by Dalton Fury
Doc reached down and opened a desk drawer, pulling out an unmarked manila folder. He removed three sheets of paper stapled together and slid it across the desk toward Kolt. Kolt turned the blank cover page out of the way to reveal the second page. In large, red, bold letters at the top and bottom, the typical classification—TOP SECRET/SCI—was stamped on the paper. Directly underneath it was an acronym Kolt was not familiar with: WHDP-TUNGSTEN.
“Take a few minutes to read this over, Kolt,” Doc said as he pushed the paper across the desk and stood up. “I’m going to grab a cup of coffee from the chow hall. Can I bring you one?”
“No, sir, I’m good. Thanks.”
* * *
Even though Nadal al-Romani’s return to Sana’a was short-lived, Nadal having witnessed the rubble of what was, for lack of a better term, his personal bomb factory, he was happy to leave the rainy weather behind. And after a grueling four-hour-plus drive while cramped inside Farooq’s secondhand ’76 Datsun Bulletside pickup, one of over two million cars that had entered the country illegally in the past two years, it was nice to feel the salt-saturated breeze coming off the Red Sea comb through his curly hair and ride up his baggy salwar kameez.
They had topped off the hasty getaway car, grabbed what little they could recover from the smoldering safe house, squeezed three in the two-door cab, and easily negotiated the Soviet-funded switchback highway built in 1961 that changed elevations as often as Farooq changed the radio station. The road from Sana’a to Al Hudaydah covered just 143 miles, allowing them to make the final turn into Hodeida International Airport on fumes and four bald tires.
Men like Nadal and Farooq, and even their terrorist brother known as Joma, who had made the road trip as well—all duplicitous and foul Muslim men—were free to walk the dirty streets of the seaport village Al Hudaydah without a worry in the world.
Known for exporting coffee, cotton, dates, and hides, the seaport village of Al Hudaydah was developed in the mid–nineteenth century by the Ottoman Turks. After two and a half centuries, one would think Yemeni officials would have figured out how to turn the place into an extraordinary revenue-building resort town. However, anyone outside Nadal’s ilk considering visiting Yemen would discover the place was a hive of terrorism, kidnappings, and bombings.
Yemen does have its booming industry; it’s just mostly illegal.
Nadal remained behind in Yemen to tidy up their affairs and coordinate the final specifics for their spectacular attack on U.S. soil. An attack he put his full faith and confidence in Farooq and Joma to undertake. An attack he felt entirely confident in, even though their special equipment had gone up in smoke.
After he performed Salatul Fajr, the early morning prayer, Nadal took in a small meal of ogdat, a stew mixing small pieces of fish and vegetables, at a small waterfront walk-in before crossing the coastal highway, Route 60, and hoofing it to the Internet café near Al Tahreer Park. Very soon, his cell phone should be ringing, on schedule, as he had directed Farooq just before watching his brothers successfully clear customs inside the airport.
Until twenty-three minutes ago, he had been confident that all was in order. Short of the setback a few days ago when Yemeni security forces stormed their safe house, martyring themselves in the process and taking his masterpieces of body-cavity IEDs, model-airplane bombs, and makeshift microwave-denial systems up in smoke with them, by the grace of Allah, things were clicking along just fine.
Having recovered sufficiently from the shock of what he saw on the computer screen at the café, or what he didn’t see, actually, he had retraced his steps back to the waterfront, crossing back over Route 60, and stood on the highway’s western edge, looking down into the boat boneyard, where dozens of dilapidated rainbow-colored and sand-swept wooden fishing vessels rested in the flat dunes behind a manmade seawall at Le Port de Pêche, their masts having been confiscated, likely providing shade to places like where he ate breakfast that same morning.
“Salam alaykum,” Nadal said, after answering the phone on the first ring.
“Wa alaykum salam,” Farooq replied. “Brother Nadal, as I predicted, Joma and I arrived without incident. It was a long journey, but I was never worried, as Allah watched over us.”
Nadal was not surprised that Farooq and Joma arrived safely, nor was he surprised that Farooq would be proud of his meticulous and professional work in forging the appropriate travel documents that allowed them to obviously breeze through U.S. customs at Dulles International Airport. Nadal understood that; they had been brothers for a long time.
“Yes, Farooq, your work was sufficient; you reached your destination without issue with the authorities,” Nadal admitted. “But the thumb drive—it is practically empty!”
“That is impossible,” Farooq said. “I watched the files download with my own eyes.”
“There must have been a problem, Farooq,” Nadal said. “Are you sure you followed my instructions exactly? Did you log in to the correct Web site and use the cell phone correctly?”
“I am not a child, Nadal,” Farooq said. ““You should not treat me as such. With Allah as my witness, I did exactly as you described, exactly how we rehearsed many times.”
“The important Scared Indian documents were not downloaded, Farooq,” Nadal said. “Only basic floor plans and several underground-drainage engineering drawings, an outage schedule, and a shift schedule for a few days in March.”
“I don’t know what to say,’ Farooq said. “I am under a lot of pressure here trying to coordinate the first attack, finding our friend Timothy, and avoiding the security police. But I cannot accept blame for the thumb drive in good conscience.”
Having made his point with Farooq, reminding himself once again how easy it was for his old university roommate to become so easily distracted from the important and necessary things like his engineering studies and his faith, he backed off. After all, Farooq was now inside the enemy’s borders, and Nadal knew his success during the first attack, no matter the fallout or death toll, was the diversion he needed to facilitate their overall strategy of striking the infidel in a manner that would make Black Tuesday look like a mile-long interstate pileup.
“What is done is done, Farooq. The seniors will not be pleased, as without benefit of a second Timothy, and without the secret target-set documents on the thumb drive, and with our special equipment destroyed, our chances have worsened a great deal.”
“I understand, brother,” Farooq said. “Allah shines on us still.”
“Yes, the most graceful does, indeed, but I will take over the planning and coordination for Scared Indian. You will put all your efforts to Cherokee.”
“Yes,” Farooq said. “I am sorry, brother. I will make you proud with what we accomplish here.”
“Allah Hafiz,” Nadal said before pressing the END CALL button.
SEVENTEEN
Tungsten headquarters, Atlanta, Georgia
Sixty-two-year-old Carlos Menendez II sat comfortably in his leather-bound rocker, his tough-to-find and thus very expensive Barker Black ostrich cap-toe dress shoes propped gently on the pillow-covered coffee table to his front.
In his left hand, a sterling silver coffee mug with the CIA logo perfectly engraved on one side, filled with Jacobs Kronung finest dark roast, the wrist surrounded by a platinum and ice-blue Cosmograph Daytona Rolex. The coffee mug was a gift from his former employer, the watch a gift to himself.
In all, the Tungsten handler Menendez probably left the house wearing more money than forty-seven percent of Americans bring home in a month. It was too bad he was stuck underground most days, running his assets, or “embeds” as Tungsten classified them, immediately available to backstop a distressed operative or activate a Priority One repatriation. Yes, it was a full-time job, not unlike his previous thirty-eight years of government service, but it would be nice to surface when the sun was still up and strut his stuff in action-packed downtown Atlanta, Georgia, from time to time.
It certainly paid well,
though.
Carlos thumbed one more time through the file marked 0706 in the upper-right corner of the folder. He had gone through it in fine detail a week earlier, just twenty-four hours after it arrived by secure courier, prompted by a phone call from the Delta Force commander, Colonel Jeremy Webber. A few more times looking for specific indicators in the records that might highlight a personality vulnerability or innate characteristic that would automatically deselect an operative candidate for Tungsten. And now, with about eight more minutes before he would have to exit the secret headquarters, follow a long hallway, make two turns, grab the elevator to the upper floor, walk past the Braves rolling souvenir cart, past the escalators, and take his normal and private seat in the back of Footprints Jamaican Restaurant and Lounge to order the usual, oxtail stew and brown beans, he figured he owed it to Webber to give the guy one more look. It was an exercise in futility, for sure.
Maybe the Merc department can use this guy. But as an embed? No fuckin’ way. This guy is a crackpot!
Carlos wanted to help Webber; they went way back, hustling the same women decades ago in the nation’s capital, running the same camel caravans in the Middle East, and sharing the same sleeping quarters during Desert Storm. But that was years ago, a different time, and different place.
As Carlos sipped his Kronung, he wondered if Webber would be happy enough if he sent this kid’s file straight to the guys that handle the Mercs. That’s where the very-well-paid crackpots went, the guys with absolutely no conscience, the mercenary-minded that simply enjoyed killing other human beings. They wore no identifiable patches or markings, operated in the dark of night only, and generally were on call at Tungsten’s discretion.
Both for pleasure and money, they did pretty much any off-the-books dirty work the U.S. government required of Tungsten.
The Mercs came from all walks of life but were mostly guys with a few years in the military who got out for one reason or another. A few former cops who happened to pull their issued piece one too many times, and a smattering of former agency independent contractors who tended to be a little more mature than the others. Carlos knew it was a good mix of shooters and helo pilots, and even though he often worried that the oversight was a little slack, so far they had remained under the radar and not a major ass wound to the president of the United States. Because if the lid ever blew off Tungsten’s Department of Special Services, their politically supersensitive actions revealed, a lot of heads would roll, starting with POTUS himself.
If nothing else, Carlos knew, the Mercs sure could keep a secret.
But Carlos knew he couldn’t let his personal feelings obscure his judgment. National security demanded his utmost honesty and expert intuitive ability to analyze the finer points of a potential embed’s personality, past performance, and ability to make a decision for the president of the United States. A decision that, if bad shit went down, could create an international incident that the president would have to deftly defend on the world’s stage with a teleprompter and that Carlos would have to answer for. No, it just wasn’t the embed’s reputation that was at stake, it was Carlos’s, too.
Looking at his Rolex as the waitress set a large glass of sweet tea on a napkin, he took pleasure in the fact that he didn’t have to give the bad news to his old buddy Webber; the decision had been made well above him. On this one, Carlos was in receive mode.
Carlos spotted a well-tanned man with a close-cropped haircut, maybe a quarter inch or so, and a thick salt-and-pepper goatee enter the restaurant from the courtyard. He watched him look left for a few moments, scanning the area beyond the bar, then back right until they made eye contact.
Carlos took a sip of his tea and, with two fingers, flipped the white cloth napkin into the air before placing it down on his lap. Within a few seconds, the stranger had taken the seat across the table, reaching immediately for the lunch menu, signaling to Carlos that the bona fides had been passed and that, for the first time, he was looking straight into the eyes of Tungsten’s newest wannabe operative, Embed 0706.
“I thought you more of a ghost than reality,” Kolt said. “But I can see now you are just threadbare and broke back.”
“Come again?” Carlos said, straightening the napkin on his thighs.
“Sir, I’m sure you recognize Colonel Webber’s humor,” Kolt said, smiling. “He said he’d have my ass if I didn’t say those exact words.
“Touché!” Carlos said, beginning to like this kid more than he thought he would.
“Yes, sir,” Kolt said as he looked to the dark-haired, obviously very fit waitress. “I’ll have what he is having, thanks.” The waitress turned and walked away, her derriere still drawing both men’s attention. “I see why this is your favorite truck stop.”
“Please, son, call me Carlos.” Carlos extended his right hand over the table to Kolt.
“It’s not son, but Kolt. Kolt Raynor,” Kolt said, firmly shaking Carlos’s hand, ensuring his grip felt superior before releasing. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Carlos smiled and nodded. He knew this guy had a chip on his shoulder at times, a fact that was very clear in his file, but he also knew Kolt Raynor to be a man of commitment and sacrifice. After just a minute or so, Carlos could see how this guy could be an unshakable leader in combat. He had balls, for sure, a file full of medals validated that.
Whether or not he thought Kolt Raynor would make a good drinking buddy at a Falcon’s game, he had to be sure. Yes, the decision had been made above him, but Carlos had nearly forty years of clout. Even decisions by higher, given the correct data points, could be altered.
After reading Kolt’s file, Carlos had wondered why he had been recruited in the program at all, given his obvious strong ties to his teammates and his long track record of insubordination—two key data points that could be a vulnerability should his covert adventures overseas be compromised. But what gave Carlos the most pause was Kolt’s propensity to ignore traditional policies and play by his own rules. These flaws combined worried Carlos much more than they obviously worried his own leadership at Tungsten, or than could have ever worried his boss, Colonel Webber.
Carlos had questioned Webber as to why Kolt was sacrificing the potential for squadron command in a year. All he had to do was attend Command and General Staff College and suck it up in the classroom for a year, and then he would be back with the boys. Carlos realized Kolt felt enormously strong bonds with the men he was leaving behind. That’s a hallmark trait of a good leader—Carlos got that completely. But Carlos’s background didn’t include the military, and nobody had ever expected him to understand the incredibly tight bonds warriors can experience and nurture over time. Throw in multiple combat tours together, and the relationship was carved in stone. Carlos knew Kolt was a single man like himself, after two failed marriages, but having not been there for Kolt’s high-risk adventures across the globe, missions that good men were lost on while hundreds of bad men met their maker, he was beginning to feel a bit odd about trying to block Kolt Raynor’s acceptance into Tungsten.
Who the hell am I to judge this fucking warrior?
“You up for this, Kolt?” Carlos asked, signaling the small talk was over and the interview was beginning.
“Willing to give it a shot, for sure,” Kolt said, leaning back as the waitress set two plates of oxtail stew and beans down in front of them and topped off Carlos’s sweet tea.
With the waitress gone and the other tables far enough away to ensure their conversation remained private, Carlos said, “Total compartmentalization.”
“No problem,” Kolt said.
Carlos knew he’d been operating inside the darkest reaches of one special-access program after another, crisscrossing the globe numerous times and, so far, had lived to speak of it only during the postmission hot washes.
No, Kolt didn’t kill and tell.
“No nondisclosure agreements. No official ‘read-ons’ or ‘read-offs.’ No medals. In effect, no paper trail at all,” Carlos said withou
t emotion or expression while maintaining eye contact with Kolt.
Carlos wanted to make sure Kolt got the picture. Delta Force didn’t exist to the world, which meant Tungsten didn’t even exist to Delta. Fuck this up, Raynor, and you’ll be peddling sleeping bags and climbing gear in Southern Pines again.
“You need something, you go through me. Me only,” Carlos said. “All commo is secure. Encrypted e-mails, positive voice-activated caller authentication, weekly distress codes provided. When I call you, PRIVATE CALLER will display. Answer it. It will be me trying to sell you something as a persistent telemarketer. If alone and all is well, we’ll talk. If busy, hang up. If you are in a tight, share the distress code.”
“Sounds easy enough,” Kolt said. “I assume creds and aliases?”
“Naturally. But I think we’ll stick with your aliases from your former employer and nest the personal history into our database. Our analysts have reviewed their status and see no issues.”
“Makes perfect sense,” Kolt said. “Never know when some ass clown might yell out in a foreign airport at a chance contact.”
“Exactly,” Carlos said as he lifted his soup spoon and fork. “Dig in.”
Carlos didn’t want to waste time on the other details. Kolt would attend a full day of indoctrination briefs beginning in the morning at the Tungsten headquarters. His creds would be updated, driver’s licenses issued, passports validated, and pocket litter—restaurant matchbooks, business cards, and so forth from around the world, which would strengthen his operational cover for status—would be added. Of course, none of these field-craft props would be kept at Kolt’s apartment in the sock drawer, where they could easily be found.
These credentials would be passed back and forth by “dead drops” in and around the Atlanta, Georgia, area. Prior to arriving at the airport, a Tungsten representative, known as “saviors,” would make a scheduled service based on encrypted, e-mailed instructions. It might be an upscale burger joint in Buckhead, where his creds would be taped to the underside of a certain table. Another time it might be the fifth-floor waiting room at Grady Memorial Hospital, where he could find his creds waiting under the center cushion of the plaid couch. Regardless of the dead-drop spot, Kolt would locate the goods, swap his true creds with his alias creds, and depart the area. Immediately after Kolt’s departure, a savior would discreetly secure his true creds. Upon returning through Atlanta, he would hit another dead drop to swap his creds back before grabbing a cab to his apartment. Carlos knew none of this would be new to Kolt. These were skills he had learned well and used often in the Unit.
