by Dalton Fury
“And Shadow Blink is going to take care of this without the American Civil Liberties Union the wiser,” Kolt said with a hint of sarcasm.
“We are thinking a dozen,” Carlos said.
“Fuck me, Carlos. You want me to smoke a dozen rag heads while Joma watches and then play all-American homeboy turned terrorist to locate Z-man and Nadal the Romanian?”
“You won’t be doing the killing, son,” Carlos said. “The Mercs will be.”
Kolt looked up from his notepad, where he had scribbled the letters “WTF” and “48” and raised his eyebrows before locking eyes with Carlos. He thought back to that first lunch date with Carlos in the Jamaican restaurant. He recalled what Carlos had said about the uber-unique personnel assigned to Tungsten’s Department of Special Services.
The Mercs?
Yeah, those jacked-up, high-priced off-the-books killers on beeper.
“Damn it, Carlos. I’ll go, but you have to promise me one thing.”
“If it’s reasonable, it’s done,” Carlos said.
“I need you to find Hawk’s body, get her into Arlington,” Kolt said. “Section sixty, near her father. She earned it.”
“We’ll do our best, Kolt,” Carlos said.
“Well, if that’s the acceptable standard, then I’ll do my best at staying alive long enough so I can off myself in some shithole halfway around the world.”
“I’ve got your six, Kolt,” Carlos said.
“You strap-hanging on the infil aircraft?” Kolt asked, already knowing the answer.
“Just into Gitmo,” Carlos said. “But you never know.”
TWENTY-TWO
Guantanamo Bay, Cuba
Kolt was still awake when the white, freshly painted Gulfstream G650 with a nose-to-tail red and blue pinstripe had gone wheels up from Dobbins Air Reserve Base in Marietta, Georgia, watching the terrorist known as Joma freaking the hell out. Strapped to a jump seat near the rear of the twenty-five-seat passenger jet, Joma, with his hands flex-tied in front of him and wearing a double black hood over a bright orange jumpsuit, was rocking back and forth like a German cuckoo-clock pendulum. Around his boney, seemingly hairless ankles, two adjustable leather ankle bracelets connected by grade-70 heavy chains had tangled with his stockinged feet.
As Kolt had watched him oscillate, he knew the only reason he couldn’t hear the relentless reciting of the Koran was because someone had jammed a kid’s sock in his mouth and wrapped his head with gray duct tape in case he decided the taste wasn’t to his liking.
Sucks to be you, man.
Besides Kolt and Joma, Carlos and the petite brunette Tungsten analyst, both having dressed down for the trip, had made the great circle distance of 1,117 miles flying a fast cruise speed of 595 miles per hour before touching down at the U.S. naval base in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. All in less time than it takes to see a flick on the silver screen.
Once at cruising altitude, Miss Peabody had sat down close to Kolt and Carlos at the front of the cabin with a sterile manila folder. Kolt vividly recalled her reaching up and pulling the ballpoint pen from the crease between the side of her head and the top of her right ear before opening the folder and retrieving a long checklist.
Kolt was briefed on his soon-to-be neighbors first. The list included Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, the admitted mastermind behind the planes operation of 9/11. It also included several other high-level AQ operatives like Abd al-Rahim al-Nashiri, the Saudi-born mastermind of the bombing of the USS Cole and other terrorist attacks. And Yemen-born Ramzi bin al-Shibh, the so-called twentieth hijacker and key facilitator for the 9/11 attacks.
These were al Qaeda’s heavy hitters for sure, which was exactly why the secret maximum-security isolation cells, known collectively as camp 7, were not disclosed to the Red Cross or ACLU. The eight-by-twelve-foot box waiting for Kolt was just one of a dozen or so “heavy cells,” the nickname the original Camp X-Ray guards dubbed them years ago, on what was internally known as the “black mile corridor” that sat beneath dark sniper meshing that camouflages the walkway. It was a play on the actual people that resided there, HVIs, high-value individuals, a place reserved exclusively for detainees suspected of being inside the now fish food Osama bin Laden’s inner circle.
Kolt was to be registered as a former al Qaeda facilitator. A title, had it had any stretch of truth to it, would get a guy on the unit’s kill list if he was in Afghanistan. But Kolt was reminded that masquerading as one and being one could be equally dangerous. Not that he needed that reminder, of course, but it was important to keep the camp guards and officials from asking a lot of questions. More importantly, because the other detainees in “heavy cell” would likely know if Kolt was actually a card-carrying member of AQ or not, he would have to be isolated from the other prisoners, his interactions entirely controlled, entirely scripted.
About fifteen minutes out from landing, Kolt was required to change into his own orange jumpsuit, hood, flex ties, and shackles. After touching down, four uniformed military policemen assigned to Joint Task Force–GITMO boarded the jet and escorted the two new arrivals down the eight-step drop-down stairs to the tarmac. Kolt couldn’t see their faces, but he was able to see their boots and the bottom of their fatigues from under the hood.
Kolt and Joma, still hooded and baby-stepping in their shackles, were steered by the guards to two OD green canvas litters mounted above two bicycle tires to form a makeshift gurney. And after a very short helo flight, where they remained on the gurney, they landed not far from Windmill Beach, not far from camp 7. As they wheeled the two new interns through the high-security fence lines and gates and into the black mile corridor, Kolt had felt a strong tail wind off the beach. The military personnel watching had no idea that the taller of the two was actually a pure red, white, and blue American. The other detainees didn’t know either, except for Joma, of course.
“Most men don’t come out of heavy cell,” Kolt recalled Carlos saying during the flight down the east coast of Florida.
Fortunately for Kolt, he would just be faking it.
Now, though, after two days of solitary, forced to shit and piss on himself like everyone else in heavy cell, he began to wonder if Carlos had forgotten about him. He appreciated Carlos’s comments; men don’t come out of that place, at least not with the same mental state as when they entered. The place could wear on a man, any man. And inside his box, Kolt realized he was just as human as the rest of them. Like Cindy Bird learned from her visit to Black Ice a couple of months ago, heavy cell wasn’t picky about who it broke. It wasn’t specific about religion or nationality. No, the high-value-individual cell was an equal opportunity torture chamber.
To say Kolt might be having second thoughts was an understatement. It was something he was careful not to reveal to Carlos, though, as his handler stood outside his box early in the morning. Carlos knew full well Kolt had only undergone mock interrogations, big shows with fake blood and pulled punches, but Joma’s responses confirmed he thought Kolt was being tortured as he was.
“You’re taking the pills, aren’t you?” Carlos asked.
The pills, actually they were liquid drops, had been part of the twenty-thousand-feet brief as well. Kolt’s meals were to be laced with an odorless liquid, in slight doses, as the super-extra-strength tanning chemicals developed by DARPA were rumored to have turned a white rat into a black rap artist in a week. The liquid was intended to rapidly darken his skin to prevent him from severe sunburn in Pakistan and give him a slight edge in helping him look more like the people he would certainly come in contact with. It wasn’t much, but Kolt was taking everything he could get at the moment.
“It tastes like shit,” Kolt said, sensing Carlos smile. “You alone?”
“Yes,” Carlos said. “Look, Kolt, things have turned for the worst for the president in the last twenty-four hours. He is getting hammered by Congress, both the House and Senate, and most of the public opinion polls.”
“OK, so what’s that do to Shadow Blink?”
Kolt asked, unable to see Carlos’s face from inside the box. “Mission abort?”
“No. Accelerates the timeline,” Carlos said. “We launch tonight.”
“Are you kidding?” Kolt said. “I’ve only done four interrogations with Joma. That’s insufficient by a mile. Hell, Carlos, I haven’t even been toured around the place so the dirty dozen we are vacationing with can get an eyeful.”
“We’ve adjusted the Mercs’ task and purpose,” Carlos said, trying to reassure Kolt that kicking off Shadow Blink and entering Pakistan two weeks earlier than planned would be OK. “They won’t let you down.”
“I have no doubt,” Kolt said.
“But that’s only half the problem, Kolt,” Carlos said. “NSA has been running the numbers and e-mail accounts that were penciled in the notebook you lifted from the bus through DISHFIRE and POLARBREEZE. Last night, one of the numbers hit, and the NSA intercepted traffic between Nadal and an unidentified male in the middle of Quetta. We are banking that Nadal is currently located in the North-West Frontier Province at a suspected terror-training camp.”
“That is a significant update, Carlos,” Kolt said. “Any details on their conversation?”
“The analysts couldn’t be positive, but they believe the guy Nadal was talking to may have been a nuke-plot player, likely one of the muscle men planning to infiltrate the U.S. to attack another nuke plant.”
“Any mention of the odd code word?” Kolt asked. “Sacred Indian.”
“In fact, NSA did mention that, but no further info yet,” Carlos said. “Good question.”
“We better roll then,” Kolt said.
“Exactly,” Carlos said. “But Kolt, just as a reminder to ensure we are clear on your tasks.”
“They were pretty clear back at Tungsten headquarters,” Kolt said. “Locate and neutralize Nadal the Romanian or Z-man.”
“Just so we are clear, and the president supports this decision, you are to go for Z-man first. POTUS is willing to play the odds of no second attack. If you get close enough, take him. If not, Nadal is a close second as HVIs go.”
“You guys don’t ask for much,” Kolt said before shifting gears. “Any word on Cindy Bird yet?”
“None.”
* * *
Kolt always believed that assassination was dirty—physically, mentally, and spiritually. Within months after 9/11, Kolt knew the CIA was prepared to cycle their Ground Branch shooters through structured debriefs and endless counseling once the assassins returned home. This requirement of the Western mind-set, that psychs be standing by at Langley, essentially doomed the program before it ever got out of the blocks. Even though Kolt recognized his own profession as the cog in the assassin wheel, he also clearly saw the problem with the conventional military. He believed strongly that some people just needed to be killed in cold blood. He also knew firsthand that a lot of guys talk a good game, but when it comes down to it, when it’s time to make the decision to kill another human being in cold blood, inside a restaurant bathroom, a seedy hotel room, or even as the target sits relatively peacefully at a traffic light, the human capacity to break the trigger rests with a very finite number of human beings.
On any given military raid or assault, safely getting the troops off the target and back home is a critical phase. If things go right, getting in, getting out, and lounging back at the tents is fairly routine. But these operations are typically handled by platoon- or company-size units, where forty to seventy guys keep each other company. Besides the element of surprise, they usually have a great advantage in numbers. The CIA assassin who is within striking distance of his prey, knows he would be well short of teammates on his right and left.
Ultimately, the only chance the secret CIA program had was if that exfil was never called for. For the deed—the lethal hit—to have been successfully executed, the best option would be to do as our adversaries did. Target neutralized. No exfil logistics needed. No further American lives put at risk during a daring black helicopter extraction. No Doc Johnson or CIA psychs needed.
Essentially, Kolt had to establish a firewall for his native emotions, knowing full well he might be sacrificing himself in the process.
Western Pakistan
Flying nap-of-the-earth, adjusting elevation according to the folds in the terrain below, the three black MH-47G twin-rotor-blade helicopters came in low over the rocky ridgeline. Almost entirely invisible to the naked eye, two of the large beasts banked south and entered into a short orbit to await call-in. The lead 47G descended the last hundred feet, lowered its six rubber balloon tires into the sandy soil, and dropped the tail ramp onto the black landing zone. Ten minutes earlier, Kolt had placed a black hood over his head. Kolt knew the drill. He knew it was coming.
The former Guantanamo inmates cross loaded on the other two helicopters had been hooded for the entire flight. Including Joma, who twenty minutes into the flight was administered .08 cc’s of zolpidem, a sleep medicine to treat severe insomnia, to put him completely out. They sat strapped to the cold metal floor along the outer skin of the aircraft. A Toyota pickup sat centered in each helicopter, tethered with heavy chains and j-hooked to the recessed metal O-rings in the floor.
Kolt certainly didn’t like it, though. After his temporary stay in Guantanamo, his fun meter was just about pegged. The terrorists about to be repatriated onto Muslim soil weren’t the only ones with their heads covered, though. The twenty or so uniformed guys making the trip with him wore tan face masks. The kind of tight Spiderman-like full head covering that offered small holes for the eyes and mouth.
Before being hooded ten minutes out, Kolt had sized them up during the hour-plus-long flight. Their MultiCam uniforms were sterile. None showed any identifying name tapes or patches. No rank insignia. No call-sign patches. No identifying marks on their helmets. All signs of a uniquely disciplined unit. Telltale signs of a black unit. All were heavily armed. An M240B general-purpose machine gun stood on its butt plate, held between the legs of one of the mystery soldiers. Another held a smaller 5.56mm light machine gun, muzzle up toward the roof of the helo, between his legs. The only thing that stood out as odd, even though Kolt understood the thought process, was the dingy, naturally aged, blue-dot special tennis shoes each of them wore and the half-dozen household brooms lying on the aircraft’s metal floor.
Carlos was right; the Mercs had skills, that much was obvious.
A heavy hand prompted Kolt to stand and nudged him to the edge of the rear ramp. A slight push, and Kolt skipped off the edge and dropped a foot or so to the sandy soil of Pakistan. The powerful rotor blades kicked the fine dust up into a massive sand plume. Without any goggles to protect his eyes from the blistering particles, maybe the bag on the head wasn’t that bad after all.
Kolt was led up a rocky ridgeline along a small animal path. Still hooded, his view was limited to the area around his feet, but with about ten-percent illumination he really couldn’t see much. His night vision had yet to adjust, tripping a few times along the way. He knew the landing zone was supposed to be in Pakistan, but the place smelled no different than Afghanistan. A light musky aroma hung in the air. It was the kind of raw, fresh air not infected by mass industry and man-made machinery.
The Mercs moved in a line, roughly arm’s length apart and spanning the highest point of the rocky hillock. They lay down on their bellies and settled in behind their weapons, the 240B on the east side, the LMG on the west end. The Mercs were all business. They wore the oddball-looking four-monocular night-vision goggles famously worn by SEAL Team Six when bin Laden was smoked in Abbottabad. White-light discipline was observed.
A few minutes after reaching higher ground, Kolt heard the approach of the two follow on helos from the direction of what he assumed was west, coming from Afghanistan. Kolt knew these helos would be carrying the terrorists. The same terrorists critical to Kolt’s success in the next few days. As the helos positioned to touch down, Kolt tilted his head back just enough to observe touchdown.
K
olt watched the terrorists file off the tail ramp single file. They were a strange mix of Guantanamo detainees collected over time during the war on terror. Kolt noticed all had both arms secured behind their lower backs, certain a set of black plastic flex ties secured their wrists. A long light-colored rope, tied around each terrorist’s waist, linked them like ducks in a row. Each wore a black hood similar to Kolt’s, and he knew, under the hood, they would also have a white rag tied around their eyes and one in their mouth to keep them quiet. It was impossible for them to make a break for it. No, for the time being, falsely assuming they had just exited the freedom bird, they would remain as compliant as lambs.
A half minute later, the pair of two-door 1980s-era lemons appeared, un-assing the tail of the helos. A dark blue Toyota and a white one expertly maneuvered down the slightly angled tail ramp, gained the soil surface, and then drove across the sandy dirt to the main road. Choreographed perfectly, the three black MH-47Gs powered up, lifted off the sand, went nose down, and gained speed, heading west.
About twenty meters separated the white Toyota from the dark-blue one. Most of the terrorists were placed inside the trucks. A driver in both. A right-seater as well. Some in the bed of the trucks. A few were escorted by the arm and positioned in random areas around the vehicles, placed as if they had been thrown from a speeding train. Or maybe they had been able to get out once the shooting started? They might have been the brothers who tried to make a break for it. Allah would be proud.
Kolt noticed some of the Mercs scatter pocket litter on the ground in various spots before climbing the hill to link up with the others and lay down in position, where they could find a clear spot with good fields of fire down toward the Toyotas and bounded terrorists. He knew the litter would be doctored credentials, dated passports, worn pocket Korans, some black-and-white family photos, and documents confirming a recent stay at Hotel Gitmo. The drops would support the ruse, for sure. It was a mock-ambush scene that would have made a Hollywood stage manager pump his fist in triumph.