Tom Clancy Presents: Act of Valor

SIX

In Kherson, Ukraine, the administrative center of the oblast, or province of the same name, near the southern reaches of the Dnieper River, Shabal walked past rows of abandoned warehouses ten kilometers east of one of Kherson’s major shipyards. Once a busy industrial center making machinery for Kherson’s thriving shipbuilding industry, the district, like the shipyard to the west, fell into disuse when Europe’s tanking economy decimated Ukraine’s shipbuilding industry.

A pack of rats feasting on the carcass of a dead cat scattered as Shabal kicked a board at them. Fucking parasites. The dead cat called to mind his younger sister, who now worked as a waitress in Odessa. There she flirted for tips with the vacationing capitalist swine who visited her restaurant. With those tips, she supported herself and her four cats, all adopted from the street — something this poor creature would never know. Shabal hated rats almost as much as he hated capitalist swine. If he wasn’t expected by Kerimov, he’d stop and put a bullet in every rat. A bullet was too good for the capitalists. So he had other ideas.

But he was expected and he had come a long way to complete his mission. He knew Kerimov had what he wanted, and although he would bargain with him — it was always about bargaining — what he was about to obtain was priceless. He knew Christo would have to pay dearly for them, but he did not care. This was jihad, and no price could be placed on that which served the Will of Allah.

Shabal feared nothing but was wary of Kherson’s drug dealers. This area was theirs; the Kherson police had stopped patrolling this district long ago. If one of those drug dealers even half suspected Shabal was a rival dealer trying to muscle in on their territory they’d put a bullet in his brain. He didn’t slow down as he approached the warehouse entrance in the dark alley.

He rapped twice on the heavy metal door, all the while keeping his head on a swivel. Christo would never come here. That’s why he had to do this.

The peephole clicked open and the voice merely said, “Who?”

“Shabal.”

The door creaked open and the bulky man with the AK-47 in his right hand waved Shabal inside the dimly lit vestibule. Once Shabal was inside, the man slammed the metal door shut with a resounding thud and waved the AK-47 at him in an upward motion. Shabal knew the drill. He raised his arms high above his head as the man unceremoniously jerked Shabal’s heavy overcoat to the side and removed the Russian Kobalt 9mm revolver from Shabal’s belt.

That done, the man grunted and waved the weapon at a flight of stairs. Shabal descended as the guard followed him down, the Kalashnikov pointed at his back.

As he negotiated the last dozen steps, Shabal heard the music of a violin. When he reached the bottom steps, he surveyed the room. It was a cavernous bunker at least forty meters by eighty meters, easily five meters high, with raw concrete walls. There were numerous metal tables and working lights suspended from the ceiling. Clearly, this was a serious work area, one that no one was supposed to stumble onto.

Shabal looked at the thick Russian playing the violin. He was an unpleasant-looking man with a flat, Slavic brow, and the instrument looked tiny in his enormous, calloused hands. Yet he was accomplished and played with feeling and passion. Shabal ignored everyone and everything in the room and addressed the man.

“Is that Mendelssohn?”

“Brahms,” replied Kerimov, the correction delivered without emotion but with an air of a man who was self-assured regarding his music.

“I came to speak to Kerimov.”

“I see. And you must be Shabal,” the Russian replied, extending his hand to shake Shabal’s.

Shabal looked at Kerimov’s hand disdainfully, did not take it, and then looked him directly in the eye. His cold stare conveyed that he was here for business, nothing more.

Kerimov recovered quickly. It was all business for him, too, and he knew Shabal needed what he had. He wouldn’t be bullied — or taken lightly.

“As I explained to you on the telephone, I have exactly the thing for your needs,” Kerimov continued. He lifted two heavy duffel bags sitting in front of him and placed them at Shabal’s feet.

Shabal leaned down and unzipped one of the bags, lifted out a thin vest, and held it up with one hand. He looked at it quizzically, as if he were expecting something different.

“They are light, yes?” offered Kerimov, smiling. “You could wear one under a tuxedo or simply a light shirt,” he continued.

Shabal continued to inspect the vest, holding it up close to one of the suspended working lights, examining it from all angles.

Kerimov turned on a handheld metal detector and passed it slowly over the vest, covering every inch of it. Th [nchalle metal detector didn’t make a sound.

Shabal put the vest down on the table.

Kerimov opened the vest and ran his hands over it, continuing his explanation.

“Inside, tiny ceramic ball bearings — five hundred of them — are woven into the vest. The inner lining of the vest is filled with a new generation of explosive gel.” Kerimov spoke with pride; he was a craftsman, and he wanted his work appreciated — as well as paid for. “The new explosive will propel the ceramic balls at a velocity close to that of a chambered rifle round.

“It is truly devastating. It does not look like much, but believe me when I say it would take dozens of your martyrs and your vests to do what one of these can do. They can kill everyone on a city bus or a subway car. Others in the vicinity would die as well. There are few weapons in the world a single man can operate that are more deadly. And not one that is more discreet. You could take a tour of the White House with one of these or board an airliner.”

Shabal trembled imperceptibly as he considered the possibilities. “Can I see a demonstration?” he asked.

“You would have to drive to Siberia,” Kerimov replied, chuckling. “When this explodes, no one is safe. No one inside a kilometer radius is safe.”

Shabal knew there was no possibility of a demonstration, but to ask was part of the negotiation. Kerimov could see that Shabal needed little convincing; now they were talking about the price.

“Walk with me,” he said to Shabal, picking up the vest and walking past tables where women were constructing other vests.

Shabal followed as they moved toward a corner of the bunker where a number of workers were sitting on metal folding chairs, hunched around a small TV. They were eating lunch and watching a soccer match.

Kerimov nodded toward the TV. “You take one of these into a place like that and you will kill hundreds — perhaps thousands — as panic sets in and they begin trampling each other heading for the exits.”

Just then, several of the workers let out a cheer as the home team scored. The roar of the crowd on the TV broadcast became a continuous roar as the TV camera panned the stadium, a vast sea of people leaping and cheering ecstatically.

Shabal stared at the TV, consumed by what he envisioned the vests could do — the casualties they could cause.

Christo stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office on the thirty-fifth floor of Kiev’s Esplanada Continental office building looking down at the landscape of Ukraine’s capital city. From his vantage point in the center of the city, more than five hundred feet above the sprawling cityscape, it seemed as if he could see all of Kiev — from Independence Square [nde th to Saint Andrews Church to Mariyinsky Palace to the Verkhovna Rada building, seat of the Ukrainian Parliament, to every monument and building in the city.

But unlike the slow-moving, winding, Dnieper River far below him, Christo’s brain was moving at warp speed. He knew what he had to tell Shabal, and he thought he knew what Shabal’s reaction would be. He wrestled with what to say and just how to say it. He knew he had to keep Shabal and his terrorist plot moving forward at any cost. This was the key to his own plan and, for that matter, the life he envisioned with his wife, Dominga, and daughter, Solana.

“Your guest is here,” a voice called from over his shoulder. His secretary, per his instructions, ushered Shabal in.

Christo spun and looked directly at Shabal. “Look at you, my friend! You look the same — older, harder, but the same.”

Shabal lowered his head in a neutral gesture but said nothing.

“May I take your coat?” the secretary asked politely. “Or get you something to drink?”

“That will not be necessary,” Shabal replied.

Christo sat down heavily in his chair and exhaled deeply, partly a natural reaction and partly to convey his apprehension — his uneasiness. He wanted Shabal to know he was troubled — to understand the difficulty of his position. Christo also knew this would be hard for Shabal to believe given Christo’s privileged upbringing, his wealth, and the well-appointed office suite in Kiev’s most prestigious building. Shabal now sat across the desk from Christo, shucking his coat onto the arm of the chair.

“From time to time I see former friends — people from my old life — and it’s almost always a disappointment,” Christo began wearily, speaking in their native Chechen dialect. “They’ve become distant or they’ve become boring or, more often than not, they have crawled into a vodka bottle.”

Christo’s remark accomplished its purpose and brought a small smile to Shabal’s face. He swirled the ice in his water glass and raised it to Shabal.

“It’s nice not to be disappointed for a change, Hubie.” It was a name they used as childhood friends.

Shabal’s smile vanished as rapidly as it had appeared. “That’s not my name,” he replied, all but spitting out the words as he turned his face away from Christo to look out at Kiev in the distance.

Christo recovered quickly, measuring Shabal and his mood. As difficult as this man could be, he still needed him.

“I know, I know. Mohammad Abu Shabal. The son of Shabal. Come, my old friend, your father’s name is Afghan.”

Shabal bristled and continued to stare outside, ignoring the man behind the desk. Christo thought he knew him, but he did not. Yes, [dids rema they had been schoolmates as boys. And yes, they were once close. Christo was sent to the upscale boarding school by his indulgent parents; Shabal had attended the same school on scholarship. But he had had to work two jobs after school just to dress like Christo. No, the man behind the desk did not know him. And now, what the hell was he up to?

“Things change,” Shabal replied, “as have the times we live in.”

“Yes, things have changed,” Christo began, leaning across his desk to get as close to Shabal as he could. “That’s why this might be the last time we meet like this. For I must find myself a hole to hide in — for me and for my family.”

That got Shabal’s attention, and he finally turned to look directly at Christo.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s like this,” Christo continued. “I’m being watched by the CIA, and I can afford to take no chances. As soon as arrangements can be made, I am taking my family away. I have neither the energy nor the will to fight the Americans, and I will not endanger my family.”

“But what about our plan, Mikhail?” Shabal protested, shock registering on his face at this unanticipated announcement. “My men have been training for close to a year. I have devoted almost all my resources to this project. Much of what we have worked for is in place.”

“And our plan,” Christo interrupted, “this arrangement between us, will be honored. Just because I have chosen early retirement doesn’t mean my promises will go unfulfilled,” he continued, holding Shabal in his gaze.

“But there is still much to be done.”

“And it will be. However, I must insist the completion of our plan be done through associates of mine — trusted associates. I am being watched. It is for the safety of all concerned. I simply must distance myself from you and the execution of what you are planning.”

“This is not good, not good at all!” Shabal exclaimed, leaping up from his chair. “I trusted you, not your associates. Now you wish to run and hide. You are a coward!”

Christo paused to frame his words. They were now on unequal footing. Shabal cared nothing for his own life. If it was forfeited in serving this plan or the cause, so be it. Christo did not share this commitment, nor would he put his family at risk to serve “the cause.”

“Yet I must insist,” Christo replied, also rising, trying to be firm but calm. He would not have Shabal towering over him. And, he reminded himself, not for the first time, that he was dealing with a zealot. “You have your plan, and I respect that. You have had my help and the help of my organization. And you will continue to have it. But I have my family to think of. I ask that you respect that as well.”

“You are a coward!” Shabal repeated. “This is bulls [Thiv> hit and you know it. This work and this plan are too important for you to turn it over to your… your ‘trusted associates,’” he spat out, his anger boiling over. “It’s too late. You can’t change this and run away.”

“Nothing changes,” Christo said evenly, his voice conveying resignation and the fact that he was trying to be reasonable.

Shabal could no longer stand still. He began to pace, throwing his hands into the air as his anger turned to rage — rage now directed at Christo.

“You just told me that now you want out — that others will act for you, in your place. Do you know what I had to do to get here? Do you know the men I had to sacrifice to get here? No, you have no idea. No, you are shit and a coward! You live up here in your ivory tower. You don’t know and you don’t care!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Boss, what’s happening?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got it, Boss.”

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

“You going to be okay there, brother?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks, Boss. Thanks for everything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“By your leave, sir, but this is important. Please, I’ll not be but another minute. And I’ll have to ask you to wait outside… sir.”

Again, the serious look on Miller’s face brooked no argument, the difference in rank notwithstanding. The commander hesitated, but only for a moment. “Keep it short, Chief. She needs her rest.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” he replied as he pulled the curtain to reestablish their privacy. Miller and Morales regarded each other for a moment. Morales, even in her battered and medicated condition, knew this man was a serious professional. And Miller, knowing people as he did, knew that this gallant woman would carry scars from her ordeal, scars that were both physical and emotional, forever. But with a little time, she would get through this; she was a survivor. She’d not forget, but she could and would move on. He leaned in close to her.

“How much do you remember from the time the assault team burst into the room where they were holding you until you were airlifted out of there?” he asked in a quiet voice.

She closed her one good eye a moment, and then opened it, meeting his gaze for the first time. “Not much. There were shots, then an explosion, then more shooting and yelling. It was all kind of a blur. The whole time, though, I was aware that I was with the good guys. And that helped a lot. Before that… well, I’d rather not talk about it.”

Miller nodded. “I understand, but since I debriefed the assault team, let me fill you in on what happened after the good guys arrived. The big guy who questioned you and hurt you — you know the one I mean?” She blinked rapidly and nodded. “Well, one of the good guys painted the ceiling of that room with his brains. I’m sorry to report that he died quickly, but the son of a bitch is now burning in a special hell reserved for that kind of scum.” Miller again paused, watching her very closely, and just as carefully framed his words. “And the rest of those cockroaches — the ones who had their way with you?” Another nod and another tear. “Most of them are dead. Some of them died quickly, but a great many probably bled out from mortal wounds. A few may have escaped with their bullet wounds, but you know better than anyone what a high-velocity, jacketed round does to surrounding tissue. Those who may have managed to crawl away will probably lose a limb to gangrene or die of it — if they’re lucky. The federales will be on the lookout for men with gunshot wounds; I made sure of that. They’ll not get anything close to decent medical treatment. You, ma’am, were their worst nightmare.” He stepped back to regard her, nodding his head. “And you’re a lot like those good guys on the SEAL Teams. You’ll get through this; you’ll move on.” He stood erect and saluted her, even though he was without a cap, and Navy men never salute uncovered. “Good luck, Doctor. Thank you for your service to our country.”

After the senior chief left, Morales, for the first time since t [tit="hat Scrabble game so very long ago, smiled — even though it hurt to do so.

That night in the Bonhomme Richard’s SCIF, or secure classified information facility — the most secure environment on the ship — Lieutenant Engel, Chief Nolan, and Senior Chief Miller sat around a small conference table with three onboard senior intelligence types. One was the Bonnie Dick’s senior intel officer, a full commander, and another, the senior enlisted intelligence specialist, a master chief. The third was a civilian analyst from NSA, the National Security Agency. The contents from the cell phone, the laptop, and the two flash drives had been sucked dry by the Bonnie Dick’s cryptologist and the information sent by dedicated satellite link to their intel counterparts at NSA, NCIS, CIA, and DIA. Plus, analysts on the Bonnie Dick were not without resources and had been poring over the data since Engel had handed the devices to Miller the minute they touched down on the ship. The laptop, phone, and flash drives had been whisked off to the intel spaces, where the technicians had been working on them nonstop. Engel and Nolan were now fresh from a nap, a shower, and a late afternoon shipboard breakfast, and into what, for them, was their morning routine. Engel was drinking tea; Nolan black coffee from his battered mug.

“So she said Somalia,” the NSA man said. “You’re sure about that?” He was dressed in an open-collar shirt and, in deference to the cool air pumped into the spaces to satisfy the requirements of the computers, a corduroy jacket with patches on the elbows. A mustache drooped around the corners of his mouth like a set of parentheses. It was as if he were cultivating the clandestine-service look.

“Absolutely,” Miller replied, “Somalia. And she said she thought they were speaking in Russian.”

“Close,” the NSA man said. “Based on some of the text we took from the devices, it was Chechen. But what are the Chechens doing right in the middle of the drug trapline in Central America? That encampment in Costa Rica neither refines nor processes cocaine. It was strictly a transshipment operation — Colombia to the U.S. border. We know Chechens deal in cocaine, but Costa Rica? They take their drug deliveries from the South Atlantic cross-ocean connections, up through and across North Africa. Something’s all out of whack here.”

Just then a ship’s messenger buzzed at the SCIF access door to gain entry. The intel master chief went to the door, took the proffered message, and signed for it. It was on a clipboard with red stripping on the border, marking it as a top secret communication. The master chief handed it to the NSA man. He lifted the cover sheet and studied the message for a long moment.

“Well,” he said at last, “this fits, but I’m not sure what it means. The tech people back at headquarters managed to get into the cell-phone memory deletes and retrieve some coded text messages.” He smiled. “We have some exceptionally talented geeks back there, and there’s very little they can’t get from a cell-phone record. What we have from one message is a set of coordinates ten miles inland along the northeast coast of Somalia. From another message, we have a date. The two seem to be related, as they and they alone have the same encryption protocols. So something seems to be happening [be t from in Somaliland three days from now. Given what we know about those involved, namely Messieurs Christo and Shabal, this can’t be good.”

“Any exact time that goes with that date?” Nolan asked.

“No, just a date, but there’s more,” he replied. “On one of the flash drives and on the laptop, there are references to retribution and vengeance on the Great Satan, and of revenge for the death of Osama Bin Laden. One reference said,” he donned a pair of half-moon reading glasses and consulted the message, “ ‘We will continue jihad against those responsible for the martyrdom of the holy one and exact a revenge as is befitting our great departed leader.’ Sounds like they’re planning something big, and it seems to be related to whatever it is that’s to take place in Somalia three days from now. And it may or may not have anything to do with what happened in Costa Rica. Or it may have been that this Chechen guy was just there to interrogate Dr. Morales.”

“Have we learned anything about him,” Engel asked, “other than that he’s dead?” Whenever possible, enemy combatants killed are photographed, as are those subjects of field interrogations. The NSA and agencies maintain huge data banks of persons of interest that could be accessed and IDed by facial recognition software.

It was the naval intelligence commander who spoke. “The guy who interrogated Morales was one Toma Zaurbek, a Chechen national who goes by various aliases, including Teddy, Tallin, and Tommy. He’s a known member of the Chechen mafia and for the last several years has been in the employ of our friend Christo. From what little the Agency has released to us, Morales and her case officer were there to gather information on Christo, and somehow that came to Christo’s attention. So that might be why Christo had them hit. From the debriefings of you and your team, it would seem that Tommy was the only semi-gringo at the compound. The rest of the goons were hired help.”

“So it would seem reasonable,” Engel offered, “that what is going down in Somalia has nothing to do with Costa Rica and everything to do with Christo.”

“That’s right,” said the man with the mustache, “and with the other mystery man, Shabal. We know he’s a sometimes associate of Christo, and he was referenced on yet another text message on the encrypted cell phone. Besides the texting, we’ve seen a spike in suspicious cell-phone traffic that relates to this quote, ‘big event.’ A lot of this traffic is localized along the known drug transshipment points as well as Cedros Island off Baja. Cedros is well down the coast from the border, but it’s a known transshipment point for maritime smuggling.”

“And it gets even better,” the intel commander continued. “With all this information in place and collated, the red lights are flashing all over the alphabet agencies. The General has just made this a code-word operation. From now on, you, your detachment, and all of us are effectively in isolation until this gets resolved. So, Lieutenant, let your people know that their movements and communications are now restricted. And be ready to go operational as required. I know you’re a man down in your assault team. If you need additional personnel, let me know, and I’ll see that the request gets priority going up the line. You might also want to start thinking [artnneabout an SR mission to Somalia. Since we’re code-worded, they may want you to conduct the mission rather than assign it to another unit.” He looked at his senior enlisted advisor. “I miss anything, Master Chief?”

“No, sir. I think that about covers it, at least for now.”

“Lieutenant Engel?”

Engel looked from Nolan to Miller and back. Both their looks said they had nothing now but that there was a great deal they needed to talk about as soon as they could get off by themselves.

“Sir?” the commander said to the NSA man, who was now camped behind a laptop that was configured to handle classified message traffic.

“I have nothing else, but my boss at NSA just sent me a back-channel text. He says this has the look, feel, and smell of the real thing. I agree with him. And by the way,” he glanced at his screen. “This is now Operation Desert Flower. Makes you wonder what idiot comes up with these supposedly random code words and phrases.”

Nolan headed back to the SEAL compartment to get the other SEALs up to speed on the recent developments and to let them know they were now code-worded and in isolation. Code-word protocols were both precise and strict. When a situation or series of events reached a certain threat level, it was assigned a code word. This segregated all message traffic that referred to the code-worded operation; it was classified top secret, special handling. Those associated with or read into the operation were restricted in their movements, and their contact with those not associated with the operation or situation was also restricted. A Marine sentry would be stationed at the door to the SEAL compartment, and all comings and goings would be logged, along with the destination and purpose of any time away from their compartment. The decision to make this a code-word operation could only come from a very senior level. In this case it came from the man whom they now referred to as The General — General David Petraeus, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

A code-worded operation was indeed rare, and many SEALs and special operators went their entire careers without being assigned to one. They were reserved for issues of immediate national security. But a code-worded op was a dual-edged sword. On the positive side, it was a chance to be part of a meaningful operation — something important. On the negative side, their movements would be severely restricted, and they would have little contact with the outside world. They could receive e-mails from their families, but there would be no outgoing replies. As far as those back home were concerned, they would have dropped off the face of the earth.

Engel followed Senior Chief Miller back to the Bonnie Dick’s tactical operations center and began to log into the special, stand-alone communications nets that had been set up for this operation. It was a lengthy login process, one that isolated any code-worded message traffic from the normal military and government-agency communications channels. This procedure would not only provide hypersecure comm links but also, in the unlikely compromise of security, would track the security breach to its source. There were few security services capable of tracking the telltale nuances of military-activity and com [ivi the secmunication-traffic spikes. Only the Chinese, Russians, British, Israelis, and possibly the Iranians could do this, but they were taking no chances, or at least The General wasn’t. Engel had just finished his log-in procedures when Nolan stepped into the TOC.

“Hey, Chief,” Engel said as he turned from the computer console, one specially shielded to allow for top secret traffic. “How are the boys taking to their first code-word operation?”

Nolan shrugged as he handed a small canvas bag of cell phones to Engel. “They’re pretty stoic about it. Excited but stoic. That little adventure in Costa Rica has left them a little spent. Give them a little time and they’ll start to whine about the restrictions. And they all want to know what our next move might be. I told them we’d get back to them when we know.”

Engle nodded. He took out his personal cell phone and dropped it into the bag and handed it to the senior chief. They would be locked up for the duration of the operation. It wasn’t that Engel or Nolan didn’t trust their SEALs not to sneak a call home, but if there was a security breach, it would probably come from the unauthorized use of a cell phone. If their phones were all locked up, they would not be hassled by the cell-phone traces and embarrassing questions.

“Well, what are we going to do?” Engel said, looking from Nolan to Miller. “I’d rather send a course of action up the line than have someone else calling our shot. Senior?”

Engel and Nolan were SEAL operators and more than capable of operational planning as it related to the tactical execution of a special operation. But when it came to the evaluation and distillation of intelligence from a variety of sources, assessing various courses of action, and plotting the next move or a succession of moves, Senior Chief Otto Miller ruled. So both Engel and Nolan now sat in silence, waiting for the oracle to speak. They were seated in a quiet corner of the TOC, away from the bustle and activity that buzzed about the rest of the secure facility. Miller carefully stroked his beard, ordering his thoughts.

“There are a lot of unknowns in this, but I do agree that there seems to be an unnerving aggregate of information that suggests some very bad people are up to no good — perhaps some major no good. This Christo is a bad one, but he’s just a businessman. It’s Shabal that has me concerned. He’s ideologically committed, and his kind scares me.” Miller was again silent, then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

“It would seem that the business in Costa Rica had only to do with Morales and Ross getting too close to Christo, and they paid the price for that. But it stands to reason that Christo’s up to something or they would have just killed them — made it look like a drug hit or a botched kidnapping. They took the time and the associated risk of capturing her and conducting an interrogation, which means there’s more to this. But unless I miss my guess, it has nothing to do with Costa Rica — it was about Christo.

“Then there’s this business of what may take place in Somalia. We need to know more about that and how it relates to Christo and any Christo/Shabal tie-in. Is it about drugs? Arms? Money? What’s going on and why? I think we ne [I take place ed to put some eyes on whatever is about to take place there, and since we know where and roughly when, it shouldn’t be too difficult. Logistically complex, but not too difficult. The good news is that since we’re under code-word protocol, we can ask for just about any support we might need for a special reconnaissance mission, and we’ll get it. The bad news is that since it is a code-word operation, we may not have the luxury of assigning that SR mission to another team in the time available to us.”

Miller lapsed into a moment of silence before continuing. “And finally, there’s this business of phone intercepts and traces that lead from Christo’s Costa Rican operation to the Ukraine, Russia, Indonesia, and the Philippines. We have no idea where Shabal is, but we do have indications that Christo is no longer in Central America or Eastern Europe. He does have an oceangoing yacht that was just sighted in the Strait of Malacca. So there’s a good chance he may be coordinating things from there. Or if he’s not there, he soon will be. He’s a careful one, and there’s a good chance that he’d like to be aboard his yacht and halfway around the world if there’s some kind of attack on the homeland. I don’t think that yacht is over there for crew training; he wants it there for a reason. And that brings us to what these two might be planning, and we have to assume it’s an attack on U.S. soil.

“If that’s the case, it seems reasonable that Christo’s connections with the cartels in South and Central American might well figure into this, which means some kind of breach across our southern border. Until we get better information, or information to the contrary, I think we have to play it that way. You currently have only six in your team, and that may be enough for a small direct-action assault or a raid, but not enough for backup or a blocking force. SEAL Team One is midway through their deployment preparation. I recommend that you ask that a full platoon be put on an eight-hour flyaway standby in case you get a mission tasking. No need to read them into code-word protocols, but have them on standby in case you need them, okay?” Both of them nodded, and Engel made a note on his scratch pad. “Then, even though it’s going to be a pain in the ass, send two of your guys on a special reconnaissance mission to Somalia. You can plan it from here while they’re in transit. I know it cuts your team by two more, but it leaves both of you here to work the traffic and intel picture, and plot the next move as more information comes in.”

“Roger that, Senior,” Nolan said, “but couldn’t they pull a small SR team from a deployed East Coast squadron, even maybe one that’s deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan? I hate to be down two more guys.”

Miller lifted an eyebrow as he considered this. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’m thinking you’re going to want your own guys to do this and come back here on a priority airlift to brief you in person. Again, I could be wrong, but whatever Shabal and Christo have planned will probably go down after this business in Somalia, right?”

Nolan pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “Yeah, I can see that. And we stay here, read the traffic and plan, and stand ready for a direct-action launch — if and when.”

“That’s it,” Miller replied. “As far as a staging area, you could be here or in San Diego or at some remote location north of the Tex-Mex border, but the security is good h [ityatiere, and we’ll be off Baja before daybreak tomorrow. And since we’re in lockdown, there’s probably no sense in moving until we get better information.”

Engel and Nolan digested this for a long moment. The senior chief’s analysis, as they expected, was linear and logical.

“So what’s your move, Senior?” Engel asked.

Miller smiled. “Sooner or later, our man Christo is going to board his yacht, which, according to their last port call, is moving slowly into the Gulf of Thailand. I’ve asked Squadron Seven to move a Mark V detachment and to get a platoon into the area and have it standing by. Now that we’re code-worded, I don’t see that as a problem. If and when Christo is heloed out to his yacht, I think I’ll pay a call on him.”

“His boat can take a helo aboard?” Nolan asked.

“Well, it’s a Westship 149 that’s been modified to handle a Bell Jet Ranger. Should be easy to fast-rope aboard from an H-60. The man has sold a lot of drugs and arms, and he knows how to travel in style. And we’ll need a Mark V to catch it; a big Westship can do close to twenty-four knots. But as soon as he’s aboard and in international waters, we just might come calling. Any other questions?”

Engel exhaled, checking his notes. “Guess that’ll do it for now. So, Chief, who do we detach for the SR mission?” He already knew the answer, but he had to ask.

“A.J. and Ray. Who else?”

“Then A.J. and Ray it is.”

Suddenly Dave Nolan turned serious. “This thing is starting to heat up. Maybe our little jaunt in Costa Rica was just the beginning.”

“So it would seem,” Engel replied.

They rose and agreed to meet back with Miller later that evening. As they made their way to the entrance to the TOC, Nolan stopped to refill his coffee mug. The Bonnie Dick had more coffeepots stashed around the big ship than Starbucks had corner locations in Seattle. “Coffee, Boss?”

Engel looked over the setup. There was hot water, but he saw no tea bags. “No tea?” he inquired.

“Jesus, Boss. Why can’t you just drink coffee like everyone else in the Navy?”

He gave Nolan a curious look. “Sure, why not,” and he splashed some of the muddy liquid into a disposable cup. They were making their way forward toward the SEAL compartment when Engel suddenly took a stairwell up to the next deck.

Nolan paused. “Where you goin’, Boss.”

“Up to the flight deck for some fresh air. Why don’t you join me.”

Nolan hesitated a moment, then followed his lieutenant topside. It was late afternoon, still well before sunset. The sun was off their port bow as the Bonnie Dick shouldered her way north by northwest through the gentle Pacific swells. They exited the island superstructure on the starboard side and made their way slowly forward, walking into a twenty-knot wind. Engel tentatively sipped at his coffee, not really wanting to drink it. Then he stopped and turned to Nolan.

“Okay, Chief, let’s have it.”

“Sir?”

“Cut the bullshit, Chief. What’s on your mind?”

Nolan just shrugged. “The op we just finished, this Christo/Shabal shit, the code-word protocols, all of it. Boss, you got a kid on the way, your first kid. Contingency deployments aren’t supposed to be like this — not this active. I was hoping to break you away and get you home for a week or so. Now it looks like we’re trapped. We’re going to be with this for a while, probably to the end. This pisses me off. It’s your first kid. You should be home with Jackie.”

Engel smiled, turned, and they continued to walk. “It’d be nice, but I don’t think that’s in the cards.”

“Maybe it’ll break quickly and go smoothly, hey? Get it done and get you detached.”

“Maybe, but don’t count on it. If it was going to be smooth and easy, they’d send in the Marines or the Army, right?” Nolan said nothing. “You remember our last pump over in al-Anbar, when things got real slow at the end? And you wanted to cut me loose to go home with the advanced redeployment party so I could be home for our anniversary? But in the back of my mind I was thinking, ‘What if something happens and we get a mission tasking? What if something goes down and I’m not there?’ I just couldn’t live with that.”

Nolan was silent now, looking resigned.

“Well, I couldn’t duck out then, and I sure as hell can’t duck out now. If we get this thing resolved, then maybe I’ll catch a flight back and see Jackie for a few days. But let’s just focus on getting it done, which reminds me, we ought to get below and let Ray and A.J. know they’re about to be detached to do the SR. They need to start getting their gear together.”

“Ah, they already know, Boss. I told them to start packing just before we met with the senior chief. I’ve scheduled them out on the first helo tomorrow morning.”

Engel stopped and faced him. “But didn’t we just decide… I mean how did you know…?”

“That’s why you got the number one platoon chief at Team Seven, Boss. I’m paid to be one step ahead. It comes from drinking a lot of coffee — something,” he glanced at Engel’s still full cup, “you’ll probably never get the hang of.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost eighteen hundred. Let’s head f [ettoon or the mess decks and see what this tub is serving for dinner chow.”