One Killer Force: A Delta Force Novel

by Dalton Fury

  “You guys, too,” Gangster said, offering them a smile. I’ll be back on top, just you wait and see. “Was beginning to think you guys landed in Japan or something.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Right on JoJo’s ass, Kolt closed the door behind him, giving the handle a slight tug to ensure it held secure. He turned and scoped out the hangar. Even though outside smelled like a fish hatchery, the setup somewhat impressed him. He noticed the black plastic tarps covering the windows, trapping the sheltered odor of the place, maybe filtering the raw-seafood aroma and keeping it from clinging to the hangar walls.

  Kolt now understood why they were unable to see any artificial light escaping from the hangar as they drove up in the orange KOREX trucks. Lights on in an abandoned hangar, or any safe house for that matter, could potentially compromise the mission should a local South Korean out for a late-night stroll pay any attention.

  Kolt heard Gangster before he saw him in the small crowd. “Major Raynor, we’re in a hurry.”

  Yeah, good to see you too, Gangster.

  Kolt picked up on the sarcasm quick, but ignored the dig on his rank, the “major” part, knowing Gangster was making a point that he, as a lieutenant colonel, outranked his replacement as Noble Squadron commander.

  For years now, Gangster had gone out of his way to trigger Kolt’s rage. It was well before Kolt had been loaded on the black Chinook and disgracefully booted from the Unit after he had ignored his commander’s orders. That was a decision that resulted in several dead mates and 160th special aviation operators, not to mention the capture of several others.

  Kolt wondered if his work ethic was the issue; maybe it was Kolt’s success, or maybe it was Kolt’s luck. Probably all of the above. And if Gangster had any clue, he would know Kolt Raynor gave no fucks about rank.

  Kolt walked toward the tables where a small group of men stood, several dressed in civilian clothes to conceal the U.S. military presence as much as possible. South Korea was a permissive environment if there ever was one, but they had learned long ago to respect operational security regardless of the area of operations.

  Kolt locked on Gangster, backlit by one of the few major light sources inside the hangar, one of the laptop screens. He noticed Gangster, still with his Oakleys up on his thick hair, first nod, then smile and pat JoJo on the back. He did likewise with Digger.

  Holy shit! Is that who I think it is?

  Kolt had to blink a few times as he focused on the facial features of the light-skinned black man standing in the crowd. The four- or five-inch Afro was a little out of character, at least for the guy he thought he was looking at. But the cane, yes, the cane was a dead giveaway.

  Motherfucking CIA man Myron Curtis!

  “I thought we did everything in Cairo we could to make sure you lost that bum leg?” Kolt said, smiling and walking directly to Myron Curtis. “We must be going to the bench early, huh?”

  “Racer, I guess we are desperate,” Curtis replied, showing everyone in the hangar he was willing to give as good as he got. “I think I made a promise that I’d shove this cane up your ass if I ever saw you again.”

  Kolt laughed and shook Curtis’s hand before stepping in for a pretty natural man hug.

  “I guess you two know each other.” Gangster was obviously a little annoyed that Kolt Raynor was already taking center stage. “Let’s get done briefing Tomlinson before you guys go off into a corner.”

  “Yeah, no problem, Gangster,” Kolt said, respectful of Gangster’s position as the JSOC lead on the ground. “Curtis and I spent some time together in Libya and Cairo, good ops.”

  Curtis nodded, twisting his lips a little as if to say it wasn’t all that good.

  “I figured as much,” Gangster said.

  “General Douglas MacArthur carve his initials in the shitter around here?” Kolt asked rhetorically.

  “Place left behind by the army, Second Infantry Division owned it until they downsized and repositioned brigades to support the War on Terror,” Curtis said.

  Kolt looked around again. The discreet hangar, just a stone’s throw from the western beach and the limitless Yellow Sea, now without electricity, aging at the mercy of the forces of nature, was serving an important purpose once again.

  Kolt followed Gangster and Curtis to the open laptop on the table a few feet away. The screen was frozen on Hawk’s face, capturing her in a very unflattering pose, eyes half closed and tongue slightly out of the left side of her mouth. Kolt barely recognized her with the deep tan and blond hair, easily six inches longer than the last time he had seen her.

  The SEAL LNO leaned in toward Kolt and whispered. “Dealer just radioed Minnesota; we’re a go.”

  Kolt nodded, understanding that Kleinsmith and his SEALs had reached their hide site without drama. One of the JCU communicators noticed Hawk’s frozen face and jumped in, fingering the mouse trackpad, and clicking on the refresh button to unfreeze the image.

  Gangster took over. “Miss Tomlinson, sorry for the interruption. We’re back.”

  “No problem, sir,” Hawk said, “I thought we might have lost the connection, but I’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Major Raynor and Noble Squadron just arrived,” Gangster said, obviously still unable to call them Kolt’s men.

  Impressed that Gangster respected Hawk’s cover name, but not really surprised given the mixed company in the hangar, Kolt leaned down a little to get his face in front of the mini camera.

  “Good to see you, Carrie,” Kolt said. “What do you still need from us? What building is the meeting in?”

  “They said the main conference building, center blue hut, straddling the military demarcation line,” Hawk said.

  “Okay, you good on your end?” Kolt asked. He knew the military demarcation line, or MDL, was the specific line in the sand that separated the two Koreas, buffered by two klicks on either side that comprised the demilitarized zone, or DMZ.

  “Yes, Racer, she is good,” Gangster said, showing a little irritation. “You’re coming in a little late on this; everything is in place, except you guys.”

  Kolt looked at Gangster quickly, then back at Hawk. “Did the dip pouch arrive? Do you have the contingency items?”

  “No, they didn’t make it before we got out of Stockholm,” Hawk said, showing obvious concern.

  “You’re fucking kidding.” Kolt looked at Curtis. “Those damn things suck ass.”

  “What contingency items?” Gangster demanded.

  “Sir, I wasn’t able to brief you on this, but Curtis knows about it,” Hawk said. “We, or maybe just I, had some concerns about how I was marking Seamstress tomorrow. I’m worried the RRD tags won’t be picked up by the assault force once the target is inside the armored train.”

  “No, Carrie, it’s not just you, we have some concerns as well,” Kolt said, jumping in before Gangster or Curtis could reply.

  “Negative, negative, negative, it’s way too late for the good idea fairy,” Gangster said. “The RRD tags have been fully tested and rehearsed. The SEALs tested them while inside a C5 Galaxy and an M4 Bradley. We are good.”

  Kolt noticed Gangster quickly look at the SEAL LNO, who nodded a few times in agreement.

  “We need another set,” Kolt said, practically ignoring Gangster’s last comment. “Where are you, Carrie?”

  “The Grand Hilton in Seoul,” Hawk said, “room—”

  “Miss Tomlinson, this discussion is over,” Gangster interrupted, “we are going as planned. The SEALs are in place, less than a klick west of the train track and bridges; it’s too late to second-guess our mission analysis.”

  Even when the mission analysis might be flawed? Kolt thought.

  “But sir, my instincts are that the stealth netting used on Kim Jung Un’s armored trains is good enough to defeat the sensor,” Hawk said, obviously a little frazzled. “If so, the SEALs won’t know exactly which train car Seamstress is in.”

  “Why don’t we just trust that the SEALs know what they are do
ing, Miss Tomlinson,” Gangster said. He was clearly getting annoyed that his command influence was being questioned. “You better get some sleep. You have a big day tomorrow. Stick to the plan, call in your OPSKEDs, and we’ll get this done.”

  Kolt could see Hawk’s surprise at Gangster’s condescending comments. Kolt certainly agreed with Hawk, but recognized the friction and knew how important it was that things go well, not just for Gangster, but for the good of the mission. Hell, for the future of the Unit.

  “No worries, Carrie,” Kolt said before Hawk could counter Gangster’s last comments. “We’re about to depart for our staging area north of the Imjin River. We’ll be up on comms. Ring us if you need us.”

  Kolt reached for the swipe pad, dragging the mouse up to the Skype dropdown menu and killing the call. He caught himself, wondering if he should have let Gangster have the last word with Hawk and let him hang up the call. He also realized that Hawk didn’t have any tactical radios to call him if she wanted to.

  Kolt stood up and turned to Gangster. “Are we sure about this thing?”

  “Everything is synchronized and on schedule, Raynor,” Gangster said. “Once you are in position, the force will be fully postured to move into the operation’s next phase.”

  “I got that,” Kolt said. “I’m talking about actions on the objective. I’m not feeling it on this one.”

  Myron Curtis stepped in. “Seamstress is the key to finally locating the mini-nuke storage sites. Without him, we all could be looking at the next World War on the heels of all the Pacific Fleet bases being decimated.”

  Kolt had said enough; he was on record. The wheels of war weren’t going to stop tonight. No need to push it simply on Kolt Raynor’s gut feeling. In fact, Kolt knew, the only thing that could cause a blowout was if Cindy Bird failed to tag Seamstress tomorrow morning.

  Looking past Gangster’s left shoulder, Kolt eyed Slapshot. “You good, Slap?”

  “Yeah, boss, we’re good,” Slapshot said. “We’ve got a topped-off Kia Sedona. Ready to roll when you are.”

  Kolt turned toward JoJo. “You good with comms?”

  “Way ahead of you, boss,” JoJo said, having already been issued a cheap local Galaxy 4 from one of JCU communicators. He held it up with one hand and simply gave a thumbs-up with the other.

  Reasserting some control, Gangster jumped in. “Raynor, you guys need to get moving. The SEALs are in their layup site, safe for now. The delegation meeting is on for tomorrow morning, zero two hundred Zulu. Stay on comms from here on out.”

  “No problem, Gangster,” Kolt said, “this should be one to remember.”

  “Look, Raynor, the only thing that can make this mission an international incident is if your helos get anywhere near the DMZ. The SEALs will move the asset via ground, Seamstress is healthy and will be compliant. POTUS is ready to deny U.S. involvement.”

  “Got it,” Kolt said.

  Not one to be sidelined for the entire game, Curtis added two more cents. “Yeah, man, North Korean officials will be in the dark about who fucked up their railroad and will be too arrogant to admit to their millions that the incident was anything more than an accident or another assassination attempt by South Korean saboteurs.”

  “Your input is much appreciated, Curtis,” Kolt said, smiling at the CIA operative and reaching to shake his hand again. “You guys have a good one, and if all goes well, who knows when we’ll see each other again?”

  “You’re a little behind schedule, Raynor,” Gangster said, breaking up their grab-assing.

  “Yes, sir,” Kolt said. “We’re gone.”

  Kolt didn’t much care for Gangster’s condescending attitude, but he got it. If anyone had an ax to grind it was Gangster. Sure, he dicked the dog with letting the culture of killing get away from him while he was Noble Zero-One. No denying he was entirely complicit. But Kolt wasn’t there to take Gangster’s belt, and letting him slip in a few unanswered jabs was no biggie. Given the importance of the ongoing mission, Kolt maintained a smart fight strategy, at least for the opening round.

  Kolt also knew Gangster so bought into the entire toy soldier persona that he took the “courtesy to superior officers” thing, a phrase from the Ranger Creed, to the extreme. Which is why Kolt threw the “sir” salutation at him repeatedly.

  Kolt turned to head for the door, pausing a moment to shake hands with both the JCU communicators and the SEAL LNO; these were guys he knew had been busting their asses behind the scenes to get the mission this far along.

  “Major Raynor,” Gangster said with a slight rise in his voice, “one last thing.”

  Kolt turned but didn’t speak.

  “Under no circumstances will you leave your staging area, or even pull the Little Birds out of the trucks, without a direct order from me,” Gangster said, looking Kolt dead in the eyes.

  “Yeah, I got it, man, no worries,” Kolt said, taking another square shot to the chin.

  “I’m not sure you do, Racer,” Gangster said. “We don’t need any of your so-called normal warrior shit on this one.”

  Holy shit! That was way below the belt.

  “Roger, Gangster; your parade.” Kolt looked at Slapshot, whose eyes screamed Don’t go there, boss.

  “We gotta roll, Racer,” Slapshot whispered, grabbing Kolt’s shoulder and turning him to the door.

  “Let’s not make it an issue,” Kolt said, still looking at Gangster and deciding he was going to get the last word in.

  “You’ve got a death wish, Racer.” Gangster lowered his voice a little to regain a little privacy from the others in the hangar.

  Wrong motherfucking answer!

  Now, for the first time, Kolt accepted that Rick Mahoney was the kind of guy you hate on first sight. The perfect square jaw and lady-killing dimples, the perfectly straight pearly whites, the thick dirty-blond hair without a hint of receding, the symmetrical triathlon body, and the rigid West Point style, suddenly harnessed enough power to buckle him like a knockout undercut to the floating rib. Gangster was pretty much machine made.

  Kolt abruptly turned around, throwing Slapshot’s hand off his right shoulder and closing the distance with Gangster. Kolt slammed both open-palm hands against Gangster’s chest, shoving him backward like a rag doll, his Oakleys flying off his head and across the hangar floor. Digger caught the officer just before he hit the floor.

  “Is it just me, man, or are you pushing my buttons?” Kolt barked, definitely catching the aroma of body wash.

  Curtis stepped in front of Gangster as he regained his balance. From behind, Slapshot threw a bear hug around Kolt, slowing his momentum toward Gangster. If someone was about to throw their career in the Dumpster, looking to take the guard or slip in a leg sweep, Kolt figured the vast empty hangar space was as good a place as any.

  “Adrenaline junkies are dangerous. You’re so far removed from reality these days, have been for years now,” Gangster yelled, not worried any longer if the entire Korean Peninsula heard him.

  “You still sore over the Butcher hit?” Kolt said, collecting himself.

  Gangster ignored the reference to the mission in Syria that was the tipping point of his downfall.

  “If I had time, I’d relieve you right now,” Gangster said.

  “Make the time, big boy,” Kolt said, “or back the fuck off!”

  Digger and JoJo stepped in to help Slapshot show Kolt the door. Gangster didn’t say another word, uncharacteristically letting Kolt get in the last one after all.

  “Easy, boss, let’s go!” Digger said. “Not the time or place.”

  Grand Hilton, Seoul, South Korea

  Kolt and Slapshot didn’t say a word as they rode the mirrored elevator to the fifth floor. They stepped off, paused to read the arrows on the wall directing them toward room 524, then turned right, heading down a plush hallway resembling an ugly Christmas sweater, passing the large mirrors and Korean paintings of Asian countryside and Buddhist and Confucian art.

  They stopped in front of t
he door and noticed the small gold placard engraved in both Hangul and English, identifying the room as an executive suite. A green-and-white “No Disturb Thank You” sign hung around the lever-style door handle.

  Kolt knocked three times. They waited.

  “You’re not going to deck her, are you?” Slapshot asked, ribbing Kolt a little after his riot with Gangster.

  Kolt just looked at him, barely registering a smile, but appreciated that his teammate wasn’t holding his earlier behavior against him.

  Kolt knew they had the correct room; the polite gentleman at the front lobby desk was very accommodating, even with two Americans not necessarily meeting the five-star hotel’s high expectations for dress. Three crisp U.S. one-hundred-dollar bills were more than enough to obtain his cooperation, but they knew it might take a little longer to gain room access, given the late hour and unannounced visit.

  They checked their flanks before Kolt looked at Slapshot, who nodded.

  Kolt knocked again, this time four times and with a little more authority.

  A few seconds later, they heard the electric door lock disengage, and watched the lever quickly rotate toward the carpeted floor.

  With the door cracked open a third of the way, Hawk leaned around to look at Kolt. No doubt she had checked who was outside the door through the peephole, surely seeing both Kolt and Slapshot in the fish-eye lens.

  Hawk was all business, her bare feet—one set of toes covered with raspberry sherbet polish, the other yet to get the treatment—backing a few steps to open the door further. She held the door open, barely enough for them to squeeze through, immediately but delicately shutting it behind them.

  “What’s up? Nice pedicure,” Kolt said, smiling wide and using his inside voice, picking up the aroma of woman freshly bathed with perfumed body wash.

  “Crap, Kolt!” Hawk said, running both hands through her blond hair and clasping them behind her head for a few seconds. “What are you guys doing here?”