Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series)

by Patrick Adams

  Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel

  Patrick Adams

  .

  Amazon Edition

  Copyright 2013 Patrick Adams

  License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Prologue:

  The Navy SEAL Creed

  In times of war or uncertainty there is a special breed of warrior ready to answer our Nation's call; a common man with an uncommon desire to succeed. Forged by adversity, he stands alongside America's finest special operations forces to serve his country, the American people, and protect their way of life. I am that man.

  My Trident is a symbol of honor and heritage. Bestowed upon me by the heroes that have gone before, it embodies the trust of those I have sworn to protect. By wearing the Trident I accept the responsibility of my chosen profession and way of life. It is a privilege that I must earn every day.

  My loyalty to Country and Team is beyond reproach. I humbly serve as a guardian to my fellow Americans always ready to defend those who are unable to defend themselves. I do not advertise the nature of my work, nor seek recognition for my actions. I voluntarily accept the inherent hazards of my profession, placing the welfare and security of others before my own.

  I serve with honor on and off the battlefield. The ability to control my emotions and my actions, regardless of circumstance, sets me apart from other men. Uncompromising integrity is my standard. My character and honor are steadfast. My word is my bond.

  We expect to lead and be led. In the absence of orders I will take charge, lead my teammates and accomplish the mission. I lead by example in all situations.

  I will never quit. I persevere and thrive on adversity. My Nation expects me to be physically harder and mentally stronger than my enemies. If knocked down, I will get back up, every time. I will draw on every remaining ounce of strength to protect my teammates and to accomplish our mission. I am never out of the fight.

  We demand discipline. We expect innovation. The lives of my teammates and the success of our mission depend on me - my technical skill, tactical proficiency, and attention to detail. My training is never complete.

  We train for war and fight to win. I stand ready to bring the full spectrum of combat power to bear in order to achieve my mission and the goals established by my country. The execution of my duties will be swift and violent when required yet guided by the very principles that I serve to defend.

  Brave men have fought and died building the proud tradition and feared reputation that I am bound to uphold. In the worst of conditions, the legacy of my teammates steadies my resolve and silently guides my every deed. I will not fail.

  Chapter 1:

  3:15 PM- Friday, September 8th

  Sumner, VA

  The pretty blonde moaned and shifted positions in the leather passenger seat of the black Mercedes-Benz convertible. She usually enjoyed the feel of the soft leather seats, but it was impossible for her to get comfortable.

  A thickly accented voice spoke in response to her soft moans that filled the near silence of the luxury car.

  "Shut the fuck up." Mohammed Fatal's voice was deep and quiet, his order at once simple and dismissive of the discomfort of his passenger.

  The soft moaning stopped, but Susan Winters continued to breathe noisily through her shattered nose as the sharp plastic edges of the industrial strength zip tie restraints that held her appendages cut into her alabaster wrists and the soft skin of her delicate ankles.

  She wiggled in her seat once more and struggled in vain against her restraints, coming to rest perched on the front edge of the passenger seat. The change of position helped, a little.

  It was just hard to get comfy when you knew you were a dead woman.

  The late model Mercedes-Benz SLK 350 cruised along the deserted blacktop of a two lane road in eastern Virginia. The afternoon sun beat down on the shiny black vehicle, warming Susan's bloody face through the darkly tinted passenger window as the driver steered the vehicle down the highway.

  Every small bump or imperfection in the road was like agony as Susan's cut and bloodied lips pulled against the adhesive of the duct tape stretched securely over her mouth.

  Her mom had warned her that her potty mouth would get her in trouble some day. And today, it had.

  Apparently, calling her captor a pig fucker had been crossing the line.

  The pig fucker sat in the black leather driver's seat of the German luxury vehicle, his strong and tan hands resting casually on the steering wheel. His over six foot frame was folded into the seat, and his broad shoulders were hunched forward as he steered the vehicle down the road.

  He shifted the powerful sports car into fourth gear and turned his head to the right. He looked his passenger in the tearful soft blue eyes and shook his head, his gaze shifting away from the road.

  "I wish you hadn't made me do this, Susan." Mohammed's voice carried a hint of real remorse.

  He turned back towards the deserted two lane road, downshifting once more into third gear as the speed limit on this stretch of highway slowed to 35 MPH.

  Susan's desperate eyes turned to face her captor, betraying her confusion at this moment of humanity. For a second, despite her injuries, she actually felt guilty for having insulted the monster who sat next to her.

  She tried not to whimper in pain as she turned back to face the passenger window. If she was being honest with herself, she couldn't even blame him for gagging her. It was standard protocol.

  She leaned back once more in the soft seat and began to accept her fate in earnest. The hardest people for professionals to kill were always their acquaintances. For that reason
, when she was in charge, she had always shopped these "internal matters" out to subcontractors.

  The company just hadn't had enough time.

  That had been the brilliance of her plans, not giving the company time to react.

  At least she had hoped that would be the brilliance of her plans.

  Air whistled as the beautiful blonde exhaled loudly through her broken nose. As she did, thick drops of red blood dripped onto the shiny gray duct tape which was stretched over her mouth.

  The vehicle rolled over a bump and she winced, inhaling sharply, the smell of her own blood flooding her nostrils. Susan couldn't decide which was more painful; her physical condition or the knowledge that if she could have made it undetected for one more day, she and thousands of innocent people might have lived.

  They had finally passed a street sign. It was the first Susan had seen in miles.

  Chemical Drive.

  She knew this location, although she had never been here before.

  Mohammed was taking her to the chemical distribution center. She cast her piercing blue eyes downward for a moment, letting the fresh cool air that blew from the car’s ventilation system massage her bloody and swollen face.

  When her eyes turned upward seconds later, a tear had collected on her cheek.

  It rolled slowly down her face as her vision blurred with more tears.

  She knew that Mohammed would have to kill her.

  As an administrator, she had personally ordered assassinations for much less than her own indiscretions.

  But while she acknowledged the company's need to kill her, she would maintain until her dying breath that her captor had been excessively rough in his questioning.

  There had been nothing to tell during the interrogation.

  Unfortunately for her, the pig fucker hadn't believed her. And he was a hell of an interrogator, especially when not bound by the provisions of the Geneva Convention.

  He was good, that's why she had hired him. But now she was a bloody mess.

  It was definitely going to be a closed casket funeral, if they ever recovered her body, thought Susan.

  She shuddered, breathing deeply as she squeezed her eyes shut, another tear rolling down her bloodied face.

  Chapter 2:

  3:25 PM- Friday, September 8th

  Sumner, VA

  The dream was always the same.

  Lieutenant Jackson Pike was crouched behind the crumbling mosque wall that separated his SEAL team from the sustained AK-47 and small arms fire that had them pinned down. Between the ricochets of gunfire, he called for the danger-close air support they would need to escape from the mosque compound alive.

  "Position as follows," read Jackson calmly, "North 34-49.122, East 69-47.244; Request immediate close air support." He coughed. The dust that the Lieutenant breathed into his lungs was tinged with the odor of blood, creating a haze of smoke and death which hung in the dry mountain air.

  The young SEAL Lieutenant and his men crouched low behind what remained of the crumbling concrete of the former mosque wall. Their breath stood still. They could hear their coordinates being deliberately read back by the F/A-18 pilots circling in formation above.

  "Trident Six," read back the lead aviator after confirming the coordinates; "We are inbound to your location at this time."

  Hearing the final confirmation of their desired air strike, Jackson called out loudly "Everybody down!"

  The men responded without hesitation, staying out of sight behind the crumbling metal and concrete of the mosque outside of Kabul, Afghanistan.

  The eight man team awaited the familiar sound of the F/A-18's engines.

  They were not disappointed. Soon, the men heard the roar of the formation of Hornets approaching in the distance.

  As always, the sound of the rapidly approaching combat aircraft brought most of the sustained enemy small arms fire to a halt. As the Lieutenant lay prostrate on the dusty and blood soaked concrete, the sweet sound of F/A-18 freedom echoed in his ears until a flash of light and a deafening explosion rendered his world dark.

  The sound of gunfire ripped Jackson from his nightmare and returned him to the unpleasant dream that was his life.

  "Shit," said Jackson sleepily, relieved as he realized that the sounds of rifle fire and explosions that he could still hear were coming from his glowing television screen.

  As always when he awoke, Jackson could only remember the one terrible dream. As he recalled the nightmare, his nostrils tingled.

  He swore he could still smell cordite.

  The heat, the dust, the blood, the stench of death and sounds of mortal combat all met Jackson's subconscious mind with the same intensity as they had those long years ago in Kabul.

  Try as he might, he could not escape this particular mission.

  Even in his sleep.

  His brain pounded in his head as Jackson continued to awaken to his surroundings. As usual, he was greeted by what seemed to be a perpetual and epic hangover. He coughed, turning his heavy head towards his television.

  The images and sounds of combat faded from Jackson's 40-inch plasma television as a young brunette news anchor began describing the chaos that had prevailed in Afghanistan during recent weeks.

  "There have been a rash of terrorist attacks in Afghanistan in recent weeks", began the young newswoman, her voice somber against the backdrop of a recent car bombing that had taken the lives of close to twenty civilians in Afghanistan's capitol.

  She continued. "The increase in violence is thought to be evidence of an opportunistic push by the Taliban to assert control over the country as US and allied troops begin to withdraw from Kabul and the surrounding countryside."

  As Jackson lay on his soft leather sofa, his head resting on the armrest, the newscast cut to a speech by Vice President Colgan. The two-term Vice President stood before a wooden podium which bore the unmistakable seal of The White House. As he stood, shoulders erect and American flag pin affixed to his custom made suit, the gray haired politician deftly answered questions from the world press on the rise in violence within war-torn Afghanistan.

  The politician's deep voice rumbled through the press conference and Jackson's television screen as the hung over former SEAL's soft hazel eyes closed, seemingly of their own accord.

  "This recent rise in violence in and around Kabul is unacceptable," stated the tall, gray haired candidate, clearly stumping for his upcoming White House bid; "As President, I would ensure that the United States maintains an adequate presence in country to ensure a stable return to local governance."

  Jackson's head flopped lazily from side to side as his hangover raged. His stomach fluttered. The pain behind his temples pounded relentlessly. His muscles ached, like they had after some of his longest days in the teams.

  Jackson's eyes opened as the second term Vice President continued to discuss the tactics and procedures that he would implement if elected President this coming November. Politics bored Jackson to no end, and he sat distracted, thinking about nothing in particular as the deep voice rumbled through his mind.

  He glanced at the television again.

  The small clock in the corner of the newscast screen read 3:30 PM ET. Its digital readout was unforgiving. He'd need to leave soon.

  Jackson rolled over and recalled the mousy voice from the telephone earlier in the morning.

  It had been human resources. They'd given him some excuse about downsizing the company. Jackson hadn't cared. He never cared when he got fired.

  All he had heard was, "You can pick up your final paycheck after 4:30 PM."

  Jackson sighed. The facility was shutting down earlier every day as the economy continued to slow. His hours had already been pared down considerably.

  Now, they were shutting down at noon on Fridays, and securing the building completely after 6:00 PM.

  Jackson supposed it was time to move on anyways. Since he had left the Navy, he’d had his share of final paychecks. It didn’t even faze him anymore.
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br />   He took a deep draught from the warm Budweiser which sat in a small pool of its own sweat on his haggard wooden coffee table.

  He stood up and unsteadily walked the twenty-three steps down the wooden floor of his formerly well appointed home, and into the shambles that he called his bedroom.

  How he knew the living room and bedroom were exactly twenty-three steps apart, he was unsure. Perhaps it was due to his extensive combat training. Or maybe it was thanks to the number of times he had paced seemingly without end down the now desolate hall that separated the two rooms.

  It was likely both, he thought, stepping into his bedroom.

  Since his divorce, Jackson had not made his king size bed and his once clean carpeting was stained and dirty. Prescription bottles of varying types and legality were strewn about the room and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels lay on the stained beige carpet beside his bed.

  Jackson sighed as he stepped into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He ran a hand through his unkempt thicket of hair and surveyed his reflection. His eyes were bloodshot. Dark circles lined his face and his scraggly beard had not been trimmed in weeks.

  Despite his current lifestyle, Jackson could be glad that his muscular frame still provided evidence of what was once a level of fitness that could rival that of an Olympic athlete.

  Thick sinewy plates of muscle graced his 5'11" frame. And though Jackson's abdominal muscles had lost a little of their definition, his 31 year old body did not carry more than a small amount of subcutaneous fat on his midsection.

  A small fading tattoo on Jackson's chest explained his trim and muscular physique.

  The trident insignia was inked on his left pectoral muscle. Although it was now fading from its original gold color, the symbol was recognized worldwide as representative of the most dangerous and feared combatants in the American military.

  The indelible trident was a facsimile of the Naval Special Warfare designation provided to those men who complete the rigors of United States Navy SEAL training.

  Jackson threw on a clean pair of faded jeans and a white t-shirt before walking to the front door of his home, where he slung his motorcycle jacket over his shoulders and tucked his helmet and riding gloves beneath his muscular left arm.