RW11 - Violence of Action (16 page)

With any luck at all, I’d be jamming its barrel down Jack’s throat in just a few minutes. Anyone on-site and in my way would get cut in half, courtesy of Dr. Remington and his four little friends from Federal. This
had
to be an easy do compared to what we’d been through earlier in the day. After all, it was just one guy and I had the best three shooters I knew on my team plus the good lads from HRT as backup.

What could possibly go wrong?

There is never a right way to do a wrong thing. At least that’s what was pounded into my head from the moment I showed up at UDTR Class 26 at the U.S. Naval Amphibious Base in Little Creek, Virginia, looking to become a Navy frogman. On the other hand, I’ve learned over the years that there’s a hundred ways to do a wrong thing with the results always coming out, well, wrong. Mistakes are more often remembered than successes. Mistakes are embarrassing and sometimes lethal; successes grow in magnitude and often become legendary war stories as more time elapses from the actual event. Mistakes, on the other hand, can
kill
. In the run and gun world of special warfare doing something wrong will get you or someone close to you zapped. That’s why throughout my career as both a frogman and a SEAL I’ve always, always made realistic, balls to-the-wall training the number one priority for those under my command. Training, good training, is the time when you are allowed to fuck up. It’s from our fuck-ups that we learn how to do it better, and therefore eventually to do it right. The battlefield is not the place to experiment. The battlefield is unforgiving. This is true in both warfare and business. Training is where you hone and perfect your skills. The field of battle is where you find out if your training was worth a shit. Anyone who thinks otherwise is one dumb motherfucker.

At least in my book.

Which is why I wanted the hit on Jack Laski to be done right. We’d lost an operator earlier today, with another two wounded and in serious condition. This, to me, was unacceptable. Only our training, the blood and sweat we and the shooters from HRT had paid with hour upon hour of hard fucking work, had allowed us to adapt, improvise, and overcome. This time the plan would be simple. Straightforward. And I would lead from the front, as always. Of course I’ve learned to expect the unexpected, and that’s the x-factor managed by the infamous Mr. Murphy, of Murphy’s Law fame. What is Murphy’s Law, you ask? Allow the older and wiser Rogue to refresh your short-term memory, true and faithful reader.

Murphy’s Law says anything that can go wrong will go wrong and will go wrong at the worst possible moment. Murphy’s Law cannot be gotten around. It is the one obstacle I have never, ever been able to escape or evade during my career and throughout my many adventures in the Land of the Rogue Warrior. In the process of becoming older, wiser, and just a tad bit grayer around the temples, I’ve learned life is far less stressful if I relent and make Murphy my friend. Especially at times like this when I’m trying to figure out the best way to snatch and grab an asshole like Jack Laski, on the spur of the fucking moment with about as much hard intelligence as I can fit into a thimble. Having Ole Man Murphy nearby to chat with is strangely comforting. I ask him what he thinks of my plan and he tells me it’s damn good. I tell him that’s what worries me because I know it’s Murf’s mission in life to fuck my good plans up. He snorts and says I’m just not trusting enough. I laugh back and tell him I’d rather be a virgin whore in New Orleans during Super Bowl week than trust him. We shake hands and go our separate ways. He’s got his job to do and I’ve got mine. Old Murphy keeps me on my toes. And in my business, being on one’s toes can make the difference between life and death.

I was sitting at a table in a tiny coffee bar across the street from the Hotel Campbell, the hotel where we’d pegged Laski to be holed up. It was a nine-story, glass and stone box. The ground floor was given over to the usual blend of chain clothing stores and other retailers. From here, the whole complex looked like the kind of service-oriented hotel that catered mostly to anonymous visiting businessmen who wanted their messages and their cocktails delivered on time. Since we were right on the edge of Portland’s so-called Silicon Forest, that made sense. The L.L. Bean down vest I was wearing concealed my Glock and two spare magazines from view. The daypack at my feet added to the impression that I was just a hardworking Hells-Angel kinda guy getting a hot cup of java at the end of the day. Nothing terribly unusual in this part of the world. A chilly evening breeze blew over me every time someone new came in.

When the ’hawk had dropped us on a soccer field a few blocks from the hotel, I’d told HRT to sit tight and await my instructions. Right now Trace and Paul were conducting a soft recon of the hotel’s interior. Posing as man and wife, they’d wandered across the street and disappeared into the building ten minutes ago. I stayed put and out of sight. Laski was an intel monster. He’d been around the community as long as I had. There was a fucking good chance he’d know me by sight. I didn’t want to lose him just because he saw me before I saw him.

A tiny television behind the counter was burping out updates on the alleged nuke found downtown. News crews were already crawling high and low to get a glimpse of what the police and HAZMAT people were dealing with. Side stories were starting to erupt about how the 911 system was getting jammed up with calls from frightened citizens. “Please don’t call 911 unless you have a real emergency,” begged some poor overworked city employee on the screen. Story of my fucking life, I thought. When they needed Dickie and his war-makers it usually meant the world had gone to hell in a hand basket. Nine-one-one had been my home phone number for as many years as I could recall.

As worrisome as the nuke report was, I couldn’t let it distract me from my mission at the moment. Laski was here and so was I. Sipping at my steaming coffee, I watched Paul and Trace make their way over to the café. A long wool scarf wrapped around her neck concealed Trace’s recent wound, and thanks to his athletic frame and well-worn Nike baseball cap, the scratches on Paul’s face looked more like the result of a rock-climbing incident than a gun battle. They looked every inch the young married couple. Whoever had trained them had done a fine job of it. The kids could take on almost any role at the drop of a hat.

Role-playing was mandatory training at both SIX and Red Cell when I ran those outfits. A counterterrorist must be able to shed the unmistakable gloss of his or her military background in order to operate safely and effectively in the terrorist underworld. And that underworld coexists alongside your daily life, dear reader. Yes, there are guerrillas in our midst. And terrorists. More so today than ever before. I’ve made my living being smarter, quicker, and more deadly than those I hunt. Being able to look like John and Jane Q. Public helps accomplish the mission. The brass hats and their butt puppets don’t like it one bit. They never will. After they’ve spent years minting the shiniest toy soldiers they can, I turn their pride and joy back into something that looks like just another college student, or yuppie, or streetcorner bum. But looks can be deceiving. And besides, the brass hats don’t like to get their hands dirty. That’s my job.

“Coffee any good?” Trace slipped into a chair beside me. The cool air had brought the blush out in her cheeks. She pulled a knit cap off her head and shook out her long, thick hair. I wondered for a moment if there was anyone special she cared for, or who cared for her. I’d never asked and she’d never offered. I hoped there was someone in her life. Loneliness is something this old Rogue understands all too well.

“Yeah. Hits the spot. Whadda we got?”

Paul joined us. He slid a big mug of Colombia’s finest blend over to Trace and sat. “Danny’s still inside. He’s at a table in the lobby having coffee and reading the paper. From where he’s sitting, Laski’s room is visible, but just barely. HRT has six teams of two positioned inside as best they can on such short notice. The exterior perimeter is set. It looks good. Laski’s bedroom window faces the mall area northeast of us. Sniper team says his curtains are drawn but the front desk gal says he’s home. She said he always checks at the desk for messages when he leaves and when he comes back. Doesn’t trust the security of his voicemail, I guess.”

I looked my two shooters over closely. They appeared tired but alert. It had been a long day for everyone. “Trace?”

“Hotel’s at three-quarters capacity. People all over the place. If any shooting starts, the collateral damage factor could be very negative. I overheard a lot of talk about the shit happening downtown. People are getting worried, talking about early flights home and such. I did a scan on Laski’s door and the walkway left and right. Used my mini-binocs from across the way and one floor down.”

“Anything of interest to us?”

“Yeah, I think so. There’s one of those expensive French made miniature snap links hooked around the bottom support of the railing right in front of his door. It’s been painted the same color as the railing. You’d never notice it unless you’re looking for it or know it’s there.”

Now
that
was interesting. I’d seen and used the same snap link for high speed low drag rappelling and as a safety link while hanging my wild and crazy ass out of Little Birds from the 160 SOAR. Each tiny link cost us a cool $50 per unit. The French firm that makes ‘em guarantees their product to be defect free. They x-ray each and every damn link to make sure there’s no hidden flaw in the workmanship. The Army’s ranger battalions bought boatloads of these things to use for individual safety harnesses. This after they lost a few good men in a helo accident some time back. The best part about the link is its patented quick-release lever. Once down you can get away from your harness with one quick tug of the lever. That’s what killed the rangers using their old system. They couldn’t clear the wreckage before the chopper blew. This due to the shitty ’beaners they were using to attach themselves to their safety lines.

“Can he BASE jump the walkway?” I asked.

“Fuck no!” replied Kossens. “Way too low, boss. It’s only nine stories. A ’chute would never open in time.”

“He
could
rappel, however, using the railing support as an anchor point and the link for his descent line. All he needs is 120 feet of half-inch tubular nylon sling and a brake bar system. He could be out the door and on the floor in nothing flat,” mused Trace as she sipped at her coffee.

“That’s how I’d do it,” I said. “Keep my shit-and-git bag near the door and have my lowering line rigged to hop-and-pop on a moment’s notice. Where’s the nearest exit outta the hotel from where he’d land on the ground floor?”

Paul glanced at Trace before answering me. The look on their faces told me they’d had the same thought. “About fifteen feet away if he dropped straight down. It opens out into a small parking lot. He’d only have to bust the exterior perimeter to escape.”

“Bingo!” I said. “Now’s here what we’re gonna do…”

It was a good plan. However, Papa Murphy was nowhere to be found so I couldn’t run it past him for his expert opinion of my work. No matter. Murf is a motherfucker anyway. I’ve yet to get an honest answer out of him. He enjoys a good laugh at my expense too much.

I sent Paul and Trace back to the lobby. They’d be my backup team. I briefed Danny over a (I hoped) secure cell phone and then he casually drifted over toward the predicted exit point at ground zero. Using the German-made monocular I carry in my daypack for just such occasions, I double-checked Trace’s observation about the frog snap link. She was right. Dahlgren was also right about the people in the hotel. There were so many assholes moving in and out and wandering around the big lobby that even I was able to lose myself in the crush. I worked my way over to where I could clearly see Danny and took up a position beneath the first floor balcony that ran around the perimeter of the atrium. I couldn’t be seen by anyone looking straight down from any of the floors above me. Danny gave a discreet thumbs-up sign, telling me I was directly in line with the speedy little snap link nine floors above my head. When Laski left his room to do his rappel thing down to the lobby—which my plan was sure gonna encourage him to do—I’d be waiting for him right when he hit the ground. Once I had him under physical control, Danny and I would hustle his ass out the side door and into a waiting HRT mobile unit. From there we’d hit the makeshift helipad at the sports field, and then wing like a bat outta hell for the PANG.

Then I’d have a chat with Jackie-Boy in private.

Like I said, it was a pretty good plan for the spur of the moment.

I gave Danny the high sign and watched him make the call from his cell. Seconds later the distant, high-pitched wail of a half-dozen police sirens could be heard in the hotel’s lobby. I’d made it clear with the captain in charge of my little diversion that I wanted his officers to drive around the hotel at least twice. I needed Jack to hear “The Man” coming and decide to grab his shit and boogie. For good measure I’d requested a flyover by one of the two hawks we’d left on station at the sports field. The
thumpa-thumpa-thumpa
of the ANG bird added a nice counterpoint to the police sirens as the hawk flew at speed directly past Jack’s ninth floor window.

Yeah, that should get things moving upstairs.

I’d moved an HRT team up to Laski’s floor and stationed them directly in front of the twin elevators where Jack couldn’t help but see them the second he left his room. Another two operators were manning the walkway directly across the atrium on the other side of the hotel. Again, Jack wouldn’t be able to miss them. With those avenues of escape sealed off, there’d be no way out but down. And down is where I like to be.

All around me people in the courtyard were registering the fact that the noisy commotion outside was starting to converge on this very hotel. Dads started hustling their families out of the pool, and the lobby began to empty as guests and visitors went outside to see what was happening. I wondered if they expected to see a mushroom cloud rising over the downtown area. Numerous doors opened on the floors opposite me. Guests, some scantily dressed, came to the railing, leaned over and began scanning the area below. People are nuts, I reminded myself. The last place anyone should want to be is where police sirens are. It’s the curious who end up dead. People who mind their own business and use good common sense seldom get the shit kicked outta them.