Read Tom Clancy's Act of Valor Online
Authors: Dick Couch,George Galdorisi
Tags: #War & Military, #Historical, #Fiction
Tom Clancy's Act of Valor (3 page)
“But, Boss, how did you know
we
would be going with the detached squad—before
we
had even discussed it.”
Engel gave him a Cheshire-cat grin. “I’ve got a sharp platoon chief. I knew that’s the way he would want to do it. Why don’t you give the senior chief a call and have him join us tonight?”
Nolan nodded. Another smart call. “Consider it done, Boss.”
The two rose and bear-hugged. Engel scooped up his books and headed out the back. Nolan went to the bar to settle up with Cindy.
* * nut* ;*
Lisa Morales was an internist and had been with Doctors Without Borders for the past six years. She was Mexican born and U.S. trained. At thirty-four, she was single, attractive, and passionate about helping those who were less fortunate, which is why she found herself working for DWB and was not in private practice. Her current assignment was in Costa Rica. She was tending to a patient in a Spartan medical clinic in the small town of Barranca, about eight kilometers east of Puntarenas near the intersection of highways 17 and 23. Unknown to her colleagues at DWB, she also worked for the CIA.
Had it been known that she worked for American intelligence, her colleagues would have shunned her, and Doctors Without Borders would have fired her. The fact that she would serve as a covert agent was a testament to her commitment to the poor of Central and South America. She knew that much of the poverty in the countries where she worked was a product of corruption promoted by the drug trade. So she was both healer and spy—the former role was her profession, the latter a personal obligation. Lisa Morales felt she simply had to do more than just fight malnutrition and disease. As she worked, she watched a gaggle of small children play soccer on a dusty, makeshift field adjacent to the clinic.
Without warning, an SUV pulled up and Christo got out accompanied by his enforcer, Tommy. The two men were a study in contrast. Tommy was clearly a thug, a blunt object alongside the slim, urbane Christo. Pandemonium broke out as the children rushed Christo.
“Christo! Christo!” they shouted almost in unison.
He patted them on their heads, picked them up two at a time, clearly basking in this sea of adulation. In truth, he loved these children as much as they idolized him.
Christo and Morales made eye contact for an instant. He nodded and moved on. He made a quick tour of the clinic, which his financial assistance made possible, but he was not there to see his pesos at work. He was there for the affection and near worship of the kids. For all his education and sophistication, Christo seemed to need the attention. After passing out coins and candy, he was back in his SUV. With Tommy behind the wheel, the vehicle swerved in a circle and accelerated sharply away, covering the children and the clinic in a fine layer of dust. Still, the children cheered wildly until he was out of sight.
Later that day, as Lisa Morales made her way into the small city after another fourteen-hour day at the clinic, a man on a motorcycle skillfully weaved his way through the afternoon traffic. He was riding a 1961 Triumph split-case TT dirt-racing bike. The rider traveled at breakneck speed, causing pedestrians to scatter and bicycle riders to turn sharply to avoid getting hit. The bike eventually disappeared into the disorder of the crowded streets. That evening, as Lisa Morales was putting a bottle of water in the refrigerator, she heard a motorcycle outside and headed to the balcony.
The biker, Walter Ross, took off his helmet. Ross was a CIA contract case officer. He was an experienced Latin America division handler and had been running agents in Central America long before Morales entered medical school. He was basically an expat who had not been north in quite a while. He was g iile. Hegood at his job and trusted by his own CIA handlers in Mexico City and at Langley.
“Hey, I’ll be right down, all right?”
“Whatever you say, Doctor,” Ross replied.
Morales ran down the single flight of stairs and joined Ross on the dusty street below. After exchanging greetings, they walked toward Barranca’s main plaza.
“How was the ride?”
“Left Colombia this morning,” Ross replied.
“Colombia to here in one day?”
“Piece of cake,” he replied, a tinge of pride in his voice.
“Look, about Christo,” Morales began, getting to the reason for Ross’s visit, “we now estimate he’s worth close to a billion.”
“Was that with a
B
?” Ross replied, the surprise registering on his face.
“That’s an estimate from Doctors Without Borders. They know a lot about him because he’s one of our primary backers in this area. He gives back a lot to the local people here with medical clinics, schools, and assistance to the elderly. But he’s no fool. He also lines the pockets of the politicians and police. So they’re extremely loyal to him. But why all of the Agency interest in him? I thought this would be a DEA matter.”
Ross smiled and lowered his voice. “We became interested when a 707 leased by him and filled with Soviet weapons was intercepted in Lagos.”
Morales and Ross continued to walk, passing through the plaza and down a sheltered path.
“Langley says the boys over at NSA have picked up some interesting intercepts connecting Christo to a jihadist network out of Southeast Asia,” Ross continued. “It seems that Christo and one of the guys running the network were childhood friends.”
“So what’s going to happen to this animal? We know he deals drugs, and now you say he’s an arms dealer as well. Can he be arrested or somehow be made accountable?”
“Sorry, Doctor. For now, Langley just wants us to watch him and report back on his activities.”
“He needs to be stopped,” Morales murmured. “He may give a lot of money to worthy causes, but the misery of his kind of business that spreads to the region is unconscionable.”
As she spoke, a camera shutter clicked and captured Ross and Morales in a frame.
THREE
The home of Dr. Lisa Morales was an average size apartment in a nondescript complex near the small town of Barranca. Very middle class. It was far from the luxury of Costa Rican resorts that catered to foreign tourists, primarily American tourists, on the Atlantic and Pacific coasts. The structure was concrete and glass set in sterile architecture—a building that attracted no attention. Perfect for someone who wanted to avoid notice and therefore perfect from the CIA’s standpoint for one of their informants.
Lisa Morales had been the resident physician for Doctors Without Borders in Barranca for almost a year. She had made her small, one-bedroom apartment as homey as she could. She was reasonably well paid for her work, including a stipend from the CIA, but her life was designed to look like that of a young, idealistic physician on a modest salary. A rattan sofa and loveseat set, along with a bamboo-and-glass coffee table, took up most of the space in the small living room. The secondhand furniture was underlaid by a worn light-brown carpet. Cheap curtains adorned the two street-facing windows in the room. The adjacent kitchen sported only basic cookware and an ancient refrigerator. There was nothing high-end in the apartment. A small card table with four folding chairs served as the kitchen table. The only thing special about her furnishings was the secret compartment in the back of a battered end table. She seldom kept anything of a confidential intelligence nature, but it was there if she needed it. To even a critical eye, all was average and uninteresting.
“Okay, Lisa, you’ve got eighteen points with a double-word score. But watch this,” Ross said.
“Go for it, Mr. Wordsmith,” she replied as Ross laid down his tiles.
“There it is, ‘seizure,’ that’s twenty-nine points, triple-word score.”
“You don’t like to lose, do you, Walter?”
“After twenty-five years with the Company, if I could stand losing I’d probably be dead by now,” Ross replied.
It was always this way with them whenever Ross visited. They took a simple game of Scrabble and made it a highly competitive exercise. It fed both of their type-A personalities and took their minds off the deadly serious business they worked at—gathering intelligence on drug traffickers so that others in the CIA bureaucracy could take action.
“You getting hungry yet?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I am,” he replied. “What did you have in mind?”
“How about Chinese?”
“Here? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No, Chinese is universal, you know that. You can get Chinese anywhere. Where have you ever been that you
can’t
get Chinese? And besides, I order from them all the time. How about chow mein?”
“Works for me,” Ross replied as he continued to fiddle with his Scrabble tiles, rearranging them on his tile holder and plotting his next move.
Morales got up and walked to the phone hanging from the kitchen wall to put in their order.
“Si . . . si . . . A que tiempo? . . . si . . . Gracias.”
As she returned to join Ross, she passed in front of one of the windows. From across the street and unseen, a camera clicked. As she passed in front of the second window, a camera clicked again.
“So how long?” Ross asked as Morales sat down again on the loveseat in front of the Scrabble board.
“A half hour. I know, I know, you get it much faster in the States.”
Ross grinned. “What would I know about ordering Chinese in the States? Listen,” he continued, lowering his voice, “we got a response from our last cable to the embassy.” He was referring obliquely to his reporting senior in Mexico City. “We’re still waiting for the Chief of Mission to finalize an updated list of requirements for you. Apparently one of the operations types had some additional questions. We should have it for you in a couple of days.”
Morales merely shrugged on hearing this and laid down her tiles. “ ‘Broken’ . . . that’s twenty-one points.”
“Y’know,” Ross said almost to himself, “I’ll never understand why good old boys from Princeton, who haven’t been in the field since Nixon was in the White House, are the ones who control our playbook.” He stared at the board and put down three of his tiles. “Double-word score. Eighteen points.”
“ ‘Dumb,’ ” Morales replied, shaking her head. “Easy word, good score.”
“Read it and weep.”
“I’m trying not to,” Morales replied.
The game and their banter continued, mixing Scrabble challenges with quiet shoptalk. It was familiar and comfortable. They were intelligence operatives, even though Morales was more informant than agent. They were both, as Robert Heinlein would say, strangers in a strange land. The game progressed, and as the board became a tiled mosaic, they continued to discuss ways their seniors could act more quickly on the information they were providing. Ross, the senior spook, easily shared his experience and his ideas with Morales. And while there was no sexual tension between them, he couldn’t help but embellish on his espionage exploits. For her, it was a cause; for him, it was a way of life.
Morales looked up at Ross and smiled as she put all her tiles on the board. “Thirty-four points!”
“ ‘Adumbrating’? That’s not a word!” Ross exclaimed.
They both paused a moment as the doorbell rang.
“Here,” Morales replied as she threw a dictionary at him. “It’s pronounced
ADAM-brating
. It means ‘portending’ or ‘foreshadowing.’ You’re buying dinner.”
Ross fumbled with the dictionary, looking for Morales’s word as he ambled toward the front door. “Nice,” he said. “Most case officers get tactical partners. Langley sets me up with some kind of Scrabble hustler.”
“Scrabble Yoda,” Morales replied, leaning back on the loveseat and kicking off her shoes.
Ross looked through the peephole and saw the delivery boy holding their Chinese takeout. He undid the security chain, opened the double bolt, and turned the doorknob to the right. As he swung the door open, he reached into his back pocket for his wallet.
“How much do I owe . . .”
PSSST! PSST!
There was only the metallic clatter that followed the muted explosions as the suppressed automatic chambered new rounds. The silencer and the downloaded rounds did their work as two 9mm hollow points slammed into Ross’s forehead.
Morales looked up just in time to see the back of Ross’s head expel a curtain of red mist that dusted the entryway walls.
Tommy and two of his men charged through the door, stepping over Ross’s lifeless body. Morales froze for just an instant, then rolled off the loveseat and dived for her weapon. Tommy and the two men charged directly at her.
The Agency firearms training Morales received at the Farm served her well. She moved instinctively and managed to double-tap the man closest to her. The explosion inside the small apartment was deafening. He went down hard, but she stayed with her first target a fraction of a second too long. As she pivoted to take aim, Tommy elbowed her square in the face, knocking her gun away.
Momentarily stunned, Morales was helpless as Tommy picked her up and slammed her through the coffee table, shattering the glass. Snarling, the enforcer picked her up and again threw her to the floor, knocking the wind out of her. Gasping, she came to her knees when the third man kicked her in the ribs. Fighting back and on an adrenaline high, she somehow struggled off the floor and was almost standing when Tommy took a sap from his back pocket and neatly clipped her on the back of the head. This time, she melted to the floor like a wet towel and did not move.
Tommy and his man quickly duct-taped her arms and legs, and shoved a cloth into her mouth. Then, as Tommy knelt over Morales’s hog-tied body, his man used a razor-sharp carpet knife to cut a section of the dung-colored carpet from around Morales’s bound body. The two men rolled Morales up like a tortilla in the section of carpet. The two hoisted her onto their shoulders and, half stumbling over the inert form of Ross, quickly left the apartment. They dashed down the single flight of stairs to the back alley and threw the carpet holding Morales into the ba Cs iuickly lefck of a battered pickup truck.
The entire operation had taken less than two minutes. Only the two shots from Morales’s pistol and the roar of the speeding pickup disturbed the still evening. When the police finally arrived, they asked few questions. And if any of the neighboring residents saw anything, they were not talking, nor did the Barranca police expect them to.
* * *
They began to arrive at Gator Beach just after 5:00
P.M.,
and by 5:30 there were kids racing between the picnic shelters and the water, often with mothers chasing close behind. Two of the younger platoon SEALs had arrived earlier and had three of the beach fire pits burning gently with a nice bed of coals. A platoon family outing was a logistically intensive affair, and there were coolers, beach bags, food containers, diaper bags, and paper dinnerware stacked on the picnic tables. The beach toys, including boogie boards, soccer balls, paddle balls, and a Nerf football, were soon fully deployed. The platoon was at full strength with sixteen SEAL operators—two platoon officers and fourteen enlisted SEALs. A few single men had their girlfriends in tow, but most of the men were married with kids. The average age of the Bandito Platoon SEALs was just under thirty. When Roark and Jackie Engel arrived, the gathering had swelled close to fifty. The surf was low and the water chilly, about 62 degrees, but that did not deter the kids or the dads—the former too excited at the prospect of playing in the water and the latter professionally immune to cold water. So the women organized and talked, while the kids and SEALs splashed about. The kids outlasted the SEALs in the water.
Jackie Engel moved easily among the other SEAL wives. She came from a prominent family in Indianapolis, and her father was a senior executive at Eli Lilly. She had met Roark during his junior year at Notre Dame while she was a freshman. They dated for two years and became engaged when he graduated. It was a long-distance engagement while she finished college and he completed SEAL training. She would have left school to be with him, but he insisted she stay and graduate. “We’ll have a lifetime together,” he told her, “so stay and get your degree.” They’d talked about her finishing at San Diego State or USD, but neither offered a degree in her field—microbiology. When she offered to switch majors to be near him, he again rejected it. “I plan to be in a dangerous line of work for quite some time,” the ever-practical Roark had told her. “You have to be prepared to step up and be the breadwinner.” He also knew that a SEAL officer in training was seldom home. So they were together for part of the summers and during Christmas and Easter breaks, and they were on Skype nearly every night. It was good training for marriage to a deploying Navy SEAL.
Jackie was tall, blond, and thin. As a young girl she had been awkward and angular, and since she was clumsy, she hated sports. Her ears back then had been too big, and she had always felt disproportionate. But as a teenager she caught up with herself and began to move with a newfound ease and grace. She grew into her features, and although not quite beautiful, she was attractive—striking even. Her parents had sent Jacquelyn, their only child, to the private Park Tudor School, where she excelled academically and dated very little. As she matured, she acquired a soft, ethereal presence that made her appear aloof and often made boys reluctant to approach her. Her grades and College Board scores were such that if her fami Ct iapply had not had the means, she would have attended college on an academic scholarship. When she came home for Thanksgiving her freshman year at Notre Dame, she told her parents she had met the man she would marry. They brushed it off as infatuation and inexperience. Still, they were concerned that this attachment would distract her from her studies—or, worse, cause her to drop out of school. Yet her first-semester grades reflected no such problem. Still, they were wary of this first boy in her life. Jackie’s parents did not meet him until later that spring.
They met Roark during a parent’s weekend at South Bend and quickly realized that this boy was a man, that he was courteous and polite to a fault, and that he was as much in love with their daughter as she was with him. While Jackie completed school and he completed SEAL training, her parents found themselves worrying that the separation might cause the relationship to end. The wedding took place a week after her graduation, followed by a reception at the Meridian Hills Country Club. Jackie was radiant, and the Navy groomsmen were just as handsome and polite as their new son-in-law. And they all wore the same shiny gold pin on their starched, white uniforms—the one they called the Trident.
When Engel returned to their small Coronado efficiency after his lunch with Nolan, he was worried about having broken the news of Jackie’s pregnancy to his chief. He was still trying to figure out how to tell her when she saw him and smiled.
“You told Dave, didn’t you?”
“Well, you see, he just sort of found out. I didn’t actually tell him.”
“And he’s the only one who knows, right?” she asked, knowing the answer full well.
He shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, it sort of went a little further than that.”
She came to him and they hugged. “Yeah, I know. Brothers by different mothers and all that.” They had stood in the kitchen-dining-living area for some time and just held each other. That afternoon they went for a long, easy bike ride together, their last for a while. Then they loaded the cooler in the car and headed for the platoon beach party.