by Dalton Fury
“This is Assault One, we are target clean at this time, all Eagles up, en route to linkup point.”
Kolt watched Gangster slowly climb back into the front seat, allowing Trip to control the black curtain behind him.
Son of a bitch!
Kolt knew his influence on this op, if there ever was any, was shot. This wasn’t his squadron. No need to push it now. He knew Webber would already be pissed once he got an earful from Gangster at the post-mission hotwash.
As Trip settled into the driver’s seat, Kolt decided to take another look out the rear window. If for nothing else, to simply cover their six as they pulled off the shoulder and gained the muddy road.
He pulled the blast curtain out of the way one last time.
Holy hell! The Butcher! No doubt.
There, with the edges of his hands against the window, his nose pressing flat on the glass, his unmistakable large gemstone eyes peering into the van, goatee and shaved head obvious, was the Barrel Bomb Butcher. The shitbag responsible for the death of thousands of innocent men, women, and children throughout Syria stood only a few feet from him. This was the man controlling the helicopter force dropping barrels filled with high explosives, oil, and shrapnel on civilians, and he was literally two feet away from the only man in Delta told by the commander not to get involved.
Fuck that!
Kolt snapped his telescopic buttstock up to his firing shoulder and with the precision of a NASCAR tire changer cleared the blast blanket with the four-inch SureFire can, thumbed the selector switch from no bang to bang, and pulled trigger slack. Without an ounce of hesitation or second thought, he indexed the EOTech’s bright red dot on the Butcher’s cranial vault, center mass above the bridge of the nose and between those signature eyeballs, and broke the trigger.
Dead trigger!
Dang! Did I forget to lock and load?
Kolt took immediate action, reaching up with his nonfiring hand and two-finger ripping the charging handle to the rear, and slightly turning the rifle to ten o’clock to observe a round eject. Nothing.
Holy shit! I did forget. Kolt knew immediately he’d screwed up, a total rookie mistake. He had taken his strap-hanger status for granted, failed to turn the mental switch, execute his own precombat checks like a simple brass check.
Kolt slapped the bottom of the magazine to ensure a full seat before releasing the charging handle, slamming the bolt forward and into battery, shoving the mag’s top cartridge into the chamber. He looked up, back to the window, at who he was absolutely sure was the Butcher.
Outside the back of the van, the Syrian’s right hand was balled into a fist. He circled the fist, wiping the raindrops off the window, and touched his nose back on the glass to peer back in.
Again, Kolt seated the buttstock, fingered the trigger and pulled slack, simultaneously looking to red-dot the bridge of the Butcher’s nose.
The Butcher turned his head at the exact moment Kolt expected the trigger to break. Too late to stop the rearward pressure, in an instant, a single 5.56 mm full-metal-jacket bullet screamed down the nine-inch cold-forged-hammer barrel and through the baffled suppressor at close to 2,400 feet per second.
Kolt thought he saw blood splatter simultaneously with the rear window tempered glass shattering. Hundreds of pea-size pieces of glass fell into the back of the van and out onto the muddy ground.
“Holy shit, Racer!” JoJo said as he fumbled for his rifle.
Kolt heard Trip try to crank the van but it wouldn’t turn over.
As Trip held the ignition, certainly hoping for a spark and most likely pumping the gas pedal, Kolt ripped the bomb blanket open to look out the broken window.
Son of a bitch! He’s not down.
The Butcher was hit all right, definitely a head shot, as Kolt saw him holding both hands to his face. He was stumbling away from the van, bent over at the waist, the back of his weathered black jacket facing the van.
“He’s not dead,” Kolt said, turning around to look at Gangster as he grabbed the SureFire suppressor’s cam ring to untighten it. “Toss me your bangers, I don’t have enough.”
“Absolutely not!”
Kolt slid the end mount suppressor off the muzzle as he turned back to the rear door.
“We can’t leave a target wounded,” Kolt said, digging his two nine-bangers out of his nylon pouch, “I need to put him down.”
“No way, Raynor, leave him,” Gangster said. “He’ll likely bleed out anyway.”
Kolt knew Gangster was right; the Butcher could bleed out for all he knew. He could pull out of it too, maybe with Allah’s will, and especially if the bullet just grazed him or his people carried him to a clinic soon enough. But, Kolt knew the mission statement was crystal clear, they always were. You don’t go halfway with a kill mission.
No, as much pain as the Butcher was currently in, he was the specific target that they were there to see about. He was a problem that the United States wanted solved, not just warned, not just wounded.
“I really don’t want to do this,” Kolt said. “Options?”
“I said leave him, damn it!” Gangster yelled.
Kolt dropped his rifle to his chest, letting it hang by its sling as he pushed aside the bomb blanket to open the rear door, hoping to get a clear finishing shot. Instantly, the van awoke, the engine turning over a second before Trip slammed the gas pedal to the floor. Kolt lost his balance, falling toward the shattered rear window. He was unable to stop himself—the van’s forward momentum sent Kolt tumbling out of the back. The rear tires kicked mud all over him, forcing him to roll to the side, farther out into the road.
Now caked in muck, as if he had hit the Kiss of Mud obstacle in a Tough Mudder run, Kolt struggled to both knees. He fumbled to pull the slippery pin from his first nine-banger. As he did, he looked toward the Butcher, now leaning over the rock wall with at least a dozen very concerned men at his side. Initially stunned by what they had just witnessed, a stranger tumbling from the odd-parked panel van, Kolt could see in their eyes that a chocolate-covered commando solved the riddle.
Don’t have a lot of time here. Make it quick!
Kolt lobbed the first nine-banger at the crowd, just clearing the rock wall. The nine rapid detonations were deafening, forcing the funeral party to scatter like scalded apes. They quickly moved away from the Butcher, giving Kolt clear visibility of his prey. Kolt immediately yanked the safety pin from his second and last banger and sailed it farther into the cemetery, where it landed in a cluster of old tombstones. The crowd continued to flee, some faster than others, most moving away from Kolt and the Butcher.
Kolt first pushed up to one knee, took tactical control of his slippery rifle, and tried to stand. Taking the first step toward the Butcher, he pulled his left leg out of a large sludge puddle that threatened to suck his boot off his foot. Kolt brought the rifle up to a low carry and slogged forward to reach the grass.
Kolt saw the Butcher turn to face him, rolling over to his back but remaining against the wall. The bullet with his name on it had clearly struck his face—blood ran down both sides of it. It must have gone through both cheeks, probably busting several teeth.
Lucky bastard!
Kolt looked back at the crowd. Several Syrian men, yelling something in Arabic, right fists raised high in the air, were moving back into the cemetery and toward Kolt. Rifle up, both eyes open, he scanned for threats, looking at their hands. Nothing.
The nine-bangers had served their purpose. But, with his personal load spent, and with the crowd’s rage now obvious, Kolt had to give himself more margin.
Sure, more than one guy in the funeral party probably needed smoking—this, Kolt was certain of. But the pissed-off guys yelling at Kolt from inside the cemetery weren’t on the Unit’s kill list, not yet anyway. If they were, Kolt wouldn’t have dicked around with the nonlethal flash-bangs, but would have been popping frags. No, only one target today. One terrorist. One man that needed to be dumped.
Kolt lifted his muzz
le toward the overcast sky, thumbed the selector to Fire, and ripped half a mag. The supersonic sound of bullets racing skyward reverberated across the fog-covered small hills and valleys, and bounced off the outer walls of half the village homes. The riot-control rounds helped, giving the crowd pause, as they knew bullets were much deadlier than the flash-bangs.
It wouldn’t last, and Kolt knew it.
Kolt took a few more steps toward the Butcher, lowering his rifle in preparation for the kill. And that’s when he made his second rookie mistake.
First, inside the van, he’d forgotten to rack a round when they departed the safe house, resulting in a dry gun and failure to fire. Now, instead of just stitching the guy, control-pairing him center mass of the chest, he let himself look directly into the Butcher’s bloodred and green eyes. Everyone knew you didn’t look a dead man walking in the eyes before you pumped him full of holes.
Invariably it causes a man to hesitate, putting himself and his mates at risk. Not only does it put you at a distinct disadvantage on target, the souls of your confirmed kills haunt you for life.
“Your mother is a whore,” the Butcher said, spitting up blood.
Kolt ripped three rounds into the Butcher’s chest. From point-blank range, Kolt watched him first slide down the short wall to a sitting position, then fall half over to his right, his eyes locked open, thick auburn-colored blood slowly spilling from the crook in his mouth.
Kolt stepped closer, bent over, and delivered an eye thump, flicking him in the left eye with his middle finger to ensure the Butcher’s nervous system was compromised.
Confirmed kill.
Certain he was dead, Kolt immediately turned and began to beat feet down the road, in the same direction the van had gone after his not-so-acrobatic dismount.
Staying on the grassy edge, Kolt gained speed. He looked up, surprised to see JoJo and Gangster moving uphill toward him, split with one on each side. Relieved, Kolt watched Gangster stop first, taking up a kneeling position behind a tree to cover Kolt’s egress. Behind JoJo, who was still moving up but now slowed to a tactical pace, the van was reversing back up the road.
Kolt watched two objects sail over his head, toward the point he left the Butcher crumpled in death. He knew that JoJo must have air-mailed them, or maybe Gangster. A second later, Kolt heard the distinct detonations, nine rapid-fire explosions each, mirroring the speed and ear pounding of a runaway machine gun.
Within a few seconds Kolt reached JoJo and Gangster.
“Last man!” Kolt said, just loud enough to be heard by his mates. He had kicked a hornets’ nest, but the true nationality of the kicker didn’t need to be shared with the neighborhood.
Kolt reached the stopped van first and turned to cover JoJo and Gangster. Both had collapsed their positions and were already just a few yards behind Kolt. Gangster continued to the shotgun seat while JoJo opened the rear door and jumped in. Kolt followed and closed the door behind him before quickly scooting on his muddy knees to behind the protection of the ballistic blanket.
The van jerked forward again, struggling to gain purchase on the muddy roadway. Trip worked to gain downhill speed and keep the van from slipping off the edge.
Getting his shit together, Kolt managed to slip back into his seat and lean against the skin of the van. He thumb-checked the safety of his weapon, consciously slowed his heartbeat, ripped the partial mag from the rifle, and leaned slightly forward to grab a fresh mag from the pouch on his left hip. He jammed it up into the mag well, tugged to ensure it held, eased the charging handle to the rear until he eyed brass before releasing the bolt to put the gun back in battery. With a confirmed loaded rifle, he flipped the dust cover closed before very nonchalantly keying his hand mike for the first time during the entire two days on target.
“Butcher KIA, let’s make tracks.”
I screwed up and Webber’s gonna shit!
FOUR
Human Resource Command, Fort Knox, Kentucky—April 2014
This asshole seems to be enjoying this.
Delta Force commander Colonel Jeremy Webber knew he wasn’t the only one who was thinking this. The eyes of his buddy and mostly friendly rival, SEAL Team Six commander Hank Yost, seated on his immediate right, told the same story.
A junior National Command Authority representative flown in from Capitol Hill on that gorgeous cloudless morning confirmed the secretary of defense’s 2015 budget plan would look to reduce the military force structure to the smallest postwar number since World War II. Indeed, as the stuffed suit continued, Webber stole another look over the top edge of his bifocals, confirming he and Yost were on the same page.
Typical shitbag politician that’s never broken a sweat for his country in his entire thirty-something years of life.
“In closing, gentlemen, I can’t reiterate enough how serious the president is about exploring options to reduce the force. One option included a plan for either combining the Tier One special mission units into one organization, or to disband one or the other.”
Webber almost swore out loud. Worst-kept fucking secret was finally confirmed. He was careful to hide his body language, not moving a muscle, keeping the two nineteen-inch flat monitors at his seat between him and the board president.
Webber knew, as did the others in the room, that defense budget cuts were standard practice after a long war. Delta and ST6 hadn’t been around after Vietnam to feel the brunt of deep, across-the-board budget cuts, and both Webber and Yost knew their commands had actually grown during the post–Cold War drawdown. Now, though, they were hoping they pulled enough weight within the special operations community that they would be hands-off. A safe assumption, given that they’d carried the nation’s war effort on their backs for a decade and a half by now.
The suit continued droning on. “We are seeing bipartisan support in Congress as well. Many believe that the two organizations’ force structures are redundant and that they appear to be equal players with redundant, mirrorlike capabilities.”
I’ll bet this Harvard-mouth jack wagon doesn’t even know we are the commanders of those units.
As much as the guy’s speech grated on him, Webber got it. He knew that the president, or his pencil-neck geek chogy boys like Mr. Pinstripe here, had no idea about the nuances of Delta and Six. No comprehension of their capabilities, or even the details on how and what they had done since their activations many decades ago. Presidents and cabinets shift on schedule mandated by the U.S. Constitution, but Delta operators and Six frogmen stay long enough to span four or five consecutive administrations. Webber and Yost were pretty much proof of that.
Even though the president, or the liberal-leaning SECDEF for that matter, didn’t see the necessity for maintaining the current numbers within both the nation’s premier ground and maritime counterterrorist units, Webber was certain of one thing. I’ll be damned if they think Delta is gonna disband on my watch.
“Gentlemen, I thank you for allowing me to interrupt your important work here. I’ve satisfied my requirements so I shall leave you to reconvene.”
Colonel Webber leaned over to Captain Yost. In an effort to make light of the confirmation of the president’s desires and ensure their camaraderie trumped whatever decision was made, Webber broke the ice.
He let go of the hard-wired mouse and reached up, pulling his wire-rims from his face. “I can give twenty of your beach boys a slot at our next tryouts.”
Not missing a step and with a straight face Yost replied, “I’d return the offer but I know you don’t have twenty guys that can even doggy paddle. Your boys looked like half-drowned puppies when we fished them out of the Atlantic last month.”
“It was my guy that rescued the puppy,” Webber said.
Yost opened his mouth to reply then closed it.
Webber smiled at Yost before returning his attention to the desktop screen in front of him. He held the mouse softly and scrolled to the next page, halfheartedly reading the board instructions they were required to rea
d.
The terrorist that had been the target of the Queen Mary II exercise was the topic. “What do you make of the agency’s claim that Marzban Tehrani and his scientist buddies are holed up in eastern Ukraine?” Yost said.
“My analysts haven’t bought into the Russian–North Korean connection just yet, but who knows?” Webber said.
“I’m with you,” Yost said. “Catching that guy alive is going to be tough.”
Webber looked past his screen and noticed the visitor being shown the door by the desk officer from the special management division. He closed the door behind him, appeared to lock it, and turned to speak to the assembled board members.
“Gentlemen, we are now ready to review the nominees for our Tier One special mission units. Naturally, due to the sensitive nature of these nominees, our cyber security protocol requires these particular files remain in hard format, so you will not see them on your screens.”
Webber turned his attention to his own Unit personnel noncommissioned officer, the sergeant in charge of the human resources troop, stunning as a toy soldier in his dress uniform. Webber watched as Master Sergeant Brewer, right on cue from the desk officer, began passing out the classified nomination packets he had hand-carried from Fort Bragg.
“Thanks, Sergeant Brewer,” Webber said as he took the three files and set them in front of him. As the sergeant moved around the oval-shaped table passing them out one by one to the seated gentlemen, some in their respective services’ dress uniform and some in coat and tie, Webber thumbed through to locate the file he was concerned about the most. Finding it third in the stack, Webber opened the bottom of the file just a few inches. He wasn’t expecting to see a Department of the Army photo, and was a bit shocked when he found one; a current one at that.
“As a reminder, gentlemen,” the desk officer said, pausing to ensure he had everyone’s attention again, “we will potentially be discussing top-secret special-access program information with reference to these nominees, so please ensure all two-way communication devices are powered off.” Webber watched the desk officer catch up to Sergeant Brewer with a cardboard box, placing a handheld magnifier in front of each board member.
