by Tom Clancy
Within an hour, Samad, Talwar, and Felipe were sitting in a beat-up Honda Civic driven by Felipe. They waited until the first crew left the warehouse. Their man did not yet leave. They waited until sunset, and then, finally, Samad spotted him, climbing into a black Kia as old and battered as their car. They followed him away from the site and south, past the city and toward the suburbs along the southeast corridor.
Within twenty minutes they’d located the man’s house and watched him park, and then, with a call made by Felipe, they had a man placed outside the residence to alert them when he thought that everyone had left in the morning.
“He will help us cross the border. He doesn’t know it yet, but he is a servant of Allah,” Samad said.
Talwar, who’d been working on his smartphone, looked up and said, “If the information is still good, this house belongs to Pedro Romero. I Googled him, and he was an engineer, but the company he worked for went out of business.”
“Construction has been very tough here,” said Felipe. “I know many good men who are out of work.”
“Well, he found a good job, didn’t he?” Samad said. “He’s our man. But we need to move very carefully. We need to make sure he is very cooperative, so we need to know everything about Señor Pedro Romero.”
Rojas Mansion
Cuernavaca, Mexico
56 Miles South of Mexico City
Rojas lay in his bed, staring up at the crown molding that spanned the far wall, long lines of expensive hardwood extending off into the shadows. The ceiling fan whirred, the blades turning slowly, the moonlight coming in from the window cutting through those blades and casting a flickering shadow across his bedspread and across Alexsi’s cheek. She slept soundly beside him, and Rojas closed his eyes once more, then snapped them open and looked at the clock: 2:07 a.m.
His emotions had wreaked havoc with him during the past twenty-four hours. An assassination attempt, a kidnapping attempt of Miguel and his girlfriend …he decided he needed an immediate vacation from his real life.
With a shudder he rose, donned his robe, and, using his cell phone as a flashlight, ventured down the stairs in the cool darkness. He entered the kitchen, switched on a light, and crossed to one of three stainless-steel refrigerators to fetch some milk, which he planned to heat up and sip slowly, a regimen that often helped him sleep.
By the time he had the pot on the gas stove and had poured the milk, a tiny voice came from behind him. “Señor Rojas?”
He turned to find Sonia standing there, her black negligee covered mostly by her own silk robe. He had to blink because he thought he had imagined her.
“Señor Rojas, are you okay?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Sonia, I’m still half asleep, I guess. What are you doing up now?”
“I heard someone down here. Miguel took the pills like you said, and he is sleeping very well. I don’t like to take any medication, and now I can’t sleep. I keep seeing what they did to that man over and over.”
“I’m so sorry. Tomorrow I will make some calls and we can help you with some therapy.”
“Thank you, señor. I don’t know if there’s a way to forget that. They wiped his blood on my face.”
He nodded, pursed his lips, then blurted out, “Do you want some milk? I’m just heating it up.”
“That would be nice. Thank you.” She moved into the kitchen and slid effortlessly onto one of the stools. “I guess you couldn’t sleep, either, after what happened to you.”
“I’ve been expecting something like that for many years. That’s why I’ve taken so many precautions, but you never know how you’ll react when the day comes. You can never plan everything.”
“That’s very true.”
“Sonia, I love my boy very much. He’s all I have left in this world, and I can’t thank you enough. He’s told me how strong you were. He couldn’t believe it. But you know something? I could. When I first met you, I could see something powerful in your eyes, that same light I saw in my wife. You were very brave.”
She lowered her head and blushed.
He’d gone too far, he knew, and his tone was a little too alluring.
“I just wanted to thank you,” he suddenly added.
“I think the milk is boiling,” she said, lifting her chin at the stove.
He whirled and lowered the heat, but the milk foamed over the pot, and he cursed and brought it off the flame, the milk hissing and spitting.
“Señor Rojas, may I ask a very personal question?” she said, after he’d gotten the milk under control and had fetched two mugs from a cabinet.
“Sure, why not?”
“Are you entirely honest with your son?”
“What do you mean?”
“Does he know everything about you and your companies? I mean, would he be able to step into your shoes if something were to happen?”
“That’s a rather morbid question.”
“If we stay together, and we decide to get married, he would need to know everything.”
“Of course.”
She had trouble now meeting his gaze. “He just seems rather naive about some aspects right now.”
“And with good reason,” said Rojas, growing a little suspicious of her prying. “Some of my businesses are too petty for his concern. I have people running them and reporting weekly or monthly to me. When he’s ready, I will teach him everything.”
“Would you teach me everything, too?”
He hesitated. Indeed, she was a powerful woman, perhaps too powerful, and he had never allowed his dear wife to know even five percent of exactly what he did. “Of course I would,” he lied, handing her a mug of steaming milk. “I would expect you and Miguel to be the heirs—if you are one day married.”
“I don’t mean to sound like a gold digger, señor. I am just worried about Miguel. I know you want him to work at the bank this summer, but I am worried that he’ll hate it. And if he is miserable, we both will be miserable.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Teach him about how you operate your businesses. Let him be your right-hand man. He is your son, after all.”
Rojas thought about that. She was right. Miguel was the heir to his empire, and the boy knew so very little. Rojas could have been killed, and Miguel would hardly understand the enormity of his father’s world. But Rojas would never reveal the ugly truth of the cartel—not to Miguel, not to anyone, ever …
Suddenly, Alexsi appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on here?” she asked, staring accusingly at Sonia.
“Do you want some warm milk?” asked Rojas, ignoring her question. “I have some more.”
“All right.”
“I couldn’t sleep. Not after what’s happened,” said Sonia. “I heard Señor Rojas come down, and so I thought I’d join him.”
Alexsi’s expression softened. “I understand.”
Rojas stared at Alexsi. If she could read his mind, her bags would be packed within the hour.
And if Sonia could read his mind, she would be joining Alexsi in a taxicab that would take them very far away from his world.
THE ONLY EASY DAY
Al Basrah Oil Terminal
Persian Gulf, Iraq
March 19, 2003
MOORE HEAVED HIMSELF UP and into the black Zodiac to join the other two SEALs who’d jumped from the platform. They were still waiting on Carmichael and one of his guys, Mako Six, who’d been hit. Moore tugged off his mask and took in a long breath of the salty air. Out to the west, across the charcoal-colored waves and beneath a mantle of clouds, hovered the CH-47 Chinook helicopter, it’s rear ramp lowered, its pilot perched precariously over the water. The tandem rotors created a wash that lifted high into the night and drew a pale white vortex over the gulf, while the chopper’s turboshaft engines roared. That pilot, Moore knew, was battling fiercely against the wind.
An onslaught of small-arms fire erupted from the platform, most of it directed at the chopper itself, while Moore was on the radio, trying to cal
l in fire support from the patrol ship; however, the request was denied and he was ordered to extract immediately.
The chopper pilot echoed those orders: “Mako One, this is Seabird, taking fire, taking fire! Need you out of there NOW, over!”
“Roger that, Seabird. Roger that!”
The Chinook’s fuselage came alive with the flashes of ricocheting rounds that were quickly lost in the mist. Moore turned back toward the platform and saw Carmichael at the railing with Electronics Technician First Class Billy Hartogg, Mako Six.
“Frank, we’re running out of time here, buddy!” Moore reminded his friend.
But Frank Carmichael understood that in life or in death no man should be left behind. He and Moore had learned firsthand that that wasn’t some jingoistic cliché uttered in war movies. It was truth, and Carmichael’s actions reflected the kind of steel he had in his back and the quality of his character. He picked up the lifeless form of Electronics Technician First Class Hartogg and was determined to bring the SEAL home.
SEALs like Carmichael did not take the easy way out, not during INDOC, not during BUD/S, not anytime. The only easy day was yesterday. However, before Carmichael could make it over the edge, gunfire ripped across the railing, pinging and sparking, driving him back and away.
And then more salvos punched into the water between the Zodiac and the platform, and Moore found himself looking up into the eyes of two guardsmen, now leveling their rifles on him.
Gunfire boomed from behind him as his men lifted their own rifles and took out the two Iraqis, who fell back and out of sight onto the platform.
A loud splash stole Moore’s attention. Carmichael and their fallen colleague had dropped ten meters off the platform and had hit the waves—
But they were on the other side, near one of the largest pilings, some twenty meters away.
A hand rose above the waves …and a voice that was only in Moore’s mind echoed: “Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!”
“We have to go back!” shouted Gary Brand, the platoon’s leading petty officer, seated in the Zodiac beside Moore.
Moore looked at Carmichael, then back at the helicopter.
“Mako One, this is Seabird! I cannot wait for you any longer!”
Moore cursed and shook his head. “You wait for me! You will wait!”
“Damn you, Mako One!” cried the pilot. “Thirty seconds!”
The gurgling outboard that had been resting in idle wailed as Moore speeded off after Carmichael, telling his men to get ready on the rope.
Moore then took a deep breath and held it.
All Carmichael had to do was catch the line and slide the loop up his arm. They’d drag his ass onto the Zodiac if it was the last thing Moore did.
He steered them closer to Carmichael, who was trying to hang on to Hartogg’s body. They motored up beside him—
The rope went out.
Carmichael had only one good arm to make the catch.
He missed. Shit!
Moore turned the boat so tightly that it felt as though the craft were on rails. He believed he had time for another pass. Then he looked back at the Chinook.
Seabird was beginning to pull away.
And suddenly seconds were years. There was no noise save for Moore’s heartbeat, no sensation save for salt water in his mouth.
Carmichael bobbed up and down near the piling.
The chopper’s ramp sent a waterfall back into the gulf as the pilot throttled up.
“Don’t you remember the quote they told us?” Carmichael had asked. “We can only be beaten in two ways: We either die or we give up. And we’re not giving up.”
A fresh volley of fire wrenched Moore out of his daze and sent his gaze back to the chopper. “He’s taking off! We have to go!”
He wasn’t sure who replied, the voice distorted by the wind, the gunfire, the rotor wash, but he heard enough: “Don’t do this, Max! Don’t do it!”
But he realized in that moment that he couldn’t save them all. Not all of them. Not Carmichael. “No choice. We’re leaving!”
When he looked back at the platform, Carmichael was still there, waving not for help but signaling for them to go.
Save yourselves.
Gunfire ripped across the side of the Zodiac, and that was it. Moore wheeled the boat around once more and throttled up the outboard, sending them skipping across the wave tops and toward the chopper.
“Seabird, this is Mako One. We’re on our way!”
“Roger that, Mako One. Move it!”
The Chinook descended, its ramp once more awash.
“Don’t leave me!”
But Carmichael had never shouted that. He’d urged them to leave. He knew he must remain behind.
Moore took the boat at full throttle toward the Chinook, whose pilot now descended a few more feet, the ramp perfectly aligned, the incoming fire still pinging all around them, until—
The Zodiac, under Moore’s determined guidance, streaked right up the ramp and came to a skidding, colliding halt inside the chopper.
Before Moore could even throttle down, the Chinook’s pilot pitched the bird up, and they thundered away from the platform, leaving the waves and incoming gunfire behind.
After switching off the engine, Moore sat there. When he looked up, it was into the eyes of his fellow SEALs, all staring at him, as though waiting for an excuse, something they could cling to that would justify what had just happened. We left a man in the water to die.
But all Moore could do was close his eyes, look away, and stiffen against a breakdown.
And then his men went back to work, tugging off their gear, now back in the groove, as though nothing had ever happened. The training had kicked in, the countless hours of training, of routine, of not even remembering they’d finished the mission and had packed up the gear and somehow had made it to the bar and were already on their third round. The blur. The fog. The blinding intensity of combat sapping away senses that would return in time.
Within two hours the single largest operation in the history of the U.S. Navy SEALs was launched. Much to Moore’s frustration, his team had been held back in reserve.
SEALs, along with Royal Marines, had attacked the pumping locks for each terminal and platform; however, intel had failed to note the concertina wire surrounding those locks, so SEALs got caught up in that obstacle and took fire from the platform’s garrison until they were able to secure the area. Not soon after, they took fire from an Iraqi armored vehicle, but their embedded Air Force Combat Controller had been able to call up an Air Force A-10 Warthog whose Weapons System Officer summarily identified and destroyed the vehicle with a 670-pound AGM-65 Maverick air-to-surface missile.
Still more assaults were launched by SEALs on the refinery and port on the Al-Faw peninsula, while U.S. Marines from the 5th Regimental Combat Team of the 1st Marine Expeditionary Force attacked targets farther north in the Rumaila oil fields. Moore had listened to his commander complain that the ground looked unstable out there, too unstable for their standard rear-wheel-drive Desert Patrol Vehicles (DPVs). The SEALs’ fears were confirmed when they arrived and their DPVs became trapped in desert sand soaked with oil. They’d been forced to move out on foot to face more than three hundred entrenched Iraqi solders and armored vehicles. With the assistance of close air support called in by their combat controllers, the SEAL teams battled their way through the enemy positions until dawn, killing several hundred Iraqis, capturing nearly one hundred more, and destroying all of their armored vehicles until they were relieved by the 42 Commando of the British Royal Marines.
Following the operation, Carmichael’s body was recovered. He’d been shot by the Iraqis on the platform and bitten by yellow-bellied sea snakes that had been stirred up by the outboard motor’s wash. The snakes were common to the gulf, their venom more toxic than that of the cobra or the krait, paralyzing the victim’s respiratory system. Hartogg’s body had also been recovered, although he had drifted nearly a quarter-mile away fro
m the platform.
At Carmichael’s funeral in San Diego, Moore, along with more than thirty other SEALs who knew Carmichael and had served with him, lined up on both sides of the pallbearers’ path, with the coffin emerging from the hearse and carried between them. As the coffin passed each SEAL, he removed the golden Trident, aka “Budweiser,” from his uniform. With the Trident’s heavy pin sticking out from the bottom, he slapped the pin onto the coffin, embedding it in the wood. One by one, as the pallbearers waited, the SEALs plunged their Tridents into Carmichael’s casket so that by the time it reached the grave site, a pair of golden inlays had been drawn across each side. This was the least Moore and his colleagues could do—a final tribute to one of their brothers.
Moore, being Carmichael’s closest and best friend, was last to drive home his pin, and that had been too much. He’d broken down for just a few seconds, but the stoic faces born of the extreme discipline of his peers motivated him to hang on. He would get through this. He looked to Frank’s young wife, Laney, now the widow, sobbing into her tissue, her black mascara running across her cheeks, as dark as her dress. Telling her he was sorry was a joke, a terribly bad joke. She had lost her husband because of him. The frustration of being unable to help was maddening, and he balled his hands into fists.