RW16 - Domino Theory

by Richard Marcinko

  Just my conclusion, there. But eminently logical.

  The Pakistanis must know as well. I’m guessing that this was some sort of negotiated step, some sort of tit for tat thing that the diplomats like to call “mutual understandings on the road map to peace” or some such bullshit. But they wouldn’t have to take India’s word for it — if I could discover them so easily, the Pakistanis surely could as well.

  And so could half the terrorists in Southeast Asia.

  Hmmm …

  Granted, the Indians had a lot of troops to guard the place — which wasn’t the same thing as effective security, though we’ll let that pass for now. Still, I couldn’t quite fathom the logic in what they were doing, though I now understood why Omar had been so adamant about Special Squadron Zero keeping the place off its hit list.

  To me, that was the best possible argument to move it to the list, with big red letters, all caps. It would be a perfect test not just of the nuclear protection forces guarding the site, but of Squadron Zero’s capabilities.

  Or it would have been, if I wasn’t worried that the spec ops team had been infiltrated by terrorists. Siccing them onto the armory might be the moral equivalent of giving away the family jewels.

  It crossed my mind that Omar might have breathed his curry breath on me specifically to encourage some sort of hit there. Knowing the admiral, it was always possible that he had some sort of plot in mind that he didn’t want the U.S. directly tied to. Ken’s a great guy and all, a real lovable douche bag, but I wouldn’t trust him with a triple-locked safe. Whatever was up, I wanted no part in it.

  * * *

  I saw Captain Birla later that evening. I didn’t mention Banshee Armory, let alone the gathering of nukes.

  “You are right, Commander Rick,” he told me when I walked into his office. He was in a much better mood than I’d left him. “All we can do is prove ourselves. There will be inquiries, but I am determined to do my job.”

  He’d spoken to his men, reviewed the surveillance tapes, and reconsidered everything that had happened. The traitor, he decided, was outside the organization.

  Whether he was right or not, it was the only conclusion he could come to that would allow him to move forward, and I didn’t argue with him. I turned the subject around to the ops that were planned for the next few days.

  Special Squadron Zero would test security for the Games in various ways: we’d see what we could sneak past check posts, plant a few fake bombs, take some high-ranking prisoners. It was all out of the original Red Cell playbook; easy fun and games if you’re a SEAL.

  In theory, the operations were all unannounced. I strongly suspect that the reality was, as they say, more nuanced: Minister Dharma had a lot of friends in government, and she had access to the target list. But even if some of the facilities knew we were coming, there were always plenty of holes to exploit.

  We went over the details of our first job, then agreed to meet him the following night at Hindon air base, a military facility on the outskirts of the city that the unit would use as a jumpoff for the op. (We wanted a different starting point in case the regular base was being watched. Yes, that does happen.)

  “There will be some political currents when we succeed with our tests,” said Captain Birla, tapping his desk. “There will be some red faces.”

  “We can only hope,” I told him.

  ( II )

  The Pakistani intelligence connection to India for Islam was intriguing, to use a word that pops up in spy novels a lot.

  Unfortunately, the only way to flesh it out was to travel to Pakistan and talk to some of the people I knew there, both in the capital, Islamabad, and the capital of terrorist activity, Lahore. Ordinarily, if I couldn’t do it myself I’d send Doc; my network of contacts included a number of SEALs who have stooped so low as to work on a contract basis for the Christians in Action, and they’re generally more forthcoming with brothers rather than cousins. But Doc had to stay with the field hockey team, and I had too much business in India as well. Danny Barrett was back in the States taking care of business there; the next logical choice was Sean.

  Sean’s a good kid, a Ranger veteran and possibly one of the most reliable young guys I know. He wasn’t crazy about going to Pakistan, though.

  “I’m going to miss the action,” he complained. “This is just talking to people.”

  “Mostly it’s listening.”

  “That’s what I mean. I got screwed out of Cuba, and Malaysia was a picnic. I really need to get the adrenaline level up, Dick.”

  You gotta love these guys. But that’s what the Rangers are — their motto is “Rangers lead the way,” and if they’re not on the cutting edge of action, they figure the world has gone completely to hell.

  Not that you, or Sean for that matter, should think Pakistan’s a picnic.

  I gave him the requisite pat on the fanny and sent him on his way.

  * * *

  Mongoose and Shotgun have been like brothers ever since they tripped each other in training. They were a regular Frick and Frack, Mutt and Jeff, Abbott and Costello, cracking each other up and bailing each other out when the brown stuff hits the fan.

  Mongoose had spent the past three weeks back home, working on a project of ours that Danny Barrett was heading. Danny has a background in law enforcement, and over the last year or so I’ve been leaning on him more and more to handle the jobs we do in that domain. He also takes up a lot of the administrative slack when I’m not around. He’s the Danny Doc was referring to when he suggested I back out a bit.

  Anyway, Mongoose worked with Junior on that gig, a kind of outside guy to Junior’s inside. Relax, you’re not missing anything — like Malaysia, the job was very routine and boring, exactly the way we and the customer wanted it to be. Bad for the books, but good for business.

  During that time, Mongoose and Junior became good friends. They really hadn’t had much of a chance to hang out before. At some point, Mongoose turned Junior on to a new training regime he was following. The results were astounding.

  There are a million of these things out there, and I don’t want to plug one over the other, especially since I wasn’t the one doing it or supervising it. (At Red Cell International we have our own program, patterned after the SEAL workouts, with a few extra twists added by our resident dominatrix, Trace.) It’s probable that the exact exercises weren’t the real secret; more important was the fact that Junior worked hard on it every day.

  He was on the skinny side when he came to work with us. In fact, that was one of his charms — all the women wanted to mother him, even Trace, who fed him protein shakes and even a few home-baked cookies. All of that food had added, oh, maybe a pound and a half to him by the time we got out of Cuba. Very likely his weight gain was canceled by the workouts Trace was putting him through.

  But when he showed up in Delhi, it was obvious he’d gained weight. And it was muscle, not fat. His shoulders were wider, his neck thicker. Where I really noticed it was in his forearms, which bulged when he picked up his bags.

  Muscles are one thing; physical fitness is another. It was obvious his workouts had helped both when he went out for our wake-up run the morning after he arrived.

  Pride generally prevents me from finishing too far back on the morning constitutionals. With age comes wisdom: I’ve learned how to pace myself, go with the pack, then give it that last squeeze at the end just to keep my self-esteem up. Not that I’d finish first. All I required was to keep my companions within swatting distance when they mouthed off at the finish line — a reachable goal, especially when running with Junior, who despite his long legs and skinny frame wasn’t much of a sprinter when he joined us.

  But it wasn’t possible that morning. In fact, he and Mongoose left Shotgun and myself way in the dust before we got out of the hotel driveway. They were so far ahead when we reached the road, neither Guns nor I knew which way they’d gone. We turned right and caught a glimpse of Mongoose’s blue sweat suit, and that was the last
we saw of either of them until we got back to the hotel forty-five minutes later.

  (For the record — I was two strides behind Shotgun at the end. Delhi was steaming that morning.)

  We found Mongoose and Junior down in the gym, deep into their workout when we arrived for ours. Junior looked older for the first time, solid.

  Older here meaning actually in his teens, which rumor has it he passed a year or two ago. (He’s legal, at least according to his driver’s license.)

  Maybe it wasn’t just his muscles. He’d proven himself in Cuba, working a lot on his own. He was more confident; you could see it in his face. The muscles were just window dressing. It made a dad proud.

  I hadn’t known that Junior even existed until only a few months before. I won’t go back over our history, but the truth is I’d resisted the idea that he was really my son. I didn’t see any resemblance, even if other people claimed they did. And our personalities were different. He was quiet where I’d been a wiseass; he was cerebral where I’d been physical.

  Now I realized that some of those differences were just a matter of emphasis and circumstance. We’d had very different childhoods and educations. He wasn’t Richard Marcinko, and I wasn’t Matthew Loring.

  Thank God, all around, right?

  But who was Matthew Loring?

  A good kid, intelligent, hardworking. With initiative and drive. Someone who didn’t ask any favors or special recognition, but tried hard to do his job, and prove he belonged.

  Not a SEAL, but not everyone in the world can be that lucky. Under the right circumstances, he might have been a SEAL. I can’t predict how anyone would do in BUD/S — Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training is a personal trial no one can predict. But based on his experience with us, Matt would have had a shot at success there.

  Other people, I know, had seen it earlier than I did. Trace, Doc, Karen. Me, too, I guess. But now I was willing to admit it.

  To myself. And to him.

  Which a lot of times is the hardest thing.

  * * *

  It was in the hotel gym that Mongoose met Vina. She was a cute little thing, twenty-three years old, the daughter of a visiting Argentine diplomat. She had a law degree from the States, but was here working as her father’s secretary.

  If she stood on her tiptoes, she might have just cleared five feet. The bar she pressed over her head looked to weigh twice what she did.

  Not quite, but almost. I doubt she was more than a hundred pounds. I won’t say she had no fat on her body, but what was there was very strategically placed.

  Mongoose is not known for smiling, but his face lit up when Vina walked into the weight room and start racking up some of the iron. He went over and asked if she wanted some help.

  Vina gave him a look that would have neutered a dog. Mongoose smiled — I think Shotgun and Junior nearly fell over from shock — then did this “no maas” thing with his hands.

  “I’ll spot you,” he offered.

  She said something in Spanish to the effect that he should consider carefully his body integrity.

  Any other man at that point would have been a whipped cur, sleeking off to the showers. Not Mongoose.

  “Oh, you speak Spanish,” he said, in Spanish of course. “You have a lovely accent. Where did you grow up?”

  “In a place where I learned how to deal with much more charming idiots than you.”

  “I’m from the States.”

  “I couldn’t tell.”

  “You really do need a spotter.”

  “Shove it.”

  “You go ahead and I’ll watch. If there is an emergency, Mongoose is here.”

  Vina looked like she was going to throw the weights into his midsection. I’m sure if she had, he would have caught them and handed them back. Instead, she jerked the weight and began doing presses, twenty-five of them, whipping them off like she was skipping rope.

  Mongoose’s grin grew.

  Shotgun and Junior pretended to be deep in their workouts, but they were watching the whole thing out of the corners of their eyes. I just chuckled and started my crunches.

  At first, Vina raced through her workout. But about halfway through — I think she was doing curls — she started to ease her pace.

  Mongoose’s grin grew the whole time.

  My workout was done, but this was too good a show to miss. I grabbed a bottle of water and a towel and sat on one of the chairs outside the room, watching through the plate glass as Mongoose played lapdog.

  Actually, he wanted to be a lapdog. All he got to do was stand downwind of her sweat.

  And then suddenly she was done, walking out of the room. It was so quick I thought I’d missed something. But no — she’d just put the weight down and left.

  Mongoose followed, trying to catch his breath.

  “Hey, you didn’t even tell me your name,” he said as she walked down the hall. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a person that short walk that fast.

  “I’m not telling you my name.”

  “I’ll tell you mine.”

  “What a treat that is.”

  “Thomas Yamya … When will I see you again?”

  I’m censoring her reply, due to the sensitive nature of my audience.

  * * *

  Mongoose may have been in love, but he and the rest of us had work to do. Doc and Trace were sharpening their sticks and kilts. I sent Shotgun and Mongoose over to reconnoiter; after a look-around, they were to continue over to the stadium and some of the other Game sites, familiarizing themselves with the area and looking for anything, or more likely anyone, out of place.

  Junior had come to India as our tech guy. He pursued his specialty by checking the various Internet shops in the city, lining up a good set of computers for us to use, freeing Shunt for other business back in the States, and giving us more immediate support. We have a system of anonymous servers that we can use to access whatever we have to access, but finding the right computer to do it from can be tricky. You don’t want someone looking over your shoulder, nor do you want there to be any connection between you and the place if your foolproof anonymous methods prove less than foolproof.

  No, I have no clue about the specifics involved with encryption algorithms and anonymous gateways and all that; I’m lucky I can get the damn computer to set the margins the way the publisher wants them. But that’s the beauty of being the boss — I don’t have to worry about that garbage.

  Junior trolled the Internet kiosks in the city, but eventually settled on a set of computers at a small school a half mile from where we were staying. The school had all the usual security precautions in place, meaning that anyone who looked halfway like a student could slink in and get on the network. A few keystrokes and a stolen password later, and you could make the school’s mainframes sing and dance. There were literally no barriers from there.

  Indian government computers? Ha. Easier to get into than the Pentagon’s. And the Pentagon’s aren’t that tough.

  * * *

  What was I doing while all of this was going on?

  I’d like to say that I was engaged in another round of footsie with Minister Dharma. That was certainly my intention. But the minister was ensconced in parliament sessions, and so I got my daily update from one of her assistants, a dour-looking man named Vijay. (Rhymes with “No Way,” the perfect government name.) He assured me that all preparations were proceeding as planned, the Games would not be disrupted by terrorists, and the stock market would soon reach new heights.

  I’m kidding about the stock market, but I’m sure he would have said that if I asked. For all his stated optimism, his sour monotone sounded like the voice of the dead.

  * * *

  The members of Special Squadron Zero were a pretty quiet group when I met Captain Birla at the air base that night.

  Gathering for the mission into Pakistan, they’d been quiet and nervous, but it was a good quiet and a good nervous. This quiet was not nearly so good.

  It’s hard t
o explain exactly what I mean unless you’ve been in that situation. It’s like a sports team that’s made the playoffs by a good distance, and now is heavily favored in the first round. They’re anxious, a bit, and concerned that they’re going to do a good job, but they’re also looking forward to the contest, and pretty much confident that they can win.

  That’s how a group of shooters, even untested ones, are before the show. You don’t want them too cocky, of course — that’s about the surest way of getting your ass kicked there is. But you certainly don’t want them thinking they’re defeated before going into the game.

  All that bullshit you see in movies where the commander gets up right before the big battle and says, “Ninety percent of you are going to die today, but what the hell — go kick some butt on the way!” Well, it’s bullshit. Nobody stands up and says that.

  Hell, if you’re the commander and you think that, then what in God’s name are you doing? Ninety percent casualties? Even fifty percent. If the situation truly calls for that — and I will grant that there are times when it must — bragging about it is the last thing you want to do.

  Look, the goal of every operation is to get your guys back alive. It’s not your only goal, and in fact it’s often not the top goal, but getting your ass blown off sucks even when it’s for a good cause. No use pretending it don’t.

  No, what you say before the op is what Captain Birla said that night going into Pakistan: “We’ve trained for this, we know how to do it, and we’re going to succeed. Board the helis.”11

  He said more or less the same thing tonight, except for the heli part, since most of the team was going via truck. But the body language was all wrong — instead of seeming understated, he seemed like he was talking from a corner he’d been backed into.

  His guys were the same way — slumped shoulders, gear hanging down, clothes not precisely squared away. It was a damn good thing we weren’t heading for Pakistan, that’s all I can say.

  Our destination was the school where Trace’s team was staying. Birla had chosen it without input from me — and without knowing that I had shooters there. It was a logical target: a Munich-style strike on high-profile athletes.