Tom Clancy's Act of Valor

by Dick Couch

  “I’ll make it through,” Nolan replied. “Where do I sign?”

  Dave Nolan returned from his first SEAL deployment, a series of training exercises with Pacific Rim allies, in early September of 2001. He had been back in Coronado for only a few days when the two airliners slammed into the twin towers of the World Trade Center. The Nolan family was well represented in both the NYPD and the FDNY, and more than a few Nolan women kept an anxious vigil during that terrible day and well into the night. But the burden of 9/11 fell heaviest on Dave’s immediate family. Nolan’s father was a cop, as was one of his bothers; two other brothers were firemen. By the following day, there was no escaping the terrible reckoning: Two of his brothers, a policeman and a firefighter, had perished in the attack. After attending the wakes and funerals of his two siblings, he headed back to Coronado to prepare grimly for his second deployment. He’d been at war ever since.

  Like many in the Teams, Nolan did not fit the image many civilians had of a Navy SEAL. He appeared too average. With dark hair, dark eyes, and sharp features, Nolan at five feet eight, was smaller than most SEALs. He was not the best shot, not the best runner, and not the best swimmer in the platoon. Nor was he particularly athletic, as many SEALs were. There seemed to be no hard edges to Nolan, and he had a wry sense of humor that he liked to direct at himself. Yet when it came to the execution of their duties, there was a palpable intensity about him that no one missed or ever questioned. He never gave orders, only suggestions, after which platoon SEALs moved with a sense of urgency. In the purest sense of the word, he was a warrior and more than that—a serious warrior. And he was a winner. He had always done whatever it took to win—to win the fight, to win the day. Furthermore, he expected nothing less of the SEALs with whom he served. Nolan was respected by his teammates and everyone up and down the chain of command. A term coined by their fellow warriors, the United States Marine Corps: “No better friend, no worse enemy,” was most applicable to Chief Dave Nolan.

  Roark Engel was the picture of relaxation as he waited for the jump. He savored moments like this, much as an experienced wine connoisseur would savor a delicate pinot noir. The roar and turbulence of the aircraft, the prospect of jumping into a 130-knot slipstream, the falling to Earth as a human projectile—he enjoyed all of it. Yet what he savored the most was the Team. These were his SEALs, his Team. This jump had little training value, but as a team-building evolution, it would be a great jump. This one wasn’t for proficiency; it was for each other, and that made it special. Engel was not naive. He was a combat leader, and he knew that, as such, he would always be balancing the importance of the mission against the safety of his SEALs. Get the job done, get everyone home alive; that’s what combat leadership was all about. But not today. Today, they would defy gravity, if not death, for the pure enjoyment of doing so in the company of their own.

  Roark Engel was born in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and was an all-state running back in high school. He was the ideal picture of a high school hero—tall, sandy-haired, handsome in a boyish kind of way, and a student-athlete. He was heavily recruited by a number of Division I schools but elected an NROTC scholarship at Notre Dame and the opportunity to not play football. He could not articulate it at the time, but football simply did not seem like a team game to him. It bothered him that he got the attention while those who blocked for him received little or none. It violated his sense of fairness. He’d never played soccer but tried out for the varsity team as a walk-on. He was good, but he never became a starter. Yet the brutal practice sessions hardened him and refined his sense of team play. And on occasion, when an opposing midfielder became a little too physical with one of their side’s forwards, Roark was sent in to even things up a bit.

  But it was in Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training, with its cold water, punishing physical regime, and Hell Week, that he came to know what it was to be a member of an elite team and a leader among equals. Combat only served to put a premium on team play and the bonds that can form only when you routinely risk your life with others. He knew he was doubly blessed—to be a SEAL and to lead a SEAL platoon. Lieutenant Roark Engel often felt this was what he was born to do. His brief reverie was broken by a hand on his shoulder.

  “You wanna jump, Boss, or do you want to ride this crate back to North Island?” It was Nolan. “I mean, if you don’t wanna jump, I can have the duty driver pick you up and take you back to the Team area.”

  “In your dreams, Chief.”

  The two sticks of SEALs filed to the rear of the aircraft in preparation for the jump.

  “Check equipment!” yelled the jumpmaster. Behind him, the ramp and top door of the 130 yawned open. “CHECK EQUIPMENT!” the platoon echoed as each man checked the equipment of the man in front of him. Engel checked Nolan’s and Nolan checked Engel’s. The SEALs then crowded on the ramp butt to belly. The unspoken game was to see just how fast the sixteen jumpers could cross the ramp and exit the aircraft.

  “Get ready!”

  “GET READY!”

  “Green light. Go! Go! Go!”

  The drop zone crew on the floor of the Otay Desert watched as what seemed to be a dense black mass of insects mushroomed from the rear of the aircraft and dispersed. Most were lost from view as the sixteen SEALs plummeted to the earth. Each stick or squad had a designated lead jumper, identified by a square of iridescent tape on his helmet. The others in his squad formed up on him in a loose V-formation, like a ragged gaggle of geese. It was not a long flight, just under sixty seconds. The lead jumpers pulled first. The other jumpers turned outward from their leader and quickly followed. Parachutes blossomed above the DZ.

  On the way down, Lieutenant Engel and Chief Nolan flew as the tail-end charlies in their respective squad Vs. Nolan carefully watched his jumpers, noting with sat”ing witisfaction that they held good formation. Engel watched his SEALs as well, a contented smile wind-pasted to his face.

  * * *

  The next day, and half a world away, in Jakarta, Indonesia, an ice cream truck rumbled through a crowded section of town. Small cars and scooters zipped past it in the narrow, dusty street, a street squeezed between dilapidated two-story buildings. Shoppers looked over the wares merchants hawked in their ground-floor stores and stalls, while those living in the second-story apartments above leaned out of their windows, trying to get some relief from the torpid heat on that oppressively hot afternoon. The collective mood was hurried and busy.

  The ice cream truck pulled up to the security gate of the Jakarta International School. Established in 1951 for expatriate students living in Jakarta, it was the largest international primary and secondary school in Indonesia. The school had students from sixty nationalities and was where the international elite were educated. The ice cream truck was a routine fixture at the school in the mid-afternoon. Even elite children loved ice cream, and the vehicle was allowed on school grounds as a reward to those who had to sit for a full day in the air-conditioned classrooms with the very high instructor-to-student ratios.

  The woman driving the truck—the same one who drove it every day—gave a casual wave to the guard at the gate as another guard opened the gate. The ice cream truck pulled into the school’s large asphalt courtyard right on schedule. With bells tinkling, she guided the truck to the three-story low-slung building with enormous tiled overhangs on every story, a colonial design intended to shield the school’s 2,500 students from the blistering equatorial heat. It was the school’s main building, with the name displayed in letters a foot high on its second story. Primary school had just let out, and a cluster of first- through fifth-graders began to scamper toward the ice cream truck.

  A large limousine, a Mercedes 600 flying the American flag on a stanchion attached to the right front of its hood, approached the gate and was waved through. The car came to a stop just inside the courtyard, and American ambassador Antonio Marguilles stepped out, donning his straw hat in deference to the mid-afternoon sun.

  Abu Shabal stepped from the ice cream t
ruck. At six feet two and 220 pounds he towered over the children, and his bulk gave him a presence that caused the children to immediately look at him.

  “Come, children, line up, line up,” Shabal called jovially as he waved the children toward the truck’s open side door. “Graciela will take your orders.”

  “Come, come,” Shabal continued as he herded the children toward the truck. He moved among the youngsters, yet his head was on a swivel. The welcoming smile was there, but his eyes were those of a predator. The children did what Shabal asked them to do because he was an adult and because he spoke in a commanding but disarmingly friendly tone. They also obeyed because of the horrible, disfiguring, crescent-shaped scar that covered the left side of his face. Instinctively, the children knew he was not to be trifled with.

  “Now, children, liacechildrene up, please,” Graciela enjoined them. “No pushing, no shoving, be patient,” she continued. “There is plenty of ice cream for everyone.”

  The scores of milling children pushed and shoved their way forward holding out their coins for Graciela as she began to dispense ice cream. The crowd swelled as more primary schoolers converged on the truck. It was joyful chaos. One of the students who was off to the side of the swelling queue was fourth-grader Nicolas Marguilles, the ambassador’s only son. He saw his father approaching and bolted toward him.

  “Papa, Papa,” shouted Nicolas as he continued toward the ambassador, holding the straps of his backpack to keep it firm on his tiny back.

  “Nicolas,” replied Marguilles as he took his hat off and waved it at his son. Soon Nicolas was at his side. The boy grasped his father’s legs as he hugged him.

  “Papa, can we get some ice cream?” the boy entreated as he looked up at the tall ambassador.

  “No, son, we have to go,” he said solemnly, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

  “You always say no, Papa. Please.”

  “Well, Nicolas, are you going to buy?” Marguilles teased.

  “No, Papa, you buy!” replied Nicolas as he dragged Marguilles toward the ice cream truck.

  “Well then, what are we getting today?”

  “Passion fruit, Papa.”

  “Okay, passion fruit it is,” replied Marguilles as he let Nicolas continue to drag him toward the ice cream truck.

  Shabal noticed the ambassador approaching the ice cream truck. He smoothly detached himself from the crowd of children and began to walk calmly but deliberately away from the truck. Without looking back, he made his way to the school’s gate, which was now wide open as several other cars entered the school grounds—more parents picking up their kids at the end of the school day.

  As Shabal crossed the street and turned the corner he slipped his right hand into his pocket, finding the remote transmitter. He did not need to remove the device. His fingers found the on/off rocker switch, then the activation button.

  A low, buckling explosion shattered the calm day as a monstrous fireball engulfed the ice cream truck and a huge column of black smoke rolled upward. Moments later, ice cream bars mixed with small torsos and limbs rained down on the scene in a wide circle around what used to be the ice cream truck. Dozens were killed instantly, followed immediately by the piercing cries of wounded children. Ambassador Marguilles and Nicolas were nowhere to be seen; what was left of their bodies was part of the collective burning mass of flesh and twisted metal.

  Shabal felt the pressure wave and heard the explosion. Yet he never looked back as he disappeared into the crowded city. It was not the first time he’d left burning and lac

  erated bodies in his wake.

  TWO

  As he surveyed the vast Pacific Ocean from his palatial mansion near the city of Puntarenas, Costa Rica, Christo had the world in the palm of his hand—for the moment. Perched on a mountaintop on more than twenty acres of pristine forest, the twelve-thousand-square-foot manse was far more than he needed for his small family—his wife, Dominga, and four-year-old daughter, Solana—but he had worked hard to get where he was, and he felt entitled to enjoy the fruits of his labor. There were, of course, close to a dozen servants and caretakers that Christo considered an extended part of his family. It was a part of his patron image.

  “Daddy, jump in the pool and play with me,” Solana squealed as she frolicked in the 80-degree water of their Olympic-size, zero-level pool.

  “In a moment,” he replied, holding the satellite phone away from his mouth. Then back to the caller, “So you are telling me that the ambassador is no longer with us . . . I see . . . and it was the work of our associate . . . Quite right, my friend. Well then, I guess that’s how it is . . . Yes, thank you for the call, good-bye.”

  “Please, Daddy, please,” Solana pleaded.

  “You’d better jump in soon,” Dominga encouraged him. “I’m almost finished preparing lunch, and I want you to eat it while it’s hot.”

  “As you say, my love,” Christo replied.

  He stood up and stripped off his shirt. He was vain enough to admire his own body—if only for a moment. At just under six feet and a well-muscled 185 pounds, Christo cut an imposing, athletic figure. He had jet-black hair that he allowed to grow to shoulder length, deep-set blue eyes, and dazzlingly white capped teeth. Only a narrow, prominent hawklike nose saved him from movie-star good looks. The hair and the nose gave him something of an academic bearing, on which he was quick to capitalize. Before entering the water, he took a moment to look around. He saw all that was his and realized, not for the first time, that he, in fact, did live the life as capo in this part of his adopted country. He dove into the pool, coming up directly underneath his daughter and giving Solana’s leg a gentle tug, bobbing her in the water.

  “Daddy, Daddy, let me ride on your shoulders,” Solana shouted.

  Christo obliged, taking big, monsterlike steps in the shallow end of the pool, giving Solana a ride up and down in and out of the water. Dominga looked on, seeing the genuine love he had for their daughter.

  Christo reflected as he bobbed up and down, carrying the squealing Solana all around the shallow end of the pool. Yes, he had untold riches, close to a bi"-1llion U.S. dollars, gained in part from narco-trafficking and later in the even-more-lucrative arms-for-drug trade. But hadn’t he lavished his largesse on a range of worthy causes in his adopted country of Costa Rica? Were not the Catholic Church, medical clinics, schools, and other worthy undertakings he funded for the still-poor inhabitants of this coastal section of Costa Rica all the better because of his generosity?

  He had certainly lined the pockets of local politicians, and they had, in turn, protected his estate and turned a blind eye to his illegal activities. But that was just how business was done in Central America—and everywhere else, for that matter. For the Wharton-trained Christo, it was, in fact, all business—nothing more. Whatever damage his dealings did, and he wasn’t convinced any of it really did any damage, he more than made up for it in the millions of dollars he gave back to the people—his people. In many ways, Christo saw himself as a modern-day Robin Hood. He took from the wealthy, drug-addicted Europeans and Norte Americanos, and gave back to the campesinos who lived at the subsistence level.

  Yes, life was good, but good by his own initiative. But now they were closing in on him, and it was getting too risky—for him and for the fanatical elements with whom he now dealt. All he needed was one final score, and he would leave this life behind and escape with his small family. He had put the wheels in motion. Now he just needed it to play out. He had made it happen in the past; he would do it again—one more time. Let someone else take care of the less fortunate for a change, he told himself. It was time for him to take care of those closest to him. In the final analysis, they were his world.

  * * *

  It was Sunday, just before noon, when Dave Nolan arrived at Danny’s—Home of the Slamburger. Danny’s was one of the older, and some would say shabbier, burger joints on Coronado’s Orange Avenue, and yet it was a favorite among Team guys. The slamburger was indeed im
pressive—a third of a pound of very lean beef that came in a variety of configurations. Lieutenant Engel had asked Nolan to meet him for lunch, which in itself was strange. Engel and his wife were both avid surfers and could usually be found at the break in La Jolla on Sunday mornings. Nolan was there ahead of his platoon officer. He worked his way down the long bar, exchanging hellos with a few of the SEALs seated on barstools. Everyone knew Dave Nolan. In decades past, SEALs would be there to nurse hangovers. Now, after ten years of war, most of them were there for a late breakfast after a morning workout. Nolan found a booth in the rear. As he swung into the booth, the waitress set a mug of coffee in front of him. On the wall-mounted TV, CNN was replaying the graphic footage of a terror attack in Indonesia. “Ain’t it just awful what those bastards did to those kids,” the waitress said. “How can someone go out and blow up a bunch of kids?”

  Nolan glanced at the wall-mounted TV. He’d seen the coverage of the school bombing in Jakarta earlier that morning. At first, the act itself made his blood run cold, then it began to boil as he considered the animals who would commit such a thing. For Dave Nolan, things like this were black-and-white; there was good and bad, us and them. He didn’t like the bad, and he didn’t like people who did bad things. So he drew no small measure of comfort from the fact that it was his sworn duty to find these bad people and deal with them. A duty and a privilege.

  “That’s why they call them terrorists, Cindy, and that’s why we chase ’em. Don’t look for it to get better anytime soon. But point taken: They are a bunch of assholes.”

  “You’d think that things might get better since you guys got Osama.”

  Nolan smiled to himself. It was an East Coast SEAL element that led the raid on Bin Laden’s compound in Pakistan, but all SEALs seemed to get credit for what they had done. Dave had just finished dinner that day and was in the front yard playing with Gretchen, his oldest daughter, when a neighbor came over to congratulate him—as if he’d personally shot the guy. As with nearly all SEALs who were not directly involved with the operation, he’d learned of the raid like any other American, at home on a Sunday evening. And that, thought Nolan, was as it should be. If he and the Banditos were ever lucky enough to go in on a super-high-value target, he could only hope that few people, SEALs or otherwise, would know about it. Mission success depended on absolute security.