Full Assault Mode: A Delta Force Novel

by Dalton Fury

  A cell phone rang across the aisle. He didn’t look over toward Nadal but heard him answer the call. He strained to listen as the bus driver traded honks with several white and yellow taxis that had turned onto Arman Road in front of the bus.

  “What are you saying, brother Farooq?” Nadal demanded to know.

  Bingo! Kolt tensed at hearing Nadal address his partner, Farooq. He had his man.

  Kolt was able to make out a few words from the phone. The man on the other end sounded desperate. “Police!—shooting at us through the doors … Hassan is dead.”

  “That is impossible,” Nadal answered. “I don’t hear anything. Our security posture has been very well thought out. We have done well.”

  The unmistakable sound of an explosion sounded from the phone.

  “Brother! Brother, are you there?” Nadal asked.

  “… is here. Your plan is not working. You should not have gone—what should we do?”

  “It is not my fault,” Nadal said. “Leave everything. The model planes, all of it. You must run, brother. But take the cell phone. Hurry, Farooq. Use the phone. Do not forget.”

  Kolt slowly turned to look at Nadal. Something was going wrong somewhere. He couldn’t figure it out yet, and was careful not to stare. But he knew someone was calling from Nadal’s safe house. He knew the SEALs weren’t involved; they should still be at the safe house waiting for word from Kolt about Nadal’s actions. They should be collecting spaceship parts and stunt jumping in Grand Theft Auto 5 about now, in for the night.

  Kolt turned back toward Nadal and heard the terrorist say, “Inshallah, brothers,” before thumbing the cell to kill the call.

  Nadal stood up abruptly, looked over the heads of the other passengers for a moment, then walked briskly to the front of the bus and took an empty seat closer to the driver. Kolt looked up, seeing the back of Nadal’s head. Something was definitely up. Nadal was straining to get a look at something out the front window. The sun had finally peeked through the thick cloud cover, signaling the weather around Sana’a was clearing up for the evening. Kolt tried to pinpoint where Nadal was looking. It was somewhere over the horizon, toward the leading edge of town and the first row of sprawling homes that pockmarked the sparse area.

  A large fireball appeared against the bright blue sky ahead of the bus, maybe four miles distant. On the trail of the fireball was a massive smoke trail that billowed and spread out higher in the air, just beyond the soccer stadium and the tall high-mast stadium lights. A moment later, the sound of the explosion reached the bus, alerting everyone that something, maybe an accident, probably deadly, had occurred.

  The bus driver pulled off the road, unsure of what was happening in the center of town. Kolt watched Nadal stand, speak to the driver for a moment, and head to the door. Others followed Nadal, giving Kolt sound cover to do likewise. He stowed his cell phone and left his seat. He put his foot down in the aisle and felt something below his foot.

  Kolt looked down and saw a worn and yellowish notebook, the size of a small cell phone. He looked up. Nadal was gone. Kolt kneeled down, picked up the notebook, and quickly thumbed through it. It was written in a mix of Arabic and English. Phone numbers, e-mail addresses, and on a page somewhere in the middle, heavily scribed in all capital letters, the words PATRICK HENRY and another fifteen-digit phone number. A phone number with, as Kolt immediately recognized, a South Carolina area code.

  Kolt stowed the notebook and moved forward down the aisle. He looked through the windshield as he headed for the door. He identified Nadal just ahead, walking with a sense of urgency in the direction of the blast. Kolt followed, but carefully, keeping as many others between him and Nadal.

  And then Kolt’s cell vibrated in his pocket.

  Kolt dug it out and thumb swiped the screen. He typed in the four-letter password to clear the screen. The outbox cue had cleared, confirming the POS ID text had finally made it out and should be feeding into Rocco’s cell phone back at the safe house. His in-box showed one message unread. Kolt tapped his message icon. It was from the phone the SEALs had at the safe house.

  Kolt looked up to ensure Nadal was still in sight. It looked like he was losing ground as Nadal quickened his pace. Kolt looked back at his cell to read the message as he continued to move forward.

  “Racer, SEALs believed KIA. I watched it on ISR. Target SH exploded w all 4 inside. Fucked up shit. No survivors. Where r u?”

  Kolt slowed his rate of travel to read the message again. Then, he stopped and replied to the text tapping the touch screen with both thumbs as he tried to reply as fast as he could.

  “Who is this? R U POSITIVE? NO SURVIVORS????”

  Kolt had seen the explosion himself. He had no idea it was Farooq and Nadal’s safe house that had gone up in flames. He thought back to Nadal’s phone conversation with a man named Farooq. He wasn’t able to hear all of what Nadal had said, but he was sure about two things: Nadal told someone to get the hell out and to use the cell phone.

  Kolt started to walk as he waited for a reply. He looked ahead to locate Nadal. Not a moment too soon, as he barely observed half of Nadal’s body as it turned right and out of sight. Kolt started a slow jog, holding his cell in his hand, keeping his eyes on exactly where Nadal had turned. How could the SEALs be involved? Just last night, before they dropped off Kolt near the Saudi border, Rocco agreed to wait until Kolt reported in. Rocco agreed to push the hit twenty-four hours.

  Besides, it’s fucking daylight!

  “It’s Scotty … commo. No, no survivors. On phone w JSOC. They had feed up too. Ordered to exfil asap.”

  This made sense. Scotty was the JCU commo guy that accompanied the team to Yemen. He was top-notch and not one to freak out or get too excited about something if it wasn’t true. It also made sense that if the SEALs were ordered to hit the safe house by higher, they would have the drone downlink pumped right into the command center back at Bragg.

  Who the fuck ordered the hit?

  “Why did they hit it?” Kolt texted as he desperately tried to stay on Nadal’s tail. The streets were filling quickly with locals, all seemingly headed to the area of the loud explosion just east of TV Road in the Al Thawra City neighborhood.

  Kolt continued following Nadal toward the leveled and still-smoldering safe house, wondering, what was the point? Scotty would have his hands full with multiple tasks right now. He’d need help responding to JSOC’s million inquiries about what happened, closing up the safe house, sterilizing the area, and working the country exfil plan—which, Kolt assumed, was probably why he had yet to reply to his last text.

  No, until Kolt had more to go on, it was futile to follow Nadal one more step. Even though he was unable to snap a picture of Nadal, simply identifying Nadal was mission success. As Kolt turned to cross back over to the west side of Amran Road, he knew the curly hair, high forehead, disfigured fingers, and dimpled nose would make it easy to find him a second time.

  Who the fuck ordered the hit?

  Delta Force compound, Fort Bragg

  Two days after returning from Yemen, and his weapons and gear already turned in, Kolt felt like a fish out of water inside the unit compound. Nobody expected him to even come to work these days. Especially after he finished writing his statements about the SEAL disaster in Yemen and getting debriefed for the better part of six hours. He only had a few official days left, anyway. Everyone expected him to sign out on leave and take off without any fanfare. He still needed to see about the pistol a buddy from B squadron wanted to sell him, and to see the unit psychologist for his mandatory out brief.

  Everyone sat through an out brief with the doc before walking away. His signature was required on everyone’s clearing papers. Even though it was one of several formal requirements by the Unit before retiring, Kolt was actually looking forward to it.

  Colonel Webber had covered for him as much as he could, but after the Yemen op, Admiral Mason was threatening to personally drive Kolt Raynor to the edge of Fort Bragg and boo
t him off the base. Kolt had his walking papers and his orders from Webber: attend mandatory schooling for a year or retire to the house. Kolt didn’t have to decide on the spot, since Webber gave him thirty days of terminal leave to think it over. But he did have to decide.

  Colonel Cedric Johnson had taken to Kolt over the years, and Kolt to the doc. Kolt had always been comfortable telling Doc Johnson exactly what was on his mind. He knew it would remain a matter of doctor-patient confidentiality. At least he assumed so, anyway. Besides, after twelve years of tending to the minds of Delta operators, it wasn’t hard for Doc to notice when something was on Kolt’s mind or was bothering him. Trying to hide it from him was futile. It was similar to hiding something from the same woman after thirty years of marriage. They just knew. Along with the unit chaplain, Doc was a tremendous stress reliever and invaluable to the operators in the building. Even more so in a war zone.

  Doc Johnson stood quickly and walked from behind his desk. He wore a wide smile on his face. He extended his hand well before reaching Kolt. Doc always started things off with that patented, very relaxing, ear-to-ear smile. Kolt slipped into the comfortable brown leather chair that every operator for the last twelve years had used as Doc dropped back into his. They caught up quickly about Doc’s kids. Doc had two boys, whom Kolt had taken to during a unit picnic six months or so ago.

  Like every good psych, within a minute or two Doc eased delicately into business matters. To Kolt’s surprise, Doc queried him about the mission in the Goshai Valley, where he ignored the abort call in the back of the helo.

  “You still question many of our leaders’ commitment in the war on terror?” Doc asked.

  “Say again, sir,” Kolt answered, trying to make sense of the question.

  “It’s a fair question, don’t you think, Major?” Doc asked. “That night in the helo. You doubted the commanding generals’ commitment and bravery to the war effort, right?”

  Uncharacteristically, Kolt hesitated. Kolt knew the Doc was aware of the generalities. But he didn’t know he was privy to the details. Kolt sensed his out brief would be a little more formal and extensive than he had expected.

  “Uhh, well, no sir,” Kolt answered, searching for the right words. “Not the CG’s bravery, no, but I do question his commitment and his thought process at times.”

  “Is that off the record, Major?” Doc asked, raising his eyebrows toward Kolt.

  “Only if you make it that way, Doc,” Kolt said.

  “Well, in light of your trip to Yemen, it seems you’re not the only one questioning his decision-making skills,” Doc said.

  “Things getting a little uncomfortable for the CG?” Kolt asked.

  “A little. Rumor has it POTUS is ticked off about him forcing the daylight hit and getting the SEALs killed,” Doc said. “You were there. What’s your opinion?”

  News of the dead SEALs had traveled laser fast throughout the black operations community, with some high-level discussions that revealed that, even though POTUS had authorized the DEPORD, or deployment order, he was only signing up for advanced-force operations, not giving carte blanche executive authority to conduct direct action in a sovereign country where Americans are not welcome. With the Benghazi disaster still simmering and the Syrian chemical weapons still unresolved, POTUS could ill afford any more national security failures. And now, with this latest major international scene, POTUS and the State Department were forced to deny any American involvement.

  “The SEALs should have never hit that place in the daylight. I had close follow on the Romanian target, and they agreed to wait until that cycle of darkness to hit the safe house,” Kolt said. “Mason didn’t have the situational understanding to force the SEALs to turn that target.”

  “Interesting perspective, Racer. I thought we learned those lessons years ago?” Doc said rhetorically.

  “Several good men with names on the wall to remind us of that,” Kolt said. “But I can also see how the CG must have been under a lot of pressure from POTUS to stop an attack on our soil.”

  “I certainly believe that,” Doc said before changing the subject.

  “How do you feel about the Unit’s commitment these days, Kolt?” Colonel Johnson asked. “Still feel the same after, what, a dozen years of war?”

  Kolt didn’t hesitate for a second. He respected the doc, an African American officer who happened to be the same guy that delved into Kolt’s skeletons years earlier at Delta selection and assessment. Nobody cared that he had some; everyone does. What they cared about was whether he had recognized and learned from his mistakes. They didn’t need operators with large financial debt or recurring drinking problems, guys who liked to rough up their old ladies, or anyone who may be slightly askew of a normal heterosexual.

  “More so than ever, sir. But I realize now that we are weak sisters compared to our adversaries. We spend years in training, millions in funding, and still lack the key ingredients to be successful against these maniacs,” Kolt said with a mix of frustration and excitement in his voice.

  “Ingredients, Kolt?” Doc smiled with a raised eyebrow.

  “Very simply, Doc, we are not willing to sacrifice ourselves even if it means victory for our nation, if victory is even definable,” Kolt answered as he leaned forward and looked directly into Doc’s eyes. “If you break it all down, we are inarguably an inferior and less-committed species than our terrorist enemies.” Kolt caught himself talking too much and too fast, becoming a little too emotional and eased back in the leather seat a bit.

  Doc’s hesitation made Kolt a little uneasy. Flashing his big signature smile before speaking in very even tones, he said, “That’s very interesting, Kolt. Is that an opinion formed from your numerous tours in the box or something you picked up since 9/11 watching Fox News?” Without waiting for an answer, Doc let him off the hook easy. “In any event, I see you feel stronger about it now than you did ten years ago.”

  Kolt knew it was a rhetorical statement, but he couldn’t resist. “I do, sir!”

  Doc shifted gears. He dropped the smile and jabbed back a bit. “What about you? Are you personally any more committed than your teammates?”

  Kolt broke eye contact and thought about it for a moment. He looked toward the four framed eight-by-ten colored photos autographed by former Delta commanders hanging on Doc’s wall—a clear sign of Doc’s longevity inside the unit. They seemed to be staring directly at Kolt, pressing him for an answer, just like Doc was. He knew he wasn’t more committed. He was just as committed, sure. Besides, Kolt realized that any comment would mark him as a self-centered arrogant asshole, certainly coming off as if he was more dedicated than the other operators. And since Kolt already knew he wasn’t better than his teammates at anything and had no way to prove it if he was, it didn’t make any difference.

  Kolt sat up straight and looked at the doc. “No big deal, sir. What I say now doesn’t matter, anyway. My time in the saddle is up. Besides, it’s not like anyone has the balls to set something like that in motion, even if we had a dozen guys willing to sacrifice themselves.”

  Doc Johnson didn’t say anything.

  Kolt sighed. “Maybe we should have talked about this while I was still welcome around here.”

  “Again, Major Kolt Raynor, do you have the balls?” Doc asked. “You haven’t been a super example of commitment within Delta.”

  “Sir?” Kolt responded, somewhat confused by the formality and serious tone of the question.

  “How committed are you to winning the war against Islamic extremism?”

  “Very committed, sir,” Kolt said, leaning forward in the leather chair. “Hell, I counted it up the other day. I’ve spent forty-seven months in Afghanistan since 9/11. I speak Pashto better than I do English these days. But my time around here is over. It’s time to go to school or go to the house.”

  Doc showed no emotion on his face. Kolt paused for a moment and, sensing the uneasiness, slid a few inches back into the chair and brought his fingertips toget
her in front of him.

  “Besides, it’s not like I’m leaving the unit in a positive manner,” Kolt said, referring to the 15-6 investigation. Doc didn’t respond.

  “Whatever happened with the removal of your tattoo?” Doc asked. “Why didn’t you commit to completing that simple mission?”

  Catching on quickly, Kolt resisted the urge to reply with something wiseass. He understood the seriousness of Doc’s accusation. “Uh, fair enough, sir.” Kolt sighed while nodding his head. “After 9/11, it didn’t seem as important as it once was.”

  Kolt locked eyes for a second but then looked away toward the window.

  “It’s not a matter of importance over commitment, Major Raynor,” Doc said, almost like a Little League coach during a pregame pep talk. “Quite the opposite. Seeing things through to the end is one of the most important characteristics of the men and women that walk these halls.”

  One of the traditional requirements in Delta was to have all identifying tattoos removed. It was necessary to protect their identity should they be rolled up by hostile security forces in some third world shithole. The tattoo removal process was lengthy, requiring a half-dozen laser procedures to literally suck the ink out of the body, allow the area to scab over, and then let the skin heal over with a new layer. It wasn’t without a little pain, either. In the end, if done correctly, the procedure left no sign or scar.

  However, like most everything else that required lengthy commitment, the events of 9/11 bumped many of those niceties down the priority list. So, when al Qaeda struck the World Trade Center, Kolt’s aged and odd-shaped Black Panther was a procedure or two from disappearing entirely. A faint and forgotten jungle killer still ruled his right shoulder.

  “I assume you are interested in being considered by the SMU board for squadron command selection? Doc asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Kolt said. “But I think that’s probably unrealistic at this stage”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, a second trip on the black Chinook for one, and schooling for two, sir,” Kolt said, knowing Doc must know exactly what he meant already. “I can’t see spending a year away from the Unit with all that is going on in Africa, Syria, and Afghanistan.”