Sons of Valor Read online

  “Okay,” Yi said cautiously. “I’ll try. Are those pictures from the convoy attack outside of Jalalabad?” She sipped her mocha, leaning in to look at Whitney’s monitor.

  “Yeah,” she said, angling her monitor for a better shared view. Pictures filled the screen of burned-out military vehicles on route A1 in Afghanistan. The rear Humvee was the most intact, lying on its side, with a body splayed beside it. The transport vehicle was completely incinerated, however, little more than scattered parts inside a wide crater. It was the worse IED scene she had ever seen, but something else about it bugged her. She tapped the side of her coffee cup with a finger as she stared at the pictures. At the bottom left, two medics from the recovery team were leaning over someone on the ground, one of them holding a bag of saline for an IV in the air.

  “Did we get tasked to look into it?” Yi asked, her tone cautious.

  “No, but I saw the report in flash traffic and I got curious . . .” She hesitated, debating whether she should let Yi into her head. What the hell. We’re a team, right? “Michelle, do you see anything odd in this picture?”

  Yi leaned in for a closer look. “Um . . . nothing that immediately catches my eye. Just looks like a typical IED attack. Middle vehicle gets the worst of it. Why, do you?”

  “Maybe,” Whitney said, then zoomed in on the image of the injured soldier being tended to beside the wreckage. “From this angle, it looks to me like that soldier is pointing at something.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, it does. What do you think she’s pointing at?”

  “I don’t know, but from the look on her face, I’d say it’s important.”

  “Maybe we can find out. Do you want me to do some digging and try to figure out who she is and get a message to the command?” Yi asked.

  “I already know who she is—Staff Sergeant Mirin Taylor.”

  “Okay, great, that makes things easier.”

  “Not really. She didn’t make it.”

  “Oh . . . that’s too bad,” Yi said, looking down into her cup.

  “Yeah, it is,” Whitney said, zooming the image out to full frame, then reclining against the backrest of her chair while she stared at it. She took a sip of the latte, which had finally cooled enough to drink, then said, “What if it wasn’t a roadside IED that took out this convoy? What if it was missile strike?”

  Yi laughed nervously at first, then said, “Oh, sorry, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Dead serious,” Whitney said. “I mean, I’m no explosive ordnance expert, but this crater looks different than an IED blast. The vehicle damage looks different too. Whatever did this got really hot. Reminds me of pics I’ve seen of vehicles after getting hit by a Hellfire.”

  “Interesting theory,” Yi said. “You don’t think this was friendly fire, do you?”

  Whitney winced. “I think it’s a possibility we shouldn’t ignore.”

  “I have some connections with aviation types up at Oceana. They do Battle Damage Assessments following airstrikes. If you want, I can get a BDA opinion on these pictures. And at the same time, I can also float the question to see if they’ve heard any rumors about a blue-on-blue event.”

  “You were at Oceana in Virginia?”

  “Yes, ma’am—I mean, Whitney,” Yi said, smiling. “I was at VFA-31 as a new-intel specialist right out of school at Dam Neck, before I ended up at SEAL Team Ten.”

  Whitney nodded and saved several images into a file and labeled it Oceana. “I’m sending you these pictures. Let me know what you hear back, then we can decide where we want to go next with this.”

  “Roger that,” Yi said and got up from her chair.

  “Thanks for the coffee, Michelle.”

  “You’re welcome, Whitney,” Yi said with a smile and left.

  During her indoc, Whitney had been briefed by Commander Bowman—Captain Select Bowman, she’d been informed—that hers would be a job of short fuses. Her primary function was to pull together important bits of relevant intelligence to prepare the team when orders hit, then unravel streams of actionable intelligence when they were down range, to keep them safe on the hunt. When she was not supporting tasking, her job was to maintain a thirty-thousand-foot perspective of ever-evolving intelligence on the terrorism hot spots around the globe, to be ready at moment’s notice to support action against any number of targets when an opportunity presented itself. So given the latter mandate, she’d decided to do what she always did—snoop around. When she found something that piqued her interest, she would peel back the fragmented layers of information until a story began to take shape. At NCTC, she’d had access to counterintelligence data streams, but nothing like she had here. At the Tier One, she felt like the proverbial kid in the candy shop. With a click of her mouse she could peruse the daily intelligence briefs from all the Unified Combatant Commands in DoD with high levels of terror threats—which in today’s world was practically all of them.

  In her peripheral vision, someone big stepped into her open doorway.

  “Morning,” said familiar voice.

  She looked up from her monitor to see Chunk dressed in running shorts and a “Don’t Tread on Me” Gadsden flag T-shirt. He smiled at her from under his battered backward ball cap.

  “Good morning,” she said, flashed him a don’t-you-dare-ask-me-to-go-running-with-you smile, then took a long sip from her coffee.

  “Glad to see you’re here early. I’m headed out to do a PT run with Riker, Trip, and Spence. Got your PT gear?”

  Are you friggin’ serious?

  “I do, but I have a few things I’m working on,” she said, not moving a muscle.

  She’d stuffed workout clothes and a pair of Nikes in the bottom drawer of her desk after the fourth time Chunk had mentioned that PT was a part of the workday for everyone.

  “Delegate,” he said and smiled at her.

  She sighed. “Chunk, I don’t know how to say this, but uh . . . I don’t run,” she said, using her best it’s-settled tone. “Sorry.”

  “Say again?” he said, cupping a hand to his ear theatrically. “I thought I just heard you say you don’t run, but that couldn’t possibly be, because you’re at the Tier One SEAL Team and physical readiness is one of our core principles here.”

  “Yeah, about that. I’m an analyst. You’re the Navy SEAL. You work out there”—she gestured to the beyond—“jumping out of helicopters, swimming in the ocean, and chasing down the bad guys. And I work in here, at this desk.” She tapped the desktop and took another long, slow sip of coffee, just to drive the point home.

  His response to this was not what she expected. He laughed—a legitimate, pitying laugh, at her expense. “Did nobody tell you?”

  “Tell me what?” she asked, feeling her cheeks blush with heat.

  “Your billet is not a desk job. Yes, you’re our lead analyst, but where we go, you go.”

  As quickly as the blood had gone to her cheeks, she felt it drain away. “Whaaat?” was all she could manage.

  “Yeah, you’re part of the team. When we deploy, you deploy.”

  “I thought you guys were just screwing with me.”

  “No,” he said through a chuckle. “Why do you think we gave you all that gear?”

  She did a quick mental inventory of all the shit they’d outfitted her with. Tactical clothes, backpacks, boots, socks, hats, rain gear, two sleeping bags, pocket knives, and that ridiculous g-shock watch. She’d even made a joke at the time that she was grateful for the free swag, but as a taxpayer she was starting to get enraged.

  “And we still need to get your kit set up and weapons issued. Saw is gonna help you dope up your rifle with sights and lights, and help you select a pistol or two. Any preferences?”

  It wasn’t a charade. He was serious.

  She wasn’t sure what to say. She hadn’t shot a firearm since her indoc course at the Farm, and that had been more than a couple of years ago.

  “You gonna say something, or just stare at me with your mouth open?”

  “Yeeeaaah, I haven’t really kept current with my firearms training like I probably should have. And the last time I did PT was at the Farm.”

  Chunk nodded. “All right, at least you’re being honest. Here’s the thing, Heels—working out together is a big part of team building here. This is more than a desk job for you. You’ll need to stay fit and be proficient with a firearm if you want to be part of this unit.”

  “But I’m not a SEAL, and I have no aspirations of trying to become one,” she said, making no effort to hide the incredulity in her voice.

  “Oh, don’t worry, we know that. But there’s no room for baggage at the Tier One. You don’t need to be an operator, but like I said, where we go, you go, and we don’t stay at the Ritz much. Shit happens in this line of work. You need to be able to run and to shoot, if only for personal protection. We won’t always be there to carry you. Do you understand?”

  She nodded and felt her heart flutter. “No baggage . . .”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay,” she said and exhaled. “How far is the run today?”

  “Probably six, no big deal.”

  “Six? Like, six miles?” she gasped.

  “Yeah,” he said with a sadist’s grin. “Is that gonna be a problem for you?”

  “Yes, Chunk, it’s going to be a problem for me. And for you, when people see me puking along the side of the road.”

  “Nah, it’s good to clear out the pipes once in a while. Meet you on the barbecue deck in five,” he said and was gone.

  She leaned back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling.
br />   He’s not joking. They’re going to run me until I puke or die from heatstroke. Whichever comes first.

  Probably death.

  With a resigned groan, Whitney “Heels” Watts pulled her workout clothes from her desk drawer and began to change.

  CHAPTER 14

  Chunk jogged in place along the curb as he waited for Whitney to finish puking in the grass. He’d sent the rest of the guys and Yi on without them, because, well, contrary to popular belief, SEALs were capable of empathy.

  “Is that really necessary?” she asked, on all fours, not looking at him, her voice both weary and agitated.

  “Is what necessary?”

  “Running in place while you wait for me. It kinda feels like you’re rubbing it in.”

  He gave a genuine laugh. “This is just good physiological science. I’m keeping my muscles warm and my heart rate up so I don’t fall into a resting lull.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “’Cause it feels like you’re rubbing it in.”

  “The first run is always the hardest,” he said. “You’re going to be sore as hell tomorrow, but three weeks from now, you’ll be shocked at how far you’ve progressed. The human body is an amazingly adaptive machine.”

  She spit one last time, got to her feet, and turned, red faced, to glare at him.

  “Your color looks better,” he said with a smug smile. Then seeing the reaction he was hoping for added, “It’s okay, go ahead and say it. That’s how we roll around here.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, hit me with both barrels.”

  “Fuck you and your fucking six-mile run.”

  He nodded approvingly. “Feel better?”

  “Much better,” she said and finally flashed him the defiant smile he’d been waiting for.

  “We’re past the halfway point. It would be longer to turn around and go back than to finish the loop. So . . . you ready?”

  She let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine, but I get to set the pace.”

  “Sure. It will give us a chance to talk.”

  Despite the compulsion to push her, he kept his promise and let her set the pace, which was so slow he could almost walk.

  All in good time . . .

  They jogged in silence for a quarter mile or so before he said, “So, Whitney, I haven’t heard much from you over the past two weeks . . .”

  “I’ve been working,” she said with a defensive edge.

  “I know, I’ve seen you burning the midnight oil in your office . . . Let me rephrase. What have you been working on?”

  “I started by familiarizing myself with the old Tier One after-action reports—beginning a year before and up through the Operation Crusader incident. Next, I reviewed every team member’s personnel files, including yours, and after that, I studied the last twelve months of operations that you conducted at Team Four.”

  “Oh,” he said, her initiative and brazen candidness catching him off guard. “Makes sense, I suppose. You got any questions?”

  “Dozens . . .”

  “Great, fire away.”

  “Your last op with Team Four, that Pakistani freighter in the Arabian Sea, particularly got my attention.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “The assessment CIA prepared has some holes. Maybe you could help fill them in for me?”

  “I can try,” he said, his mind taking him back to that very unusual night.

  “Reading between the lines, I take it you encountered resistance commandeering the vessel, but the assessment was light on specifics.”

  “Threat assessments usually try to keep it at a higher level, but yes, we did face resistance. Ten contract security personnel in unmarked uniforms were on board to protect the cargo. I wasn’t able to confirm their identity or employer, but to my eye they looked to be of East Asian descent.”

  “Chinese?”

  “That’s where I’d put my money, but I never followed up.”

  “Do you know what hardware was recovered from the cargo hold?”

  “Nope. We turned the ship over to the spooks and didn’t stick around for the unboxing.”

  “You curious to know what it was carrying?” she said, glancing at him as she jogged.

  “Yeah, actually, I am.”

  “Chinese military hardware. HJ-10 air-to-ground missiles, portable SAM units, and boxes of what CIA believes to be drone components.”

  “We all know the Chinese have defense contracts to supply the Pakistani military with hardware and systems, so on its face that’s not surprising,” Chunk said. “But what’s odd to me is that the Chinese guys we capped were armed, but definitely not SOF. They performed like mercenaries, not operators.”

  “That’s the sort of detail that was missing in the threat assessment,” she said, squeezing out the words between heavy pants. “That ship was bound for Gwadar, a small seaport in western Pakistan. If this was legit defense contract fulfillment, then I would expect delivery to happen in Karachi by a Chinese-flagged cargo ship. The ship you hit was a Pakistani freighter.”

  “Agreed. So you think it was illegal arms trafficking?”

  “Yeah, and given the port, probably bound for a jihadi client,” she said. “And there’s something else . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “I don’t have shred of proof for what I’m about to say. It’s pure conjecture.”

  “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “There was an Army convoy that got hit en route to J-bad yesterday.”

  “I heard.”

  “Preliminary assessment is that they hit an IED, but I think it was a missile strike.”

  “On what basis?” He had already learned enough about her to know not to dismiss anything she said as out of hand. Still, this seemed far-fetched.

  “I’ve seen lots of pictures of IED hits and missile strikes, and the aftermath here looks like the latter to me.”

  He pursed his lips as he jogged beside her at a snail’s pace. It seemed pretty thin. On the other hand, she did have a reputation for having near-perfect instincts regarding intelligence assessment, which was why they had hired her. And the implication that terrorists in theater might have access to Chinese air-to-ground missiles was too chilling to ignore.

  “You think it’s connected to my last op at Team Four?”

  “Not directly, obviously,” she said. “We confiscated those weapons. But I’m not a believer in coincidences. The Chinese-made missiles on the freighter you intercepted were headed to Pakistan for some illicit purpose. Have there been other shipments we missed, and if so where did those weapons end up?”

  “You have been busy,” he said, turning to look at her while they jogged. If she was right about this, the implications for their forces in the Middle East were gut-wrenching.

  “Told ya.”

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Keep working on trying to connect the dots, and if you come up with something concrete, we can bring it to Bowman.”

  “Roger that,” she said—the first time he’d heard her use military speak.

  A good sign, he chuckled to himself as he jogged ahead. She’s already beginning to talk like us.

  CHAPTER 15

  tier one compound

  macdill air force base

  tampa, florida

  eighteen hours later

  Chunk pushed through the tinted glass doors, jogged past the row of SEAL pictures, and ducked into his office just long enough to dump his cell phone and keys into the top drawer. Bowman had told him to “hurry his ass over” because they had an important guest in the SCIF and he’d moved Watts’s intel brief up to accommodate. He headed down the hall to the rear corner of the building, where an elevator door seemed curiously out of place. He swiped the ID hanging from his neck across a scanner plate, the LED indicator light changed from red to green, and the door opened. Inside, he punched the bottom of the two unmarked buttons and the elevator dropped rapidly, like he’d just stepped out of a C-17 for a HALO jump. The real and hidden heart of the Tier One unit was fifty feet underground—a watertight steel-and-cement bunker located below sea level on the tip of the peninsula sticking out into Tampa’s Hillsborough Bay.