One Killer Force: A Delta Force Novel (35 page)
“Uhhhhh … say again last?” CW3 Stew Weeks, the Night Stalker air mission commander requested from the bubble cockpit only a few feet from Kolt. Weeks’s tone revealed he wasn’t all that fired up about Kolt’s last directive, certainly because he had no idea what the flight conditions were at the JSA or how hot the landing zone might be. Without understanding a multitude of factors, like airspeed, temperature, and density altitude, the customer was asking for a high-fidelity maneuver with a dozen potential problems.
“I say again,” Kolt said, pausing a moment after he keyed his hand mike, “put us on the X, directly east of the center blue building.”
Kolt looked at the GRG on his left forearm showing a color satellite photo of Hawk’s original meeting spot. He pulled a red pencil crayon from his vest, steadied his left forearm against the headwind, and drew an X exactly where he’d last seen Hawk on her back, with several North Korean soldiers only a few feet away. He slid the quarterback armband over his gloved left hand, leaned forward on the pod, and shoved it into the doorless cockpit, far enough to touch Weeks’s left shoulder, just above the subdued American flag.
Weeks tilted his head down, his eyes hidden behind the smoke-colored face shield. Kolt figured he saw the GRG and probably the red X, by the shake of his head.
“Doubt I can clear the roof lines,” Weeks transmitted over Helo common.
Kolt grabbed his push-to-talk. “Just get us close, Stew. Put two on the north side, buzz them as if on a VI,” he said, referencing a vertical interdiction. “Keep one in overwatch.”
“Um, roger,” Weeks said, pausing for a few seconds, letting Kolt know he wasn’t entirely buying the hasty plan.
Kolt figured not only was Weeks hesitant about the X location, but asking him, the air mission commander, to put his other chalks, Breaker Four-Two, Four-Three, and Four-Four, into North Korea as if they were executing a vertical vehicle interdiction was off-the-charts suicidal. A moving vehicle was easy, they had standard procedures for those type of interdictions. What Kolt was asking for was anything but standard.
A few seconds later, Kolt and anyone else monitoring Helo Common heard the call.
“This is Breaker Four-One, I’m leading to the X. Four-Two bank wide right off me, then swing around from the east and buzz the blue buildings on the north side, break.”
Kolt heard Weeks unkey his mike, hearing an audible click, then rekey to talk. “Four-Three follow Two, Four-Four aerial support. Standard offset VI formation for the customer.”
As Kolt heard each pilot acknowledge the play he let out some air, and turned his MBITR radio back to his assault net.
“All elements, this is Noble Zero-One,” Kolt said, knowing now was not the time for comms problems. “Eagle down between the blue buildings. I’ve got the SA so I’ve got the X, everyone else is buzzing the north side but staying airborne.”
Kolt knew the order he’d just given his operators, arguably just as crazy of a command as he had issued in Ukraine about the Spetsnaz uniforms, at least one that meant anything, had to raise some eyebrows underneath the Ops-Core helmets and Oakleys on the other three birds. Kolt got it. He was a squadron commander now. His focus should be big-picture stuff, working external assets and friendly units, and coordinating contingencies. His days as Mike One-One, those glory years running as a troop commander, were long gone. Every member of Noble Squadron knew Kolt Raynor was the last guy that should be at the center of the X. Even Kolt knew it, which is why Kolt added the
SA
part to his last transmission, letting his men know that with the SpyLite feed, his helo had the only situational awareness of Hawk’s exact location.
From the other side of the Breaker Four-One, Slapshot broke in. “We going in dirty, boss?”
Hawk’s fight-or-flight senses immediately drove her back to a knee, but the shock held her like a straitjacket, preventing her from running. She ran the options.
Run for it or give it up? Maybe I can hold true to my cover?
Hawk knew she wasn’t hard compromised. She was absolutely sure her name tag, written in Hangul, said Carrie Tomlinson, Swedish delegation, not Cindy Bird, wannabe operator from the U.S. Army Delta Force. Sure, she had just been busted in the men’s room, escorted out of the meeting. Had she left things alone then, she might have been directed back to the MDL without any more concern. The North Korean delegation, hell the South Korean delegation, would surely register a formal complaint about the actions of a female member of the Swedish delegation. Yes, a slap on the wrist, but manageable. But muscling the three North Korean guards before throwing things at their fellow thugs dragging a traitor to some vehicles only fed the shitstorm, definitely meeting the guards’ threshold to draw their weapons and drop the hammers.
Hawk looked at her shoulder, her blouse now crimson red, blood oozing between her fingers as she held direct pressure. It wasn’t a through and through, this she was certain of. She tried to slip her cell into her pants pocket several times before remembering her wardrobe disadvantage. She quickly slipped it into her skin-hugging black bra, down to the nipple, hoping her firm 34Cs would keep it secure.
Stand up slowly, Hawk, don’t push it.
That was it, she had thought enough, and decided in an instant caution was the better part of valor. She did her job, Seamstress was tagged. She had seen the third Q dot find its mark, impacting directly between the shoulder blades of the back of Seamstress’s ruffled black suit coat. She had saved another game from the warning track, gunning down that runner on third barreling toward home plate in the bottom of the ninth.
No, now was not the time to let perfect be the enemy of good enough. She’d end it now, raise her hands in surrender, and prepare to stay in the circle.
Hawk looked back toward the Freedom House. A flash of movement drew her.
About time!
Several South Korean soldiers had slipped into firing positions at the top of the marble stairs. Their black domes were barely peeking over the concrete benches and flowerpots, every bit the “Kilroy was here” impression. She didn’t spot any long guns, but their drawn pistols were encouraging enough. Waving at others unseen by Hawk was all the better.
Hawk heard a faint buzzing sound, as if a swarm of killer bees had just joined the party. Though she was initially unable to place it, the sound registered as a remote-controlled drone. She looked up, but the overhanging corrugated rooflines of the two buildings blocked much of her vision of the sky.
She swiveled her head back toward North Korea, running her eyes up the marble stairs of North Korea’s version of the ROK Freedom House. At the top of the stairs, uniformed North Korean troops were busting out of Panmon Hall’s two wooden front double doors, two at a time.
What about the RRDs?
In an instant, Hawk realized surrendering wouldn’t work. They’d find the RRDs on Seamstress. They’d put two and two together. Practicing her peacetime detention techniques briefed well, until her unimpressed interrogators shoved the RRDs in front of her face. Playing her cover until she was blue in the face or not, she was guilty of espionage, pure and simple. And, once that was decided, she’d lose her head before POTUS pulled enough diplomatic rabbit tricks to secure her release.
Back at Fort Bragg, shitting herself in the Black Ice box had lasted only seventy-two hours. Nadal the Romanian’s henchmen had their way with her for a month inside a forgotten bedbug-infested hooker’s motel. No, isolation wasn’t all the rage these days, and in an instant, she decided she wasn’t going there again.
Okay, Cindy Bird, potential Delta operator, you’re trained how to think, not what to think.
Hawk released her wounded deltoid and dug her bloody thirty-five-dollar fingernails into the sand. She raked out a handful, and pivoted on her knee.
Don’t miss!
Hugging the building, Hawk threw the sand through the broken window, the bulk of it flying center mass between the light blue curtains. Enough of the sand grains found the eyes of the two North Korean soldiers and they flinched, one squeezing off another round that blew past Hawk’s Bluetooth, missing her locks by a gnat’s ass before ricocheting off the steel grating covering the concrete gutter on the opposite side of the open area.
Hawk broke for the concrete pad of the MDL. Immediately, broken glass sliced into her left heel, then into the ball of her right foot.
Just three, maybe two more steps from the gravel side, bullets stitched the sand around her feet. But one found its mark, striking her in the left calf, her forward momentum carrying her across the line and sending her barreling face-first, like Pete Rose in his peak years, into the gravel.
The hard impact bounced the Bluetooth from her ear and threatened to knock her unconscious. She slowly rolled to her back. Blood ran down her forehead from underneath her blond bangs, blurring both eyes. Blinking rapidly to clear her vision, she fought to stay conscious as she stared into the clear blue sky. Shaking her head, unable to focus on anything in particular, she barely made out a small white plane, very small, like the hobby toys she thought of earlier, buzz the two buildings only fifteen or so feet off the ground directly above her.
Hawk felt the hands of two North Korean soldiers clamp to her ankles. She tried to kick free but the grips were viselike. They began shuffling backward, dragging her back across the line, into the North Korean sand. Hawk dug her hands into the gravel, but unable to hold purchase, she was at the mercy of the two stronger men.
She struggled, determined not to go easy, and tried to roll left, then right, hoping to break their grip. Hawk felt them yank hard on both legs as if they timed it perfectly. Her head slammed into the concrete curb’s corner edge on the gravel side. She felt for the wound. Broken skin. A deep gash.
That’s it. I’m done!
* * *
Breaker Four-One dove from its approach altitude like a monster roller coaster cresting the scary apex, the part of the track where it feels as if someone just ripped your heart from your chest. Leading the four-ship formation, Kolt’s helo hugged the ground as it maneuvered NASCAR fast just over the rotor wash–beaten trees.
The midday sun cast a menacing shadow on the yielding poplars, pines, and happy mounds below, clearly outlining the Killer Bee’s bubbled cockpit and tail boom as it sped to the target area. The distinct smell of human waste and muddy water filling the foot-deep rice paddies laid out in the fertile soil as far as the eye could see reminded Kolt of a string of portable shitters serviced by a battalion of marines in Kandahar.
By the angle, Kolt could make out the dangling lower legs of the two operators on the opposite side pods, Slapshot in the front with his ankles characteristically crossed and straddling the pod like a mechanical bull. Behind him, sitting sidesaddle, Kolt knew, was Master Breacher Digger. He wasn’t tough to spot, as the shadow of his narrow titanium prosthesis contrasted with the human form of his left calf.
Kolt turned back around and looked off in the distance past the thick poplar trees . Maybe a klick away at his nine o’clock, Kolt spotted where he knew the 72-Hour Bridge sat, the hallowed ground notorious for the ax murders of 1976. That incident was the impetus for the concrete pad between the blue buildings and the enforcement of the dividing line.
Now looking back in the direction of flight, Kolt spotted the large three-story Peace Hall, and farther, maybe another two hundred feet distant, the unique oriental-flavored roofline of the larger Freedom House. The highly buffed and polished concrete walls and custom glass windows in each were the pride and joy of South Korea and were considered engineering marvels. Not much had changed since he had visited the JSA many years ago.
Kolt reached up for the coiled black radio cable, traced his gloved fingers upward, feeling the connection between his MBITR and the electrical communications port embedded inside his SWAT black M50 protective mask. He pushed the male lead in again, expecting to take up the slack, but pleased the connection was solid. Communicating from under a gas mask, particularly if your audio amplifier was spotty, or cable connection loose, made for a cluster fuck on target.
Kolt thumb-pressed the mike, felt the marble-size voice meter with his lips, and spoke into the mini microphone. He knew it would be a miracle if all sixteen Noble Squadron members would clearly hear his call.
“We’re here to grab Hawk, nothing else. MAULs only, stay on the pods, nobody get off.”
Leading the formation of four MH-6M Little Birds, Kolt’s chalk had a clear view of the manicured sunken garden, a sea of blue-and-white tourist buses, and the large odd-shaped monuments below, whipping past them as they approached the target like a strong side linebacker with the perfect angle. Weeks maneuvered the lead in behind the south side of the Freedom House, and Kolt knew he was banking the three-story building would mask their approach as long as possible. Kolt tapped his Salomon assault boots together several times, pushing blood flow and ensuring his feet hadn’t fallen asleep.
Kolt turned around, looked to his six, past his hooked-in squadron communicator JoJo, and watched chalks two, three, and four pull hard right out of the staggered trail right formation, disappearing one at a time from his view, posturing for the aerial flanking maneuver.
Stop processing and start operating.
Kolt turned his HK over, two-fingered the charging handle, pulled it back a half inch or so, and eyeballed the ejection port.
Brass, check, weapon hot.
Kolt prayed he wouldn’t need it. A gunfight with North Korean guards was to be avoided at all costs. Hawk throwing shit at North Korean officials to protest human rights abuses was one thing, but buzzing the MDL with weapons fire was a definite precursor to World War III.
Lock and loading was the norm, he knew his squadron’s weapons were hot, but he also knew they would follow the rules of engagement and use the less-than-lethal munitions. Personally, though, Kolt wasn’t interested in another mental mistake like the brain fart he’d had on the Barrel Bomb Butcher hit in Syria, and unless the North Koreans made it hard, he wouldn’t be slinging brass.