleeing the rear of the house.”

Several of the men, who were seated on the desk and chairs, and leaning against the walls, nodded.

“Any targets we capture, we tie-tie or tape them, cover their mouths, and move on. Speed will be our friend.” Turning to Anderson, Crocker said, “Cal is going to need a mike on him. I want to be able to communicate with each team front and back via radio.”

“Handheld okay?” Anderson asked.

“Handheld is fine. We’ll use the standard hand signals.”

The men nodded.

“What about curious neighbors or other people arriving at the house while we’re there?” Mancini asked.

“Neighbors we try to scare away. Point a weapon at them and use hand signals to tell them to keep their mouths shut. Same with dogs. Throw a rock at them, anything. Incessant, angry barking will have to be handled with a silenced round.”

Several of the men were dog lovers, but they didn’t protest.

Crocker looked at Davis and said, “The element of surprise is paramount. Anyone arriving at the house while we’re at the farm will have to be subdued, or if they’re armed or you suspect they’re armed, taken out. Anything else?”

“Booby traps,” Davis offered.

“Booby traps are a real danger. Clear all windows and doors before entering. Don’t touch anything in the house or garage that you don’t have to. Deal with the occupants first. We will be looking for at least four foreign nationals, Middle Eastern-looking men. After we’ve neutralized them, we’ll do a quick sweep of the house and garage. Then we’re out of there. Understood?”

“Yeah.”

They decided that Cal would knock on the front door posing as a businessman from Bangkok who was lost and looking for a nearby property that was for sale. They dressed him in black pants and a long-sleeved blue oxford cloth shirt, and Anderson provided him with fake business cards and an actual real estate listing near the farm with an address and photo.

According to Plan A, Cal would lure the terrorists out to the front porch. On a signal from Crocker, the element in front would engage the enemy and try to arrest them. The element on the right side of the house would detain anyone escaping through the back. If for some reason Cal was asked or forced to enter the house, Plan B would go into effect on Crocker’s order, which meant the men in front would rush through the forward door, while the ones on the side of the house covered the windows and back.

Gear and weapons secured, both plans talked through and rehearsed, the members of Black Cell set out from Bangkok at 0545 the next morning dressed in civilian clothes with their Dragon Skin body armor underneath. Crocker noted that the sky was low loom, which meant a dark, moonless night.

He sat alone in the rear seat of the lead SUV going over everything in his head, checking to ensure that he hadn’t forgotten some contingency. Daw drove, Cal sat beside him, and Ritchie and Mancini occupied the middle seats. Anderson followed in the second vehicle with Davis and Akil.

Within an hour the sun started to rise and Crocker saw that they were passing through a peaceful grove of evergreen trees. The violence of what they were about to do struck him.

“That river we’re following on our left is the River Kwai,” Mancini remarked as though he was a tour guide.

“The River Kwai from the movie?” Cal asked.

“Yes. Kanchanaburi was the setting of the David Lean movie starring Alec Guinness, The Bridge on the River Kwai. But the movie was shot in Sri Lanka.”

“Whatever,” Ritchie groaned, checking the chamber of his Benelli M4 Super 90 twelve-gauge shotgun with a laser illuminator mounted on the rail interface system on the barrel.

“Kanchanaburi was the location of the real POW labor camps,” Mancini added.

“What camps?” Ritchie asked.

“You never saw the movie?”

“It was a long time ago. I forget.”

Crocker’d seen it. It was one of his favorites, along with The Godfather, Pulp Fiction, and Lawrence of Arabia.

“The Japanese moved 61,700 allied prisoners-Brits, Americans, Aussies, Dutch-from POW camps in Singapore, Indonesia, and Malaysia to build a railroad from Thailand to Burma,” Mancini explained. “The conditions they had to work under sucked, especially during the 1943 monsoon. And the Japs treated them like shit. Over sixteen thousand allied POWs died from sickness, malnutrition, and exhaustion.”

“Did they ever finish the railroad?” Cal asked.

“Even though the prisoners had few pulleys, derricks, or other equipment, they managed to complete what became known as the Death Railway in about a year.”

Daw pointed out that the town of Kanchanaburi became a popular tourist site after the movie came out in 1957. “Two museums were built,” he explained. “But what the tourists who came here really wanted to see was the bridge. The problem was that the actual bridge didn’t cross the River Khwae. It crossed a parallel river known as the Mae Klong. So what do you think Thai officials did to solve this problem?”

“You know the answer?” Ritchie asked Mancini.

“No, wiseguy.”

“They switched the names of the two rivers,” Daw said with a smile as he drove.

The road followed a limestone cliff covered with green foliage that ran along the river. Low tin-roofed buildings clung to the shore, indicating that they were entering the town. They passed temple caves, an elephant park, and even a tiger temple, where visitors could pet real Bengal tigers. But they hadn’t come for the attractions.

The farm they were looking for sat on lower land on the opposite side of the river, so they crossed a narrow bridge. Rain started to fall as they turned off an asphalt road onto a mustard-colored dirt trail pitted with water-filled holes. The sun was trying to fight its way through dark clouds.

Crocker imagined that a rainbow would appear soon as his heartbeat sped up. He felt the tension building around him and heard the guys doing last-minute checks of their comms and weapons.

“You sure we’re in the right place?” Ritchie asked as they bounced along.

“The entrance is over there, up ahead,” Daw said, pointing to the right as he braked the vehicle to a stop.

Crocker said, “I’ll hide on the floor. Manny, you, Daw, and Ritchie get out here.”

Cal took the wheel and maneuvered the vehicle around a bend to a fence overrun with vines and weeds. He turned in the entrance, which had no sign, drove another two hundred feet through a patch of mango trees, and stopped about 150 feet from the house. The springs under the chassis creaked. A bird screeched.

Crocker waited about a minute, until he heard Akil’s voice over the handheld radio telling him the men were in position. Then he slapped the back of the seat twice, which was the signal to go.

Cal left the engine running and the wipers slapping from side to side and got out. Crocker heard his footsteps on the wet dirt, then pulled himself up behind the seat and watched.

It was a low-slung, dilapidated structure painted pale yellow, with a porch in front and a rusted tin roof. A shed or garage with a red door peeked out from some bushes to the right. No cars, trucks, or motorcycles were visible through the light rain.

Through the earbud connected wirelessly to a tiny microphone in Cal’s shirt pocket, Crocker heard a door creak open and Cal speaking in Thai. Then he heard a screen door snap shut.

“It looks like Cal has gone inside,” Akil reported over the handheld radio. Anderson had joined Akil and Davis behind bushes on the right side of the house. Daw, Ritchie, and Mancini waited in front.

With Cal inside the house, Crocker waited and listened carefully. Things rarely went according to plan.

Through the earbud he heard a man talking aggressively in accented English, asking, “Who are you? Who sent you? What do you want?” At the end, he was almost shouting.

Cal started to answer in Thai, but the man cut him off. Then Crocker heard what sounded like a slap and scuffling, followed by two shots.

“Plan B!” Crocker shouted into the handheld. He burst out the side door of the SUV and ran as fast as he could to the front of the house. Arriving first, suppressed HK MP7A1 ready, he was about to push through the screen door when it opened and a very thin bearded man with a wild mop of hair stuck his head out. Crocker decked him with an elbow to the neck, then stepped over his prone body into the house.

He heard screams in what he thought was Farsi, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness made out the shape of a man reaching for a pistol on the kitchen counter to his right. Crocker cut him down with four quick shots center of mass and one to the face. Mancini and Ritchie rushed in behind him.

The place was a shithole, with a sour, garlicky stench, discarded newspapers on the floor, clothes thrown over all available surfaces. He spotted a half-naked man scurrying out the back door; another was on his knees behind a sofa. A third stood near a mattress on the floor in front of Crocker, holding Cal in a headlock with his left arm. His right hand held a pistol to Cal’s head.

“Surrender!” the man shouted in heavily accented English. “Drop the gun!”

Crocker shouted back with authority, “You’re surrounded, asshole!”

The muscles on the terrorist’s face tightened. Cal’s nose bled down his chin onto the front of his shirt, but he appeared calm. The Middle Eastern man trembled as he pressed the gun harder against Cal’s temple. Out of the corner of his right eye, Crocker saw the short barrel of the MK18 Mod 0 beyond the window. Then he heard a stream of 5.56x45mm bullets rip through the glass and saw them slam into the man’s torso and head. The terrorist slumped and fell to the floor, leaving Cal frozen in place, covered with blood and brain matter.

“Cal, you okay?”

Crocker was aiming his gun at the man behind the sofa when a huge explosion went off behind the house, ripping through the back and sending debris and glass flying everywhere. He used his left arm and shoulder to shield his face. A piece of wood smacked into the Dragon Skin that covered his chest.

Crocker leaned against a cabinet to his right and caught his breath, then crossed to a big hole in the wall where the back window had been. “Wait here, Cal.”

The sofa lay in shreds, and the man who had been hiding behind it was legless now and choking on his blood and dying. A long shard of metal had severed his throat. Through the smoke and falling debris Crocker saw something burning beyond the lemon trees behind the house.

“What blew?” he asked into the handheld.

“The garage,” Akil reported. “The guy who ran out the back activated some kind of trigger before we could stop him.”

“You see anyone else flee the house?”

“Negative.”

“All our guys okay?”

“Anderson got some shit in his eye, a couple scratches. We’re good.”

“Search the back,” Crocker shouted. “See what you can find. Then we’d better clear out.”

Returning to the house, Crocker saw Ritchie and Mancini tie-tieing the man he had downed coming in the door. He was hyperventilating.

Crocker said, “Throw him in the truck, and help Cal. Tell Daw to stay with ’em. Then come back and help me look through this mess.”

“Roger.”

They gathered everything they could find-notebooks, laptops, thumb drives, maps, cell phones-threw them into plastic bags, and got the hell out of there, leaving behind four bodies and a burning garage. They had killed four suspected terrorists. A fifth lay on the floor in the backseat talking to himself in what sounded like Farsi.

Crocker said, “Slap some tape over his mouth. Shut him up.”

The rain had stopped and the sun was trying to burn through the low clouds. Behind them black smoke rose into the gray-blue sky.

This was exactly what Colonel Petsut had told them to avoid-an explosion and fire. But shit happened.

As they tore through the front gate and turned left, Crocker heard sirens approaching. He turned to Daw and shouted, “Get us back on the highway to Bangkok. Fast!” If nothing else, they had taken out the terrorists who had killed John Rinehart, his wife, and the other U.S. officials.