Full Assault Mode: A Delta Force Novel

by Dalton Fury

  The radio squawked to life again.

  “Central, this is Collins. Over.” Timothy’s eyebrows rose quickly. He looked down at his hip to see the red light flashing on his radio. Why in the world is Collins calling Central right now?”

  “This is Central. Send your traffic. Over.”

  “Uh, yeah, Central, seems I have flat tire out here behind the cooling towers,” Collins said.

  “Do you need assistance?”

  Collins was quick to respond. “Well, I wouldn’t need any if the tire jack was where it is supposed to be. But since it is missing, I guess I need some help.”

  “Understand. Stand by for assistance.”

  Timothy shook his head in disgust. Shitty evening all around, I guess.

  Timothy was feeling the hunger pains, but he was a professional first. He didn’t sweat it and sat back down for some more time-killing gaming on his cell. As Timothy tapped through the selections, he noticed the headlights of an approaching vehicle. He leaned up to see just over the bottom edge of the window and around the flat screen on the corner table, hoping it wasn’t a delivery vehicle that would require him to exit the booth to search it for contraband and explosives.

  It’s just Warren.

  From twenty feet away, Timothy recognized the company truck and the face of Warren Samperson, the longtime plant engineer, in the driver’s seat. He wouldn’t need to step out into the rain to check his vehicle. Timothy knew the only thing he was bringing back to the plant that he hadn’t left with twenty minutes earlier when making his rounds were his coworkers’ donuts and coffee.

  Officer Reston opened the door to the security booth to wave Warren Samperson through as he activated the button to raise the yellow drop-arm barrier but remained in the doorway to stay out of the rain.

  The vehicle barely came to a stop before the first round was fired. From the backseat directly behind the driver’s seat, Abdul ripped the balaclava off his head as he raised his H&K .40 caliber auto pistol, leveled it at Timothy’s chest, and fired two rapid shots that blew the safety glass out of the left rear window. Abdul didn’t even bother to roll the tinted window down. Timothy never saw it coming, and it shocked Kolt almost as much. That wasn’t the plan.

  That son of a bitch! I knew it!

  Immediately after both shots were fired, Warren ducked into a ball on the floorboard. He didn’t think to place the vehicle in park first and accidentally pressed the gas pedal with his knee. The vehicle lurched forward and rammed directly into the metal barrier twenty feet ahead before it stopped cold in its tracks. Both passenger air bags deployed, one engulfing Warren and the other slamming into Kolt’s head like a sledgehammer, knocking the revolver from his firing hand.

  Bleeding badly and quickly heading into shock, Timothy struggled to crawl away from the truck. Abdul’s marksmanship was effective, but off the mark. Timothy was bleeding from his left hip as the first round grazed the holder of his Mace can and entered just under his gun belt. The second copper round had pierced his left palm since he had instinctively raised his hand as if he could stop a bullet.

  Lying in his own blood, he didn’t think to make a radio call to Central. He didn’t have time to sound the general duress alarm. He was too busy scrambling to survive. At that moment, every bit of tactical training Timothy ever received rushed back to him.

  He had been training for this moment his entire life. All the preparation over the past sixteen years was for the moment when he would have to deploy his weapon for real. For when he would have to actually use deadly force against an armed intruder. For when he would have to do his duty, his duty to protect the American people. The moment when he would quite possibly live up to the extraordinary standards of professionalism and dedication to a cause that everyone in his extended family colored his cousin Darren with.

  Timothy didn’t have time to go into shock. No, Timothy knew exactly what he had to do.

  He drew his semiautomatic sidearm and power stroked the slide to make his weapon hot.

  But Timothy’s body wasn’t keeping pace with his survival instincts. Inside the truck, Abdul swapped his pistol for his AK-47 rifle. He placed the backs of his upper arms on the door, ignoring the small pebble-size glass pieces still present, balanced himself, and stuck the rifle out the window.

  “Allah u Akbar! Allah u Akbar!”

  Kolt turned from the front passenger seat toward Abdul. “NOOOOO!” he yelled. It was too late.

  Lying on his back and panicking now, Timothy pleaded, “Don’t do it. Don’t do it.” He nervously raised his pistol, fighting the wobble nerves, and broke the hammer three times rapidly. Three 9mm rounds tore into the side of the vehicle, failing to penetrate the truck’s door.

  Timothy missed, but Abdul didn’t. He struck Timothy once in his bulletproof plate and twice in his upper chest area, closer to his shoulder.

  Timothy’s grip released his sidearm, dropping it to the tarmac just outside the doorway. It bounced three feet away before coming to rest near the truck’s left rear whitewall.

  Kolt quickly reached toward the coffee holder, picking up two Styrofoam cups and flipping the plastic tops off with his thumbs. He lifted them out and, in one smooth motion, reached over the seat and threw the scalding hot coffee in Abdul’s face. Abdul let out a painful scream, dropped his rifle, closed his eyes, and, naturally, brought his hands to his face.

  Kolt reached over and turned the ignition off. He barely noticed Warren, still huddled on the floorboard. Warren’s hands were over his head, as if to protect himself from falling objects. The deflated air bag rested on his shoulders.

  Kolt frantically searched for his dropped revolver, ripping the air bags out of the way. No luck.

  Kolt bailed.

  Abdul should have bailed, too, but he didn’t.

  Kolt moved quickly to Timothy’s side and took a knee. He didn’t have time to unclip Timothy’s rifle sling from the lower receiver and pull the rifle away from his body. Instead, Kolt leaned down and placed his right eye behind the Trijicon day sight and raised the muzzle to place the red dot near the back window. He steadied it at the head propped back on the headrest.

  Abdul had already shaken off the sting of the hot coffee and had recovered his rifle, now aiming it out the window at Kolt and Timothy. He fired a burst that ran high and left, barely missing Kolt’s hooded head.

  Kolt steadied his aim before breaking the trigger of Timothy’s AR-15. Two well-aimed shots pierced Abdul’s burned face. His body slumped forward, now lifeless, as his head and one arm remained outside the window.

  Kolt set the rifle gently on the wounded officer’s chest. He checked his vitals by placing two fingers on his carotid artery. Kolt felt a heartbeat, but it was weak and labored. He reached under the small area of Timothy’s back, feeling for the telltale sign of an exit wound. He found a large amount of blood and what he was sure were bone fragments from high-powered and heavy 7.62 rounds. He knew he couldn’t do anything to help him. He wasn’t prepared to deal with a sunken chest wound.

  Timothy opened his eyes slightly. It surprised Kolt. Tears mixed with sweat rolled off the side of his face. For the first time, Kolt realized he had never told Timothy his true name. Kolt’s face was still concealed behind the black balaclava.

  “You are a hero, Timothy. You did fine,” Kolt said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster given the situation. “You stopped a terrorist attack on Cherokee station and saved thousands of lives. Congratulations!”

  Barely audible to Kolt, Timothy struggled to speak, but Kolt knew there wasn’t anything he could do for him. The golden hour was ticking away fast.

  Kolt reached over to Timothy’s neck to check his pulse again. It was a ridiculous gesture; he knew he wasn’t staying around to administer CPR until the paramedics arrived. It was just simple reflexes from a lifetime of training. It was just experience kicking in, mixed with a lot of adrenaline. Everything seemed in slow motion to Kolt. It was a familiarity he had felt many times in the past.
Operators called it vapor lock.

  Kolt shook off the elastic moment in a life-and-death struggle where a human’s fight-or-flight instincts kick in. Firefights and casualties seemed to make the world go silent for about thirty seconds or so. In life-and-death situations, everyone goes one of two ways. And in this instance, Kolt didn’t have thirty seconds to spare.

  Kolt quickly moved back around the Ford truck and opened the door opposite the dead Abdul. He reached for the AK-47 and leaned back out of the truck. He dropped to a knee behind the right side of the truck, steadied his aim, and neutralized both cameras on top of the checkpoint building. Until then, everything was on camera, captured on video via closed-circuit cameras and assessed in real time by the two command centers inside the plant. Had Timothy had his way years earlier, the entire incident would have been caught on thermal-analytic cameras, too. Nevertheless, in this situation, the CCTV cameras, coupled with the standard pan, tilt, zoom cameras, were good enough to capture the incident for eternity.

  Certain the cameras were out, Kolt threw the rifle back into the truck near Abdul.

  Although he could easily hear the humming of Cherokee’s twin power reactors in the distance, things seemed eerily silent. He wondered if Farooq had been successful with the Jet Ski bomb. Had he successfully martyred himself according to the plan and his promise to Allah? In all the excitement at the checkpoint, he hadn’t heard any distant explosions.

  What about Joma?

  Then Kolt heard the monotone emergency announcement in the distance. “Code Red, Code Red. Halt! Deadly force is authorized!”

  Within seconds, he heard an explosion from a half mile away, coming from behind him, toward the main parking lot at the power plant. Kolt knew this to be the VBIED Farooq and Joma had positioned earlier that evening using a side road that bypassed Timothy and the Cherokee checkpoint.

  Kolt stood and sprinted for the wood line. He headed straight back to the planned linkup spot. He had only been moving for a few minutes when he heard another explosion coming from the plant behind him.

  Farooq and the Jet Ski. Damn.

  Without explanation, Kolt’s conscience stopped him in his tracks. He wanted to stop running away from the danger. He instinctively wanted to run toward the danger. To help fellow Americans under attack.

  The fact that Warren Samperson had lived certainly wasn’t predetermined. Kolt knew it would be tough to conduct the attack without any innocent security officers or other plant employees being harmed. In fact, Kolt deliberately but very discreetly manipulated the tactical planning to prevent as much American bloodshed as possible. But once the team had agreed on the concept of the operation, the plan of attack, whoever happened to get coffee duty on the night of 21 April was predoomed from the start. Nevertheless, his former Delta teammates would never give Kolt a pass on this one.

  But this wasn’t Delta; it was Tungsten.

  Kolt’s natural urge to assist Americans in harm’s way tugged hard at his heart. With each step he took moving away from the besieged Cherokee station, his desperate desire to go back and help Americans hardened. Kolt had never run from a firefight before; he always headed toward the sound of the guns. But he had to remember that tonight he was a terrorist. He had to remember that he was on the other team. He had to remember that he wasn’t an American that evening. That was the toughest, most distasteful part about being a Tungsten operative.

  As for killing Abdul, it was necessary and just. In fact, that kill was payback on several levels. It was payback for rolling up Cindy Bird and for murdering Timothy in cold blood. It was payback for 9/11. It was forward payment from America for the terrorist attacks Abdul would certainly take part in had he survived this one.

  Even before the mission, Kolt knew both he and Abdul couldn’t survive the attack. But after Kolt turned on him, he obviously would never be able to return to the terrorist hotel room. Kolt had to remember that the Cherokee attack was an end to a means. It was not just the first necessary step to unraveling the nuke plot but to rescuing Cindy as well. And if he was somehow able to repatriate his old teammate then as an encore performance, he would get back to Tungsten’s primary business: that of giving his own life to neutralize Ayman al-Zawahiri.

  Fuck, Abdul! Kill them all and let Allah sort it out.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The checkpoint fiasco was over within two minutes. Kolt was so focused on his piece of the fight that he failed to hear the sniper peppering the bullet-resistant towers that housed one of Timothy’s fellow security officers. From the other side of the plant on a grassy hilltop, Joma settled the crosshairs and sent a dozen rounds of 7.62 armor-piercing ammo to the tower’s windows from his hilltop position. Armed responders from two adjacent guard towers returned fire through their small gun ports. Joma shifted his position farther behind a tree, giving him a better angle to answer the fire.

  Within seconds, and exactly according to plan, the Jet Ski–driving terrorist, Farooq, came out of the darkness and into the ambient light that bled off the hundred lights that made Cherokee visible from outer space. Joma and Kolt had kept the armed responders busy. So much so that the simultaneous attacks by the sniper Joma and by Abdul at the checkpoint allowed them to completely miss Farooq, approaching on the Jet Ski under the protection of the long shadows.

  Approaching from the west, Farooq had both of his hands cuffed to the watercraft’s handlebars. The Jet Ski didn’t take a single round as he headed for the intake structure at thirty-five miles an hour. He squeezed the hand lever and accelerated.

  “Allah u Akbar! Allah u Akbar!”

  The watercraft and towed explosives plowed right into the large metal trash screen before detonating. The explosion was magnificent, sending water and debris over one hundred feet in the air. Kolt was already running from the mess when he heard Farooq complete his mission.

  On the hill, Joma, feeling awfully alone now, strained his neck to locate Timothy and his brother Abdul. He had heard the gunfire and explosions near the checkpoint as he crawled into position. They should be driving up soon, he thought.

  After firing roughly three magazines’ worth of ammunition, roughly thirty rounds, Joma became nervous. Where are Timothy and Abdul? he wondered. They should already have passed the checkpoint. Joma rolled down the back side of the hill slightly and pulled out his cell phone. He called Abdul. No answer. He quickly speed-dialed Timothy’s number.

  Kolt felt his cell phone vibrate and immediately removed his black balaclava. He answered the phone.

  “Joma, is that you? Listen to me, brother. You must escape immediately,” he pleaded. “Meet me at the linkup point as planned.”

  Joma didn’t bite. “No, no, Timothy, that is impossible. This was supposed to be a suicide operation. In the name of Allah. Farooq completed his mission. He is in paradise now. The sheikh won’t be pleased if we do not carry out our mission.”

  “No, you are wrong,” Kolt pleaded. “I’ll explain everything later.”

  Joma began praying vigorously into the phone. Up on his knees, he rocked back and forth rapidly while reciting phrases from the Koran, oblivious to everything going on around him.

  Kolt abruptly interrupted. “Listen to me, Joma. Abdul and I killed two infidels and blew up the checkpoint.”

  “Why are you still alive?” Joma demanded.

  “They surprised us. We had no choice. Brother Abdul is a martyr, just like Farooq. Allah knows and will welcome them. We have been successful here. You and I are alive by Allah’s will and are more prepared to participate in another operation for the jihad … and in his name. It is your duty to survive. Meet me as soon as possible.”

  Kolt was growing frustrated at the situation. He knew he needed to put a lot of distance between him and the power plant, and fast. Bickering with Joma was only slowing him down. But Kolt knew he would need Joma to rescue Cindy Bird and to uncover the other cell in the nuke plot.

  Joma debated it for a few long seconds before he started taking heavy fire from hi
s right side and below him. That made up his mind very quickly. He dropped the rifle and all his gear and took off back down the hill and through the trees.

  * * *

  Minutes passed, still with no sign of Joma. Kolt wondered if Joma was caught or killed, since the last thing he heard over his cell phone before it went dead was gunfire in the distance. Kolt needed him alive. He needed the company.

  A few hundred yards from the checkpoint, Kolt found the dam that spanned the Broad River. Ignoring the no trespassing sign, he easily negotiated the fence obstacle, then carefully stepped into the inch-deep water spilling over the round edge of upper basin. Balancing under the moonlight like a circus tightrope performer every step was a risk. One slip and he’d fall seventy feet into the rocky lower basin. After moving cautiously for several hundred feet he finally reached the safety of the weathered brick control building on the far side.

  Joma finally showed up and was soaking wet from having to swim across the shallow water of the Broad River, which was just south of the man-made dam.

  Kolt summed up the damage with Joma. It was a dramatic and brazen attack in the heartland of America. And even though Kolt knew Timothy Reston was likely the only American killed, the American liberal news media would have a hard time labeling this as anything other than a major victory for al Qaeda.

  Certainly, al Qaeda’s senior leadership had hoped to surpass the damage done on 9/11. And they certainly would have had the nuclear-reactor core been breached as planned. But Kolt knew there was zero possibility of that happening. He saw to it in the planning that the attack would fall well short. Even though the attack didn’t technically result in radiological sabotage, a core meltdown, or a hazardous release of deadly radiation, it was still a stunning success. Al Qaeda terrorists had infiltrated America and attacked a commercial nuclear power plant in the heartland.