Full Assault Mode (24 page)

“Very committed, sir,” Kolt said, leaning forward in the leather chair. “Hell, I counted it up the other day. I’ve spent forty-seven months in Afghanistan since 9/11. I speak Pashto better than I do English these days. But my time around here is over. It’s time to go to school or go to the house.”

Doc showed no emotion on his face. Kolt paused for a moment and, sensing the uneasiness, slid a few inches back into the chair and brought his fingertips together in front of him.

“Besides, it’s not like I’m leaving the unit in a positive manner,” Kolt said, referring to the 15-6 investigation. Doc didn’t respond.

“Whatever happened with the removal of your tattoo?” Doc asked. “Why didn’t you commit to completing that simple mission?”

Catching on quickly, Kolt resisted the urge to reply with something wiseass. He understood the seriousness of Doc’s accusation. “Uh, fair enough, sir.” Kolt sighed while nodding his head. “After 9/11, it didn’t seem as important as it once was.”

Kolt locked eyes for a second but then looked away toward the window.

“It’s not a matter of importance over commitment, Major Raynor,” Doc said, almost like a Little League coach during a pregame pep talk. “Quite the opposite. Seeing things through to the end is one of the most important characteristics of the men and women that walk these halls.”

One of the traditional requirements in Delta was to have all identifying tattoos removed. It was necessary to protect their identity should they be rolled up by hostile security forces in some third world shithole. The tattoo removal process was lengthy, requiring a half-dozen laser procedures to literally suck the ink out of the body, allow the area to scab over, and then let the skin heal over with a new layer. It wasn’t without a little pain, either. In the end, if done correctly, the procedure left no sign or scar.

However, like most everything else that required lengthy commitment, the events of 9/11 bumped many of those niceties down the priority list. So, when al Qaeda struck the World Trade Center, Kolt’s aged and odd-shaped Black Panther was a procedure or two from disappearing entirely. A faint and forgotten jungle killer still ruled his right shoulder.

“I assume you are interested in being considered by the SMU board for squadron command selection? Doc asked.

“Yes, sir,” Kolt said. “But I think that’s probably unrealistic at this stage”

“Why is that?”

“Well, a second trip on the black Chinook for one, and schooling for two, sir,” Kolt said, knowing Doc must know exactly what he meant already. “I can’t see spending a year away from the Unit with all that is going on in Africa, Syria, and Afghanistan.”

Doc reached down and opened a desk drawer, pulling out an unmarked manila folder. He removed three sheets of paper stapled together and slid it across the desk toward Kolt. Kolt turned the blank cover page out of the way to reveal the second page. In large, red, bold letters at the top and bottom, the typical classification—
TOP SECRET/SCI
—was stamped on the paper. Directly underneath it was an acronym Kolt was not familiar with:
WHDP-TUNGSTEN
.

“Take a few minutes to read this over, Kolt,” Doc said as he pushed the paper across the desk and stood up. “I’m going to grab a cup of coffee from the chow hall. Can I bring you one?”

“No, sir, I’m good. Thanks.”

*   *   *

Even though Nadal al-Romani’s return to Sana’a was short-lived, Nadal having witnessed the rubble of what was, for lack of a better term, his personal bomb factory, he was happy to leave the rainy weather behind. And after a grueling four-hour-plus drive while cramped inside Farooq’s secondhand ’76 Datsun Bulletside pickup, one of over two million cars that had entered the country illegally in the past two years, it was nice to feel the salt-saturated breeze coming off the Red Sea comb through his curly hair and ride up his baggy
salwar kameez
.

They had topped off the hasty getaway car, grabbed what little they could recover from the smoldering safe house, squeezed three in the two-door cab, and easily negotiated the Soviet-funded switchback highway built in 1961 that changed elevations as often as Farooq changed the radio station. The road from Sana’a to Al Hudaydah covered just 143 miles, allowing them to make the final turn into Hodeida International Airport on fumes and four bald tires.

Men like Nadal and Farooq, and even their terrorist brother known as Joma, who had made the road trip as well—all duplicitous and foul Muslim men—were free to walk the dirty streets of the seaport village Al Hudaydah without a worry in the world.

Known for exporting coffee, cotton, dates, and hides, the seaport village of Al Hudaydah was developed in the mid–nineteenth century by the Ottoman Turks. After two and a half centuries, one would think Yemeni officials would have figured out how to turn the place into an extraordinary revenue-building resort town. However, anyone outside Nadal’s ilk considering visiting Yemen would discover the place was a hive of terrorism, kidnappings, and bombings.

Yemen does have its booming industry; it’s just mostly illegal.

Nadal remained behind in Yemen to tidy up their affairs and coordinate the final specifics for their spectacular attack on U.S. soil. An attack he put his full faith and confidence in Farooq and Joma to undertake. An attack he felt entirely confident in, even though their special equipment had gone up in smoke.

After he performed
Salatul Fajr,
the early morning prayer, Nadal took in a small meal of
ogdat,
a stew mixing small pieces of fish and vegetables, at a small waterfront walk-in before crossing the coastal highway, Route 60, and hoofing it to the Internet café near Al Tahreer Park. Very soon, his cell phone should be ringing, on schedule, as he had directed Farooq just before watching his brothers successfully clear customs inside the airport.

Until twenty-three minutes ago, he had been confident that all was in order. Short of the setback a few days ago when Yemeni security forces stormed their safe house, martyring themselves in the process and taking his masterpieces of body-cavity IEDs, model-airplane bombs, and makeshift microwave-denial systems up in smoke with them, by the grace of Allah, things were clicking along just fine.

Having recovered sufficiently from the shock of what he saw on the computer screen at the café, or what he didn’t see, actually, he had retraced his steps back to the waterfront, crossing back over Route 60, and stood on the highway’s western edge, looking down into the boat boneyard, where dozens of dilapidated rainbow-colored and sand-swept wooden fishing vessels rested in the flat dunes behind a manmade seawall at Le Port de Pêche, their masts having been confiscated, likely providing shade to places like where he ate breakfast that same morning.

“Salam alaykum,”
Nadal said, after answering the phone on the first ring.

“Wa alaykum salam,”
Farooq replied. “Brother Nadal, as I predicted, Joma and I arrived without incident. It was a long journey, but I was never worried, as Allah watched over us.”

Nadal was not surprised that Farooq and Joma arrived safely, nor was he surprised that Farooq would be proud of his meticulous and professional work in forging the appropriate travel documents that allowed them to obviously breeze through U.S. customs at Dulles International Airport. Nadal understood that; they had been brothers for a long time.

“Yes, Farooq, your work was sufficient; you reached your destination without issue with the authorities,” Nadal admitted. “But the thumb drive—it is practically empty!”

“That is impossible,” Farooq said. “I watched the files download with my own eyes.”

“There must have been a problem, Farooq,” Nadal said. “Are you sure you followed my instructions exactly? Did you log in to the correct Web site and use the cell phone correctly?”

“I am not a child, Nadal,” Farooq said. ““You should not treat me as such. With Allah as my witness, I did exactly as you described, exactly how we rehearsed many times.”

“The important Scared Indian documents were not downloaded, Farooq,” Nadal said. “Only basic floor plans and several underground-drainage engineering drawings, an outage schedule, and a shift schedule for a few days in March.”

“I don’t know what to say,’ Farooq said. “I am under a lot of pressure here trying to coordinate the first attack, finding our friend Timothy, and avoiding the security police. But I cannot accept blame for the thumb drive in good conscience.”

Having made his point with Farooq, reminding himself once again how easy it was for his old university roommate to become so easily distracted from the important and necessary things like his engineering studies and his faith, he backed off. After all, Farooq was now inside the enemy’s borders, and Nadal knew his success during the first attack, no matter the fallout or death toll, was the diversion he needed to facilitate their overall strategy of striking the infidel in a manner that would make Black Tuesday look like a mile-long interstate pileup.

“What is done is done, Farooq. The seniors will not be pleased, as without benefit of a second Timothy, and without the secret target-set documents on the thumb drive, and with our special equipment destroyed, our chances have worsened a great deal.”

“I understand, brother,” Farooq said. “Allah shines on us still.”

“Yes, the most graceful does, indeed, but I will take over the planning and coordination for Scared Indian. You will put all your efforts to Cherokee.”

“Yes,” Farooq said. “I am sorry, brother. I will make you proud with what we accomplish here.”

“Allah Hafiz,”
Nadal said before pressing the
END CALL
button.

SEVENTEEN

Tungsten headquarters, Atlanta, Georgia

Sixty-two-year-old Carlos Menendez II sat comfortably in his leather-bound rocker, his tough-to-find and thus very expensive Barker Black ostrich cap-toe dress shoes propped gently on the pillow-covered coffee table to his front.

In his left hand, a sterling silver coffee mug with the CIA logo perfectly engraved on one side, filled with Jacobs Kronung finest dark roast, the wrist surrounded by a platinum and ice-blue Cosmograph Daytona Rolex. The coffee mug was a gift from his former employer, the watch a gift to himself.

In all, the Tungsten handler Menendez probably left the house wearing more money than forty-seven percent of Americans bring home in a month. It was too bad he was stuck underground most days, running his assets, or “embeds” as Tungsten classified them, immediately available to backstop a distressed operative or activate a Priority One repatriation. Yes, it was a full-time job, not unlike his previous thirty-eight years of government service, but it would be nice to surface when the sun was still up and strut his stuff in action-packed downtown Atlanta, Georgia, from time to time.

It certainly paid well, though.

Carlos thumbed one more time through the file marked 0706 in the upper-right corner of the folder. He had gone through it in fine detail a week earlier, just twenty-four hours after it arrived by secure courier, prompted by a phone call from the Delta Force commander, Colonel Jeremy Webber. A few more times looking for specific indicators in the records that might highlight a personality vulnerability or innate characteristic that would automatically deselect an operative candidate for Tungsten. And now, with about eight more minutes before he would have to exit the secret headquarters, follow a long hallway, make two turns, grab the elevator to the upper floor, walk past the Braves rolling souvenir cart, past the escalators, and take his normal and private seat in the back of Footprints Jamaican Restaurant and Lounge to order the usual, oxtail stew and brown beans, he figured he owed it to Webber to give the guy one more look. It was an exercise in futility, for sure.

Maybe the Merc department can use this guy. But as an embed? No fuckin’ way. This guy is a crackpot!

Carlos wanted to help Webber; they went way back, hustling the same women decades ago in the nation’s capital, running the same camel caravans in the Middle East, and sharing the same sleeping quarters during Desert Storm. But that was years ago, a different time, and different place.

As Carlos sipped his Kronung, he wondered if Webber would be happy enough if he sent this kid’s file straight to the guys that handle the Mercs. That’s where the very-well-paid crackpots went, the guys with absolutely no conscience, the mercenary-minded that simply enjoyed killing other human beings. They wore no identifiable patches or markings, operated in the dark of night only, and generally were on call at Tungsten’s discretion.

Both for pleasure and money, they did pretty much any off-the-books dirty work the U.S. government required of Tungsten.

The Mercs came from all walks of life but were mostly guys with a few years in the military who got out for one reason or another. A few former cops who happened to pull their issued piece one too many times, and a smattering of former agency independent contractors who tended to be a little more mature than the others. Carlos knew it was a good mix of shooters and helo pilots, and even though he often worried that the oversight was a little slack, so far they had remained under the radar and not a major ass wound to the president of the United States. Because if the lid ever blew off Tungsten’s Department of Special Services, their politically supersensitive actions revealed, a lot of heads would roll, starting with POTUS himself.

If nothing else, Carlos knew, the Mercs sure could keep a secret.

But Carlos knew he couldn’t let his personal feelings obscure his judgment. National security demanded his utmost honesty and expert intuitive ability to analyze the finer points of a potential embed’s personality, past performance, and ability to make a decision for the president of the United States. A decision that, if bad shit went down, could create an international incident that the president would have to deftly defend on the world’s stage with a teleprompter and that Carlos would have to answer for. No, it just wasn’t the embed’s reputation that was at stake, it was Carlos’s, too.