Full Assault Mode: A Delta Force Novel

by Dalton Fury

  The two of them had not been alone at all since they met. As they waited on the others to finish up loading the explosives, Kolt knew another opportunity might not present itself. He decided to throw the Hail Mary.

  “Abdul, do you miss your family?”

  “They are in good hands,” Abdul responded stoically but clearly startled by the question. He didn’t make eye contact. He remained nervously alert, looking out the rain-spattered window for any signs of trouble.

  “You are a lucky man,” Kolt said as he looked toward Abdul. “I envy you.”

  Neither of them spoke for several moments. Kolt thought twice about continuing on with the same conversation. Speaking of family with a fellow Delta operator was usually a great way to break the ice and lower the tensions when on a high-risk mission. Kolt assumed it was a sure-bet acceptable topic with a terrorist as well.

  To Kolt’s surprise, Abdul spoke next. “You don’t speak much of your wife,” he said. “Have you forgotten her?”

  Kolt stared straight ahead, out the driver’s-side window. He had to be careful. “My wife would not be proud of me,” he whispered.

  “No?”

  “Her and her family believe in defensive jihad only,” Kolt said with a tone of empathy in his voice. “They desire peace in the world.”

  “I see.”

  It was now or never. Kolt knew he wouldn’t have another chance. If things developed the way he had secretly shaped during the hotel planning, then Abdul was only an hour or so away from martyrdom. He needed information on Cindy’s location.

  “Abdul, my biggest fear is being captured by these infidel dogs, yes?” Kolt said.

  Abdul turned to look at Kolt. “God willing, we will be heroes to all Islam. Allah will accept us tonight.”

  “Yes, that is a wonderful feeling,” Kolt answered as he placed his right hand on Abdul’s left shoulder gently. “But I fear the harsh treatment my wife is enduring for so long in captivity. I’m afraid I would not be able to endure days and days of isolation as she has.”

  Startled a second time, Abdul hesitated. “Your wife is being treated fairly. But she is stubborn.”

  “No, no, I could not survive a day in captivity.”

  “You could, Timothy,” Abdul responded, looking at Kolt reassuringly, “just as your wife is.”

  “So my wife is still alive?” Kolt said in amazement.

  “But she is.” Abdul answered confidently. “I am certain of it.”

  Kolt paused for a moment to let it all sink in. “How so, brother?”

  Before Abdul could answer, a white Ford King Cab F-150 turned into the convenience store parking lot. On the driver’s-side door, a red, white, and blue EnergyFirst logo confirmed the occupant.

  Just as Timothy said he would, the ops engineer stepped out of the truck as he had done every weekday night for the past two years and lifted his light Windbreaker over his head to block the rain as he quickly headed for the front door. Kolt exited the van, slipped his T-shirt over the handle to the .38 Abdul had provided, and followed the man into the store. Abdul pulled out a black balaclava hood and quickly slipped it over his head to expose only his eyes and lips. Thin rubber surgeon’s gloves followed before he slipped out into the parking lot.

  Kolt overheard the cashier as the man approached the counter. He was recognized by all the store cashiers. This wasn’t a surprise. Kolt figured they routinely rang up the same amount each night.

  “The usual tonight, Warren?” asked the thirtysomething woman two-fingering a half-burnt cigarette behind the counter.

  “Yep, Deborah, nothing new at the power plant,” answered Warren.

  “Alright, then, four cups of house-blend coffee, a cherry pie, and three honey buns comes exactly to…”

  Warren interrupted and finished her sentence while smiling. “Six dollars and sixty-six cents.”

  “You got it, Warren,” answered Deborah as she took his money and opened the cash register. “But that number always spooks me.”

  “What a bargain!” he said, smiling.

  Warren pocketed his change and gently picked up the four-section cardboard coffee holder and the plastic bag.

  “Careful with the coffee. It’s really hot,” Deborah said.

  With his arms full, Warren backed gently into the glass door and pushed it open. He spun around and took a few short steps before stepping lightly off the wet curb. His worn leather boots splashed dirty puddle water on top of his boot toes as he fumbled for his truck keys.

  Warren opened the driver’s door and gingerly placed the small bag of snacks on the plastic leather front seat. He pushed the four cup holder around the seat-belt buckle and rested it against the back of the passenger’s seat to ensure it wouldn’t spill. He turned the key, and the engine roared. Warren placed the truck in reverse and backed out of the parking lot.

  Kolt walked out of the storefront, pulled his black balaclava over his head, and took the wheel gun from his pants as he moved briskly to the F-150.

  As Warren eased onto the empty asphalt road, he reached to the radio and turned it on. A second later, the fifty-two-year-old chain smoker was having a hard time breathing. His most immediate concern was the force of Abdul’s left forearm pressing against his larynx.

  Warren’s inherent survival instincts kicked in immediately. He grabbed Abdul’s forearm with both hands to relieve the pressure even a little. His right foot instinctively hit the brakes, and the momentum threw them both forward slightly. Kolt threw open the passenger’s door and slipped into the front seat next to Warren, sliding the coffee and sweets over.

  “Don’t panic, Warren,” Kolt said as calmly as possible. “Follow instructions and save your own ass.” Abdul eased off Warren’s larynx enough to allow him to talk.

  “What, what do you want?” Warren struggled to say. “I don’t have any money.”

  “Your money is safe, Warren,” Kolt answered. “It’s your family you should be concerned with.”

  “Pull into that church parking lot ahead and drive around to the back.”

  Warren regained the wheel and eased into the parking lot. He drove toward the back, past the side doors, and stopped near the edge of the old graveyard and behind the white sided Mount Ararat Baptist Church.

  “Kill the engine,” Kolt ordered.

  “OK, Mr. Warren Samperson,” Kolt began. “Father of a beautiful daughter living at home as she attends the local Spartanburg Community College and happily married for thirty-three years to the lovely Eleanor.”

  “What in the world…” Warren barked before Abdul reapplied the neck pressure to cut him off.

  “You are a family man, right Warren?” Kolt asked. “We know everything about you and your family,” Kolt assured him and then placed the colored photocopy of his family in front of his face.

  “Basically, Warren, you have two choices here,” Kolt continued. “And your decision will directly impact on whether or not your daughter is around long enough to graduate.

  “Now, all you need to do is drive this truck back to Cherokee. Proceed through the checkpoint, hold your badge up to the window like you always do, and continue to the parking lot in front of the main access facility.

  “If you do this, Warren, act as if nothing is amiss, then your family lives,” Kolt offered, before giving him a few seconds to think it over. Kolt could see the rapid pulse from Warren’s neck as it pressed against the skin of Abdul’s forearm.

  Kolt whispered into Warren’s right ear. “If you don’t, Warren, with Allah as my witness, your family will be videotaped being raped, tortured, and murdered just as the American pigs are doing to our women on Muslim holy land.”

  “OK, OK, please don’t hurt my family,” Warren begged. “They haven’t hurt anyone.”

  “I know, Warren. I know,” Kolt quickly answered. “Head back to the plant and don’t let the muzzle of this .38 Special against your funny bone bother you.”

  For the first time since the night began, Kolt allowed his emoti
ons to power down a bit. Even though he was able to maintain his composure while talking to Warren, his adrenaline had kicked in overdrive as they neared the plant. Sure, it was exciting, but Kolt wondered at what loss of life and psychological cost? At the moment, there was no telling.

  So far, so good. The mission was going according to plan. Warren seemed assured of being on board, albeit reluctantly, and the other pieces were falling into place. But on this mission, Kolt was still troubled by one thing.

  How can I pull this mission off and still not harm any of the good guys? Abdul might have decided that Warren needed to die, but to Kolt the ops engineer’s future certainly hadn’t been decided.

  TWENTY

  Floating offshore on the calm lake water less than two miles from the amber glow of Cherokee Power Plant’s towering high-mast light poles, Joma and Farooq huddled close aboard a red and white Sea Doo 1250 Jet Ski. Highlighted by the half-moon glare off the still water, a few feet behind the impeller boot and exhaust sat two large tractor-trailer inner tubes carefully rigged with a mix of nearly three hundred pounds of fertilizer and Semtex explosives.

  Farooq’s cell phone rang, and he reached into his shirt pocket carefully so as not to upset the delicate balance of two adult males on a single Jet Ski.

  “Hello?”

  “Brother Farooq, peace be upon you, we are ready, my brother,” Abdul said enthusiastically into the phone. “We are almost to the checkpoint; execute your mission, brother. May Allah be with you both.”

  Shaking his head vigorously, Farooq answered. “Yes, yes, yes, Allah u Akbar!”

  “Allah u Akbar!”

  It had been just under an hour since Farooq and Joma had pulled off McKowns Mountain Road, cut the chain lock on the simple cable barrier, and taken a narrow north-south dirt road for half a mile to the public boat ramp on the southwest edge of a no-name reservoir. Farooq easily backed the trailer wheels three feet into the water and waited for Joma to unhook the Jet Ski and let it float off the trailer in the calm, frigid water.

  After pulling the vehicle and trailer into the tree line, Farooq and Joma slowly slipped their way northeast up the reservoir, hugging the west-side shore as much as possible as they maintained course toward the ambient artificial light surrounding the power plant. They had remained under the overhanging tree limbs until they reached the left turn that would be their last hiding place as they awaited the phone call from Abdul. Now, only a thousand feet from their target, Cherokee’s large concrete intake structure, everything was in place.

  Joma reached for the limb of a tree, maintaining a shaky balance, and stepped off the ski with his rifle bag slung over his right shoulder. He nervously turned to Farooq. The men didn’t expect to survive this mission. In fact, if they did survive, then something would have gone terribly wrong. For their own honor, for the honor of their families, both needed to martyr themselves on the soil of their enemy. They were the vanguard cell, with a lot expected of them this night.

  Allah willing, brother Nadal and the others would follow their success a month later.

  “May Allah be with you, brother,” Joma said, before turning to disappear into the darkness. From the detailed planning with Timothy in the hotel room, Joma knew he needed about eleven minutes to reach a sniper position that overlooked two very intimidating bulletproof towers. His dark-skinned partner, Farooq, had only to wait for his phone call before he would maneuver the bomb under the lackadaisical eyes of the infidel and enter the gates of martyrdom.

  Joma still marveled at how bitter Timothy was. He spoke long and angrily about the lapses in security at the plant. How he had pushed for thermal camera installations to protect the plant from this very thing—foot intruders with long-range weapons. Without thermal cameras to pick up heat signatures deep in the tree line, or out into the murky reservoir, the security officers in the towers had to rely on the naked eye or what they could detect from the standard monochrome security cameras. The decision makers at “higher”—the same term for upper-management personnel was used by civilians and by the military—disapproved the security department’s last three requests for advanced thermal cameras.

  Joma smiled in the dark. Arrogance would be America’s undoing.

  * * *

  Timothy didn’t mind working the graveyard shift, especially since he was recently given back his officer quals and carrying a sidearm again. It was peaceful but boring duty. Almost four hours into his eight-hour shift, the light impact of raindrops on the roof of the checkpoint building reminded him of a tin-roofed cabin in the mountains. All he had to do was get through the next ten minutes or so and his shift relief would arrive, allowing him to move inside the plant and throw down the leftover slices of cold pizza he had with him that day.

  Checkpoint duty was the post that everyone on the security force understood as the least defendable. There were no bullet-resistant enclosures to jump into in an emergency, as there were surrounding the actual reactor building and other vital areas. The building’s tempered glass was merely tinted and vinyl covered for safety, not bulletproof to save an officer’s life. Another example of a simple business decision by the guys with the advanced diplomas on the office walls.

  It was understood that if a security officer drew checkpoint duty and a real terrorist attack happened, then they were expendable. Cannon fodder.

  Two years had passed since Timothy submitted a conditions report to his superiors. He pushed for upgrades to the checkpoint position. It was the farthest armed-security-officer spot from the actual reactor fuel. It was also the most vulnerable. Only the width of two lanes of blacktop road separated thick, beautiful pine trees and intermittent oak trees. This always bothered him. Yes, they were gorgeous and kept Cherokee from looking too much like Fort Knox, but the fact that terrorists could slip through the trees and thick brush under the cover of darkness made the four cameras on the roof obsolete.

  Timothy had pressed for installing thermal cameras that would pick up the body heat of a terrorist lurking in the tree line. Early detection was the key, and for a mere sixty thousand dollars, the guy or gal tabbed with checkpoint duty might just have a fighting chance.

  At the moment, though, he wondered if his relief was going to be a little late. He had monitored the radio calls of his coworker, Officer Collins, and knew he was on the other side of the plant taking care of the hourly security checks. The clock had just struck 11 P.M., so no worries just yet. Collins would certainly be back soon enough, and cold pizza was cold pizza.

  Sure, Timothy was a disgruntled employee. He wasn’t the only one. Cherokee had four hundred employees, so he wouldn’t be the last. They had gripes. They had issues they wanted addressed. Some legitimate, others ridiculous.

  Timothy Reston hadn’t gone full traitor on his country. He may have if Nadal hadn’t dropped his notebook on the bus. And who knows? A few more gaming hours with ZooKeeper69 and things may have taken a turn for the worst. Maybe Timothy would have taken the next step. Eventually, he might have shared more than some basic blueprints about what each structure was called, maybe even the code words the security force used. If given enough time, and enough positive praise from ZooKeeper69 about his gaming skills, maybe he would have given some information on the critical-safety-shutdown equipment.

  Having a target set to a commercial plant was like having the blueprints to the White House. Target sets are classified safeguards, translated in military terms as “top secret,” and for good reason. These documents outline the specific pieces of safety equipment that, if destroyed or rendered inoperable, would cause a release of a deadly radiation plume into the atmosphere that would kill every living thing in its path. And even Timothy knew that if they fell into the wrong hands, it could be catastrophic.

  No, Timothy, from his perspective, was simply a disgruntled employee, not a traitor to his country. Yes, he wanted to see some heads roll at his workplace, but he wasn’t necessarily interested in a lot of innocent people buying the farm.

  But
the moment Timothy Reston shared the plant’s blueprints with a faceless new friend over an underground bulletin board and online gaming channels, he became much more than a simple pissed-off employee. On that day, some two or even three months ago, he became a traitor to his country.

  His fellow employees had no idea. Timothy gave no indication that he was willing or capable of committing an act of terrorism. They never guessed that his selling out his coworkers, the general public, and even himself had been snowballing. Cherokee’s long-touted Behavior Observation Program missed the signals.

  Timothy was now what government intelligence analysts and officials feared most from nuclear power plant employees. He had become an “insider.” And not just any insider. He was an insider who possessed an extensive knowledge of Cherokee’s protective strategy, had access to every key at the plant, and was willing to sell his soul to the devil, all because he didn’t like the way his supervisors treated him. It was really a shame.

  Yes, Timothy was extremely disgruntled. Timothy had willingly conspired with al Qaeda terrorists, and although he had never laid eyes on them or even talked with them over the phone, he had crossed the line. And had Kolt and Tungsten not entered the picture, tonight might be his last day on earth. If things had been different, the world would soon know that Benedict Arnold’s treason would be a footnote in history compared with Timothy Reston’s complicit support in engineering radiological sabotage on Cherokee Power Plant—an act of terrorism unequaled on United States soil.

  The radio on Timothy’s hip startled him. “Checkpoint, this is Central. Radio check. Over.”

  Timothy turned to look at the clock on the wall. Where had the last hour gone since the previous hourly radio check with the Central Alarm Station?

  “Central, this is Checkpoint. All clear,” he responded while eyeballing the suite of four monochrome flat screens on the wall above his head, almost as if he was worried the boogeyman was about to attack. Timothy’s post was protected with 360-degree camera coverage. Mounted on the four corners of the stone white checkpoint building, the cameras monitored each cardinal direction from within the building. Inside the protected area of the power plant, both the Central Alarm Station and the Secondary Alarm Station received the same feed that Timothy saw at the checkpoint.