Tom Clancy Presents: Act of Valor

NINE

Thirty-six hours later, they were on the flight deck of the Bonhomme Richard—Chief Nolan, A.J., and Ray. The ship was steaming at a leisurely six knots some seventy miles off the coast of Baja California. The three had been in deep conversation for some time; now they were silent. After a long pause, it was Nolan who finally broke the silence.

“I still don’t get it. What the hell were you thinking when you stole a Somali tank truck?” His voice was low and controlled, but he was seething. “What if you’d been stopped by the local gendarmes? What were you going to do, shoot it out with them?”

Ray shrugged his shoulders sheepishly and gave the standard SEAL-called-on-the-carpet reply: “Well, y’see, Chief, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“And you,” Nolan said sharply, turning to A.J., “I could expect this from Ray, but not you. Part of your job was to keep an eye on him. That was a dumb stunt — really dumb. It could have jeopardized the entire mission.”

“Sorry, Chief.” A.J. was contrite, but not as overtly submissive as Ray. “I guess we did it because we could ndiv hei. We’re SEALs, and SEALs are opportunists. I could have said no, and I probably should have, but I didn’t. Chief, I’m sorry I let you down.”

“It’s not about me or you; it’s about the mission and the Team. And to save yourself a long walk, you put yourselves first and the mission and your teammates second.” Nolan paused, looking from one to the other, letting his words sink in. “Okay,” he continued, “it’s done and over with. Let’s move on. For now, this will stay between the three of us, okay?” Both nodded. “Now get below and see to your gear.”

Nolan then made his way inside the ship’s superstructure and down one deck, heading for the Bonnie Dick’s combat information center, or CIC. He was still not sure whether or not he wanted to tell his officer about the caper with the tanker truck. They were a leadership team, and keeping information from each other was not how the two of them worked. It was an issue of trust. Nothing could be done about it now, he reasoned, and it was just one more thing for Roark Engel to worry about. God knew he had enough on his plate. Nolan was still turning the matter over in his mind when he arrived at the CIC. One corner of the center had been sectioned off and converted to a small tactical operations center for the SEALs and those read into the operation. A marine sentry stood guard at the partitioned entrance. The guard knew Nolan by sight but still asked to see his ID. The marine matched the face on the ID with Nolan’s and let him pass, logging in his arrival. When Nolan saw Engel, he immediately knew something was up. That knowledge seemed to be confirmed as he felt the Bonnie Dick heel into a port turn and shudder imperceptibly as she gathered speed.

“Hey, Chief. I was just about to have you paged. You know that Russian passenger jet Ray and A.J. tracked in and out of the Somali desert rendezvous?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, the guys at NRO and NSA managed to follow its movements. It flew into Lagos, refueled, made the jump across the Atlantic, and landed at Rio. There it took on more fuel, flew to a remote airfield in Colombia, probably a strip controlled by the cartel, and then made the jump up to guess where?”

“Uh, lemme guess: Cedros Island,” Nolan deadpanned.

“Give the man a cigar — Cedros Island. It landed at night, so we don’t know who got on or off, but it would seem likely that at least some of the sixteen Filipino pilgrims put down there.”

“Where’s the plane now?”

Engel grimaced. “That’s a problem. It immediately returned to the airstrip in Colombia and is still there. If it leaves and returns to Rio or some other commercial destination, then there’s a chance we can detain the aircraft and maybe even interrogate the flight crew. But there’s not much we can do as long as it’s sitting on that strip in Colombia.”

Nolan considered this. “This operation has top priority. Couldn’t we whistle up a Ranger battalion and have them take that airfield down?”

< swidolan cfont size="-1" face="ITC Galliard Std">“That’s been considered, Chief, believe me it has. But the Colombians probably wouldn’t sit still for it, and it probably couldn’t be kept quiet. And it would also tip our hand that we’re on to them.”

“So what?” Nolan offered. “Wouldn’t that be better than letting whatever they’re planning go forward?

Engel considered this. “Maybe, maybe not. But that’s not our call. For now we’re headed for Cedros Island to stand by for an over-the-beach operation. I don’t think much else will happen until we get more intelligence.”

“Any chance of that?”

“Good chance. Senior Chief Miller and the task unit are tracking a yacht in the South China Sea that may have Christo aboard. If they can verify he’s on the yacht, they’ll board it and have a chat with Mr. Christo.”

With that, Dave Nolan smiled. “If the senior chief can go eyeball-to-eyeball with that bastard, then maybe we can get to the bottom of this.”

“Just maybe. Meanwhile, get the guys ready to go ashore tonight. It might be by CRRC, or it might be by helo. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

“On it, Boss, and whatever happened to those drugs that were flown into the desert, the ones loaded into that panel truck and put aboard that old flying boat?”

“I wondered about that myself,” Engel replied. “I thought it might lead to a big drug bust, as that seemed to be a large shipment of cocaine. From reading the traffic, the powers that be let the shipment go through. The priority is finding out what Shabal is up to and stopping him. So the druggies get a pass on this one.”

Nolan just shook his head. “I’ll go check on the guys. We’ll be ready, if and when.”

In the South China Sea, it was half past midnight, and the Makin Island was just over the radar horizon from the Osrah and matching her course and speed. Senior Chief Otto Miller was pacing his task unit’s small TOC in that ship’s combat information center. They were waiting for the Global Hawk from Diego Garcia to arrive on station. Meanwhile, the rest of the task unit was busy getting their boats ready. The SWCCs and SEALs assigned to the two Mark V patrol craft crawled over them, checking and rechecking everything — engines, fuel cells, radios, weapons stations, and ammunition. The same thing was happening with the SWCC crews on the two 11-meter rigid-hull inflatable boats, or RHIBs. Up on the flight deck, two MH-60S Navy Knighthawk helos were being readied and armed. The Knighthawks would carry a pair of Hellfire missiles each, but their real cargo would be SEALs — eight SEALs from the other Bandito squad, four in one helo and four in the other. Additionally, there would be a task unit sniper in each bird. While the Osrah was ostensibly a pleasure yacht, it could prove to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Quite often, world-class cruising yachts were armed against pirates, and sometimes that armament incl sarm couuded heavy-caliber weapons. And given the background of the yacht’s owner, they were taking no chances.

The Mark V Special Operations Craft was an eighty-two-foot patrol craft that could carry up to a platoon of SEALs, and like its freshwater little brother, the SOC-R, it was armed with mini-guns and .50-caliber machine guns. And it was scalded-dog fast. The twin 2285-horsepower turbo-blown MTU diesels could push the Mark V over a flat sea at close to seventy miles an hour. The 11-meter Special Warfare RHIBs were both smaller and more lightly armed. Their main gun was a center-mounted .50-caliber supported by a 7.62 machine gun and a Mk19 grenade launcher. Its dual 6-cylinder Cat turbo-diesels gave it a top speed of 50 mph. The value of the Special Warfare RHIBs, especially when working with the Mark Vs, was that they were agile crafts, and because of their soft-sided tubes, they could hold themselves against the side of a larger craft, like the Osrah, and quickly put SEALS aboard. The boats themselves were carried in the well deck of the Makin Island. This well deck occupied the stern one-third of the ship’s 850-foot length and could be flooded so that small craft could become waterborne while in the well-deck bay and leave the ship by way of the stern gate that opened to the sea. The Makin Island could carry a mix of watercraft, but the two Mark Vs and the two RHIBs assigned to the embarked SEAL task unit left only a little space for the single Marine RHIB detachment. But the ship’s current mission was all about SEAL support.

Up in the TOC, a shipboard controller had just taken command of the Global Hawk and brought it down from its cruise altitude of fifty-five thousand feet to a lazy orbit over the Osrah at a comfortable twenty-five thousand feet. It could neither be seen nor heard, and the big yacht hadn’t the radar to find it. There it orbited and listened while Senior Chief Otto Miller hovered over the controller, making him more than a little anxious.

“You got anything yet?”

“Relax, Senior. We’re still running a bandwidth search to see if there’s any traffic. They have to be using satellite phones out here, as there’s no cell coverage. It’ll take a minute to see if they are, in fact, transmitting and then to see if there’s any volume. If they’re talking, I’ll know about it.”

Miller prowled the small space, periodically pausing to look over the controller’s shoulder, then continuing his pacing of the TOC.

“Hello there,” the controller said, barely audible, but Miller was instantly at his elbow. “Here they are at 1620 megahertz.”

“What?” Miller asked.

The controller turned with a grin. “Coded chatter — and a lot of it. We have incoming calls and outgoing calls. Have no idea what’s in the transmissions, but it’s active. We’re recording them, though. If you can get aboard and get their phones, maybe the guys at NSA can go back and unscramble the text. But for now, it’s my guess that there’s more going on than some crewman calling his girlfriend in the next port.”

“Good work,” Miller said, clapping the controller on the shoulder. “Let me know if st m next panything changes.”

Moments later the little TOC became more populated as both the task unit commander and the captain of the Makin Island crowded in. Miller quickly briefed them on the cell-phone activity; everything was pointing to the presence of Christo aboard the yacht. Captain McMasters stepped away and made his way to one of the CIC’s radar repeaters. It was a sophisticated display that featured data from the Makin Island’s powerful surface-search radar and imagery from both the Global Hawk and any passing naval ocean surveillance satellite that might be prowling the skies in low-earth orbit.

“Where is she now?” he asked the technician at the scope.

“Right here, sir — designated skunk Bravo Delta. She crossed into international water about twenty minutes ago. I hold her about fifty-five miles from us on a bearing of two six five. She’s on a course of three one seven and making about twenty-two knots. We’re closing on her, but it’s a stern chase, and it’ll take a while.”

“Good job, Sullivan. Stay on it.” McMasters returned to the TOC, where Miller and Lieutenant Commander Crandall were huddled with two other SEALs. One was the Bandito Platoon AOIC, or assistant officer in charge — a junior grade lieutenant and Roark Engel’s number two in the platoon. The other was a first-class petty officer and the Bandito Platoon leading petty officer. Since it had been the detached Bandito squad that had begun all this, it had been Crandall’s decision to read the other Bandito squad into this portion of the operation and assign them to take down the yacht. SEALs from the other task unit platoon would be on the Mark Vs and RHIBs in a support role. They would do as ordered, but they were disappointed not to have been assigned a more active participation. The Bandito SEALs were in black one-piece coveralls, with assault vests over body armor. The platoon officer’s helmet and weapon were already aboard one of the helos, the leading petty officer’s on the other. The task unit commander was in like coveralls but no kit.

“How soon can you go?” McMasters asked.

“Sir, we can have boats away within the hour depending on the well-deck flooding. The helos are standing by. I’ll be on one of the Mark Vs as the surface-force commander.”

Captain McMasters paused a moment in contemplation. “Okay, gentlemen, get to your stations and stand by. Commander, a word.”

Everyone left but McMasters and Todd Crandall. “I’ve been authorized to proceed at my discretion when this yacht leaves Malay territorial waters,” McMasters told his embarked SEAL commander. “That’s already happened. You are clear to launch as soon as you’re ready. I’ll alert those up the chain of the pending action. Go do what has to be done. I’ll not tell you how to do your job, but those are my aircrews that will be supporting you. They are your SEALs, but since it’s my ship, you are also my SEALs. I take this personally. Get this job done — swiftly, professionally, safely, and, if you can, bloodlessly. If not, kick some ass. In any event, good luck.” He held out his hand and Crandall took it.

“Roger that, sir,” Cra s, snt>ndall replied. “And thanks — for everything. For us it’s always personal.” With that he took his leave and made his way down to the well deck, where his Mark V waited in its cradles on the bottom.

In the task unit spaces belowdecks and on the well deck, the SEALs were making their final preparations, which amounted to a rechecking of everything, from their weapons loading to their tactical radios. Then they made their way up to the flight deck to the helos or down to the well deck to the boats. One of those who was making ready did so a little differently from the others. Senior Chief Otto Miller looked as if he were going nightclubbing rather than embarking on a special operation. His hair and beard were freshly barbered and combed into place. He was dressed in a cream-colored linen suit, a blue oxford-cloth shirt, and a tasteful, paisley ascot. Tasseled loafers and Norte wire-rimmed aviator sunglasses completed the look. His only concession to anything military was a Glock 9mm he kept well concealed in a shoulder holster and an MBITR tactical radio and headset that he would hand-carry.

“Well, how do I look?” he asked one of his intelligence specialists.

“To be honest, Senior, like you’re trolling for boy toys in Venice.”

This brought a frown, immediately followed by a chuckle. “Then I guess I’m good to go,” he said, and he made his way up to the flight deck.

Jackie Engel was in the middle of organized chaos, surrounded by boxes, wrapping paper, and “neutral” baby things — toddler toys and support items that were non-gender-specific. She was sitting in the recliner of her small living room, and the space was crowded with close to a dozen other women. Her mother had arrived the day before, and she and Julia Nolan had organized a surprise, impromptu shower. There were several other SEAL wives, two of her friends from work, and three neighbors. All was gaiety and laughter. When the phone rang, her mother rose quickly with an, “I’ll get it, dear,” and stepped down the hall to take the call on a wireless handset.

“Hello.”

After a short pause, “Hello, Mom, is that you?”

“Roark?”

“It’s me, Mom. Sounds like you’re having a party there. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Roark, how nice to hear your voice. No, no — we’re just having a little shower for Jackie. Where are you?” She was the mother of a Navy wife; she could ask those questions.

“I’m on deployment,” he replied, allowing just a trace of humor in his voice, “over there or over here, depending on your prospective. Hey, I’m really glad you’re there with Jackie. I know it means a lot to her, and it sure means a lot to me. Thanks for making the trip out.”

“Roark, I’m only too happy to be here, and Coronado is such a delightful sa d1emplace. And there’s snow on the ground in Indianapolis. This is much nicer. Now, I know you didn’t call to talk to me. Let me get herself. Take care of yourself, Roark. Jackie misses you — we all miss you.”

“Thanks, Mom, thanks for everything.”

Moments later, “Roark?”

“Hi, hon. Just calling to check in, and I hear you are having a party.”

“Oh, Mom, Julia, and some of the girls sprang a surprise shower on me. We’re having fun, and we got some great things for the kid.”

“Catcher’s mitts and hockey skates, right?”

“Maybe. They work for girls, too, you know.”

“I know, I know. Listen, all the guys here are doing just fine. Update me on the families, will you?”

“Oh, yes,” Jackie replied, organizing her thoughts. “Everybody here is A-okay… We all get together fairly frequently, and you’d be proud how the wives and girlfriends are all supporting one another…”

“So… no problems?” Roark probed.

“Nothing we can’t handle. Tell Diego that Anna’s mom is finally having that hip replacement that she’s been putting off for so long. Anna’s taking their son and flying to Jacksonville for two weeks to see her through the surgery and the beginning of her recovery. Oh, and Sonny’s older daughter, Becky, took a nasty spill playing soccer. Carla took her to the Balboa ER, but the docs cleared her. She has a shiner, and she’s bragging about how the other girl looks worse. She’s one tough kid, just like her dad.”

“I hear that,” Roark replied.

There was a moment of silence as Roark thought about how to phrase what he was about to say. “Hey, hon, I just wanted to check on the families and to hear the sound of your voice, but I also needed to let you know that this project I’m working on seems to be a little bigger than I’d first thought. It looks like I’ll have to stay with it. I’d rather be shot at than to tell you this, but it doesn’t look good for me being back there anytime soon. I wish it were otherwise, but that’s as it stands right now.”

“Oh, Roark, I am disappointed, yet… yet I do understand, believe me, I do.”

“But, hey, the good news is that once we finish up with this, there’s a good chance I can get back for a few days.”

“That would be great. But,” she replied, trying for some levity, “are you sure you’re not just trying to duck my mom? She’s very sensitive about those things, you know.”

That got std" hose thia chuckle. “I’d brave your mother and any other mortal danger to be with you right now. And you tell her for me that I am really glad that she can be there with you. Tell me, how are you and the little one doing? Are you feeling well?”

“We are both doing just fine. We just want you to take good care of yourself.”

“No sweat, hon,” he assured her. “But listen, I have to run for now. So I’ll let you get back to the ladies and the Chippendales and whatever else you may have going on there.”

“Listen to you! You are my one and only Chippendale. Never forget that.”

They traded I-love-you’s and shared another laugh, then she returned to the girls.

“That was Roark,” she announced, feeling the need to comment, “checking up on me. He says hello to all of you and to thank you for the wonderful gifts. He and I both appreciate this so very much. Now, who needs another cup of tea?”

She continued to be the picture of graciousness and good humor to most in the room, but her happy facade did not get past Julia Nolan or her mother.

It was shortly after dawn when the Makin Island slowed to a barely discernable three knots and began to ballast down. The process of venting some fifteen thousand tons of seawater into the well deck of the ship took close to an hour. The RHIBs motored out ready to run. Once clear of the mother ship’s stern gate, the Mark Vs took another ten minutes to hinge into place and secure their radar and communications masts. During this time, the Osrah was able to gain another thirty miles on them, but that was about to change. There was a light chop on the surface with a wind out of the south, so the four-boat flotilla was able to make best speed across the water. With a twenty-five-knot speed advantage, they could overtake the yacht in just under four hours. The Makin Island, after dewatering her well deck, took up the pursuit at her best speed of twenty-two knots. Three hours after the two Mark Vs and the two RHIBs had sortied, the two MH-60Ss lifted off and followed their waterborne brothers.

Lieutenant Commander Crandall stood alongside the SWCC officer in charge. As task unit commander, he was in charge of the overall operation, but the swick officer, also a SEAL, would coordinate the approach. It would be impossible to achieve total surprise, but they would do what they could to delay the detection of their approach. Both the Mark Vs and the RHIBs carried good radars, but they were turned off. There was the very real possibility that the Osrah had the ability to detect surface-search radars in the area. Some of the larger yachts were so equipped as an antipiracy measure. The boats relied on a data link from the Global Hawk for a bearing and distance to their target. When they were ten miles from the Osrah, just below the visual horizon, the swick OIC signaled his coxswains to fall in astern of him, so the four boats continued at high speed in a file. Cruising yachts, and indeed many warships, had their radars mounted on masts forward of their exhaust stacks. This gave them an unobstructed radar picture in their direction of travel but sometimes left them a blind spot sa bd indeed directly astern, or, in Navy speak, in their baffles. And since there were no other craft in the area and it was a clear day, the helmsman on the yacht, or bridge crew if there were two of them, might not be paying close attention to the radar. At eight miles out, the SWCC boats were joined by the Knighthawks, flying in a loose combat spread at six thousand feet and slowing to match the speed of the flotilla.

On the Osrah, Christo was enjoying a light breakfast of fruit and yogurt, fresh-squeezed pomegranate juice, and black coffee. He was at his desk in the yacht’s spacious solarium, dressed comfortably in white cotton slacks, a turquoise long-sleeve pullover, and sandals. His long hair was pulled into a ponytail out of his way. He wore no jewelry but for a gold Rolex President and a gold baht chain. His role in arranging for the shipment of cocaine and assisting the little Russian bomb-vest maker with his wares was over. Now that what was about to happen was soon approaching, he wanted to be as far away from America — North, Central, or South — as possible. His wife and daughter, along with his mother-in-law and a small contingent of extended family, were in Rome. They were being guarded by a handpicked security detachment. There would be far-reaching repercussions for what Shabal had planned, and should any blowback reach him, he wanted his family somewhere safe and well away from him. He did not expect to be linked to Shabal’s plans, but regarding issues of family, one could not be too careful. Plus, he had work to do, and the yacht was one of his better offices.

While Shabal planned his attack, Christo had been planning how to capitalize on it. He had mobilized as much cash as he dared, something on the order of $300 million. He had carefully analyzed what would take place if Shabal succeeded — the companies that would plummet in value and those that would rise in value. Using intermediaries and discreet brokerage firms around the globe, he had bet on chaos in the U.S. and European economies. As a result, he found himself shorting airline and entertainment stocks and going long on energy and U.S. defense stocks. Of all his holdings, he thought grimly, the U.S. defense stocks would fare the best.

His desk was a spartan place of work, with several multiline telephones and a neat but well-ordered stack of file folders. The only thing seemingly out of place was a Newton’s Cradle. This suspended rack of steel balls was normally viewed as a senior executive’s play toy. It had come with the boat and was normally a device that would be ill-served on a pleasure craft. But this version of the Westship 149 had a sophisticated, gyro-stabilization system that took nearly all the roll and most of the pitch out of the motion of the yacht. It was an extremely stable craft. Several feet below the waterline on the Osrah, gimbaled fins extended from the hull, which sensed certain hull movements and gave immediate correction. That the Newton’s Cradle could smoothly transmit action and reaction in almost any weather was a tribute to the Osrah’s stabilizers.

This morning, as the sun climbed into the sky, Christo was at his desk and his ten-person crew was about their duties. His captain was on the bridge with his helmsman. The yacht was on autopilot, and the two were performing routine maintenance checks, most of them with the help of the engineer, who was presently at his station in the engine room. There were two women on board whose duties involved cooking and cleaning. They both had supermodel good looks and, when necessary, could dress in skimpy bikinis and drape themselves conspicuously on the bo ssly twow or the afterdeck when entering or leaving port, thus portraying the Osrah as the vessel of a rich playboy. But they were only for show; Christo was a family man, monogamous, and he insisted on the same from those who worked around him. Many men of wealth paid for lewd conduct; Christo paid, and paid well, for the absence of it. The other five members of his crew were dedicated to security — a security chief and four others. At this point in time, two of them were close by in their own craft, a six-meter RHIB that raced over the sea, keeping station on the Osrah. Every few days, Christo’s security-detail chief asked that the yacht’s tender be put in the water for testing and crew training — and also as an antipiracy measure. One member of the security team had had the night watch and was below, sound asleep; the other was in the small crew’s galley having breakfast. It was the security chief, a former Spetsnaz major, who first noticed the fast-closing lead Mark V and what seemed to be several small craft in its wake. He studied them for a moment, then raced to the pilothouse to get a pair of binoculars. From the pilothouse wing, he studied them for a long moment, then stepped back inside, pausing to speak to the Osrah’s captain.

“We are being followed and may soon be boarded. Make all preparations to resist a boarding, and send someone to wake Dmitri and notify Mikhail.” He didn’t wait for an answer but headed aft to the solarium. Christo glanced up with some irritation at his hurried entrance.

“What is it, Vladimir?”

“Sir, we are being followed and overtaken by several military small craft.”

“Pirates? Here?”

“I don’t think they are pirates. If I had to guess, they are an American special boat unit. And they are coming very fast.”

Christo considered this a moment. “Very well. Has the captain been notified?”

“Yes, sir, he has.”

“And how soon will they overtake us?”

“Quickly, sir. Five minutes, maybe less.”

Christo frowned, as if this were but a minor annoyance. “Any chance we can repel them?”

“No, sir. There are at least three boats, and they are heavily gunned.”

“Very well.” He sighed. “These are your instructions: Delay them as long as you can, however you can. I have matters to attend to here.”

Vladimir was immediately on his handheld Motorola radio. He was no sooner out the door than Christo began feeding documents into the shredder and deleting files from the laptop computer on his desk.

“Think they know we’re here?” Crandall shouted over the engine’s roar.

His Mark V detachment (Det) OIC was studying the Osrah through a pair of stabilized binoculars. “There’s no way to be sure, but I don’t think so. They have a tender in the water, and it seems to be keeping station on the yacht. But it can’t be too much longer before they see us. I recommend we go to a combat spread.”

Crandall nodded. “Make it happen.”

The Det OIC spoke a few words into his lip mic, and the four boats broke from their line-astern formation. Immediately, the two Mark Vs accelerated up to their top speed and to headings that would have them flanking the yacht, a hundred yards to either side. The two RHIBs continued along the wake of the Osrah, now on side-by-side and on parallel courses that would bring them up to the port and starboard quarters of the big yacht. Above, the two Knighthawks moved into position to support the waterborne assault.

According to the plan, the two Mark Vs were to stand off to either side of the Osrah, hail her, and order her to stop for boarding. The RHIBs would then move up to a close-in support position near the stern sheets. One helo would serve as a platform for the SEAL sniper overwatch while the other would touch down on the Osrah’s helo platform to insert the initial fire team. The helo deck would save them from the exposure and danger of a fast-rope boarding. After depositing the first team of boarders, the first helo would then take up the overwatch while the second helo inserted the second fire team. The yacht and Christo were being surrounded; it was now only a matter of time and the level of force involved.

Vladimir was standing on the main afterdeck of the yacht, watching the four boats flank and close in on the Osrah. He and his four Spetsnaz commandos could at best only conduct a holding action, and Vladimir knew this. He sent the tender and his two men off on a heading of 45 degrees to port from that of the Osrah. The tender had twin 250 horsepower Mercury outboards; it was fast but not quite as fast as the Mark V. It quickly began to put distance between itself and the Osrah, and one of the Mark Vs followed, which was what Vladimir had in mind. One less boat for him to deal with.

The Russian security chief now knew they were American boats and correctly assumed they would soon be boarded by Navy SEALs. The only issue was how long he could delay that boarding before things got nasty. He was a security consultant, not a criminal, and he would honor his employer’s wishes — up to a point. Then Mikhail, the youngest of his security team, stepped out topside onto the helo deck, brandishing an AK-47. It was a mistake — and a fatal one.

The pilot of the lead helo was a skillful one. He had closed on the Osrah carefully, keeping his Knighthawk between the sun and the yacht. He was, in effect, coming out of the sun. With the noise of the yacht’s engines and the distraction of the closing surface craft, he was able to crab down a thousand feet and to a position some 150 yards on the starboard beam of the Osrah. The SEAL sniper in the port door of the helo had a clear field of fire, and his Winmag 300 dialed in for the range and altitude.

“I have a Tango armed with an AK on the helo deck, and a shot,” the sniper calmly reported on the tactical net.

It was Crandall’s call, and he made it quickly. “Take him.”

The sniper elected a head shot, which was not easy from a moving helo to that small of a target in a moving boat. But again, the Osrah was a highly stabilized yacht, and the helo pilot was very good. The big 190-grain, boat-tailed, special-purpose round went through Mikhail’s head like it was passing through a melon and buried itself into the reinforced helo-pad decking. Mikhail collapsed to the deck like a wet rag. A red-gray cloud of blood and brain tissue hung in the air over him for but an instant, then was snatched away by the wind.

Well off to port and now north of the main sea chase, the trailing Mark V was slowly closing on the Osrah’s tender. At the beginning, the two security men felt they could outrun their pursuer. They knew they were making something close to sixty miles per hour, but the sleek gray shape gradually closed the distance. Now it was nearly off their beam and working its way closer.

“What do you think?” the Russian at the helm yelled to his companion.

“We can’t outrun them, but maybe I can slow them down a little.”

With that he took his Kalashnikov and sprayed a long burst at the speeding Mark V. He could see waterspouts between the two vessels, and he knew at least a few of his rounds had hit their pursuer. It was his last conscious thought.

On the Mark V, the port-side .50-caliber swick gunner did not have to request permission to fire; the gunman on the tender had just done that for him. He saw the muzzle flashes from the AK-47, and even felt a round ping off his gun’s armored fairing. Then he pressed the butterfly trigger of the big machine gun. He swept the little RHIB bow to stern and back again, shredding the spray tubes, the two outboards, and the two men. Several rounds ripped into the onboard fuel tanks that were under pressure, creating an atomized cloud of gasoline vapor and liquid. A tracer round did the rest. The RHIB mushroomed into a fireball, as only a gasoline-powered watercraft at high speed can. The Mark V slowed and circled once, then twice. There was nothing but burning debris on the water, a few charred life jackets, and no sign of life. The Mark V OIC, a senior chief petty officer, marked the debris field with eight-digit GPS coordinates on his Garmin navigation system and headed back toward the Osrah at maximum RPMs — back to the fight, if there was to be more of a fight. They could return to the site of burned wreckage later if necessary.

Vladimir watched as the two RHIBs climbed up his wake. On each RHIB there were two men, SEALs he rightly guessed, laying on the spray tubes with automatic weapons. The bow .50-caliber was trained on him.

“On the motor-yacht, this is the United States Navy,” came the voice on the bullhorn from the single Mark V now no more than fifty yards away. “Heave to and prepare to be boarded! I say again, heave to and prepare to be boarded! This is your final warning!”

Vladimir held the Motorola handset to his mouth with one hand and kept the other in plain sight. “Okay, Captain, we have no choice. Slowly bring down your speed and come to a complete stop.” Then he stood along the starboard rail in full view of the Mark V, his hands spread wide in a crucifixion gesture.

The Osrah’s captain did not answer, but he immediately complied and the yacht began to lose way. From the pilothouse he had watched the gray speedboat chase after their tender and destroy it. He was all too willing to resist no further. In the solarium, Christo completed his shredding and the deletion of the most sensitive files from his laptop. He thought about stepping onto a weather deck and dropping it over the side, but he too had seen the tender leave the Osrah and watched as it was run down and destroyed. He sighed, closed the lid of the laptop, and picked up his Iridium satellite phone. He hit a number on the speed dialer and waited for the connection to go through. It was answered immediately by a trusted retainer.

“Please let me talk to my wife,” Christo said without preamble, and he waited. A moment later, “Cherie, it is good to hear your voice this day,” he said warmly. “I am fine, could not be better. And how are you and the little one?” The sat phone was encrypted, but he still never mentioned their names on the phone. “Excellent. I am happy for you both… No, I am not sure when I can join you, and that is why I am calling. I may be tied up for a period of time and perhaps hard to reach… No, no, nothing’s amiss… just business.” Christo then heard the thumping of an approaching helicopter. “Listen, Cherie, I really must go now… I know, and I miss you as well. My best to the little one… Yes, all my love as well.”

Christo pulled back on a heavy sliding window near his desk and, with a penknife, cut a long slit into the window screening. He tossed the sat phone through the opening, over the rail, and into the water. Then he lifted one of the balls of his Newton’s Cradle and let it go. When the first SEAL exploded through the door, he was sitting back comfortably and listening to the klack-klack-klack of the steel-ball interaction. The Osrah was now almost dead in the water and beginning to wallow in the gentle seaway. He noted, and not for the first time, that the inertial interaction of the steel balls was not as smooth or precise as when the yacht was up and running and the gyro-stabilization system deployed to full advantage. Like many who engaged in complex and dangerous enterprises, when things became stressful, he noticed the little things.

The second helo touched down to deposit the second fire team and Senior Chief Otto Miller without incident. This insertion helo did not actually land, as the Osrah could not take a helo as large as the Knighthawk fully aboard, so the pilots simply put the tip of a single skid to the deck and held a semi-hover while the SEALs scrambled aboard. The RHIBs were now close aboard on either stern quarter, but remained abaft the beam so as not to put themselves in a crossfire if the shooting started. As it turned out, there were only two more shots fired. Dmitri had not heard the call from the captain of the Osrah. He had been awakened from a sound sleep by the approach of the helicopters and raced topside. He bolted from a port-side door to the main deck with a pistol in each hand. It was a theatrical move, and his smove. last. The lead SEAL of the port clearing team saw him, saw the pistols, and center-punched him twice. He was dead before he hit the deck.

Miller waited patiently on the helo deck, with a single armed SEAL there for his security. The Osrah was now fully stopped and rolling gently in a modest swell. He could hear the SEALs calling out with room-clearing chatter: “Pilothouse clear!… Salon secure!… Moving forward!… Entering port forward stateroom!” and so on. As they moved deeper into the boat, he listened to them on the tactical radio circuit. When the platoon leader declared the yacht secure, the two RHIBs came alongside and disgorged more SEALs. Miller pulled off his headset and handed it, along with the MBITR, to the SEAL at his side. Then he made his way aft and down to the main afterdeck. There he met Vladimir, who was now on the deck facedown, with his hands slip-tied tightly behind his back and a SEAL standing over him. There was a nasty bruise on his cheekbone; he was going to have quite a shiner. Miller squatted beside him, tilting his head to one side to better bring him into view.

“Dobraye utro. Kak pazhivayte?”

“I’m fine, you Yank bastard,” Vladimir spat in English. “And fuck you, too, you son of a bitch.”

Miller regarded him a moment, then, “Kak vas zafut?”

“It’s Vladimir, and that’s all you need to know.”

“Very well, Vladimir,” Miller continued in a reasonable tone and in English, “we have accounted for four of your men. Are there any more? I ask for a truthful reply, for their sake as well as your own.”

“There are four besides myself, and we are a lawful contract security team employed by the owner of this boat. You have no right to board this vessel and threaten us.”

“Perhaps not,” Miller conceded, “but all four of your men are dead. And should we find a fifth or a sixth, then I will be back to speak to you, and you do not want that.”

Vladimir started to protest, but Miller nodded to the guarding SEAL. He put a foot into his back and a strip of duct tape over his mouth. Miller rose and stepped to the Bandito Platoon assault leader standing by the door to the solarium. The other SEALs were carefully searching the Osrah except for the solarium, which they carefully avoided.

“Have the rest of the crew been restrained and segregated, sir?”

“Roger that, Senior Chief.”

“And the owner has been confined to his desk, as I instructed?”

“Roger that, as well. Billy and Walt are guarding him, and everything is in place. We’ll be standing by close at hand and observing from where he can’t see us. He’s all yours, Senior.”

“Thank you, sir,” and he stepped into the solarium.

Half a world away on the Bonhomme Richard another group of Navy SEALs were preparing for an entirely different kind of mission. They were going ashore to conduct a raid on a small village on Cedros Island. Earlier that afternoon, a platoon of SEALs from SEAL Team One had been flown aboard by VS-22 Osprey. SEAL Team One was the next team from the West Coast in deployment rotation, so the Team One SEALs were the most combat ready of the West Coast platoons. The Team One platoon, together with the Bandito squad already aboard, gave Roark Engel three SEAL squads to conduct the assault. It would be an over-the-beach operation conducted in CRRCs, or combat rubber raiding craft — Zodiac-type boats with powerful outboards that could carry a squad of armed SEALs into and through a line of surf.

Earlier the previous evening, Lieutenant Engel and Chief Nolan had conducted their warning order, a three-hour-long briefing that covered every aspect of the raid. The warning order was attended by the SEALs, the SWCC coxswains, and the helicopter pilots that would support the operation. It was now just after midnight. The SEALs were either below in the Bonnie Dick’s well deck preparing their gear and the CRRCs, or on the flight deck preparing to board the Knighthawk helos for their insertion role. Lieutenant Engel was conducting a final briefing for his squad leaders and boat coxswains. They were crowded into the little TOC around a large flat-screen monitor. Everyone was in black night-assault uniforms.

“Nothing has changed since the warning order,” he began. “If anything, the cell-phone chatter and thermal activity in the village has increased. Too much so. This is a very small village and a very poor one. And it’s isolated. Most of the population on Cedros lives along the southern coast of the island. Here we are some forty miles from Cedros.” On the monitor, the island was shown as a green land mass with a blip to the west that was the Bonnie Dick. “We’re still scheduled for a zero two zero zero launch in the two CRRCs. The Bandito squad will be in the lead boat, and the Team One alpha squad, Tom’s squad, in the trail boat. A third CRRC will follow us in case one of our boats has a problem. We’ll skirt the northern tip of the island and come in from the east. Two miles offshore, we’ll throttle back to idle and make our way in as quietly as possible.” The monitor expanded to show the northeast coast of Cedros Island and a small fishing village. “Once we’re on the beach, the boats will pull back out and wait offshore. The weather guys are still calling for less than three feet of surf, so you should be able to deal with that.” The three SWCC coxswains all nodded. “After we’re ashore, we’ll go into a security perimeter and wait until just before first light.”

The presentation again altered, and enhanced, to show just the village, a small harbor, and a portion of the beach. There were several fishing boats anchored in the harbor and several more hauled up on the shore of the small inlet. The SEALs would come across the beach just south of the town. Engel pointed to the section of beach where they would come ashore.

“Tom, you and your squad will move out and set up two support-by-fire positions here and here, and a sniper overwatch here.” The platoon officer from Team One acknowledged. “My squad will assault only a sssa, you andfter you are in place. When and if — more than likely this will be when—the first shot is fired, Gerry and his squad will insert by helo here and set up a blocking force, okay?” The other SEAL officer gave him a thumbs-up. “Nothing fancy here, gentlemen, just rifles, radios, and basic infantry tactics. Any questions?” There were none, nor did Engel expect any. The details had been covered in the warning order. “Chief Nolan.”

“I’ve nothing to add, sir. Just remember the basics — the element of surprise for as long as possible, then violence of action when it goes down.”

“One last thing,” Engel added. “This is a friendly foreign country, and there are civilians and noncombatants in the mix. Believe me, the State Department is holding its breath on this one. So remember your rules of engagement and make sure of your targets.” He looked at his watch. “Okay, I have zero zero twenty-seven… and four, three, two, one, mark: zero zero twenty-seven. We leave the well deck of the Bonnie Dick at zero two hundred. Good luck.”

Minutes later Engel and Nolan were back in their squad bay, donning their body armor and combat vests. The rest of the Banditos — Ray, A.J., Sonny, and Weimy — were already below in the flooded well deck helping to make ready their CRRC. Earlier, Chief Nolan had inspected them, checking their weapons, radios, and equipment. When they were ready to go, Nolan inspected Engel, and Engel inspected Nolan. SEALs always inspect each other before going to combat. As he was going over his chief, Engel fingered a dark, olive-drab patch on Nolan’s shoulder. It blended in with the dark black fiber of the assault clothing, but it was still readable. It read: ENGINE COMPANY NO. EIGHT.

“I thought you were going to get me one of those,” Engel said.

“Are you still busting my balls about that patch? Like I said, I got them from my uncle right after 9/11, and I gave ’em all out. Tell you what, when we get back, I’ll give you this one.”

“No, it’s no big deal, and I don’t want to rob you of your family memorabilia.” Engel finished and stepped back to allow Nolan to inspect him and his gear. As Nolan watched, Engel chambered a round into his M4 and turned the weapon over so that Nolan could see him put it on safe.

“No big deal, huh. Well, what about this?” as he patted a cargo pocket on Engel’s right thigh.

“What?”

“This. What you got in there?”

Engel drew out a very tightly folded, forty-eight star American flag. “It was my grandfather’s flag. Dad gave it to me, and someday I’ll give it to my boy.”

“I like that, Lieutenant. I like that a lot.”

“And while we’re at it,” Engel continued fishing a square-f sng ">

Nolan stared at the folded paper, then at his officer. “What’s this supposed to be?”

“It’s, well, it’s just in case.”

Nolan stuffed it absently into a pocket and continued with his inspection of Engel. “When we get back from this op, I’m going to make that into a paper airplane. Or maybe I’ll just wipe my ass with it.”

“Y’know, Chief,” Engel replied with a grim smile, “that’s why you’re such a damn fine platoon chief. I know I can count on you to do the right thing.”

“You’re good to go, Boss. Let’s go to war.”

“Let’s,” Engel echoed, and they headed for the well deck.

Miller gently closed the solarium door behind him and regarded Christo for several moments as Christo, in turn, regarded him. Miller glanced from side to side, as if he were not sure just how to proceed. He carefully removed his sunglasses, put them in a folding hard-case, and filed them in an inside jacket pocket. Tentatively, he made his way over to the desk and pulled back one of the chairs in front of it but stopped abruptly, raising his eyebrows to ask permission. Christo, now considering Miller with some disdain, inclined his head in approval. Miller cleared his throat to address the two SEALs standing guard.

“Ah, would you two please excuse us.”

“Sir, I’m not so sure about that,” one of them protested, but Miller raised a hand to silence him.

“Please, it will be all right. And before you leave, would you also please cut his bonds.”

One SEAL started to protest but merely shrugged and took a set of side cutters from his combat vest. He cut the snap tie that bound Christo’s wrists behind him and, together with the other SEAL, left the room. Christo, now able to sit up straighter, did so. He wanted to rub his wrists where the nylon had bit into them, but he consciously refrained. Miller took a seat across from him and again cleared his throat.

“Zdra-stvu-eetee. Minya zavoot Otto. Kak pazhivayete?”

Christo smiled. “Your accent is not bad, Otto, but I sense you would be more comfortable in English, no?”

“Quite so,” Miller replied. “And you are?”

“I am Christo.”

“Not ‘Mikhail Troikawicz’?”

This brought s>Thhail Troik another smile. “Just Christo will do. And how am I, you ask? Well,” he looked around, “as you might imagine, I’ve had better days.”

“Indeed.” Miller looked around as well. “This is quite a boat. The Westport Shipyard makes an excellent yacht. You seem to enjoy things of quality, Christo.”

He paused to again regard the man across from him; he appeared to be a little more sure of himself now than when he had entered. “I have worked hard, and my business interests have prospered. You might say I have been fortunate.”

Miller nodded. “I would agree with you, Christo — you have become a very wealthy man. Or at least you were. The many material things that you have worked so hard for are no longer yours. Not the estate in Costa Rico, not the compounds in Kuala Lumpur, in Rio, and on the Black Sea, and not your penthouse condominium in Rome. And certainly not this fine boat.” At the mention of the Rome penthouse, Miller thought he detected an almost imperceptible fracture on Christo’s bland features.

When they were being overtaken by the American boats, Christo knew he was in for some trouble. He would have to wait and see how much trouble. But, thanks to Shabal and his plotting, he had never before been in such a liquid position. He would survive this and with a good deal of his wealth intact. Personally, he knew the Americans were great proponents of due process, and he knew they would have a great deal of trouble making a case against him — at least a legal one. If he had learned nothing else in his business dealings, it was how to cover his tracks. The Western legal systems, and the American system in particular, were a joke. But, for now, he needed to get past this increasingly disturbing man and the scrutiny of his now-steady green eyes.

“Otto, here we are in the middle of the ocean, clearly in international waters. You may seize and impound my vessel, but you have no claim to it or to my other assets. What makes you think you can just take what is mine?”

Miller seemed to hesitate and consider his question. “I think the best and only answer is simply, because we can. Your properties are being seized for tax liens in their respective locations by government officials only too willing to enjoy what you’ve worked so hard for. Our government has a way of rewarding and indemnifying those who help us. As for your other assets, well, perhaps you should take a look at this.”

Miller took a single sheet of paper from his inner jacket pocket. It was folded lengthwise. Miller carefully smoothed the crease from the fold and placed it in front of Christo. As he read it, the blood began to drain from his face. Listed on the paper were all of his foreign bank accounts, complete with account numbers, access codes, and passwords.

“It’s our obsession with terrorists,” Miller continued in a gentle voice. “We Americans have ceded much to the Chinese, Germans, and Koreans in the way of technology and manufacturing. But when it comes to banking, finance, and money transfer, no one knows more about it or does it better than we do. We simply put our best minds and brightest hackers to work on this particular project.”

Miller sat forward with his elbows on the desk. When Christo looked up, the green eyes had suddenly become intense and predatory. This was definitely not the same timid man who had entered the solarium only a short while ago. Without looking away, Miller took an iPad from his outside jacket pocket and set it down on top of the paper.

“But as we both know, there are things that are more precious than houses, boats, and money.” He tapped on the iPad, and an image came into focus. It was Christo, waist deep in the pool of their Costa Rican estate, with his daughter, Solana, on his shoulders. In the background, fully in focus, Dominga looked on. Miller reached over and moved his finger across the screen from Christo’s left to his right. A second image showed the three of them eating at poolside. Another swipe of the finger, another image. This one was of mother and daughter walking on the streets of Rome, hand-in-hand, with retainers in dark glasses walking a few steps behind. Then an aerial image taken from above the level of the penthouse showing Dominga in a lounge chair reading a magazine and Solana playing with her dolls. After several more images, Miller turned off the iPad.

“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 gri so ce="ITC ps 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.