Full Assault Mode (7 page)

Troy had hand woven a bracelet out of pink and lime-green parachute cord, complete with an integrated whistle and flint fire sparker. Cindy wasn’t all that impressed with it, but the colors weren’t bad, so she vowed to wear it for Troy. She had no idea why or when she would ever need it. If the world came to an end, she was thinking she’d need more than a pretty bracelet to survive, but it’s the thought that counts.

As Hawk turned from the pump and her attention back on her shopping day, she looked over the hood of her Beetle and watched the Marquis slowly drive past again, this time heading back north toward Fort Bragg and the main exchange.

Sure, Hawk had the advanced countersurveillance training under her belt. And she knew, simply given her sensitive position as a female unit member, that she was special. But out and about, away from the unit compound, she was just another hot brunette with olive skin and a tight ass. Out in the real world, she was simply Cindy Bird, not a commando code-named Hawk.

Even so, she vividly recalled Major Kolt Raynor hammering her on the finer points of countersurveillance shit as she rode shotgun with him in the narrow streets of Cairo last year, yet another Middle Eastern hotbed demanding attention. Kolt’s incessant lecturing on the importance of looking for patterns, erratic driving maneuvers, U-turns or odd lane changes and the like annoyed her just as much as she knew it educated her. And now with the black Marquis six car lengths behind her again, she rapidly moved her eyes from the roadway to her rearview mirror at a speed-zone-respectable 62 miles per hour down Skibo Road and whispered Kolt’s exact cautions.

“Same face and ride twice was a coincidence. Three times and it was a pattern, and patterns ain’t coincidence.”

But she chided herself for even worrying about it, shaking her head as much to break her paranoia as to move the side-swept bangs out of her eyes. And it was kind of annoying that she was thinking about Kolt when she was off duty.
Get it together, Hawk. This ain’t Cairo
.

Hawk looked up again and saw the Marquis slow, then turn north off Skibo and into a neighborhood side road. She would have been happy to leave it alone and refocus on her search for wicked pumps that would make Lady Gaga jealous if not for the light blue Ford Focus she was now observing through her rearview mirror. That car, with two clean-cut-looking gentlemen wearing dark sunglasses in the front seats, seemed to swap out with the black Marquis. The Focus followed her south, pretty much tailgating her, as she left Skibo, and it eased off her as she passed behind Luigi’s restaurant on North McPherson Church Road. She watched the Focus close the distance again, practically rear-ending her as she turned west on congested two-lane Morgantown Road before passing Carrabba’s Italian Grill on the right. Hawk drove underneath the uber-busy All American Freeway, then north into the Cross Creek Mall entrance, and finally clockwise around the perimeter mall road. By the time she pulled her metallic-gray 2013 Volkswagen Beetle into a lucky vacant spot up front inside the crowded Macy’s parking lot, her spider senses were at full ping.

Assholes!

Hawk knew one of two things. Either they were tailing her for unknown shady reasons or they wanted a piece of her tail. Either way,
it ain’t happening,
she thought. She shook her head. She was being crazy.

If I’m about to get rolled up on one of those Delta training exercises, they could at least wait until I’m on government time.

The fact of the matter was, none of the males in Delta questioned Hawk’s ability to take care of herself or even to take a punch. No, not after she breezed through female selection and assessment for the pilot program two years earlier. She was a quick study back then and since then had proved herself in hot spots like Libya and on target. This was put to the ultimate test when Major Raynor pulled a wild stunt during an AFO stint that quickly went from a simple mission to collect intelligence and atmospherics to a hastily planned low-visibility hit in the heart of Cairo. She had been tested. She had taken a man’s life, two probably. Her classified personnel records even included a Defense Meritorious Service Medal with a citation mentioning the fact that she had saved the life of a fellow soldier—Major Kolt Raynor. Some of the die-hard graybeards weren’t convinced she should be knighted as an operator, so the jury was still out. But, so far, she had been found not wanting by most of her male mates.

Hawk stepped her white sport heels down on the asphalt and lifted herself out of her Beetle. Out of habit, she checked her text messages again, kind of wishing Troy would have given her a nice set of fur-lined leather gloves instead of the prepper bracelet she’d left in her apartment, before slinging her patch-knit purse over her right shoulder and thumbing the wireless key fob. The reassuring audible double horn sounded behind her as she turned away and dropped her keys in her purse. She threw her shoulders back and tossed her bangs out of her eyes, wrapped the long scarf around her neck, and stepped off at a determined pace for the certain warmth of the women’s department and the sale racks.

Jalalabad Airfield, Afghanistan

The members of the task force knew there wasn’t much they could do for Shaft if things went to shit in the Goshai Valley. Kolt figured Shaft had enough battery power to last about three days or so; a few seconds daily to check in with enough juice to make the final Hail Mary call to get Kolt and the others on the helos and in the air to finally capture a key link to Ayman al-Zawahiri.

It suddenly occurred to Kolt why Admiral Mason might want to string him up by the ears. By charging off to rescue Thunder Turtle, Kolt had essentially removed himself from the operation to retrieve Shaft. Sure, other operators were briefed and equally capable of pulling Shaft out, but it was Kolt’s op and Kolt’s responsibility. And, true to his maverick nature, Kolt hadn’t bothered to inform Mason beforehand.

Fuck.

The shit would have really hit the fan if things had taken a turn for the worse while Kolt was unavailable. Any unplanned calls could generate a lot of attention back at J-bad and would have the helicopter blades spinning in short order on an in extremis recovery of Shaft. Kolt had actually strong-armed those birds for the rescue mission last night.

The dark possibilities were starting to make him sick to his stomach, but Kolt had faith that Shaft could live his cover as a medical contractor and be anything but a seasoned Delta operator. As long as he remembered that his cover was the truth, and the truth was his cover, he would be OK. So far, so good. Things were clicking along as planned.

The following evening, Kolt was still sweating it out waiting for a summons from Admiral Mason when the
Shaft
ringtone lit up his Thuraya. He grabbed a pen and a pad of paper and sat down on one of the chairs in Bravo’s lounge, which had become his new home. Shaft’s voice was hurried. It was obvious to Kolt that the extreme cold was kicking Shaft’s butt.

Shaft was all business. “Jackpot!” he said, passing the standard Delta code word signaling the targeted personality had been located, “with a nice family photo.”

Kolt scribbled the letters quickly on the paper, raised it in the air, and showed it to the others standing nearby. “Got it! All OK?”

“Nothing big. I have a new roommate. Uh, er, more like shadow.”

Kolt practically felt Shaft’s violent shivering. He could hear teeth chattering through the Thuraya.

“Compromised?” Kolt asked. He felt more than saw the other operators tense up when he asked. To a man, they all preferred a straight-up firefight to all this cloak-and-dagger shit.

“They say my watch looks like the kind that American commandos wear,” Shaft answered.

“Tell them American commandos only wear Rolexes,” Kolt said, trying to calm Shaft’s nerves a little. Everyone looked at Kolt: The smile kept them relaxed, but the comments confused them.

Sensing Shaft’s nerves, Kolt tried to pump in some confidence. “Remember, you are the best damn dentist those folks will ever see.”

Shaft didn’t answer, but the comment generated more odd looks.

“Hey, real fast, weatherman predicts more snow in your AO
,
” Kolt relayed.

“Is that what they call that cold white stuff that has been falling all day?” Shaft jabbed back with sarcasm, letting Kolt know his head was still in the game. The weather report was a little late.

“Alright, doctor, as soon as the moment is right, give a ring.” Kolt ended discretely, reminding him to trust his cover for action and to call back as soon as Ghafour’s residence was positively identified.

Kolt hoped they were a GO for the mission that night.

The good news was that Shaft had located Ghafour. And even though the experts couldn’t produce a photograph of the tribal chief after four years of looking, Shaft made it look easy. But after several months dealing with the relatively new and risk-averse JSOC commanding general, Kolt worried that Shaft’s job would be easy compared with trying to pull execute authority from Admiral Mason.

A short time later, an e-mail popped up on Kolt’s phone. In living color, plain as day, it showed Shaft cross-legged and barefooted on the floor of a small clay house, a spread of lamb, rice, walnuts, and dried fruit laid out to his front. Book-ended by a smiling young Afghan boy to his right and a larger, more sinister-looking gentleman under a white turban to his left.
In honor of the visiting western doctor,
Kolt thought. Shaft was apparently showing one of the villagers his phone and how the camera function worked because three more photos popped in shortly after. All four showed Shaft smiling with several youngsters while Ghafour sat comfortably and unaware in the background.

It was the first known picture of their target.

Jackpot!
It was a great start.

Nonetheless, even if he was the first American in years to lay eyes on the shifty and mysterious elder, they were still a long way from scarfing him up off the battlefield.

Of more immediate concern to Kolt were Shaft’s hints at trouble. From the short daily cell phone updates, Kolt could tell Shaft feared the locals were on to him. Sure, Ghafour and his tribe had welcomed him with open arms. That was a regional cultural imperative, for sure. But the Pakistani elder also assigned him a roommate, who stuck around in the shadows. Watching—no, more like studying—the Delta operator’s every move.

The fifth and final photo confirmed Kolt’s suspicions. Three Pakistani men armed with collapsible stock AK-47s sat against one wall in the house. They weren’t threatening Shaft, but it was clear they were keeping an eye on him and everyone else in the house. Kolt knew at once they would be Ghafour’s personal bodyguards. Shaft was relaying fantastic intel. Now he just had to stay cool. Shaft wasn’t asked to capture or kill Ghafour all by himself. He didn’t have to invade Ghafour’s personal space. He just needed to pass a building number per the grid on the satellite map.

“That’s got to be enough for the admiral,” Digger said, looking over Kolt’s shoulder at the computer screen that showed a tiny bright-blue icon identifying the exact location of Shaft’s iPad 4.

“We still don’t know which house,” Kolt replied. The intel had already narrowed down the possibilities to a dozen, any one of which could be Haji Ghafour’s house. Shaft knew that going in and had now succeeded in making direct contact with their target, but that wasn’t his house, or Shaft would have said so.

“Looks like building number seven to me, Racer,” Digger said.

“Could be. But with the pictures Shaft sent, and assuming he has the iPad 4 with him, that might be just the party room. An old goat like Ghafour probably beds down out of hearing distance of the after party,” Kolt said.

The hand-wringing and ambiguous decision makers back at the JOC would require a lot more than “he might be in one of several different compounds” before they gave the green light to Kolt and the boys to go on a cross-border air-assault raid. Hell, they almost didn’t go after Osama, and they’d narrowed that down to one compound. Bottom line was that the intel had to be near perfect for a cross-border mission to get the nod.

“Shaft knows what he’s doing,” Slapshot said. “He’ll get us the intel we need. You wait and see.”

Kolt hoped Slapshot was right. The key was Shaft’s iPad 4. To any villager or suspicious Haqqani, it looked innocuous enough and, more importantly, nonmilitary. To make sure no one tried to take it from him, Shaft had been drilled in using it in the open, showing villagers lists of medicines he was compiling to bring back on his next visit. It was a way to ensure he had their medical needs recorded and sanitize them to his constant use of the strange device. Rumors had been rampant for years on both sides of the border of targeting beacons discretely placed near enemy personnel or buildings to guide U.S. smart bombs to the target.

Kolt knew that Shaft would still end up fielding a lot of questions about it. To backstop his cover story, the iPad 4 was filled with medical charts, anatomy diagrams, and even short commercial videos of various drugs taken straight off the Internet and TV. What the villagers wouldn’t see was the encrypted black-and-white satellite photo saved in the iPad 4. The photo was a very recent shot of Ghafour’s village with bold white numbers superimposed on top of each dark, shaded building. Once Ghafour was located and his bed-down spot pinpointed, all Shaft had to do was give Kolt a call, pass a single number, and then make tracks for the mouth of the valley and a black landing-zone pickup spot.

Shaft’s latest phone call gave Kolt an uneasy sense as he waited. He had a bad feeling about this one. The Goshai Valley was a long way from Jalalabad. He marveled at Shaft’s individual courage. Only the best Delta operators were selected for singleton missions, and Kolt had no better choice than Shaft. Guys had to be completely comfortable with their abilities. Outside help couldn’t be relied on. A certain amount of conniving was necessary. A certain amount of “calm, cool, and collected” was a must. Lastly, the job required a whole lot of badass. Kolt knew he was unfit for the duty. It didn’t really matter, though, as Delta officers weren’t welcome in the singleton business, anyway. Solo operations were saved for the most seasoned Delta sergeants.
Just the way it should be,
Kolt always thought.