RW11 - Violence of Action

by Richard Marcinko

  “Hurry back. I’m glad we have you to handle this for us, Dick.” A tiny smile creased her otherwise somber face and her hand lightly brushed my shoulder as I slipped past her heading for the door.

  Damn, I thought, I might just get laid after all…

  Chapter

  6

  “I will smash them, so help me God!”

  MAJOR GENERAL ANDREW JACKSON,

  1815, at the Battle of New Orleans

  Ten minutes later, I seated myself to Karen’s right as the room filled with faces I recognized from past briefings and the evening news. These were movers and shakers. King makers and ball breakers. I received nods of neutral recognition from some of them—and at least one look of sheer horror. I guess that guy reads my books.

  The geek who’d turned frogman green when he saw me at the table was probably a snitch from some agency seconded to OISA who resented the new chain of command. Karen Fairfield’s position was a paradox. She was exceptionally powerful given her direct link to the president of the United States. At the same time she was exceptionally vulnerable precisely because of this link. Being a woman fucked her status in the Washington hierarchy even more. How so, you ask? Take a fucking note! Despite the liberal bullshit you hear about gender and job equality these days, the women of the Beltway are prized mainly as zipper ornaments. Karen Fairfield, with her Asian ethnic roots, stunning beauty, and exceptional intelligence, was a Class-A threat to the testosterone-fueled political grinder that lives, feeds, and fucks by the Potomac. And today she had the Navy’s worst nightmare and legendary motherfucker at her side.

  I knew the reptilian little brain across from me was clicking off all the excuses he might use to flee the room and dial up his handler and report that Dick Marcinko was alive, well, and in D.C. again…fuck you very much!

  “Thank you all for coming,” Karen began. “As you all know by now, Samuel Beckstein was shot and killed in his home last night. A cassette tape was found next to his body by the local police and delivered to OISA. The president and I have listened to this recording. I’m going to play it for you now. It is very ugly. Afterward, your comments and observations will be welcome.”

  Karen pushed a button on the tape deck next to her and a man’s electronically altered voice began speaking over the room’s hidden speaker system. Pens poised to take notes remained frozen in place as the message played. No notes were necessary. I sure the fuck didn’t need ’em.

  “Mr. President,” the Voice began, “in the name of Almighty Yahweh we have executed the race traitor and Jew, Samuel Beckstein.

  “Your friend, the Jewish Communist Beckstein, was killed as a direct consequence of his efforts to destroy the foundation of the promised White Israel, the United States of America. We defy the cursed multiracial and godless society that is sucking the life out of America. We are patriots. Patriots whose hate for domestic traitors like Beckstein resulted in his death and will soon result in the deaths of all others like him.

  “We are the Sword of the White Race. We give no thought to the soulless creatures who seek to trample our nation with their heedless pursuit of so-called diversity and the lie of multiculturalism. Yahweh’s holy Word and the unaltered Constitution of the United States are the twin pillars of our battle against the degeneracy that plagues our country today.

  “We will not negotiate. We will not mediate. We will not compromise. Our objective is simple. The reclamation of the America for the White race only. The inferior races have left us no choice in this matter. You, Mr. President, have left us no choice. Our cause is a righteous and just one.

  “As of this moment we are in control of a U.S.-made Special Atomic Demolition Munition. We will detonate the device in a majorU.S. city at a time of our choosing. The detonation of our SADM will ignite the race war in this country that must take place if all good and holy White Men, their women and their children, are to again reclaim their original birthright and Nation. Make no mistake, Mr. President. We know who is at the root of our country’s moral destruction. Their wicked presence is no longer tolerable to us. It is their destruction we commit ourselves to with this act!”

  When the message ended, it was so quiet you’d have thought everyone in the fucking room was already dead. Glancing around I saw some expressions of disbelief greeting this news that a major U.S. city was about to be ass-fucked with an American nuclear weapon. But in my military mind, this band of maniacs had proved they knew exactly what they were doing and weren’t fucking around with our minds for the sheer cocksucking fun of it. My face remained impassive but inside I was scared fucking shitless. I know nukes. And just one SADM detonated as described would be one SADM too many. We weren’t prepared to deal with the aftermath of a city burned down by whoever the fuck these characters were. Which was a key question, I realized. The message was clearly designed so that we’d assume we were dealing with domestic terrorists of a particularly ugly stripe. But what if all this racist bullshit was just being waved in front of our noses so the stench would distract us from our real opponents? Iraq? North Korea? Some fundamentalist ayatollah who was pissed we weren’t buying enough of his oil these days? It was a possibility. All the more reason to get upstairs and have a serious conversation with Blondie.

  But if these really were Americans out to change the nation’s destiny and if they could get even a handful of equally crazy bastards armed to the teeth into our streets with holy vengeance against anyone other than a “good white man” on their minds…a race war could very well be sparked and burn the nation to the ground. Would Americans pull this kind of crazy shit? I’d stolen nukes, but only to wake up the sleeping guards and complacent generals with a good swift kick of my boot up their asses. Could some radical fringe group really pull off the same thing? Some gang of inbred white supremacists who didn’t have the benefit of my years of life in the military machine? My thoughts were interrupted by a sudden outburst from across the table.

  “Bullshit!” The word came boiling out of the bearded troll in the bad polyester suit who’d been giving me the evil eye earlier. “Unsettling, yes. But surely a ridiculous threat made by some nutcase.”

  “Carl, please share with us what makes the NSA discount what we’ve just heard.” Karen shot a quick sidelong glance at me.

  Carl the Troll shimmied his dumpy little ass around so he could address the group as a whole. “It is perfectly obvious whoever killed Mr. Beckstein is using the threat of blowing up one of our cities with an alleged stolen nuclear device simply to distract the police from the primary crime here, which is the murder of a powerful lawyer with God knows how many enemies. Christ, people get shot in their homes every day in this city. The police just need to do their job and find Beckstein’s killer without getting diverted by all this apocalyptic nonsense.”

  I hunched forward as the Troll spun around in his chair and fixed Karen with his beady little blue eyes.

  Take a fucking note.

  I’ve always hated real-life trolls. Theirs is a life lived each and every day under the curse of what shrinks call “The Little Man Syndrome.” Never able to overcome their feelings of inferiority brought on by their tiny size, trolls take every opportunity to attack, insult, and diminish those around them. Particularly those who exert some level of control over their personal or professional lives. There was no doubt in my mind the NSA geek was a bright fellow. The problem was he used his smarts like a club to beat down any poor fucker who didn’t immediately put him in his place.

  “Karen,” the Troll oozed, “we all know that information about SADMs is in the public domain these days. Any twelve-year-old punk with a PC can read about them on the Internet, print their research up on an ink jet and hand it out at school the next day. However, it is the position of the NSA that no international or domestic terrorist group currently has in its possession such a device. Further, no domestic terrorist organization or cult either has, or could hope to secure, the kind of nuclear device the speaker on this recording claims to have under hi
s control.”

  I watched Karen purse her lips in contemplation of the line of bullshit the Troll had just fed her. I knew that she knew differently.

  “Let me be sure I understand you, Carl. You’re telling us there is no possible way one of these suitcase-sized nuclear weapons could be stolen or otherwise removed from their storage facilities or taken by force in transit.” Karen leaned forward, her elbows on the table, hands pressed together in front of her face as if in prayer. Her fingers were powerful and slim, with carefully manicured but unpainted nails.

  Sensing he’d made his point, the Troll beamed at her. “During the course of my fifteen years with NSA, I assure everyone here, there has never been a successful intrusion into one of our tactical nuclear storage or transit facilities. We’ve never had a device misplaced or lost, much less stolen. For God’s sake, we’re not the Russians!”

  He paused here for a laugh that didn’t come. Some of those around the table were scratching cryptic little notes on yellow legal pads. The Troll interlaced his chubby little dick skinners together over his bulbous belly and snuggled back into his comfortable seat. I imagined he was kicking his elf-size feet in glee beneath the table. He was the perfect NSA slug. A vicious little liar with a pencil for a prick and a soft little ass for his bosses’ pleasure whenever they needed an intellectual whore to do their dirty work for them.

  “Mr. Marcinko? Do you agree with Carl?” asked Karen. Before I could respond, she added, “Oh, forgive me. Some of you may not know Captain Marcinko. He’s new to OISA and is with our operational division. Richard is a counterterrorism expert as well as counterterrorist. He is a retired Navy SEAL whose accomplishments include both SEAL Team SIX and the counterterrorism unit called Red Cell.

  “Mr. Marcinko visited the Beckstein murder scene where the recording we’ve just heard was recovered. He arrived here early enough to clarify some things for me about the devices the NSA assures us cannot possibly be in the hands of the people claiming to have them. Well, Dick? Can we—and I include the president when I say we—be as confident as the NSA is on this matter?”

  Showtime, motherfucker!

  “Not only no, but fuck no!” I growled. Guess they were used to more genteel language here because eyes widened, jaws dropped, and I thought I even heard someone at the end of the table fart out loud. I pressed my advantage home.

  “It is my professional opinion, even after hearing the shit we just did, that we’re dealing with military professionals. Everything I’ve seen and heard so far reinforces my feeling on this. Furthermore, I’m sure our colleague from the NSA knows full well how soft our security is where SADM nuclear weapons are concerned. When I commanded Red Cell we routinely penetrated DOE and military storage facilities and on more than one occasion removed man-portable nuclear weapons without detection or intervention. If this bastard has gotten his lily-white hands on just one such device, I suggest the NSA should cut the crap and let the rest of us figure out how to get it back in one piece.”

  Carl sat still as death with only his lizard-like eyes darting back and forth as he evaluated the impact of my revelation on his peers.

  “Leave it to the NSA!” said an austere-looking woman sitting next to the now silent Troll. “Always count on them to put their own interests first. This whole city could be vaporized in the next few minutes and the NSA would tell us the fallout was just snow, even while we were melting into the floor!”

  “I must say, I agree with Judith,” interjected Karen. Turning to me she introduced Judith more completely as Judith Reich, senior advisor to the House Intelligence Committee and a member of the president’s inner circle regarding his administration’s new hard-line policy on domestic terrorism.

  “Why should we take the word of a convicted felon and nationally disgraced former naval officer, not to mention a self-admitted alcoholic, whose so-called special units were little more than undisciplined gangs of misfits and hooligans?” countered the Troll from his chair next to Ms. Reich.

  “Response, Dick?” invited Karen.

  Looking around the room, I got a few subtle nods of encouragement, and Judith gave me an encouraging wink as well. I stood up and walked around the table, stopping when I was behind the Troll’s chair. I leaned over so I was directly above the little NSA man who was now visibly shaking with anger. I had the room’s full attention.

  “In June of 1985, myself and Red Cell successfully penetrated the nuclear submarine base at New London, Connecticut. This was the home of our Trident and Ohio–class subs. Up until then it was considered impregnable. The Naval Submarine Support Facility was one of several Red Cell training exercises being conducted with the full support of the Navy. The facility is responsible, among other things, for the secure storage and handling of nuclear weapons, which are preassigned to the submarines that would carry and launch them in times of war.

  “After only seventy-two hours of premission planning and preparations we hit the base. On the second day of our operations we successfully infiltrated the sub piers. My operators posing as terrorists fixed simulated explosive devices on the dive planes of one submarine. We videotaped this for the record. Had the explosives been detonated, the sub would have been immobilized for months, and therefore taken out of the real-world game plan.”

  I paused. The Troll was sitting still. He dared not turn around to look at me. I may be a convicted felon… and an unrepentant gin-swilling, skirt chasing motherfucker…and a disgraced naval officer with a hard-on for the world and anyone who contributed to my fall from fucking Grace. But right here and right fucking now I was going to chew up and spit out the Troll who’d done me dirty in front of a room full of strangers and my new boss. Take a fucking note! Whosoever fucketh with the Rogue Warrior be fucked in return tenfold.

  I continued.

  “We also entered the submarine and roamed through it at will. I personally planted simulated explosive devices throughout the vessel, including its nuclear reactor compartment. It was determined that if these devices had been real and had gone off, the reactor would have been breached, resulting in the fallout and contamination inherent in such a disaster.”

  “Good God in Heaven,” someone on my right flank muttered.

  “We could have commandeered the submarine and taken it to sea. My men were trained and capable of doing that. From there, using the nuclear weapons onboard, we could have wreaked havoc on any target of choice that caught our fancy. And yes, we had access to the launch codes and could have gotten them by the same means if we’d been the real-deal bad guys.”

  The room was silent. No one was taking notes anymore. I couldn’t tell if any of the silly fuckers were even breathing. Karen gave me a nearly imperceptible nod to move on. The knife was in deep; it was time to twist it home.

  “Contrary to the NSA’s version of The Truth regarding the security of our nuclear weapons systems and munitions, I proved it wasn’t necessary for a terrorist team to actually invade the hull of an attack sub to cause an improvised nuclear disaster.

  “The most effective and nondetectable method of shattering a nuclear submarine’s reactor compartment is to place what we call a ‘bubble charge’ beneath the sub. The charge floats below the hull of the sub and is held in place by a line or cable attached to both the bow and stern of the vessel. When the charge either detonates by using a timer, or is command detonated using any number of remote devices or techniques, the explosion creates a massive air bubble that literally lifts the sub out of the water. The vessel’s weight then takes over and breaks its keel. During this process the reactor compartment and nuclear core is shaken out of its secure cradle. The result is a series of severe—and lethal—radioactive leaks.

  “We determined it was easier and safer for a terrorist cell to attack a nuclear sub and its reactor using the latter method. Keep it simple, I always say. Besides, once you’ve seen the insides of one sub, you’ve seen them all.”

  I returned to my seat. Inside I was waiting for the Troll to fire back. He�
��d taken a hard hit and now the fucking NSA was in poor field position. There was no doubt in my mind this meeting would end with Karen getting the support she required to proceed with briefing the president as to the reality of what the nation was facing. That done, I’d get my marching orders to locate the missing SADM, recover it and then do what I do best. And that was to kill the motherfucker and his Tangos who’d zapped Beckstein and a whole team of loyal NEST soldiers, and were now threatening to start a holy war dressed up in some fucked up, half-baked racist bullshit.

  “That was a submarine base,” erupted the Troll. “We’re talking about tactical nuclear weapons no bigger than a travel bag, not fucking submarines!”

  All eyes were on me. It was time to play my trump card. “Later that year my team and I successfully bagged six man-portable tactical—or suitcase—nukes. We took them from a not-so-secure DOE convoy transporting the devices from their Concord, California, storage facility to the Naval Station at SEAL Beach, California. SEAL Beach is where the Navy loads its conventional and special ordnance munitions for overseas deployments. My operators and I had no trouble getting accurate insider information using illegal wiretaps, a couple of bigtitted women, and the penetration and infiltration of the base commander’s private office and safe.

  “Yes, I am every bad thing the NSA says. And yes, some even say I’m a fucking disgrace to the starched white dress uniform of the commissioned assholes who first recruited me, trained me, and sent me to Viet-fucking-Nam. But today I’m here to tell you the son-of-a-bitch who shot a man in the face from an arm’s distance away and then has the balls to tell us he’s got a fucking SADM hanging between his legs is as serious a motherfucker as one can get.

  “I wasn’t brought here to entertain you. I was brought here to tell you the Fucking-A Truth and then to track down and kill my—and your—enemies.”