by Dalton Fury
Screw it, I’m still not happy.
“Are the South Koreans read on?”
Hawk watched Kleinsmith turn to Curtis, laying his hands out in front of him as if he were shoveling her question to the CIA.
Curtis rubbed his Afro for a second. “No, POTUS decided against it.”
“Since when did the South Koreans become the ISI?” Hawk asked. “We’re not actually going after bin Laden here.”
Curtis raised his eyebrows at Hawk, visibly unimpressed with her know-it-all attitude. “That’s not something we can affect, Carrie.”
“Pictures to PID this guy?” Hawk had seen the one quartering photo from the rear in the SEALs PowerPoint. More current than the grainy black-and-white, decades-old asset photo of a much younger Kang Pang Su, but not much more helpful. Without something more current, unless Hawk was sneaking up from behind, she knew her ability to positively identify Seamstress would be iffy.
“The two pics you saw are it,” Curtis said. “Anything else?”
“Since I’m tagging Seamstress, I wanted to talk about the radar-responsive tags you guys carried over.”
Hawk watched one of the SEALs walk a few steps over behind the couch and pick up a small black pelican box. He opened it and pulled two small tan objects out, with what looked like the instructions.
“Yes, those things,” Hawk said, gathering some confidence and wondering if anyone else in the room realized that a major piece of the operation had yet to be discussed, particularly since no intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance assets were available. “I’m concerned they may not work on the armored train.”
“And that assessment is your opinion or—” Kleinsmith said before being cut off by one of his men.
“They’ve been tested, lady, they’re good through four feet of reinforced concrete and double-plated titanium,” the SEAL holding the tags up said with obvious sarcasm.
“Roger, but Kim Jong Un’s trains are equipped with additional security features that the tag hasn’t been tested against,” Hawk said as she walked over to the SEAL, nearly stepping on a sleepy Gustav in the middle of the floor. She took one of the RRDs from the SEAL’s hand and motioned for the red laser from Kleinsmith. “Without ISR coverage, these things will make or break us.”
“Can you back up a few slides, back to the overhead of the two bridges?” Hawk asked, happy at the surprise of Gustav now rubbing against her leg to draw her attention.
Hawk didn’t dare look at Curtis, knowing he would be getting a little annoyed at the Delta girl’s interference after he had just told the SEALs everything was grand.
“That’s it,” Hawk said, steadying the red dot on the U-shaped railroad track that connected the two bridges, Beaver and Bear. “All of KJU’s trains are protected by a stealth net that blocks or scrambles all wireless-frequency communication for about fifty feet on all sides of the train.”
Curtis jumped in. “Where are you getting that intel from?”
“I got that from my North Korean minder in Pyongyang, who had a little too much soju,” Hawk said. “Did Seamstress ever pass that info along?”
“We didn’t know about it, neither does the J-staff,” Kleinsmith said before Curtis could answer. “How positive are you?”
“I’m not at all positive, just worried that if my drinking buddy was correct, then this mission might already be set up to fail.” Hawk looked around the room to assess her allies and see if her comments pulled their attention away from her ass.
The SEALs all stirred, looked at each other, then over to Curtis. They might not have been too thrilled with a female interfering, but they damn well knew they didn’t want to tiptoe into North Korea knowing the mission could already be a bust.
“Now damn it, wait one second here,” Curtis said, “how exactly do you know about this, this blanket thing?”
“Stealth net, at least that’s how the guy described it,” Hawk said. “I was on a train in North Korea a few days ago and the minder told me that if I was on the Great Leader’s train that my cell phone wouldn’t work.”
“I thought you were in Istanbul and Moscow?” Curtis said with a twinge of disbelief.
“I was, Curtis, right before hitting Pyongyang,” Hawk said, trying not to sound defensive.
“You that girl that’s trying to be an operator in Delta?” the poster-boy SEAL with the RRD box said.
The room fell dead silent. Hawk froze. She wasn’t exactly sure how to respond to that but she knew enough to either change the subject or ignore the question.
“You believe the guy?” Kleinsmith asked, saving Hawk from her discomfort. “Sounds pretty farfetched to me.”
“Who knows?” Hawk said. “But he did mention that the 2004 explosion in the North Korean town of Ryŏngchon was believed to be an attempt to assassinate KJU’s father, former president Kim Jong Il, and that cell phones were outlawed because of it.”
“Makes sense, I guess,” Kleinsmith said. “We probably need to relook this thing.”
“I’m not voting for an abort,” Hawk said, amazed they were finally listening. “I’m just suggesting we need a contingency method to mark Seamstress at the DMZ.”
“Any suggestions?” one of the other SEALs chimed in.
“You guys familiar with quantum dots technology?” Hawk said. “We have been experimenting with them for a while now.”
Hawk looked around to see all of them shaking their heads back and forth. She had their undivided attention now. She looked at Curtis, back on his bar stool and expressionless.
“Can’t say we have, Carrie,” Kleinsmith said, “mind giving us the one over the world on it, if it’s not too secret squirrel for us?”
Ass.
“Basically, they are nanocrystals that change their optical properties based on size. The dots are made of cadmium selenide and can be hidden in clear liquids,” Hawk said, trying not to sound too technical.
“So how do you detect them?” Kleinsmith asked. “Spacely’s Space Sprockets?”
“Your night vision goggles,” Hawk said, ignoring the childish reference to the animated sitcom The Jetsons.
Kleinsmith looked at his two partners and then at Curtis. “I think we’re past the good idea cutoff time here. I’m not introducing something untested this late in the game.”
Before Hawk could return Kleinsmith’s latest backhand, Curtis stepped up.
“Sounds smart to me,” Curtis said. “Better to have a backup planned and ready if this stealth net deal turns out to be correct.”
“Can we get the quantum dots shipped here?” Curtis asked.
“Yes, I’m pretty sure,” Hawk said, “but Curtis, let me go through my channels versus your formal cable traffic channels; a lot quicker that way.”
South Korea
Under the cover of a near moonless night, an Air Force C17 Globemaster III landed and taxied to a quiet far end of a sleepy runway where it killed its four Pratt & Whitney megaton-thrust engines and waited. Seven minutes later, two tractor trailers from Korea Express, South Korea’s largest total-cargo-delivery company, turned onto the taxiway and approached the massive but silent plane. The lead orange-and-white truck, with , KOREX stenciled in large black Hangul lettering, banged a controlled U-turn before backing up to the rear of the plane. As soon as the large hydraulic-operated tail ramp lowered to horizontal, two U.S. Air Force special ops loadmasters jumped the last few feet to the tarmac, moved to familiar positions, and began backing the truck up to the horizontal ramp, controlling the speed with small green and red ChemLights cupped inside the palms of their hands.
Kolt stepped off the C17. The clock was ticking. He stretched his back and looked around the tarmac. Four flat-black-packaged and fully fueled MH-6M Little Birds, their six rotor blades each pinned and side personnel pods stowed to narrow their width, were being wheeled nose-first out of the Globemaster and into the first trailer. Several operators stood watch on each side.
Chalked and strapped in place, the Birds were follo
wed by some black rolling Pelican boxes, flexible fuel bladders resembling overstuffed black pillows known as z-bags, and the rest of the troops, about a dozen mixed of Delta assaulters and 1/160th Night Stalker pilots. Tractor One cleared out immediately, allowing the second truck, Tractor Two, to repeat the process, loading a mirror image of helicopters, equipment, and personnel.
The operation was hurried, but smooth. Time was pressing.
“We’re ready to go, boss,” Digger said, walking up to Kolt.
If Kolt didn’t know Digger had a prosthetic he would have thought he’d twisted his knee. Digger’s gait was strong and balanced, but his titanium prosthesis must be giving him some trouble.
Digger looked down at his leg then back up at Kolt. “You think I’m playing the retarded cousin again, you’re nuts.”
Kolt smiled. “That was inspired.”
Digger snorted. “I just hope this op has a few less surprises.”
I wouldn’t count on it.
Inchon Air Base, South Korea
Crowded around a small Toughbook laptop with a few staff members, Lieutenant Colonel Rick “Gangster” Mahoney, the senior JSOC officer in the host nation country—for the time being—nervously watched the medium blue icon on the screen. The Raptor X satellite signal, beaming from the inside of one of the SEAL Team Six operators’ ruck sacks, seemed to have frozen in place for the last hour.
Gangster noticed his reflection in the laptop screen, fixed a piece of hair out of place, and turned to the SEAL liaison officer, the LNO, to get his take.
“They’re good, man,” the SEAL said, picking up on Gangster’s vibes and wanting to reassure him all was good.
Gangster hoped the LNO was right. Odds are, the SEALs would slow their pace as they negotiated the rice paddies and neared the final point of their movement inside North Korea. They would be careful to skirt the small fishing village of Ryeohyeon in the south and the farmers of Kyejong-gol to the north, staying out of the shit trenches and staying off the radar of any starving stray dogs that hadn’t been sacrificed yet and served to a dozen Red Guards’ hungry families.
“No worries, probably just getting settled into the barn,” the SEAL LNO said. “They’ll make a SAT shot as soon as they are secure for the night.”
Gangster simply nodded, careful not to show any signs of micromanaging, and equally careful not to appear nervous or not completely in control. Gangster knew he was on the bubble, certainly aware either character flaw could deep-six his career. And with the recent behind-closed-doors information he had received about his slating for a new composite unit, he knew keeping the SEALs happy and successful on this operation would pay off in the near future.
Maybe my skills will be appreciated more in this new gig?
Gangster had a lot to lose on this operation, and a lot more to gain. It had been several months since he was reassigned from the Unit, sent a few miles across Fort Bragg to JSOC headquarters, where a revolving billet desk inside the J3 section awaited him. His reputation had taken a huge hit with the discovery that he promoted a culture of questionable ethics as a squadron commander, allowing cash awards for the most kills on combat rotations and party to his men consistently stretching the combat rules of engagement. Yes, most believed Gangster had done enough to be relieved of command, but given the environment where everything SEAL Team Six and the Unit did these days was under a microscope, General Allen and Colonel Webber had few options.
He was a player again, and would be a bigger star in the new organization. Multicam-upped and, at least at Inchon, the main motherfucker in charge, Gangster was on top of his game. He had been surprised, shocked really, about the opportunity to head up the operational portion of Satin Ash II, but he’d be damned if he would let anything or anyone screw up his comeback tour.
“Yeah, they’ve been spot-on with their OPSKEDS,” Gangster said, looking back at the screen.
“I anticipate the final call of the evening soon, sir,” the LNO said.
“Roger,” Gangster said.
From a table away, Gangster heard his name called.
“Colonel Mahoney, we have Tomlinson up on secure Skype,” the JCU communicator said.
A small wave of tired men shifted to their right, closing on the next fold-up table, and moved in behind the laptop screen. Gangster jolted at seeing Cindy “Hawk” Bird’s face fill up the entire screen. He wondered if the others were just as surprised.
Gangster wasn’t shocked because she was a female, conducting a singleton mission like no other ever handled by a male operator, but because she had managed to alter her appearance enough to make everyone in the hangar believe they were looking at Sweden’s representative to the 2015 Miss Universe competition.
Gangster knew Hawk, but he’d never had the opportunity to work directly with her, and definitely not on any real world target. Hawk’s bottle-blond flirty hair hanging over her turquoise blue eyes, topping a deep beachcomber tan and partly hiding a dark gray Bluetooth device in her left ear, seemed strikingly out of place given the circumstances. But, if pressed for the truth, Gangster would have to admit he was one of those old-fashioned status quo conventional-minded officers that never bought in to Webber’s thesis that a female would make a good Delta operator.
Not only did Gangster not see the value, but he thought it was stupid to have to use her cover name in front of the rest of the J-staff inside the old hangar.
“Tomlinson, good evening,” Gangster said, before immediately letting everyone in earshot know that he wasn’t much for small talk. “What’s your status?”
“Sir, all settled in the Grand Hilton, Seoul’s finest, they say,” Hawk said, her voice and mouth movements off sync by a second like a bad kung-fu movie. “Swedish delegation is tucked in for the night, on schedule for a zero two hundred Zulu meeting in Panmunjom.”
“Roger,” Gangster said, not ready to show too much appreciation for Hawk’s efforts just yet.
“I do have some tactical concerns though,” Hawk said as her tantalizing eyes stared directly into the camera.
Just then, the back door opened, drawing Gangster’s attention. He watched as one of the staffers, dressed in dark blue mechanic’s coveralls, common to the airfield, walked quickly toward the tables.
“Sir, they’re here,” the staffer said, “Smokey just pulled up.”
“Stand by, Tomlinson,” Gangster said, speaking into the laptop microphone and leaving Hawk hanging.
Gangster turned his wrist over and looked at his G-shock.
Three-plus hours late.
Yes, Noble Squadron was several hours late, but they had kept Gangster and the JOC informed via SAT of each delaying detail, allowing the J-staff to check off each key event on the sync matrix. But with the SEALs already forced to launch to stay on schedule, the fact that Noble hadn’t made it yet ate at Gangster.
Indeed, the consecutive digs from Murphy’s Law were nobody’s fault per se, but Gangster was in no mood for hiccups, not several hours into the infiltration phase. Gangster knew, had he still been the Noble Squadron commander, given the late start from Pope Army Airfield, delay in hitting the aerial refuel tanker—the Air Force KC-135 over the Pacific Ocean, and the three-hour-and-change drive on narrow, congested roads, he wouldn’t have sweated it too much. But these were different times, with much more at stake. Gangster’s former men, now Kolt Raynor’s men, were fucking way behind schedule and pushing his commanding general–approved abort threshold to the limits.
Racer bullshit, I’m sure.
Conversely, things for the main effort, SEAL Team Six, were moving along without as much as a broken and distorted commo check or stubbed toe.
The SEALs successfully launched from Inchon, negotiated the Yellow Sea from thirty feet below surface, dodged the underwater mines rigged along both banks of the Yesong, and were now tactically pushing from their feet-dry point four klicks up from the river’s mouth. Meanwhile, Kolt and his squadron-minus had flown into the U.S. military air base near Osan Cit
y, just north of Pyeongtaek.
Yes, Gangster knew the details of how a Smokey and the Bandit package worked, he just wasn’t all that impressed.
Gangster turned back to the laptop and Hawk. She had backed up a foot or so, showing she obviously had gotten comfortable inside her own suite. Now, competing for attention with her crisp facial features, her defined cleavage, showing at the top of the thin pink-and-white underblouse and centered between muscular shoulders, held the attention of the exhausted men at the table.
Before he could get back to Hawk, the large hangar door opened behind Gangster again. He took a deep breath and made a mental note not to appear to hold a grudge. This was to be the first time he had seen Kolt Raynor, and really anyone from Noble Squadron since he reluctantly turned in his Unit badge and last drove away from the compound gate.
Slapshot and Digger led the way into the hangar, followed by Gangster’s old communicator, JoJo. All of them were wearing identical dark blue coveralls, much like several of the J-staffers.
Well isn’t that a bitch?
Gangster tried to prepare for the shock of it, but it hadn’t truly sunk in until he saw JoJo enter the hangar. He had been inside the panel van with him and Kolt Raynor months ago, bumpered up outside the cemetery on the outskirts of Afrin, Syria, and witness to Raynor’s cold-blooded execution of the Barrel Bomb Butcher. Now, looking back, Gangster knew his instincts about letting Kolt tag along were pretty much right. Had Raynor not been there, Gangster knew he might still be riding high as Noble Zero-One, still the top runner to replace Colonel Webber one day as the commander of all of Delta Force.
JoJo spotted Gangster and made a beeline for him.
“Great to see you, sir,” he said.
Gangster made light of the delay with his former men as he shook their hands. But the elephant in the room was still chomping, taking chunks of his ass. Their use of “sir” was very telling, and he hoped like hell nobody else in the hangar had really noticed. Squadron commanders, the respected ones anyway, are addressed as “boss” by their operators, with the more formal “sir” reserved only for officers not in Delta, or the ones they didn’t think should be. It was a significant community slight, not intentionally insulting, but also not lost on Gangster.
