One Killer Force: A Delta Force Novel (26 page)

Chalked and strapped in place, the Birds were followed by some black rolling Pelican boxes, flexible fuel bladders resembling overstuffed black pillows known as z-bags, and the rest of the troops, about a dozen mixed of Delta assaulters and 1/160th Night Stalker pilots. Tractor One cleared out immediately, allowing the second truck, Tractor Two, to repeat the process, loading a mirror image of helicopters, equipment, and personnel.

The operation was hurried, but smooth. Time was pressing.

“We’re ready to go, boss,” Digger said, walking up to Kolt.

If Kolt didn’t know Digger had a prosthetic he would have thought he’d twisted his knee. Digger’s gait was strong and balanced, but his titanium prosthesis must be giving him some trouble.

Digger looked down at his leg then back up at Kolt. “You think I’m playing the retarded cousin again, you’re nuts.”

Kolt smiled. “That was inspired.”

Digger snorted. “I just hope this op has a few less surprises.”

I wouldn’t count on it.

Inchon Air Base, South Korea

Crowded around a small Toughbook laptop with a few staff members, Lieutenant Colonel Rick “Gangster” Mahoney, the senior JSOC officer in the host nation country—for the time being—nervously watched the medium blue icon on the screen. The Raptor X satellite signal, beaming from the inside of one of the SEAL Team Six operators’ ruck sacks, seemed to have frozen in place for the last hour.

Gangster noticed his reflection in the laptop screen, fixed a piece of hair out of place, and turned to the SEAL liaison officer, the LNO, to get his take.

“They’re good, man,” the SEAL said, picking up on Gangster’s vibes and wanting to reassure him all was good.

Gangster hoped the LNO was right. Odds are, the SEALs would slow their pace as they negotiated the rice paddies and neared the final point of their movement inside North Korea. They would be careful to skirt the small fishing village of Ryeohyeon in the south and the farmers of Kyejong-gol to the north, staying out of the shit trenches and staying off the radar of any starving stray dogs that hadn’t been sacrificed yet and served to a dozen Red Guards’ hungry families.

“No worries, probably just getting settled into the barn,” the SEAL LNO said. “They’ll make a SAT shot as soon as they are secure for the night.”

Gangster simply nodded, careful not to show any signs of micromanaging, and equally careful not to appear nervous or not completely in control. Gangster knew he was on the bubble, certainly aware either character flaw could deep-six his career. And with the recent behind-closed-doors information he had received about his slating for a new composite unit, he knew keeping the SEALs happy and successful on this operation would pay off in the near future.

Maybe my skills will be appreciated more in this new gig?

Gangster had a lot to lose on this operation, and a lot more to gain. It had been several months since he was reassigned from the Unit, sent a few miles across Fort Bragg to JSOC headquarters, where a revolving billet desk inside the J3 section awaited him. His reputation had taken a huge hit with the discovery that he promoted a culture of questionable ethics as a squadron commander, allowing cash awards for the most kills on combat rotations and party to his men consistently stretching the combat rules of engagement. Yes, most believed Gangster had done enough to be relieved of command, but given the environment where everything SEAL Team Six and the Unit did these days was under a microscope, General Allen and Colonel Webber had few options.

He was a player again, and would be a bigger star in the new organization. Multicam-upped and, at least at Inchon, the main motherfucker in charge, Gangster was on top of his game. He had been surprised, shocked really, about the opportunity to head up the operational portion of Satin Ash II, but he’d be damned if he would let anything or anyone screw up his comeback tour.

“Yeah, they’ve been spot-on with their OPSKEDS,” Gangster said, looking back at the screen.

“I anticipate the final call of the evening soon, sir,” the LNO said.

“Roger,” Gangster said.

From a table away, Gangster heard his name called.

“Colonel Mahoney, we have Tomlinson up on secure Skype,” the JCU communicator said.

A small wave of tired men shifted to their right, closing on the next fold-up table, and moved in behind the laptop screen. Gangster jolted at seeing Cindy “Hawk” Bird’s face fill up the entire screen. He wondered if the others were just as surprised.

Gangster wasn’t shocked because she was a female, conducting a singleton mission like no other ever handled by a male operator, but because she had managed to alter her appearance enough to make everyone in the hangar believe they were looking at Sweden’s representative to the 2015 Miss Universe competition.

Gangster knew Hawk, but he’d never had the opportunity to work directly with her, and definitely not on any real world target. Hawk’s bottle-blond flirty hair hanging over her turquoise blue eyes, topping a deep beachcomber tan and partly hiding a dark gray Bluetooth device in her left ear, seemed strikingly out of place given the circumstances. But, if pressed for the truth, Gangster would have to admit he was one of those old-fashioned status quo conventional-minded officers that never bought in to Webber’s thesis that a female would make a good Delta operator.

Not only did Gangster not see the value, but he thought it was stupid to have to use her cover name in front of the rest of the J-staff inside the old hangar.

“Tomlinson, good evening,” Gangster said, before immediately letting everyone in earshot know that he wasn’t much for small talk. “What’s your status?”

“Sir, all settled in the Grand Hilton, Seoul’s finest, they say,” Hawk said, her voice and mouth movements off sync by a second like a bad kung-fu movie. “Swedish delegation is tucked in for the night, on schedule for a zero two hundred Zulu meeting in Panmunjom.”

“Roger,” Gangster said, not ready to show too much appreciation for Hawk’s efforts just yet.

“I do have some tactical concerns though,” Hawk said as her tantalizing eyes stared directly into the camera.

Just then, the back door opened, drawing Gangster’s attention. He watched as one of the staffers, dressed in dark blue mechanic’s coveralls, common to the airfield, walked quickly toward the tables.

“Sir, they’re here,” the staffer said, “Smokey just pulled up.”

“Stand by, Tomlinson,” Gangster said, speaking into the laptop microphone and leaving Hawk hanging.

Gangster turned his wrist over and looked at his G-shock.

Three-plus hours late.

Yes, Noble Squadron was several hours late, but they had kept Gangster and the JOC informed via SAT of each delaying detail, allowing the J-staff to check off each key event on the sync matrix. But with the SEALs already forced to launch to stay on schedule, the fact that Noble hadn’t made it yet ate at Gangster.

Indeed, the consecutive digs from Murphy’s Law were nobody’s fault per se, but Gangster was in no mood for hiccups, not several hours into the infiltration phase. Gangster knew, had he still been the Noble Squadron commander, given the late start from Pope Army Airfield, delay in hitting the aerial refuel tanker—the Air Force KC-135 over the Pacific Ocean, and the three-hour-and-change drive on narrow, congested roads, he wouldn’t have sweated it too much. But these were different times, with much more at stake. Gangster’s former men, now Kolt Raynor’s men, were fucking way behind schedule and pushing his commanding general–approved abort threshold to the limits.

Racer bullshit, I’m sure.

Conversely, things for the main effort, SEAL Team Six, were moving along without as much as a broken and distorted commo check or stubbed toe.

The SEALs successfully launched from Inchon, negotiated the Yellow Sea from thirty feet below surface, dodged the underwater mines rigged along both banks of the Yesong, and were now tactically pushing from their feet-dry point four klicks up from the river’s mouth. Meanwhile, Kolt and his squadron-minus had flown into the U.S. military air base near Osan City, just north of Pyeongtaek.

Yes, Gangster knew the details of how a Smokey and the Bandit package worked, he just wasn’t all that impressed.

Gangster turned back to the laptop and Hawk. She had backed up a foot or so, showing she obviously had gotten comfortable inside her own suite. Now, competing for attention with her crisp facial features, her defined cleavage, showing at the top of the thin pink-and-white underblouse and centered between muscular shoulders, held the attention of the exhausted men at the table.

Before he could get back to Hawk, the large hangar door opened behind Gangster again. He took a deep breath and made a mental note not to appear to hold a grudge. This was to be the first time he had seen Kolt Raynor, and really anyone from Noble Squadron since he reluctantly turned in his Unit badge and last drove away from the compound gate.

Slapshot and Digger led the way into the hangar, followed by Gangster’s old communicator, JoJo. All of them were wearing identical dark blue coveralls, much like several of the J-staffers.

Well isn’t that a bitch?

Gangster tried to prepare for the shock of it, but it hadn’t truly sunk in until he saw JoJo enter the hangar. He had been inside the panel van with him and Kolt Raynor months ago, bumpered up outside the cemetery on the outskirts of Afrin, Syria, and witness to Raynor’s cold-blooded execution of the Barrel Bomb Butcher. Now, looking back, Gangster knew his instincts about letting Kolt tag along were pretty much right. Had Raynor not been there, Gangster knew he might still be riding high as Noble Zero-One, still the top runner to replace Colonel Webber one day as the commander of all of Delta Force.

JoJo spotted Gangster and made a beeline for him.

“Great to see you, sir,” he said.

Gangster made light of the delay with his former men as he shook their hands. But the elephant in the room was still chomping, taking chunks of his ass. Their use of “sir” was very telling, and he hoped like hell nobody else in the hangar had really noticed. Squadron commanders, the respected ones anyway, are addressed as “boss” by their operators, with the more formal “sir” reserved only for officers not in Delta, or the ones they didn’t think should be. It was a significant community slight, not intentionally insulting, but also not lost on Gangster.

“You guys, too,” Gangster said, offering them a smile.
I’ll be back on top, just you wait and see
. “Was beginning to think you guys landed in Japan or something.”

EIGHTEEN

Right on JoJo’s ass, Kolt closed the door behind him, giving the handle a slight tug to ensure it held secure. He turned and scoped out the hangar. Even though outside smelled like a fish hatchery, the setup somewhat impressed him. He noticed the black plastic tarps covering the windows, trapping the sheltered odor of the place, maybe filtering the raw-seafood aroma and keeping it from clinging to the hangar walls.

Kolt now understood why they were unable to see any artificial light escaping from the hangar as they drove up in the orange KOREX trucks. Lights on in an abandoned hangar, or any safe house for that matter, could potentially compromise the mission should a local South Korean out for a late-night stroll pay any attention.

Kolt heard Gangster before he saw him in the small crowd. “Major Raynor, we’re in a hurry.”

Yeah, good to see you too, Gangster.

Kolt picked up on the sarcasm quick, but ignored the dig on his rank, the “major” part, knowing Gangster was making a point that he, as a lieutenant colonel, outranked his replacement as Noble Squadron commander.

For years now, Gangster had gone out of his way to trigger Kolt’s rage. It was well before Kolt had been loaded on the black Chinook and disgracefully booted from the Unit after he had ignored his commander’s orders. That was a decision that resulted in several dead mates and 160th special aviation operators, not to mention the capture of several others.

Kolt wondered if his work ethic was the issue; maybe it was Kolt’s success, or maybe it was Kolt’s luck. Probably all of the above. And if Gangster had any clue, he would know Kolt Raynor gave no fucks about rank.

Kolt walked toward the tables where a small group of men stood, several dressed in civilian clothes to conceal the U.S. military presence as much as possible. South Korea was a permissive environment if there ever was one, but they had learned long ago to respect operational security regardless of the area of operations.

Kolt locked on Gangster, backlit by one of the few major light sources inside the hangar, one of the laptop screens. He noticed Gangster, still with his Oakleys up on his thick hair, first nod, then smile and pat JoJo on the back. He did likewise with Digger.

Holy shit! Is that who I think it is?

Kolt had to blink a few times as he focused on the facial features of the light-skinned black man standing in the crowd. The four- or five-inch Afro was a little out of character, at least for the guy he thought he was looking at. But the cane, yes, the cane was a dead giveaway.

Motherfucking CIA man Myron Curtis!

“I thought we did everything in Cairo we could to make sure you lost that bum leg?” Kolt said, smiling and walking directly to Myron Curtis. “We must be going to the bench early, huh?”

“Racer, I guess we are desperate,” Curtis replied, showing everyone in the hangar he was willing to give as good as he got. “I think I made a promise that I’d shove this cane up your ass if I ever saw you again.”

Kolt laughed and shook Curtis’s hand before stepping in for a pretty natural man hug.

“I guess you two know each other.” Gangster was obviously a little annoyed that Kolt Raynor was already taking center stage. “Let’s get done briefing Tomlinson before you guys go off into a corner.”

“Yeah, no problem, Gangster,” Kolt said, respectful of Gangster’s position as the JSOC lead on the ground. “Curtis and I spent some time together in Libya and Cairo, good ops.”