by Dalton Fury
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Kolt yelled as he approached the MDL. He hadn’t keyed his mike, was only yelling into his voice meter, and realized nobody could hear him from under the protective mask.
Through his mask’s smoke-colored lens, Kolt spotted a North Korean soldier, hatless but proud. He appeared from the left side, clearing the corner and gaining the sandy soil. The soldier didn’t seem to be in a big hurry as he raised his left arm and wiped his nose with his coat sleeve. He wasn’t running, just walking with a purpose as if he knew exactly what he needed to do. Kolt couldn’t be sure, but the North Korean looked like the same guy that had peppered his plate earlier.
Kolt took in a quick snapshot of the scene, studying the overall demeanor, assessing hostile intent, and searching for the hands. Yes, the hands—no matter what the North Korean thought, no matter who he might want to kill to protect the honor of the DPRK, if he wasn’t carrying anything that clearly marked him as a threat to the force or threat to the mission, then Kolt had no choice.
Kolt ran it quickly. The guard looked like he might cause trouble, which in times past was enough to get ventilated. This, however, was North Korea, not Iraq or Afghanistan, or even those few peak months in Syria, and the days of Gangster turning a blind eye were behind them.
This was billed to the National Command Authority as a covert op. POTUS was on board to backstop the effort. But, smoking every fighting-age male that stood in the way of right and wrong wasn’t authorized.
Indeed, people were watching, Kolt clearly knew. Not just his men—they were for sure—but also the entire black special operations community. The final game bracket had been set, the two Tier Ones would do battle—not for the hearts and minds of some third-world shithole tribal Shura who didn’t want them there in the first place, though they were happy to accept the American taxpayer–funded water wells and two-room girls’ schools; but for their very existence.
Kolt would have to leave him alone, maybe grab Digger’s less-than-lethal MAUL, or dig out a nine-banger to clear him out. It had worked so well in Syria, most likely it would work again.
Kolt took two more steps toward Slapshot, knowing he wasn’t stopping to help. Digger was good, Slapshot would see to it. Neither of them would want him to stop to help them. Kolt was going for Hawk. And now, Kolt knew the North Korean was going for Hawk, too.
Kolt took two steps, side-stepped around Slapshot, and reached for his Peltors. He slid them off the top of his head, stowing them around the back of his neck, the foam ear pads holding them firm and in place. He ripped his protective mask off his face, letting it drop to the gravel like a big league catcher tearing out of the box to field a high fly ball near the backstop.
Now, seeing things much clearer, his breathing easier, Kolt immediately wondered if he hadn’t waited too long to discriminate.
Just then, out of the corner of his eye, Kolt spotted movement. Something small. Maybe a large dog, or even a few stray balloons. He tried to ignore it, tried to focus on the steely-eyed North Korean closing in on the knocked-out Hawk.
A gun! Son of a bitch!
The guard’s intentions couldn’t be mistaken now. A smooth draw, professionally clearing the black pistol from the brown leather holster. Closing the distance. Determined. He took three quick steps closer to Hawk as if he were teasing a rattlesnake and testing his common sense. In this case, Kolt knew, the soldier aimed to kill, but didn’t want to step into South Korean soil to do it.
Kolt began to raise his rifle from the low ready, anticipating hand-to-hand combat if he could close the distance quick enough. He’d dot him with a muzzle tap if the guy’s forehead was available, transition to a schoolhouse butt stroke if not. Kolt knew he didn’t have time to borrow Digger’s MAUL-equipped rifle, but knew his stand-up game could quickly trump less-than-lethal if it came to that.
What the hell? Where did she come from?
In an instant, Kolt realized the movement he had spotted in his peripheral vision, and ignored, was a little girl. Immediately, Kolt knew one of the kindergartners Hawk had complained about, whose teacher decided today was a good day to visit the DMZ, had bolted.
The jet black–haired little girl darted past Kolt, cute as a button decked out in what looked like a required school uniform of white shirt over a black skirt. Her hands up near her eyes, still clutching a large flimsy red-and-green souvenir bag, certainly obscuring her vision. She was obviously terrified by the gunfire, the helicopter that had hovered overhead, and most likely guys like Kolt, Slapshot, and Digger.
Heading directly into the path between the armed North Korean and the supine Hawk, the little girl was screaming bloody murder in her native tongue.
Kolt looked up, back to the North Korean who had already drawn his sidearm, then back to the back of the girl’s flying hair.
Back to the shooter, back to the girl, and again to the shooter.
The North Korean lifted the pistol to a forty-five-degree angle, steadied his aim, holding the sights on the irksome female sprawled on the small gray pebbles.
Kolt knew he was too late. He just knew the North Korean wasn’t going to take another half second of shame from the crazy female, even if he had to take an innocent South Korean to do it. Kolt knew Hawk was supposed to be a special guest of leader Kim Jong Un, a member of one of the few nations they enjoyed diplomatic relations with. The soldier wielding the gun most certainly had pegged the Swedish female as a spy. And in the hermit kingdom, both traitors and spies are met with the same discretion.
Shit!
Kolt dropped his rifle to the length of his sling, lunged forward, and grabbed the little girl by the back of her collared shirt, yanking her back into his arms. Now with her leather flats a foot off the ground, the girl kicked violently, her body trapping Kolt’s rifle against his chest.
“Hawk!”
A nanosecond before the North Korean could fire, Hawk suddenly came to life. She rolled hard to her left, just before the guard broke the trigger.
Kolt saw the small-caliber bullet impact the gravel, picked up the forward spray of rock and dirt as it ricocheted along the bullet’s path.
Holy crap! Possum?
Kolt didn’t waste a second. He slid the girl in his arms around to his nonfiring side, using the same muscle memory used to transition from a dead rifle to his secondary weapon. Focused on the North Korean, he reached down, thumb-broke the holster hood, drew his earth-tone M1911A1, and indexed the gold bead front sight on the North Korean’s yellow forehead just an inch or so below the man’s freshly cut Halloween-black hair.
Kolt laid on the trigger once, let the trigger and sear reset, then quickly pulled pounds again, firing a controlled pair with his strong hand almost faster than the human ear could determine if one or two rounds were fired.
Kolt crossed the concrete slab, still clutching the girl, and leaned over the North Korean’s limp body to administer a quick eye thump. No need in running until this guy was handled. Just as Kolt was about to two-finger-flick the right eye, he noticed both copper .45 caliber bullets had found the right side of the North Korean’s forehead at an odd angle, appearing to impact the skull and rabbit upward, hugging his skull as they tore through his scalp, leaving him with what looked like two distinct parts in his military cut.
Kolt didn’t bother finishing the eye thump and turned to Hawk. JoJo was already lifting her over his shoulder so he turned to check on Slapshot and Digger. He couldn’t see them, and figured they had moved to the helo already.
Kolt moved to help clear the way for JoJo, forcefully moving a few of the riot control troops out of the way so they could get to the helo. Kolt set the girl down with the square-masked South Koreans, holstered his pistol, reacquired his long gun, and hoofed it to the waiting helo.
Slapshot had helped Digger onto the external pod, and turned around to help JoJo lay Hawk into the back of the MH-6M. Kolt watched, the wounds to her shoulder and calf obvious now. Hawk had come around, pretty much saved her own life, an
d was definitely alive. Kolt reached for the back of her head to keep it from banging on the metal floor as Slapshot moved back around the front of the helo and hooked back in on the starboard pod next to Digger.
Kolt and JoJo snap-linked back in at the port side and rotated to sit on the pod, legs now hanging free, boots just inches off the street. Kolt turned half around to check on Hawk. Snot was seeping from her nasal cavity, running down her cheeks and leaving a moisture path in her dirt-covered face. She was coughing sporadically, her lungs’ answer to the amount of CS she had inhaled. Her shoeless feet were sticking out the opposite side, with Digger turned around and tearing away her skin-tone pantyhose, trying to assess the damage to her calf.
Hawk’s gray pinstripe pants were noticeably soiled, a heavy mix of blood, sweat, and the churning sand. Her black bra was still intact, still modestly covering what it intended to cover. Her mauve blouse, torn, tattered, and stained, flapped freely with the rotor wind, unable to hide her defined abs, expanding in rhythm with her rapid breathing. There wasn’t anything remotely military about her and no need for a cover story now.
Kolt reached in with his left hand and held pressure on Hawk’s bleeder as he tried to manage the options available to him that certainly weren’t covered in Gangster’s sync matrix.
Now that was a total goat fuck!
Kolt keyed his mike. “This is Noble Zero-One, PC secure, all Eagles accounted for.” He leaned over with his gloved right hand and signaled the pilot.
“Roger, customers aboard,” Weeks acknowledged over helo common, cool as a cucumber.
Kolt saw Weeks acknowledge the thumbs-up, and felt Four-One increase power, softly lifting from the asphalt before rotating ninety degrees to the east. Just six feet or so off the ground, they were already moving back toward the red gazebo and looking to put distance between them and the problem. Just like a drunk who shows up, breaks a bunch of shit, pukes all over the sofa, and leaves the party without so much as an apology.
Kolt checked the status of his rifle as he heard Weeks transmit, “Four-One is out with five Eagles.”
TWENTY-FIVE
“RELOADING!” Master Chief Kleinsmith yelled, trying to communicate over the thundering racket of belt-fed machine guns and small-arms fire.
With his dick in the dirt, he reached underneath his ghillie suit, trying to locate a fresh mag without taking his eyes off the enemy. Finding one, he caught a glimpse of a figure flying through the air, momentarily blocking the sun.
A fellow SEAL slid in on his right hip, just to Kleinsmith’s immediate left, and rolled over prone to face back to the enemy as if he had been practicing break contact drills prior to puberty. Danno, Satan Seven-Two.
“We gotta go, man!” Danno said matter-of-factly as he stuck a tight cheek weld to his HK416’s dark-earth-colored collapsible buttstock. Danno steadied his aim using both elbows and the bottom of the magazine.
“Half-baked plan, man, half fucking baked!” Kleinsmith said as he fully seated the fresh mag and rocked the safety off.
Kleinsmith knew Danno’s firing position wasn’t recommended, using the mag as a bipod, as it induced a lot of malfunctions, but he didn’t really care at the moment. The Red Guards had proven to be sneaky little bastards, and smart, not silhouetting themselves and providing only small and fleeting targets to engage. Danno’s heart had to be racing, his breathing maxed out, so if the prop helped Kleinsmith and the others safely peel off the bald ridgeline and get to the safety of the exfil corridor, so be it.
“We gotta go, Dealer!” Danno said just before he knocked off three well-aimed shots at teeny brown shades about two football fields away.
“Where’s the two Red Guards?” Kleinsmith asked, not taking his eyes from his day optics.
“Fuck them, man, we left them!”
Kleinsmith shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He knew Danno was right. What the hell did they need with the two skinny and drugged-up detainees now?
Kleinsmith looked to his right, finding his communicator, Tanner, just as three or four enemy bullets impacted the dirt only a foot from the radioman.
“Tanner!” he said, “send war pa—”
“MOTHERFUCKER!” Tanner screamed. “I’m hit!”
Kleinsmith scooted on his belly, pushing himself backward five or six feet before combat rolling to his right several revolutions until he was abreast of Tanner.
“Where you hit?”
“Fucking forearm, man,” Tanner said as he applied direct pressure to his wound while offering Kleinsmith the hand mike to the satellite radio. “I think comms are still good!”
Kleinsmith grabbed the mike, looked back at Danno, who was laying down consistent fire, enough to give the Red Guards pause about popping their melons up, and letting the others bound back.
“Heater One-Zero, Heater One-Zero, this is Satan Seven-One, over.”
C’mon, c’mon.
Kleinsmith waited, knowing he didn’t have a lot of time to wait on his commander, Captain Hank Yost, or anyone, for that matter, back at Inchon. He knew his gun was needed in the fight, but he also knew he needed the quick reaction force, especially with wounded SEALs that might not be able to make it to the border.
Negative contact.
“Heater One-Zero, Satan Seven-One in the blind,” Kleinsmith transmitted, “I send War Path, I say again, War Path!”
Kleinsmith dropped the hand mike and looked past Danno, to the unseen Red Guards that had them pinned down. He ran the numbers quickly, pissed that one of his SEALs had been hit, hoping the Red Guards didn’t have the ammunition to maintain a sustained rate of fire. If they stayed low, watched their silhouettes, and patiently sniped the little brown hats popping up and down like Whac-a-Mole, they’d melt back into the terrain under their ghillies and make their escape and evade corridor.
“Dealer!” Danno yelled from behind his rifle. “They’re flanking us!”
“Blow the bridges?” Tanner asked.
* * *
The first forty or so klicks of the sixty-kilometer flight from the Joint Security Area at Panmunjom to Inchon were uneventful. Their handheld comms, line-of-sight radios with maximum operating ranges, allowed for a pleasant and uninterrupted ride, especially after shit-canning their protective masks as soon as they got south of Panmon Hall.
In essence, Kolt was in a commo blackout as the four Little Birds, now formed back into a staggered trail right formation, tooled along nap-of-the-earth into a headwind at a crisp 146 knots.
Kolt turned to see Digger holding a fat polycarbonate syringe inside Hawk’s calf wound. Digger depressed the plunger, which injected baby blue pill-sized sponges into Hawk’s bleeder. Known as XStat, the sponges were designed to expand and soak up blood while putting much-needed pressure on the ruptured arteries. Digger stowed the syringe and began wrapping the wound with a pressure dressing. He motioned to Kolt from across the cabin, signaling with his blood-covered gloves that he was going to try to sit her up.
Kolt knew Hawk’s head and shoulder bleeders needed to be above her heart, and gently released the pressure he had been holding on her shoulder wound. He watched Digger pull gently on her wrist to lift her torso, bending her at the waist, then rotating her around to put her back against the rear of the cabin, and lifting her feet into the bird.
Digger unclipped the chinstrap to his Kevlar brain bucket and slipped it off his head. Rushing wind grabbed his matted dirty-blond California-cool hair and threatened to pull out every strand. Digger lifted Hawk’s calf and slid the helmet underneath the dressing, elevating the wound the best he could. Kolt saw it wasn’t high enough, her wound still below the heart, and wasn’t surprised to see Digger grab his titanium prosthetic from behind the pilot’s seat and slide it under the helmet.
Digger reached underneath his vest and delicately pulled out the green parachute cord holding his meds around his neck. Holding up a red-capped syringe capsule, he placed it a few inches from Hawk’s eyes, offering her an escape from reality.
Kolt knew if she was responsive, Digger wouldn’t waste his morphine, but if not, he wouldn’t hesitate to stick her.
Hawk shook her head side to side a couple of times, saving her from the needle, prompting Digger to retract the offer and put the capsule away.
Kolt smiled and keyed his mike on helo common. “Breaker Four-One, casualty is responsive and stable, over.” Hawk would need some more medical attention, no doubt, but she was coherent and alert, at least for the time being.
“Roger,” Weeks answered before slowing the aircraft’s speed to save fuel, now knowing he wasn’t carrying an Eagle inside the golden hour.
Hawk reached up with her right hand to clear her bangs from her eyes and placed her trigger finger on her nose, closing one nostril at a time and blowing a snot monster from each onto her chest. She wiped her nose with the back of her forearm, looked at Kolt, and mouthed a quick Thank you.
Just as Kolt offered her a thumbs-up his Peltor came to life. It was Gangster, transmitting over the assault frequency.
“Noble Zero-One, acknowledge, over.”
“Go for Zero-One.”
“Red Squadron is in contact, I say again, hard compromised at Objective Beaver,” Gangster said with an obvious tone of distress.
Holy fuck!
Kolt was shocked, uncertain as to how to respond. He knew he should be taking this call from the secluded Notri at Camp Greaves. His task was to serve as the quick reaction force for Kleinsmith and his SEAL mates, but now, having had to recover Hawk at Panmunjom, they weren’t postured appropriately to perform their primary mission.
“Roger, orders?”
Kolt knew that response sounded lame. He braced for an ass wound over the net. He’d had no choice but to respond to Hawk’s problem, and now needed to get her on the ground under a medic’s care soon.
Kolt waited for what seemed like eternity for Gangster to respond. Nothing.
“This is Zero-One, send it.”
“I need you to break out the Little Birds and launch the QRF to support the SEALs,” Gangster said.
