Hunt the Falcon (7 page)

“Cal, you okay?”

Crocker was aiming his gun at the man behind the sofa when a huge explosion went off behind the house, ripping through the back and sending debris and glass flying everywhere. He used his left arm and shoulder to shield his face. A piece of wood smacked into the Dragon Skin that covered his chest.

Crocker leaned against a cabinet to his right and caught his breath, then crossed to a big hole in the wall where the back window had been. “Wait here, Cal.”

The sofa lay in shreds, and the man who had been hiding behind it was legless now and choking on his blood and dying. A long shard of metal had severed his throat. Through the smoke and falling debris Crocker saw something burning beyond the lemon trees behind the house.

“What blew?” he asked into the handheld.

“The garage,” Akil reported. “The guy who ran out the back activated some kind of trigger before we could stop him.”

“You see anyone else flee the house?”

“Negative.”

“All our guys okay?”

“Anderson got some shit in his eye, a couple scratches. We're good.”

“Search the back,” Crocker shouted. “See what you can find. Then we'd better clear out.”

Returning to the house, Crocker saw Ritchie and Mancini tie-tieing the man he had downed coming in the door. He was hyperventilating.

Crocker said, “Throw him in the truck, and help Cal. Tell Daw to stay with 'em. Then come back and help me look through this mess.”

“Roger.”

They gathered everything they could find—notebooks, laptops, thumb drives, maps, cell phones—threw them into plastic bags, and got the hell out of there, leaving behind four bodies and a burning garage. They had killed four suspected terrorists. A fifth lay on the floor in the backseat talking to himself in what sounded like Farsi.

Crocker said, “Slap some tape over his mouth. Shut him up.”

The rain had stopped and the sun was trying to burn through the low clouds. Behind them black smoke rose into the gray-blue sky.

This was exactly what Colonel Petsut had told them to avoid—an explosion and fire. But shit happened.

As they tore through the front gate and turned left, Crocker heard sirens approaching. He turned to Daw and shouted, “Get us back on the highway to Bangkok. Fast!” If nothing else, they had taken out the terrorists who had killed John Rinehart, his wife, and the other U.S. officials.

B
lack Cell
arrived home in Virginia Beach ten days before Christmas. It felt strange to Crocker, being back. Maybe it was the abrupt transition from death and destruction to lights and holiday music. Friends and family tried to sweep him up in the celebration and excitement, but something in him resisted.

He stood outside Banana Republic at the local mall looking at the faces of children lined up to see Santa Claus. The Santa the mall had hired this year had the same beak-shaped nose, oval face, and bushy eyebrows as ST-6 psychologist Dr. Neal Petrovian. Except Dr. Petrovian was a hundred pounds leaner and his eyebrows, beard, and hair were more salt-and-pepper than white. Holly and Jenny were inside shopping. He was thinking about Cal and how he was doing when his cell phone lit up.

His sister Karen on the other end of the line said, “Tom, did you hear? Dad's been arrested.”

What Crocker had just heard sounded surreal, like maybe he wasn't hearing right. Or it was some kind of sick joke.

“Are you kidding me? Dad's been
arrested?
”

“That's what I just said.”

“Our father? Are you sure?” he asked into the cell phone.

“Yes I am, Tom.”

“Where is he now? What did he do?”

“He's being held in Alexandria County Jail on two counts of assault with a deadly weapon.”

“Dad assaulted someone?” Those were words he had never expected to say.

“Yes, Tom. Our beloved father is in the slammer.”

Message received, he knew immediately what he had to do, and said, “I'll drive there now.”

It seemed incredible. His father was the kindest, most outgoing, empathetic man he knew. He liked people and loved entertaining them with stories. Except during his service in the navy, he'd never been in a fight, as far as Crocker knew. Only once or twice had his son even seen him lose his temper.

Threaten someone with a weapon? It seemed wildly out of character.

Holly seemed equally confounded when he told her. She looked at him with suspicion, as though he might be making up some crazy story so he could slip away from all the people and festivities.

Nothing could have been further from his mind. All he wanted was peace and quiet, and some time with his family, because his heart was still heavy from the ordeal in Nuristan Province. The four days and nights he'd been home had been good. Holly had started seeing a female psychotherapist and seemed better.

“Some people have to do what they've got to do,” she had said to him last night as they sat in front of the fireplace. “You're like that, Tom. You almost can't help yourself. It's not a criticism. I admire your courage, and maybe I'm a little jealous of your sense of purpose.” They held hands while watching the third season of
Deadwood,
then went to bed.

He'd awakened this morning feeling stronger mentally and physically than he had in months. Now this.

The desk sergeant was a Hispanic guy who burped into his hand as he checked the ledger, then escorted Crocker to a windowless room that needed repainting. Two black officers brought in his dad, looking small and embarrassed, and wearing handcuffs. Strands of limp white hair hung over his eyes.

It pissed Crocker off to see them treating his father like a criminal. “Dad, you okay?” he asked.

The old man avoided his son's eyes and shook his head. “I've been better. My back feels like I was hit by a car after last night.”

“Jesus, Dad. They made you spend the night in jail?”

His father nodded, scratching his neck.

“Dad, what the hell happened?” Crocker asked.

The old man grimaced and ran his tongue over his teeth. “What'd your sister tell you?”

“Just that you were arrested and charged with assault.”

His father nodded. “That much is true.”

Crocker did a double take. “Dad, I can't imagine you assaulting anyone,” he exclaimed. “What took place? I mean…how? why?”

“It's not your concern, son. I got in this mess, I'll get out of it myself.”

“What are you talking about?” He sounded incredulous. “You're my father. I'm gonna help you and bail you out.”

“That's not necessary.”

“Yes it is!”

Their eyes met. Crocker saw the shame and anger in his father's as he slammed the little metal table with his fist. “It's an injustice! That's what it is, Tom. Carla—that poor girl served our country. And her German landlord had the gall to try to throw her out of her apartment. He's not even a citizen.”

Crocker remembered his father mentioning her before but couldn't recall the details. “What about her?” he asked.

“Carla?” His dad curled his upper lip the way he always did when he was about to tell a story. “She's this young gal I told you about. Met her while volunteering at the Fairfax VA. She's a Gulf War vet suffering from PTSD and other medical problems. She works as a waitress at Applebee's, but she's been having trouble paying her bills. Last night I got a panicked call from her. Her landlord, this German guy, was in her apartment and threatening to evict her and her nine-year-old son. He was in the process of tossing her stuff out on the sidewalk. I drove over. Me and him, we got into a heated argument. He told me to get the hell out of there; I told him I wouldn't. He pushed me to the floor. I picked up a little wooden stool to defend myself and kind of by accident hit him in the face. He started bleeding and called the police.”

What Crocker really wanted to do was find the landlord and kick the shit out of him. But he knew he couldn't do that.

So later that night he posted bail and drove his father back to his apartment, where they ordered takeout Chinese. The next morning he accompanied him to the courthouse, where the judge dismissed the charges because the landlord had forced his way into Carla's apartment without a legal eviction notice.

Crocker was sitting across from his dad at Applebee's, waiting to meet Carla and order lunch, when his cell phone rang. It was Captain Sutter's executive officer, telling him to return to the command as soon as possible.

So he climbed into his truck and drove as fast as he could down I-95, listening to Dave Brubeck, who had just passed away one day before his ninety-second birthday. As he arrived at the SEAL Six compound, Paul Desmond's alto sax solo in “Three to Get Ready” was still playing in his head. Sutter's XO looked annoyed as he walked with him down a hallway past framed photos of former COs. Sutter and Jim Anders stood waiting in the conference room with a man and woman in suits.

As soon as Crocker entered, Sutter said, “Sit down, Crocker. This is urgent.”

“Sorry I was delayed, sir. I was dealing with a family matter.”

“What we're about to discuss involves you and Black Cell. We need to know if you and your men are going to be able to deploy immediately.”

“Yes, sir. The family matter's been handled,” Crocker said, even though he had doubts. He also wasn't sure about Cal's mental state, since he hadn't spoken to him since the incident in Kanchanaburi.

Jim Anders cleared his throat, puffed out his chest, and started. “Nice work in Thailand, but the Thais are angry.”

“I understand,” Crocker countered. “The firefight, explosion, and fire couldn't be avoided. We attempted to surprise the terrorists, but things didn't go as planned.”

“I said, nice work.”

Crocker tended to be overly defensive about criticism from Langley. “Thanks.”

Anders looked at Captain Sutter, who was seated at the head of the table and said, “We'll hold a hot wash later. There's also the matter of the Afghan major you detained at OP Memphis.”

Crocker sat up. “Sir.”

“In my opinion you're right about him, Crocker. But the disciplinary committee in Kabul wants a formal statement from you. When you have time, draft one. Include the reasons you became suspicious, what you saw, and the circumstances of his arrest.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, let's focus on the task in front of us.”

Anders took this as his cue. “Yes,” he said, pointing to his male companion, who dimmed the lights. A Smart Board illuminated on the front wall. On it appeared photos of the four terrorists who had died at Kanchanaburi.

The female CIA officer, wearing a blue blouse and a tight black jacket and skirt, stood up and spoke in a clipped voice. “I expect you recognize these men, Warrant Officer Crocker.”

“Yes I do,” he answered.

A fifth photo appeared on the board—that of the man they had captured and turned over to the Royal Thai Police.

“This man claims to be Tino Farris. We've learned that his real name is Javad Mokri, and we believe he's the one who assembled the bombs in Thailand.”

“The Thais are still holding him?” Crocker asked.

“Affirmative. And he refuses to talk.”

Two of the three passports on the screen were partially burned. “All five of these individuals traveled to Thailand on Venezuelan passports,” she continued. “We think they're part of the Quds Force Unit 5000 team operating out of Venezuela. And we have reason to believe they're planning more attacks against U.S. assets overseas and possibly even terrorist attacks inside the United States.”

“Venezuela?” Crocker asked, alarmed that the Quds Force was operating in such close proximity to the States.

She said, “That's correct.”

Anders said, “Thank you, Ms. Walker.”

She sat beside Crocker and crossed her long legs.

“Ms. Walker is the assistant director of our Quds Force Working Group. Sy Blanc here is the director.”

Crocker smiled as if to say “Nice to meet you.”

The tall, gray-haired man named Blanc stood up. A picture of two men embracing appeared on the screen. He said, “Earlier this year Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad visited Venezuelan president Hugo Chávez in Caracas, and the two men lavished praise on each other and vowed to resist U.S. imperialism—specifically the tough sanctions we've imposed on Iran for continuing its nuclear program.”

Chávez was a highly controversial demagogue who had taken power in 1998, nationalized foreign-owned businesses, and established alliances with the Castros in Cuba and President Evo Morales in Bolivia. He was now dying of cancer.

Said Blanc, “The Iranians have grown increasingly desperate. Not only are the economic sanctions hurting their economy, but we've also been running a number of covert operations aimed at their nuclear program. And they know it. They seem determined to hit us back, and Unit 5000 seems to be the means they've chosen to do that with. President Chávez, who has his own issues with us, has been helping them and allowing them to operate on his territory. With Chávez on his deathbed, the Iranians seem to be picking up the pace.”

“What do you want from us?” Crocker asked.

Anders said, “You'll go into Venezuela in alias. Agency officials there will assist you. Basically we want to find out what Unit 5000 is doing there, what they've established in terms of resources, and what they're planning. To whatever degree is possible, we want you to thwart their operations.”

“Happily,” Crocker replied. “What about the Falcon?”

Ms. Walker clicked her red nails on the table and said, “We seem to have lost track of him temporarily.”

Crocker was disappointed. He asked, “Isn't it fair to assume that he's behind Unit 5000's activities?”

“I would have to agree with that,” she answered.

“Then why aren't we doing everything we can to go after him?”

“Because we think it's very likely that Farhed Alizadeh is back in Iran,” Blanc asserted. “And since he's in Iran, he's out of reach. Besides, our immediate concern is what Unit 5000 is doing in Venezuela.”

Crocker nodded. He understood, and he started thinking ahead. He had to contact his teammates, talk to Holly and Jenny, pack his gear.

It was 11 p.m. by the time he pulled into the driveway and found Holly sitting at the kitchen counter sipping a glass of rosé and looking forlorn.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“You could have called,” she said accusingly. “I expected you home at seven.”

He said, “I just spent the last several hours with Captain Sutter.”

“Really?” Holly said. “Work related?”

“Yeah. Important.”

“Are you leaving again?” she asked anxiously.

“First thing tomorrow.”

He noticed her hand trembling as she lifted the glass. She took a long sip and threw it toward the sink, where the glass shattered and wine splattered across the window and wall. “You might want to take a look at that!” she said, pointing to a letter on the counter.

“Holly, wait.” He tried to stop her, but she avoided his grasp and left.

Over her shoulder she shouted, “I've had it! I'm exhausted. Don't ask me for any more help!”

He picked up the letter, unfolded it, and heard the bedroom door upstairs slam. Blood rising into his neck and face, he read the letter from Jenny's high school counselor. It said she was in danger of flunking two classes—biology and calculus—if she didn't perform better on her finals and turn in several missing assignments.

He sighed, refolded it, climbed the stairs, and knocked on Jenny's door.

“Honey?”

“Yeah?”

He pushed the door open. She sat up in bed, connected to her laptop via earbuds and wire.

“What are you listening to?” he asked.

She pulled the buds out, removed the retainer from her mouth, half smiled. “I'm studying.”

“While listening to music?”

“Yeah.” She was like a longer, younger version of his first wife, Kim—thin legs, big doelike eyes and reddish brown hair, dressed in gray sweatpants, a loose blue First Colonial High School T-shirt and socks. “It's that CD of yours that I downloaded,” she said, offering him the earbuds.