Elena Marie Garcia.
When Marcus awoke in the middle of the night, she was all he could think about.
In his mind’s eye, he could go back in time and see her as a rising high school senior, standing on the top of Pikes Peak on a breezy day in early August. Wearing a gray zip-up sweatshirt over a light-blue T-shirt, tan khaki shorts, and well-worn Timberlands, she was holding his hand as she gazed out over the surrounding mountaintops. It was a breathtaking view, but it didn’t interest Marcus at all. Only she did. He couldn’t take his eyes off her mocha skin or warm brown eyes or her jet-black hair pulled back in a ponytail.
That had been a perfect day—the half-day hike, the picnic they’d packed themselves and enjoyed at the summit, the sunset they’d watched arm in arm, and the hike back down in the dark with headlamps strapped around their foreheads—but it had only been one of so, so many perfect days. Together they had hiked more fourteeners than he could remember. They’d gone skydiving and helicopter skiing together. They’d skied some of the steepest mountains and the biggest moguls. They’d gone white-water rafting through some of the most intense rapids in any river in any state within two hundred miles of their little hometown of Monument. They’d gotten their motorcycle licenses together. They’d even taken flying lessons together, with Marcus going so far as earning his pilot’s license for single-engine planes. And Elena had been with him every step of the way.
He loved her zest for life. He could still hear her screaming with delight when he had to practice stalls and restarts at ten thousand feet. He could still feel her arms squeezing him as she sat on the back of his father’s old Harley and they raced up and down the Front Range. He could still feel her lips on his the moment their pastor told him he could finally kiss his bride. He could see the tears of joy in her eyes when she’d given birth to Lars. And he could still feel the tears of shock and pain in his when he’d ducked under the crime scene tape and walked across the shattered glass into that 7-Eleven and seen the blood-soaked sheets draped over the bullet-ridden body of the only woman he had ever loved and the only child they’d ever had.
A wave of immense loneliness washed over Marcus. Behind the privacy of the thin curtain, he pulled the blanket over him and curled up in a fetal position. The sadness ran so deep it was physically painful. But Marcus refused to let the dam burst. He genuinely couldn’t be certain he could regain control if he let his emotions rise to the surface. Back in Washington, in the seclusion of his own town house, he’d let it happen a few times and been unable to go outside for days. He hadn’t told his mom or sisters. He hadn’t told his friends. He hadn’t even told his pastor. This was not a burden they could bear. It was one he had to bear alone.
And right now it was crushing him.
65
APPROACHING THE NORTH KOREAN COAST—8 OCTOBER
The alarm on his watch startled him.
It was precisely midnight. Marcus turned off the alarm and took a deep breath. Then he pulled back the curtain and slipped out of the coffin-like bunk. It wouldn’t be long before they would suit up. But he had made a plan with Vinetti and Hwang to meet in the mess to eat a last meal together, catch up a bit, and give their bodies enough time to process the food before they headed into battle. There was another reason to get up too. It was time for a shift change. Someone else would need the bunk.
Sure enough, as Marcus stepped into the hallway, dozens of men emerged from their bunks and hustled to their posts. Moments later, the men they had replaced—all of them so young, ranging from eighteen to midtwenties and looking spent—piled into their assigned bunks and pulled their curtains shut. It was quite a life. Marcus said a silent prayer of thanks he’d enlisted in the Marines instead.
Ambling down to the mess, he found the place jammed with men arriving for dinner. There were no windows or portholes in the submarine’s curved hull. Even if there had been, they were a good six hundred feet below the surface. There would have been no light and thus nothing to see. Only the clocks on the walls—and the food on their metal trays—helped them judge night from day.
Vinetti caught his eye and waved him over. He and Hwang had grabbed a table and gotten their food and a tray for Marcus. Tonight’s meal was barbecued chicken, mounds of mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, coleslaw, corn bread, and iced tea—and when they were finished, hot fudge sundaes for dessert. Marcus slapped both men on the back. He hadn’t realized how famished he was, but the food actually looked good, and his mouth was watering. “Good to see you gents,” he said as he took a seat. “Mind if I say grace?”
Both already had food in their mouths, but they shrugged, stopped chewing, and sat up a bit straighter. Marcus closed his eyes and bowed his head.
“Dear Father, thank you for this food, for this day, for all the ways you’ve cared for us and protected us, and for bringing the three of us back together,” he began. “Lord, we don’t know exactly what’s ahead of us. But we pray that you would be merciful to us. Give us your wisdom, your strength, and your courage. Give us your favor, Lord, to protect our country from those who would do us harm.”
Vinetti and Hwang, assuming he was finished, began chewing again and opened their eyes. But Marcus went on, so they glanced at each other and immediately closed their eyes and clasped their hands again.
“Lord, you alone are our Shepherd, and we shall want for nothing,” Marcus prayed. “You make us lie down in green pastures and lead us alongside quiet waters. You restore our souls and guide us in the paths of righteousness for your name’s sake. And even though we will walk—and swim and run and drive—through the valley of the shadow of death today, we will fear no evil, for you are with us; your rod and your staff comfort us. You prepare a table before us in the presence of our enemies; you have anointed our heads with oil; our cups overflow. If we give our lives wholly and completely to your Son, the Lord Jesus Christ—holding nothing back—then surely goodness and loving-kindness will follow us all the days of our lives, and we will dwell in your house forever. We pray all these things in the name of Jesus. Amen.”
This time Vinetti and Hwang kept their eyes closed, sure there must be more and not wanting to offend their friend. Instead, Marcus dug in like a ravenous wolf.
“Come on, boys, eat up,” he chided them. “It’s gonna get cold.”
Both men finally swallowed and chuckled.
“Sleep well?” Hwang asked. Then he saw Vinetti cross himself and quickly followed suit.
“Well enough,” Marcus said, plopping a dollop of butter in the center of his steaming mashed potatoes and sprinkling everything with salt. “You guys good?”
“Sure,” Vinetti said. He seemed glad to see Ryker acting so buoyant and relaxed. “So, listen, we’ve been talking, and we’re curious about something.”
“Name it,” Marcus replied between forkfuls.
“Well, we just can’t seem to figure . . .”
When Vinetti hesitated, Hwang finished the thought, though in a whisper so none of the men at the nearby tables could hear. “What you’re really doing here. Why you did everything you’ve done over the past couple of weeks. And why you agreed to join the CIA.”
Marcus looked up from his food. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Come on,” Hwang said. “After Elena and Lars died, you quit the Secret Service. You stopped keeping in touch with the guys on your detail. You stopped going back to Colorado to visit family. Except for volunteering at your church, you basically retreated from everyone and everything.”
“And?”
“And for all practical purposes you went into seclusion,” Hwang continued. “When Annie tried calling you to invite you to join Senator Dayton’s delegation to Europe, you wouldn’t even answer her calls. When I insisted you get your butt out of the house and come with us, you said you weren’t ready.”
“I went, didn’t I?” Marcus protested.
“Yeah, you did. Eventually. And now here you are at the vortex of the most intense geopolitical firestorm
since the Cuban Missile Crisis. You were involved in the assassination of not one but two Russian leaders. You and your Russian mole friend Kracken or Krackow or whatever his name is have been the subjects of an international manhunt that darn near triggered a nuclear showdown between Moscow and Washington. And then, completely out of the blue, you agree to work for the Central Intelligence Agency. Suddenly we’re on a nuclear submarine in the Sea of Japan, heading into North Korea with SEAL Team Six. See how this doesn’t exactly add up so easily to people who have known you all your adult life?”
Marcus looked at his friends, then down at the half-eaten drumstick on his tray. “Guys, come on, let’s talk about something else.”
“No,” Vinetti said. “This is important.”
“Is it? Does it really matter? You guys should eat. The food’s really not that bad.”
“It matters to us,” Hwang said.
Marcus picked the bone clean, then licked his fingers, wiped his hands on his napkin, and looked up again. “Why?” he asked in return. “We’ve got a mission. We’re about to roll out. This isn’t the right time to get introspective.”
“Dude, I just joined the CIA because of you,” Hwang whispered. “We’re about to sneak into the world’s biggest prison camp because of you. And I don’t need to remind you, we might not come back out. So forgive us for being curious about just why you’re doing all this.”
Just then, Berenger entered the mess and came right over to them. “Finish up quick, gentlemen. I don’t want you guys cramping up out there.”
“Will do, sir,” Marcus said. “You good?”
“All good.” Berenger smiled. “Carry on.” He then moved off to check in with the men at other tables.
“Look, you want to know why I’m doing this?” Marcus asked.
“Yeah, we do.”
“Well, for one thing, the president insisted. You told me that yourself, Nick. Joining the CIA was the only way I could get him to agree to stop hunting me and Oleg and bring us in to deliver the intel that will hopefully stop a nuclear war. But there’s another reason I’m doing this. It’s because I can.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hwang asked.
“It means I’m single again,” Marcus said. “I wish I wasn’t, but I am. No one needs me. No one’s depending on me. I can take risks most people can’t. Besides, I’m a Christian. I know exactly where I’m going when I die, and frankly, I’m ready to go. The real question is why are you guys doing this, and are you ready?”
There was a pause as both men stared at the untouched, melting sundaes in front of them. Then Vinetti spoke. “Well, for me, it’s pretty simple. Bill McDermott called me. He told me the deal the president had offered you. He told me if you accepted, I was being inducted as well, to be your handler. Then Director Stephens told me we would be heading into North Korea to grab a high-ranking general in charge of the nuclear program based on intel you had provided. I said okay. And here I am.”
“I just needed a job,” Hwang quipped.
They laughed, but Marcus pressed his point.
“Guys, I’m serious. You know the stakes here, and you know the risks. Let’s not kid ourselves. There hasn’t been a U.S. Special Operations mission inside North Korea since the end of the Korean War. There’s a very real chance one or more of us might not come back out. Now, you know what I believe. You know the Scriptures. I know you do, ’cause I’ve read them to you before. You know that Jesus said, ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.’ Which means the only way to go to heaven is to receive Jesus Christ as Savior and Lord. We’ve talked about it over and over again. Yet neither of you have ever said yes. And that worries me. I want you guys to be in heaven with me when the time comes. And I’m just saying, that time might be today.”
66
TANCH’OˇN, NORTH KOREA
Two platoons advanced by stealth.
That meant a total of sixteen SEALs—eight per platoon—plus pilots and copilots for two of their underwater vehicles and Commander Berenger. Adding in Ryker, Vinetti, and Hwang, they had a total of twenty-four men. The plan, however, called for them to add three more for a total of twenty-seven on the way back.
They were using two Advanced SEAL Delivery Vehicles—ASDVs—flanked by two standard SDVs. The latter looked like long black torpedoes. They were powered by a single propeller running off lithium polymer batteries and were nearly silent. The highly classified mini submarines had been designed specifically for the U.S. military. Each could transport six of the Navy’s best and brightest into enemy territory without being seen or heard. The challenge was that the men were essentially trapped inside a sardine can—windowless, cramped, completely filled with frigid ocean water, and shrouded in pitch-darkness—for the entire journey while they used their oxygen tanks to breathe and state-of-the-art sonar navigational systems to get them precisely to their target. The SDVs were not for the faint of heart, and anyone with even a touch of claustrophobia need not bother.
The advanced versions were significantly larger and more complex. For starters, they could transport as many as sixteen SEALs and all their equipment along with a crew of two pilots to drive and navigate. The key difference, however, was not their size but the fact that their interiors were dry and lit. This not only reduced the stress and cold for the soldiers deployed on already high-risk missions. It also allowed the SEALs to transport civilians who might be wounded, untrained in using scuba gear, or at severe risk of freaking out in tight, dark, cramped conditions.
During the chopper ride to Sado Island, Hwang had asked Berenger why he insisted on using a total of four mini subs—two of the larger ones and two of the smaller—that could carry a combined total of forty-eight men. Why not just use the two larger units? It was a fair question, the commander had replied. He could answer with two words: “Desert One.”
“Not sure I follow, sir,” Hwang said.
“On April 24, 1980, President Jimmy Carter gave the green light to an operation called Eagle Claw,” Berenger explained. “U.S. Special Ops—led by Delta—were tasked with rescuing fifty-two Americans who had worked at the U.S. Embassy in Tehran and had been taken hostage by Iranian radicals in November of ’79.”
Marcus knew Hwang was familiar with the basic plot if not the specifics of the operation.
“In the early hours of the mission,” Berenger continued with Marcus and Vinetti listening along with Hwang, “the Delta operators—led by the legendary Colonel Charlie Beckwith and backed up by a force of Rangers—were able to penetrate Iranian airspace without being detected. However, mechanical problems and a sandstorm created a situation in which three of the eight Sea Stallion helicopters they were using were rendered unable to fly. When Beckwith realized there was no longer enough room to bring out all of the hostages on the remaining choppers, he had no choice. He had to order the mission aborted. And then things got worse. No sooner had Beckwith ordered his men to fly back out of Iran than two of the aircraft collided. The accident caused multiple explosions and the deaths of eight Americans. It was a tragic turn of events. The men were brave and well trained. Their cause was noble and their intentions faultless. But they hadn’t planned well enough to account for the unexpected. Mechanical problems. Weather problems. And just plain human error.”
Berenger wrapped up just as they were preparing to land on the island.
“Now, how does that apply to us?” he asked. “For starters, you shouldn’t overcompensate and try to bring in too large a force. North Korea’s sonar nets and other coastal defenses are too sophisticated. We’d be spotted immediately, and the whole thing would be over before we really got started. At the same time, however, the better part of wisdom says you’d be foolish not to build some redundancy into the plan. So that’s what I did because you never know what’s going to transpire.”
Now, locked inside one of the smaller SDVs, Marcus did his best to calm his nerves. Holding his breath for a moment, he waited for the bubbl
es to clear and checked his watch. It was 4:47 a.m. He winced, began breathing again, and closed his eyes. They were only moving at about five knots—about six miles per hour. Any faster and they would be too loud and quickly detected by the enemy. Daybreak was only about ninety minutes away. They needed to be done and gone by the time the sun began to light the tops of the mountains towering over Tanch’oˇn or they might never live to see another day. Still, there was nothing he could do but stay calm, ignore the cold, and pray.
He was certainly praying for the success of the mission. Even more, he was praying for Vinetti and Hwang. He loved these men. There was no one on earth he was closer to—not even his family. They’d been through everything together, and it pained him that after so many conversations over so many years, they still had no interest in a personal relationship with Christ. They still didn’t grasp that hell was as real a place as heaven. Nor did they seem the least bit concerned for where their souls would spend eternity. They loved Marcus. And they respected his faith. But they didn’t share it. And now they were headed once again into harm’s way.
The Persian Gamble Page 25