by Dalton Fury
Kolt wasn’t sure how to respond as he stood at the position of attention, arms tight to his sides, looking directly over Webber’s head as he remained focused on an imaginary spot on the wall. He hesitated for a few seconds, searching for the right response, trying to gauge just how pissed off Webber was at him this time. Yes, this spot, on Webber’s carpet, was very familiar to the wild-card Delta major over the years.
“Sit down, Major,” Webber finally said, releasing Kolt from his motionless posture.
Kolt clasped the zipper on the front of his OD green jumpsuit and zipped it a little higher toward his neck. Sure, the uniform was standard-issue for all operators and worn probably eight to ten months out of the year by all operators, but Webber had stopped wearing one the day he became the commander just over two years ago. Kolt got it; he knew the colonel needed to be wearing a more formal military uniform in his current position. But he also figured he might be wise not to have the zipper too far down, showing the heavy soil and sweat on his light brown T-shirt from his having just tested his bum wheel by running the long obstacle course and the mile plus back to the compound for the surprise meeting in Webber’s office.
Well, it wasn’t entirely a surprise.
“Sir, about the meeting this morning with Admiral Mason,” Kolt said—trying to get ahead of the curve and sensing Webber was eyeballing his fresh and goofy conventional army haircut—“I know I’ve got issues.”
“Save it, Racer,” Webber said, motioning with his right hand to stop him talking. “I’m not interested in your side of the story; it’s already been beat to death at the hot wash. It’s on file like the rest of them.”
“Yes, sir,” Kolt said, dropping his defense to what was certainly the tongue-lashing he was about to take.
“Look, Racer, no doubt the CG is still pissed about your Goshai Valley circus performance, and I wish we could handle it with some written counseling for your local performance file.”
“Yes, sir,” Kolt said again, letting him know he was listening but not wanting to take the floor from the commander yet.
“Personally, and I think you probably got this vibe from the hot wash, I think he ought to be pinning the DSC on your chest,” Webber said, breaking a half smile as he talked. “That’s off the record. But the CG wants your head, something I’m sure you picked up on this morning in his office.”
“Yes, sir,” Kolt said. “That message came through Lima Charlie.”
“Well, here is something that isn’t entirely loud and clear. Admiral Mason is stuck right now about what to do about you. He received a personal call from POTUS just after you left his office.”
“Sir, why in the hell would the president be upset at the CG about Goshai?” Kolt asked. “Admiral Mason didn’t have anything to do with my decision to rope, and we did capture the guy.”
“Relax, Racer,” Webber quickly said. “It wasn’t to berate the admiral; it was to congratulate him on the Goshai mission.”
“A little late, isn’t it?” Kolt asked. “That op is old news.” Well, not really that old, Kolt accepted. For the guys still in the sandbox it would be, but the fact that Kolt still had stitches in his lower leg from the pineapple-grenade blast at the British fort reminded him it hadn’t been all that long—something readily apparent when he ran the O-course against his doctor’s orders.
Webber continued. “Yeah, well, the CIA just cracked the encryption on several files on the thumb drive you guys pulled. Pretty big haul with some unique matches to the empty sack haul.”
“Really?” Kolt answered, sitting up a little in the leather straight-back chair and leaning toward the commander a little more. “What’s up, sir?”
“NSA SIGINT is pinging. Cell phone intercepts and Internet-café traffic confirm late planning stages of a hit on the Cernavoda nuclear plant in Romania.”
Kolt knew SIGINT, or signals intelligence, was one of the Western world’s most potent weapons against terrorists, who had to communicate somehow to plan, coordinate, and execute their attacks. If not, they would be no different than bin Laden, sidelined and in total blackout comms, hiding.
“Romania. What’s al Qaeda’s beef with them? Didn’t they pull out of Iraq several years ago?” Kolt asked.
“Yes, but they did give basing and overflight permissions to U.S. and allied aircraft. They are still in Afghanistan, and their prime minister has been pretty open about continuing to support the Afghan army even after 2014,” Webber said.
“But if the power plant is in Romania, why are the SEALs going to Yemen?” Kolt asked.
“We’ve narrowed the safe house of what we believe to be the planning cell down to somewhere in Sana’a,” Webber said. “The agency also believes there is a connection to an employee of the Romanian power plant.”
“A lone wolf?” Kolt asked.
“Close, but not exactly,” Webber said. “More of a passive insider at this point, believed to be providing the terrorist cell with planning information and details about the security vulnerabilities of the plant.”
“That’s all good, sir, but why does all this preliminary, unvetted information stop the admiral from booting me from the command?” Kolt asked.
“Because word is the president asked about you personally and was tickled that you were on the Goshai operation,” Webber said, trying to hold back a smile. “Guess the old man feels like he still owes you one for taking out al-Amriki before he knocked Marine One out of the sky.”
“I’m touched, sir, but the president really needs to visit Section Sixty to thank the right person for saving his ass,” Kolt said.
Webber got the inference. He knew Kolt was referring to Lieutenant Colonel Josh Timble’s final resting place in Arlington National Cemetery.
“Either way, Racer, I’m not necessarily fond of losing you a second time. My time in command is coming to an end soon, and I figure I owe it to you, as well as the incoming Delta commander, to lower your profile a little in the near term,” Webber stated.
“Sir, please don’t offer to keep me around if you plan to take me off operational status,” Kolt said, fidgeting in his seat. “I know what it does to guys to go to RDI. I’ll just jack it in if it’s just the same to you.”
Kolt knew Webber understood his meaning. Research and Development Integration was a vital part of the unit’s success over the years since its mission was to keep Delta on the cutting edge of everything. Locate or develop and then test the tools of the trade that gave Kolt Raynor and his mates, and all future operators, the best chance of survival. Kolt knew it was vital and that many a wounded operator migrated upstairs over the years to stay in the unit, and he hoped Webber wasn’t offended by his last comment.
“Fat chance. You know we are short on healthy operators as it is. Even if I wanted to, that would be tough,” Webber answered as he reclined a bit back into his leather chair. “Actually, I’m thinking something lower profile than that.”
“Sir?”
“Yemen. With the SEALs,” Webber answered.
“AFO, sir?” Kolt said, surprised. He hadn’t heard about anything going down in Yemen since Gangster’s squadron took down Amriki’s staging area six months ago and didn’t understand why the place warranted advance-force operations. Kolt even read the daily intel update before breakfast. Nothing about Yemen. Nothing until Webber mentioned the nuke plot a few moments ago. “Can’t take my own guys, sir?”
“You won’t be in charge of the operation, Major Raynor. The SEALs have the lead on the nuke plot. I’d never be able to keep that from Admiral Mason, anyway. You are just there as an LNO, liaison duty, nothing more, nothing less,” Webber said.
“C’mon, sir, are you serious?” Kolt pleaded, forgetting Webber was actually looking out for him. “At least give me some decision-making authority over there with those guys.”
“Well, the Six commander asked for you by name, but probably a stupid idea anyway, Raynor. On second thought, I already placed you on mandatory admin leave. I almost forgot. G
o ahead and let personnel and finance know you are off operational status so they can dock your operator and hazardous-duty pay appropriately and update your records.”
“OK, OK, sir. Point taken,” Kolt said, quickly holding both hands up in surrender, seeing the colonel was dead serious. “It’s ST6’s show; I’m just a friendly straphanger.”
“That’s what I thought,” Webber responded. “You leave tomorrow night for the beach.”
“Sir, who is the target?” Kolt asked.
“The thumb drive included two martyr farewell videos,” Webber said. “Some cat named Omer Farooq and another guy, a Romanian the agency says is named Sulayk Nadal.”
“Farooq Nadal,” Kolt said. “Sounds like a good Puerto Rican Christmas carol.”
Webber didn’t respond to the joke, remaining seated and staring at Kolt.
“What about my troop, sir?” Kolt asked, pushing it a little. “You replacing me?”
“No, Kolt. Your troop is fine. You guys aren’t on alert status, and most of your assault teams are scattered to the four winds with training venues. They won’t even know you are gone. Get your shit packed, update your power of attorney, and get your will posted in your locker.”
“Will do, sir, and thanks!” Kolt said as he stood to walk out of the office and head back to the squadron bay to dig into the low-vis locker for Pakistani clothing and load out his kit.
“Major Raynor, slow down,” Webber said, standing as well. “Don’t even think about pulling any of your bullshit on this one. In Yemen, Six has the lead. I expect you—in fact, you can take this as a direct order—you will not, under any circumstances, do anything to draw attention to yourself. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Kolt said. “No normal warrior shit from me. Understood!”
“I’m dead serious, Major.” Webber continued. “I don’t even expect you to pull out so much as a dull pocketknife the entire three-week deployment, because if you do, we’ll both be receiving PCS orders.”
“Yes, sir!” Kolt said, appreciative of Colonel Webber’s hanging his neck out for him. “I’m just there to pull radio watch.”
“Now, get over to the cover shop so they can get you off the books and backstopped,” Webber said. “And Racer.”
“Yes, sir,” Kolt answered, pausing at the doorway.
“Make your own luck!”
FOURTEEN
JSOC safe house, Sana’a, Yemen
“Guys, I gotta tell ya. I’m not seeing this the same way you guys are,” Kolt said, shaking his head. He stared at the large satellite map of built-up Sana’a on the wall just to the right of the beige refrigerator and wondered how they didn’t see what he saw.
“What’s your problem, Kolt?” the SEAL master chief, Rocco, asked. “You’re seeing the same intel we are. The place isn’t hard to find, man. It will be all over by midnight.”
Kolt didn’t disagree with Rocco. Farooq and Nadal’s pad was easy to find. Looking at the map spread over the kitchen table, Kolt traced the yellow-highlighted bread-crumb route, which the SEALs had captured with a hidden Toughbook loaded with FalconView software while data-logging their driving route.
From the Saudi border entering Sana’a along a four-lane major highway known as Amran Road by the locals, the SEALs would pass by large marble and steel gates marking the entry to Al Thawra City. From there, the route was a series of turns that would take the team past the soccer stadium that masked the target house from the highway until they reached the immediate east-bearing road. In seven hundred feet, the two-story tan and sun-stained structure that was fronted by a rusting six-foot-high metal fence and gate, where Farooq and Nadal were believed to be staying at night, would be on the left. Kolt knew the SEALs couldn’t mistake the soccer stadium, one of the most prominent icons in Sana’a, Yemen.
“It’s not the intel I’m questioning; it’s your guys’ intended course of action tonight,” Kolt said. “Your mission analysis is a little off, in my opinion.”
“How the fuck so?” Rocco said.
It was clear the master chief didn’t agree with Kolt’s assessment.
“Well, for one—and you guys don’t take this personally—you seem to want to take down the target before it’s necessary, or even wise to do,” Kolt said. He looked the seasoned, wide-shouldered and super-fit SEAL in the eye while trying to soften his obvious disdain for the groupthink that was going on. Maybe the fact that Admiral Mason was personally pushing this raid on the SEALs before it had been thought all the way through was the reason for this.
“That’s bullshit!” Rocco said.
Kolt shrugged. “Look man, all I’m saying is maybe we should take the agency’s recommendation on this one. The target house isn’t going anywhere, but we have a chance here to get a whole lot more out of this if we execute a little operational patience and let it develop. Shit, we just got here. What’s the hurry?”
Kolt knew it was typical shit from the SEALs. They were much less about patience and much more about action than the Unit. Sure, they would get at it about 2300 hours on a moonless night, kick a lot of ass in the heart of the Al Thawra neighborhood, and haul in some solid intel. That wasn’t the issue. On this particular op, the collection resources were limited with the ongoing Syrian crisis and efforts in Somalia, which gave Kolt pause.
The SEALs were not given operational control of enough intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance, or ISR assets. It was a fancy term for all-seeing and orbiting drones that would watch the target house 24-7, and hitting the house without knowing that both their targets, Farooq and Nadal, or even one of them for that matter, were in deep sleep was pissing away an opportunity they might not get again.
“Look, Kolt, just because the CIA recommended a course of action doesn’t mean we have to accept it,” Rocco said. “This is our gig and the J-staff is expecting the hit to go down tonight. Besides, I’m not asking one of my guys to cross the border and look for a needle in a haystack.”
Kolt looked passed Rocco, seated in a dated wooden dining room chair, to the two other SEALs at the far side of the room. Those two were lounged out on the sofa with PS3 controllers in both hands and Grand Theft Auto 5 on the flat screen sitting on the coffee table before them. They were both fairly similar to Rocco: minimum body fat, maximum facial hair, and much fonder of breaking shit than Kolt Raynor, who was currently serving up delicate stuff. Instead of turning a door handle to make entry, they preferred a mule kick.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Kolt said. “The agency is still tracking Nadal from Mecca. When he reaches the Saudi-Yemeni border, we can track him from there. Follow him. See where he goes. Who knows? He might unravel some more threads for us.”
“Sure, Kolt, we’ll all just jump in the minivan and tool across the border, and when the superspies call us, we’ll just sneak up from his blind spot and into the left lane and follow Nadal’s bus to his hideout,” Rocco said. “Is that it?”
Kolt realized he was clenching his right fist and forced it to relax. “Look man, I’m not here to make waves. But while you guys have been out and about gathering atmospherics, Scotty and I have been reading the cable traffic,” he said. “Let’s get someone on Nadal’s bus when he reaches the border. You guys can still do the hit, just push it twenty-four hours to see what develops. Hell, we know Nadal won’t be there tonight. How can we be sure Farooq will be?”
Rocco responded with a smirk as he turned around to make eye contact with the others on the sofa. From his seat at the kitchen table, Kolt could see they weren’t impressed with the idea either. Both shook their heads at Kolt’s suggestion without so much as taking their eyes off the screen.
“With all due respect, fuck that, Racer,” Rocco said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We hit the house tonight as planned, smoke Farooq in his bed, and grab what intel we can.”
“Are you for real?” Kolt said, shocked at what he had just heard. Two thumbs-up from the couch potatoes offered support for Rocco’s plan.
“D
amn right I am. One terrorist asshole in the bag is better than a dry hole,” Rocco said. “We can’t stay here forever.”
Scotty, the young Joint Communications Unit commo man, whose sole function was to keep the secure communication link working between JSOC headquarters at Fort Bragg and their safe house on Ali Abdul Moghri Street, about a quarter mile or so south of Tahrir Square, didn’t move a muscle. He remained in the corner of the living room, acting as if he wasn’t paying attention. Kolt knew Scotty would not want to get in the middle of a Delta-SEAL heated discussion. It was his job to support both equally, not break a tie.
Kolt knew he was pushing it. Why can’t I just let this go? Let the SEALs decide.
Webber’s direct orders were one thing, but fucking up an operation of this magnitude, of this importance to the nation, one that potentially could halt the Romanian cell in their tracks and stave off an attack on one of America’s commercial nuclear power plants, was another. To Kolt, it was a simple matter of arithmetic. One highly irritated Delta commander or saving hundreds of thousands of Americans from radiological sabotage?
Raising his voice a little to ensure all four men in the room heard him, he said, “Guys, this Farooq character is a key leader in the Romanian cell. That much we know. But this is too important of an op for al Qaeda for only a couple of guys to be involved. Where’s the support personnel, the cutouts, messengers, drivers, passport forgers, financiers, logisticians, and muscle men?”
“Kolt, OK, I see your point,” Rocco said, somewhat admitting that Kolt wasn’t a complete idiot. “Maybe we should let it develop a little longer since Nadal isn’t due at the border till tomorrow morning. But I can’t support having one of my guys get all muhjed up and get on that bus. That’s fucking suicide.”
Kolt was happy to hear Rocco give a little, but now he wanted to kick the master chief in the ass. He’d allowed his men to use the same operational vehicle for the past three days during their recces. Three different makes and colored vehicles, distinct in age and style, were available, parked in the outer courtyard, covered by tarps. Kolt bristled at what was obvious lazy field craft— the SEALs simply did not want to be hassled by changing cars twice a day. They had even forgotten to swap out license plates for two days straight now. That shit could compromise a team in a heartbeat, and you might not even know until it was too late.
