Hunt the Falcon (6 page)

“Because you can't fall asleep without the TV on, Manny snores like a wounded warthog, and Davis talks to his wife in his sleep,” Crocker answered.

“It's true,” Davis said.

“What about Cal?”

Crocker handed out the electronic key cards and said, “Unpack, wash up, jerk off, whatever.…And reassemble here at 1855.” That gave them roughly twenty minutes.

“You hear the part about washing up, Akil?” Ritchie cracked as he exited. “That's a not-so-subtle hint that you need to take a shower.”

“Kiss my hairy Egyptian ass.”

Crocker stacked his clothes carefully on the wooden shelves in the closet, showered, clipped his salt-and-pepper mustache, and changed into a fresh black polo and black cotton pants. Exiting the bathroom he found CNN News blaring from the TV and Akil on the floor by the window doing crunches.

He turned down the sound and said, “You'd better get ready.”

On his way to the bathroom, Akil said, “I think I'm gonna like this city.”

“We're not tourists,” Crocker reminded him. He remembered leaving a bar early one morning the last time he'd been in Bangkok and coming to the aid of two drunken Aussies who were getting the shit pounded out of them by a gang of Thai toughs. The toughs claimed the Aussies hadn't paid their thousand-dollar bar bill. One of the Aussies shot back, “How could two skinny bums like us drink that much shitty Thai beer?”

He considered calling home, then realized it was something like 6 a.m. in Virginia. When the rest of the SEALs returned, Crocker quickly briefed them on the reason they were there and said, “I'm taking Mancini with me to meet the Thai colonel. I want the rest of you to grab some grub and return to the hotel. Hopefully, we'll get a location on the terrorists and execute a raid before the sun comes up. So no drinking or fucking around. I need all of you focused and ready. And don't expect to sleep tonight.”

Ritchie turned to Mancini and asked, “Any place you'd recommend nearby for dinner?”

“For good Thai food try Tom Yum Kung on Khao San Road. If you want Italian, look for a place called Scoozi. They're both affordable.”

Cal pointed to Ritchie's new watch and advised, “If we're going walking down Khao San Road, you might want to leave that in the hotel safe.” It was a Jaeger-LeCoultre Master Compressor diving watch with a Super-LumiNova dial visible underwater, and it retailed for a little over ten thousand dollars—a marriage proposal gift from his girlfriend.

Cal, Ritchie, Davis, and Akil left first. When Crocker and Mancini descended to the lobby, they found Anderson dressed in a black silk shirt and cream blazer. With his hair slicked back, he looked like a character from
Miami Vice
.

They sat in the lounge and ordered Singha beer.

“What do you think of Admiral Olsen's statement about women performing combat roles in special ops?” Anderson asked out of the side of his mouth. Admiral Eric T. Olsen was the former head of U.S. Special Operations Command (USSOCOM), which oversees the various special operations commands of the army, air force, navy, and marine corps, including SEAL Team 6, Delta Force, and the air force's 24th Special Tactics Squadron. He had been replaced by the current commander, Admiral William McRaven, in August 2011.

“Asinine,” Mancini answered.

“If they want to and can hack it, why not?” Crocker asked.

“Because it's wrong,” Mancini answered.

Crocker, who was getting antsy, leaned toward Anderson and said, “We'd like to do this tonight, if possible. Can you get us everything we need?”

“Within reason, of course. Expect Colonel Petsut to set the parameters.”

After paying the check, Anderson led the way to Khao San Road, a colorful stretch of shops, restaurants, sidewalk masseuses, sex parlors, bars, stalls hawking T-shirts, counterfeit watches, purses, bongs, and even Botox treatments, populated by tourists from all over the globe, including lots of young kids in tank tops and shorts, sporting cornrowed hair and bad tattoos. They pushed past shady local characters offering to sell them Armani suits for fifty dollars, “refurbished” iPhones and iPads, drugs, and every variety of sexual activity known to man. Several tuk-tuk drivers offered to take them on a tour of the city for twenty baht, the equivalent of sixty-five cents.

“It's gotta be a scam,” Crocker said.

“No, mister,” one of the drivers countered in Tinglish—a combination of Thai and bad English. “We get money from gov'ment for every tourist we take.”

“Yeah, and I'm really a six-foot-six black basketball player named Michael Jordan. You ever hear of Michael Jordan?”

“You, Michael Jordan the basketball player? You crazy!”

A topless young woman waved to them from a window above a dress shop.

“Perky,” Mancini commented.

“Friendly, too.”

They turned into an alley that led to a wider street and the dark marble front of a somber, modern four-story structure. Anderson announced his name into the intercom and they were buzzed in. Two men in dark green uniforms checked them with metal detector wands, then pointed to a little elevator that took them to the top floor.

A pretty young woman in a tight white tunic and black skirt, her hair pulled back and decorated with a pink-and-yellow orchid, met them there.

Mancini whispered, “She smells nice,” as they followed her into a dark room that looked like an empty cocktail lounge. Norah Jones crooned “Come Away with Me” over the sound system. The young woman pointed her delicate arm at a tan banquette in the corner where three men in uniform sat. They bowed.

Recognizing Anderson, the man in the middle stood, smiled, and offered Crocker his hand. “Mr. Mansfield, welcome to my country.”

“Thank you, Colonel. This is my associate Mr. Mark Jones.”

“Sit down, please. What would you like to drink?”

Lieutenant Colonel Petsut of the Royal Thai Police was a little man with big ears and a scar that ran from the tip of his nose across his mouth to his chin. Short black hair greased back, mischievous dark eyes. He said something to one of his aides in Thai, and the man disappeared. Pointing to his other companion, he added, “I want you to meet my assistant, Captain Jakkri Phibulsongkram. You can call him Jack.”

“Jack, it's a pleasure.”

A lovely young waitress arrived with a tray of drinks, including a local tom yum, which featured lime vodka with Thai chili garnish. Crocker sipped it while Petsut talked about his time as a young man studying criminal justice at the University of California, Irvine, that apparently involved a love affair with a young Southern California girl named Linda and a proposal of marriage. He said that the two had not married but remained friends. As evidence he showed them a picture of Linda, her husband, and two daughters standing with him and his family in front of a huge reclining gold Buddha known as Wat Pho. As he stuffed the photo back in his wallet, he said, “I suppose you won't have time to visit the temple and stroll around the grounds. It always puts my spirit at peace.”

Crocker said, “We're here on business.”

“Yes,” Petsut answered, sounding sad. He spoke about the terrorist attacks and the panic they had caused, as appetizers were set on the table—
meang kum,
Baan Thai spring rolls, pumpkin
tod,
chicken satay, crispy tofu, and chicken served with sweet sauce and crushed peanuts. All done gracefully and without interrupting the flow of conversation.

When Petsut mentioned Thailand's Malay Muslim separatist movement, which had set off bombs that had killed and wounded more than three hundred people in the southern cities of Yala and Hat Yai, Anderson quickly pointed out that those attacks were not related to the recent car bombings in Bangkok. Those, he said, had likely been orchestrated by Iranian nationals.

“Yes, yes,” Petsut answered, “but the violence perpetrated by the Malay Muslims should also be a concern to you Americans, because they have specifically targeted civilian foreigners. They're trying to upset the very active tourist industry in the south.”

“I'm aware of that, Colonel,” Anderson said. “But Mr. Mansfield and his men are here specifically to deal with the men who planned and orchestrated the attacks last month.”

Dinner was served with green tea, rice wine, and white Australian wine. They ate seafood curry,
kaeng phet pet yang
(roast duck in curry), fried rice with crabmeat, noodles stir-fried with Thai basil, deep-fried fish with sweet and tangy tamarind sauce.

Crocker dined heartily while Captain Jack explained that one of the men suspected of carrying out the attack against John Rinehart and his wife had been wounded in the face. This individual had sought medical attention at a clinic in Khlong Toei, a lower-class, crime-ridden area of the city. The injured man claimed to have been walking in the vicinity of the attack with his girlfriend. But the doctor who treated him became suspicious because he was a foreigner and had recent burn marks on his ankles that looked as if they'd been caused by a motorcycle exhaust pipe.

After several days the injured man recovered enough to take a train to Kanchanaburi. At the station there he was observed arguing with another foreigner, who then let him into his car and drove him to a small farm outside the town.

Members of the Special Operations Unit under the supervision of Captain Jack had placed the farm under surveillance. They had observed four men, all foreigners who looked Middle Eastern, coming and going, but they pretty much kept to themselves. The police also saw two motorcycles that resembled the bikes used in the bomb attacks parked in a barn. A CIA-installed listening device revealed that the men conversed in Farsi.

As Captain Jack spoke, Crocker grew progressively excited. The leads the Thais had developed sounded promising. He knew from a previous trip to Thailand that Kanchanaburi was only a two-hour drive northwest of Bangkok.

With the arrival of dessert, Petsut started to discuss parameters. Because the violence had been directed at American officials and the perpetrators appeared to have arrived from a third country, he said he was willing to allow Crocker and his team to deal with the situation. Ideally, the four foreigners would be detained and quickly flown out of Thailand, and nobody in his country would notice.

He asked that violence and gunfire, especially, be kept to the minimum, only what was required to subdue the suspects. He pointed out that local Royal Thai Police would be forced to respond to any gun battle or loud explosion.

“Can you ask them to respond slowly?” Anderson asked.

“Of course,” Petsut replied. “We can do that.” Then turning to Crocker, he ran a finger along the scar on his face and asked, “Mr. Mansfield, when are you planning to execute your raid?”

“As soon as possible,” Crocker answered, looking around the room to find the source of the terrible stink that had suddenly reached his nostrils. It smelled like an overflowing toilet or broken sewage pipe. Petsut, Captain Jack, and Anderson ate the pastries, pastes, and fruits as though nothing were wrong.

Anderson noticed Crocker's unease and whispered, “It's the durian you're smelling.”

“What's that?”

Anderson pointed to a plate of light-green melon sections in the middle of the table. “Taste it, it's delicious.”

Crocker did his best to get past the smell and put a piece in his mouth. The durian tasted creamy and bittersweet. To his surprise, he actually liked it.

“Is there a problem?” Colonel Petsut asked with a very slight smile.

“Not at all,” Crocker answered. “I was thinking about how much time my men and I will need. By end of the day tomorrow I think our mission will be completed.”

“Excellent,” Petsut said. “I wish you success.”

After the meal concluded with coffee, tea, and brandy, the Americans were asked whether they wanted a relaxing massage from one of several pretty and strong-looking women who arrived at their table dressed in white pants and T-shirts.

The offer was enticing, but Crocker declined.

“Work before pleasure,” Colonel Petsut commented.

“That's correct.”

F
orty minutes
later Crocker, Anderson, and Mancini sat in Crocker's room at the Viengtai Hotel, examining a map of Thailand with three of the other four SEALs and Anderson's assistant Daw, a former sergeant in the antiterrorism unit of the Royal Malaysia Police. Akil was the only one missing.

“Where is he?” Crocker asked.

“Chatting up some Thai babe in the lobby,” Ritchie responded. “Hopefully, it isn't a dude. I've heard some of the best-looking girls here are really guys.”

“Tell him to get his ass up here.”

Daw was pointing out the location of the farm in Kanchanaburi when Akil entered quietly.

“Sorry, boss,” Akil said.

“You're going to have to stop thinking about pussy until this op is over.”

“I was in the lobby. I didn't know you were back.”

With a hand missing two fingers Daw traced Route 323 to the farm, which was a few miles east of Kanchanaburi, a rural town and popular tourist destination of roughly thirty thousand people located at the base of the western mountains.

Transportation wasn't a problem, thanks to the two Lexus SUVs Anderson had at his disposal. Mancini made a quick list of supplies, including automatic rifles and pistols with silencers, stun and tear-gas grenades, explosive material for breaching doors and windows, tie-ties, rope, axes, KA-
BAR
knives, and blowout patches.

Crocker and his men had raided dozens of buildings, houses, and apartments before, but the logistics and restrictions regarding this particular mission were unique. Turning to Anderson, he said, “We generally attack in quadrants. So if we hit the front first, we have men stationed at angles to cover any escape from windows or the back door.”

Anderson said, “I don't see that as a problem.”

“No, the problems are twofold. One, subduing the terrorists without a prolonged gunfight. And two, dealing with possible booby traps on doors and windows.”

“Why's that a problem?” Ritchie asked. “As long as I can get my hands on some C-4, I'll blow right through them.”

“Because Colonel Petsut wants us to do this as quietly as possible.”

Akil posed the million-dollar question: “How do we accomplish that?”

“How about we have someone posing as a neighbor or local official knock on the door?” Davis asked. “That way we can catch them off guard.”

“Good idea,” Crocker said. “But who do we know who can pull that off?”

“You mean pass as a local?”

“Exactly.”

He was waiting for Daw to volunteer. Cal spoke first.

“I can, boss.”

Cal did look Asian, and could probably pass for Thai.

“You can?” Crocker asked.

“I speak some Thai,” Cal added.

“Since when?”

“Since I lived with this Thai chick when I was stationed in Coronado with SEAL Team One.”

This was news to Crocker and all the guys in Black Cell. Nobody had ever heard Cal refer to a girlfriend before—Thai or otherwise.

“You lived with a chick?” Ritchie asked. “No shit.”

“Sarai Wattana.”

“Pretty?”

“Beautiful.”

Crocker was determined to shift everyone's attention back to the mission. Directing his question to Cal, who was leaning against the wall, he asked, “You sure you have no problem claiming to be a local official?”

“Not at all.”

“And you speak enough Thai to pull it off?”

“I do. Yes.”

Daw drew a detailed map of the farm based on surveillance photos. Then Crocker spelled out a modified version of the patrol leader's order, or PLO. First he covered points of engagement and firing positions. “Before Cal approaches the door, I want Akil and Davis positioned behind trees or bushes on the right side of the house. Akil, you'll try to establish line of sight through the right window.”

“Got it.”

“Ritchie and Mancini will be stationed out front. We'll try to get at least some of them to surrender. If that doesn't work, I'll give the order and we'll fire from the right-front quadrant, then shift to cut down or capture anyone fleeing the rear of the house.”

Several of the men, who were seated on the desk and chairs, and leaning against the walls, nodded.

“Any targets we capture, we tie-tie or tape them, cover their mouths, and move on. Speed will be our friend.” Turning to Anderson, Crocker said, “Cal is going to need a mike on him. I want to be able to communicate with each team front and back via radio.”

“Handheld okay?” Anderson asked.

“Handheld is fine. We'll use the standard hand signals.”

The men nodded.

“What about curious neighbors or other people arriving at the house while we're there?” Mancini asked.

“Neighbors we try to scare away. Point a weapon at them and use hand signals to tell them to keep their mouths shut. Same with dogs. Throw a rock at them, anything. Incessant, angry barking will have to be handled with a silenced round.”

Several of the men were dog lovers, but they didn't protest.

Crocker looked at Davis and said, “The element of surprise is paramount. Anyone arriving at the house while we're at the farm will have to be subdued, or if they're armed or you suspect they're armed, taken out. Anything else?”

“Booby traps,” Davis offered.

“Booby traps are a real danger. Clear all windows and doors before entering. Don't touch anything in the house or garage that you don't have to. Deal with the occupants first. We will be looking for at least four foreign nationals, Middle Eastern–looking men. After we've neutralized them, we'll do a quick sweep of the house and garage. Then we're out of there. Understood?”

“Yeah.”

They decided that Cal would knock on the front door posing as a businessman from Bangkok who was lost and looking for a nearby property that was for sale. They dressed him in black pants and a long-sleeved blue oxford cloth shirt, and Anderson provided him with fake business cards and an actual real estate listing near the farm with an address and photo.

According to Plan A, Cal would lure the terrorists out to the front porch. On a signal from Crocker, the element in front would engage the enemy and try to arrest them. The element on the right side of the house would detain anyone escaping through the back. If for some reason Cal was asked or forced to enter the house, Plan B would go into effect on Crocker's order, which meant the men in front would rush through the forward door, while the ones on the side of the house covered the windows and back.

Gear and weapons secured, both plans talked through and rehearsed, the members of Black Cell set out from Bangkok at 0545 the next morning dressed in civilian clothes with their Dragon Skin body armor underneath. Crocker noted that the sky was low loom, which meant a dark, moonless night.

He sat alone in the rear seat of the lead SUV going over everything in his head, checking to ensure that he hadn't forgotten some contingency. Daw drove, Cal sat beside him, and Ritchie and Mancini occupied the middle seats. Anderson followed in the second vehicle with Davis and Akil.

Within an hour the sun started to rise and Crocker saw that they were passing through a peaceful grove of evergreen trees. The violence of what they were about to do struck him.

“That river we're following on our left is the River Kwai,” Mancini remarked as though he was a tour guide.

“The River Kwai from the movie?” Cal asked.

“Yes. Kanchanaburi was the setting of the David Lean movie starring Alec Guinness,
The Bridge on the River Kwai
. But the movie was shot in Sri Lanka.”

“Whatever,” Ritchie groaned, checking the chamber of his Benelli M4 Super 90 twelve-gauge shotgun with a laser illuminator mounted on the rail interface system on the barrel.

“Kanchanaburi was the location of the real POW labor camps,” Mancini added.

“What camps?” Ritchie asked.

“You never saw the movie?”

“It was a long time ago. I forget.”

Crocker'd seen it. It was one of his favorites, along with
The Godfather, Pulp Fiction,
and
Lawrence of Arabia
.

“The Japanese moved 61,700 allied prisoners—Brits, Americans, Aussies, Dutch—from POW camps in Singapore, Indonesia, and Malaysia to build a railroad from Thailand to Burma,” Mancini explained. “The conditions they had to work under sucked, especially during the 1943 monsoon. And the Japs treated them like shit. Over sixteen thousand allied POWs died from sickness, malnutrition, and exhaustion.”

“Did they ever finish the railroad?” Cal asked.

“Even though the prisoners had few pulleys, derricks, or other equipment, they managed to complete what became known as the Death Railway in about a year.”

Daw pointed out that the town of Kanchanaburi became a popular tourist site after the movie came out in 1957. “Two museums were built,” he explained. “But what the tourists who came here really wanted to see was the bridge. The problem was that the actual bridge didn't cross the River Khwae. It crossed a parallel river known as the Mae Klong. So what do you think Thai officials did to solve this problem?”

“You know the answer?” Ritchie asked Mancini.

“No, wiseguy.”

“They switched the names of the two rivers,” Daw said with a smile as he drove.

The road followed a limestone cliff covered with green foliage that ran along the river. Low tin-roofed buildings clung to the shore, indicating that they were entering the town. They passed temple caves, an elephant park, and even a tiger temple, where visitors could pet real Bengal tigers. But they hadn't come for the attractions.

The farm they were looking for sat on lower land on the opposite side of the river, so they crossed a narrow bridge. Rain started to fall as they turned off an asphalt road onto a mustard-colored dirt trail pitted with water-filled holes. The sun was trying to fight its way through dark clouds.

Crocker imagined that a rainbow would appear soon as his heartbeat sped up. He felt the tension building around him and heard the guys doing last-minute checks of their comms and weapons.

“You sure we're in the right place?” Ritchie asked as they bounced along.

“The entrance is over there, up ahead,” Daw said, pointing to the right as he braked the vehicle to a stop.

Crocker said, “I'll hide on the floor. Manny, you, Daw, and Ritchie get out here.”

Cal took the wheel and maneuvered the vehicle around a bend to a fence overrun with vines and weeds. He turned in the entrance, which had no sign, drove another two hundred feet through a patch of mango trees, and stopped about 150 feet from the house. The springs under the chassis creaked. A bird screeched.

Crocker waited about a minute, until he heard Akil's voice over the handheld radio telling him the men were in position. Then he slapped the back of the seat twice, which was the signal to go.

Cal left the engine running and the wipers slapping from side to side and got out. Crocker heard his footsteps on the wet dirt, then pulled himself up behind the seat and watched.

It was a low-slung, dilapidated structure painted pale yellow, with a porch in front and a rusted tin roof. A shed or garage with a red door peeked out from some bushes to the right. No cars, trucks, or motorcycles were visible through the light rain.

Through the earbud connected wirelessly to a tiny microphone in Cal's shirt pocket, Crocker heard a door creak open and Cal speaking in Thai. Then he heard a screen door snap shut.

“It looks like Cal has gone inside,” Akil reported over the handheld radio. Anderson had joined Akil and Davis behind bushes on the right side of the house. Daw, Ritchie, and Mancini waited in front.

With Cal inside the house, Crocker waited and listened carefully. Things rarely went according to plan.

Through the earbud he heard a man talking aggressively in accented English, asking, “Who are you? Who sent you? What do you want?” At the end, he was almost shouting.

Cal started to answer in Thai, but the man cut him off. Then Crocker heard what sounded like a slap and scuffling, followed by two shots.

“Plan B!” Crocker shouted into the handheld. He burst out the side door of the SUV and ran as fast as he could to the front of the house. Arriving first, suppressed HK MP7A1 ready, he was about to push through the screen door when it opened and a very thin bearded man with a wild mop of hair stuck his head out. Crocker decked him with an elbow to the neck, then stepped over his prone body into the house.

He heard screams in what he thought was Farsi, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness made out the shape of a man reaching for a pistol on the kitchen counter to his right. Crocker cut him down with four quick shots center of mass and one to the face. Mancini and Ritchie rushed in behind him.

The place was a shithole, with a sour, garlicky stench, discarded newspapers on the floor, clothes thrown over all available surfaces. He spotted a half-naked man scurrying out the back door; another was on his knees behind a sofa. A third stood near a mattress on the floor in front of Crocker, holding Cal in a headlock with his left arm. His right hand held a pistol to Cal's head.

“Surrender!” the man shouted in heavily accented English. “Drop the gun!”

Crocker shouted back with authority, “You're surrounded, asshole!”

The muscles on the terrorist's face tightened. Cal's nose bled down his chin onto the front of his shirt, but he appeared calm. The Middle Eastern man trembled as he pressed the gun harder against Cal's temple. Out of the corner of his right eye, Crocker saw the short barrel of the MK18 Mod 0 beyond the window. Then he heard a stream of 5.56x45mm bullets rip through the glass and saw them slam into the man's torso and head. The terrorist slumped and fell to the floor, leaving Cal frozen in place, covered with blood and brain matter.