One Killer Force: A Delta Force Novel

by Dalton Fury

  “I figured you’d be bummed to see me, but I did bring Slapshot here,” Kolt said, trying to keep it light and keep Hawk calm. “It’s all good, we’ll only be here a few minutes.”

  Hawk looked at Slapshot, smiled as if to say hello, and dropped her hands to the sides of her spring green-and-pink pajama bottoms, looking every bit as if she just jumped out of a Victoria’s Secret catalog. Hawk turned and shuffled toward the bed, plopping down on the edge of the thick white duvet cover.

  “Sit down, you guys,” Hawk said as she motioned to the suite’s two red plush chairs behind the coffee table. “What’s going on? Are we compromised already?”

  “No, no, Hawk. All is good,” Kolt said. Slapshot pulled his small backpack off his shoulder and set it on the table, sliding the nail polish and large flower arrangement out of the way. “We’re about to catch up to the rest of the force to get across the Imjin River tonight.”

  “Okay, I’m freaking!” Hawk said as she turned and absentmindedly straightened the pillows. “I’m not feeling it, Kolt.”

  “Feeling what?” Kolt asked, surprised by her comment.

  “Mission success,” Hawk said. “I’m having second thoughts.”

  “What’s your major malfunction?” Kolt asked, showing no mercy whatsoever. “Don’t fucking worry about the SEALs.”

  Kolt understood Hawk’s concern. Hell, he knew her part of the mission could very well be the most important part of the entire operation. Hawk doesn’t tag Seamstress at the meeting tomorrow, the SEAL mission is a bust. Too fucking late!

  “Look, Hawk,” Kolt said, “everyone knows you have a tough job here. You are the key, no doubt.”

  “That’s the problem, Kolt,” Hawk said, “I’m all alone here. This isn’t a simple Whistle-stop training event where I might receive a poor grade on some urban recce task. Holy hell, Kolt, what about your freaky phone call? If I screw this up it could start World War III.”

  Kolt turned to look at Slapshot, his expressionless face signaling this was all Kolt’s problem to handle. Slapshot wasn’t offering shit, good or bad. Kolt turned back to Hawk. She ran her fingers through her hair again, then knocked the bangs back off her face as if she was prepping for a fistfight.

  Hawk’s demeanor hit Kolt like a hurricane. His chest tightened and he struggled to fight the urge to swipe the coffee table clear with both hands and throw a chair through the window. This wasn’t acceptable, not with the mission hanging in the balance. Kolt knew Hawk best, everyone knew that. He had seen her courage firsthand, seen her at her best when she’d saved his life in Cairo, at her worst after a month chained and caged, clinging to life, practically bathing in her own blood. But how could the female pilot program miss this stuff? Didn’t the Unit psychs have this kind of thing identified years ago? No, this was much worse than a female problem forced on by nature. Sure, the singleton was cramping her style, but it had nothing to do with a menstrual cycle.

  Kolt tightened his right fist, squeezing the plastic Kia key fob. He felt like calling Gangster right then, telling him the mission was an abort, telling him to exfil the SEALs tonight, while they still had a few more hours of darkness to safely cover their tracks.

  Aborting the operation could be a no-brainer, but was it absolutely necessary? The SEALs would probably be okay, they’d make it out. But at what cost? An abort of a SEAL operation, well into phase two, even by their own frogmen, would be hugely problematic for JSOC, and given the mission’s importance, any flowery explanation to the SECDEF would sound limp-wristed for sure. But, this was a hundred times worse—this wasn’t SEALs aborting their own mission, this was Delta making the call. A call that couldn’t be smoke-and-mirrored to cover the hard facts. Delta couldn’t hold their own on this one, that was the only story here. Not only Delta, but the first potential female operator, already a highly decorated soldier, was having a meltdown.

  “I don’t even know what this guy looks like,” Hawk said.

  “We know,” Kolt said. “You’ll have to figure it out through introductions, or read the name tags, I guess.”

  “I’m fluent in Egyptian Arabic, not Hangul.”

  Kolt Raynor knew Cindy “Hawk” Bird. He knew her unquestionable quality, her unparalleled commitment, her potential. Hell, Kolt Raynor knew Hawk wasn’t just a centerfold. She was more than a woman that had many an operator opting for an odd-colored protein shake over a super chili dog and fries at lunch. Indeed, she was a critical piece of Delta’s value to the national objectives of the United States of America. She had performed before and she had to perform again. Even though nobody had a good idea of what Seamstress looked like these days, she just needed some hot hands.

  “You done whining?” Kolt said, taking a chance this thing didn’t get entirely out of control.

  “Fuck you, Kolt!” Hawk said. “Sometimes you are a total asshole.”

  “Deserved,” Kolt said. “I’ll take that as you having your balance back. Look at his hands, analysts at Pine Gap swear they are the size of Ping-Pong paddles.”

  “Great,” Hawk said. She took a long, slow breath and rolled back her shoulders before looking Kolt straight in the eyes. “Okay. Yeah, fucking okay. So, how close will you guys be to Panmunjom?”

  “Straight line, eight klicks,” Kolt said. “From Little Bird buildup to you, roughly fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay, that makes me feel much better,” Hawk said with a forced smile as she traded looks with both of them.

  “That’s why we’re here, Hawk,” Kolt said. “This op is too important to the Unit to screw it up.”

  “You think I’m going to screw it up?” Hawk said, a little defensive. “Look, this whole thing has felt rushed to me. I don’t exactly have a warm and fuzzy at this point, and frankly, feel a little in the dark about the planning, especially what the SEALs are doing.”

  “Just concentrate on your part,” Kolt said, hoping the mood swing held. “The SEALs will be fine.”

  “What about you guys, if you have to help, or if the SEALs don’t get on the train, how will you guys?”

  “We’ve got a RRD sensor with us, too. We also have a few SIMON devices to breach the ballistic glass in the main engine car and the passenger car Seamstress is in. We’ll pump some ferret rounds into both. The CS gas will get them to slow the train enough, at least to thirty miles an hour, for the MHs to put us on the roof of the right car. From there, it’s tubular assault 101.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Hawk said without trying to hide her sarcasm. “I’ll trade you.”

  “We know your piece of this is critical, but relax,” Kolt said, trying to reassure her all was okay. “We’re in your corner here, Hawk. We brought the Q dots.”

  “You are fucking kidding me,” Hawk said, showing genuine relief.

  “With the timeline pushed up, we figured the dip pouch wouldn’t make it to Stockholm in time,” Kolt said.

  As Slapshot dug into the ruck to retrieve the Q dots, Kolt noticed the gray pinstriped suit and lavender blouse hanging on the full-length mirror. “Stockholm yard sale?”

  “Krissy trousers with a work patch blazer and joy blouse,” Hawk said, signaling she was returning to her old witty self. “Pure Swedish chic but worthless, courtesy of your favorite CIA buddy, Myron Curtis.”

  “Worthless?”

  “The pants have no pockets,” Hawk said, flipping her hands up like she was catching a beach ball.

  Kolt laughed lightly. “We saw ole Curtis and his cane earlier. He looks healthy.”

  Slapshot pulled out a small white box and opened it, exposing three light green egg-shaped objects the size of golf balls sitting in padded cotton slots. He took one out, reached over the table, and handed it to Hawk.

  “Check it out,” Slapshot said. “It’s a little delicate, it will bust if you sit on it, or squeeze it hard. You can puncture it with a paper clip, a ballpoint pen, whatever.”

  Hawk passed it between both hands, feeling the weight of the device, lightly pressing both sides to tes
t the pliability and fullness.

  “I’m not sure how I’ll get the dots on Seamstress,” Hawk said, holding it up, “but I’m going for it. I’m very worried the RRD tag the SEALs gave me won’t work.”

  Kolt nodded his head and looked at Slapshot, then back at Hawk. “At least it matches the color of those shoes you have over there.”

  Hawk looked at the high heels Curtis had provided her and shook her head. “Curtis calls those nude-colored. They’ll probably give me blisters as big as these Q dots.”

  “I figure you could gun that thing from deep center to home plate if needed,” Kolt said, remembering Hawk’s tomboy upbringing and how, as a young Cindy Bird on the Little League field with her five brothers, her dad had given her the nickname of Hawk because of the way she homed in on deep fly balls out to the warning track and then ignored the cutoff.

  “I doubt that!” Hawk said, side-smiling and bouncing the Q dot lightly in her hand a few times. “Those days were a long time ago. After dislocating my right shoulder several times, I’d probably have trouble fielding a bunt.”

  “Seventh-inning adrenaline,” Kolt said. “I bet you’d be surprised.”

  “You guys better get going,” Hawk said.

  “We’ve got some time; the trucks are waiting for us near Munson,” Kolt said. “What about your Bluetooth, any concerns about communicating from inside the meeting building on the DMZ?”

  “Not sure really,” Hawk said. “Why?”

  “Wondering if the North Koreans wand people before they enter, if they forbid cells and stuff inside, or if the building might be set up with some type of stealth netting or umbrella jammer as well?”

  “Is that legit?” Hawk asked. “Where did that come from?”

  “From you, Hawk,” Kolt said. “Hadn’t thought about it till I heard your concerns about the train and then saw the Bluetooth on your ear in the Skype call.”

  “I don’t know,” Hawk said. “I guess if I need to call you, or the JOC at Inchon, I’ll have to step outside. Curtis gave me a cell for the trip, can I assume it works at least outside at Panmunjom?”

  “Curtis couldn’t get that answer for you?” Kolt asked.

  “No,” Hawk said, “which is part of why I feel a little vulnerable here.”

  “What’s up?” Kolt asked.

  “The comms setup for one thing, but the lack of ISR coverage mainly.” Hawk stood up to pace a few steps.

  “Yeah, I’d be lying if we weren’t a little concerned as well,” Kolt said. “We did drag a SpyLite MicroB with us just in case.”

  “Can you put that up?” Hawk asked, showing a little more relief that she might have some eyes in the sky to monitor things. “While I’m at the meeting?”

  “I can’t promise you that,” Kolt said, now regretting a little that he’d gotten her hopes up. Sure, if he was calling the shots, launching the uber-quiet mini UAV to pull in high-quality images and track Hawk’s movements would be priority.

  “They’d string us all up if that thing is spotted or burns in across the border,” Kolt said. “POTUS’s denial of U.S. involvement would be as shallow as Edward Snowden’s whistleblower logic.”

  “I guess so,” Hawk said as she sat back down, crossing her arms in front of her as if she was warding off the cold.

  Stiff-arming the friction, Kolt pressed on. “Jot your number down and let’s test it before I store it.”

  Hawk reached for a hotel pen and pad, her lean kettlebell shoulders and biceps twitching unconsciously, and scribbled the number on the paper before handing it to Slapshot.

  Slapshot fat-fingered the number into the local Galaxy 4 and touched the green Call button to ring Hawk’s phone. A few seconds later, Hawk’s ringtone played, and after another second she killed the incoming call.

  “Get some sleep, Hawk,” Kolt said, “long day tomorrow, you’ve got my number. Anything changes, anything, take a piss break or something and call.”

  “Okay, you guys, too,” Hawk said. “Hey, how did you get Colonel Mahoney to back off the Q dots? He sounded completely against it over Skype.”

  “Gangster doesn’t know we are here, Hawk,” Kolt said, “but we agree with you. This is too important of a concern to simply wish it away. Gangster has enough on his mind right now.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Hawk said.

  “Hey, don’t stick your neck out too far, if you can only get the RRD tag secured and not the Q dots, that’s the standard,” Kolt said.

  “Okay, Kolt.”

  “I’m serious, Hawk, don’t be a hero,” Kolt said, standing up and moving to the door.

  “Not trying to be.” Hawk followed them to the door. “Just looking to operate like everyone else.”

  NINETEEN

  Camp Greaves, South Korea

  Deep in the heart of the night, the Smokey and the Bandit package, two KOREX tractor trailers with two MH6Ms each hidden inside, bumped along the road following Kolt and Slapshot’s lead Kia Sedona. They crossed over the decades-old Freedom Bridge and continued north, taking the first east-bearing road. With far less noise and chaos than the original Smokey and the Bandit, they passed a sleepy South Korean military garrison before pulling off to the south side of the road.

  Slapshot killed their headlights. Kolt exited the Kia and casually walked up to the locked double vehicle gates that led into an abandoned U.S. army garrison. Taking a beat to listen, Kolt hefted a pair of bolt cutters and cut the lock. When no alarm sounded, he pulled the gates open far enough for the larger trucks to pass through. Slapshot was now out of the Kia and at the black-and-white candy-striped barrier arm, cutting the lock that held it in the down position. A moment later the arm was up and the way forward was clear.

  Camp Greaves had been home to several U.S. military units over the fifty years since the end of the Korean War, most notably the 1st Battalion, 506th Air Assault Infantry. For almost twenty of those years, from 1987 through 2004, the Currahee battalion, its nickname Cherokee for “Stands Alone,” enjoyed the prestige of being the closest American battalion to the North Korean menace, just three and a half klicks south of the DMZ. Even Adolf Hitler’s alpine walking stick, one of the war trophies captured at the Eagle’s Nest in Berchtesgaden in April 1945 and brought back by the Band of Brothers to the States, had found a home at Greaves.

  Kolt got back in the Kia, this time behind the wheel, and followed the two trucks inside the fenced compound while Slapshot closed the gates and drop arm and replaced both locks with new ones before running to hop into the idling Kia.

  “That went smooth,” Slapshot said as he shut the door.

  “Let’s hope it all goes that smooth.” Kolt put the Kia in gear and drove south up the hill, passing the trucks on the left. They passed where the dining facility used to stand and the ramshackle Bravo Company barracks on the right, then the forgotten Burger Bar and barbershop on the left.

  The trucks followed Kolt’s Kia as it made the left at the T intersection, still climbing another two hundred feet to the Y intersection. In sequence, the two trucks backed up the hill leading to the large one-story building, leaving them combat parked directly in front of the North of the River Inn, better known to former Currahee officers, men like Kolt Raynor, as simply the Notri.

  With only the scuff of boots and a cough, men exited the trucks and walked into the Notri, their way forward facilitated by Slapshot and the bolt cutters. Kolt followed, looking around to see if anything was amiss, but everything seemed as it should. He was still thinking about Hawk, but he was able to compartmentalize that concern so he could focus on the here and now. She’d had her soft moment, and he was pretty certain she’d overcome it. Time would tell soon enough.

  Kolt stepped inside and found his way to the large, curtainless windows. The only light came from the moon and its reflection off the Imjin River and a few red-lens flashlights.

  “We have one mission here, men.” Kolt looked around at the assembled group of Noble Squadron and 160th Little Bird pilots. “We ar
e to provide immediate QRF for Red Squadron,” he said, reiterating what they all already knew from their extensive planning aboard the C17.

  “We’ll keep the Smokey package bundled up until the meeting at Panmunjom ends. We definitely don’t need a curious local spotting us building up the MHs and compromising the entire mission.”

  “No change to the enemy situation. Minimal armed troops on the target train, but unknown numbers still. A hundred on the trail train. No known Red Guard garrisons near Six’s ingress or egress route, just a few local rice farmers. Six will walk out with Seamstress.”

  “Contingencies if Six is compromised or runs into trouble, boss?” Digger asked.

  “If shit goes bad, our priority is SEALs first, then Seamstress,” Kolt said. “Obviously, if they need to evac a casualty or want to push the precious cargo out, we’re available.”

  Digger’s question continued to hang in the air. Kolt knew he hadn’t answered it completely, and could feel the guys were not satisfied. He had already gotten the feeling that his men weren’t too fired up about the mission. Most felt the rushed timeline and the lack of info from the CIA was very close to goat rope threshold, definitely high risk to the mission and high risk to the force.

  Kolt knew he needed to address the worst-case scenario, because one of them was about to ask it. Not simply to put his men at ease, but even more so to establish his creds with his new squadron. No doubt about it, some secretly blamed Kolt for Gangster’s demise. He expected all eyes to be laser focused on his every move.

  “I know the plan is a little weak. Six has little wiggle room out there; they are definitely at min force as it is,” Kolt said, trying to make eye contact with all of them as he spoke. “We are definitely running the edge of minimal actionable intel here.”

  Slapshot spoke up. “We’re good, boss, we know the risks.”

  “Roger,” Kolt said, a little thankful Slapshot ran interference for him. “The last thing I’m looking to do is cross that border and execute an open-air takedown of a speeding armored train. Still, if it comes to that, there’s no one else I’d rather do it with than you.”