One Killer Force: A Delta Force Novel (21 page)

“Now wait one damn minute here,” Fontaine barked. He stood up and walked away from the microphone and toward the screen as if Menendez was standing in front of him. “I demand you clear your schedule and return to Pine Gap.”

Canary sat up straight, almost as if he didn’t want to be seen by Menendez onscreen for fear of being roped in as part of Fontaine’s ass-hattery. Canary was surprised that Fontaine didn’t push Menendez on his exact location. That was something. Canary had no idea where Menendez was sitting either, other than the city he was in, but was hopeful that Fontaine wouldn’t waste any more time trying to dig it out of Menendez.

“Sir, it sounds as if Mr. Menendez is preoccupied,” Canary said, playing it as if he hadn’t picked up on the tension in the room. “Maybe we can satisfy our concerns with Mr. Menendez over this VTC. It’s too important.”

Fontaine ignored Canary’s positive slant, his refrigerator-size body remaining locked on the screen as if he was a big schoolyard bully trying to intimidate a smaller kid.

Canary heard Menendez break the ice. “I’m willing to answer your questions. I did drag myself in here on no notice this morning.”

Canary looked at Fontaine, who turned to wobble back to his chair. Fontaine huffed like a tired elephant, wiped his nose on the back of his yellow-striped right shirt sleeve, and checked his watch on his left wrist before collapsing back into the soft leather. Canary looked back to the VTC screen, noticing Menendez’s dress. A wave of embarrassment rose in Canary as he realized how just about every one of the eight hundred employees around the office these days seemed to stretch the dress code, especially Vice Director Fontaine.

“I’m listening,” Menendez said, remaining gentlemanly still as if the screen had frozen.

Canary looked at Fontaine and nodded, silently admitting defeat and letting him know to proceed.

“Mr. Menendez, have you ever known of Kang Pang Su having family ties to the Japanese?”

“None, at least not thirty years ago,” Menendez said without hesitation. “Do you guys know different?”

“Well, lately, the Japanese have been holding secret talks with North Korea and China against U.S. wishes. We believe—”

“We’ll have to limit what we share with you, Mr. Menendez,” Fontaine interrupted. “You understand.”

“Yes, sir,” Canary said, addressing his boss. “My mistake.”

Fontaine didn’t reply, just turned his head back to Menendez, which Canary took as the okay to continue, although cautiously.

“Seamstress must have checked in again,” Menendez said.

“Why would you assume that?” Fontaine said.

“The fact that the moon is still up?” Menendez said, not hiding the sarcasm.

Canary jumped in, hesitant to provide too much, but also showing he’d had about enough of Fontaine’s micromanaging the video-teleconference. Hell, Canary felt himself allying with Menendez for no other reason than knowing Fontaine had gotten more sleep last night than he and Menendez likely had, combined. He couldn’t go full-up insubordinate, not if he wanted to keep his job, and he certainly did. But, he could be a little more creative, as long as he understood when too much was too much.

“Do you believe Kang Pang Su is capable of treason?” Canary asked before catching the pointed stare of Fontaine.

“Every asset has the potential, which is what makes them attractive to a case officer,” Menendez said. “Some take longer than others, but simply signing on speaks to a recruited asset’s potential and innate desire for change.”

“I see,” Canary said. “How about weapons of mass destruction? Say, miniature nuclear warheads placed on long-range ballistic missiles? Seamstress capable?”

“North Korea has long believed that having a nuke makes them a player in world affairs, not susceptible to the wastebasket of history,” Menendez said, his situational understanding impressing Canary.

Fontaine jumped in. “Is that a yes?”

“Saddam Hussein was ousted because he didn’t have nuke capability, regardless of what the world likes to espouse, a lesson the North Koreans learned quickly,” Menendez said.

Canary knew Menendez hadn’t exactly answered the question, but decided to take an implied
yes
and move on.

“So we are going after Seamstress, I assume,” Menendez said.

“The one thing the president took from his top-secret transition of power briefing from the outgoing president was the disappointment of allowing North Korea to obtain the nuclear bomb years ago,” Fontaine said, now showing some impressive insight, seemingly giving way to Menendez’s assistance as he dodged the question.

“There have been some developments,” Canary said.

“Like Marzban Tehrani being taken off the deck?” Menendez said.

Canary and Fontaine locked eyes, both a little startled to hear Tehrani’s name.

“We received a third teletypewriter message from Seamstress. Just after you left for your flight the other day,” Canary said. “He is visiting Panmunjom with some colleagues to restart nuclear talks. A Swedish delegation will attend, along with the South Koreans, of course.”

“Not the ideal place to execute an asset extraction,” Menendez said, “but compared to downtown Pyongyang, it’s perfect.”

“Are you serious?” Fontaine asked.

“No, of course not. That would be suicide.”

“Well, we don’t have a lot of time to slow-burn contingencies for Satin Ash,” Canary said. “Seamstress’s last RTTY message puts the date of the conference in just a few days.”

“Then I’m sure the Joint Special Operations Command has been alerted,” Menendez said. “A high-risk mission like that requires their specific skill sets.”

Canary looked at Fontaine, letting him know he was satisfied with what they had learned from Menendez, and that he was ready to end the VTC.

“Are you familiar with the LIPS program Mr. Canary here is chairing, Mr. Menendez?” Fontaine asked.

“Something to do with all the Skoal cans on his desk?”

Canary broke a smile, impressed Menendez had remembered the half-dozen empty dip cans on his desk.

“Negative,” Fontaine said, “LIPS stands for ‘locate information pulled by Edward Snowden,’ a POTUS-directed crisis management team.”

“Oh, I thought it was a play off the small signs hanging just past the main interest out there,” Menendez said. “The ones that say
loose lips sink ships.
”

“Consider yourself read on,” Fontaine said. “We don’t need another Snowden on this one.”

Canary watched Menendez stand up, revealing his shiny gold belt buckle and designer trousers, as if he was reaching for something. A moment later the screen went black.

I guess the meeting is over.

FIFTEEN

Fort Bragg, Delta Compound

Standing at the head of the drab thirty-man classroom, Major promotable Kolt Raynor remained poker-faced in his rugged range shorts and tan T-shirt as he looked into the eyes of each of the thirteen operator candidates. Slightly spread out, each sat behind a gray table, outfitted in an unmarked Crye Multicam assault uniform, his new Unit access badge hanging from his neck. These men were more than just fresh meat.

Kolt surveyed the group a little more as Jason, the cadre member in the back, drilled down into the correct folder inside the Unit secure local area network to pull up the aircraft training slides and video. Most of the students had the early stages of relaxed grooming standards already going on, and were probably pushing it a bit based on their candidate status. These thirteen candidates had been the chosen ones, the ones still standing after the long walk and the Commander’s Board at the most recent Delta tryouts. Of the 132 that had started assessment and selection at an undisclosed location in the northeast, they were the only ones to have gotten by the intrusive psych interviews, kept the unpublished physical and mental pace over the thirty days in the mountains, and not gotten hit with a DUI while celebrating their new permanent change of station orders to report to Delta Force.

Kolt’s efforts today were common practice in the Unit. Guys with certain experiences during combat ops were often asked to speak to the Operator Training Course candidates to invoke a sense of realism and share lessons learned. Unlike in Kolt’s OTC class, too many years ago to count now, every member of this class had seen the elephant already, half with valor awards on their official records, several with Purple Hearts.

Kolt slipped his bandaged forearm into his right cargo pocket, yanking out a half-full bag of Red Man. He opened the pouch, shoved two fingers in to tear away a wad of the moist leaf tobacco, and worked it into his right cheek.

He knew his standing there was odd, what with him still nursing battle wounds from the op in the Ukraine. Kolt knew that wasn’t lost on any of the alert candidates, as he caught most eyes surveying his bandage. Kolt also knew that the operator candidates had already heard about the three operators from Kolt’s squadron that bought it. Word travels fast inside the Spine.

“We might as well get started,” Kolt said, his voice barely audible as he tried to seat the tobacco and wipe his fingers on his range shorts. “I’m Kolt Raynor, or known around here by most just as Racer. Don’t ask me how I got the code name and I won’t ask about yours.”

The class was deathly silent, but Kolt noticed a few of them breaking smiles and looking down at the desk as if they were breaking the class rules, worried about the cadre, or something. Kolt stepped over to look down into the trash can, pulling out an empty water bottle, removing the cap, and wiping the nozzle on his shirt.

“You can call me Racer, Kolt, or boss, if you get across the hall into my squadron,” Kolt said, fanning back and forth to ensure he had eye contact with the entire class. “We’re informal around here, nobody goes by, or answers to, ‘sir.’”

Kolt took a long spit into the bottle. “I’ll tell you guys one thing: you all look like you wouldn’t know what to do with a piece of pussy if they served it up with a Sledgehammer Stout at Huske’s Hardware House.”

That loosened them a bit. The entire class broke out in laughter, trading looks with each other as if what Kolt was saying was already true about several of them.

“Go ahead and run it, Jason,” Kolt said, “someone kill the lights.”

Up on the large white screen at the front of the classroom, in simple black bold letters, appeared the long-winded words
CLOSE QUARTERS BATTLE (CQB) DURING TUBULAR ASSAULTS—PLANES, TRAINS, AND AUTOMOBILES.

“I’m pretty sure all of you can read, so I’ll just let it roll,” Kolt said.

As the title screen faded out, several still pics of actual assaults made by Delta over the years popped up. Several trains, a few buses, and a half-dozen planes, all with captions of the mission name and location.

“That bus was stopped with a couple of volley shots with a SIMON device,” Kolt said rhetorically. “Some of you might know it as the GREM, the grenade rifle munition, or some shit.”

Kolt noticed a couple of smiles as he deposited another stream of tobacco juice into the clear plastic bottle.

The last few pictures showed the roof hatch breach from on top of the American Airlines 767 that allowed Kolt and a few mates to retake the plane while airborne over central India a year or so earlier.

“That breach was done with the harpoon; first time it was used real world, actually,” Kolt said. “You guys will get some good training on both of those during your advanced breaching training.”

Kolt looked into the crowd, keying on the wide eyes of all thirteen reflecting in the projector light. He took another long spit into the bottle, and as if on cue, the room erupted to the sound of heavy metal rock.

“In honor of the late, great Jeff Hanneman, if you don’t like Slayer, you probably suck at CQB,” Kolt said loud enough for the entire class to hear him.

Flashes of Delta Operators doing CQB on tubular targets in training, intermixed with real helmet cam footage from actual targets down range in Iraq and Syria, rolled by as the music blared. There was more action on this screen than in ten Hollywood blockbusters combined.

Kolt let the video play out, another thirty seconds or so, until the thundering sound of “War Ensemble” faded. “Lights, please,” he said.

“Gentlemen, how many of you think you know how to do CQB?” Kolt asked, scanning the room. About half the candidates raised their hands tentatively as they looked around, hoping they weren’t the only one sticking their neck out.

“That’s a damn shame, isn’t it, Jason?” Kolt said as he looked to the back of the room. “Guess you’ve got a lot of bad habits to break, then.”

Again, a few smiles and abbreviated laughs, the students not exactly sure what to make of the forty-something and obviously seasoned operator.

“Men, I know the Unit command sergeant major told you the three things that will end your time in Delta,” Kolt said. “Someone help me out.”

“Women, booze, and money,” much of the class spouted out almost in unison.

“Good,” Kolt said, “but after over a decade at war, we like to add ‘CQB with two left feet’ to the list.”

No response from the crowd.

“Now, on target, especially in a confined-space tubular assault where there is no cover, multiple, simultaneous breaches are critical to overwhelm the enemy thought process.”

Just then a familiar female voice came over the building’s intercom. Kolt recognized Joyce, Colonel Webber’s secretary. “Major Raynor, call four-zero-zero-five please. Major Raynor, four-zero-zero-five.”

Kolt recognized Webber’s office extension and noticed cadre member Jason stand up and begin walking to the front of the class.

“I’ll take it from here, Racer; thanks for coming in to talk to these guys,” Jason said.

“No problem. Happy to help.” Kolt shook Jason’s hand, mentally gauging his grip strength against the stocky sergeant’s, and tapped him on his right shoulder. Kolt looked at the candidates one last time as he walked down the side of the room toward the back door.

“Make your own luck, men,” Kolt said. “Hope to see you all down range in a few months.”

Stockholm, Sweden