Hard Case 12: Climate of Chaos (John Harding)

by Bernard Lee DeLeo

  I made the mistake of recording underwear Batman on my tablet during our evening and showing it to Nick and Joan. They couldn’t play for ten minutes. All seemed humorous and calm as our musicians joined us for an end of the evening refreshment. Rachel, who practiced her singing constantly since being upstaged by Nick’s bar acquaintances, sang duets intermittently with Nick throughout the evening. She was terrific. Then, we spotted both CIA Director Paul Gilbrech and Assistant Director Denny Strobert enter the bar. Denny had flown to DC that afternoon, leaving Maria and his son Brewster with us. They were greeted with guarded enthusiasm.

  “Glad to see you here too, Bad Penny,” Paul said.

  “Yes… it has been a peaceful vacation,” Claude replied.

  “Could we talk with you and John outside in our limousine, Nick?” Paul asked.

  “Of course.” Nick and I followed our government business bosses out to where a stretch limousine awaited.

  We entered and the driver, our friend Clyde Bacall, drove away after greeting us with the fact Lynn and Clint’s former assistant, Dannie, was already expecting a child. While he drove, we offered congratulations. Paul and Denny waited until the reunion ended on a happy note before beginning what we knew would not be good news.

  “I know you two have some experience with the Muslim town of Islamberg, near Hancock, New York,” Paul said.

  “They act as the headquarters of a front group called Muslims of America,” Nick replied.

  “Muslims of America keep claiming they don’t have terrorist training camps; but videos keep popping up showing the training taking place in recognizable areas of the country.”

  “That is our problem right now, John. A man named Amadan Dullah rented a storage container in Hancock, New York. The owner of the storage facility, Denton Torrelli, suspected Dullah and the truckloads of stuff he filled the container with. Denton recorded license plates and truck model information; but didn’t know what to do with the information. He thought if he went to the authorities in his leftist home state, the authorities would arrest him for racial profiling. With all the trouble our FBI has been involved in, he figured they’d kick his suspicions to the curb, as they did with the 9/11 hijackers. Denton took a chance and contacted the CIA. We luckily employed someone in our ranks who brought the information to my attention.”

  “I’m following you so far, Paul,” Nick said. “What does it have to do with us? You know people with oversight on the FBI. The new Attorney General taking over the DOJ from that traitorous runt seems capable. Our contacts in the FBI, I’ve told you about, Sam and Janie, think things are improving. CIA can’t get involved on American soil unless in a joint effort answering a national emergency.”

  “Exactly why I’m here. I did exactly what you said. The FBI sent in an undercover agent to Islamberg, Hana Safar, months ago. She applied and was accepted for a job cleaning the school there. Safar spotted one of Dullah’s trucks in town. Torrelli reported the storage container in Hancock had been emptied. Safar followed the truck at great risk at night with headlights off, at a far distance. Her report stated Dullah could be spotted easily on the isolated Moslem Road. She parked her vehicle alongside the farmhouse where Dullah turned off the road. Luckily, Safar sent us the coordinates for the place before they discovered her. She tried to get too close.”

  “Do you have satellite surveillance now?” I began making plans to put our network on line.

  “Yes,” Paul answered, handing Nick a paper. “This happened in late afternoon today. The FBI waited for her to begin communications again too long. The DOJ authorized your US Marshal Strike Team and John’s FBI Special Unit to get Safar; and learn what the hell is going on there.”

  Nick waved the paper. “This is nice; but I notice the rules of engagement are missing.”

  “Depending on what you find and Safar’s input, if she is still alive, this will be a salt-the-earth action. Surveillance on the farmhouse indicates possibly twenty different inhabitants. How many Monsters and Unholies can you field?”

  “Ten, if Bad Penny can drop with us,” I answered. “You are talking stealth insertion and extraction, right?

  “The farmhouse lies inland at the first loop in the Moslem road. Laredo can drop your teams in three miles inland from the target,” Paul said. “I know the stealth I requisitioned won’t alert anyone from that distance. I assumed you would want Laredo piloting.”

  “You assumed right,” I replied. “We have a pilot, Cala, to copilot, or take over. Nick will vouch for her.”

  “Cala is a natural… no problem about that. I believe John has decided. On these operations, he calls the shots. The cartoons are with him… no matter what. You’re thinking dawn raid?”

  “The quicker we get a team in there, the better our chances of extracting Safar in one piece,” Paul admitted. “I’m thinking we need your teams in the air at 3 am.”

  “Get us back to the bar, Clyde… we have some selling to do,” Nick said. “You know what we like, Paul, and all of our incidentals. Don’t disappoint me tomorrow at 3 am underequipped. We want Safar safe and the enemy dead. Make sure we have everything on the stealth to get it done.”

  “Do I look like room temperature, NSA Frank… your last boss to cross you, Muerto?”

  “No… and I don’t want the trust between us to ever end, Paul, no matter what. You and I are family. Don’t doubt it… and never doubt I will sanction anyone who tries to end your CIA directorship. I’m sick of lies, fake news, false flag events, traitorous trolls in Congress, and the Illuminati New World Order everywhere. You and Denny are our port in the storm. Please don’t ever betray us. I don’t ever want to be forced to make an adjustment.”

  Oh my. Paul and Denny did a big gulp of air after that Muerto promise. Nick and I were the last guys on earth these two would try to involve in some false flag crap… I hope. We would find out the truth, and we don’t let the chips fall as they may… we’ll make the chips dance in despair.

  “We want Safar out of this alive,” Paul said. “Denny and I know we can’t simply obliterate Islamberg. Your teams are our only chance to see Hana alive again. They have a bunker somewhere in or near the farmhouse. Throw them all into it and light the fires of redemption. Salt-the-earth. Those are your rules of engagement. Because both your teams are officially under DOJ jurisdiction, this can be passed off as a legally initiated joint task force if something goes wrong.”

  Paul typed out something, printed it, signed it, and handed the letter to Nick with envelope. “I take full responsibility for this action.”

  Nick grinned. “You won’t need to, brother. Excuse us, the Dark Lord and I have a party to break up.”

  * * *

  Laredo and Cala hovered; and we dropped into our LZ one after the other in rapid fashion from the MH-60 Blackhawk. Paul optioned every piece of ordinance, weapons, and armament, according to our past missions. Oh baby… we were ready to rock. Rock… we had to, because our mission fell apart the moment we hit the ground. As in other tragic special forces tragedies, the casualty count mounts during transport and landing. The main reason we chose to rappel down was it only took seconds because everyone of us had trained for it, including Lynn. We took fire as Nick landed last, rolling away from the LZ.

  The MH-60 Blackhawk Stealth was hard to target. Laredo lifted off, said the hell with mission protocol, and wiped out the opposing force with the MH-60’s GHU-19 Gatling Guns. Those suckers never had a prayer. We didn’t go on a dead run for the objective. We split forces in the aftermath, letting Laredo know we were okay.

  “I’m ascending and staying, guys. We’ve been hosed, brothers.”

  “Understood,” Clint said. “Proceeding on target. Thanks for the backup, brother.”

  “I wanted to leave you cowboys, but Cala would have shot me in the head.”

  Cala giggled. “Would not.”

  Off we went, through the brush and woods, but only after putting silenced rounds into every perforated body we came across. We wore th
e most sophisticated combat gear available and we used it all, spreading, networking, and advancing on target, slowly until we detected the first trip wire, five hundred yards from the farmhouse.

  “We need to consider this place has been mined from here in,” Lucas said.

  Nick joined us. “C’mon, Monsters, I found their trail they used to meet us.”

  We followed him. He had insisted on carrying an M60, 7.62 machine gun. We never questioned him. The moment he pointed out the pathway, we learned what the crazy Muerto planned as mission backup. In his defense, Muerto knew the firing heard in the farmhouse would register as their planned ambush. The inhabitants would expect returning troops; but they would be on guard both inside and outside the house.

  “Lucas… set up your M107 here. Okay, DL, you and I take the lead.”

  I had an UMP45 with hollow point .45 caliber uranium depleted slugs… and a lot of magazines. “Ready when you are, Muerto.”

  “Lo, there do I see my Father… Lo, there do I see my Mother and my sisters and my brothers… Lo, there do I see the line of my people… back to the beginning… Lo, they do call to me… they bid me take my place among them… in the halls of Valhalla… where the brave… they live… forever!”

  It was a hoot. Leave it to Nick. After only the first few words, we echoed the Viking chant with Muerto, all of us having seen the 13th Warrior many times; and knowing this was an inappropriate time for professionals to be playing movie trivia; but what the hell. At the end, Muerto raced down the path he could see with our night-vision helmets, M60 blasting in bursts across our paths, decimating the outside forces. Lucas blew the heads off snipers on the rooftop as they appeared. Muerto stepped aside as we reached the back entrance. I rammed the door down like wet cardboard with Monsters and Unholies following Nick’s continued blasts.

  We split off after making sure of the dead, threading and killing everything in sight. Gus and Johnny left to watch the back for survivors scrambling out windows or other passages. Yes… we shot down burka babes but did not encounter any children to be spared. The sound and intensity of the M60 with loads of ammo Muerto packed turned the opposition into flight, only to be gunned down by our covering fire. We went through the farmhouse like the Reaper of Death’s own scythe. We spared no one. A panicked figure slunk out of a bedroom with Hana Safar in a choke hold, using her as a shield. Clint put a .45 caliber hollow point slug through the two-inch area of his skull visible behind Hana.

  Clint jutted forward, gripped Hana, and put another two slugs through her holder’s head. He and Lynn took Hana into the cleared zone. The rest of us fulfilled our salt-the-earth orders, looking for Dullah. None of the bodies already down resembled Dullah. Sticking with our area sweep, watching each other’s backs, we found two locked doors. Gunfire outside sounded in measured bursts.

  “We have Dullah,” Johnny said on the network from outside. “He’s wounded.”

  I kicked the door open on the first room. A burka babe fired a submachine gun burst into the hallway wall before Clint ducked around the door edge and fired two through her head. She was alone, but the window was open. We repeated the process on the second locked room, only this time, an explosion rocked the house from inside, knocking us off our feet.

  “What a good sport.” Nick’s voice sounded like a whisper after the blast. “The bomber cut some time off our ability to locate the arsenal and get the hell out of here before the reserves arrive.”

  “You take the machine gun and grenades to the perimeter with Lucas and Claude. Hold off any new arrivals.”

  “On it. C’mon, Bad Penny.” Nick and Claude gathered grenades from the rest of us for the defense of our position and ran out past Gus and Johnny.

  Clint took Hana into one of the bedrooms with our med-kit. He didn’t think she was hurt, but we couldn’t trust her not to rat us out because of Lynn’s interrogation tactics. Clint would question her while checking Safar’s physical condition.

  Dullah screamed in pain with every step. He had taken a blast across his right knee. They restrained his hands behind him and sat Dullah down on a chair. Lynn came over with her stun-gun nightstick.

  “We don’t have time to play games. Where’s the weapons cache you’ve been storing.”

  “I…I need a doctor!”

  “Dr. Deville is in the house. Where does it hurt?”

  “My leg… you idiot! I need something for the pain!”

  Lynn gave him a five second dick massage with her nightstick. Dullah pitched off the chair, vibrating and semi-conscious. Gus and Johnny lifted Dullah to the chair again.

  “I bet you forgot all about your knee. Tell me where the weapons are, or would you like another jolt?”

  “Trapdoor… in the bedroom I was in. Dresser rolls away.”

  Casey and I investigated the bedroom. Just as Dullah said, the dresser rolled away, revealing a trapdoor. I pulled open the hatch with Casey ready to blast anyone hiding inside. I turned on the light switch near the top edge. I dropped down quickly, sliding along the ladder, and dived for the floor as automatic weapons fire blasted the air where I had been standing a moment before. Casey leaned down and shot the ambusher in the head. I rolled to a fire position with UMP45 ready.

  “Clear.”

  Casey descended with his pack. He whistled in surprise at the weapons and explosives cache filling the compartment. “It’s a good thing this place is out here in the middle of nowhere. When we set the charges, this cache will vaporize the house.”

  “Truthfully, I wish it was in the middle of Islamberg.”

  Casey chuckled as we began setting our charges and timers. Explosions and gunfire sounded outside. “Get everyone out, Clint. We’re setting the charges for ten minutes.”

  “Understood.”

  * * *

  Nick, Lucas and Claude waited in ambush as a small army approached. Their problem was only the pathway the three now guarded led safely to the farmhouse. At twenty yards, Nick and Claude threw grenades into the center of the attacking force while Lucas hit targets at the rear, dropping men with every shot. Claude continued throwing grenades. Nick fired the M60 machine gun into the mass of bodies, both down and the ones running. Supporting fire raked across the battlefield from the farmhouse.

  Ride of the Valkyries at full volume heralded the arrival of the nearly invisible stealth helicopter with Gatling guns firing across the retreating survivors in widening sweeps. Laredo landed near the ambush position. Lucas continued to find targets, missed during the initial devastating ambush. Nick and Claude widened their grenade throwing range.

  * * *

  I led the others out and to the helicopter. Lucas, Nick and Claude remained in firing positions while the rest of us boarded. We then hoisted them aboard and Laredo lifted off, circling the area as Cala watched for moving heat signatures. A minute before our charges exploded Laredo streaked away. When the charges blew, it looked like hell on earth for a moment. The shock wave even caused a shudder through our MH-60 Blackhawk.

  “God only knows how this will play in the news,” Lynn said. “Someone leaked our attack. I guess we should talk about that before we touch down at the base.”

  “The same leaker will betray us to the media unless told not to by the puppet masters. They may not want to take a chance on how this weapons cache news will play out,” Nick said. “We’ll be back at the hotel a little after dawn. If we’re all having breakfast soon after, it will allay suspicion. You understand this cannot be spoken of, right Hana?”

  “They were going to torture me to death this morning. I don’t have any idea what happened near some place called Islamberg.”

  “That’s the spirit,” I told her. “I had a suspicion there were too many fingers in the pie on this operation. Our boss knew we needed to get you out before morning. People had the job of surveillance, prepping the Blackhawk and weapons gathering. Too many people at the FBI knew you were undercover. Islamberg has plenty to hide. If they call in the authorities, the investigators will
find the origin of the explosion and the weapons cache. It will all be in bad shape but recognizable. On top of that, they can suspect who was behind the attack, but they can’t prove anything.”

  “I hope Paul initiates an investigation into the leak while this is fresh,” Nick said.

  “I’m sure he knows every person involved,” Clint replied. “Are you still monitoring, Achmed?”

  “Yes. I will send a query through to Paul and get involved in the investigation. I may be able to tell if someone tries to cover the leaker. I will need to go through official channels at the DOJ for a financial records audit.”

  “Thanks, Achmed. I think you can get some sleep now.”

  “Okay, John. Achmed out.”

  “I’m glad Laredo brought along a boom box hooked into the helicopter audio,” Lucas said.

  “Crazy Muerto doing the Viking death chant shook me up,” Laredo replied. “I needed the Valkyries with me when I saw the mission going into full blown adlib combat.”

  “All I can say is I’m glad I don’t have another book signing until tomorrow at 5 pm.”

  “I knew I recognized you two,” Hana said. “John Harding, UFC Heavyweight Champion and you’re Nick McCarty, the guy who writes the Diego assassin series. Can this get any weirder?”

  Lynn patted her hand. “You’d be surprised just how weird we can get.”

  Hana sighed and leaned back with her eyes closed. “I’m beginning to understand that.”

  * * *

  Everyone worked out with me in the gym after naptime. Our female contingent left the kids with us to go shopping after breakfast. The youngest went to daycare. Even Kade wanted to go with his new younger friends, Clint Jr and Quinn. He promised to take care of them. Lynn came with us as did the older kids. Tommy and Jess put me through my paces with sparring and mat work for a couple hours. Dev had left to return home and take care of his mayoral duties in Oakland until the weigh-in next Saturday.