Full Assault Mode (27 page)

“Really good to see you, Hawk,” Kolt said, figuring it was Troy wondering where she was. “I appreciate your time.”

“No problem, Kolt. Good luck at school—and please, please stay in touch. You’ve got my number, and I still have yours. Don’t be a stranger,” Cindy said as she stood, gave Kolt a short hug, and wheeled around on her high heels.

*   *   *

When Cindy Bird drove up looking for the Brueggers Café sign, she wasn’t the only one interested in where Kolt Rayor was. No, Farooq had handed him the new cell phone last night not simply to make it easier to communicate between the two parties. Yes, that was certainly part of it, but the phone’s tracking ability through GPS technology was the real motive.

It worked.

Abdul had made several passes driving the three of them around in his used blue Honda Civic as Farooq, sitting in the passenger’s seat, corrected him at every turn, constantly shifting his eyes from the phone to the direction of the convenient outdoor tables at Brueggers Café.

Within the last five minutes, Abdul had erratically crossed from one lane to the next, practically rear-ended an elderly infidel, and banged a U-turn within hearing distance of Brueggers. Farooq was not impressed—in fact, he was losing patience with Abdul, now understanding why Nadal the Romanian had micromanaged him from Sana’a.

“Stop the vehicle over there,” Farooq said to Abdul, after deciding they would attract less attention from the authorities if their vehicle was not moving.

Abdul pulled the Honda into an empty spot in a fairly sparse parking lot for a lunchtime crowd. The shadows of the trees reached just past the vehicle trunk, offering them a comfortable hiding place.

Farooq turned around and looked past the bandaged Joma in the backseat and through the rear window, ensuring he still had line of sight on the couple at the outdoor table. Several waist-high bushes masked part of the view, but they had a decent picture of everything from the green umbrella down to the man’s and woman’s shoulder blades.

It had been a long day already for the three terrorists.

They had decided late last night, soon after stopping the bleeding above Joma’s eye, that Timothy was not being forthright and magnanimous. They felt he was wavering, likely changing his mind, and, worse, possibly considering going to the authorities. Farooq reminded them all that if that happened, they would all be at risk on foreign soil, and, if caught—and Farooq certainly believed they would be caught—they faced incarceration at Gitmo, where they would waste away like the rest of the mujahideen.

Farooq wasn’t about to let history get away with that. No, his dreams of supermartyrdom were stronger than ever. Nothing would stop him from
his
mission. And, as much as Farooq didn’t care to admit it, he needed Timothy Reston much more than Timothy needed them.

Earlier that morning, they had driven to Timothy’s house, but with nowhere to park to discreetly observe when Timothy came and went, and no sign of his vehicle, they decided to locate him through the cell phone they gave him.

“That was not that difficult, brothers,” Joma said from the backseat.

“No,” Farooq agreed.

“They must be holding hands,” Abdul said, viewing the couple at the table through his rearview mirror. “Most assured that is Timothy’s wife.”

“I didn’t know he was married,” Joma said. “A girlfriend, perhaps?”

“Whoever she is, we should detain her. That will make Timothy talk, provide us what we need to plan a suitable attack,” Farooq said. “If we have his wife, Allah willing, he will not be so openmouthed with the authorities.”

“Are you sure, Farooq?” Abdul said. “That can be very dangerous.”

“We take her, or we must kill Timothy,” Farooq said.

“Yes, we must be careful,” Joma added. “But Farooq speaks the truth. We must have some leverage on Timothy, or we will not succeed.”

Farooq, sensing an immediate ally in Joma, pounced on the opportunity. “It is decided, brothers.”

Just then, Joma spoke up. “The woman has left. She must be walking to her car.”

“Don’t lose her. Keep an eye on her,” Farooq demanded.

They watched as the woman walked from the outdoor tables, around the corner of the building, crossed several lanes of parked vehicles, and reached a metallic-gray Volkswagen Beetle.

“What should we do?” Abdul asked.

They hadn’t planned to roll up a woman today, or any day for that matter. That was never part of the plan. But Murphy, being an indiscriminate problem maker, reared his ugly head equally for the good as well as for the bad guys. Farooq bounced in his seat slightly, trying to maintain a visual on the woman. She had yet to enter the car, was still standing outside, talking on her cell phone.

“We must act!” Farooq said.

“How so, brother?”

“Abdul, drive over there, slowly,” Farooq said, trying to develop a high-risk plan on the fly. “And Joma, when we get there, you will step out and grab her, put your knife to her throat, but keep her quiet.”

Abdul turned the key and backed out as Farooq had ordered. Farooq could see he was extremely nervous by the death grip on the steering wheel, his rocking back and forth, and his low voice, reciting a passage from the Koran.

“Relax, my brother. Allah is with us.”

*   *   *

The last time Kolt Raynor had talked to Cindy Bird, he had called her from the table at Brueggers to tell her she had left her purse. Kolt knew she wouldn’t get far, as he assumed the purse she had left hanging on the chair contained all her identification, her money, her makeup, and the keys to her Beetle. She had thanked him, apologized for being such an airhead, and, chalking it up to a busy week, was on her way back to retrieve it.

But after waiting for another ten minutes, Kolt called her back.

This time it wasn’t Hawk that answered, and what they were demanding shocked the shit out of him.

“OK, OK, brother Farooq,” Kolt said, trying to remain calm as he paced the sidewalk outside the café. “I understand. But, please, don’t hurt her.” Even though Kolt was calm, he was extremely nervous and felt guilty as hell for getting Hawk involved in this operation. It wasn’t supposed to go down that way.

Just a quick drink and some face time. That’s it.

“Do not underestimate our faith, brother Timothy,” Farooq said. “I assure you, we will not hesitate to sacrifice the female’s head in the name of Allah the merciful.”

“She has nothing to do with this,” Kolt said. “She knows nothing of my problems. Knows nothing about my relationship to you or our plans.”

Kolt was torn between spilling the beans and confessing that he wasn’t the real Timothy and pleading to release his wife. How could he admit to the deception? Even if they believed him, they certainly wouldn’t just drop Cindy Bird off at the next bus station and wish her well on her way. No, they would kill her, likely videotaping it for the world stage while they lobbed her head clean off.

Moreover, killing Hawk wouldn’t help stop Nadal the Romanian, who everyone believed was in the final stages of an attack on another commercial power plant. Most believed the Cernavoda nuclear plant in Romania, his hometown, but others, including Kolt, believed that chatter was more a diversion than reality. They believed Romania was not the target but that another, undisclosed plant in the United States was.

“That is unfortunate, Timothy,” Farooq replied. “If she holds no value to you, than we can rid you of your problem in short order.”

“No, no, Farooq. That is not what I am saying,” Kolt said, raising his voice. “I love her, OK. I love her a lot. All I am saying is, I need time. Time to research the answers to your questions. Please, you have to trust me.”

Kolt waited for a response. Nothing. He wondered if he had dropped the call, maybe not noticing as motorists sped by him on the sidewalk. He looked at the phone’s face, palming one hand over the phone’s screen to shield the sun. It appeared OK.

“Farooq, Farooq,” Kolt said. “I just need time, maybe a week, and we will have what we need.”

Farooq spoke calmly, pronouncing each word with clarity and emphasis. “You have seventy-two hours, or we will slaughter your infidel woman like the dirty swine she is.”

Immediately, Kolt heard the call drop.

With those last words, Kolt knew he had few options and very little time.

He ran the numbers quickly as he headed for his truck. He knew he couldn’t alert the FBI, even though that just might put a stop to the Cherokee attack. But if he did that, he would certainly compromise Tungsten and doom Hawk to a violent death, Farooq’s cell might go to ground, and the Romanian cell would likely never be located.

Kolt knew there was at least one other cell planning an attack and that Nadal the Romanian was still out there, possibly planning a simultaneous hit on a different power plant. With Hawk’s nuke lesson at the outdoor café, he figured he had enough information on how a power plant operates to come up with a suitable plan that Farooq and the others could live with. But that was before the threatening phone conversation with Farooq.

Now that Hawk’s ass was seriously on the line, Kolt realized he didn’t know shit about the finer details about how a commercial nuclear power plant operates. To request an immediate meeting with Farooq now would be useless at best and would get him and Hawk killed at worst.

Those motherfuckers!

Even with his initial success infiltrating the terror cell as Timothy, Kolt wasn’t entirely sure about Tungsten. After he read about the general concept back in Doc Johnson’s just a few weeks ago, it took him some time to think it over. He didn’t know anyone who had actually gone into the program, so he couldn’t get the scoop on the deal before he signed on. He assumed there were others, though. He was torn between retiring and taking on the Tungsten gig. Attending advanced military schooling was out.

Tungsten wasn’t Delta, but it was close, which made his mind up. Leaving the ranks of Delta is always one of the toughest choices a Delta operator has to make, but one every operator must face eventually. At least this time he wasn’t getting the boot, he wasn’t PNGed, persona non grata, and, who knows, he figured there might be room in Delta once Admiral Mason moved on.

Above all, though, after over a decade in Delta, what made Kolt most attractive to the secret brain trusts behind Tungsten was his natural impetuousness. Kolt took risks—a character trait Doc Johnson witnessed for so long—all but ensuring his future in Tungsten. Kolt Raynor was hardwired for Tungsten. He couldn’t say no. And they knew it.

But right now he needed something quick. He needed information. Something he could give Farooq to ease the terrorists’ suspicions that he wasn’t dedicated, that he wasn’t a truly violent insider with a major axe to grind. Cindy Bird had been helpful, but it was limited. She could only speak in general terms about commercial nuclear plants. It was better than nothing, for sure, but Kolt needed details about Cherokee, or Cindy Bird was soon to be headless. And only one person could provide that information. The real Timothy.

NINETEEN

Cherokee Power Plant, Gaffney, South Carolina

Kolt arrived at 0900 hours sharp, amazed that Carlos was able to pull it off in less than two days’ time. Tomorrow, Kolt would be meeting Farooq and his brothers again. Seventy-two hours would be up, and Kolt would provide the information they demanded or he would never see Hawk alive again.

Carlos had used every bit of access he had developed over the past thirty-eight years to work the particulars to get Embed 0706 access to Timothy Reston at Cherokee. Masquerading as a weapons dealer who wanted to provide the plant a great deal on the latest .50 caliber Barrett rifles was the perfect pull-out-of-your-ass cover for action. It was the kind of challenge tailor-made for Carlos Menendez II, and even though he and Kolt both knew it wasn’t perfect, it was certainly doable.

Cherokee’s senior access officer, Mr. Timothy Reston, was waiting for him at the main checkpoint, a small whitewashed building with a baby-blue awning that marked the boundary of the plant’s property line, where employees and visitors were required to present their picture ID. Kolt’s first impression of Reston wasn’t a good one. The man was easily forty pounds overweight and wheezed as he walked up to Kolt and shook his hand through the open car window.

“Were you in the service?” Reston asked. His smile was big and bright.

Kolt played it low-key. “First Gulf War. I was a weapons tech working mostly on small arms. Closest I got to combat was when a Scud missile landed seven miles away from us. Scared the hell out of me.”

Reston’s chubby face lost its smile. “Oh. I thought maybe you were a sniper or something.”

“I knew some,” Kolt said, realizing he’d better not play it too low-key. “Did a lot of work on their rifles. Talk about your anal-retentive types.”

Reston’s smile returned. “I’d love to hear about it.”

Kolt and Timothy spent the next few hours talking about various sniper rifles and long-distance shooting. Kolt was surprised at how much the man knew, although it was clear he’d never been in the field. As they talked and walked, Kolt noticed that Reston’s coworkers seemed to be going out of their way to avoid him.

During their conversation, Kolt got his eyes on the target. The doctrinal military term for his visit this morning, if anybody believed Unit members followed any specific doctrine, was that Kolt was conducting a leader’s reconnaissance. Kolt wanted to see for himself what the target looked like before he committed his men to action. In this case, Farooq’s men. Though it felt wrong in so many ways, Kolt needed the reconnaissance even though it was for a terrorist attack he was going to be part of. It was a simple pet peeve of his and one he rarely felt comfortable doing without.

Enjoying their first cup of coffee together inside Timothy’s cramped office, Kolt noticed a picture on the desk near Timothy’s computer. Kolt pounced on the opportunity to break the ice a little and move away from sniping. Kolt commented on how gorgeous the snow was, actually more impressed by the beautiful brunette in the yellow North Face jacket and Oakley goggles.