One Killer Force: A Delta Force Novel

by Dalton Fury

  “No. Russian,” Slapshot said. “Spetsnaz, in fact.”

  “We scored them on a pit stop en route from Kiev,” Kolt said.

  “They smell like shit.” Trip waved his hand in front of his nose. “Are those bloodstains?”

  “Not ours,” Kolt said.

  Kolt studied Trip’s outfit, impressed that his men had dug into the commando toolbox, opting to don deceptive Ukrainian uniforms to protect their cover for action. Kolt noticed the blue-and-yellow Ukrainian flag sewn to the right shoulder of the puke yellow-green camouflage smock.

  “Drop your kit,” Kolt said. “We’ll watch over them. Get something to eat.”

  “I lost my appetite.”

  Trip walked through the closest doorway and out of sight. Kolt realized then he hadn’t even had a chance to address his entire squadron. Hadn’t huddled them up and given them the obligatory I’m honored to be your new squadron commander speech, or told them how valuable they were. He always knew, if he ever got a squadron, he’d make it a point to let his boys know how important each and every one of them was to obtaining the national security objectives of the United States of America. Not that they would need the reminding, or would even expect the kudos; to Kolt it just felt right.

  Major promotable Kolt “Racer” Raynor had only been the new Noble Zero-One for less than forty-eight hours. Not long enough to move his kit from his team room in Mike Squadron across the hall to Noble Squadron’s bay. Not long enough for the rigger shop to cut and sew him some new callsign patches. Not long enough for that damn dog Roscoe’s bite to heal. Not even long enough to let them know that Slapshot, Digger, and maybe even Hawk were part of the package. But there had been time for three Eagles to be killed in action on his watch.

  From behind, Kolt heard someone address him more formally than he was used to.

  “Major Raynor, sir. You need to look at this.”

  Kolt turned, seeing it was one of the Unit’s intel analysts, Sergeant John Simminski. Even though Kolt couldn’t remember how to spell his last name, he recognized the man easily enough. Sporting wire-rimmed glasses, the scruff of what could be the attempt at a hipster beard, and a potbelly definitely set him apart from the operators. Still, Sergeant Simminski wasn’t there for his shooting skills.

  “Show me,” Kolt said, noticing Olga was on his tail. Both of the Alfa operative’s hands were chest high, holding the leather sling tight, as if the AKMS she had claimed at the truck standoff and now carried on her back was throwing her natural balance off. Her left hand also clutched her conductor’s hat, the dried blood on her hands and around the edges of her fingernails serving as a stern warning that she shouldn’t be tested.

  Olga’s shoulder-length hair had fallen naturally to the sides with a center part, as greasy and matted as John’s. Five, maybe six days of facial growth put ten years on him. Kolt figured John hadn’t had a shower in a week, something not uncommon for Unit intel analysts, who put in more time at the office than anyone.

  Kolt looked at the palms of his hands and wiped the dried blood on his thighs. He took the paper from the analyst and started reading, but John injected the information anyway.

  “Marzban is at the hospital in Donetsk,” John said, also handing Kolt an eight-by-ten color printed map with the thin black horizontal and vertical lines of a standard grid target reference already superimposed over the satellite photo.

  “Big-ass hospital,” Kolt said, studying the photo for possible high ground spots for his snipers and infil routes for his assaulters.

  “Donetsk Regional Trauma Hospital,” John said. “Believed to be still under control of the locals.”

  “What’s the source?” Kolt asked.

  “SIGINT,” John said, offering the acronym for signal’s intelligence. “Cell phone chatter has been smoking hot.”

  “Who’s doing the monitoring?” Kolt said. “Not an airborne platform.”

  “My compatriots,” Olga said. “Our intelligence group is very skilled in this.”

  Kolt listened but continued reading. “John, let’s push ISR over the hospital,” he said, “develop the vehicle activity pattern.”

  “Can’t, boss,” John said. “All of Incirlik’s Predators are committed to Iraq and Syria. The Kurds have more power than I do, it appears.”

  Kolt thought about it and nodded knowingly, seeing in John’s eyes his genuine frustration with the lack of airborne intelligence assets. With the recent territorial gains of the Islamic State in Iraq and the Levant, everyone in JSOC was expecting POTUS to issue a deployment order to send Tier One assets back to Iraq. The ISIL had recently steamrolled through Iraq from the west, cutting off heads from Fallujah to Ramadi, and held mass executions from Mosul to Baiji to Tikrit, which meant the United States was about to butt in again.

  Kolt read on.

  “Looks like we have Marzban, his girl, and the two eggheads in one spot, boss,” John said, showing he was becoming a little impatient with the time Kolt was taking to finish the note.

  “We have current PID photos of all four?” Kolt asked.

  “Already printed, sir.”

  Kolt turned to Slapshot. “Whatya think, Slap?”

  “I think we don’t know shit about this target, don’t know shit about what or who is there, don’t know shit about what room they are in,” Slapshot said. “Should I go on?”

  “You’re right,” Kolt said. “We just can’t go in there full-up green machine. Too many breach points, target too big, and even though he probably is wounded, we don’t know how ambulatory he is. And it’s a hospital,” Kolt added, almost as an afterthought.

  “Can’t let him squirt again,” John said. “If he does, he probably won’t stop until he is across the border in Russia.”

  “What’s the drive time from here to the hospital?” Slapshot asked, his tone revealing his clear lack of enthusiasm for some harebrained, half-baked course of action.

  “Hour at least,” John said, “forty-five miles.”

  “Forty minutes,” Olga said. “I know a way.”

  Kolt looked at Slapshot then slewed quickly to John. “Okay, I need a no-shit assessment here from both of you.”

  “Yes, sir,” John said.

  No response from Slapshot.

  “Our working assumption is Marzban is wounded. This message says the four of them are together, not necessarily in the same room, but likely nearby. A waiting room or something.”

  “Just spill it, boss,” Slapshot said.

  “Can we afford to wait till the next cycle of darkness?”

  “My best assessment, sir, is there are no guarantees,” John said. “We don’t know how bad he is. For all we know he could be stitched up and walking out with a prescription for Motrin.”

  “My people will know when he leaves,” Olga said.

  Kolt looked at Olga, impressed that she was participating in the hasty mission analysis.

  Kolt looked at Slapshot, hoping to get his take next. Silence.

  “Sir, if the trigger is a call from Alfa, he won’t be heading toward us,” John said. “Probably looking to make Volgograd.”

  “I agree,” Kolt said. “We’re irrelevant this far away.”

  “Racer, it’s daylight, man. Marzban knows he is being hunted. He won’t risk a move until nightfall,” Slapshot said, reaching for the overhead photo of the hospital Kolt was holding.

  Kolt watched Slapshot look it over, stoked that he was at least engaging. He knew Slapshot’s opinion was better than most. Sure, Kolt knew, it was simple gut instinct and operator intuition, nothing that could be proven, but Slapshot was rarely wrong.

  “We need a squadron-plus for this,” Slapshot said, passing the photo back to Kolt. “Even with the SEALs, it will take hours to clear that thing.”

  “Okay, we all need to get out of these filthy uniforms and clean the blood off before we get sick,” Kolt said. “Let’s huddle up with the boys for a minute and I’ll issue some planning guidance.”

  Digger and Slap
shot turned to head through the same door that Trip had used, entering the large open area.

  Kolt handed the photo and message back to John and looked at Olga. “You need to clean up, too.”

  Before Olga could answer, Kolt heard Slapshot barking from the other room. “Noble! Get everyone in here.”

  Kolt led John and Olga through the door and into the middle of a crowded room. It was tight, all of his operators upright on the concrete floor, a few standing on some crates in the two opposite corners. Kit bags lay about in small groupings, each team having found a place of their own.

  Kolt looked around, measuring each man’s mettle, wondering if he could pick out the guys that weren’t fans. He knew many of them, but definitely not all. To an outside observer, they would look like just one more group of militia and Ukrainian troops, but looks could be deceiving. While many of his men carried AK-47s and the smaller-caliber AK-74s, others had stuck to their own weapons, the tried-and-true HK416, based on the older AR-15 rifle.

  “Slapshot and I don’t give a shit what you have done in the past,” Kolt said, scanning the room for raised eyebrows or unbelieving smirks, and setting the standard early that he considered the new squadron sergeant major, Slapshot, his peer in everything.

  “We all have demons. We all have to answer to a higher authority one day,” Kolt said, pausing for effect. “Right now, tonight, we will turn another target, without Max, Philly, and Carson. If you are in here you have a clean slate as far as we are concerned.”

  Kolt looked at Slapshot. “Slap?”

  “Roger, a new day.”

  “Men, it’s behind us. Make sure it’s behind you,” Kolt said, knowing he didn’t need to dwell on it anymore. He knew the boys would understand the implication. They’d understand that their new squadron commander was treating them like adults, being careful not to sound too threatening or condescending.

  Kolt turned around to see if anyone behind him had anything to say. He spotted Navy SEAL Tim Kleinsmith, and immediately rewound his every word, concerned he’d screwed up and shared Unit business with their sister Tier One unit.

  “Good to have you guys here, Dealer,” Kolt said, approaching the SEAL and shaking his hand. “How many do you have?”

  “A dozen plus me,” Dealer said. “Nice duds.”

  Kolt offered a quick smile and turned back around. They all looked tired, some still in the Ukrainian uniforms, some having stripped down to tees, others now topless. He was pleased to see he still held everyone’s attention. Either they were all standing around with breacher brain, not caring what the new squadron commander had to say, or they were willing to give him some rope.

  “We’re turning the hospital in Donetsk after dark. Let’s stay with the Ukrainian uniforms you have on. We have a few hours to knock out a solid assault plan. Get some re—”

  From behind, a booming voice interrupted Kolt. It was John, the intel analyst, with Olga in tow again.

  “Sir, Marzban is moving!” John said. “Can I talk to you offline?”

  “Just put it out, John,” Kolt said, turning to the squadron. “Listen up!”

  John didn’t waste any time. “Alfa is monitoring the local police radio frequency. Marzban, both big brains, and his squeeze are leaving the hospital.”

  Kolt turned around. “We have good intel that they are at the hospital in Donetsk. You guys must have hit him on the assault.”

  “The intel vetted?” a voice from the crowd asked.

  Kolt turned to Olga, then back to his men. “This is Olga. She’s with Alfa. She got us here. Her mates are monitoring Marzban’s comms.”

  “We must go,” Olga said, loud enough for the entire room to hear her.

  “It’s frickin’ daylight, lady,” Trip said, deep in the crowd.

  Kolt knew it was time. If they hesitated now, Marzban would soon be free and clear into Russia. They had no hot pursuit authority to venture into Russian territory and really no external assets or combat multipliers to speak of. They’d have to be vigilant not to get overextended, knowing the Russians had been massing troops on their side of the border for weeks now, but they had to act.

  “All right, disregard my last. We don’t have time to debate this. We are going,” Kolt said. “Get it on and load up.”

  “That’s crazy, boss,” Trip said. “This isn’t Syria. There’s pro-Russian separatists all over the area.”

  “They know what we’re driving,” another voice said. “We’re sitting ducks in the daytime.”

  Kolt knew they were right. It was suicide, at least going with the same assault plan they’d used early that morning. They had the cover of darkness on their side then, and launching now, without the advantage of their night vision goggles, leveled the playing field. But, Kolt thought back to the days when they hunted Abu Musab al-Zarqawi and al Qaeda in Iraq, to the several hundred missions they conducted in the heat of the day. Saying the sunlight was a disadvantage was fine; saying they couldn’t figure it out to increase their odds was blasphemy. Kolt turned to John.

  “We have the cell phone sniffer?”

  “No, sir,” John said, slipping his hands in his jeans pockets, obviously embarrassed.

  Without the ability to locate and track Marzban’s cell phone, and geolocate it down to ten meters inside the hospital, they had no ability to focus an assault plan on even a specific wing of the hospital, much less the exact floor or room.

  “Boss,” Slapshot said, “we have the Russian truck. These three uniforms, too.”

  Kolt looked at Slapshot, barely able to contain his excitement that the squadron sergeant major was providing options. Using a different vehicle, one the Ukrainian separatists wouldn’t spike on as it approached, made perfect sense. It would likely get them close to the hospital without any drama. Once they were on the ground, the Spetsnaz uniforms, soiled and bloodstained or not, would provide enough cover for action to enter the hospital, possibly get to Marzban.

  “Dealer, I need you guys to take one of the hospital wings. We’ll take the other two,” Kolt said.

  “Yes, sir,” Dealer said, not offering any open resistance to what Kolt knew most thought was a wacky plan.

  Kolt addressed his men. “Plan B is Digger, Slap, and I will stay in these uniforms. These are Spetsnaz. This orange-and-black ribbon is their recognized friend or foe unit symbol. We’ll enter the hospital with Olga. She can run verbal interference for us, help us figure out where Marzban’s room is. Once we know, we’ll direct everyone else to the crisis point and free-flow it from there.”

  “What’s plan A?” Trip asked.

  “If we get better intel on the drive, we’ll develop one,” Kolt said.

  “What’s the big hurry?” someone asked. “We have been chasing this clown for a long time. Why don’t we let it play out for a while, see what develops?”

  Kolt appreciated the challenge, immediately recognizing he needed to use kid gloves here.

  “Look, no guarantee the intel will get any better than this. Hasty security at the hospital won’t expect anything like us. We’ll look like Spetsnaz. The separatists think they are heroes of the Motherland.”

  Kolt looked around the room. Maybe they were gun-shy after the revealing of the money-for-kills scheme? Maybe just torn about their lost mates?

  “What the hell, sir,” another voice said. “What about a concept of operation here? How about a sync matrix?”

  “No time for that,” Kolt said, looking at the operator across the room. He couldn’t place his name at the moment, but he knew he had been around awhile.

  “How are we going to sync our assets?”

  Kolt was losing his patience, realizing it was much more difficult to get a squadron to throw caution to the wind than it was his Mike assault troop.

  “What assets?” Kolt asked. “We’re about it, don’t you think?”

  “We’ll never get approval that fast.”

  “At ease!” Slapshot barked. “Damn it! You just got approval. Your squadron command
er just ordered the hit. You either kit up and load, or drop kit and let me know what line unit you want to go to when we get home.”

  TWELVE

  Squadron commander Kolt Raynor leaned against the door, his right elbow chicken-winged outside the window of the Russian truck. He muttered something about giving Olga a little more room in the center jump seat between him and Slapshot, but the real reason was the stench.

  Kolt kept sticking his head out into the wind stream, filling his nostrils with fresh air to kill the aromas emanating from his and Slapshot’s bloodstained Spetsnaz uniforms, and Olga’s body odor.

  “We’re getting close,” Olga said. “A few more turns. About five minutes.”

  Kolt turned toward Olga, leaned over until his face was inches from hers, and grabbed a quick study of the satellite imagery showing on the Toughbook laptop sitting on Olga’s lap. He tapped the Down arrow, zooming in two levels to focus on the last few miles to the hospital.

  Kolt reached up to key his hand mike. He noticed his hand shaking and paused. He looked at Olga, certain she noticed too, as her eyes were locked on Kolt’s.

  “All elements, this is Noble Zero-One. Five minutes.”

  Kolt heard six reply transmissions in sequence, one from each of the other vehicles tactically spread out to lower their signature and, just in case, to ensure an IED wouldn’t take out more than one vehicle.

  “Noble Zero-One, this is Satan Seven-One,” Navy SEAL Dealer said. “Any plan A yet?”

  Kolt looked at Olga, knowing she hadn’t received an update since they left the farmhouse. If she had, she would have shared it.

  “Negative.”

  “Turn left at the next intersection,” Olga said, speaking to Slapshot behind the wheel.

  Kolt wished he could provide an update to his men. He’d hoped he would have been able to issue some better guidance on the assault plan, but had nothing so far.

  Kolt leaned back toward Olga, realizing he was holding his breath, and exhaled heavily.

  “All elements, we are looking for the black side,” Kolt said. “Digger, Olga, and I will enter the back door and look for Marzban. Dealer has the white side. Golf One take the red side, Fox One has green.”