Black Site
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For the Eagles on the wall
PREFACE
In 2001, I was the Delta Force troop commander given the secret mission to hunt down and kill the most wanted man in the world—Usama Bin Laden. In 2008, I shared the untold story of that fateful mission in the book
Kill Bin Laden,
and recounted the twists and turns of the Battle of Tora Bora fought high in the mountains of Eastern Afghanistan. Soon after
Kill Bin Laden
became a bestseller, I started a new mission—a mission to craft a thriller series about classified “black” ops and operators, “real” fiction about real warriors.
But before I took pen to paper and rushed something out onto the already overcrowded action-fiction shelves, I realized that I needed to first do some deep soul-searching. Specifically, I needed to analyze and isolate the unique mental aspects of the Delta Force operator—all because of one simple but powerful word.
The year was 2004, and we were laser-focused on anything and everything Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. The elusive Jordanian terrorist and leader of al-Qaeda in Iraq had just shot to the top spot of our high-value target list after Saddam Hussein was ferreted out of a smelly rat hole.
One night, we were moments from launching into the heart of Fallujah to service a time-sensitive Zarqawi-related target. We didn’t have a lot of time to discuss it. Everyone knew what needed to be done. America expected us to launch, even if the intelligence was a little shaky. After all, we were Delta Force. Moments before heading for the vehicles and helicopters, a fellow officer looked me in the eyes and said, “Dalton, you are impetuous!”
I thought to myself at the time, “You are damn right I am!”
Hunting terrorists sometimes requires operating within a unique psychological spectrum that often rewards impulsive behavior, haste, or acting without consideration. A mind-set that places enormous value on intangibles like instinct, intuition, or a hunch often raises eyebrows in a risk-averse culture. For my novel
Black Site
to be plausible, Kolt Raynor needed to possess all these qualities and more.
But Kolt Raynor is a free-spirited Delta Force operator—not Superman. The guy is average height, weight, and build. He is also a mix of the unique talents, idiosyncrasies, motivations, and personalities of the real deal Delta Force operators.
He is more comfortable when operating with teammates than when operating alone, just like most Delta operators are. He has vision. He also has a passion for the profession, the mental stamina of a chess champion, and he does his best to ignore the red tape. The knock on Kolt Raynor is that at times he is borderline insubordinate, and he operates largely off of gut feeling. It was a modus operandi that garnered him widespread support within Delta’s ranks, solidified his pad speed, and gave him enormous operational clout. And even though the generals didn’t care much for his antics, they were smart enough to let it play out.
Just as important as Raynor’s makeup, the story line itself had to be plausible—high-risk, certainly, as all Delta missions are, but a clear sense of nonfiction possibilities had to be captured inside a fictional structure. Moreover, the reality of the times had to be captured fully. Real-world issues, like the difficulty of garnering political support to operate over ambiguous borders, obtaining execute authority for high-risk missions, and the indescribable love of teammate that kindles a bizarre willingness to sacrifice it all to save a buddy or do the right thing had to resonate in
Black Site.
For many years, Kolt Raynor got things done. Until one night when he pushed it too far. On a high-risk mission in the badlands of Pakistan, Raynor allowed his enthusiasm to cloud his judgment. It was a deadly mistake. And as things go in Delta Force, the fall from hero to zero is rapid, even for an operator of Kolt Raynor’s stature.
Disgraced and off the net, Raynor turned to the bottle. He tried to walk away. But there were too many strings attached. And, misgivings or not, the Unit soon realized they needed Kolt Raynor more than he needed them.
Dalton Fury
CONTENTS
ONE
Three small boats skipped over the water on an intercept course with the colossal freighter looming in the afternoon haze. Coal black and sinewy Somalis and cream-coffee Arabian Yemenis, sixteen men in all, leaned into the wind, watched the ship grow on the horizon, and fingered their Kalashnikov rifles.
None of the sixteen were new at this. They were all experienced pirates.
The choppy waves and the small profile of their long narrow skiffs hid their radar signature as they closed on the stern with brazen speed.
To a man they were all high, but not high on sedatives or the like, drugs that would muddle their senses or diminish their resolve. They were instead doped up on khat, the amphetamine-like leaf chewed like tobacco across Africa’s horn. They’d been chewing since late morning, and the full effect of the stimulant now gushed through their veins. The khat gave them extreme energy and near-superhuman confidence, but it also made them anxious, irritable, volatile.
With the loaded weapons in their hands and the promise of big money once they took control of the ship, the khat was a hazardous additive to a situation that hardly needed another unstable ingredient.
And one other dangerous ingredient, already well stirred in the pot, ensured that events soon to follow would not end well.
Their leader was out for revenge.
His name was Abdiwali. He was just twenty-two and already a veteran pirate of these waters. He spit khat-laced sputum into the foaming wake created by his wooden boat’s bow as it churned through the green sea, gripped his AK with sweaty fingers, screamed at the old man operating the outboard motor, told him his mother was a whore if he could not make the skiff go faster.
Abdiwali looked ahead at the looming freighter, imagined workers on the deck milling about. Helpless fools. Infidels, no doubt. Soon they would see the approaching speedboats, and they would know they were being hijacked. If these seamen were like all the others on ships captured by Abdiwali, they would point a sound weapon and blast a loud noise that was annoying and painful, but hardly a deterrent. They also might spray the pirates with water that could easily capsize a slower or bigger craft, but deck hoses would not threaten Abdiwali’s sleek and mobile skiffs. Finally, if the seamen on this ship were like all the others, when they realized their fate was unavoidable, they would slow the ship and allow the boarding. If they had time they would lock themselves in a safe room, a citadel, to remain protected from the pirates’ guns while communication was established with the freighter’s home office. Abdiwali and his men would demand ransom and then raid the officers’ stores of liquor and meat. With assurances that no harm would come to the crew, the citadel’s doors would open, and cigarettes would be passed around in a show of friendship. Tea would be poured and food would be passed about. The deckhands would return to their duties or retire to their bunks. In a few days, a few weeks if the home office felt the need to be obstinate, Abdiwali would have his money, and hands on the ship would be shaken. The pirates would return to their skiffs and race home to their mother ship, and the freighter, her men, and her cargo would continue on as if nothing had happened.
No. Not this time.
It had been a week since Abdiwali’s brother’s death. He’d led a similar hijacking, had made the mistake of targeting a Saudi tanker, and for this error had paid the ultimate price. The Saudis refused to negotiate. They sent armed helicopters from Jeddah, and the helicopters raked the deck of the tanker with machine guns, killing hijackers and hijacked alike, even gunning down the first officer of the vessel. Abdiwali’s brother was ripped in two and kicked into the sea for the sharks. One pirate was left alive, picked up by the helicopter and delivered to the coast, to tell the others that they could hit ships in the Gulf of Aden to their hearts’ content, as long as the ships were not Saudi flagged.
The freighter roiling the warm water before him was not Saudi owned, of this Abdiwali made certain, but his rage was real and his thirst for vengeance needed to be quenched, if only by proxy. With no real motivation other than impulse and wrath, young Abdiwali decided he would kill every last living thing on board.
* * *
Thirty-seven-year-old Kolt Raynor opened his eyes slowly, stared at the low ceiling above. The heat hung oppressive in his cabin. Sweat dangled in beads off his eyelashes. The stale taste of vomit in his mouth, mixed with the discount-store bourbon he’d been sipping nearly nonstop for the past six days, threatened to sicken him yet again. He rolled onto his side on his bunk, looked across the closet-sized room, out the portal at a blue sky.
Afternoon sunlight.
Shit. Kolt had slept since breakfast. He looked to his watch.
Three p.m.
He sat up, his head swirled, and he put his hands on his knees to steady himself. His baggy cotton warm-up pants were twisted up to his shins, his tank-top undershirt was smeared with greasy food, and his white socks were blackened at the soles. His uniform was pressed and crisp, but it was also hanging in the closet. He had not even taken it out of its plastic bag.
Kolt’s soft girth filled his clothing. His love handles seemed to be widening in the mirror these days. His beard and mustache had grown unkempt, and his hair hung past his collar line.
Not that he’d worn a collared shirt in some time.
He reached down to the floor, caught the rolling bottle that journeyed back and forth along with the movement of the ship. He found his plastic cup and poured three fingers of whiskey. As hot as it was in the cramped room, he served it up neat because he was too lazy to climb the stairs down to the galley on A Deck to get ice from the machine.
As he brought the drink to his lips the satellite phone wrapped in the sheets of his bunk chirped.
He found it on the third ring.
“Raynor.”
“Kolt? It’s Pete.”
“Colonel? What time is it in Virginia?”
“Six a.m.”
Raynor wiped salty sweat from his brow with his forearm. “Not a social call, then?”
“Son, have you been drinking?”
Raynor looked down at the bottle that he still held in his right hand. It was half empty. He’d snuck a case of booze on board, and this was the last of it. “Of course not. I’m operational.”
“The captain says you’ve been puking off the side.”
“It’s a boat. People puke on boats, Pete.”
“The captain also says you’ve been insubordinate.”
“The captain is a jackass. We had a little run-in. No big deal.”
“He said you were drunk and unpleasant to him.”
“It’s not my job to be nice to the captain. It’s my job to … well, you know the deal. It’s basically my job to sit here and do nothing.”
“You are the security officer. You have many assigned duties, and you know what your duties are.”
Kolt finished the plastic cup of bourbon and tossed the cup on the floor, knowing it would roll back his way soon enough. “Yes, sir. I am allowed to run the LRAD if we’re attacked.” The Long Range Acoustic Device was a sonic weapon that blasted high-volume pulses and, in theory, could be used to fend away pirates.
