Tom Clancy's Act of Valor

by Dick Couch

  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.r />
  “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.