by Dalton Fury
After half a day all the men’s flights had arrived on schedule from Dubai, from Manama, from Bahrain, and from Doha, in Qatar. All thirteen al Qaeda cell members made it into the country without a single issue with passports, visas, or customs.
The men prayed together as a group, but this was their only acknowledgment of their true selves. Otherwise they wore Western clothing, spoke English, and watched baseball on television, all waiting for the next morning, for their mission in Mexico to begin.
* * *
Two days after returning to Bragg from his operation in Egypt, Kolt and his squadron were officially taken off alert status. After all the action of the past month, and the unfinished business, the turnover to their sister squadron was a letdown for Major Raynor and his men.
Anything that happened now, or for the next couple of months, anyway, would be handled by Gangster and his mates. Raynor could not help but think of the SAMs on the loose in Yemen, or the hunt for AQ commander David Wade Doyle, or any one of a dozen hot spots around the world that could flare up at any time.
Gangster was an asshole, Kolt knew this as fact, but Gangster and Tackle and Monk and Benji and the rest of the men were badass operators and they would get the job done with every bit of the skill of Kolt and his team.
Though he was off alert, Raynor did not have any downtime to speak of. On the contrary, he and his mates were about to begin a long and arduous training phase, though Kolt knew he would spend most of this behind a desk. The assault teams would be traveling to exotic places like Key West for civilian boat training, or Jackson Hole for mountain climbing, or Nevada for an off-road driving course. Officers weren’t always welcome and they had plenty of administrative tasks to handle back at the compound. Writing up awards, conducting evaluations of subordinates, and planning future troop- and squadron-level training were daily duties for Raynor and the other officers in the Unit. Any free time Kolt had was split between the gym and the range.
He’d planned on working late into the evening that first day off alert, but a surprise call from TJ and an invitation to dinner sent him to Huske Hardware House just after eight p.m.
As soon as they saw each other and grabbed a table by the bar, TJ said, “So, another alert cycle behind you. Sure that feels pretty good.”
“It sucks. Our OPTEMPO was insane, but we left a lot of loose ends out there.”
Timble shrugged. “You’ve been at the right place at the right time, or the wrong place at the wrong time, depending on how you look at it, for most of the past month. You could use some downtime, amigo. You look like shit. Don’t worry. I’m going to go out on a limb and promise that the world won’t be a perfect place by the next time you get called to bat. JSOC will put your talents to good use then.”
Kolt smiled. He knew his friend was right. “Speaking of downtime, I heard you’ve been off the net for a week. Did you go home to see your folks?”
TJ shuffled in his chair while he sipped his beer. Kolt knew him well enough to see clearly that there was something he was hesitant to talk about.
Raynor smiled. “Oh, shit. You found yourself a woman?”
“Nothing like that. I went out to California.”
“What, no women in California?”
TJ turned even more serious now. “I went to Kelseyville.”
Raynor had heard the name, but he could not immediately place it.
“Did we do building training there years ago?”
“It’s where David Doyle grew up,” Timble explained.
Kolt put his beer down. “Okay. Why?”
“I don’t really know. Just wanted to go. I stood outside of his parents’ house. Went to his high school, the grocery store where he worked.”
“Sounds like you are building a target folder, brother.”
“No. He’s not going back home. That’s not his style.”
“Then what the hell are you doing, bro?”
“I just wanted to understand the guy. I wanted to know how he thinks. I want to be able to figure out his next move.”
“On your leave? You can get that from the SCIF.”
“Yeah, of course.” He shrugged. “The Feds have got profilers, but who knows if they really have a feel for him? Not like I do. I met the guy last year. I talked to him, I argued with him, I punched him in the damn face.” He paused for a sip of beer and then said, “I got a buddy in the FBI to give me a copy of some of Doyle’s stuff. High school term papers, letters home to family after he emigrated to Yemen. Shit like that.”
“I think you need a piss test.”
“I admit, it sounds weird.”
Raynor thought that was an understatement. But still, he asked, “Did you learn anything?”
“I think so. I spend each and every night going over every scrap of paper that has anything to do with David Wade Doyle. His known and suspected contacts in Pakistan, the events of his hit against the Khyber Pass black site last year, the writings of the mosque in Aden where he studied the Koran. I’m getting this bastard down cold.”
Kolt was taken aback. TJ had always been an intelligent and intense soldier, but this level of focus was obviously personal. He asked, “Do you really think you know stuff the profilers at the FBI, or the folks at Langley, haven’t figured out for themselves?”
“I don’t know. I just think I can — ”
A shout across the restaurant interrupted the thought. Then several people hushed the crowd as televisions were turned up near the bar. A news story showed video of a burning boat, taken from a helicopter. TJ and Kolt both stood up to get a better look. The volume was increased to where the two operators at the table could hear the female newscaster read her copy over the video.
“Unnamed government sources say that SEAL Team Six, America’s most highly trained commandos, executed a daring and, by all accounts, perfectly executed raid early this morning on a cargo ship in the Mediterranean Sea.”
The restaurant erupted in cheers. Raynor leaned closer to the television to hear the rest of the report.
“Under cover of darkness, SEALs boarded a freighter in international waters and recovered twenty-two SA-24 Russian-built, shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles. The ship was a Panamanian-flagged freighter en route to Lebanon.
“This brings to over two hundred the number of recovered SA-24s since the fall of Libyan dictator Colonel Muammar Gaddafi last year.
“In March of this year, an SA-24 took down a passenger flight in Jakarta, Indonesia, killing all two hundred sixty-six on board.
“Experts say as many as two thousand of the shoulder-fired rockets are still unaccounted for, and many are presumed to be for sale on the black market, where fears remain that they could fall into the hands of terrorists and rogue states.”
A brief video played over and over throughout the report as a retired Army-general-turned-talking-head fielded questions from a satellite studio. File footage of a stack of SAMs in a warehouse in Tripoli. Kolt had seen the footage dozens of times before.
He would love to have seen video of the actual SEAL takedown of the boat.
When the piece was over, Kolt looked back across the table to find TJ smiling at him. “Watching that story while sitting on a barstool would have really pissed off the old Kolt.”
Raynor raised his eyebrows. “He would be fuming. That is true.”
“How are you handling it, though?”
TJ showed amusement in talking to Kolt as if he were two different people.
“The old Kolt would have had TJ there to cover for him if he said something stupid.” He paused, then said, “I’m okay. But I wish you would hurry up and become operational again, so I can go back to being a dickhead.”
TJ’s eyes widened, but Raynor just burst into laughter.
Just then, Cindy Bird entered the bar, looked around for a moment, and saw Kolt. She smiled and headed over to his table.
“Hey, boss.” She then nodded to Lieutenant Colonel Timble and said, “Sir.”
TJ said, �
��You just missed the news about America’s bravest warriors.”
She giggled. “Same as ever, right? SEALs are keeping us all safe and sound. Yeah, just heard it on the radio.”
Kolt had not seen Hawk since the hot wash. “Pull up a stool.”
“Thanks.” She sat down and ordered a Level-Headed German Blonde Ale.
“You doing okay?” Kolt was asking her about her feelings after the Cairo hit, specifically how she felt after shooting at least one man dead in the operation.
She picked up on this, and her smile drifted away a moment, unsure of what she should say in front of TJ. “I’m fine, actually. I feel like we did the right thing.”
Kolt nodded. “Don’t feel it. Know it. I do.”
She nodded. “Right.”
“You seen the psych yet?” Kolt asked.
“No, tomorrow morning,” Cindy answered.
TJ knew he had no part in this conversation. He had not been there, on the ground, when the bullets were flying. He decided to give them some space. He grabbed his wallet and tossed some bills on the table. “I’m out.” He looked at Racer. “Guess I’ll be seeing more of you around campus.”
“For the next couple months, you’ll see a ton of me.”
After TJ left, Hawk scooted her barstool over to face Racer. “TJ is looking better.”
Kolt agreed. “Every time I see him.”
“I’ve always wondered. How did a guy with the initials JT get the code name TJ?”
“Why didn’t you ask him?”
Cindy smiled. “Because I thought maybe there was an embarrassing story behind it.”
Now Kolt smiled, then sipped his beer. “Not his greatest moment, but could have been worse.”
“Tell me.”
“TJ has nothing to do with his initials. It’s short for ‘towed jumper.’”
“Oh, shit!” Cindy knew what a towed jumper was. “When was this?”
“Jump school at Fort Benning. Josh exited the aircraft but his main chute failed to deploy, so he hung from his static line fifteen feet out the door. The jumpmaster couldn’t get him winched back in. Josh bounced around for a good thirty seconds before he was cut away. He deployed his reserve chute fine, landed with a few bumps and bruises.”
“So JT became TJ,” Cindy said.
“Beats DD.”
“What’s DD?”
“It’s what they call the guys who don’t get good canopy on their reserves in time. A ‘dirt dart.’”
“Damn.”
“The Army knows how to give you a thrill.”
“Take us, for example. When I get married for real, the honeymoon is going to seem pretty bland compared to the one we just took.”
“No shit,” Kolt said as he drank.
Cindy laughed, but she stopped suddenly as she looked at a man approaching through the crowded bar. He was young and extremely muscular, and the hair products making his spiky black tufts stand straight up shone under the bright lights over the bar.
He wore an Ed Hardy muscle shirt to emphasize the amount of time he spent in the gym.
“Oh, shit,” she said.
The young man walked up to the table, looking first at Cindy, and then regarding Raynor.
“Hi,” said Kolt.
The young man did not respond.
Cindy spoke nervously. “Uhh, Kolt, this is Troy. Troy, this is Kolt.”
Troy was Cindy’s boyfriend, this much was obvious to Raynor. He stuck out a hand with no real expectation that the Green Beret would shake it. He did not, and Kolt retracted the hand.
“Okay,” said Cindy, “I’ll see you at work, Kolt. Have a good one.”
Troy just sat down, right in front of Raynor. “Go get us a table. I’m going to talk to this guy a minute.”
“Troy, let’s just — ”
“Do it,” he said, and Cindy headed off to grab a table for two. Kolt just raised his eyebrows in surprise at what the tough girl was putting up with in her personal life.
“Thought you were going to get a little tail tonight?”
Raynor did not respond. He just held eye contact with Troy.
“How old are you, pops?” asked Troy.
Kolt smiled now. “How old are you, shithead?”
“I’m twenty-nine.”
“I’m thirty-eight.”
“Damn,” Troy said in surprise. “That’s been a rough thirty-eight.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” replied Raynor.
“I’ll tell you something you don’t know. Cindy is too young for you. And she’s taken.”
Kolt just shook his head. “Buddy, you need to relax.”
“I don’t know who you are or what you do. If you’ve got to work with her, then there’s not a damn thing I can do about that. But if I catch you hanging out with her off post again, I’m going to kick your ass.”
Kolt knew he should do his best to talk his way through this encounter for the simple reason that he wasn’t much good in bar fights. He had little experience or success in administering black eyes and fat lips. No, when Kolt got into a hand-to-hand encounter, he had the habit of either putting the other man in the intensive care unit or in the morgue.
Kolt Raynor just smiled. “Troy … I hate to admit it, but I was a lot like you once.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what that means. I was a jackass.”
Troy stood up and started around the table, his fists balled in anger.
Oops, thought Kolt. So much for talking this guy out of a fight.
Raynor was at a distinct physical disadvantage sitting at the table with the muscular soldier looming over him. But he did not stand up and square off with him. He just eyed Troy as the Green Beret reached back with his right hand and then fired a right hook at Raynor’s jaw.
The punch never connected. Josh Collins, the owner of the restaurant, grabbed Troy from behind by the biceps, then twisted the young man’s arm behind his back and slammed his head down on the table. Collins pinned him there, face-to-face with Raynor.
Troy was obviously stunned by this turn of events and by the strength of the proprietor of the restaurant.
Collins said, “This is a family establishment, son. A street fight needs to be taken out into the street.”
Raynor just smiled. Now he was the one looking down at Troy. He knew Collins had a sixth sense for trouble around his bar, and Kolt had seen the ex-Ranger move in behind the unsuspecting sergeant the moment the kid stood up from his barstool.
Kolt took a sip of his beer, placed his glass back on the bar, and looked at Collins. “Thanks.”
Collins just nodded while he kept the pressure on the man’s arm and the back of his head. “I see you haven’t lost your touch for pissing people off, Major.”
“This time it is a clear misunderstanding. Mind if I try and rectify it before you toss him?”
Collins shrugged, and Kolt leaned forward. “Okay, Troy. Number one, Sergeant Bird and I work together, that is all. Number two, she obviously sees something in you, otherwise she wouldn’t give your mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging dumb ass the time of day, so you might want to think about treating her with a little more respect before she wakes up and decides that you are not only ugly and stupid, but you are also an asshole, at which point she will hit the bricks and find someone worthy of a woman with her obvious beauty, intelligence, and poise.”
“Look,” Troy said with his face pressed hard into the tabletop. “I — ”
“You look, Sergeant. I’ve got no problem with you at all. In fact, from what little time I’ve spent around Sergeant Bird, I’ve heard good things about you, and I do know her well enough to respect her judgment to some degree. All that said, if you want to go to war with me out of some misplaced need to compensate for some shortcoming, we can go outside, at which point I will fuck you up.”
“I thought that you — ”
“You and me and Bird have real enemies in this world, Troy. We
are in the military because we feel the call to fight those enemies. I understand how shit can get turned around in your head to where you lose track of that for a minute. I was twenty-nine once myself, though back then the Krauts and the Japs required my full attention, so I never got the chance to court a young lady as lovely as Sergeant Bird.”
Troy seemed to relax with the joke. Collins kept the pressure up in case the young man still tried to lunge at Raynor.
Kolt wrapped up his speech. “But you are a Special Forces man, which means you deserve my respect and you have it. It also means you have a hard job against hard enemies, so you would do well to make friends when you can.”
Kolt looked up at Josh Collins and gave him a subtle nod, and Collins released his grip on Troy. The SF soldier stood up slowly.
Raynor reached out his hand again and, this time, Troy took it.
“I’m sorry, sir. Shitty day all around, I guess.”
Kolt stood. “No problem.” He looked over to Cindy, who was sitting alone in a booth and staring back at the two men, her eyes wide at the quick turn of events. Raynor slapped Troy playfully on the arm. “Got a feeling your evening is going to be just fine.”
Kolt nodded to Cindy and headed out the door, shaking Josh Collins’s hand on the way.
THIRTY
On the evening of their first night in Mexico, David Doyle and three of his cell members left the safe house in San Pablo Chimalpa and headed toward the airport in a van driven by a man working for the Zetas.
They pulled into the gated property of a shipping company on Ruiz Cortina, just off the airport grounds, and drove past armed sentries in blue uniforms, and through iron gates that locked again behind them. They were then ushered out of their van and taken into a large nondescript storage building set apart from the warehouse.
Along the wall of the building were three air freight containers, each one the size of a small car. Their doors were sealed, and a sticker affixed to each one showed the shipping point of the cargo. Even though all the goods had left the Middle East through Dubai, the shipping origins of these containers read Paris, Marseilles, and London.
The agent the Zetas arranged for the al Qaeda cell to use was accustomed to the importation of contraband. He and his people had taken care of everything on this shipment, including the bribing of Mexican officials, so the containers remained sealed and had not been X-rayed while in customs control. They had cleared customs the day before and had remained untouched, here in the receiver’s storage building.
