Hunt the Falcon by Don Mann, Ralph Pezzullo Read Free Book Online Page A

himself and was having trouble sleeping at night. Even when he was awake, he found himself drifting back to Afghanistan—the cold, snow, smells, faces, and close scrapes with death.
    Running in the woods was the only thing that seemed to clear his head. He ran for over an hour with Brando past still marshes, Broad Bay, and Lake Susan Constant. He then showered, dressed, breakfasted, and climbed into his beat-up Ford pickup and drove to the SEAL Team Six compound. He was seated in front of his cage inventorying his gear when an aide arrived to tell him that the CO, Captain Alan Sutter, wanted to see him in his office.
    â€œNow?” Crocker asked.
    â€œYes, he’s waiting.”
    He put down the six-inch suppressed-air silencer he’d been cleaning and trudged across the concrete assembly area where some SEALs were rehearsing unarmed defensive tactics, thinking that he was probably going to be asked about what had transpired at OPM, and especially his arrest of ANA Major Jawid Shahar Mohammed. If Captain Battier had filed a formal complaint, he knew there was a possibility he could be called before the Naval Special Warfare Incident Determination Committee.
    He was preparing answers in his head as he entered the CO’s office. Sutter put his hand over the receiver he was talking into and said, “Welcome back, Warrant. Grab yourself a cup of coffee. Jim Anders from CIA will be here in a minute.”
    Anders is here? Why? he asked himself, filling a cup with water, then gulping it down and glancing at the copy of the Washington Post that sat on the corner of Sutter’s secretary’s desk. The Israelis were bombing Hamas bases in Gaza, which brought back memories of his own dealings with the Israelis and Palestinians over the years.
    Hearing footsteps approach, he half turned, then felt a hand on his shoulder near where he’d been hit at OPM. It was Jim Anders, looking tanned and well rested. He said, “Good to see you again, Crocker. How was your Thanksgiving?”
    Neal Stafford’s funeral flashed in Crocker’s mind—his wife and two tow-headed kids standing beside the coffin. He shook away the anger and grief, and answered, “Good. How was yours?”
    â€œExcellent. My family met me in Hawaii for four days in paradise. You ever been to Maui?”
    â€œMaui, yeah. Fabulous place,” he said automatically. He’d spent two weeks there with a wild Australian chick between his first and second marriages, diving, windsurfing, and making love. Pretty much knew the island by heart. But that felt like another lifetime.
    He was remembering a drive through the mist and fog up to Haleakala volcano as they took their seats in Sutter’s office. The captain explained that he had just gotten off the phone with Jim Anders’s boss at CIA, Chief of Operations Lou Donaldson.
    Crocker winced at the mention of Donaldson’s name. Although he’d been told many times by third parties how much Donaldson admired Crocker’s team’s work, the two men had never gotten along. Crocker thought of him as a headstrong, rude SOB.
    Sutter cleared his throat and spoke with a smooth, deep Kentucky accent, which had the effect of putting people at ease. “Crocker, you get a chance to read the post-op report about the fighting at OPM in Nuristan?”
    â€œNo, I haven’t, sir,” he answered, bracing himself for what he thought was coming next and folding his hands in his lap. The office was large and outfitted with handsome nautical-style furniture.
    â€œApparently some of the RPGs and heavier artillery rounds fired were provided by a covert Iranian group called Unit 5000.”
    Crocker was intrigued. “Unit 5000. What’s that?” he asked, running through a mental Rolodex of names and acronyms. “I thought the Iranians were working exclusively with the Shiite groups in western Afghanistan.”
    â€œNot when they have a chance to kill