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

by Patrick Adams

  Carmike Industries needed more lead time if they were going to, as Yaeger had suggested, focus on ancillary services and contracting work. Losing money for eight subsequent quarters was not an option.

  They needed this plan to succeed. Carmike Industries needed a war with Iran.

  Chapter 34:

  10:37 PM- Saturday, September 9th

  Sumner, VA

  Jackson and Mike walked single file along the side of the road, shrouded by shadows of the Virginia woodland as they clutched their silenced submachine guns, their eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the darkness. They searched the shadows furtively, their knees bent as they walked, their weapons sweeping through the darkness of the woods as they stepped towards the seemingly abandoned facility that stood a half mile from their current location.

  Mike was on point, and Jackson covered the rear of their two man team. Both men knew their roles this evening all too well and both had come prepared for a fight, but despite their training and preparation, the men had a distinct tactical disadvantage.

  Their enemy was equipped with night vision goggles.

  Jackson never saw it coming. As he stepped ahead through the woods beside the road, his world suddenly went dark as 50,000 volts surged through his body. He fell to the soft spongy earth below his feet, gyrating in pain.

  He heard the concussion of gunfire moments later.

  Despite being trained to count the successive repeats of gunfire, Jackson was too dazed to count.

  Jackson struggled; his hands seeking purchase on the ground as he attempted to push up from his prone position face down in the dirt.

  No luck. Jackson's muscles continued to spasm uncontrollably as his world darkened and he lost consciousness once again.

  As Jackson's eyesight darkened beginning at the periphery, he heard a radio crackle somewhere in the darkness.

  "Base, this is team 1. We have neutralized the intruders. Be advised, we had to put one down. We will be en route to base with the survivor momentarily."

  Jackson didn't hear the reply. The darkness closed around him once more as he felt strong arms zip tie his wrists together in the grime of the forest floor.

  Jackson's eyes flickered open after a few seconds. He was lying prostrate on the leaves and roots of the Virginia woods, a flashlight shining in his eyes as a four man team swept the area around him.

  "He's up." Said one of the men as Jackson surveyed his surroundings. He rolled onto his side, feeling for the familiar pressure of the 9mm Beretta.

  It had been removed from his shoulder holster. Jackson's MP5K submachine gun, too, was nowhere in sight.

  Not that it would have mattered. He was hogtied on the forest floor like an animal.

  The men were sweeping the woods. He could hear their radio chatter. They were searching for Mike.

  "You said you got him?" One of the men said, looking perplexed as he glanced towards his colleague.

  "At least four rounds," said the other, "center mass."

  "Four shots to center mass." The other man chuckled sadistically.

  "There's no way he's getting far after being shot four times with armor piercing 45 caliber ammunition. Call it in, and let's get this guy back to base." He indicated Jackson.

  Jackson closed his eyes, blinking back tears.

  Mike was dead. The men were right. There is no way that Mike Jones could have lived through a barrage of gunfire like that.

  Jackson rolled to his side, peering around the forest. There was no sign of Mike.

  Jackson's muscles still twitched occasionally as he lay in the dirt. His mind raced as the cool earth embraced his body.

  He struggled to understand why he had been tasered while Mike had been killed. There could be only one explanation.

  Intelligence.

  The men needed to know what type of information that Jackson and Mike had on their operation. They needed to know if there were any additional members of their team, and if so, where they were and what their intentions remained.

  A flashlight shone in Jackson's face. It was attached to the barrel of a 12 gauge riot shotgun held in the very capable hands of one of the olive skinned members of the security team. The light blinded Jackson temporarily as he was dragged to his feet by two of the other men.

  "I don't understand why we don't just kill this guy now." Said one of the two men who half carried Jackson down the potholed road that led to the abandoned warehouse.

  "Assad wants him alive," replied the other. "Orders are orders."

  The first man grunted, clearly unhappy with having to half way carry Jackson's dead weight down the road almost half a mile to the warehouse where Jackson was now sure the chemicals from yesterday were stored.

  Jackson's breathing normalized as he began to come out of the daze induced when he had been hit with the stun gun. His feet were beginning to find their balance and he was able to put some weight on his still shaky legs.

  Despite his condition, Jackson forced himself to catalogue and record little pieces of information in his mind as he continued to regain his faculties. The team that carried him had been well trained, he noted first. This was evidenced by a few behavioral characteristics that Jackson noticed from his own training and combat experience.

  The men were working as a team. The two that held Jackson's upper arms and guided him down the road were at his sides. Another member of the four man team was on point, sweeping the road furtively with night vision goggles and the muzzle of what appeared to be an M4 carbine. The final member stood at the rear of the small formation, his weapon covering the captive and the rear flank. It was textbook.

  Jackson watched the men with a detached interest. Yes, he thought, they had definitely been well trained.

  The men had half carried and half dragged Jackson to the tall and rusty gate that stood before the entrance to the warehouse. Though the facility was quiet and dark in the still of the late summer evening, Jackson could make out hulking forms in the parking garage, their yellow exteriors glinting in what ambient light there was.

  Penske trucks, he decided as he peered through the fence. There were at least twelve, exactly matching the one that Jackson had seen the first day at the Carmike Chemical warehouse. Jackson closed his eyes again as the men dragged him through the gate and into the parking lot of the seemingly abandoned form of the decaying warehouse structure.

  The men loosened their grip on Jackson's upper arms as they entered the facility, and the lack of support almost sent the Jackson tumbling to the ground. But, he caught himself and stood erect, his shoulders set defiantly as he awaited his fate.

  The four man team formed a small semicircle around the former SEAL as Jackson panted heavily in the moonless night.

  A man stepped from the darkness.

  "Mr. Pike," he said, "I am Assad."

  The fifth man lit a cigarette as he took another step towards Jackson.

  "Hi Assad," said Jackson. "Seems like you already know my name."

  "Indeed, Mr. Pike. And I'll know more very soon."

  Jackson smirked in the darkness. If this guy thought he was getting any information, he was in for a big surprise.

  "We'll see, Assad;" said Jackson as the rough hands pulled a sand bag over his head and shoulders, grabbed him and maneuvered him towards the gray form of the darkened warehouse.

  Chapter 35:

  10:42 PM- Saturday, September 9th

  Sumner, VA

  "Mother fuckers." Mike Jones whispered as he breathed heavily, his broad back braced against a tree in the woods near where Jackson had been taken.

  He pressed his thick hands beneath the bulletproof vest that covered his upper chest and internal organs, feeling for blood. His hand came away dry and he pressed the back of his head against the thick bark of the tree behind him.

  Mike felt his chest again, this time feeling beneath the vest for signs of internal trauma. His chest felt like he had been stabbed with a knife, but the vest seemed to have stopped the bullets.


  But, he noted painfully, he definitely had at least three broken ribs.

  Mike's breathing was agony as he continued to take stock of his condition. He had several broken ribs, and had rolled his ankle as he ran through the woods after the initial burst of gunfire. But he was alive.

  For the first time in his life, Mike Jones was glad he had been wounded in Afghanistan.

  Had he completed what would be his final tour without being wounded, Mike never would have reinforced his body armor with titanium plating. It had been that same titanium plating that had just saved Mike Jones' life. If he had been wearing standard Kevlar body armor, Mike would be dead.

  But Mike had already been wounded by armor piercing ammunition, and there wasn't going to be a second time.

  So Mike Jones continued to breath. Albeit painfully, air still respired from his lungs as he rested against the bark of a tree, deep in the Virginia woods in the cool of the September night.

  Mike was grateful to be alive. He was also grateful for the distinct tactical advantage he'd gained when the men had shot him.

  They were certain that he was dead.

  Mike shifted his weight against the tree, kicking a strong left leg beneath his injured body, his right ankle shooting pain through his body as he stood, unsteadily coming to his feet in the woods.

  He didn't have much time.

  He pulled a small black prepaid cell phone from his pants pocket and shook his head as he began to dial three digits he thought he would never allow himself to call.

  After just one ring, a voice answered. "9-1-1, what's your emergency?"

  "I just saw a group of four heavily armed men kidnap a man. I saw them head towards a warehouse located at 214 Riverside Drive, in Sumner." Mike grimaced as he spoke, the pain of his broken ribs and the fact that he was actually calling the authorities causing him both physical and existential misery.

  "You say..."

  "You heard me right. If you have any questions, play back the recording. I'd recommend that you people send everything you've got. These men are armed with riot gear, machine guns and handguns. I also believe them to be in possession of large quantities of explosives."

  Mike flipped the phone shut and tossed it into the woods.

  He grunted as he took his first step towards the warehouse. It was going to be a long half mile run.

  Mike covered the ground between where Jackson had been taken and the side of the warehouse quickly, especially for a man with three broken ribs and a sprained ankle.

  He was not about to lose another team member and friend. Not tonight. He'd lost too many in Afghanistan.

  He pushed through the pain, his dark clothes obscuring him in the black of night.

  Mike stopped short of the edge of the woods, just yards from the security fence which lined the heavy concrete building.

  He panted painfully and surveyed the facility. There was no chance of accessing the facility from the main gate. It was securely closed and guarded by a two man team who Mike could see pacing through the darkness.

  Mike turned and stared straight ahead. The security fence was approximately twelve feet high and was topped by barbed wire. Going over the fence was out of the question. He would need to go under, he noted, glancing again towards the main gate and the dark forms stepping through the darkness.

  Luckily, Mike noted, this type of facility had been designed to keep out vagrants and petty thieves, not trained special operators. The fencing was flimsy at best, and poorly maintained now since it had fallen out of use.

  Mike was grateful for this lack of maintenance.

  He wheezed as he tucked his muscular body beneath the heavy metal fence, the MP5K machine gun laid out before him. He slid under metal chain link tines of the fence and came to rest on the other side.

  He came to his feet and crouched low, the MP5K machine gun now slung over his shoulder and the silenced Beretta 9mm handgun clutched in his right hand. His left gripped the blacked out, razor sharp Ka-Bar knife.

  He turned. There appeared to be only one entrance to the facility, and to access the heavy metal door that led into the concrete facility, Mike would need a key. A key he was certain one of the two men who stood guarding the chain link gate to the facility would have.

  He walked towards the men as they spoke in low voices to one another, neither aware of the silent death which was creeping from behind them.

  Mike hesitated in the darkness, his muscular form shielded by the great yellow Penske trucks that sat silently in the night. He took a deep breath. He needed to be quick.

  He was around 7 yards from the two guards when he stepped from behind the truck and fired four shots in quick succession. The silenced weapon was quiet in the darkness, and the successive repeat of gunfire was only as loud as the soft thuds of the men's bodies hitting the pavement.

  Mike swiveled his head, searching the parking lot for any other security personnel. There were none in sight, and Mike walked quickly to the bodies of the two men, each of whom had two rounds neatly through their hearts.

  He crouched down and searched the men for their keys as he scanned the area. Neither man had a key to the facility.

  No keys.

  Shit, thought Mike, running back to the shadows of the Penske trucks. He crouched near the closest one, sheltered by its thick black tires while he plotted his next move.

  If he didn't get to Jackson before the police arrived, the men inside would kill him.

  Mike smiled. That was not going to happen.

  He walked to the closest truck, his calloused hands lifting the lever to the gate. He climbed slowly into the cargo bay and winced in pain, his broken ribs causing him agony as he flung his heavy frame into the rear of the tall box truck.

  The contents of the truck made Mike cringe anew. Large barrels of chemicals and sticks of plastic explosives lined the interior of the truck.

  Luckily, he would only need a little bit of the latter.

  Chapter 36:

  10:52 PM- Saturday, September 9th

  Sumner, VA

  Jackson had been in the dark for a while now.

  A thick sandbag hood had been pulled over his head when Assad roughly led him into the facility. It was starting to itch now around the neck. He wished he could scratch, but his hands were securely bound behind him with zip ties and his feet were bound to the sturdy metal legs of the chair upon which he sat, awaiting his coming interrogation.

  Jackson heard the door open and heavy booted footsteps walk purposefully towards him as he sat in silence, his eyes staring straight ahead into the blackness beneath the hood as he waited, his heart pounding.

  Jackson had been well trained in the SEALs. His experience at SERE training- short for Survive, Evade, Resist and Escape, had been at once challenging and empowering.

  But Jackson had never before been taken prisoner.

  Jackson's world was washed out with fluorescent light as the hood was pulled from his head. His eyes fought the light initially, his eyelids squeezed tight as he waited for his pupils to adapt to the flood of white light.

  It only took a moment.

  Jackson had expected to see his captor's face. But all he saw was the cool cement walls of an abandoned shipping facility, dripping wet with condensation.

  But Jackson's eyes also fell upon something far more sinister and familiar.

  He'd seen it on intelligence tapes, and even occasionally the news.

  He was sitting in a makeshift video recording studio, complete with a video camera sitting on a tripod facing two flags. The first he recognized as the Iranian flag. The second was clearly white Farsi writing on a black banner. Beneath the Farsi writing was a simple word that had come to be common usage since the September 11 attacks of 2001 had brought terrorism to the United States. It stated simply Jihad.

  Between the flags were two razor sharp scimitar swords. They were hung on the cold concrete of the gray wall with large metal screws. Floodlights staged on the floor near Jackson's chair flooded this
filming area with light as his captor began to speak.

  Assad cleared his throat as Jackson continued to adjust to his surroundings.

  "What do you think of our studio, Mr. Pike?" He said finally.

  "It seems familiar," said Jackson as he turned his head to the side, trying to get a look at Assad in the light.

  "It should. It's almost an exact replica of the studio that Osama Bin Laden used to film his messages following the September 11th attacks. It seemed appropriate." There was a disconcerting mirth in Assad's voice as he spoke.

  Jackson took a deep breath, controlling his emotions. He remained silent.

  Assad continued. "Are you not curious about the meaning of all of this, Mr. Pike?"

  "I know what the meaning of this is, Assad.” Jackson answered, “You and your people are going to kill Americans. Men, women and children. Innocent people like my wife and daughter. And you are going to use the chemicals stolen from Carmike Chemical to do it."

  Assad was impressed with Jackson's honesty and his evaluation of their plan. He clapped his hands together, impressed.

  "What else do you think you know, Mr. Pike?" he asked, his voice low and menacing.

  Jackson sighed, glancing at the Iranian flag that hung in the left corner of his field of vision.

  "I think you are going to blame the Iranians. I think you are going to start a war."

  Assad chuckled menacingly. "It seems you have a pretty good grasp on what's going on here, Mr. Pike." He stepped around Jackson's chair until he stood towering over the helpless man.

  "The problem is," Assad continued, "I need to know who you have told this information. You can tell me now, or you can tell me later. But sooner or later," he paused, glancing at the wicked looking swords hanging on the wall of the dimly lit room, "you will tell me."

  As Jackson watched, his eyes open and his mind calm for the first time in days, Assad walked to a table which stood along the side of the room. He looked down at the small wooden table and lifted three articles from the surface. He held them in his hands as he walked towards Jackson.