Tom Clancy Presents: Act of Valor

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.”

Miller brought up another thermal/low-light-level video composite of the same camp. It rotated slowly in a clockwise direction, which meant the Kch herISR bird was circling high above in a counterclockwise orbit. The intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance aircraft were marvels of technology in integrated imagery overlay. They could lock onto a piece of earth like this base camp and, using a combination of visual, thermal, infrared, and radar sensors, deliver an enhanced picture that was both encrypted and real time. They were now looking at imagery that was eight hours old. The best imagery was obtained at night when the ISR platforms could fly lower and see better than in the daytime. Neither Engel nor Nolan asked if this was a drone or a specially outfitted light aircraft flown by a military contractor. It didn’t matter. They could see that the number of people in the camp had risen dramatically, as had what appeared to be an increase in security activity in and around the camp.

“As you guys can see, something’s going on down there, and it doesn’t fit the normal pattern of drug activity. This building here,” Miller said, pointing to a single structure at the edge of the main encampment grouping, “is probably where they have her — if she’s there. We’ve been able to establish that this hut gets traffic at all hours, suggesting this may be where she’s being held and where they’re probably interrogating her. Earlier today, we got a cell-phone intercept that all but confirmed she’s in the camp. So it’s a straightforward personnel recovery mission. It won’t be easy, but it’s doable.” The senior chief smiled wolfishly, “But, hey, easy for me to say. I’m not going in.” He tabbed a key and the image went to a smaller scale showing a river snaking past about a quarter mile from the camp. “We can insert you here by parachute, probably a free-fall drop since the drug-traffic trapline is alert for low-flying aircraft. As for coming out, we have a special boat team with the amphibious ready group cruising offshore. They can be inserted well downstream and be standing by for an extraction. And, who knows, you might need some on-call firepower.”

“Any intel on the opposition?” Nolan asked.

“Not much. It’s my guess — our guess,” Miller replied, glancing at Lyons, “that security will be in tiers and on loan, or on lease, from the cartels. From the imagery, there’ll be a dozen or more at the site, but there are sure to be plenty more in the area. So you’ll have to limit your time on target. As for Morales, they know what they have and who they have. They’ll interrogate her and either put her up for sale, what’s left of her, or just kill her. Given the connection to Christo and Shabal, they’ll probably just kill her. So a high-value target but not necessarily high-value security. Standard druggie armed thugs but good ones, and they’ll probably be reasonably alert. They will be well armed with minimal training, but not afraid to fight and die. Lots of collective bravado, tactically primitive, and unpredictable. Most certainly, dangerous.” He gave them a palms-up gesture. “Wish I could be more specific, but that’s about it.”

“It’s like this, gentlemen,” Susan Lyons said in a quiet voice. “She put herself and her organization at risk to help us. Now she needs our help. A very brave lady is going to die a horrible death unless you can do something about it. And she does have information we’d like the opposition not to have. Yet I know how it is — that on a mission like this, it’s your call. All I can ask is that you please try and help her.”

With that, she rose and exited the TOC, leaving Miller, Engel, and Nolan Kl, th=sitting in a tight little circle around the flat screen. They were quiet for a long moment before Engel broke the silence. “She certainly does know how it is,” he said, “and she put the turd in our pocket.”

They all, in fact, knew. Personnel recoveries were dangerous and chancy business. Balanced against the chance of success was a significant risk of failure. Failure came in at least two forms: getting the subject of the recovery killed or getting some of your own guys killed, or both. Ultimately, unless it was a rare issue of immediate national security, the go/no-go decision to commit a team to a personnel recovery operation rested at the task force or local level. Since they were operating as an independent detachment, it was their call — they could be ordered not to go, but it was their call to go. It was Nolan who finally spoke.

“If it was just some do-gooder who had gotten lost or pissed off the locals, I’d say she made her bed and let her sleep in it. But since she was working for us, well, that makes it different. Kind of binds the cheese, so to speak.”

Engel nodded. “Yeah. Technically, this makes her one of our own, and we don’t leave one of our own behind. Senior, you’re more read into this than either one of us. You think the good lieutenant is leveling with us?”

Miller leaned forward, elbows on his knees over steepled fingers. “I think she is. She didn’t say as much, but I think she knows and admires this Morales lady. But I give her credit; she seems to be giving us the straight stuff. Either we go get Morales or she dies badly. Sir, it’s your call. That’s why they pay you the big bucks, and chiefs like Nolan and I have to make do on starvation wages.”

“Well, shit,” Engel said. He pushed himself to his feet and began to pace about the TOC. The call would be his — his and Nolan’s. But ultimately, the responsibility was his alone. As with all small-unit commanders, there were three things he must weigh and weigh quickly, as the mission was time sensitive. He had to balance the mission, the lives of his men, and any risk to noncombatants. Noncombatants would be a side issue on a mission like this, but even in a druggie camp there could be women and children.

“When can we go, Senior?” Engel knew Miller would already be staging assets and arranging clearances to support the mission, should he elect to go.

“I can have your support package in place by midnight. It would seem a predawn hit would be in order, with an after-dawn extraction.”

Engel again nodded, this time with some finality. He had only to glance at Nolan for his input — he nodded imperceptibly. “Okay, then, it’s a go. Senior, you know what to do. Chief, roust the boys, and let’s get at it.”

“You got it, Boss.”

Nolan left the TOC to get the other SEALs up and moving. Miller returned to one of his communications terminals and set in motion the mechanics of a special- operations personnel-recovery operation. Engel stepped out to find Susan Lyons. He wanted to see if he could get a little more straight talk from her.

Once alerted for a mission and briefed on the mission basics by Chief Nolan, the SEAL Bandito squad set about their business. They’d done this many times before and needed little direction. Each had his own area of responsibility. From now until they launched for the mission, the squad would collectively prepare equipment, plan the mission, brief the mission, and rehearse their actions on target. This is what they would do if they had two days, two weeks, two hours, or, in this case, about eight hours.

Sonny checked with each SEAL to confirm what weapon he would be carrying and began to set out ammunition, grenades, and special weapons systems accordingly. Since on this mission he would be engaged in room clearing rather than fire support, he would carry the lighter M46, a belt-fed .556 submachine gun. As the squad member tasked with air-operations responsibility, he would also see that the parachutes were laid out and inspected along with the gear bags they would use in the jump. Ray, as the primary communicator, began work on the comm plan with primary and alternative frequencies. He would work closely with Lieutenant Engel to manage the on-call support assets and to monitor the command-and-control net. He also set up the tactical SEAL net, which would drive the flow of the operation on the ground. Part of Ray’s job would be to ensure that each multiband inter-squad team radio was inspected, encrypted, mated to a fresh battery pack, and fully tested. They would not have a dedicated sniper overwatch team for this mission, but Weimy would carry a suppressed Mk12, a sniperized version of the M4 assault rifle that was sniper-accurate for the ranges they’d be working. He, too, could be tasked with room-clearing duties, and the Mk12, if a little long, would still serve in that role. But his primary job would be to kill quietly at a distance. There was little for Mikey to do, as each SEAL medical kit was up to date, as was his own squad medical bag, but he knew he would be responsible for tending to Morales and getting her ready for travel. He haunted the senior chief and Lieutenant Lyons for any updates on her condition. A.J. was the squad point man. His job would be to take the team from the insertion point to the target and from the target to the extraction point. Although the waypoints to the target and the extraction lanes would be GPS-driven coordinates and azimuths, he also needed to be able to find his way by compass and pace count should their GPS fail. For most of the afternoon, A.J. pored over maps and imagery to establish insertion points, extraction sites, and alternative extraction sites.

Nolan and Engel spent the balance of the afternoon reading intelligence reports and looking at imagery of the target. They focused on developing the plan of attack and the all-important actions on target. They’d done this many times before in Iraq and Afghanistan, but in the sandbox they had two very distinct advantages. First, they were blessed with good intelligence on the opposition and precise, state-of-the-art targeting imagery. Second, there was always an overwhelming quick-reaction force on standby if they got into trouble. On this mission, they had sketchy intelligence on the bad guys and the target area, and if they ran into problems, their contingencies were limited. They grabbed a quick MRE and worked into the evening. By 2200, they had constructed a reasonably accurate sand-table terrain model of the target encampment and what they hoped was the building where Morales was being held. Nolan stood back to inspect their work.

Kallto “It’s not great, Boss, but it’s probably as close as we’re going to get.”

“I agree,” Engel replied. “You never know enough, but in this case I’d sure like to know a helluva lot more.”

Nolan shrugged. “In the end, it all comes down to the basics — the element of surprise and violence of action. If we get that, then we’ll get this done.”

“And God help us if for some reason they know we’re coming.”

“Amen to that. You ready for operational briefing?”

“As ready as I can be. Let’s do it.”

Fifteen minutes later, the squad was assembled in the TOC. The senior chief and Lieutenant Lyons updated them on the intel picture. Then each member of the squad gave a short briefing on his area of responsibility. Engel then gathered them around the terrain model and walked them through their actions on target — what they planned for actions on target. After a short rehearsal behind the warehouse using an old shed as a target building, they began to gear up for the mission. At midnight, an MC-130H landed at the remote airstrip and paused to receive the squad of heavily armed SEALs. As they moved out onto the tarmac, Lieutenant Lyons stepped from the shadows.

“Guys, I’ll not be here when you get back, but I wanted to thank you for what you’re about to do. Good hunting and Godspeed.”

The SEALs clambered aboard yet another C-130 airframe, but this one was different. It was an MC-130H Combat Talon II — a special-operations, deep-penetration bird. At more than three times the cost of a C-130H or one of the later variants, the Combat Talon had an electronic suite that allowed it to “feel” its way through commercial and military radar coverage to stealthily deliver its cargo. But for the guys in the back, the cargo, there was little discernable difference; it was still a 130. For this clandestine pickup, there was the noise of the aircraft coming and going, but no lights. It was a black operation — literally. As they gained altitude, Mikey, who was seated next to Engel, leaned close and shouted in his ear.

“Hey, Boss, me and the other guys have been talking. When we get back to Coronado, we’re gonna get that guy.”

“What guy?”

“The guy that gave you that fucked-up haircut.”

Across the bay of the 130 and to either side, broad white smiles cut the blackened faces of the squad SEALs. A short time later, the drop aircraft approached the target at twenty-two thousand feet, well above an altitude where some notice might be taken on the ground. The ramp/door combination ground open and the heavily laden SEALs shuffled to the rear, bunching up on the ramp. The smiles were gone; now was the time for business. The red lights on either side of the ramp winked out and were replaced by green lights. The SEAL squad tumbled from the rear of the 130 as a single mass.

As the SEALs tumbled into space over Costa Rica, two Sikorsky CH-53E “Super Stallion” Marine Corps helicopters sat turning on the massive flight deck of the USS Bonhomme Richard (LHA-6). The “Bonnie Dick,” as she was known in the fleet and by those who served on her, was a U.S. Navy big-deck amphibious ship steaming fifty miles off the coast of Costa Rica — forty-one thousand tons of versatile U.S. Navy expeditionary muscle. The Bonnie Dick had an impressive array of defensive armaments, as well as a wing of AV-8B Harrier II attack jets, a fleet of assault helicopters, and close to two thousand marines. The downdraft from the Super Stallion’s seven-bladed rotors washed the ship’s flight deck with gale-force winds as the bird’s pilots performed their final prelaunch checks.

“Tower, Bulldog Six-One and flight, ready to lift.”

“Bulldog Six-One and wing, cleared to lift, winds eighteen knots on the nose and stay with me on this net.”

“Roger, Tower.”

With that, both birds lifted gently from the deck. The intensity of their downwash increased to hurricane force as they pulled into a hover.

The Bulldog wingman, Bulldog Six-Three, dipped his nose and thundered straight ahead into the blackness, the helo’s rotating red anticollision beacons and tiny red, green, and white position lights providing the only light, save that of a full complement of stars overhead. Bulldog Six-One, the lead helo, slid smartly to the Bonhomme Richard’s port side and remained in a hover, sixty feet above the black ocean below. Once in a stable hover, the big helo began to drift back to the port stern quarter of the Bonnie Dick.

As Bulldog Six-Three turned lazy circles directly above the ship and Six-One hovered, one of the two Special Operations Craft-Riverine, or SOC-R for short, was positioned on the aft portion of the Bonhomme Richard’s flight deck. The flight-deck drill this night was to hang a thirty-six-foot, fourteen-thousand-pound combat craft from each helo. Inside each bird, a five-man boat crew from Special Boat Team 22 looked on anxiously. For these highly trained Special Warfare Combatant-craft Crewmen, or SWCCs, this was high drama — and more than a little nerve-racking. All they could do was watch as the twenty-ton helicopter hovered over the beloved boat.

Bulldog Six-One’s pilot carefully lowered his hover to just ten feet over the first SOC-R combat craft. A flight-deck crewman in his yellow flotation vest and flight-deck helmet reached up with a long pole and attached the steel cable from the SOC-R’s boat harness to the large cargo hook on the underside of the Super Stallion. Once complete, the landing signals officer standing directly in front of Bulldog Six-One raised his spread arms up and up again, signaling the pilot to lift his hover and accept his burden. Gradually, the Super Stallion took tension on the four-point sling, and the SOC-R was airborne.

The Bulldog lead pilot, moving more carefully now that he had his cargo slung underneath and making small cockpit corrections, dipped the nose of the Super Stallion as he began Kn a he to creep forward. Once through translational lift, he increased speed to ninety knots and took up position on the Bonhomme Richard’s starboard side, orbiting in circles five hundred feet above the black ocean. The Super Stallion and the SOC-R now moved as one.

With Bulldog Six-One’s pickup complete, Bulldog Six-Three’s pilot spiraled down from five hundred feet and followed the ship’s wake until he was at Bonnie Dick’s fantail. He then eased over and above the second SOC-R boat. The pilots and crewman on the deck completed the same maneuver as with the lead bird. Bulldog Six-Three, mission ready and transitioning to forward flight, eased away from the Bonhomme Richard’s port side. Thanks to the skill of the Marine pilots, the delicate maneuver had taken less than fifteen minutes.

“Bulldog Six-One and flight, you are cleared to switch control frequency; come up 262.5 megahertz and have a safe flight.”

“Bulldog Six-One, roger,” the lead pilot replied as he flew straight ahead, still at five hundred feet. Within a minute Bulldog Six-Three was formed up in loose cruise formation on Six-One’s starboard side as the two Super Stallions turned gently east toward the west coast of Costa Rica.

Forty-five minutes later, the two CH-53Es thundered over the treetops of the lush Costa Rican jungle, their slung matte gray SOC-R boats conforming to their every move. They remained just above the treetops to avoid any commercial radar detection, and they showed no lights. The Marine pilots, relying on their Helicopter Night Vision Systems, their GPS navigation systems, and hours upon hours of night-flight training, made their way precisely toward their insertion point with no ground reference points or electronic emissions.

The two Super Stallions slowed as they found the river, Bulldog Six-Three pulling into loose trail behind his leader. Established in a hover over the wide river, the Super Stallion’s pilots gently lowered the SOC-R boats into the water. As they did, each boat’s five SWCCs, with a great deal of relief, clambered down rope ladders into their boats. Once waterborne, they were back in their element.

The “boat guys,” as their SEAL brethren called them, traced their roots back to the U.S. Navy torpedo boats of World War II. The SWCCs, called “swicks,” could take the SEALs where deep draft Navy ships couldn’t — into shallow water and far up rivers like this one. The SOC-Rs drew just twenty-four inches. Their mission this night wasn’t to deliver the SEALs to the fight; it would be to extract them.

The coxswains gave their respective Super Stallions a thumbs-up, and the bird’s pilots cut the umbilical holding the boats underneath them. Their mission complete, the CH-53Es turned west toward the blue water and their home plate, the Bonnie Dick. The boat crews immediately began to prepare their craft for high-speed travel into harm’s way. The well-tested engines roared to life at the touch of the ignition. The coxswains then pointed their bows upriver, the engines at an impatient idle and the two Hamilton waterjets holding each craft steady against the gentle current. Each boat leader, a Navy chief petty officer, took charge of his boat and directed his small crew to “armor up.” The SOC-R carried a formidable arsenal of .50-caliber machine guns, 40mm grenade la Kmm hisunchers, and 7.62mm mini-guns.

Chief Ricardo Bautista — the officer in charge, or OIC, of the lead, or One Boat — quietly barked orders to his crew. The noise of the departing helicopters marked their presence, but no use letting those who might be listening know there were North Americans on the river.

“You know the drill, Wilson. I want the .50-cals fore and aft, and the mini-guns port and starboard.”

“Got it, Chief.”

“Bachmann, have the grenade launchers at the ready in case we need them.”

“Roger that, Chief.”

There was a flurry of activity as both crews removed the weapons systems from their tied-down, stored positions and mounted them on their craft’s gunwales and fixed stanchions. Heavy cans of ammunition were broken out and made ready. Neither boat showed a light as the crews went about their business in total darkness. There was the occasional flicker of a well-hooded red penlight. The swicks knew their boats, and they knew their systems. On the lead SOC-R, each crewman reported when he was up and ready. It was much the same on the Two Boat.

Bautista watched from his coxswain’s flat, missing nothing. When all was ready, he pulled himself up to his full five feet eight and turned to the others. “Okay, guys, bring it in.” His four swicks collapsed in around the helm. “Now, listen up. We got SEALs on the ground in bad-guy territory. Our job is to extract them safely, and the recent intel says there’s a good chance it’ll be a hot extraction. Everyone, stay focused and stay professional. Call out your targets; do it just like you trained. There’ll be bad guys out there as well as our SEAL brothers. Make damn sure of your targets, then bring the pain. Got it?”

Bautista’s crew nodded in unison. They got it.

“Two Boat, One Boat, over,” Bautista said into his encrypted lip mic.

“Two Boat here, manned and ready, over.”

“Roger, Two. Standby to get underway, One out.”

With that, Bautista slammed the SOC-R’s throttles forward, and the twin 440 Yanmar Diesels went from their idle grumble to a full-on roar. First one craft, then the other, leapt up on step and roared up the river at forty knots. The Two Boat followed a hundred meters behind the One, its crew undoubtedly motivated by a talk just like Bautista’s.

As the two boats sped upriver, their crews, all wearing the latest generation night-vision devices, scanned the shorelines, where the jungle ran right into the water. The river was flat-black under the stars and narrowed imperceptibly as they made their way upstream. Bautista wore a singular night-vision optic. This allowed him to see the dark ribbon of river ahead and to monitor the nav-aids on his console. His primary aid was an enhanced Garmin GPSMAP 720 Marine Navigator, not unlike those fo Kliknitund on mega-yachts. The river, the riverbanks, the Two Boat, and any above-water features were easily seen on the color monitor. Even without the night-vision ocular, he could find his way. Getting there was one thing; getting there at the right time was yet another. A hot extraction could be chancy, high-risk business.

They needed to be on time to recover their SEALs but not too early, as the SOC-R’s roaring engines could be heard for miles. Timing was everything, and in this case, “everything” meant life and death. His split concentration, half river and half electronics, was broken by Wilson on their tactical net.

“Shit, Chief, this jungle looks really thick, probably just like the jungle your pappy saw when he was driving Swift Boats in Vietnam.”

Wilson, Bautista said to himself. It was always Wilson. He was the crew clown — the two-boat section clown, actually. But Petty Officer Josh Wilson was a superb gunner and considered one of the best in Special Boat Team 22. So Bautista put up with him — even indulged him. The boy was a surgeon with a mini-gun.

“That was my grandpappy, Wilson. Now keep your eyes on your sector and your mind on your job.”

“No worries, Chief,” Wilson replied, stroking the barrel of his 7.62mm mini-gun.

“Bachmann, you awake?”

“Roger, Chief, right here.” The reliable Petty Officer Ted Bachmann was both awake and ready. He was the team’s electronics and communications specialist.

“Let’s get the Raven ready to launch.”

“Roger that, Chief.”

Bachmann had carefully assembled and tested the RQ-11 Raven drone. He had only to reach down into the bottom of the boat and carefully lift the little aircraft from its cradle. Less than three feet long and weighing only four pounds, the Raven was one of the better and more useful unmanned aerial systems. The SEALs and the Special Boat Teams depended on it for tactical surveillance and reconnaissance. The Raven’s digital data-link was capable of pushing streaming video of everything its sensors could see from just overhead to the bird’s ten-thousand-foot operational ceiling. This Raven variant has an extended-range capability that allowed it to stay aloft for close to three hours. It was a lot of capability in a small, portable, combat-ready package. And it was operator friendly. Both SEALs and swicks used it extensively.

“Ready, Chief.”

“Make it happen, Ted.” Bautista slowed the One Boat to twenty knots; the boat was faster than the bird.

Bachmann activated the Raven’s sensor package and checked to see that he had a presentation on his laptop computer. Then he switched on the battery-driven electronic motor and held the little drone over his head. Usually it was “thrown” into the air for a launching. This night, with the moveme Kth helnt of the boat, the Raven just floated up and away.

“Raven’s airborne, Chief,” Bachmann reported. “I have good copy on all sensors.”

“Good job. Keep it headed upriver and just ahead of us.” Bautista touched a key on the front of his body armor to shift frequency. “Two Boat, One here. Be advised our Raven is away. We’ll continue upriver at this speed. Estimate we’ll be at our initial layup position in fifteen mikes, over.”

“Ah, roger, One. Initial layup in fifteen minutes, Two out.”

Ten minutes later the two SOC-Rs cut their power and came off step. From there to their initial layup or standby position on the river, they would move at idle speed. At a predetermined 45-degree bend in the river, first one craft, then the other, folded itself into the foliage on the left outside bend of the riverbank. They tied off on mangrove trees with quick-release mooring lines. Both boats shut down and waited in a deafening silence. Each had an unobstructed view up and down the river, and they were virtually invisible along the bank. Ten minutes later, the UHF SATCOM radio crackled to life in Bautista’s headset.