RW11 - Violence of Action

by Richard Marcinko

  Paul smiled. “Aye, aye, Skipper! Where will you be?”

  “Lead bird, first chalk. Right the fuck where I’m supposed to be, asshole! Now get the fuck moving. I gotta do a sit-down with Blanchard’s S2 and I’m in no mood for being preached or lied to!”

  After Paul left I headed for the pilots’ lounge. I needed to know what was on the laptop so I figured to stop by the Op-Center first and see what Egghead #2 might have pulled off its hard drive. I was also wondering when the fuck we’d be hearing from Blanchard. I felt isolated from the rest of the world at the PANG. The only way in or out was by helo or fixed wing, since the roadways were now totally clogged with throngs of fearful civilians trying to flee the area as rumors of a nuclear weapon being detonated in downtown Portland were reaching the airwaves. Things were mighty fucked up in Portland. If Blanchard’s plan was to set up as many open-air targets as possible, it was working exactly as he’d envisioned. The dirty nuke’s detonation had generated enormous fear and panic, driving people out into the open so that the real device’s blast would do the greatest degree of killing possible. Added to this was the grim fact that there was no standard emergency response or law enforcement asset to search for Blanchard and his team. All conventional communications were by now overloaded and useless. The cops and National Guard were likewise hemmed in and unable to effectively mount any form of offensive, proactive action against Nemesis.

  Portland was fucked.

  There was a lot I didn’t fucking know right now but what I did was key. I knew Blanchard was not going to kill himself in the process of taking out Portland. He and what was left of his crew wanted to survive as much as me and mine did. The colonel saw himself staying alive to lead a race war within the United States. To do so he needed to get away clean before the SADM detonated. Given how fucked up moving around in the city was right now, that meant he planned to travel by either air or water. Fixed wing was out as we controlled all the possible short landing strips in immediate proximity to the city. Infiltration and extraction by helo was a strong possibility and I reminded myself to have the air traffic control people start watching their screens for any unidentified or unknown choppers entering or leaving the Portland area. Shit, I thought to myself, these bastards could score a chopper easy as pie if they considered hijacking one of the half-dozen television news birds scooting around the skies over Portland with their minicams and eye-in-the-sky reporters! I needed those fuckers grounded ASAP, free press or no free press. Of course, Blanchard would consider this as well and opt for something far less obvious to figure out and counteract. I was up against one velly velly smart snake. We were playing a deadly game of nuclear chess and for every move I made, I felt like he was somehow instantly countering me on the board.

  I was really going to enjoy killing the bastard when I found him.

  The secure cell I’d been given by Danny began ringing its fucking little ass off. I pulled the phone from a pouch on my combat harness and hit the TALK button. “Go!”

  It was Barrett. “Dick? Where are you?”

  “About halfway to the new Op-Center. What’s up?”

  “I’ll link up with you at the Op-Center. We didn’t get much off the laptop. Moore’s replacement says the system was scrubbed. The hard drive needs to be sent to a facility where they can recover information that’s been deleted so the casual user can’t see or find it. That takes time and time is what we are out of.”

  “Fuck me to tears, Danny!”

  Barrett managed a dry laugh. “Hold on, Marcinko. The geek did find something interesting. From what I understand these freaking scrubbing programs aren’t perfect. He located a partial file that Lassiter missed deleting. We may be able to use some of the information against Lassiter when we interview him. I’ll wait for you here.”

  “Roger that!” I snapped the phone closed and began jogging toward the lights of the Op-Center. Danny was right. We were out of time. Any moment now the sky could light up as the SADM detonated and it would all be over for anyone within the blast radius of the device, including Dick Marcinko and Company. Whatever had been found on the laptop was perhaps the key to averting the ultimate terrorist act. And if Lassiter wouldn’t talk with the Feds I promised myself he’d talk with me. I owed him that little funfest.

  I burst through the door to the Op-Center and found nearly everyone there watching a bank of hastily arranged television monitors. I recognized Colonel Max Blanchard’s face on the multiple screens immediately. Fuck and double fuck! My gut went sour as I heard his voice. This was the long-awaited final message from the Doomsayer himself. I shut the door behind me and stood rock still, my arms folded across my chest. If the jig was up it would happen now and there wasn’t a damn thing that I or anyone else could do about it. Son of a bitch, I whispered to myself, so fucking close yet so fucking far away!

  “…in five hours I will slay those who have mocked the teachings of Yahweh, who have defiled themselves by living among the dark races, who have given themselves over to the hated Jews whose plan is to destroy White Israel. The instrument given to me by the One True God is a tactical nuclear weapon taken by my brave and loyal followers from the powerless and corrupt government of the so-called United States. You cannot flee, you cannot escape, you cannot stop what has been prophesied. White men and women rise up! Rise up against the filth that lays claim to our future! Upon the destruction of this vile nest of unbelievers, prepare yourselves for the war that will cleanse America! You will not have to find us! We will find you! And together we will achieve the final victory and create the homeland we deserve!”

  “Fucking nuts!” I heard someone toward the front of the crowded room say. The angular face of a local newscaster replaced the messianic image of Blanchard. I heard her say the videotape we’d just watched had been left in the lobby of the downtown television station by an unidentified man just fifteen minutes prior to broadcast. Well, I thought to myself, if he’s telling the truth, we’ve got five fucking hours left to find the bomb. After that it’d be kiss my butt cheeks goodbye as well as those of the Rose City’s collective multi-culti, socially diverse ass. The television was now showing live footage shot from a helicopter flying over downtown Portland. Looting had broken out in the downtown area near where the dirty nuke had been detonated, and it was reported that growing bands of gang members were roaming the city and the outlying urban residential areas mugging and thugging anyone in their path. Scattered shootings were being reported throughout the city as the police engaged random snipers, who were in turn engaging looters and gang members. All emergency services were “temporarily on hold until new priorities for response can be reestablished,” and the National Guard was being pulled out of the city to be “redeployed where they might do the most good.” I figured that would probably be about a hundred miles from Ground Zero so there would at least be someone around to seal off the crater Portland was doomed to become if I didn’t get a fucking break sometime soon!

  “Goddamn it Dick whatthefuckwasthat we just heard!” Danny Barrett bullied his way through the mass of military and civilian uniforms and charged up in front of me. I’d seen Danny pissed off before, even mad, but never Fucking-A Furious. He was shaking his big ham hock of a fist in my face and I had no doubt he’d have crushed Blanchard’s skull like a ripe peach if it were at all possible in the here and fucking now.

  “Danny,” I said, “the bastard just started the doomsday clock’s final countdown. I figure we got just three fucking hours to find the nuke and Nemesis. After that, we’re gonna have to either keep searching for the device or go after Blanchard as he and Nemesis will be in their E&E net. We lose the nuke, we lose the city. We lose Blanchard, we still lose the city and we set ourselves up for a rematch whenever he chooses. He’s got us by our furry little balls and he knows it. Now what did we get from the damn computer?”

  Barrett cooled down immediately. Running a hand through his hair he shook his head from side to side. I knew he was frustrated. So was I. But time was no
t on our side and we had to keep focused and keep moving. Hundreds of thousands of lives depended on our staying the course and overcoming the truly shitty odds against us. Outside the PANG everybody and his mother was going nuts. We couldn’t. We had to go into the city while everyone else was trying to get out of it. And we had to find a single shiny suitcase and the nutjobs who were probably right now putting it in position where it would do the most harm possible. How and where the fuck would Blanchard do it? The look on my face must have given my thoughts away as Danny punched me hard in the shoulder.

  “Okay, ya hairy ass cocksucker! But you better get to the colonel before I do. If you don’t, I’ll leave you just enough to whet your whistle but not much fucking more. The egghead found a partially deleted file that cyber-shoved its way to a crack in the operating system. You can ask Bill Gates himself what that all means, I’m just telling you what I was told. Basically, the geek explained that the bit of information we recovered was supposed to have been flushed by Lassiter but somehow got stuck and he found it. It’s the remainder of an e-mail message from Blanchard to Lassiter, possibly about the placement of the device. It’s garbled, but the words ‘Wind Storm’ appear three times in what we got. No precise reference or linkage. Just ‘Wind Storm.’ It only stood out cause it came up multiple times. Whadda you think?”

  I jerked my head to the door and we rumbled outside into the dark night air. “I think I need to see Lassiter and run it past him. He’s in federal custody and I promised Karen I’d leave him in one connected piece regardless of the cost. Still, there’s more than one way to skin a Tango. Find Paul and get gunned up. You and Trace are riding security on the birds when we go in. The platoon should be nearly here and ready to roll. Call fucking Clay and bring him up to speed. Tell him to see to it all civilian air is grounded over and around Portland. The Air National Guard guys have to have permission to shoot anything flying other than us outta the skies from now until further notice, including news choppers. I’m gonna go chat with the asshole and ask him about Wind Storm.”

  Barrett nodded. We briefly clasped hands and then he was gone. I stood for a moment and looked around me. I could see the lights of Portland International Airport just across the maze of runways from the PANG. A solid line of non-moving vehicles stretched from the terminal and parking areas out toward Highway 205 running north to south. Poor fuckers weren’t going anywhere unless it was by leather personnel carrier!

  Blanchard was fucking smart.

  Now the whole world was watching. News-hungry motherfuckers around the world would be able to watch Portland get blasted off the map and when that happened would come inflammatory commentary, promises of vengeance, and orders from the White House declaring martial law across the country. Known or suspected political and religious extremists would be hunted down and arrested at the point of a hundred guns in the search for Blanchard and his remaining “priests.” Every agitator with a bullhorn and a voice would be in the streets screaming for justice and declaring America to be the most violent racist nation on the face of the globe. What worried me the most was Blanchard’s promise to find those who he was relying upon to join up with him. The colonel was a master practitioner of both terrorism and guerrilla warfare. Were operational units and cells already in place around the country, armed, ready, and just waiting for him? Were there other targets out there that Nemesis and its underground army had reconned and were prepared to destroy after the Portland weenie roast?

  Suddenly I realized why the bizarre five-hour warning had been given! After all, Blanchard only needed five minutes to place and arm the nuke. But he’d need at least two hours to get clear of Ground Zero, which meant he’d want to be at least sixty miles away and under cover when the SADM detonated. The extra time on the clock might mean he was en route to Ground Zero. But it could also mean he was giving a much larger army of zealots their marching orders. Get ready, the time is now, start doing those things planned, prepared, and rehearsed for long ago. After the colonel and Nemesis were clear of the blast site they’d move to link up with a much larger army, an army no one knew anything about.

  I popped open my cell and punched in Karen’s private number. When she answered, I ran my ideas past her so she could brief Clay and the president as she saw fit. Then I headed for the holding area where Lassiter, my only link to Blanchard and Wind Storm was waiting. I didn’t know where the fuck we were going next, but I sure the hell aimed to find out. I’d have to play it cool, though. Very professional. I couldn’t let my standard issue roguish personality get the better of me. Lassiter would have to be handled like a baby. I could do this. Yes, the new and improved Rogue Warrior could do this.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the FBI agent guarding the outside of Lassiter’s holding pen greeted me.

  I gave him my friendliest smile and then hit him with a haymaker from hell. My fist connected with his jaw at the hinge point and he dropped like a sack of boneless chicken to the floor. I opened the door to the pilots’ lounge and saw the little blond man sitting in the far corner of the room, hands in his lap. He was of medium build and not half bad looking. He looked up at me, smiled, and stood.

  “Richard Marcinko, I assume? The colonel expected it would be you they would send after us.”

  I covered the distance between Lassiter and me in about two huge steps. Grabbing Lassiter by the front of his shirt with both hands I jerked him off his feet and head-butted him in the nose. I felt the fragile cartilage break and a sudden hot spray of his blood burst from it all over my face. Dropping my weight and centering it evenly on my feet I spun hard to the left. As Lassiter’s body reached its full extension in the air I let him go. He flew across the room, arms flailing wildly, and bounced like a tennis ball off the far wall. I watched as he tried to push himself up with both hands, blood dripping from his crushed nose. I could tell his head was spinning and I’d probably cracked a rib or two playing “bounce the bad guy” with his body. But I wasn’t finished.

  Stepping over him I grabbed two big handfuls of hair and slowly pulled his head up and back. The acute extension of his neck vertebrae caused cracking sounds as I locked him up. A low howl began to rise up out of Lassiter’s throat. I cut that bullshit short by slamming the toe of my combat boot up between his widely spread legs and into his nut sack. Held like this, he couldn’t do anything but absorb the full pain of my attempt to pop his head off while his balls were exploding like fifty-cent cherry bombs on the Fourth of July.

  When I felt him go limp I dropped him. His head bounced off the floor with an ugly splat. Rolling him over I could see he was semiconscious. Maybe we could talk now. I sidestepped to the table the FBI had used earlier during their nonproductive question and answer period. There was a pitcher of ice water on it and three empty glasses. I grabbed the pitcher, turned, and threw its contents—cubes and all—directly into Lassiter’s bleeding, swollen face.

  Gee, that woke him the fuck up!

  Sputtering and swearing, he struggled to a sitting position then launched himself toward me, growling like some fucked up junkyard dog. When he reached where I was standing I kicked him square in the top of the head. The blow pole-axed his dumb ass and he dropped flat on the floor yet again. I lifted my right boot heel over his open left hand and smashed it down for all I was worth. The brittle sounds of all five fingers shattering were quickly drowned out by his shrill scream. I watched his entire body as it retracted like a broken rubber band, curling up in a tight little ball, the broken and now useless hand hidden away between Lassiter’s equally broken and now useless cojones.

  “FREEZE! FBI!”

  Nuts! Not this dumbfuck again!

  As the seriously pissed off federal agent stumbled into the room, his Glock .40 in both hands and aimed at my black heart, he slipped on the combination of blood and ice water that now coated the floor. When the muzzle of his weapon came off line as he tried to regain his balance I stepped forward and to my left, closing the narrow gap between us. Grabbing the pistol in both
hands I deftly twisted it to the outside and against the agent’s wrist and thumb. It popped out like candy from a baby. I watched the agent’s eyes widen as he realized what had just happened. Giving him what I hoped was an apologetic look, I backhanded the flat of the Glock’s steel upper slide against his skull then threw the weapon into the far corner of the room. The poor bastard took two staggering steps back, looked up at the ceiling, and then fell sideways to the wet floor.

  Well, I couldn’t blame him for trying. Maybe they’d give him a medal or something after he got out of the hospital. Fuck, I’d even recommend him for one!

  Turning my attention back to Lassiter, I reached down and jerked the silly fuck up to his feet. I threw him at one of the chairs at the table… and damn it if I didn’t miss! Shame on me. Lassiter spilled sideways off the chair as he bounced off of it, throwing his broken hand out to cushion the sudden impact with the floor.

  Now that had to hurt like HELL!

  OOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHH!

  Lassiter began grunting and breathing like a schoolgirl in heat as he vainly tried to find his bearings. I hadn’t said a word since coming through the door. By now, he was sure I was simply going to beat his ass to death. And he was right. I was. Unless, of course, he decided to cut the bullshit and talkie-talkie with me most ric-tic about Blanchard, the nuke, and whatever the fuck Wind Storm was. “Stop! Please! Stop! No more…no more! Stop, goddamn you!”

  Ah, sweet words of remorse and surrender! Now we were getting somewhere. Lassiter, balled up in the corner of the room farthest from me, was eyeing the unconscious FBI agent. When he looked up at me I could tell he was 110 percent convinced I was stark raving insane. If I’d fuck up the FBI to get to him…