Full Assault Mode: A Delta Force Novel

by Dalton Fury

  She lifted the cellophane-covered ceramic plate of home-baked chocolate chip cookies off the passenger seat and stepped out onto the hard dirt and grass. Yard work much? she thought as she noticed the forgotten bushes and flowerbed and climbed the three wobbly aluminum steps to reach the doorbell.

  The screen door was closed, but the wooden door behind it half open.

  “Hold what you got!” Kolt yelled from somewhere inside. “Whattya need, partner?”

  “Uh, Kolt, it’s Cindy.” Dang, that sounded way too familiar. Maybe I should have used Sergeant Bird or even Hawk. Anything but my first name.

  “OK, again, whattya need?”

  “Well, nothing really. Just thought I’d drop by and see how you were doing.”

  “Which asshole put you up to that? You lose a bet?”

  Cindy laughed uncomfortably. She had almost forgotten how hard it was to read this man.

  “No, just was baking cookies and had some extra. Figured you could use the calories.”

  “You bake? At twenty-three-thirty hours?” Kolt asked.

  Cindy lied. “Well, I burned the first batch and then took in a movie with Troy.”

  She waited for a few uncomfortable seconds, but no response.

  “I know it’s late. I’ll just come back another time,” she said, looking for a natural but quick exit.

  Cindy leaned over to set the plate of cookies on a small rusted coffee table and looked up.

  Kolt startled her. He was standing in front of the screen door, shirtless and unshaven. As usual, his hair was a mess, hanging down one side in front of his left eye. She had never seen Kolt topless, but had to admit he looked pretty hot standing there in only a pair of black Mountain Hardware climbing pants, even for a forty-year-old. Cindy tried not to stare at the scars on his rib cage or even at his wide smile, and in doing so she couldn’t help but notice the plastic bottles of prescription meds on the counter behind him. Painkillers for sure.

  She followed his muscular right arm from his well-developed shoulder, past the bicep with the thick vein running the length, and to his rugged hand that grasped a bright orange Fat Albert Wiffle-ball bat.

  She broke the ice. “Nice cane, Major!” she said, rolling her eyes. “That the best Womack can do for you?”

  “Troy in the trunk?” Kolt said, ignoring her lame joke.

  “Real funny.”

  “Social call, or is my beeper dead again?”

  “Are you always such a jerk?” Cindy asked.

  “Usually only when I’m doped up on meds after leaving some blood behind somewhere.”

  “I heard about the op in Pakistan. I heard it wasn’t all your blood,” Hawk said, uncertain if she was being too informal with classified Unit business.

  “Look, I just paid for the UFC fight on HBO. Either join me or we’ll catch up later. Cool?” Kolt said.

  “Tap Out TV? I’m in. Besides, you’ll probably need me to explain the more technical moves to you.”

  Kolt turned up the side of his mouth slightly for a second and narrowed his eyebrows at the comment before opening the door and shuffled backward to let her in.

  Cindy stepped in and took a long look at the living room. “Love what you’ve done with the place!” she said. “Early American arms room?”

  “What can I say?” he said. “TJ had poor taste in home décor.”

  Cindy took a seat on the worn leather couch. It was about the only spot not covered in clothes, magazines, or gun-cleaning rags. She didn’t know how to respond about the TJ comment. It had been six or seven months since Josh Timble was killed. Only a week since his name had been added to the black granite wall at the compound. But she knew if anyone enjoyed the liberty to find humor with the deceased TJ, it was his former roommate Kolt. It wasn’t tasteless; it was just Kolt.

  “Looks like you haven’t touched the place since Lieutenant Colonel Timble was here,” she said, uncertain and trying not to reveal her discomfort with the subject.

  “I haven’t. Been a little busy,” Kolt said, trying to lessen the harsh tone of his response.

  Kolt lowered the volume with the remote and went for the fridge. He grabbed two bottled beers and twisted the caps off both before handing one to Hawk.

  “Nice paracord wristband,” Kolt said, eyeballing the pink and lime-green bracelet on her left wrist. “You make that yourself in the rigger shop?”

  Hawk sensed a bit of sarcasm in Kolt’s voice but let it slide.

  “It’s a monkey-fist survivalist bracelet. Troy made it for me. Twelve feet of cord if I ever need it. A magnesium fire starter and a pretty loud whistle weaved into it, too,” she answered as she turned her wrist over to show the details. “You jealous?”

  “Entirely!”

  Cindy noticed the shoe box of medals on the coffee table. It was partially hidden under the gun-cleaning stuff, pistol magazines and holsters, and two-thirds of a Chinese-takeout box. She slid the box slightly out with two fingers. Cindy thought she counted five Bronze Stars with V devices on the ribbons, two or three Silver Stars. She was amazed in a way, but tried not to be too nosey. Also a Distinguished Service Cross, which she had never seen up close before. All those piled on another dozen, easily, of commendation medals, Purple Hearts, and the like.

  She hadn’t been around long enough to know where or what he did to earn the medals. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to know.

  “Admiring your hardware?” Cindy asked.

  “Yeah, Webber’s on my ass. Promotion-board time again. Some jackass in personnel told him I haven’t had a Department of the Army official photo in over four years, hence the Brasso fragrance.”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Kolt Raynor,” Cindy said as she lifted her bottle in a mock toast. “How does that sound to you?”

  “Sounds like a kiss of death. Like the fast track to a staff job. Like too much rank to be operating on target anymore,” Kolt said as he turned his beer up and eyed the cookies Hawk had brought.

  Hawk noticed the power chug, prompting her to wonder how a recovering alcoholic was able to stay disciplined enough not to fall off the wagon again. “Everyone has to grow up someday, I guess,” Cindy said. “You going all the way with the high and tight?”

  She knew a guy like Kolt probably wasn’t the lieutenant colonel type. She also knew he’d be comfortable getting busted back to captain if it would give him more time in a Delta troop and, of course, on target.

  “I haven’t decided to even get my dress uniform dry-cleaned yet. One thing at a time.”

  Hawk chuckled.

  They spent a few minutes catching up and enjoying their beers. Kolt scarfed a few of the cookies. Cindy was enjoying the small talk, pleased he didn’t turn his nose up at the baked goods, but knew the conversation would inevitably turn to shop talk. It had to. She knew Racer would want to know.

  “Look, Kolt, I wanted to fill you in on some of the recent happenings at work.” That was it; she crossed the line. She’d have to tell Kolt everything. He would know if she was holding back anything.

  “Have you seen the news reports about a body washing up onshore on the west side of Manhattan?” she asked.

  Kolt just shrugged.

  “Well, that’s all that is being reported. The administration is being pretty tight-lipped with the details, but there is a lot more to it,” Cindy said.

  “What’s the big deal?” Kolt asked.

  “There were actually two bodies. The other one surfaced farther north, on the Jersey side at Piermont.”

  “Boating accident? And?” Kolt didn’t try to hide his sarcasm.

  “Not exactly. Far from it, I’m afraid. Tied to one of the guys was a collapsible ladder, a five-ton bottle jack, and two four-by-four-inch-wide, four-foot-long sections of treated lumber. FBI suspects an attempt to infiltrate a storm-water drain line at the nuclear power plant up the Hudson River. Naturally, the authorities are tight-lipped about what the terrorist may have been doing.”

  “Interesting. Any nationality?”
Kolt said, sipping his beer between thoughts. “Any link to Mohammad Ghafour?”

  “Well, there is a possible link,” Hawk said.

  Cindy explained that JSOC was concerned about information found on a thumb drive taken off the target by Shaft and Kolt. On the USB drive, there were several pictures, mostly aerials pulled from Google Earth or Bing of Indian Point, San Onofre, and Cherokee power plants. The CIA and JSOC were convinced these were the mysterious X, Y, and Z targets embedded inside the MTSAK files pulled from the bin Laden bedroom porn stash. But only Indian Point had pictures that could be considered close target recce shots. And only the Indian Point power plant was up the Hudson from the washed-up body. The pictures were clearly taken with a zoom lens from across the river, and several were close-up shots of the plant’s main parking area.

  “Hawk, why the hell didn’t you tell me about the thumb drive?”

  “What? Call you in Ramstein while you were doped up?” answered Cindy. “I can hear it now: ‘Umm, yes, this is Major John Doe’s sister, can you please tell him that America is soon to be under attack?’”

  “OK, OK,” said Kolt as he raised his empty hand in surrender. “Point taken.”

  “Look, Kolt, Webber knows about it. Besides that, all I know is the analysts are running the numbers on the thumb drive’s files, scrubbing the related message traffic again, and taking another look at the empty sack files,” said Cindy.

  Kolt listened but didn’t respond.

  “Besides, I knew you were bummed about so many teammates getting busted up in the downed helo,” Hawk added.

  “Got it. I appreciate that. But can you get me a copy of the drive?”

  “I’m not sure I can do that, Kolt,” Cindy said. “Things have changed. You’ll probably have to visit the SCIF yourself.”

  “Webber has me on forced convalescent leave for another two weeks,” Kolt answered. “He said he better not see me around the building at all.”

  Cindy figured Kolt wouldn’t share the “admin leave” status with her. She had already heard rumors that he was potentially facing court-martial charges from Admiral Mason for insubordination and violating a direct order in combat. She wasn’t sure he had heard that yet, and she wasn’t going to spoil the UFC fight for him. And even though the thought of sharing this intel with Kolt is what really brought her out, she desperately wanted to spill about her time and performance in the Black Ice plywood box.

  “The world won’t end in two weeks, Kolt,” Cindy said. “Besides, we’re all safe with Gangster’s squadron on alert status.”

  “No shit, that’s not the point. The point is, if two guys have already been found washed up downriver from one of the power plants pictured on the thumb drive we pulled off target, it means they are into their target-reconnaissance phase. Possibly moving into their execution phase. Who knows?” Kolt said.

  “My hands are tied, Kolt. You’ll have to come up with a reason to get back to the Unit quicker than two weeks. Maybe get that photo taken?”

  “Roger that,” Kolt answered quickly as he reached for the box of medals and ribbons. “I’ve been meaning to get that DA photo taken ASAP anyway.”

  Kolt shook his head slightly as if the lights just came on. He looked back at Hawk, dead in the eye. “What did you mean by, ‘Things have changed’?”

  Cindy let out a sigh of relief, actually thankful that Kolt noticed and was giving her an opportunity to let out steam.

  “I’m PCSing back to Fort Riley, Kolt.”

  “Bullshit!” Kolt said.

  “I’m serious.”

  “What, you have an AD on the range or something?”

  “No, it wasn’t an accidental discharge,” Hawk said. “I got rolled up, Kolt.”

  “What? When?”

  “About the same time you and Shaft were dealing with the Goshai Valley.”

  “No shit!” Kolt answered with a surprised laugh. “You couldn’t use your paracord-prepper monkey-fist bracelet to escape?”

  “Yeah, I lived. But, to tell you the truth, I kinda wish I had an alibi fire.”

  “What happened?” Kolt asked.

  “I lost it, Kolt.”

  “Couldn’t have been that bad. You knew it was just training, didn’t you?”

  “I figured that out. But after three days of sitting in my own shit and piss, they broke me.”

  “Three days—that’s messed up,” Kolt said, surprised at the length of Hawk’s stay in the box. But Kolt didn’t know about Black Ice yet. He figured she went through the same twenty-four-hour program that he and the others often had to deal with unexpectedly during training exercises.

  “Hey, full assault mode, right?” Kolt said, staying positive. “You stayed dialed in, right?”

  “They said some pretty mean things to me, Kolt. I snapped. Colonel Webber’s pilot program has been scuttled. I’m out of the training cell, been moved to the NBC shop and pending PCS orders.”

  Cindy looked away as Kolt was staring at her. She imagined he could see the pain and humiliation she felt.

  “Well, that’s bullshit, Hawk!” Kolt said. “You want me to talk to Colonel Webber?”

  “No, Kolt,” Hawk said as she abruptly stood and headed to the trailer’s screen door. It was a nice gesture, but it would likely only irritate Webber. “I couldn’t keep it together. I know Colonel Webber is only doing what he has to do for the good of the Unit. It’s nothing personal.”

  “Our loss, Hawk.”

  ELEVEN

  AQ safe house, Sana’a, Yemen

  “Are you sure, brother Abdul?” Nadal asked. “You must be sure you have not created a circumstance for us.”

  “Yes, yes, I am certain,” Abdul replied.

  The tone of his voice made Nadal suspicious that he wasn’t certain at all.

  “How can you be so certain?” Nadal asked.

  “Because it is the one our friend Timothy, I mean Patrick Henry, provided.”

  Nadal gritted his teeth. The fool had mentioned Timothy’s real name instead of the code name they had given him.

  Silence reigned on the phone. The connection was so clear that Nadal could hear Abdul breathing all the way in the United States.

  “Did you learn the American mail system sufficiently? Did you execute the rehearsals as we discussed?” Nadal asked, ignoring Abdul’s breach of security.

  “I did,” Abdul said.

  “I want to go over this again,” Nadal said, breaking down Abdul’s part step by step.

  Abdul confirmed every step of the procedure. Sulayk Nadal went over it twice, his faith in Abdul shaken. He had provided Abdul the address to mail the package to. It was the address obtained by Timothy Reston, the security trainer from the Cherokee plant in South Carolina. He’d also issued Abdul strict orders to mail half a dozen packages to him addressed to a post office box he was to have set up. The PO boxes were to have been established in three different post offices around the city.

  “Confirm this, please,” Nadal said. It was critical the markings were known and that the packages would be returned to sender so they could learn the process before sending the hunting phones to Timothy’s plant.

  “Yes, yes, brother Nadal,” Abdul said. “Everything is in order. Allah has seen to it.”

  “Ma’aasalaama,” Nadal said before killing the red CALL button.

  Nadal sat back in his chair and said a silent prayer. The scrape of a stool made him turn. Omer Farooq slid his stool away from the small table and stood. He walked several steps over to the narrow freestanding space heater near the small kitchen and turned the temperature knob to the right.

  “What are you doing, Farooq?” Nadal demanded.

  “Relax, my friend, but we should not have to work in such frigid conditions,” Farooq replied.

  “It is important to maintain room temperature when shaping the plastique,” Nadal said. “Do you not remember that from your studies?”

  “I remember,” Farooq said.

  They had known each other for y
ears and had become like blood brothers, but more like cats and dogs than the same species. Nadal knew that he could be curt, but no detail was too small in this war against the infidels. Friendship would always take second place.

  Nadal had met Farooq at Balochistan University of Engineering and Technology in Quetta, Pakistan. Nadal, a foreigner from Romania, had been a fish out of water. Farooq, a far more gregarious and wild student, had gathered Nadal up into his small group, and their friendship blossomed. They hit it off early, confirming opposites do attract. Nadal was clearly more intelligent and religiously pious than Farooq, but Farooq was more radicalized and always spoke of becoming a mujahideen to defend Islam against the Western infidels.

  Farooq had failed his final tests after his third year in the Engineering and Science Department and was forced to drop out. The university’s vice chancellor scolded him in front of several students, accusing Farooq of substituting hard work and determination with complacency and lethargy, something that the competitive modern world frowned upon.

  Nadal pitied Farooq and had taken him under his wing. He knew Farooq would go to the ends of the earth to redeem himself, and that was the kind of man Nadal needed. It helped that Farooq was also an artist. His skill was put to great use, first in learning to forge Pakistani bank notes and rupees, doctors’ and marriage licenses, and later in undertaking far more challenging documents, including passports and entry/exit and tourist visas. Unlike the traditional cards and invitations, these documents demanded a heavier fee, tripling, even quadrupling, their income at times.

  Their lives would have continued down the road of simple larceny except for the events of 2 May 2011 in Abbottabad, Pakistan. The shock, sorrow, and humiliation they felt when the greatest living Islamic hero, Osama bin Laden, had been killed, would quickly transform into abiding rage.

  On that day, Nadal and Farooq vowed to give their knowledge to Islam and join the jihad.

  “I know you do,” Nadal said, offering his brother a small affection. “You were always a quick study. You were the first to master the RPG in the training camps.”

  “It is important to know which end to point toward the enemy,” Farooq said, smiling.