Full Assault Mode (21 page)

But the difference in protecting against cyberthreats is that you are not looking to stop a human body from attacking but, rather, are hunting for “data.” Some of the critical systems involve digital components, which become attack vectors in cyberspace. Viruses can be carried in by a thumb drive or cell phone to infect systems. It’s well documented that the United States government has been concerned with cyberattacks for close to a decade now, requiring commercial power plants to defend against them after adding to the Design Basis Threat shortly after 9/11. Nadal devoured this open-source information like a child mesmerized by the latest Harry Potter adventure.

It is much easier to overload a response system from a keyboard an ocean away than it is to physically attack a well-protected critical-infrastructure facility inside America. Yes, Farooq knew Nadal was very smart and very careful, even if he was very controlling and smothering of their sleeper brother Abdul in the United States. He would not want any more mistakes. Never mind that the model-airplane mistake that took his two fingers off was all Nadal’s fault.

Knowing Nadal had everything covered, and seeing the information downloading to the yellow thumb drive presently, Farooq forgot all about neglecting his duties yesterday morning.

Yes, this is easy.

Farooq waited patiently as he watched the data download to the thumb drive. He was pleased with himself, knowing he was acquiring the most sensitive data on how nuclear power plants in the United States function and how they protect their assets. Another minute or so, tops, and he would be back at the safe house for a well-deserved nap before brother Nadal returned.

Nadal will be very pleased.

The download sequence on the computer screen suddenly ended. Farooq blinked and sat up straight. He leaned forward to grab the computer monitor and shook it vigorously. No luck.

He grabbed his cell phone off the table and checked to ensure the call was still active. It was. Farooq settled into the plastic chair, unsure what to do. He thought of calling Nadal but abandoned that idea for fear of his certain wrath. Yes, it was a simple task Nadal had entrusted him with. All he had to do was visit the CyberInternet Café, log into a single Web site, make an overseas call to the hunting phones, and plug in a thumb drive. A child could do that. Nadal and Abdul had seen about the difficult portion of the operation. Farooq didn’t even have to hold a conversation with anyone. Yes, it was a simple but extremely important task that Nadal trusted him with, and had he visited the café yesterday, as Nadal directed, he might not be facing these troubles today.

Something has happened, something in America, not on my end.

FIFTEEN

Secret Compartmented Information Facility, Delta compound, Fort Bragg

In a small room deep in an obscure vault known as a SCIF, militaryspeak for Secret Compartmented Information Facility, the top-secret domain of Delta’s intel and imagery analysts, the two enlisted operators sat in silence on the same side of a long gray table. Their sterile olive-colored full-body flight suits covered black nylon running shorts and tan T-shirts. Tan Oakley assault boats or Salomon mids covered their feet, and their Delta access badges hung from their necks. Their clean-cut color head shot adorned their badges, pictures that were taken when they first joined Delta. The passport-size mug shots looked very similar to a college yearbook picture. But only the troop sergeant major vaguely resembled his freshman-year photo.

Known as Slapshot inside the ranks of Delta Force, MSG Jason Holcomb appeared the most militarylike since he’d recently shaved his thick red beard. It had only been three days since, and, like Kolt Raynor, he was up for promotion. Slapshot was a shoo-in, of course, given his superlative track record in hostile-fire areas around the world. The photo was a simple requirement that even Delta operators were required to abide by. Even so, it seemed ridiculous to most of the guys since it took months to grow a beard that provided them a unique edge on the battlefield in Afghanistan. It was just one of the cultural barriers of the inflexible peacetime U.S. Army that had yet to be breached by the long war on terror.

The younger of the two sat on Slapshot’s immediate left. At twenty-eight years old, MSG Peter “Digger” Chamblis was six years Slapshot’s junior, one of the youngest master sergeants in the army and the guy that executed that hair-raising breach on top of the hijacked 767’s fuselage over Indian soil about a year ago. He barely blinked as he sat as still as a statue. His ID photo seemed ridiculous now because his features were hidden by a brown full beard and long, dirty-blond California surfer hair.

Compared with Slapshot, Digger dressed a little more informally. As was common among operators, he had the top portion of his jumpsuit pulled down with the sleeves tied around his waist. A former accomplished triathlete, his tan T-shirt did little to conceal the lean muscles on his six-foot, nearly fat-free frame. And his titanium prosthetic lower leg, a product of an IED blast in Iraq years earlier, remained hidden under his flight suit.

It was obvious that the JSOC lawyer standing over them was an outsider. He just looked out of place. Lieutenant Colonel Seymour Spencer had never been inside the secret Delta compound before. He wasn’t surprised that he required an escort wherever he went, even to the bathroom. Today’s escort was the gray-headed longtime unit-command sergeant major, who stood conspicuously off to the side

In fact, LTC Spencer was a relative newcomer to the entire special operations community, hired to assist with the increased workload brought on by years and years of war. Spencer came with all the soft-skill attributes of a desk officer. Double chin, bulging belly testing the tensile strength of the lower two buttons of his fatigue top, and wired-rimmed glasses that sat atop a pointed nose with mismatched nostrils. If there ever was a fish out of water that didn’t know it, it was Seymour Spencer.

Spencer figured this morning would be easy. After all, he directly represented Admiral Mason. In fact, Spencer’s visit was driven by the general dissatisfaction with the two operators’ sworn statements that were part of the written record in the AR 15-6 investigation. Mason sent Spencer across post to get it straightened out. Sure, Slapshot and Digger would treat him with the respect deserved by the rank on his collar. As long as the colonel reciprocated in kind, there would be no problems. But someone should really have briefed Spencer before he entered the Delta compound.

From the beginning, the balding and chubby army lawyer was all business. He pushed his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose and leaned forward on the table, still looking over his glasses and into Digger’s eyes. He paused for effect and then shifted his attention to Slapshot. With straight arms, his hands covered two documents. He slid the papers forward on the table a foot or so until they rested in front of the two Delta operators.

With every bit of stereotypical sarcasm they expected from a non-special-ops staff officer, Spencer finally spoke. “So, it appears that the two statements you two submitted referencing one Major Kolt Raynor are severely inconsistent with what we believe to be true.”

Slapshot and Digger looked down at the written statements. They took a few seconds to look them over to ensure they were authentic. When they were done, Slapshot looked at Digger. Digger nodded.

“No, sir!” answered Slapshot. “Our sworn statements look fine.”

“Gentlemen, maybe we have a slight misunderstanding here.” Spencer smiled as he lifted his arms from the table and straightened up, pushing his midsection a few inches over the edge of the table. “Look, you both are stellar soldiers with a lot to offer the army. I know that,” he said with a sense of pleading. “But Admiral Mason has sent me here to give you men one more chance.”

Spencer paused for a moment, then said, “Sergeant Holcomb, tell us what really happened on the helicopter in the Goshai Valley last month, and in your case, Sergeant Chamblis, on the highjacked Boeing 767 last year.”

Slapshot sat up straight in his chair. Digger locked eyes with Spencer as the veins in the seasoned operator’s neck stood out like thick climbing rope. Slapshot picked up both statements and held them out for Spencer to take back. “Sir, are you implying we fabricated these statements?”

“No, no, no.” Spencer responded, shaking his head slowly but unconvincingly as he pushed his wire-rimmed glasses back up his nose. “I’m just saying that what you wrote and what we believe actually happened on those two missions isn’t adding up.”

Spencer continued. “We know you guys were just innocent bystanders to Major Raynor’s insubordination and self-centered actions. I’m giving you soldiers an opportunity to save your careers.” Spencer slid the statements back in front of Slapshot and Digger. “All you have to do is rewrite your sworn statements and everything will be fine.”

Somewhat out of character for the quiet young operator, Digger exploded. “This is pure bullshit!” he barked as he hammered both fists onto the top of the table with every bit of force he could muster before standing straight up. His chair fell over as Spencer took two steps backward.

With a scowl that could kill, Digger laid into the army lawyer. “What the fuck is your problem, man?” he demanded. “You’ve got some brass balls to come in here accusing us of lying in our statements.”

The unit sergeant major stepped forward. “Take it easy, Digger, the colonel is just doing his job.”

Startled but holding his ground firmly as he sensed an ally in the sergeant major, Spencer came back at Digger. “We know what happened out there, Sergeant Chamblis,” he said with conviction but in a whiny adolescent-like voice. “You men don’t have to be party to a cover-up to protect Major Raynor.”

A few seconds of uncomfortable pause followed Spencer’s last comment, but the damage had been done. The temporary JSOC lawyer had pushed the wrong buttons. “This is your last chance!” he threatened.

Slapshot exploded straight up and lifted the table off its front two legs. The two statements and two ballpoint pens flew into the air as the table landed upside down. The lawyer frantically backed up to the wall and turned his body to the side as if to protect his vital organs. It was total fear. Almost as if their response was rehearsed, Slapshot and Digger closed on Spencer. He instinctively raised his hands to protect his face, yanking his glasses quickly off, fearing blows from the two operators.

“NO, NO! PLEASE DON’T,” Lieutenant Colonel Spencer yelled out as he looked toward the sergeant major for help.

Slapshot spoke calmly. “Do you think we give a damn about your stupid-ass investigation? Do you think we give two shits about why you are here? You don’t know who you are dealing with.”

Trying to calm things down, the sergeant major jumped in front of Slapshot and Digger, placing his big opened hands on both of their chests to hold them at bay. “That’s enough. Slapshot, at ease!” he said.

Slapshot ignored him.

“We have been teammates with Racer for a long time. He has earned our loyalty a dozen times over. I don’t expect you to understand that, but don’t ever try to come in here and get us to turn on a teammate again.”

Slapshot turned to the unit sergeant major. “Sergeant Major, unless you have any objections, Digger and I have a date with the Gracie brothers now.”

Not a word more was spoken as Slapshot and Digger headed for the SCIF door.

*   *   *

Lieutenant Colonel Spencer was just as surprised as the sergeant major that he didn’t shit his pants.

They walked out the main double doors and headed for Spencer’s black government-plated Crown Vic. As Spencer hugged the envelope marked
CLASSIFIED
under his right arm and awkwardly placed his black beret on his head, it was obvious that he was still shook up. He didn’t even bother to stop by Colonel Webber’s office to make a courtesy call on the way out. The sergeant major was glad he didn’t.

The sergeant major could tell Spencer was just happy to be out of there with his skin. He was definitely in a foreign land at the Delta compound. It was a place where brilliance and innovation were typically championed by the Delta noncommissioned officer. It was a place where some things that could never be overlooked in a conventional setting could be ignored. A place where big-boy rules applied to all and the distinction between officer and noncommissioned officer could only truly be determined by scrutinizing monthly pay stubs.

As Spencer fumbled with the key fob to unlock his door, the sergeant major tried to gauge what might happen next after Slapshot’s and Digger’s uncharacteristic outburst.

“Well, sir, it was good to meet you. Don’t let those guys get you down. They are a little wound up still from all the time down range. They have been at war a long time.”

Spencer eased into the driver’s seat and placed the envelope on the passenger’s seat. He slid the key into the ignition and said, “Sergeant Major, those two soldiers were belligerent and absolutely insubordinate.”

Trying to salvage the day, the sergeant major leaned down to nearly eye level with the distraught lawyer. “‘Sir, they were a little overboard, I’ll give you that. But there are very few officers around here that would get that kind of respect from the assaulters in the building.”

“A little overboard?” Spencer questioned in astonishment with his eyebrows raised.

“Sir, Major Raynor is a little eccentric and a bit extreme at times, no issues there,” he answered. “But the boys know a great officer when they see one, and they are hard to come by in the army these days.”

Spencer sat staring straight ahead. In his sixteen years of service, he had never experienced anything like what had just happened inside the SCIF. His left hand gripped the top of the steering wheel like a vice as he turned the ignition on with his right. “Is that the real story here, Sergeant Major?” he asked.

As he stepped back to close the driver’s-side door, the sergeant major answered, “Yes, sir. After close to twelve years of war, that is the only story that matters around here.”