by Dalton Fury
Kolt’s decision to temporarily divert from his primary mission to some half-baked United States–based terrorist attack was pretty Delta-like. More specifically, it was very much Kolt-like. His file was full of actions like this. Robin Hood–like acts where the decision of right and wrong, good versus evil, execute or abort was saved solely for him.
Ambassador Bill Mason, lacking any further details, considered these acts nothing more than fuel for the arrogant personal self-interest of Kolt Raynor. But, as usual, Kolt saw things differently. According to him, he was acting exactly how a warrior should. And to Kolt, if you didn’t carry warrior creds yourself, you should not be second-guessing someone who does.
Around a beautiful mahogany table, in the same boardroom in which Carlos talked Kolt into taking on Shadow Blink, Tungsten’s senior staff—not a warrior in the bunch—openly questioned Kolt’s actions. The room was full of slightly overweight coffee drinkers trading snide comments and cries of failure. What was he thinking? Why didn’t he execute the mission? Carlos and the psychs at Tungsten, though, were less worried. They knew Kolt’s file best. After all, it was their job to handle him.
The Tungsten psych reminded the group of this type of consistent behavior in Kolt’s profile. He wasn’t surprised that Kolt would make a decision like this and openly questioned why anyone would expect otherwise. To hold off on his priority mission in order to save the lives of others was characteristic of Kolt according to the records kept by the Delta psych Doc Johnson for many years. The problem now was that the Tungsten psych actually read the entire inch-thick file. He wondered if anyone else had and pondered, Who could question a man in Kolt’s position?
Ambassador Mason could. He had been surprised that Kolt was recruited into Tungsten in the first place. But he wasn’t surprised that Kolt chose what rules to follow and which ones to ignore. Deep down, Mason blamed Kolt for his early retirement from the navy. He also blamed Kolt for his not being named Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff—a position Mason had politicked for years for and one that came with a fourth shiny star. Mason was fully willing to grind the axe into the Kolt voodoo doll some more.
“This guy has always been a maverick of sorts. He likes to march to his own drummer,” the ambassador stated to the small crowd, obviously trying to impress everyone present that he didn’t need to read the file. He already knew all about Embed Asset 0706’s history and capability.
“How in the world did he ever get in this program?” he questioned pointedly. “Didn’t you guys read his performance file?” he demanded as he looked slowly around the room before locking eyes on the psychologist.
“Yes, sir, we did. Extensively so.” The Tungsten psych respectfully answered Bill Mason’s obviously rhetorical question. “That’s exactly why we recruited him. However, sir, with all due respect, zero-seven-zero-six is in seminal space here.”
“How so?” Mason blurted out with a dismissive hand wave.
“Well, sir, he is the first Tungsten operative to accept a singleton mission on this level. We are asking him to sacrifice himself for a problem his country, and might I specifically add the CIA, couldn’t solve in the last fifteen years.”
Admiral Mason fidgeted in his seat as he struggled to find something authoritative to say.
The psych continued with a leveled voice. “I’m just saying, sir, maybe we owe the gentleman the benefit of the doubt here. His service record seems to have earned him at least that much.”
As the debate continued, Carlos was sure of one thing. If Kolt ever got wind that Mason was running Tungsten, they’d lose him. Carlos couldn’t imagine a scenario where the hard charging operator would stay under Mason’s command, but then again, miracles did happen.
TWENTY-SIX
As one of the company’s black Crown Vics tooled south down busy Interstate 75 and into the heart of Atlanta, Kolt Raynor stared out the passenger window, at nothing in particular, feeling like a high school kid on his first date and afraid he would say something stupid. Because if his handler Carlos wasn’t going to be cordial, not even engage in small talk, he figured he would match the attitude.
What’s with the cold shoulder?
In fact, since Kolt stepped off the back of the C-5M Super Galaxy at Dobbins Air Reserve base only forty-five minutes ago, met the Crown Vic, and jumped in the passenger seat, Carlos hadn’t said a word. Kolt knew it was overkill to catch a ride on one of the largest military aircraft in the world; he would have been just as happy spread out in the back of a C130 cargo plane—he was going to rack out the entire way, anyway. Tungsten must have pulled a puppet playhouse’s worth of strings to borrow the only military aircraft that could make it from the ’Stan, taking the Arctic Circle route, and land on the East Coast without hitting a single strategic tanker. All that for one man could mean only one thing.
Mason must want a major piece of my ass!
After pulling into the covered three-story parking garage and finding a spot near the center elevator, Kolt and Carlos stepped out of the car. Kolt followed Carlos, not surprised by the way his tweed jacket had been tailored perfectly to fit snug to his upper body. He had to give it to the old man, he was obviously passing on home-cooked seconds and doing his crunches.
After taking the elevator to the basement level, they walked a good ways down a damp, narrow hallway that obviously hadn’t been swept in years given the dirt buildup on the edges and the musty smell. Kolt watched Carlos slide a key in the shoulder-high dead-bolt lock and a different one in the dead bolt just above the door. Carlos led the way into a small white-walled anteroom with several leak-stained egg-white ceiling tiles on either side of the fluorescent light above them, stepped in front of what looked like a proximity biometric scanner on the wall near the steel door, and placed his access badge near the IR light module.
Once the light flashed green, Carlos placed his feet on the two green-painted shoe prints near the iris scanner and leaned forward to center his eyes. Kolt heard the lock disengage and tailgated Carlos into the headquarters. Kolt was impressed by the discreetness of Tungsten headquarters, but was too jet-lagged and too lucky to be alive to put up with the silent treatment for another moment.
“Alright, Carlos, are we secure enough to talk now?” Kolt said, not trying to hide the sarcasm from Carlos.
“Let’s get inside the briefing room first, Kolt,” Carlos said, turning to walk away.
“No fucking way, Carlos, you tell me what the hell is going on, or I’m walking back out that door and you guys can have this shit,” Kolt said.
“Look, Kolt, there is something you need to know.”
“You found Cindy Bird?” Kolt asked. “Is she alive?”
“No, Kolt. I wish I could say we did find Bird, but this is something else,” Carlos said.
“What, someone have their panties in a wad over me not killing myself?” Kolt said. “Screw them! I’ve had enough of this Mickey Mouse second-guessing.”
“Take it easy, Kolt,” Carlos said. “Nobody is pissed at you. We are happy to see you, in fact.”
“Then what’s with the kids’ games?”
“William Mason ring a bell to you?” Carlos asked.
Kolt looked at Carlos, wondering why he would ask that since he knew Mason was the major reason he was no longer in the Unit.
“Of course. Why?” Kolt asked.
“He is the new director of Tungsten,” Carlos said, looking behind him to ensure nobody was in hearing distance. “He is waiting for us in the conference room.”
“Yeah, I know that, Carlos,” Kolt said. “Who gives a shit? Let’s get on with it.”
* * *
As Kolt and Carlos entered the back door to the darkened conference room, Kolt wasn’t surprised to see Miss Peabody again, front and center, like a fine-haired, poised cat. Kolt remained in the back of the room, not wanting to interrupt the briefing, and listened to her spit out buzzword after buzzword for thirty seconds or so while her pink form-fitting skin-tight tank tempted every
man in the room. Obviously, it was a good bit nippier in the room than it really felt.
Off to her left, Kolt noticed one of the plasma screens was on. A bespectacled middle-aged man, his wire-rimmed glasses slipped to the edge of his pointed nose and his high hairline running away from his white collared shirt, sat fairly motionless at a table in a nondescript room. Behind him and above his head, several large digital clocks with red font hung on the wall. Focused on the papers neatly stacked in front of him, Kolt hadn’t noticed the stranger look up at the camera a single time yet.
“Excuse me, sir,” Carlos interrupted, “I believe you have met our newest embed before?”
Kolt watched Bill Mason at the head of the conference table reach up and push the mute button on the video-teleconference speaker, barely acknowledging Carlos’s comment. Kolt stepped up, barely making eye contact with Mason, took a seat at the table, and cracked the half-liter Niagara bottled water to his front.
“Continue, please,” Mason said to the briefer in pink as he tapped the button again.
“Well, yes, sir,” she said. “Our recommendation is, we stand down from the nuke plot and refocus our assets on finding, fixing, and finishing HVI number one.”
“Agreed!” Mason blurted. “Effective immediately, in fact.”
Kolt cut his long swallow of water off abruptly at hearing Mason’s reply, spilling spring water down the front of his shirt.
What the fuck?
Kolt quickly looked at Carlos, trying to make sense of what he had just heard. Carlos didn’t move a muscle or say a word, allowing Kolt to assume he agreed with Miss Peabody’s recommendation and with Mason’s decision.
“Sir, if I may,” Kolt said, turning toward Mason. “I respectfully disagree with that course of action.”
Mason reached for the VTC mute button again.
“Is that so, young man?” Mason said as he set his pen down.
The elephant in the room was just too intense to ignore, and although Mason so far seemed to be maintaining his professionalism, not letting on to the others that he had any history with 0706, Kolt could see the hate in his eyes.
“Look, sir, Director, Admiral,” Kolt said. “Hell, I’m not even sure how to address you these days.”
“It’s still Admiral,” Mason shot back.
“Look, Admiral, I obviously didn’t get a chance to hear the analyst’s brief, so I’m not sure exactly why we would be standing down. I assume Nadal the Romanian has been picked up by somebody or was struck by a drone somewhere?”
“That assumption is incorrect,” Mason said. “But it is no assumption that your efforts, to date, are the reason we are sitting here tonight.”
What? That son of a bitch! Kolt wanted to detonate, but took a deep breath and gave way to Mason after getting the vibe from Carlos to settle down. Going ballistic now wasn’t going to do anybody any good, especially Kolt. In fact, it would probably be the quickest way to unemployment.
“Sir, with all due respect,” Kolt said. “I have about gotten my ass shot off at least three times, from Yemen to South Carolina to Pakistan, hunting for Nadal. In my humble opinion, that’s the reason we are here tonight.”
“God damn it, Raynor!” Mason barked, slamming his fist against the conference table. “That’s enough insubordination from you. My decision is final: You will stand down Raynor, or”—
“Or what, sir?” Kolt said. “You’ll court-martial me like you tried to a few months ago?”
“Enough!” Mason barked.
“Kolt, take it easy,” Carlos said. “We can handle this like adults.”
“I’m good, Carlos,” Kolt said, looking at his handler and then back to Mason. “Just having a professional conversation among two adults that seems to confirm we have differing professional opinions.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve made my decision,” Mason said as he gathered his files and stood to leave. “I will call the SECDEF immediately to inform him. We are late as it is.”
Kolt stood as well, not because he had much respect for Mason, but because Carlos and the others did. Kolt watched Mason and another gentleman exit the room by the front door before he heard Carlos speak.
“I’m not sure what just happened here,” Carlos said. “But everyone please take your seat.”
Kolt wasn’t in the mood to keep the games going and was actually debating whether to just throw in the towel, put Tungsten and Mason as far behind him as possible.
Screw that!
“Can somebody turn the damn lights on?” Kolt said, looking around the room.
Miss Peabody stepped quickly to the light knob, bringing the lights up before killing the laptop on the podium and the projection on the screen.
“Kolt, I’m pretty certain Director Mason will not budge on this,” Carlos said.
“Damn it, Carlos, that makes no sense,” Kolt said, turning to Peabody.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry. I should know your name by now,” Kolt said.
“Alexandria,” she said. “Alex for short.”
“OK, I’m Kolt. Pleased to meet you again,” Kolt said, knowing she had briefed him twice before but never letting it get too relaxed. “Let’s go over what we know. Would you mind doing that for me?”
“Umm, no, I guess not,” Alex said.
“Nadal al-Romani. Any update on his location?” Kolt asked.
“Not exactly. Some say still in Pakistan; some say he has already entered the U.S.”
“OK. Any new SIGINT?”
“Well, the same day you fled the training camp, NSA intercepted a phone call between what they believe to be two terrorists associated with Nadal,” Alex said.
“Anything?” Kolt asked.
“The translation was inconclusive, but most opinions are that they were coordinating picking up somebody important today or tomorrow,” Alex said.
“What about Sacred Indian?” Kolt asked. “I won’t hold you to it, but what is your best guess on that?”
“Well, we ran it through the nation’s critical-energy-infrastructure database, including all electricity, petroleum, and natural gas plants. The words ‘Sacred Indian’ didn’t hit—no matches, or even the slightest indicator of any connection.”
“That’s crazy,” Kolt said, looking at Carlos simply to not make it so obvious his eyes were drifting down Alex’s pink tank. “We’re missing something. I feel it. These bastards are not satisfied with just Cherokee.”
“Some of our analysts believe ‘Sacred Indian’ is not really a code at all but interpret it as any large public gathering, like a large festival or even political rally. The ethnic inference to places like Indian Point Power Plant, near where the bodies washed up, or the Cherokee plant near Gaffney, South Carolina, is a no-brainer. But we think those two targets are off the table now. Some are even wondering if the phrase was recorded correctly by Nadal, believing the word ‘sacred’ might really be the word ‘scared.’ They’re running that weak thread through the databases now,” Carlos said, seemingly trying to give Alex an assist as she collected her thoughts.
Kolt thought about it, running everything through his head one more time. The capture of Ghafour, the washed-up swimmers on the shore of the Hudson, the bus ride with Nadal in Yemen, the attack with Farooq, his and Joma’s surprise meeting with Ayman al-Zawahiri. There was just too much to point to a second nuke plot, this one not yet uncovered.
“There is one thing interesting we learned the other day,” Alex said, breaking Kolt’s train of thought. “Probably nothing, though.”
“Nothing too small at the moment,” Kolt said.
“Well, the FBI sent us some fuzzy images of a hooded man pumping gas in Shiloh, Tennessee, just this morning,” Alex said. “Possibly a match on Joma.”
“My Joma?” Kolt said, jumping out of his seat. “Joma from the Cherokee attack?”
“We think so,” Carlos said.
“That’s something to work with, then,” Kolt said. “I’m telling you guys, an attack on U.S. soil is imminen
t.” Kolt saw Joma clear as day, sleeping beside him in the tent in the training camp in Pakistan. Kolt had made the call to not kill Z-man or Joma, but to instead make it back to the U.S. to disrupt the nuclear attack. He was still certain it had been the right call, although he couldn’t say 100 percent.
“Kolt, look, maybe you are just too close this whole thing,” Carlos said, trying to keep things in perspective.
“Bullshit, Carlos!” Kolt said, turning back to Alex. “Besides the Civil War monuments and a few hundred tourists on a holiday weekend, what the hell is near Shiloh that a terrorist would be interested in?”
“An energy plant,” Alex said. “Yellow Creek nuclear power station.”
“No shit?” Kolt said, fist pumping for a second.
“But it’s not in Tennessee,” Alex said. “It’s about ten miles south of Shiloh, just across the Mississippi border.”
“That’s it. That’s gotta be the explanation for Sacred Indian.”
“I don’t know, Kolt,” Carlos said, not sold just yet.
“Carlos, it fits. The other terrorist, Abdul, must have already built the target folder on the plant, doing the reconnaissance piece for the attack cell months ago before he was killed,” Kolt said, entirely confident in what he was saying and knowing they had nothing better at the moment. “Maybe Abdul couldn’t read English or Nadal couldn’t understand him?”
“Well, maybe,” Carlos said.
“I can see that,” Alex said. “Nadal must have misspelled the first word of the code phrase when he scribbled it in the notebook. He meant to write the word ‘scared’ instead of the word ‘sacred.’”
“Scared Indian!” Kolt said. “Kindergarten code for ‘yellow creek.’”
“Come again, Kolt?” Carlos said. “Nadal wrote it three times.”
“I agree.” Alex stepped in. “‘Yellow’ is to ‘scared’ as ‘creek’ is to ‘Indian.’”
Kolt chugged the rest of the water and headed for the door. “I need a car, a cell phone loaded with Raptor X and those relevant phone numbers, and some alias-backstopped government creds. Carlos, get me into Yellow Creek tomorrow morning. Tell them the president wants a vulnerability assessment done or something. Whatever. Please, just make it happen.”