by Dalton Fury
Hawk turned too quickly from the window to head back to the bed. The room spun and she held her hands out to her sides like a child pretending to fly. She tried to shake the cobwebs, get the blood flowing, and stimulate her short-term memory about what led her to be unfit for duty.
That bastard Jerud! The bimbos taking pictures! The arm lock!
Hawk sat back down, rat-fucked the covers to find her other sock, and felt something hard on her butt cheek. She reached down, touched her iPad, and rescued it from her unpredictable state.
Hawk opened the tablet and began cycling through her mental Rolodex, sensing her memory wasn’t going to be entirely cooperative. Vaguely remembering bits and pieces, she knew she wasn’t going to get the whole story.
Hawk mashed the power button and stared at the iPad screen as it came to life. She sort of remembered bowing up to eye candy Jerud, was pretty sure she remembered being dragged back to her room by uniformed customs officials, and thought she remembered banging out the sitrep over the secure e-mail link to Fort Bragg before getting horizontal. But, she was pretty darn certain, unless it was part of an alcohol-induced nightmare, that her antics on the hard floor of the restaurant car had been captured. Her photo had probably been snapped more than once, which scared the attitude and hangover right out of her.
She knew that if the college bimbos had already posted images of her slippery arm lock all over Instagram and Twitter, maybe even uploaded a short video to YouTube, Delta Force commander Colonel Webber might have seen it by now. The Unit intel analysts that troll the Web twenty-four/seven while operators, or in Hawk’s case, wannabe operators, were overseas under alias, didn’t miss shit. And if Webber had seen it, he’d do more than just shit, for sure; he’d detonate. Moreover, this would likely doom the pilot program and kill her chances at the Commander’s Board. Webber would have no choice, no matter what he felt personally; the voice of the naysaying graybeards would certainly rule the decision.
Truth be told, Hawk couldn’t deny that she was the one that had brought up the big idea of playing a friendly drinking game. It had been a long, whirlwind Whistle-stop so far, beginning back in Raleigh, North Carolina, with CONUS stops in Atlanta, Houston, Denver, and Los Angeles, where her skill sets were tested with a boatload of dead drops, personal meetings, covert comms, and brush passes. Over the past two weeks, planes, trains, and automobiles had taken her from the States, through South Africa, Istanbul, Croatia, and Moscow, before her last stop in North Korea. So far, she had knocked it out of the park.
But she also knew letting her hair down around the tourist bar after finishing her final mission in North Korea might have killed her chances at gaining operational status.
Fuck!
As Hawk swiped and tapped, drilling down to the secure e-mail link, she tried not to stare at the desktop picture. A picture only a few weeks old, Photoshopped by the cover shop to help cement her status as a young high school teacher interested in European and Far East culture, with a personal penchant for foreign languages. Hawk had been proud of the cover photo and pleased to use it, but now, after her exceptionally poor judgment, she was ashamed at the sight of her standing proud among a group of unknown teenagers at work in her own classroom.
What have I done?
Hawk knew she was Delta Force’s experimental flower child to answer the president’s top-secret tasking of exploring the pros and cons of opening up operational positions to females within the special operations community. Webber and her father, former Delta squadron commander Michael Leland Bird, had been close mates before he was killed in action in Baghdad. She knew very well that Colonel Webber had gone to bat for her numerous times over her two years in the Unit, and she cringed at the idea of letting both of them down. Granted, Hawk hadn’t created one-tenth the problems for Webber as Major Kolt Raynor had over the years, but give her time.
Aw shit!
Hawk felt her stomach tighten as she opened the Send folder, subconsciously holding her breath, hoping like hell to confirm she had indeed pushed the sitrep to Bragg before she’d passed out.
Thank God!
It was there all right, and she slumped forward, quickly opening her sent message. Hawk quickly read the report, noticed a few typos, a grammar issue or two, but was satisfied that she had pecked slowly enough to get the key information out. It was all there, most importantly the unique discovery of details pertaining to Kim Jong Un’s private armored trains and the claims of stealth netting the shoeshine man had bragged about.
Hawk read it a second time, slower, and closed it out. She noticed her Inbox folder highlighted, telling her she had an unread message.
That’s odd.
She wasn’t expecting a message from anyone. Even though the link was secure, part of Whistle-stop was the ability to remember your taskings and itinerary before you left Bragg to begin the solo journey. Whistle-stop was a final culmination of sorts, the last test before attending the Commander’s Board, where her fate as an operational member within the command would be decided, one way or the other.
Hawk tapped the Inbox folder and saw the top unopened message. She didn’t recognize the sender, but figured it was just some innocuous coverspeak. It had to be from Bragg, that much she was certain of. She paused, seeing the subject line blank, but only for a few seconds before she tapped it open. She swiped the touch screen with two fingers, enlarging the message, and was surprised again to see the body of the message empty. She swiped her fingers again, this time closing her fingers to reduce the screen, simply to ensure she hadn’t missed anything. She searched, befuddled as she found nothing, but noticed a file attached.
Hawk opened the attachment, studied it for a few seconds. It was obviously an itinerary of some type for her—she saw “Carrie Tomlinson” in bold letters in the upper left corner. She was expecting another five days or so on the K27/K28 before catching a plane out of Moscow and heading back to Bragg.
Maybe I’m finished. Is Whistle-stop over? Is this my itinerary to fly home?
She read it quickly, running her right forefinger from left to right, ensuring she didn’t skip a line, given her present state of mind.
She read it once, stopped, then said it out loud, unsure of what she was actually reading.
“Depart Harbin International at zero eight thirty, layovers in Beijing and Amsterdam, arrive Stockholm at twenty thirty.”
What the hell is in Sweden?
Pine Gap, Australia
“Mr. Menendez, we have a secure connection confirmed from our end,” Stephan Canary said, leaning toward the video teleconference microphone resting in the center of the conference table. “How do you have us?”
“This is Menendez, I have you secure voice on this end. No video yet.”
“We’ll look into that,” Canary said, waving to the audio technician to troubleshoot appropriately to allow Carlos Menendez II to view the attendees inside the Pine Gap soundproof conference room from his secure location at Tungsten headquarters in Atlanta, Georgia. “Give us a few minutes to work on it, please. Our director is still stateside but Vice Director Fontaine is in here with—”
“Nonsense!” Vice Director Fontaine barked. “We can see you fine, Mr. Menendez, we don’t have time to wait around.”
Canary looked at Fontaine, and then up at Menendez on the screen high on the wall. Canary, the forty-two-year-old career analyst, aware he was wearing a perpetually greasy and shiny forehead, and knowing his early gray hair was longer than anyone cared to look at around the office, grew increasingly tense. He knew the time difference between Australia and Atlanta meant that Carlos Menendez had been most certainly woken up in the wee hours of the morning and asked to come in to take this top-secret secure call that Fontaine forced him to arrange. And now, as Canary watched Mr. Menendez’s reaction to Vice Director Fontaine’s annoying and crass comment, he was happy that his embarrassment couldn’t be seen just yet by the man they believed held the answers they were looking for.
“By all means,”
Carlos said, obviously signaling he would play well with others and maintain his professionalism. “I’m a morning person anyway.”
“Well I’m not,” Fontaine said. “Where exactly are you in Atlanta?”
“A secure facility,” Menendez said. “It’s fine, I’m alone.”
“You wear a tux when you sleep?” Fontaine asked, as Menendez’s patterned bow tie and coat gave the onscreen impression that Carlos Menendez had just come in from the Governor’s Ball.
“It’s off the rack,” Menendez said. “Was just about to drop it off at the Goodwill trailer.”
“We need you to get back over here immediately,” Fontaine said.
Canary held back a smile, knowing Menendez wasn’t a pushover, and recalling very well that Menendez and Fontaine didn’t hit it off the other day. The texture of Seamstress’s former CIA case officer’s bow tie was certainly in harmony with the texture of the suit fabric. He knew his boss, Fontaine, liked to throw jabs and then duck and cover, getting his rocks off by ignoring his off-balance opponent’s response and getting to it, but Canary thought Fontaine might have met his match.
“I have you secure video now,” Menendez said as he looked away from the screen for a moment.
“When can we expect you?” Fontaine said. “Tonight? Tomorrow at the latest.”
“Impossible,” Menendez said in an even tone.
“Impossible?” Fontaine asked, as if he was insulted by the negative response.
“That’s what I said.”
“This has the highest priority within the administration’s senior cabinet.”
“Wonderful,” Menendez said. “I wish you luck and I guess that ends this VTC.”
“Now wait one damn minute here,” Fontaine barked. He stood up and walked away from the microphone and toward the screen as if Menendez was standing in front of him. “I demand you clear your schedule and return to Pine Gap.”
Canary sat up straight, almost as if he didn’t want to be seen by Menendez onscreen for fear of being roped in as part of Fontaine’s ass-hattery. Canary was surprised that Fontaine didn’t push Menendez on his exact location. That was something. Canary had no idea where Menendez was sitting either, other than the city he was in, but was hopeful that Fontaine wouldn’t waste any more time trying to dig it out of Menendez.
“Sir, it sounds as if Mr. Menendez is preoccupied,” Canary said, playing it as if he hadn’t picked up on the tension in the room. “Maybe we can satisfy our concerns with Mr. Menendez over this VTC. It’s too important.”
Fontaine ignored Canary’s positive slant, his refrigerator-size body remaining locked on the screen as if he was a big schoolyard bully trying to intimidate a smaller kid.
Canary heard Menendez break the ice. “I’m willing to answer your questions. I did drag myself in here on no notice this morning.”
Canary looked at Fontaine, who turned to wobble back to his chair. Fontaine huffed like a tired elephant, wiped his nose on the back of his yellow-striped right shirt sleeve, and checked his watch on his left wrist before collapsing back into the soft leather. Canary looked back to the VTC screen, noticing Menendez’s dress. A wave of embarrassment rose in Canary as he realized how just about every one of the eight hundred employees around the office these days seemed to stretch the dress code, especially Vice Director Fontaine.
“I’m listening,” Menendez said, remaining gentlemanly still as if the screen had frozen.
Canary looked at Fontaine and nodded, silently admitting defeat and letting him know to proceed.
“Mr. Menendez, have you ever known of Kang Pang Su having family ties to the Japanese?”
“None, at least not thirty years ago,” Menendez said without hesitation. “Do you guys know different?”
“Well, lately, the Japanese have been holding secret talks with North Korea and China against U.S. wishes. We believe—”
“We’ll have to limit what we share with you, Mr. Menendez,” Fontaine interrupted. “You understand.”
“Yes, sir,” Canary said, addressing his boss. “My mistake.”
Fontaine didn’t reply, just turned his head back to Menendez, which Canary took as the okay to continue, although cautiously.
“Seamstress must have checked in again,” Menendez said.
“Why would you assume that?” Fontaine said.
“The fact that the moon is still up?” Menendez said, not hiding the sarcasm.
Canary jumped in, hesitant to provide too much, but also showing he’d had about enough of Fontaine’s micromanaging the video-teleconference. Hell, Canary felt himself allying with Menendez for no other reason than knowing Fontaine had gotten more sleep last night than he and Menendez likely had, combined. He couldn’t go full-up insubordinate, not if he wanted to keep his job, and he certainly did. But, he could be a little more creative, as long as he understood when too much was too much.
“Do you believe Kang Pang Su is capable of treason?” Canary asked before catching the pointed stare of Fontaine.
“Every asset has the potential, which is what makes them attractive to a case officer,” Menendez said. “Some take longer than others, but simply signing on speaks to a recruited asset’s potential and innate desire for change.”
“I see,” Canary said. “How about weapons of mass destruction? Say, miniature nuclear warheads placed on long-range ballistic missiles? Seamstress capable?”
“North Korea has long believed that having a nuke makes them a player in world affairs, not susceptible to the wastebasket of history,” Menendez said, his situational understanding impressing Canary.
Fontaine jumped in. “Is that a yes?”
“Saddam Hussein was ousted because he didn’t have nuke capability, regardless of what the world likes to espouse, a lesson the North Koreans learned quickly,” Menendez said.
Canary knew Menendez hadn’t exactly answered the question, but decided to take an implied yes and move on.
“So we are going after Seamstress, I assume,” Menendez said.
“The one thing the president took from his top-secret transition of power briefing from the outgoing president was the disappointment of allowing North Korea to obtain the nuclear bomb years ago,” Fontaine said, now showing some impressive insight, seemingly giving way to Menendez’s assistance as he dodged the question.
“There have been some developments,” Canary said.
“Like Marzban Tehrani being taken off the deck?” Menendez said.
Canary and Fontaine locked eyes, both a little startled to hear Tehrani’s name.
“We received a third teletypewriter message from Seamstress. Just after you left for your flight the other day,” Canary said. “He is visiting Panmunjom with some colleagues to restart nuclear talks. A Swedish delegation will attend, along with the South Koreans, of course.”
“Not the ideal place to execute an asset extraction,” Menendez said, “but compared to downtown Pyongyang, it’s perfect.”
“Are you serious?” Fontaine asked.
“No, of course not. That would be suicide.”
“Well, we don’t have a lot of time to slow-burn contingencies for Satin Ash,” Canary said. “Seamstress’s last RTTY message puts the date of the conference in just a few days.”
“Then I’m sure the Joint Special Operations Command has been alerted,” Menendez said. “A high-risk mission like that requires their specific skill sets.”
Canary looked at Fontaine, letting him know he was satisfied with what they had learned from Menendez, and that he was ready to end the VTC.
“Are you familiar with the LIPS program Mr. Canary here is chairing, Mr. Menendez?” Fontaine asked.
“Something to do with all the Skoal cans on his desk?”
Canary broke a smile, impressed Menendez had remembered the half-dozen empty dip cans on his desk.
“Negative,” Fontaine said, “LIPS stands for ‘locate information pulled by Edward Snowden,’ a POTUS-directed crisis management team.”
&nbs
p; “Oh, I thought it was a play off the small signs hanging just past the main interest out there,” Menendez said. “The ones that say loose lips sink ships.”
“Consider yourself read on,” Fontaine said. “We don’t need another Snowden on this one.”
Canary watched Menendez stand up, revealing his shiny gold belt buckle and designer trousers, as if he was reaching for something. A moment later the screen went black.
I guess the meeting is over.
FIFTEEN
Fort Bragg, Delta Compound
Standing at the head of the drab thirty-man classroom, Major promotable Kolt Raynor remained poker-faced in his rugged range shorts and tan T-shirt as he looked into the eyes of each of the thirteen operator candidates. Slightly spread out, each sat behind a gray table, outfitted in an unmarked Crye Multicam assault uniform, his new Unit access badge hanging from his neck. These men were more than just fresh meat.
Kolt surveyed the group a little more as Jason, the cadre member in the back, drilled down into the correct folder inside the Unit secure local area network to pull up the aircraft training slides and video. Most of the students had the early stages of relaxed grooming standards already going on, and were probably pushing it a bit based on their candidate status. These thirteen candidates had been the chosen ones, the ones still standing after the long walk and the Commander’s Board at the most recent Delta tryouts. Of the 132 that had started assessment and selection at an undisclosed location in the northeast, they were the only ones to have gotten by the intrusive psych interviews, kept the unpublished physical and mental pace over the thirty days in the mountains, and not gotten hit with a DUI while celebrating their new permanent change of station orders to report to Delta Force.
Kolt’s efforts today were common practice in the Unit. Guys with certain experiences during combat ops were often asked to speak to the Operator Training Course candidates to invoke a sense of realism and share lessons learned. Unlike in Kolt’s OTC class, too many years ago to count now, every member of this class had seen the elephant already, half with valor awards on their official records, several with Purple Hearts.
