by Dalton Fury
“So, how do you feel about operating on U.S. soil?” Carlos asked as he brought the cloth napkin from his lap to wipe the oxtail broth from his lips. “Any issues with that?”
“None,” Kolt said as he took in another spoonful of brown beans.
Charlotte, North Carolina
Sitting rather uncomfortably on the hotel carpet, Kolt could sense that the two terrorists to his left, Joma and Farooq, were wondering how Kolt—rather, Kolt acting as Timothy Reston—knew so little about the security procedures at his workplace. How he seemed to know exactly how to slip the authorities, had all the answers about that, but little else. When questioned about it, Kolt credited a lifetime of shoplifting cigarettes from the local drugstores and slipping the law, but Cherokee Power Plant was obviously harder to handle.
They had been at it for five and a half hours by now. Empty pizza boxes were stacked by the front door and jugs of water were at each of their sides. It was almost 2 A.M., and it had been an exhausting night of planning in a local hooker hotel, the thick aroma of unbathed men stuffed in-between the two double beds making it that much worse.
Kolt did his best to answer the questions, trying to steer the plan to his liking, but it was increasingly difficult by not actually being Timothy the insider. Of the three, only the terrorist they called Abdul seemed to offer countersuggestions and engage often.
Carlos wasn’t kidding that day at Footprints Jamaica in Restaurant when he asked Kolt if he was good with operating inside the homeland. That said, masquerading as one Timothy Reston, senior access officer for the nuclear power plant that was about thirty miles southwest of the hotel where the current planning session was under way, Kolt wasn’t actually operating. If not for Kolt’s dumb luck on the bus returning to Sana’a with Nadal the Romanian, no intelligence agency on earth would have a single lead on the nuke plot. The pocket-size notebook, accidentally dropped by Nadal as he made a hasty exit from the bus, was proving to be a treasure trove of intel.
Within six hours of the SEALs running into a trap, the CIA had run the ten-digit number handwritten inside the notebook through their database. They quickly determined that American citizen Timothy Reston had turned on his friends, coworkers, and country. And, even though he had taken the time to delete his Internet communication with Farooq, enough of it was recoverable to understand the link. The notebook also revealed several odd two-word phrases, what were assumed to be code words of some sort, that were screened through the CIA’s historical cable traffic and then bounced against the National Security Agency’s MAINWAY database of several trillion phone calls, as well as PRISM, its clandestine mass-electronic-surveillance data-mining program. And because the Romanian cell and the nuke plot were obviously major threats to the nation, they ran the code words through the X-keystroke software program. The software was able to analyze the myriad of data on the Internet and sift through it, picking out the bits regarding “persons of interest” under any number of parameters.
According to Carlos, all the suspected code words checked out, but one in particular didn’t register under the NSA’s DISHFIRE blanket analysis. Handwriting analysis was inconclusive, but the assumption was that Nadal had scribbled “Sacred Indian” several times in his notebook.
Yes, Kolt wasn’t playing Kolt inside the hotel room that night, but he was trying to save the local population, and that clearly was the most important task. Kolt wanted to deal the cards his way, trying to drive the planning of an attack on an American power plant to where no innocent people got hurt. No, just the terrorists were to die.
But Carlos hadn’t made it easy.
Tungsten was adamant that Kolt not roll up Farooq’s cell—in good time, yes, but, for the time being, not until they were sure the cell was the only one in town. Terrorist chatter was heavy about a second cell, a fact the CIA and Tungsten actually agreed on. But this second cell was believed to be in Pakistan and had not yet reached the United States. It was a long shot, and certainly risky to Kolt’s health, but planting Kolt as Timothy Reston, the terrorist’s inside man at the power plant who had established a cordial yet cautious relationship online with the terrorist, was at the moment the only thread linked to parallel nuke plots and to Nadal the Romanian, whose trail had gone cold after he exited the bus in Sana’a.
If Kolt’s planning skills were still as sharp as they were when he was a Delta operator, he just might be able to survive the attack without anyone the wiser. But Kolt wasn’t sitting around the old Delta team room putting together a high-risk mission with the most professional and talented operators in the world. He was trying to shape an unprecedented mission to his liking. So far, with very little buy in.
Kolt leaned in with the others, three terrorist enemies of the state, and looked down on the spread of colored satellite photos of the Cherokee Power Plant pulled from Google Earth.
Joma and Farooq had become frustrated since it was becoming increasingly obvious that Timothy couldn’t answer the specific questions they raised. Kolt felt they had already decided that Timothy was either stupid or a lying infidel pig.
“My friend Timothy, I fear you are not being honest with us,” the smaller, narrow-shouldered terrorist wearing the green soccer jersey they called Farooq said.
“No, no, brother, I am just tired,” Kolt said. “Some of your questions I just cannot answer.”
“Why is that, Timothy?” Farooq asked. “Do you question our resolve in this matter?”
“Well, things in our strategy have changed since I left that department. They keep those things secret from everyone,” Kolt said, trying to sound convincing and invoke some sympathy from the three terrorists. “I no longer have access to those items.”
“OK, my friend. We have come a long way and have sacrificed much,” Farooq said. “We do not have our special equipment anymore, but brother Abdul has secured enough Semtex explosives, a water vessel, and weapons to ensure our strike will be a glorious occasion. But we must have your expertise to be fully confident.”
Before Kolt could reply, Joma threw the map he had in his hand in the air and jumped quickly to his feet. Kolt sensed his anger before he spoke a word and watched as the terrorist lifted his foot high in the air and stomped down hard on the Google Maps images.
“I am sorry, brother,” Kolt said, hoping to calm him some. “Tomorrow I will do better. I promise I will.”
“No, tomorrow is too late!” Joma said as he took the handle of a five-inch blade, seating his hand to the hilt and sliding it swiftly up and out of the leather sheath on his hip. With one continuous motion he jumped toward Kolt, raising his knife hand high in the air and striking down near Kolt’s neck.
Kolt instinctively rolled to his rear, executing a somersault, but was stopped short when he impacted with the small refrigerator. Kolt sensed the downward knife motion and heard the knife blade impact the concrete flooring under the dirty carpet.
Kolt reached for Joma’s right wrist, pulling him toward him as he rolled to his back to place him in his guard. The wrist control kept the blade at a safe distance, forcing Kolt to control Joma’s body with only one arm. Kolt grabbed a deep handful of Joma’s white T-shirt collar as he heard the other terrorist yelling to stop as they bounced off the beds.
I don’t want to kill this guy—not yet, anyway!
Kolt quickly assessed the man’s position, just as he had always done rolling with mates back at the Unit. He first thought arm bar, but gave that up because Joma still held the knife in his hand. Triangle choke was an option, but the setup was off and Joma’s lower torso held tight to Kolt’s right leg. But he didn’t have time to run through the Gracie library searching for the perfect move in this particular situation; he needed something simple to stop the terrorist’s aggression, but not so effective as to break a major bone or compromise the man’s airway.
Screw it! Basics!
Kolt tightened his stomach muscles quickly and executed a sit-up, simultaneously pulling Joma’s head toward his. He landed a head butt,
impacting Joma just above the left eye, forcing him to release his hold on the knife. Kolt knew it was solid by the sound, the deep gash, and the fact that warm blood had spurted out of the wound and into Kolt’s face.
Kolt allowed Joma to fall free from his grasp, toppling over the maps on the floor.
“I am sorry, brother Joma,” Kolt said as he moved to a standing position to allow him some more flexibility should the other two pile on. “I did not mean to hurt you, but you had a knife.”
Farooq stepped forward, kicking the knife away from both of them and putting himself in between the two combatants. He lifted his hands in the air to his chest to motion Kolt to keep his distance from Joma. The other terrorist, Abdul, had yanked a cover off a down pillow and quickly held pressure on Joma’s left eye.
“Brothers, this is not Allah’s way,” Farooq said, rapidly looking back and forth at them. “We have much to do. This is too important for us to have such strong disagreements.”
“I’m sorry, Farooq,” Kolt said, now worried that he had just caused an unnecessary incident that could unravel the entire operation, his first under the Tungsten banner.
Then again, Joma had started it. And if he had any skills, he had equal chance to finish it. Had he not had his temper tantrum and pulled a knife, he wouldn’t be bleeding all over his buddy Abdul and the bedsheets.
That motherfucker is lucky I didn’t bust his larynx!
“All is well, brother Timothy,” Farooq said, still trying to gain control of the situation and calm everyone’s nerves. “It is best if you go now. We will contact you when we are ready to continue.”
“Yes, yes, that would be best,” Kolt said. “You have my cell number. Please call me soon.”
“Yes, it will be soon,” Farooq said. “But you must be ready next time. We must know these things to plan our attack. I trust you will be better prepared.”
“Yes, I will be,” Kolt said before heading to the door. “You can trust me.”
“We must succeed in our mission. We have lost other brothers recently and even more are counting on us to execute our part of the larger plan,” Farooq said as he opened the middle desk drawer and pulled something out.
Kolt tensed for a second, momentarily thinking Farooq was setting him up with the Mr. Nice Guy talk and was about to pull a gun on him. But when Farooq turned back around, Kolt saw he was removing a cell phone from a clear plastic bag.
“Brother Timothy, take this phone. This is how we will coordinate,” Farooq said as he handed Kolt the phone. “It is safer this way.”
Kolt knew that Tungsten was now playing interlude among all Internet traffic and cell phone calls between the terrorist cell and the real Timothy. Accepting the phone was no big deal and not entirely unexpected. Besides, it would be a simple matter to add the new phone’s fifteen-digit IMEI number into the system. Kolt also assumed Farooq’s previous comment was confirmation that the drowned swimmers that washed up on the shore of the Hudson River and the Romanian cell were all tied to the master nuke plot.
Yes, Kolt wanted to share the plant’s security strategy, the nuances of the various security officers, the secret stopping places where external mobile-security patrols could remain off camera and unobserved by their meddling supervisors, and numerous other interesting points. Kolt couldn’t afford to be Mr. Tough Guy here; he needed the terrorists more than they needed him. And, all things considered, even given the head butt, it had been a productive night.
Joma, rightly so, figured Timothy could answer all those questions. And if he was present in the hotel that night, he likely would have.
Tungsten had already determined that would not happen.
EIGHTEEN
Bruegger’s Café, Raleigh, North Carolina
Cindy Bird strode up to the outdoor café’s bronze-colored table wearing a knee-length lime-green skirt, four-button white blouse, and a pair of black two-inch heels. Kolt half stood up to greet her, keeping his head low enough to not hit it on the Dartmouth-green umbrella casting the square shadow ten feet away, and sort of reached over the small table to push her matching bronze chair out for her.
“I got it, thanks,” Cindy said as she slid the chair back enough to sit down. She removed her pocketbook and hung it on the shoulder of the chair, reached down to grab both sides of the seat, dug her heels into the whitewashed concrete patio, and scooted close to the table.
“Come here often?” Cindy asked.
“Very rarely,” Kolt answered as he handed Cindy a drink menu, trying not to eyeball her low-cut shirt and well-formed cleavage.
“Surprised, clientele doesn’t seem rowdy enough for you.”
“Stick around till after twenty-two hundred. You’d be surprised,” Kolt replied.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t be, but I’ll pass. Thanks,” Hawk said.
“I see Troy has upgraded your preppers’ bracelet,” Kolt said as he noticed the olive-green and tactical-tan military 550 cord around her wrist.
“Yeah, a double dragon knot this time, made with twenty feet of paracord,” Cindy said as she held her wrist up and turned it side to side to show Kolt. “This one also has a buckle whistle and a magnesium fire starter weaved into the cord.”
“Shit, they probably banned those things from tryouts, just like GPSs,” Kolt said, smiling before taking a swallow of ice water.
“It doesn’t really match the outfit, but Troy gives me shit if I don’t wear it.”
“Guess that telegraphs who you are seeing tonight,” Kolt said.
“Look, Kolt, it’s really good to see you, but I’ve only got a few minutes,” Hawk said, wondering if Kolt would see through her bullshit. She missed Kolt and the Unit, for sure, just too proud to wear it on her shoulders.
“Yeah, no worries. Just wanted to pick your brain for a minute, Hawk.”
“Kolt, as much as I want to, you know I can’t tell you anything about the Unit. I’m on PCS leave right now, anyway.”
“Guess Webber went through with it after all, huh?”
“Colonel Webber actually was willing to keep me,” Hawk said. “But I had to move to the NBC shop.”
“They spent a lot of money on you, Hawk. You kicked ass for over a year with several pretty hairy deployments under your belt. I’m sure they’d welcome you back in a year,” Kolt said, trying to keep Hawk motivated.
“Maybe, heading to Fort Stewart, and, to be honest with you, I’m OK with it,” Cindy said, making sure to maintain eye contact, lest she make it obvious that she was talking smack.
“Time heals all wounds, Hawk. They need you there.”
“The Unit doesn’t need anybody, Kolt. You know that better than most. But, we’ll see,” she said.
“What about you. What’s up?”
“I’ll cut to the chase, Hawk. It’s about the Romanian cell,” Kolt said. He didn’t have time to get to Tungsten headquarters in Atlanta, and it would be a pain in the ass and too time-consuming to trade encrypted e-mails with Carlos and the analysts. He could probably hit the local library and do some open-source research on the Internet. But none of those options was as good as meeting with Hawk. He knew she’d know the answers to the terrorists’ questions, at least fill in the major gaps, and was thrilled she agreed to meet him on such short notice.
“C’mon, Kolt, I don’t know too much about that,” Hawk said with as much sincerity as she could muster.
Kolt could see Cindy was uncomfortable with the topic. He realized now that it would be tough to get anything worthwhile from her. Kolt wished he could tell her he was working a SAP, working deep-cover ops for Tungsten, which might motivate her to help a little more. Reminding her of the threat to the homeland would certainly do that.
“I know, but I really just wanted to pick your brain about how a commercial nuclear plant works,” Kolt said.
“Jesus, Kolt, we could be here for a week to get through that,” Cindy said, grabbing a couple of white cocktail napkins and reaching back for a pen from her purse. She could see it i
n his eyes that he couldn’t walk away from the Unit, the mission. She understood that.
“I just need the basics, Hawk,” Kolt said. “What are the main buildings and what exactly does the nuke plant want to protect from sabotage?” Kolt figured if he knew at least this much, if he could gain a good appreciation for where and what he needed to keep Farooq and the gang away from, he would be in a better position to help manipulate a pseudo-false-flag attack that would minimize the number killed and maimed.
Cindy started to draw a series of rectangles in various sizes, a large circle in the middle, and smaller circles outside the rectangles.
“OK, nuke power one-oh-one. Don’t blame me; you asked for it,” Cindy said, pointing her pen at the large circle on her paper, seeming to get into it a little more.
“This large circle is known as the main reactor. It’s where the nuclear fuel rods are stored. They are megahot, and when they come in contact with water, it produces a lot of steam. The steam is then pumped out to massive turbine generators, which in turn produce electricity. I recall some refer to the reactor as containment.”
“OK, got that,” Kolt said. “What next?”
Cindy continued. “One of these rectangular buildings could be the main control room. This is like a spaceship full of computers, sensors, buttons, and switches. The smart people that run the plant work in here. If you protect these two places, the reactor core and the control room, you are good to go.”
