Full Assault Mode: A Delta Force Novel

by Dalton Fury

  Kolt’s leg lock finally forced Nadal to go limp, only a second before Kolt’s vision grayed at the edges and then grew increasingly black. I’m not going to make it, Kolt realized, as all strength in his arms and legs melted away and he released his hold on Nadal. With all his dive gear, Nadal sunk a few feet deeper. Without equal buoyancy compensation, Kolt floated upward toward the surface, but he couldn’t even lift his head to look up. What little air was left in his lungs was rapidly being replaced with pool water.

  He was drowning.

  His last thought brought a smile to his face even as he blacked out.

  Should have worn water wings …

  THIRTY-ONE

  “Mr. Black just arrived with donut holes.”

  Kolt peered down at his iPad, reading the sliver of window that popped up on the top of the screen. Damn hard to read. Mr. Black brought Hawk donut holes? Any other time he might have thought it was code, but since he and Hawk were currently laid up a few rooms apart in a hospital, it made sense. He squinted and pecked away at the touchpad keys on the screen.

  “Lucky you. Mr. White doesn’t seem to need to eat or sleep,” Kolt replied, referring to his security minder.

  “You think HE is really coming today?” Hawk chatted.

  “HE better,” Kolt replied, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he typed. “If not, I’m gonna roll my ass in to the nurses’ station and administer the pain meds myself.”

  A week or so had passed since Kolt and Hawk saved the world. Well, Kolt allowed, maybe that’s a stretch. What they pulled off at Yellow Creek was certainly something spectacular, easily saving tens of thousands of lives and stopping the largest attack on U.S. soil since 9/11 dead in its tracks. Both were laid up sorry now, trying to heal up and hope for release, somehow knowing that the decision would be made without their input.

  At least Mr. Black and Mr. White had brought them iPads. Particularly since Cindy Bird was under strict doctor’s orders to remain on the respirator and refrain from talking until her lungs had healed a little more.

  Kolt looked up as a pair of nurses walked past his room. They didn’t point; they didn’t even look his way. He wasn’t surprised. The doctors and nurses working shifts in medical office number 6, the high-security section of the Wound Treatment and Hyperbaric Medicine Center at Duke Raleigh Hospital, had no idea who he and Hawk were. Husband and wife, carjacking, and gunshot wounds were about all they’d been told. It was a solid cover. That sort of thing was pretty common in the south Raleigh area.

  What wasn’t common was the fuss being made over Kolt and Hawk—not by the medical staff who went about their jobs like the professionals they were, but by all the folks who weren’t medical. Mr. Black and Mr. White, two large, silent, and determined gentlemen wearing earpieces, off-the-rack suits, and cold stares they must have practiced looking in a mirror. Carjacking victims didn’t get security details. And they sure as hell weren’t visited by the president of the United States during a nonelection year.

  Kolt grimaced. He tried to locate the epicenter of the worst pain but gave up. His entire body hurt, and he was long past due for his next painkiller.

  “I’m with ya,” Hawk typed back. “I’m hoping these donuts are filled with jelly morphine.”

  Mr. White walked into Kolt’s room and did a sweep. He didn’t nod, didn’t say hello, and didn’t let on that Kolt was even there. Kolt watched him, looking for a pattern. Mr. White was good. He never started a sweep the same way. Sometimes he looked high then low. Other times, it was left to right, then right to left, and so on. Kolt admired brains that could focus like that and thanked God he didn’t have one. Snipers and accountants and Mr. White.

  “I thought I saw a nurse stuff a bale of marijuana in the sock drawer,” Kolt said, motioning across the room.

  “Top drawer?” Mr. White asked, completely ignoring Kolt’s sense of humor.

  “Middle,” Kolt said, dropping his hand. Joking with Mr. White was a lot more fun under the effects of painkillers.

  “I’ll check them all,” Mr. White said, proceeding to do just that.

  They had been at Duke a week now, since the Air Evac Lifeteam helicopter out of Luka, Mississippi, landed on the roof and dropped off the injured couple, victims of random violence. Mr. White and Mr. Black had materialized at the hospital at the same time, and at least one of them had been there ever since. They weren’t bad guys; in fact, Kolt knew these two to be good dudes. Kolt also understood and respected the importance of their mission to the national security of the United States.

  Mr. Black and Mr. White had a specific job to do, and they took it as seriously as Kolt and Hawk took their jobs on target. Oreo, as Hawk had nicknamed the pair, had the sole mission of ensuring nobody administered any intravenous mind-boggling, hallucinogenic narcotics like pethidine and fentanyl to Hawk or Kolt that might get them too giddy and overly chatty. It was right out of a 60s spy novel, but the precaution was taken all the same. Kolt knew, and he knew Hawk did, too, that the way to avoid giving up a secret was to not talk about them and not think about them in a public setting. However, even Delta operators, if doped up, can make mistakes. And so Kolt and Hawk were currently suffering for national security because the president of the United States was coming to visit.

  “Hit channel thirteen,” Hawk messaged. “Your friend is on.”

  “Stand by!!!!!” Kolt replied, accidentally keeping his finger on the exclamation-point button.

  “Clear,” Mr. White said, closing up the last drawer.

  Kolt looked at him. “Outstanding.”

  Mr. White turned and walked out of his room.

  Kolt reached for the black channel changer sitting on the rolling over-bed table. He aimed it at the wall-mounted TV in the corner of the flowered-walled room, thumbed it on, and waited for the screen to show the current channel. He punched in one, three, and enter, finding a previously taped Fox News alert being aired and the attractive news anchor already into the script.

  “Americans are awakening today to a White House announcement that the president of the United States has presented the Medal of Freedom to Ambassador William T. Mason, describing the former navy admiral as a ‘national savior’ at a private Roosevelt Room ceremony yesterday afternoon.”

  Kolt reached down to the side of his bed, found the push-button articulator, and pressed the up arrow to raise the back of his hospital bed in order to get a better look. Kolt watched as the president stepped in front of Bill Mason, accepted the medal by the blue and edged-white ribbon from an aide, and then delicately placed it around the ambassador’s neck. Mason beamed.

  The news anchor continued. “Confidential sources, including an anonymous senior administration official speaking off the record because they are unauthorized to disclose classified information, are telling Fox News that Ambassador Mason has been described as a ‘hostage’s best friend’.” Here the anchor smiled. “Folks, if Timmy was down a well, forget about calling Lassie. American hero and patriot Ambassador Mason is who you want. His courage and skill thwarted last week’s al Qaeda nuke plot and for that we all owe him our thanks.”

  Kolt stared at the television screen for a few more seconds before going back to Skype.

  “Fuck up and move up!” Kolt messaged. “I’d say that’s fair and balanced, wouldn’t you?”

  “Jealous?” Hawk replied.

  Before Kolt could tell Hawk to kiss his ass, Mr. White stepped back into the room and did another sweep, walking to all four corners before stepping into the bathroom. He walked back out without a word.

  “I think Mr. White has been sniffing too much glue lately,” Kolt messaged before looking up to see the Delta commander Jeremy Webber enter the room. A moment later, the president of the United States walked in, shadowed by the Secret Service special agent in charge. Webber and the president both wore big smiles above their practically identical dark blue and pinstriped blazers, salmon-pink neckties, and splashed-white dress shirts, as if they were p
art of a Red Lobster staff about to sing “Happy Birthday” to an unsuspecting customer.

  Kolt pulled his rear end back under him a bit, trying to appear more professional and worthy of the visit.

  Webber motioned with his hand for the president to move to the right side of Kolt’s bed, and the colonel followed him. Kolt turned away, back toward the door, to see Mr. Black pushing a raised surgical bed through the doorway. He was expecting Hawk, and it seemed perfectly coordinated for something he knew they had not rehearsed.

  A second Secret Service agent stepped inside with a flat tray covered in bright green felt. Kolt knew the tray would be carrying the medals. Webber lifted the first one off the felt and handed it to the president.

  The president stepped forward to the edge of Hawk’s bed, smiled at her, and leaned over to pin the Purple Heart to Hawk’s light blue hospital gown. He turned slightly toward Webber, accepting a second award, and turning back to Hawk.

  “Staff Sergeant Cindy Bird, by my authority, and on behalf of a very grateful nation, you are hereby awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, for extraordinary actions in wartime against a known enemy of the United States.”

  The president leaned over to pin the imperial-blue and glory-red-edged DSC next to the Purple Heart.

  “The American people are very proud of you, Staff Sergeant Bird,” the president said as he reached down to squeeze her hand. Kolt could see Hawk nod in appreciation.

  The president turned around to look at Kolt and took a few steps closer to the left side of his bed.

  “Major Raynor, I can’t say I was surprised to hear you were at the tip of the spear again.”

  “Hello, Mr. President. It’s good to see you again,” Kolt said.

  The president stepped forward, shaking his head and smiling, and extended his hand. Kolt shook it as the president covered Kolt’s right hand with both of his.

  “Congratulations, Major, congratulations!” the president said.

  “I didn’t do anything, sir, really,” Kolt said. “Sergeant Bird deserves all the credit.”

  The president looked at Colonel Webber for a moment, then back at Kolt.

  “I assumed you’d say that, Major,” the president said. “No medals this time. I was properly reminded about what you said last time.”

  Kolt thought back to the last time they had seen each other. It was the private award ceremony inside the West Wing, where the president presented Major Kolt Raynor his third Silver Star for gallantry in action after the American terrorist Daoud al-Amriki was killed. Kolt had tried to resist the award, even going so far as mentioning to the vice president, prior to the president’s arriving, that medals should be reserved for the servicemen and women who had made the ultimate sacrifice.

  “Medals for the dead,” the president said. “Wasn’t it?”

  Kolt smiled, partly because the president actually remembered, but mostly because he had already meticulously prepared his dress uniform for the DA photo he needed before he could be considered for promotion to lieutenant colonel. The last thing he wanted was to have to fumble with adding another bronze oak-leaf cluster to his red, white, and blue Silver Star ribbon.

  “What can I do for you instead, Major Raynor?” the president asked.

  “Can’t think of a thing, sir,” Kolt said.

  Just then, the president’s SAIC stepped forward and whispered something in the president’s ear. It appeared he was letting him know that they needed to get going to stay on their typically busy schedule.

  Kolt realized there was something he did want from the president, actually. Was this the right time and place? Kolt was already speaking before he answered his own question.

  Fuck it! I’ll blame it on the meds!

  “Sir, on second thought,” Kolt said, “would you be willing to waive my mandatory attendance at yearlong advanced schooling? It’s required to be promoted.”

  Webber gave Kolt a stern look. Kolt tried and failed to look suitably abashed. Webber turned to Mr. Black and Mr. White, standing near the doorway, giving them both the hairy eyeball. Kolt figured he was wondering if they had ensured the hallucinating drugs had been controlled properly.

  “I’d like to be a Delta Force sabre squadron commander, sir,” Kolt added.

  “Done!” the president said as he quickly looked at his watch. “I’ll have my staff see to it immediately.”

  Before Kolt could tell the president that he appreciated that, Hawk had raised her iPad in the air and the SAIC stepped up to accept it from her. He turned it right-side up, stepped back a few feet, turning toward the president and Colonel Webber, and read the typed message aloud.

  “Mr. President, it seems Staff Sergeant Bird would like to be a Delta Force operator,” the SAIC said before handing the iPad back to Hawk.

  Even Kolt was shocked by Hawk’s straightforwardness, and definitely impressed by her guts. She obviously was sincere, her bravery maybe prompted by the meds or that she didn’t have to actually speak when asking for it, but she had to know that not even the president of the United States could grant that wish.

  Kolt could see the president was taken a little aback by the request. He figured the president had no idea that there weren’t female operators in the unit already. His support for females to attend the U.S. Army Ranger School and to serve in previously banned combat-arms duties like infantryman and tanker was well known throughout the armed services.

  “I must say, your patriotism is unparalleled,” the president said. “Colonel Webber, is that possible? Can we grant Staff Sergeant Bird her wish?”

  Kolt detected a little fidgeting and agitation in Webber as he searched for the proper response. He knew Webber and other senior special forces leaders were in the middle of the Pentagon’s two-year study and weren’t even close to commenting yet. How the hell does he answer that?

  Kolt noticed Hawk typing another message, this one much shorter than the first. Don’t push it, Hawk!

  “Mr. President, Delta Force selection is an ongoing process,” Webber said. “Staff Sergeant Bird here has certainly demonstrated she deserves every consideration.” It was clearly an effort for Webber to push the words out past his teeth.

  “Excellent!” the president said, seeming to ignore Webber’s noncommittal response. “I’ll have my staff keep me apprised of the situation.”

  Bingo! Let’s see you sweep it under the carpet now, Webber!

  Webber swallowed and nodded. He looked straight at Kolt, and Kolt knew that Hawk’s request was on him. Webber motioned for the president to follow him out of the room. The president nodded at Kolt and Hawk, and followed. The SAIC nodded to Kolt, gave a short wave to Hawk, and followed closely on the heels of his principal.

  Mr. White unlocked Hawk’s gurney wheels and moved to the head of the bed. Mr. Black took up the foot side, and together they maneuvered her through the doorway to take her back to her room down the hall.

  Kolt looked down at his iPad. The screen saver was active, having gone to sleep since the party began. Kolt two-finger swiped the touch screen to unlock the tablet, still a little amazed at what just happened. Did the president actually say all that?

  On the Skype chat screen, a parting message from Hawk awaited him. He tapped it to open.

  “How’s that for full assault mode?”

  ALSO BY DALTON FURY

  Tier One Wild

  Black Site

  Kill Bin Laden

  About the Author

  Dalton Fury was the senior ranking military officer at the Battle of Tora Bora. As a Delta troop commander, he helped author the operation to hunt and kill Bin Laden. He told his tale of that mission in the book Kill Bin Laden, which went on to become a national bestseller. Full Assault Mode is the third novel in his New York Times bestselling Delta Force series.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  FULL ASSAUL
T MODE. Copyright © 2014 by Dalton Fury. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Cover design by Ervin Serrano

  Cover photographs: soldier by CollaborationJS/Arcangel Images; sky and American flag by Shutterstock.com

  eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-250-04048-0 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-4668-3585-6 (e-book)

  e-ISBN 9781466835856

  First Edition: May 2014