Storm Clouds Rising: A Chuck McCain Novel

by David Spell

  Chuck sighted on the closest one, pulling the trigger but nothing happened. His M4 had jammed, a empty 5.56mm casing protruding from the ejection port. Time seemed to slow down as McCain saw three AK-47s swinging towards him. The former SWAT cop quickly let the rifle drop, hanging from the sling across his chest. Simultaneously he drew the 9mm Glock 19 pistol from his hip holster and thrust it towards the terrorists, rushing forward to his left at an angle across the flat roof, firing as he ran. This movement made it difficult for the bad guys to track him with their rifles and they never got off a shot as his own 9mm rounds found flesh. Within seconds the three remaining terrorists were down and out of the fight, their lifeblood pumping out of multiple holes.

  Movement from the roof across the street caught Chuck’s eye as another Afghan fired at him from his AK, the bullets whizzing by the American’s head. Out of his peripheral vision, the big man saw the wounded sergeant step out onto the top of the roof. McCain snapped off three shots from his pistol, running towards Katowski and tackling him as the Afghan’s bullets raked the area around them. Thankfully, there was a three-foot high concrete wall encircling the roof which the two Americans could hide behind.

  Chuck quickly called Captain Murray and let him know that their location was clear but that Katowski was wounded. There was still some incoming fire at the convoy but the soldiers would be able to mount a counter-attack now. The big man turned his attention towards the sergeant and his own weapons.

  “How ya doing, Sarge? Let’s take a look at that arm.”

  Chuck quickly cleared his rifle’s malfunction and reloaded it and his pistol before examining his companion’s arm. It was a nasty wound, the heavy bullet having smashed into the shoulder, just missing his body armor. McCain grabbed the sergeant’s individual first-aid kid off of his vest, withdrawing a pressure bandage and pushing it against the wound.

  “Hold that on there, Sarge,” Chuck ordered. “I’ll be right back.”

  McCain belly slid to the far end of the roof forty feet away. The gunman across the street had seen him go down in one area. Maybe I can surprise him by popping up in a different one, Chuck thought. As soon as there was lull in the shooting, McCain raised his M4, pointing at the spot where he thought the terrorist would be. To his surprise, the young, black-clad militant was in the same location as before. Not a very good terrorist, Chuck thought, putting two rounds into his chest, and the third into his head.

  “Another tango down,” McCain radioed his friends trapped below. “He was at eleven o’clock from where you guys are at in the street.”

  The gunfire had finally slowed down. Between McCain’s and Katowski’s counterattack and the suppressive fire from the humvees’ mounted machine guns, the insurgents had either been eliminated or driven off. Chuck slid back over to where the first sergeant lay. He was slipping into shock, but still had his wits about him, holding the bandage over the wound. The warrior had also drawn his pistol and laid it on his lap for easy access.

  By now, two AH-64 Apache assault helicopters were hovering overhead looking for targets. A Blackhawk was also on-station to transport the wounded as soon as the scene was secure. Katowski told McCain that he wanted to walk out on his own and Chuck asked the captain for a couple of the operators to come escort them back to where the others were.

  The police advisor helped the wounded Green Beret to his feet. Chuck led the way slowly down the stairs, the sergeant clutching his pistol and moving slowly as a wave of dizziness swept over him. At the bottom of the steps, Chuck paused, aiming his rifle toward the window that Brad had been shot from. There was no movement as he motioned for Katowski to cover in that direction as McCain led him towards the gate twenty-five feet further to their right, his rifle now pointing in that direction.

  The former SWAT cop planned on waiting inside the compound until their escort arrived, but just as they reached the gate, it burst open and two armed jihadists rushed in, almost running over the two Americans.

  “Allah Akbar!” they screamed.

  Chuck stepped in front of Brad and tried to get his rifle up to deal with the charging terrorists. They were so close as he triggered a ten-round burst that caught the lead attacker in the legs and groin. His companion was directly behind him and quickly thrust his AK-47 forward, pulling the trigger. McCain’s martial arts training saved his life, as he was just able to step to the left, the 7.62x39mm bullets missing him and the staff sergeant. Chuck slammed his left forearm into the lead terrorist’s throat, knocking him to the ground, the blood pouring out of his multiple gunshot wounds.

  The big man released his rifle to hang from the sling, grabbing the muzzle of the second Afghan’s AK with his right hand, keeping it away from him or Katowski. He then yanked the stock with his left hand, overpowering the smaller man and jerking the weapon out of his hands, and snapping his right index finger with a loud crack. The terrorist howled in pain, but lunged for Chuck before he could turn the rifle around and shoot the jihadist.

  The former MMA fighter thrust upwards with the butt of the AK, smashing the wooden stock under the incoming insurgent’s chin, snapping his head back, and dropping him dazed onto the dirt courtyard. Before he could recover, Chuck flipped the AK-47 around and put three rounds into the enemy’s head. He swung the muzzle over to cover the other attacker but saw that he was lying motionless, his lifeless eyes staring into the sky, a large pool of blood around him.

  “Coming in,” an American voice called from outside the gate.

  The SF team members cautiously peered inside, seeing the two dead men at McCain’s feet, the big man holding an AK. Chuck quickly disabled both insurgents’ rifles, tossing their parts in different directions. In spite of his pain, Staff Sergeant Katowski had maintained his vigil, pointing his pistol at the house as his partner had dealt with the two Afghans. Chuck stayed with Brad as the other two Green Berets provided front and rear security on their walk back to the ambush scene.

  By the time they had returned to the convoy, the four occupants had been removed from the nearly destroyed humvee. Miraculously, they were all still alive, in spite of their injuries. With the Apaches providing security, everyone piled into the remaining three hummers. They backed up until they could turn around and then drove a mile out of town, where the Blackhawk landed. Katowski, the four occupants from the exploded vehicle, and two others who had received minor gunshot wounds were loaded aboard for transport to the military hospital.

  Kevin had listened without interrupting as his friend told him what had transpired several years before in Afghanistan.

  “Who set you guys up?”

  “It was an informant that the SF team had used before. That day, though, he sent us right into an ambush.”

  “That sucks. Did they ever find him and have a talk with him?”

  McCain glanced over with a shrug. “We got him a couple of weeks later. There wasn’t a lot of talking and he’ll never do that again.”

  “As it should be,” Clark grunted.

  Washington, D.C., Thursday, 1310 hours

  The DC Boathouse restaurant was buzzing as a second wave of the lunchtime crowd descended on the popular destination. Thomas Burns had suggested the location because the food was excellent, but also because it was close to the Sibley Memorial Hospital, their next stop. Chuck and the FBI agent occupied a table in the rear of the dining area, the noisy din of the other patrons making it easy for them to talk without being overheard. They had both selected the New York Strip with an extra side of coconut shrimp.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me! Sterling made you and Clark resign?” Burns shook his head in disbelief. “Can you appeal it?”

  “We could,” Chuck shrugged, “but I doubt that it would do any good. Both of our positions were appointed, so there was never any real job security.”

  “That’s BS, especially that part about Dunning wanting to retire. She never mentioned it to me or my agents when they spoke with her. We still haven’t been able to interview her yet, just a co
uple of short conversations, but she hasn’t said a word to me about wanting to quit. The doctor told us that maybe next week we could try and get her statement. He wants to make sure she’s strong enough to endure a formal interview. I was going to stop by there when we’re done, just to check on her. You want to join me?”

  “I’d love to see her, if that’s OK with you. I got word that Sterling didn’t want me or Kevin around her.”

  “Screw him!” Thomas exclaimed, noticing several diners look his way. After a moment, he lowered his voice. “I’m sure Ms. Dunning would love to see you. But first, you promised to tell me about Mexico.”

  “Well,” McCain started, “there were two parts to the mission. There were a few of us assigned to the SEAL teams that hit Pepe Corona’s house in Rosarito. It made things easier when Sandra’s people discovered that those two kidnapped American girls were still with Corona. That turned it into a rescue mission, as well as an attempt to arrest the three cartel leaders.”

  The Tijuana Cartel had run one of the largest sex-trafficking organizations in Mexico, with branches all over the United States, as well. On occasion, Pepe’s teams would snatch visiting American girls off the street, forcing them to work in one of the cartel’s many houses of prostitution. Just before McCain and his men launched their attack, Stephen Chan, one of Sandra Dunning’s top analysts, noticed two young blonde, obviously college-age girls on the video feed from the drone providing surveillance footage over the cartel leader’s residence.

  After running the footage through the CIA’s facial recognition software, it was discovered that the young women had been kidnapped several months earlier and were now being kept as prisoners in one of Pepe’s mansions for his own use. Ops Director Jonathan Williams had alerted his chain-of-command to the situation, with the President authorizing a rescue operation utilizing Navy SEALs. Chuck and three of his men were assigned to the operation so that they could attempt to serve the federal arrest warrants on the cartel leaders for a variety of charges.

  “So, there were twelve SEALs, me, and three of my guys on the op,” Chuck continued. “Man, those SEALs are good. Two of the cartel leaders were killed in the shootout and the third one, Chico Pérez, was wounded and brought back to the US. Plus, a bunch of Pepe’s soldiers ended up dead, as well. We managed to rescue the girls and got them out of there with no problems. They’re both gonna need therapy for years to come, but at least they know that their abuser is dead.”

  Chuck did not mention the fact that he had been the one to shoot and kill one of the cartel leaders, Baby Face Fuentes, while Andy Fleming fired the shots that ended Pepe Corona’s evil life. Corona, as head of the Tijuana Cartel, had ordered the attacks on McCain, Fleming, and Smith in the United States.

  Burns shook his head in disbelief. “Okay, I know you’re telling me the truth, but how did a group of Navy SEALs and a few LE officers just waltz into Mexico, kill a bunch of bad guys, rescue two women, arrest a cartel leader, and then just waltz out again? I can’t imagine the Mexican military sitting by and not responding.”

  McCain hesitated before answering. “That was a little over my pay grade, but my understanding was that our president contacted the Mexican president just before we launched and told him to stand down. A generous deposit was made into El Presidente’s personal bank account in appreciation for his cooperation. He ordered his police and military not to get involved until after we had left.

  “Thankfully, it all worked out. We had already decided that we’d take out any cops or soldiers who interfered. The cartels own so many police and military officials down there so we weren’t going to take any chances. It was actually better that way for the Mexicans. After we left, they swept in and took into custody the ones we had left alive and zip-tied, and claimed credit for all the ones that we had killed or wounded. It hit the news as a joint op between the US and Mexican authorities.”

  “What about Clark’s role?” Burns asked. “How did they manage to snatch a Saudi prince out of Mexico? I saw him and some of his guys at the airfield that night in San Diego after they dropped off Prince Pervert to us. He and his guys were wearing Mexican Federale uniforms. How did they pull that off?”

  “I can’t really talk about the details of Kevin’s mission, but if you want to buy him a nice lunch like you’ve done for me, maybe he’ll fill you in,” Chuck smiled. “You know the most important bits. The prince had purchased those two girls from Pepe and was there to pick them up and take them back to Saudi Arabia where they would’ve never been heard from again. And, thankfully, the Saudis did the right thing and beheaded the bastard.”

  Burns was hoping to get more specifics from McCain about how Clark had managed to kidnap a member of the Saudi royal family, but it was clear that Chuck had said everything that he was going to say.

  “How’s the investigation going?” Chuck continued, changing the subject. “Any luck in tracking down the rest of Sandra’s attackers?”

  “McCain, I’ve got around fifty agents, along with a bunch of detectives from Fairfax County and the state police working this thing. We still don’t have crap. Some of the stiffs had arrest records here in the US. We’ve checked every address and known associate on file, trying to locate the rest of them. No luck. The good news is that we’ve arrested several fugitives that we’ve been looking for, but no one related to the attack on Ms. Dunning.

  “Yesterday morning, Fairfax County got a call of a dead guy, wrapped up in some blankets. A surveying crew found him in thick brush over near Vienna. I put a rush job on the autopsy.

  “He had a few bullet holes in his left side and the ballistics matched the MP5 Shaun Taylor was using in the shootout. The doctor said he’d been dead for at least a week but was able to get his fingerprints. They came back to a Marcos Salazar. He’d been arrested and done time for attempted murder, armed robbery, carjacking, rape, you get the picture. Well done, Mr. Taylor.

  “What might interest you, though, is that Salazar had ties to the Sinaloa Cartel. The New Generation Cartel is a recent spin-off of Sinaloa. One of Salazar’s known associates is Juan Guerra, a New Generation Member. He’s the one who helped the surviving shooters escape. No luck on tracking Guerra down but his name and picture have been blasted out to every police department in the nation.”

  After Burns had paid for their lunch, they drove over to the Sibley Memorial Hospital to check on Sandra. The former Ops Director’s room was at the far end of the hallway on the ICU floor after taking a right turn off of the elevator. The first thing that McCain noticed was that one of the Fairfax County police officers assigned to guard her room was leaning on the counter at the nurse’s station, working hard to impress one of the pretty young women in blue scrubs. A glance down the corridor revealed that other officer had also wandered away from his post and was talking on his phone, staring out the window at the end of the hallway.

  Chuck shook his head in frustration, but just as quickly remembered that for the first time in years, he was merely a civilian. An armed civilian to be sure, but instead of a badge, he carried a firearms permit for his concealed Glock 19 just like any other American exercising their second amendment rights. The big man bit his tongue and let the FBI agent handle it.

  “Are you kidding me?” Thomas muttered, strolling over to where the first officer, a corporal, had his phone out, anticipating the nurse giving him her phone number.

  “Corporal, I doubt she’ll want to go out with you after you get demoted and transferred to Animal Control.”

  The officer’s face flushed. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  The agent flashed his credentials. “Burns, FBI. I’m in charge of every aspect of this investigation, so technically that includes you, Corporal, as long as you’re assigned to this protective detail.”

  Corporal Alexander forced a smile and glanced back at the nurse, only to find that she had spun her chair around and rolled it over next to one of her colleagues, discussing a patient’s chart.

  “Just tryin’ t
o do my part for community relations,” Alexander commented, heading back towards his post.

  The second officer still had his back to them, never once looking around as he continued to talk into his phone.

  “Hey, Lawrence, get off the phone!” Corporal Alexander ordered. “The FBI is here. You’re supposed to keep up with the visitors list.”

  The short, hefty young policeman spun around, his eyes wide, realizing that he had been caught not watching their protectee’s door. He disconnected the phone call without even saying goodbye, rushing the twenty feet back to Sandra’s doorway.

  “Sorry about that, Corporal. I’ve got the list right here,” he stammered, grabbing a clipboard off of his chair. “What was your name, sir?”

  Burns held up his ID so that the officer could check it against the list of approved visitors. Officer Lawrence then glanced at McCain.

  “Can I see your ID, sir?”

  Wordlessly, Chuck handed over his Virginia driver’s license. When Lawrence read the name, he looked up, surprised.

  “Uh, Mr. McCain, I’m sorry, sir. We were told not to allow you in.”

  The corporal stepped closer, blocking Sandra’s room, eyeing the muscular man in front of them. “Well, I guess you’ll have to leave, Mr. McCain. We wouldn’t want to upset the FBI, now would we?” he smirked, glancing over at Thomas.

  “Corporal, this man is with me,” Burns said, quietly. “I’m not sure you understood what I said a few minutes ago, but the only people I answer to in this investigation are the Director of Counter-Terrorism for the FBI, the FBI Director, the Attorney General, or the President of the United States. The man who placed Mr. McCain and, I’m assuming, Kevin Clark’s name on your list, is not in my chain-of-command.”