Full Assault Mode: A Delta Force Novel

by Dalton Fury

  Oh, my!

  But the driver, more powerful than she expected him to be at this moment, suddenly shuddered. She knew he certainly was stunned by the penetration into his upper neck. It had taken a full two inches of her heel, this she was certain of.

  It obviously wasn’t enough to put an end to Hawk’s misery.

  Holding on as tight as she could to both ends of the paracord, she pulled with all her remaining strength, pushing the heel end of her stiletto deeper.

  She felt the man fall forward toward the steering wheel, pulling Hawk’s foot from her heel while leaving the heel embedded. Regardless of what had penetrated his upper neck, the terrorist obviously recovered from the initial shock quickly, and he certainly wasn’t dead yet.

  “NO!” Hawk screamed as she looked directly at the business end of a stainless steel semiauto pistol held high over the terrorist’s head. It was wobbling, showing the terrorist was having trouble blindly aiming at the psycho bitch in the backseat.

  Two shots rang out.

  Hawk slid the olive-green and tactical-tan military-grade paracord back to her from around the terrorist’s neck, leaving the heel embedded several inches inside the man’s brain.

  She then pulled one of the running ends to her until she felt the plastic end. She moved it toward her lips, took a deep breath, and started to blow.

  * * *

  The Yellow Creek security officers in elevated, ballistically protected positions opened fire after seeing the Durango crash through several layers of protective fencing and razor wire. Small arms fire, all .223 caliber bullets fired from Colt-model assault rifles, entered the front fenders and hood, tearing small holes into sections of the heavy-laden SUV engine. The shooters were nervous, but the advanced thermal sights mounted on the top of the rifles’ upper receivers ensured they didn’t miss often.

  Three rounds tore into Joma’s 7.62-level IV-rated body armor protecting his vital area. The armor did its job, stopping penetration, but leaving severe blunt trauma on his chest cavity. He had expected this and was well prepared. But the round he couldn’t defend against was the one that found his left upper thigh muscle. Barely slowed by the Durango’s thin steel doors, the copper bullet sliced his femoral artery in half and exited the underside of his leg. A two-inch-diameter exit wound ensured he began losing blood fast.

  But he had already succeeded. He didn’t have to ram the truck into the large tanks. He didn’t even have to get within a vehicle’s distance. One hundred feet was close enough. Farooq had told him more than a month ago that the TNT-packed, vehicle-borne IED would leave a large blast hole in the asphalt drive, but that wouldn’t cause a meltdown. What would be critical, and a done deal, is if the blast overpressure buckled the three-eighth-inch-thin metal circular makeup tanks’ walls nearby. Once disfigured, gravity and the sheer force of the thousands of gallons of makeup water inside the tanks would buckle the rivets. The tanks would rupture, and water would flow out at 650 gallons a minute. Without the water, in less than an hour, the aluminum fuel assemblies holding the nuclear fuel rods deep inside the reactor’s core would overheat. Eventually, melt the container rods. Eventually, create a radiological catastrophe that would impact hundreds of thousands for generations to come.

  If the officers had only spotted the vehicle earlier. Maybe taken some shots to flatten the tires, slow it enough to allow others’ overlapping cross-fire to finish the job. Or maybe taken out the driver. Anything to prevent the truck from coming within a hundred feet of the large tanks.

  * * *

  Cheers went up inside the command center as the DI 5000 thermal-analytic security cameras slewed to cue, remaining fixed on the smoking Durango. Officials threw their hands in the air, ecstatic to see the red box locked on the display screen and the heat of their officers’ bullets tearing into the vehicle’s engine block. Certainly happy at what had just been done there were high fives for everyone. To them, the protective strategy had worked. It was sound. Its effectiveness was something they always argued about but that was difficult to prove short of an actual attack. The truck bomb was stopped; the terrorists had failed.

  Kolt knew it was too close, though. He looked at the camera screen closely, then back to the large overhead photo on the wall. Then he looked at the close-to-scale terrain model off to the side. Too close. The VBIED was still too close. If not too close to the tanks, then possibly to everyone in this building.

  Kolt bolted through the crash-barred door and exited the central alarm station without saying a word. There was no time to discuss it. No time to evacuate plant employees, or even to make a plant announcement over the PA system to move away from the northeast corner of the protected area and the imminent blast.

  Kolt ran past post 7, who was located in a ballistic-steel, V-angled defensive position with his protective mask already donned. Kolt gained the covered stairwell, descended two flights of stairs, and exited, turning down a hallway near the cafeteria. He hadn’t passed anyone else by the time he exited the administration building into the courtyard at full gait.

  He sprinted toward a thirty-foot-high ballistic enclosure, passing directly underneath, yelling as he ran.

  “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

  An armed officer inside a ballistic tower at three hundred yards’ distance, the one on the northwest corner of the plant, opened up. It was impossible for him to discriminate between friend or foe. Kolt was wearing civilian clothing. He obviously wasn’t a security guard. The shooter could at least determine that. All plant employees were drilled in what to do when under attack. They knew to take cover and stay there, something they demonstrated numerous times during their own mock exercise attacks. So, to the armed responder a few football fields away, a man running at full speed across the opened protected area could be nothing but a terrorist.

  Bullets kicked up the ground around Kolt’s boots as they slapped the asphalt with each long stride. He reached the Durango and grabbed the driver’s-side door, yanking it open. The terrorist was still alive. His gray pants were puddled in blood from the exit wound on his left leg. The black body armor was shredded in three different spots, two in the chest and one over the upper belly. His right shoulder was covered in blood. His breathing labored.

  What the hell!

  “Joma?” Kolt said as soon as he looked at the driver’s face.

  Kolt reached for the back passenger door and yanked it open. There it was. Where the backseats were before, three simple wooden crates filled the area, each the size of an average microwave oven. Wires protruded from the top of each box and met in the middle. Red duct tape held the wires together as they snaked into a black plastic box. The green LED readout was obvious. The numbers showed 14—fourteen seconds.

  Kolt couldn’t believe his luck. It had been several seconds since he looked at the timer. The number wasn’t changing; it seemed stuck on 14. For some unexplained reason, the VBIED counter had stopped before detonating.

  Euphoric about his good luck, Kolt turned his attention to Joma. Kolt knew better than to leave the bomb where it was. Anything could trigger it. He had to move it. Get it out of the protected area. If it ultimately exploded, preventing any negative effects on any safety-shutdown equipment was critical. Besides, Kolt knew that for EOD techs to be successful in disarming the bomb, they would need it much farther away from the nuclear fuel rods inside the reactor and the spent-fuel rods in the spent-fuel pool.

  No, the VBIED had to go.

  Kolt grabbed Joma by the chest armor with his right hand and pulled the terrorist slightly toward him, leaning over and unbuckling the seat belt. With both hands, Kolt tugged until Joma lost his grip on the steering wheel. Kolt hadn’t seen the handcuffs securing his right wrist to the steering column. He grabbed the cuffs and shook them, tugging vigorously, trying to pull them loose. No luck.

  Kolt thought about asking Joma for the key. Or even digging into his pockets for them. He quickly figured that wouldn’t work. He had one option left.

  Kolt g
rabbed Joma’s left arm and left pant leg. He pulled Joma off his seat and let his body collapse to the ground next to driver’s-side foot step. Joma’s right arm was still tethered to the steering column, the only part of his body still inside the Durango.

  Kolt started to step into the vehicle. He sat in the bloodstained driver’s seat and heard a tone of three beeps. Instinctively, he looked into the rearview mirror. The green LED clock now read 13. Somehow, the bomb had reactivated and the timer was ticking down.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” said Kolt.

  Kolt instantly knew he blew it. He was unaware of the dead-man’s switch Joma was likely connected to. It must have been inside the seat, the weight of a human controlling the firing sequence. He was severely aggravated at himself for being so sloppy. Nothing he could do but to get the VBIED as far from the tanks as possible.

  Kolt turned the key. Nothing. The engine refused to turn over. The smell of radiator fluid mixed with the acrid smell of fresh blood. Kolt threw it in neutral. He stepped out of the Durango and turned to face the front of the vehicle, reaching back in to place his right hand on the wheel. He braced his left hand against the door jam. And he pushed. And pushed. The flat front tires gave Kolt trouble. As did Joma’s pooling blood on the street. Kolt’s boot treads had no luck in gaining purchase.

  The flat tires inched forward slowly. Kolt’s leg and back muscles gave every full measure. The vehicle had only moved one, maybe two feet. He looked back at the green LED. He watched it tick through the final seconds. Five, four, three …

  Kolt knew he was finished. Sweat beads dripped from his forehead. But he was surprisingly calm. There was no need to run. Nor was there any point, really. In two seconds, the VBIED would detonate, sending vehicle debris and body parts sky-high and scattering them for a thousand feet in all directions. Worse than Kolt’s death would be the destruction of the makeup-water tanks and the hundreds of thousands of deaths that would come from the nuclear meltdown.

  Two, one. Kolt gripped the steering wheel tighter. He pushed harder, trying to gain some rolling momentum. Even another foot or two might protect the tanks from the blast. He knew he was still too close. But it was hopeless. He was out of options. The VBIED would detonate, killing dozens at the plant, eventually killing hundreds of thousands.

  Kolt closed his eyes. He thought of TJ, his best friend and teammate who had died six months earlier as they wrestled with Amriki outside Andrews Air Force Base as the president approached in Marine One. A flash of Cindy’s face came over him. He was clearly disappointed that he was unable to save her. She would certainly be killed now. Kolt said his good-byes in an instant, knowing Joma was heading for hell and wondering if he wasn’t himself.

  Zero.

  Kolt tensed up. He waited another second, certain the bomb was just a moment or two late. Maybe a faulty wire or some other unseen problem that would fix itself momentarily. He was happy for the delay. He thought of heaven and Jesus before the faces of so many teammates killed in action flashed before his eyes.

  But still nothing. No massive explosion. And no obvious explanation.

  Five seconds, then ten, then fifteen seconds passed. Kolt opened his eyes.

  What the fuck?

  A dud. It must be. Or had Kolt been had. Not just him, but all the armed security officers at the plant had been duped. This Dodge Durango was a rabbit VBIED. A fake. A similar vehicle to the real one used to draw attention away from the actual bomb.

  Kolt reached down to Joma, who was still chained to the steering column. A long shot, but it was all he had now to connect him to Cindy.

  He pulled Joma’s clean-shaven face close to his.

  “Open your eyes!” demanded Kolt.

  No response. Joma was barely breathing. He had lost a lot of blood.

  Kolt shook him violently. “Wake the fuck up, you son of a bitch!” screamed Kolt. “Where the hell is she? Where is the real bomb?”

  A faint grin came over Joma’s ashen face. Both eyes opened slightly. Joma coughed. Blood seeped out of the corner of his mouth—he was struggling to stay alive. The emergency sirens began wailing, loud enough to reach five separate counties in a ten-mile radius.

  “What’s so funny?” demanded Kolt, straining to hear under the booming sirens.

  “Brother Timothy, you are here,” Joma said. “I knew you would not desert me.”

  “Joma, where is the bomb?” Kolt said again.

  “We tricked them,” Joma said. “Nadal put the real bomb with your wife. Allah willing, she will make the sacrifice for all of us.”

  Kolt heard about every other word, but he had heard enough to snap. He back-fisted Joma across his boney face with his right hand. Shook him hard with his left. Strangely, for a moment Kolt wasn’t sure if he was more worried about finding Cindy or about finding the real VBIED.

  “Where is the real bomb?”

  “It is over,” Joma whispered. “Allah has decided.”

  “Allah don’t decide shit, asshole!” Kolt said as he watched what was obviously the final breath exhale from Joma’s lungs. Kolt let go. Joma dropped limply back to the ground, half his body still in the driver’s doorway.

  Kolt froze. His mind raced. Think Kolt. Think. He knew he had been tricked. So far, he’d only stopped the fake bomb. The real one was still out there. Somewhere. Maybe it was about to blow. Kolt needed to find it.

  That’s it! A second black Dodge Durango. It must be. Joma likely didn’t know which of the two was the real bomb or which one was the rabbit. Either would require full commitment to Allah to attack the plant.

  Kolt bolted toward the main access facility, darting in and out of the long shadows. Minimal safety lighting was starting to come on as the backup generators kicked in. High mast lights, sixty feet in the air, slowly powered up.

  Running left toward the gravel roadway, Kolt hit the paved walkway at full stride. He passed the plant’s lighted and flashing LED TARGET ZERO and SAFETY-CONSCIOUS WORK ENVIRONMENT signs on his left. According to the flashing red block numbers, the plant hadn’t had a lost-time accident in six years.

  Kolt entered the double glass doors, stepped forward to the card swipe, and fumbled with his badge around his neck. C’mon, c’mon.

  “Cease fire! Cease fire!” Kolt yelled, to ensure he wasn’t fired upon by the security officers in the building.

  Kolt swiped his magnetic badge from left to right. It seemed like a lifetime before the audible click was heard, unlocking the turnstiles. Kolt stepped in and pushed the horizontal steel bars forward, baby-stepping along with the turnstile as it opened.

  Kolt blew right through the portal monitor that tested for radiation contamination and hit the crash bar on the tinted glass door at full stride. Seconds later, he was outside the building standing on the edge of the parking lot, near a long line of four-foot-tall, poured concrete blocks that served as security barriers.

  Kolt’s head quickly swiveled from side to side.

  A large crowd full of commotion had gathered. Kolt figured it had to be the standard rallying point for the employees in the event of an on-site emergency. A place to account for everyone. To get a head count and determine who was missing. Kolt figured that at least forty or fifty plant employees were already gathered there.

  As Kolt approached the crowd, he saw uniformed men in distinctive tan over tan. He heard them tell everyone to sit down and not move.

  It has to be close. Kolt quickly realized that during an attack, this area quickly became the most active and populated spot on the entire property. Moreover, every employee or visitor had to pass this spot coming or going. Where else would the terrorist park a vehicle bomb? This was the perfect place. Kolt jumped on the engine hood of a nearby Ford F-150 and stood to scan the area, searching for the other black Durango. He started on the left, panning to the right, hoping to get lucky and spot the right vehicle.

  From only twenty feet away, Kolt noticed a second black Dodge Durango idling quietly in a handicap parking spot. The vehicle ru
nning lights were on. Its back windows were tinted dark. But Kolt couldn’t make out anyone in the driver’s seat through the windshield.

  But more obvious was the wheel jam pressed down to just above the tire tread. The fender covered several inches of the tire tread. Kolt looked at the front-end fender gap. It was twice the size. That’s it. Had to be. The heavy weight of the bomb in the back of the Durango served to lift the front nose of the vehicle while depressing the rear of the vehicle uncharacteristically low. He couldn’t believe his luck.

  Kolt sprinted toward the vehicle, entirely oblivious to the danger ahead. If it was the real bomb, they were all dead.

  Kolt stopped at the left rear window. He heard an odd whistling sound, sporadic and uneven. It seemed like it was coming from behind the vehicle, or even from inside. He put his hands up to cover the streetlights as he peered through the tinted window and into the backseat.

  He saw the same three wooden boxes, the same wires, the same small box with green LED readout. This one was also steadily counting down.

  Kolt tried the back door, but it was locked. He turned his back toward the vehicle, raised his right elbow, and crashed it against the window. Safety glass shattered but remained attached to the polymer-tinted laminate. Kolt elbowed it again, and again, the third time resulting in the window’s falling into the Durango itself.

  As Kolt reached into the window and lifted the door lock, the unmistakable odor of death coupled with filthy body odor exited the now-open window. Kolt winced at the smell as he lifted the door handle. He leaned into the backseat and reached over the wooden crates. He made for the bomb timer and turned it around to read it.