by Dalton Fury
“You can call me Carrie,” Hawk said, again sarcastically. “I’m listening.”
“I didn’t ask for you, I didn’t even ask for Delta, I asked for the SEALs.”
“We do have a lot in common, Myron,” Hawk said. “I didn’t ask for you, and I wouldn’t ask for a SEAL even if the entire U.S. Marine Corps was tied up on an amphibious landing somewhere.”
“Do all Delta operators have a chip on their shoulder?” Myron Curtis asked.
Hawk thought about that for a moment as she petted the dog. Sure, some of the Unit guys were a little cock strung at times, but most were average dudes—married, two and a half kids, pickup and minivan in the driveway. Type A, confident, sure, but not genuinely arrogant assholes. But that wasn’t what was giving Hawk pause. No, Myron Curtis’s specific word choice was the problem.
Had I not been pulled early from Whistle-stop I’d be a Delta operator by now!
“I wouldn’t know, Myron,” Hawk said.
“I know you aren’t an operator, Carrie,” Curtis said. “I was talking about the guys like that Kolt Raynor and his partner, Slapshot.”
Whatever, you bastard!
“Look, Myron, can we just cool it and agree to work together to get this mission done?” Hawk realized the last thing she needed was Curtis crying to his bosses on the seventh floor at Langley over cable traffic.
Go along to get along, Cindy Bird. Kolt isn’t here to underwrite the conversation.
“I guess you aren’t one of those elitist Swede disco bimbos with striking blond hair after all.”
Damn, he is pushing my buttons today.
“Truce, Curtis!” Hawk said. “Fill me in now or call in someone else.”
“Holy shit!” Curtis pointed to the battle scars above Hawk’s right breast. “Those birthmarks or did you take a round in the chest?”
Hawk reached up and gently pulled the bikini top over slightly, trying to cover the scars without looking too obvious.
“Old news, Myron, like your leg. Can we get on with this mission, please?”
“Okay, since you dyed your hair already I assume someone has read you on,” Curtis said. “Basically, one of our deep assets has passed a covert message requesting extraction.”
“How sure are you the message is legit?” Hawk asked.
“No doubt. It’s too unique for it to be a false flag,” Curtis said, “besides, the signal has been in play for almost twenty-three years now.”
“North Korea, right?” Hawk asked.
“Yes, which is why you are in Sweden. All U.S. diplomatic discussions are handled by the Swedish government.”
Please don’t tell me I’m going back to North Korea? I just left that shithole.
“I knew that,” Hawk said.
“We’re putting you in the delegation that is meeting a senior delegation from the Korean Workers’ Party at Panmunjom,” Curtis said, “hosted by the South Koreans right on the most heavily guarded border in the world.”
What? Curtis is fucking with me.
Curtis continued as if he were passing information during a personal meeting he was having during his training back at the Farm in Williamsburg, Virginia.
“You’ll wear a pair of high heels, the higher the better,” Curtis said. “Wedges, stilettos, or platforms will all flatter your legs and make them appear longer. Height intimidates the North Koreans and will put you on an even playing field. Nude-colored heels worn with cropped trousers or a skirt add to the illusion, because they blend with skin tone.”
Okay, now this is getting freaky! Is he referring to Yellow Creek?
“Okay, to do what?” Hawk said, deciding to play along in case someone had gotten to Curtis about her using a two-and-a-half-inch pump to kill a terrorist at the nuclear power plant over six months ago.
“To help extract the asset.”
“Why?” Hawk asked. She scratched behind both of Gustav’s ears.
“You’ll be fully briefed tomorrow.”
“C’mon, Myron, at least tell me what the big rush is.”
“The asset has some information on North Korean miniature nuke warheads,” Curtis said.
“Crap!” Hawk said, the seriousness of being yanked off the K27/K28 in Harbin and pushed to Stockholm with no notice finally making sense. “We’ll need an assault troop or two to extract him properly, right?”
“The SEALs have that covered. We just need you to tag the asset at the meeting,” Curtis said.
“With a homing device?” Hawk asked, still uncertain of Curtis’s sincerity.
“A radar responsive device, or RRD for short,” Curtis said. “It’s a tag developed at Sandia. Like the RFID tags the store clerk removes at Belk’s, but a longer-range version, one that can be located twelve miles out.”
“Are you crazy? How am I going to get close enough to this asset and clip a theft-prevention beacon to him without anyone noticing?” Hawk said. “Don’t they run a wand past everyone when they leave those high-level meetings?”
Damn, Cindy, what’s with the negative vibes?
“We’ll know more tomorrow,” Curtis said, pulling out a cell phone from his shorts pocket. “This is yours, don’t run the minutes up, my number will show up as four letter Zs.”
Hawk took the phone, thankful that Curtis didn’t detonate on her last comment. She knew better than to spout off about the mission before she had all the facts, before all the assumptions were validated. She started to think Kolt Raynor’s style was wearing off on her, and he was 4,500 miles and five time zones away. And without him here to hold her hand, she knew she needed to curb the attitude.
“What other assets are in play?” Hawk asked, hoping to smooth over the poor attitude stuff. “Any quick reaction force going to be available on a carrier?”
“Probably not. Staging time and distance issues won’t meet our rigid execution window.”
“How about ISR?” Hawk said. “The Global Hawks based in Japan?”
“Doubtful,” Curtis said. “Busy monitoring Chinese naval ops.”
“My God, Myron,” Hawk said, “the two G-hawks were put at Misawa Air Base to spy on North Korea’s nuke sites, too. Seems kind of relevant here.”
“I didn’t say no, I said doubtful. We’re working it.”
Well, at least I’ll have my nude-colored heels.
SIXTEEN
Colonel Webber’s office, Delta Compound
Moving to exit the selection wing of the building, Kolt passed by the large plexiglass display as he gained the hallway. The box contained thousands of rounds of spent brass, with the small display placard claiming the amount to be the number of bullets an operator candidate fires during his initial training. On both walls, extending the length of the hallway, dozens of framed eight-by-ten black-and-white photos of every OTC class since the Unit’s inception were hung in perfect alignment. Once past them, Kolt opened the heavy light blue doors and gained the Spine, spitting his tobacco into the plastic bottle as the doors shut behind him. He jumped into the nearest bathroom, swirled some water around in his mouth to make sure he got it all, and quickly washed his hands.
Entering the command group area, he made eye contact with Joyce sitting at her desk with the phone to her ear. Kolt mouthed a silent hello and gave a wave.
“Go on in, Major Raynor, Colonel Webber is waiting,” she said as she cupped the phone’s voice box with her right hand.
Kolt continued past her desk, but stopped at Webber’s office door. He opened it slowly, peeked around the doorjamb, more out of respect than in a sneaky manner, and saw Colonel Webber on the phone, seated, with only his tan T-shirt on.
Webber had a look of deep concentration on his face, but when he looked up to see Kolt, he waved him inside. Seeing Webber point to the two leather seats near the left side of the desk, he took a seat in the closest one, immediately knowing this was more than a simple social call.
“I got it, the CG wants it minimal force and low vis and yes, I understand his hesitation with Noble,” We
bber said into the phone, “but you know I’m not sending Mike Squadron, they are on alert cycle. With Osage Squadron heading back to Iraq, sending a troop-plus from Noble is it.”
Hearing his squadron’s name pinged Kolt’s radar to max power, but he played it cool in the chair, careful not to appear overly excited. Over the years, he and his men back in Mike Squadron had stood up, then stood down, more times than any of them cared to remember. So much so that they had been desensitized to the rumor mill of deploying, learning not to get too fired up about anything until the deployment order had been cut by the National Command Authority.
But, Kolt was pretty sure Webber was talking to the JSOC J3, Colonel promotable Kevin Tanner, and that was usually a sign that something was brewing on short notice. Webber quickly looked up at Kolt, catching him eavesdropping. Too late to play it off, Kolt simply stared back at him, poker-faced. Kolt figured that if the commander didn’t want him to hear the conversation, he would have never waved him into his office.
“Major Raynor just walked in, give us a few minutes to talk and I’ll get back to you,” Webber said, leaning toward the phone as if he was in a hurry to hang up. “Hour, tops.”
Kolt watched Webber hang up the red phone, pull out a side desk drawer, and fish out what looked like a glossy eight-by-ten photo before abruptly standing.
Kolt stood and accepted the picture from Colonel Webber.
“Hawk?” Kolt asked. “Where was this taken?”
“Twitter!”
“Recent?” Kolt asked as he brought the photo closer for further analysis, realizing Webber wasn’t in the mood to share the exact spot the pic was taken. “Not Whistle-stop?”
“I’m afraid so,” Webber said. “In less than a hundred and forty characters we learned Hawk was tanked and psycho.”
“This it?”
“Only one so far.”
“Cultural studies cover, wasn’t it?” Kolt asked, handing the photo back to Webber.
“What the hell does that matter?” Webber said, opening the drawer again.
“Well, sir, as long as Carrie Tomlinson wasn’t pulling the chastity-like nun cover, snapping some asshole’s elbow probably fit her cover for status okay.”
“Let’s get some dark roast,” Webber said as he came from behind his desk, reached for his camouflage top hanging on the wooden coat rack, and continued out the door.
“Uh, yes, sir,” Kolt said, standing quickly and trying to catch up. He had been in and out of Webber’s office a hundred times, for both attaboys and ass-chewings, but never been turned around like this to head to the dining facility.
This can’t be good.
“I’ll be in the DFAC, Joyce,” Webber said without looking at his secretary or making eye contact.
“Yes, sir,” Joyce said.
Kolt followed Colonel Webber down the hall as he slipped one arm into his fatigue jacket, then the other one, pausing to button it fully before entering the double doors to the dining facility.
Kolt reached around Webber, opening the door for him, feeling a little awkward, and let the colonel lead the way inside the empty cafeteria. He followed him past the long, clean tables and perfectly dressed chairs, still a couple of hours before the lunch crowd showed, and to the coffee dispensers. They grabbed a cup each, Kolt declining Webber’s offer for the artificial sweetener.
“Darker the better, sir,” Kolt said.
Webber pulled out a chair and sat at one of the tables offering a view through the large windows of the manicured bushes and small shade trees. The compound’s main parking lot was full of pickups and SUVs basking in the already uncomfortable sun. Kolt stepped around the opposite side and took a seat facing Webber.
“I need to quit this,” Webber said.
“Sir?” Kolt said, not sure what he was talking about.
“This damn coffee, fourth cup today,” Webber said, taking a delicate sip so he wouldn’t burn his lips.
Feeling a little more relaxed now, Kolt decided to keep the mood light. “Chewing tobacco is a good alternative, sir.”
Webber just nodded.
“JSOC seems ready to execute Satin Ash Two,” Webber said.
“Satin Ash Two?” Kolt asked. “Marzban is history.”
“North Korea,” Webber said. “CIA is positive that one of their deep-cover assets knows what Marzban knew about the miniaturized nuke warheads.”
Kolt played it off as if he wasn’t up on the target folder yet, hoping Webber would fill in some gaps from what he had read the day before, down in the SCIF, the secure compartmented access facility. Kolt had a habit of unofficially checking in with the intel analysts often, sometimes twice a day when he felt something was brewing.
“Which option, sir?”
“The Six option. They are the main effort,” Webber said.
Son of a bitch!
Kolt tried to hide his disappointment, but it made sense. If option one had been chosen, it would have been his old squadron, Mike Squadron guys deploying, but hearing the phone conversation with the JSOC operations officer, it made sense now. Noble Squadron was on tap.
“Got it, sir. Damn shame, but I’m sure they’ll get it done,” Kolt said, immediately sensing he was unsuccessful in trying to hide his disappointment in front of Webber.
Hell, he could see Webber was disappointed. With the momentum behind disbanding the Unit, or Six gaining speed, even within JSOC channels, leaving just one killer force like POTUS was reportedly leaning toward crushed Webber as much as everyone else in the building.
“Yost’s men will do fine, it’s Red Squadron,” Webber said. “Master Chief Kleinsmith’s boat crew is the main effort.”
“Good man, Kleinsmith,” Kolt said, “but he just got back from the Ukraine with us.”
“You remember Carlos Menendez?” Webber asked.
“Who?” Kolt said, leaning closer to the table as if he was in a crowded room. “My Carlos? Tungsten’s Carlos?”
“That was him on the phone.”
“No joke, sir?” Kolt said. “I figured the J3.”
“Kolt, close hold, but JSOC didn’t tell me about using Six for Satin Ash,” Webber said. “Carlos did. As a favor, I owe him one.”
“What, like the bin Laden hit?” Kolt said. “JSOCs back to playing faggot-ass hide-and-seek games again?”
Webber didn’t answer.
“I thought we were past that stupid shit?” Kolt asked.
“Afraid not. In fact, it’s worse, given the competitive and backstabbing environment these days.”
“You didn’t buy me a cup of coffee, sir, to tell me you caught up with Carlos,” Kolt said, confused as to why they couldn’t have had this discussion in Webber’s office, and moreover, how it involved him if the SEALs had already been given the nod.
“I’m pretty sure I can get the J3 to go to bat for us with the CG,” Webber said. “I’m pushing for us to have, rather your squadron to have, the QRF piece.”
“Sir, you know I’m not big on turning down a mission, but why can’t the SEALs handle their own quick-reaction force?” Kolt asked, both confused and becoming frustrated. “Besides, we’ve got the Fallen Eagle memorial service in a few days.”
“Kolt, this might be it.” Webber sounded a little more desperate than Kolt was comfortable with. “Word is the NCA is about to make their final recommendation to POTUS.”
“Sir, c’mon, this is a kiss-your-sister mission,” Kolt said. “I’ll send my newest troop commander, Captain Banner, to cover down on this one. He could use the exposure with his guys.”
Having just redeployed from the Ukrainian op, Kolt had barely had enough time to drag his kit across the Spine from Mike Squadron to his team room in Noble Squadron. He was hoping for some downtime after the memorial services for his guys, and knew he had three funerals still to attend. After that, he needed time to get to know his squadron a little better, meet some of the guys’ wives and kids when the atmosphere wasn’t so gloomy, do some planning for their upcoming squadron-
building training, maybe fix the leak in the singlewide.
“That’s not the issue,” Webber said. He started to say more then checked himself.
“I have no doubt about Banner,” Webber said, “but your Mike troop was the last to do a train assault trip with Amtrak. You’ve got the most current quals. You’re the best for tubular assault if it comes to that, so I need you to deploy, but I’m a little ambivalent about it.”
What in the hell does he mean by ambivalent?
“Banner doesn’t need me micromanaging him forward,” Kolt said.
“Deploy your squadron command group, run interference for Banner.”
“With all due respect, sir, that’s exactly the kind of thing I hated from my squadron commanders,” Kolt said. “Hell, sir, I believe you’ve told your squadron commanders several times over the years not to spoon-feed their subordinate troop commanders.”
Kolt picked up the death stare, practically feeling Webber peering through his head and out into the courtyard. Then it hit Kolt like a spin kick to the floating rib.
“Sir, you concerned about my mental status or decision-making or something? Ambivalent?” Kolt said, trying to remain respectful but definitely playing his hand.
Webber took another exceptionally slow sip of his coffee and set the Styrofoam cup back on the table.
“Son, I’m not going to bullshit you. Doc Johnson, and frankly me, too, are concerned that the radiation may be handicapping you to a degree,” Webber said, laying it out like a Shoney’s breakfast buffet.
“The Unit surgeon cleared me, sir,” Kolt said, trying not to get too defensive. “I’ve CrossFitted my ass off the last few months, best long obstacle course times in years. I’m good.”
“Look, Kolt, there is more to it than just your physical abilities,” Webber said, somewhat surprising Kolt. “But now isn’t the time.”
“Sir, the day I can’t meet the Unit standards, I’ll turn in my kit,” Kolt said.
“If you fuck things up on the SEALs’ op I’ll pull you from command,” Webber said, not really showing that he wasn’t entirely serious.
