Full Assault Mode: A Delta Force Novel

by Dalton Fury

  “Dude, what the fuck is going on?”

  Startled after having dozed off sitting, just barely hearing the question over the booming helo static, Kolt sat straight up. Wrapped tightly in the blankets, he looked up directly into the menacing eyes of a helmeted, short-bearded operator.

  Kolt recognized him immediately but wasn’t really ready for any friendly interrogation. Who could blame the guy, though? Any Delta operator putting himself and his mates in harm’s way on a short-string mission would demand answers. Kolt was just happy his first interrogator was his old teammate Slapshot.

  Kolt knew his cover was blown. At least the identity part. It would be ridiculous to act as if he didn’t know his rescuers or as if he was anyone other than Kolt Raynor. Sure, he may be able to preserve his true Tungsten mission for a while, and he wasn’t about to offer more than required, but for the immediate time being he was just another old teammate who was still contributing to the war on terror. Timothy wouldn’t work with this audience. It might be in an unconventional manner, which hadn’t been uncommon for former unit members in the past few years, but his identity had to revert back to his given name at birth.

  “Good to see you, Slapshot,” Kolt yelled over the low roar of the helo’s Sikorsky engine. The helo was nicknamed the Silent Hawk, but it wasn’t entirely silent.

  Slapshot wasn’t about to settle for small talk. He took the customer headset by both earmuffs and placed it on Kolt’s head, moving the voice piece in front of his mouth and handing Kolt the push-to-talk.

  Slapshot keyed the mike, sending his comments across the troop internal net for all the operators to hear. “Kolt, first, you look like shit. Second, why are we even on the same helicopter again flying over this shithole country?”

  Kolt smiled and reached up to shake his hand like two very close old buddies.

  “Are you with the agency?” Slapshot said.

  Kolt noticed every operator’s helmeted head swivel toward the cockpit, probably amazed at what they had just heard over the troop net. Kolt keyed the mike. “No, no, I’m not, Slap,” he said as he shook his head side to side quickly.

  “State Department shit? Contractor? Pissed-off private citizen?” Slapshot asked, still confused and somewhat in shock to see his old troop commander under these circumstances.

  “Look, Slap, I know you can appreciate that it’s best for both of us if don’t say anything just yet. All I can tell you is, I’m not a shit bag; I’m not a traitor to my country or anything crazy like that.”

  Kolt had no idea what may have been said of Kolt around the building after he left for the Tungsten program, but after the Cherokee attack, it was certainly plausible that in certain circles, Kolt Raynor might be considered a damn traitor.

  “Dude, I know you aren’t a traitor,” Slapshot came back quickly as he grabbed Kolt’s shoulder and shook him as if he was ecstatic to see him again. “But you are one crazy bastard.”

  Kolt chuckled.

  “We’ll catch up on the ground,” Kolt said, nodding up and down.

  Slapshot just looked at Kolt. He knew very well the guy sitting in front of him. At least he used to. Only a few months or so had passed since they had seen each other, and every operator would tell you that Kolt Raynor seemed to fall off the face of the earth. That wasn’t entirely odd—most guys moved on without much fanfare, especially if an officer was heading to school for a year before coming back. Webber had told the command that very cover story to explain Kolt’s absence. The fact that Kolt had vanished without even saying goodbye was a bit hurtful, but then officers did what officers did. But what Slapshot did know was obvious.

  He knew Kolt’s every habit, good and bad. He knew his character, good and bad. He knew his commitment to his nation. And most important, he knew, as he pondered Kolt’s last comments, that if Kolt needed help, he would move mountains, ignore regulations, and risk it all to help him. After all, Slapshot knew damn well Kolt would do the same.

  “OK, Kolt,” Slapshot said. “I’ll find you at J-bad.” He removed the customer headset from Kolt’s head and hooked it back to the communications suite behind the jump seat.

  Almost having forgotten about the cold, the starboard-side-door gunner shifted in his seat and moved his machine gun slightly aft. The blistering wind blast smacked Kolt dead in the face.

  “Thanks, Slap,” Kolt yelled as he pulled the blankets up to his chin. “And thanks for understanding.”

  Slapshot turned and scooted on his kneepads back into the darkness, toward the aft of the helicopter, eased his ass down on the cold metal floor between several other jam-packed operators, and hooked his safety line back into the floor.

  Having landed at J-bad only an hour earlier, Kolt now felt like a caged animal. Even worse, he felt like any other prisoner scarfed up on the battlefield. He wondered who was behind his status of PUC—person under custody. Kolt found himself in some type of isolation. Most likely while the new Joint Special Operations commanding general was trying to wrap his hands around just what the hell was going on.

  Obviously, someone had gone to great lengths to preserve his status and his identity. It was no secret, though, and Kolt knew it. Half the guys on the helo that picked him up in Pakistan recognized him before he was helped onto the Black Hawk, as soon as the red light was flashed in his face. Now, sitting in the small and slightly damp room, he wondered how long his cover status would hold up.

  Kolt knew people wanted answers. Phone calls would be made. Folks would be whispering among themselves around the camp about the mysterious guy the world stopped for last night to fly into Pakistan and recover. Things are about to get interesting, he thought. But at least he was warm. Interesting or not, Kolt’s most pressing matter now was getting back to the States to stop Nadal the Romanian.

  Tungsten headquarters—Atlanta, Georgia

  Carlos could tell right away Admiral Mason was in no mood for any grab-assing inside the situation room of the secret Tungsten headquarters. Everyone else in the secure room sized up the situation pretty much the same way. Nobody dared open the discussion before the director.

  “Alright, listen up, all of you,” Mason barked, as if he was still in the military talking to a formation of young privates and sergeants. “As you know, this Raynor fella, I mean embed asset zero-seven-zero-six, set a top-secret distress signal in Pakistan. I just got off the phone with the special ops commander in Afghanistan, who has him in custody.”

  Carlos perked up immediately. More than anyone else in the organization, he had the most riding on Kolt. Everyone knew Carlos was Kolt’s handler. They also knew that if a handler’s asset completed an unprecedented mission like taking out Zawahiri, then the handler was looking at a quick promotion and a healthy bonus.

  But Carlos wasn’t thinking that pettily at the moment. Sure, he was concerned about whether Kolt had accomplished his mission, but he was also concerned about Kolt’s personal health. Everyone knew that 0706 was to locate Nadal the Romanian and, hopefully, to blend into his cell enough to learn the nuke plot. He was also under orders from Tungsten to take appropriate action should he come across Zawahiri; that was his first priority. That action being to terminate in cold blood. Then, and only then, was 0706 to seek extraction. Assuming he was even still alive.

  Carlos couldn’t help himself.

  “Sir, given the extraction protocol, has anyone confirmed if zero-seven-zero-six completed his mission?” Carlos asked as everyone looked toward him as if he was crazy for interrupting the director’s train of thought. Carlos figured that since Kolt was exfilling after less than two weeks in Pakistan, he had quite possibly located Zawahiri. And maybe, just maybe, he took the terrorist leader out.

  Pushing his luck a bit, Carlos quickly said, “And which mission did he complete?”

  Admiral Mason didn’t turn his head but cut his eyes toward Carlos in the back corner of the room. He wanted to respond with the guy’s name first, but he couldn’t remember if it was Carl or Carlton.

&nbs
p; “Negative. I mean, no. I have no confirmed information that he completed his mission.”

  Carlos continued as if the two of them were the only two people in the room.

  “So zero-seven-zero-six didn’t locate Nadal the Romanian and didn’t locate al-Zawahiri?” Carlos asked. “Why would he exfil, then, sir?”

  Director Mason ignored the question and looked toward the small seated audience of Tungsten’s top deputies. These were the same guys, and a couple of ladies, who had appreciated Kolt’s thought process and efforts to accomplish his mission at Cherokee. They seemed to be fully seated in Kolt’s corner. Carlos knew it. Mason sensed it.

  “Our assets in Kabul to brief the chief of station are en route to Jalalabad,” Mason said. “We’ll know for sure in a few hours, tops.”

  Jalalabad, Afghanistan

  Lieutenant General Seth Allen, the current JSOC commanding general, wasn’t impressed. The barrel-chested West Point grad and army three-star knew he wasn’t getting the full story. Not from the guy for whom he risked sending a force of very scarce helicopters and elite troops to recover across the border in Pakistan earlier that morning. Not from the mystery men dressed in part–Afghan slum, part–5.11 Tactical who had arrived a few hours ago from Kabul.

  Like his predecessor, Admiral Bill Mason, Lieutenant General Allen had been read on to Tungsten’s existence. But that’s where it ended. Allen knew nothing of the program’s details, who pulled its strings, or who padded its pockets. Sure, he had his assumptions, but now his smooth-running, war-fighting operations tempo had been interrupted, and he wanted answers.

  As General Allen sat uncomfortably inside his large tent-and-plywood command center, he evil-eyed the secret squirrel strangers. They had to be twenty years his junior and almost certainly CIA. In Tungsten circles, their official title was that of savior. The two, who were also strangers to Kolt Raynor, had deployed to Kabul to secretly brief the CIA’s chief of station about the potential to kill or capture Zawahiri.

  The general squirmed in the brown folding chair, trying to find comfort. To his guests from Kabul, he seemed almost bored by the details.

  “Say that again one more time,” General Allen said as he leaned forward on his elbows and pushed his coffee mug slightly to the side.

  “General Allen, sir, you fully understand this is a top-secret special-access program,” the stranger in the long dark coat and 5.11 khaki britches said in a slightly demeaning tone. “We are not authorized to divulge any more than is absolutely necessary to get the job done.”

  “Let me get this straight.” The general leaned back in his chair and clasped his fingers together as he placed them on the top of his head. “You wanted me to stop what this task force was doing and spin up a fixed-wing cross-border air-assault raid into Pakistani airspace to roll up a man whose name you aren’t even going to tell me? No pictures? No habits? Not even his favorite color or flavor of ice cream?”

  “Your point is well taken, General,” the shorter of the two visitors replied.

  “You’re damned right the point is taken!” General Allen barked as he leaned forward in his chair.

  The general lazily pointed toward Kolt. “Before we even break for breakfast, gentlemen, I want to know what the fuck is going on with Major Raynor here.”

  Taken back by the general’s reference to Kolt’s true name, the taller Tungsten official spoke up. “General, I know this must seem a little unorthodox to you.”

  “A little?” The general huffed. “This is a fucking circus.”

  “Sir, I am not at liberty to divulge this gentleman’s exact mission. Suffice to say, he is on an executive-level, priority, singleton mission for the United States of America,” the taller savior said with as much conviction as he could muster and using as many high-level buzzwords as he could spit out without compromising Kolt’s mission.

  General Allen was a seasoned operator. He knew as well as anyone how things worked in Washington, and he certainly understood and respected established protocol. “OK, fella, what’s his target? What’s his mission?”

  “His target is the senior leadership of AQ,” the Tungsten savior replied.

  “Bullshit!” the general bellowed. “How can this guy find the needle in the haystack that this very task force and the world’s entire intelligence apparatus combined haven’t been able to locate in the last twelve, thirteen years?”

  Kolt knew the general’s reputation. Special operations was a very small community. He figured it was no surprise they knew of his mission. After all, word travels fast when a former unit member is plucked out of Pakistan by a bunch of his former coworkers.

  * * *

  Kolt stood up, more for effect than anything else, and walked over to the general’s table. He leaned on the front edge and looked the general in the eye and smiled slightly. “Sir, it’s no longer Major Raynor, but I’m humbled by the reference.”

  Kolt continued. “A few days ago I stood within an arm’s reach of Ayman al-Zawahiri.”

  “Where?” the general quickly asked. “Near Quetta?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kolt answered calmly, almost surprised that the general didn’t call him a flat-out liar. “A small village in Gulistan, west of Quetta.”

  “Gulistan?” The general was astonished. “Where is the intel? What proof do you have?”

  Here it comes, Kolt thought. Before he could answer, one of the saviors stepped forward and interrupted them.

  “General, you can appreciate the fact that we can’t discuss any further details,” he said very formally. “We don’t have the authority, and frankly, sir, you don’t have a need to know just yet.”

  The general stood immediately. “What kind of candy-ass game do you guys think you are playing here?”

  His face turned red, and his eyebrows narrowed to a point above his nose. “Is this some kind of State Department dick dance or something?”

  The savior answered professionally. “Sir, you know that is not the case.” He continued. “I think it is best if you speak directly to our director. I can arrange a secure line through to Ambassador Mason.”

  “Mason?” the general asked, obviously shocked by the news. “Retired Vice Admiral Bill Mason?”

  If there was anyone in the room more shocked than the general by what the savior had just revealed, it was easily Kolt. Did he just say Bill Mason?

  Kolt turned his head quickly toward the savior sitting down. The savior looked back, somewhat startled by Kolt’s look. He had no idea Kolt didn’t know who the director of Tungsten was. Moreover, he had no knowledge of Kolt’s checkered past with Bill Mason.

  Kolt turned back toward the general but didn’t respond. The savior still seated nodded in the affirmative as the speaking savior verbally confirmed Kolt’s worst nightmare.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” the general said as he leaned back in his seat and looked toward Kolt. “That’s where that son of a bitch went to.”

  * * *

  It didn’t take long to arrange for the secure phone call between the current JSOC commander, General Seth Allen, and his predecessor in that same billet, the retired vice admiral Bill Mason, who sat comfortably at his desk in the Five Points neighborhood in downtown Atlanta. The JSOC commander’s last comments about Mason made Kolt wonder. He wasn’t sure if the general thought Mason was a jackass or if the two men were longtime buddies.

  After a little catching up on the phone, Ambassador Mason and the general got down to business. In about ten minutes, Mason was ready to blow his stack. He had kind of hoped the general would provide a clue that Kolt had completed his mission of neutralizing Zawahiri. Instead, he only learned that Kolt had aborted his opportunity to do just that.

  Admiral Mason had had about enough of Kolt Raynor for one career, but it seemed to the retired navy man that a change in uniform wasn’t enough to escape the escapades and shenanigans of the former maverick Delta troop commander.

  “Raynor says he knows where HVI number
one is,” General Allen said. “In a remote village west of Quetta, Pakistan, but he can’t provide any more details—rather, he won’t provide any more details.”

  The general continued. “He says, and two of your central casting goons are saying, I need to launch into this village and kill or capture Zawahiri.”

  Admiral Mason had to be careful. Notwithstanding their longtime friendship, he knew he couldn’t bullshit the general. Holding all the cards close to his chest was his only option. Besides, just as the savior told the general earlier, he didn’t have a need to know.

  “Look, Seth, I need your help here. Raynor works for me, and that’s about all I can tell you. You’ll have to speak to the secretary of defense if you need to know anything else.”

  “Yeah, Bill, I kinda got that feeling from your two henchmen who showed up from Kabul,” the general remarked. “Where did you get those characters, anyway?”

  “Just go easy on those guys, will ya?” Mason asked. “And hold on to Raynor for me. I’ll get back to you within the hour.”

  “Alright, Bill, but I’m going back to normal business around here in the meantime,” the general answered. “I’ll try to keep the circus your man has brought to town under control.”

  My man? Mason thought. I guess he is. “Thanks, Seth, I’ll be in touch.”

  * * *

  The National Command Authority wasn’t too happy with Tungsten’s report from Embed Asset 0706. Kolt’s revelation to the JSOC commander, Lieutenant General Seth Allen, that he had positively identified Zawahiri from as close as two feet away met with exasperation and discontent at the highest levels. At Tungsten’s Atlanta, Georgia, headquarters, Bill Mason took it as a personal embarrassment. For the second time in his life, he took an ass chewing over a secure line from the vice president. Both times, he had Kolt Raynor to thank for it.