One Killer Force: A Delta Force Novel (24 page)

What in the hell does he mean by ambivalent?

“Banner doesn’t need me micromanaging him forward,” Kolt said.

“Deploy your squadron command group, run interference for Banner.”

“With all due respect, sir, that’s exactly the kind of thing I hated from my squadron commanders,” Kolt said. “Hell, sir, I believe you’ve told your squadron commanders several times over the years not to spoon-feed their subordinate troop commanders.”

Kolt picked up the death stare, practically feeling Webber peering through his head and out into the courtyard. Then it hit Kolt like a spin kick to the floating rib.

“Sir, you concerned about my mental status or decision-making or something? Ambivalent?” Kolt said, trying to remain respectful but definitely playing his hand.

Webber took another exceptionally slow sip of his coffee and set the Styrofoam cup back on the table.

“Son, I’m not going to bullshit you. Doc Johnson, and frankly me, too, are concerned that the radiation may be handicapping you to a degree,” Webber said, laying it out like a Shoney’s breakfast buffet.

“The Unit surgeon cleared me, sir,” Kolt said, trying not to get too defensive. “I’ve CrossFitted my ass off the last few months, best long obstacle course times in years. I’m good.”

“Look, Kolt, there is more to it than just your physical abilities,” Webber said, somewhat surprising Kolt. “But now isn’t the time.”

“Sir, the day I can’t meet the Unit standards, I’ll turn in my kit,” Kolt said.

“If you fuck things up on the SEALs’ op I’ll pull you from command,” Webber said, not really showing that he wasn’t entirely serious.

“I have no doubt, sir,” Kolt said.

“All right, let’s drop it, we don’t have time for this right now,” Webber said. “If I can swing it with the CG, I’ll need you to get to Sweden ASAP.”

Sweden? Hawk’s in Stockholm.

“Hawk having issues?” Kolt asked, trying not to show how happy he was that Webber dropped the bullshit concerns or that he was worried Webber might suspect he had made an unauthorized call to Hawk on an unsecure line two days ago. “She’s still good with the Swedish delegation, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she made a secure call this morning,” Webber said. “She has some major concerns about the tactics, techniques, and procedures the SEALs are using for the mission.”

“What’s her beef?”

“She hasn’t been briefed yet,” Webber said, “just worried about what the agency’s in-country representative told her about the SEALs’ tactics.”

“That doesn’t sound like Dealer to me. He’s solid,” Kolt said.

“She thinks using the radar-responsive device to tag Seamstress without a backup method is shortsighted. She learned a little about the armored trains during Whistle-stop, something about some stealth technology that she thinks will prevent the device from being tracked.”

“I read her sitrep this morning. What’s the J2’s take?” Kolt asked, knowing the JSOC chief intelligence officer would have an opinion. “There is another option.”

“The J2 doesn’t discount Hawk’s information on the North Korean president’s train but he is green and typically noncommittal, probably afraid to interfere with Six’s tactical planning,” Webber said. “What’s the other option?”

Kolt did a quick look around the cafeteria, just to be sure nobody had slipped in a side door unannounced.

“Quantum dots,” Kolt said.

“That’s what Hawk said.”

“Hawk knows their capability, as does Slapshot,” Kolt said. “He is fully read on to the SAP.”

“I thought the Tagging, Tracking, and Locating Task Force had some issues with the liquid nanocrystals not being clearly distinguishable after impact?”

“Those were the originals. We’re on mod three now. We messed around with the corrected prototype sent from Sandia last month in the boneyard, tagging vehicles. The optical-property issues were fixed and we pick them up easily under nods.”

“Hawk isn’t tagging a vehicle.”

“We had an old-fashioned egg fight with the dots leftover. The crystals attached to the skin and clothing fine, and were easily seen through goggles.”

“Look, Raynor, Hawk is your operator, or will be soon if she gets past the Commander’s Board, and your old squadron is on alert cycle for the never-ending Ukrainian mess.” Webber was obviously growing frustrated with the entire situation. “Noble has the mission and you are going, unless you want me to tell the CG just to leave it Six pure.”

“Not a chance, sir. We’ll dip pouch the quantum dots overnight to Hawk,” Kolt said.

Webber sipped on his coffee, seemingly becoming a little more comfortable with the situation. Kolt was making it sound easy, but he knew Webber knew it wouldn’t be. Webber would have to sell it, and quick.

The diplomatic pouch was the quickest way to get Hawk the quantum dots in time. The container came with unique legal protections in carrying official correspondence between a diplomatic mission and its home government. The lock and tamper-evident seal prevented even the most curious unauthorized third parties from peeking inside. As long as the pouch is externally marked to show its status, the old-ass Vienna Convention decision ensures it enjoys diplomatic immunity from search or seizure.

“Why doesn’t Six seem to know about these dots?” Webber asked, signaling Kolt that he wasn’t seriously countering the dip pouch idea.

“Not sure, sir,” Kolt said. “My guess is we never told them.”

“You know how important it is for Six and us to be aligned on everything,” Webber said, “but in this case I might be able to leverage that.”

Kolt didn’t dare let on even a half smile. Webber was starting to sound like his old self after hearing the reassuring news about the quantum dots.

Webber took the last mouthful of his coffee, slid his chair out from under the table, and stood. Kolt followed him past the trash cans, where they both threw their cups in and moved to the double doors.

Kolt turned to Webber. “Can I bring Captain Banner in tomorrow morning after the staff meeting, sir?” Kolt asked. “I’d like him to get some face time with you and brief you on the concept of operations.”

Webber didn’t immediately answer, he just stared at the door, his hand still on the crash bar.

What’s up with the old man?

“Kolt, I can’t tell you how important this is,” Webber said, as if his mood ring was on a pendulum. “You can’t mess this one up, it’s truly no fail. Failure in North Korea is likely going to be the knife in the Unit’s back.”

Kolt tensed at Webber’s last comment, subconsciously scratching his head and adjusting his neck as a chiropractor might do. A little uncomfortable, for sure, but Kolt opted to keep it from getting too awkward. “Damn, sir, we don’t even have deployment authority yet. Don’t jinx me.”

“I’m serious, Major,” Webber said, stepping forward and busting Kolt’s personal space. “The Unit, the female pilot program, our careers in army special ops, all of it is on the line here.”

“Yes, sir,” Kolt said, realizing the time for smart-ass comments was long gone, “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t, Kolt, you’re not my biggest worry,” Webber said. “It’s Bird and—”

Hawk?

“Hawk’s switched on, sir. You know that,” Kolt said. “The Twitter pic is nothing to worry about.”

“I’m worried she might be in over her head on this one,” Webber said.

“Sir, I know your personal connection to Hawk with her dad and all; hell, everyone in the building knows it,” Kolt said, “but I’m telling you she has it, she’s all over it. The fact she questions Six is a perfect example.”

“Yeah, she’s got her dad’s instincts, no question,” Webber said, referencing Hawk’s father, former Delta officer Michael Leland Bird, code named Major League Ballplayer. “MLB sure left us a blue chip.”

Webber turned back toward the door as if to open it, then sighed and turned back to Kolt.

“Look, I’ve got it from a good source that the J-staff has provided POTUS with a recommended command structure and organization for a new composite unit.”

“Really?”

“If I hear even a hint around the building about what I’m going to tell you, with God as my witness, I’ll pull your badge for life,” Webber said.

“Damn, sir,” Kolt said, “that bad?”

“There is a high-level initiative to disband us or ST6. Part of the Defense Department’s 2015 budget and postwar downsizing. Maybe combine the two of us.”

Kolt knew his mouth was open and closed it. He’d heard the rumblings around the compound, which had prompted his spontaneous call to Hawk in Stockholm, but hearing it directly from the Delta commander made it horrifyingly real.

Everyone and their brother knew special ops forces had been increasing in numbers since 9/11. It was public knowledge. But, Kolt allowed, it wasn’t entirely an uptick in operators, as even POTUS had finally realized the men at the tip of the spear couldn’t be mass produced. No, America had enough operators. What she needed was help with the support side of the house. Trained professionals required to maintain special ops helos to get guys like Kolt on target, folks to maintain personnel records on guys like Kolt, drone operators to give guys like Kolt some real-time intel, and intel analysts to let guys like Kolt know what it all meant.

“Us or Six?” Kolt said. “That’s unimaginable, sir, we have different missions, unique legacy tasks.”

“Many disagree, Kolt, but that’s a debate for later. You need to know that JSOC has penciled in Mahoney as one of the subordinate commanders of this composite unit option.”

Kolt impressed himself that he didn’t curse out loud. “Gangster? After all that shit with his squadron in Syria?”

Webber looked up to the ceiling before replying. “You know how it works. Suspected of everything, charged with nothing. The asterisk beside his name is huge and invisible.”

Kolt nodded. The army was legendary in blacklisting people, but still keeping them on.

“I got this straight from Carlos. Gangster is JSOCs senior rep forward. He’ll be at the forward staging base in Inchon, South Korea. Same as you and your men.”

Kolt didn’t say anything. What the hell could he say?

Webber seemed to read his mind. “There’s nothing I can do. Gangster still has his supporters. Hell, maybe he really does deserve a second chance. And he was All-Army swim team captain,” Webber said, the sarcasm in his voice unmistakable.

Kolt thought about that. As far as he was concerned, something about Gangster over the years didn’t add up. Kolt mentally threw up Gangster’s full profile; everything about the guy since day one of the Operator Training Course implied that he was tailor-made for the Unit. He was the epitome of a Delta operator in every way, they all said. Sure, Kolt knew Gangster looked the part, no doubt, but as he focused on the image in his head, the obvious lit up like a giant neon sign in Manhattan. Gangster’s wingspan was asymmetrical with his torso, as if a kid had yanked GI Joe’s arms out of the sockets to help him fly. Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps had nothing on Rick Mahoney. More so, Kolt noticed, Gangster’s eyes were bunched above the bridge of his long, thin nose, perfectly shaped for those tiny swim goggles that leaked around the edges on most folks.

Son of a bitch!

“So if they do combine Delta and Six, they plan on making it a SEAL-heavy unit,” Kolt said, working out the political machinations. “So Gangster gets his shot at redemption, what with his great butterfly stroke, while the rest of us dog-paddle.”

“Looks that way.”

“That sucks, sir,” Kolt said.

“It does, and you’ll deal with it,” Webber said, taking in a breath and fixing Kolt with a stare. “This won’t be Syria. You’ll play nice, and whatever you do, don’t start the Third World War over there.”

Kolt nodded, but the thought occurred that if a new war did break out, all this shit about combining Delta and Six would vanish.

SEVENTEEN

CIA safe house, Stockholm, Sweden

Hawk couldn’t say Kolt hadn’t warned her. Eight minutes into the first planning session, she had already been undressed and eye-fucked a dozen times.

Talk about your stereotype hard-up testosterone junkies.

Happy she’d dressed down for the night, Hawk listened intently to the three SEALs that had flown in to coordinate the operation with the CIA and the Swedish delegation. She watched them run through their mission analysis slides (put together back at Dam Neck), read through the JSOC staff’s sync matrix, and give their concept of operations.

Not bad, but not Delta planning.

For Hawk, she knew the SEALs were checking the block, covering all the bases, and simply being courteous to Myron Curtis. As the senior agency rep read on to the operation, Curtis was a critical piece of the approval chain, but given the agency guy’s constant head nodding, the SEALs could have said they were putting on clown suits and pole vaulting the DMZ and he would have nodded in the affirmative.

Curtis is smitten with these guys.

The SEAL leader, Master Chief Tim Kleinsmith, continued to lay out the phases of the operation, taking them through the infil of the SEALs from Inchon Air Base in South Korea, into the Yellow Sea and then up the Yesong River a few miles north of the border.

“Once we go feet dry about right here, we’ll transition into phase two,” Kleinsmith, the taller of the three SEALs, said, throwing commando buzzwords out like a Gatling gun while pointing a red laser pointer at a large satellite map shining on the wall from a small one-eye projector.

Hawk was surprised by the lack of questions from Curtis, but chalked it up to part nerves, not having the experience to even question the tactical plan of the top SEAL unit in the navy, and part backstage-pass groupie.

The SEAL continued, flicking the red laser pointer on and off the wall, unable to steady the dot, as if he was hung over or showing early signs of Alzheimer’s.

“We’ll take these abandoned structures, about seven klicks southwest of Kaesong, by force if necessary, and lay up during the day until the next cycle of darkness.”

By force? Murder innocent North Korean noncombatants?