RW11 - Violence of Action (13 page)

“Where’s my fucking gear?” At my question, all activity in the makeshift war room came to a momentary stop and umpteen pairs of curious eyes swiveled toward me. Guess I sounded a little energized. After what happened with Karras and then my chats with Karen and Paul, I was itching to get this party started. I needed to gear up, gun up, and get briefed as soon as possible. We had a plane to catch.

Danny jerked a thumb toward a pile of shit on the floor at the far end of the room. “Change of clothes, tac-gear, vest, MP-5, ammo, and assorted other necessary bullshit waiting on you. Courtesy of OISA’s supply geek and the dudes over at HRT.”

“You know I don’t wear a fucking bulletproof vest,” I growled at Danny while making my way past him.

“Dick, on this trip we all better be wearing vests. The fuckers we’re going up against are mean as rattlesnakes. Just ask those guys from NEST who met up with them this morning.”

“And while you’re at it ask those dead motherfuckers at NEST how good their vests worked when Nemesis hit ‘em! I’ll bring mine along as a pillow for the plane ride. You wanna wear the fucking things it’s okay by me. I’ll trust in getting there with the most lead on target fastest.”

Laughter rippled throughout the room. For the first time since leaving the Manor I felt at ease. I was back in
my
fucking environment. Danny Barrett was taking up half the room while adjusting a new Safariland thigh holster custom made for his .41 Magnum. He gave me a thumbs-up and then the bird when I caught his eye. Trace, cleaned up and dressed down in all black, was talking with one of the intel geeks. The Kimber rode low in a tactical rig from John Carver out at Eagle Industries. I knew John and his work from my days at SIX. He is the prince of high-speed low-drag CT equipment and as honest a man as anyone could do business with. Paul, an HRT 10-mm MP-5 in his mitts, was finishing a function check of his weapon. Each of my operators always checked and rechecked his or her own gear before a mission. We loaded our own magazines, and chambered our own rounds. Nothing was left to chance, error, or some other guy. Like packing a HALO ’chute…if you fucked up, you fucked up on your own.

I pulled out a chair and grabbed my subgun off the floor. There were ten magazines for it, and ten boxes of ammunition at fifty per box. I had another four boxes of 9-mm for my Glock, and a new .32-caliber KelTec pocket pistol with one seven-round mag to boot. This last item was my insurance policy. The little skull popper weighs less than six ounces and can be carried anywhere on the body, even on a cord around my neck. The jacketed hollow point ammunition I’d requested is specially manufactured in Texas and comes out of the barrel at over 1800 feet per second. Up close and personal it is guaranteed to ruin your day. I’d tasked Paul to get H&K 10-mm MP-5s for us. The MP-5 is easily the finest subgun made for CT work in the world and the 10-mm model is a special order item for the Secret Service, FBI, HRT, and NEST. The combination of the MP-5’s reliability and accuracy, plus the 10-mm round’s hard-hitting performance on bad guys makes for one tough combination to beat. I knew Blanchard was packing serious heat and that we would need all the firepower we could carry to match him toe-for-toe. The HRT would be my ace-in-a-hole. Surprises are my specialty, as my enemies have come to find out. “Let’s get this show on the road!” I yelled over the chattering and buzzing in the room.

Fuckers were too damn loud!

Everyone took seats. I’d asked to be briefed on three specific subjects before leaving for Oregon. It was Clay’s job to find the right brains to do the talking and I’d told him that each expert would have a maximum of five minutes to tell me what I needed to know. Putting a short fuse on this kind of shit keeps the “I’m such a smart motherfucker” posturing to a minimum. It also scares off the would-be experts and allows me to talk with no-shit professionals who don’t like their time wasted by attending long, drawn out bullshit meetings. The twenty-four-hour clock before Nemesis would detonate the nuke was ticking in my head. I also knew Blanchard held the upper hand despite our breaking Karras. The colonel could go hot any time he wanted to, and Portland was only a hypothetical target based on what we’d dragged out of my man Tony by ramming a knife into him. Our mission could end five minutes from now with a breaking story on CNN. So I settled back, began breaking open boxes of 10-mm ammo, and grabbed an empty magazine from the pile at my feet. “Who’s my expert on Portland, Oregon?” I asked.

“I am, Mr. Marcinko. Irene Kirby. Office of Homeland Defense.”

Irene appeared to be in her mid-forties. She was short, thin like a bird, and casually dressed. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back into a loose bun at the back of her head. She had a single piece of paper in her hands. I liked that. “Okay, Irene, tell us about Portland and how a nuclear bomb would affect the City of Roses.”

“Yes, sir. First, Portland is actually a small, very compact city although very modern in terms of its buildings, public services, and social attitudes. Within its 132 square miles are approximately ninety distinct neighborhoods. Resident population is about 521,000, plus another 500,000 during business hours. These are mainly workers commuting from the network of adjacent cities and towns that surround Portland like a web. All total this makes for a million-plus people on Portland’s streets on any given weekday.

“The city is located at the confluence of the Columbia River and the Willamette River. When skies are clear, Mount Hood can be seen to the east, Washington’s Mount St. Helens to the north, and the green West Hills, appropriately, to the west. The Willamette River literally splits the city in two with the high-end business district to the west and the industrial section to the east. It is crossed by eight bridges in the downtown area. International shipping is a major economic asset for the city and the Columbia is Portland’s waterway to the world.

“The city is well laid out and easy to get around. It is crossed by major freeways linking Oregon with California and Washington State, but most of the compact downtown area is accessible on foot and the city planners do everything they can to encourage pedestrian traffic. The Portland Airport is to the northeast of the city and services international air travel. The Portland Air National Guard is located there also. The Guard can provide both jet fighter and search and rescue air capabilities, if necessary.

“It’s known as a remarkably clean, friendly, tolerant city, largely spared the urban decay and unrest that plagued so many other American cities in the last several decades.

“The potential effect of a nuclear explosion on Portland and the surrounding area is not my area of expertise.” Irene set her single page of notes down, folded her hands, and stared at me with inquisitive eyes.

“Thank you, Irene. Just what I needed to know. Who here is my fucking expert on what a man-portable nuclear weapon can be expected to do to a burg like Portland?”

A sallow, thin-framed man raised his hand from the far end of the room opposite me. He was the gent Trace had been chatting with when I’d come in. The fucker looked like death warmed over and then microwaved an extra few minutes for good measure. Unlike Irene, he had no visible notes. I had to strain to hear him speak. I heard him say something about being from the NSA. Well, at least they hadn’t sent that fucking midget Carl over. “Speak up, sir,” I hollered at him. “I’m half fucking deaf!” I grabbed another magazine and began stuffing rounds down its throat.

“The device taken by Nemesis is a third-generation SADM,” wheezed Sallow Man. “It weighs thirty pounds and is encased in a silver-colored titanium case. It features a triple-lock security system and internal homing device. The homing device is not transmitting. It ceased to transmit at the site where our NEST personnel were attacked.”

“How big a fucking boom will this bastard make?” I asked the Wheezer.

Adjusting himself in his chair the NSA expert coughed harshly to clear his throat. Probably a smoker, I thought to myself. Cancer sticks and weapons grade radiation. It sucks to be you. Wheezer continued. “The device is rated at three times the explosive power of the bombs dropped on Japan during the closing days of WW2. If it is positioned at the point of greatest tactical advantage, we can accurately predict, given the layout of the target city, the western portion of Portland will be immediately flattened and incinerated upon detonation. The eastern sections, those across the river, will likewise be incinerated and in all likelihood pancaked, too. Secondary damage and casualties of a massive nature will occur as buildings, automobiles, and so on are turned into lethal, high velocity fragmentation by the blast. The surrounding feeder urban areas will suffer varying degrees of destruction, damage, and death. It will be horrific.”

“Civilian casualties?” asked Trace.

“As compressed an urban environment as the city is, I estimate there will be few if any survivors in the downtown area—depending upon where the device is positioned prior to detonation. Also, the more people on the streets or in the open, the greater the casualty rate will be. Whoever chose this particular city as his target did his homework well. Because it is so compact, it’s the perfect urban setting to use such a device against, in my professional opinion.”

All eyes in the room turned toward the door as Clay Mulcahy stuck his “Mr. Clean” skull into the room. “Dick? You got ten minutes max. Flights are green light and HRT just called to say they’ve loaded in record time and are lifting off now. You’ll beat them to Portland but not by much. Their honcho tells me he’s stripped the hell out of their standard deployment package and the plane is cleared direct across the country, like yours. Oregon National Guard HAZMAT will be at the Air Guard base outside Portland when HRT touches down. They’re gearing up now.”

Well, I thought to myself, things are finally fucking starting to come together. If only Blanchard stays on the predicted schedule, we might enjoy half a fucking chance at pulling the missing nuclear rabbit outta the hat. “We’ll be on our way down in five mikes. Have the cars ready to receive paks. And Clay, thanks.”

Mulcahy paused and give me a piercing look. I knew he was pissed about having to clean up after me, but loyal to Karen and the president and so would protect them at all costs. But I also knew he was in my corner to the degree he could be. If anyone understood where we were going and what the most probable outcome was going to be, it was Clay. Demo Dick Marcinko and Company were flying into what very likely would soon become a nuclear blast site. If I missed getting to Colonel Max and his band of merry motherfuckers before they detonated the SADM, that would be all she wrote. At least Mulcahy wouldn’t have to bury my nasty ass next to wherever he’d dumped Tony K. I’d be a crispy critter, courtesy of Uncle Sam’s tactical nuclear arsenal.

“Just get the job done, Marcinko.” And he was gone without as much as a “fuck you very much.” Well, I’ve got plenty of fans these days. Maybe I’d send Clay an autographed book from the Portland Airport gift shop
if
me and the crew were able to nix Nemesis before they toasted the city. If Clay didn’t want to read it he could always shove it up his ass. You can find a use for anything if you try hard enough.

“Okay, so who’s here to tell me why Colonel Max Blanchard wants to dry-hump the prettiest little city in Oregon for
Yahweh?”

“I am, Commander.”

I slowly turned my head to the left where the last speaker had been sitting quietly not an arm’s length away from me. I’d noticed him when I’d sat down and begun digging through my go-to-war shit. I put him in his mid-thirties. He was blond with carefully combed hair and deep blue eyes. He was fit, that much was evident by both the cut of his suit and the leanness of his frame. German stock, I figured. An Aryan motherfucker with roots in the Old Country. He and Paul could have been brothers in the fucking Von Trapp family. “And who might you be, sir?”

A slight smile creased the man’s chiseled features. “Larry Monson. I’m a contract intelligence collector and analyst for a number of federal agencies, some represented in this room. I specialize in the white supremacist movement.”

“So you know who this Blanchard character is and why he’s got a hard-on for anybody a shade darker than lily-white?”

Monson laughed. “Fuck, sir. There’s been any number of crazy Green Berets—officer and enlisted—who’ve participated in the Movement. Yes, to answer your question, I know something about Colonel Blanchard. Unfortunately not enough soon enough to have prevented what we’re dealing with now.”

“Correction,
Larry
. What
I’m
dealing with now. Because you fucked up I got called in. And I only get a ticket to ride when the situation is FUBAR. I’m on short numbers here, Mr. Monson. How about I ask the questions and you puke the answers out for me?”

“It’s your nickel, Commander. Just make sure you ask the right questions. If you fuck up in Oregon and get roasted along with your crew it’ll be because you asked the wrong questions.”

Cocksucker! But I like that in a man. Well, not
that
per se. Balls. I like a man with balls. FUCK! That’s not right, either. Let’s figure you know what I mean and leave it at that.

“Why nuke little old Portland, Oregon? Why not New York, Chicago, L.A., or even San Francisco?”

Monson sat back and tamped a well-worked briar pipe with a long, nicotine-stained finger. He looked around the room to make sure he had our attention before answering me. He was an operator. That much was now evident. I sensed he’d done more than read books and attend weekend seminars on OKC, Waco, and Ruby Ridge. This guy was paid by direct deposit and handled through cutouts whenever possible. He was a nongovernmental organization asset, or NGOA. A civilian spook. I wondered why it was he got his kicks hanging out with born-and-bred American terrorists. Guess it takes all kinds.