“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.