Full Assault Mode (26 page)

Kolt instinctively rolled to his rear, executing a somersault, but was stopped short when he impacted with the small refrigerator. Kolt sensed the downward knife motion and heard the knife blade impact the concrete flooring under the dirty carpet.

Kolt reached for Joma’s right wrist, pulling him toward him as he rolled to his back to place him in his guard. The wrist control kept the blade at a safe distance, forcing Kolt to control Joma’s body with only one arm. Kolt grabbed a deep handful of Joma’s white T-shirt collar as he heard the other terrorist yelling to stop as they bounced off the beds.

I don’t want to kill this guy—not yet, anyway!

Kolt quickly assessed the man’s position, just as he had always done rolling with mates back at the Unit. He first thought arm bar, but gave that up because Joma still held the knife in his hand. Triangle choke was an option, but the setup was off and Joma’s lower torso held tight to Kolt’s right leg. But he didn’t have time to run through the Gracie library searching for the perfect move in this particular situation; he needed something simple to stop the terrorist’s aggression, but not so effective as to break a major bone or compromise the man’s airway.

Screw it! Basics!

Kolt tightened his stomach muscles quickly and executed a sit-up, simultaneously pulling Joma’s head toward his. He landed a head butt, impacting Joma just above the left eye, forcing him to release his hold on the knife. Kolt knew it was solid by the sound, the deep gash, and the fact that warm blood had spurted out of the wound and into Kolt’s face.

Kolt allowed Joma to fall free from his grasp, toppling over the maps on the floor.

“I am sorry, brother Joma,” Kolt said as he moved to a standing position to allow him some more flexibility should the other two pile on. “I did not mean to hurt you, but you had a knife.”

Farooq stepped forward, kicking the knife away from both of them and putting himself in between the two combatants. He lifted his hands in the air to his chest to motion Kolt to keep his distance from Joma. The other terrorist, Abdul, had yanked a cover off a down pillow and quickly held pressure on Joma’s left eye.

“Brothers, this is not Allah’s way,” Farooq said, rapidly looking back and forth at them. “We have much to do. This is too important for us to have such strong disagreements.”

“I’m sorry, Farooq,” Kolt said, now worried that he had just caused an unnecessary incident that could unravel the entire operation, his first under the Tungsten banner.

Then again, Joma had started it. And if he had any skills, he had equal chance to finish it. Had he not had his temper tantrum and pulled a knife, he wouldn’t be bleeding all over his buddy Abdul and the bedsheets.

That motherfucker is lucky I didn’t bust his larynx!

“All is well, brother Timothy,” Farooq said, still trying to gain control of the situation and calm everyone’s nerves. “It is best if you go now. We will contact you when we are ready to continue.”

“Yes, yes, that would be best,” Kolt said. “You have my cell number. Please call me soon.”

“Yes, it will be soon,” Farooq said. “But you must be ready next time. We must know these things to plan our attack. I trust you will be better prepared.”

“Yes, I will be,” Kolt said before heading to the door. “You can trust me.”

“We must succeed in our mission. We have lost other brothers recently and even more are counting on us to execute our part of the larger plan,” Farooq said as he opened the middle desk drawer and pulled something out.

Kolt tensed for a second, momentarily thinking Farooq was setting him up with the Mr. Nice Guy talk and was about to pull a gun on him. But when Farooq turned back around, Kolt saw he was removing a cell phone from a clear plastic bag.

“Brother Timothy, take this phone. This is how we will coordinate,” Farooq said as he handed Kolt the phone. “It is safer this way.”

Kolt knew that Tungsten was now playing interlude among all Internet traffic and cell phone calls between the terrorist cell and the real Timothy. Accepting the phone was no big deal and not entirely unexpected. Besides, it would be a simple matter to add the new phone’s fifteen-digit IMEI number into the system. Kolt also assumed Farooq’s previous comment was confirmation that the drowned swimmers that washed up on the shore of the Hudson River and the Romanian cell were all tied to the master nuke plot.

Yes, Kolt wanted to share the plant’s security strategy, the nuances of the various security officers, the secret stopping places where external mobile-security patrols could remain off camera and unobserved by their meddling supervisors, and numerous other interesting points. Kolt couldn’t afford to be Mr. Tough Guy here; he needed the terrorists more than they needed him. And, all things considered, even given the head butt, it had been a productive night.

Joma, rightly so, figured Timothy could answer all those questions. And if he was present in the hotel that night, he likely would have.

Tungsten had already determined that would not happen.

EIGHTEEN

Bruegger’s Café, Raleigh, North Carolina

Cindy Bird strode up to the outdoor café’s bronze-colored table wearing a knee-length lime-green skirt, four-button white blouse, and a pair of black two-inch heels. Kolt half stood up to greet her, keeping his head low enough to not hit it on the Dartmouth-green umbrella casting the square shadow ten feet away, and sort of reached over the small table to push her matching bronze chair out for her.

“I got it, thanks,” Cindy said as she slid the chair back enough to sit down. She removed her pocketbook and hung it on the shoulder of the chair, reached down to grab both sides of the seat, dug her heels into the whitewashed concrete patio, and scooted close to the table.

“Come here often?” Cindy asked.

“Very rarely,” Kolt answered as he handed Cindy a drink menu, trying not to eyeball her low-cut shirt and well-formed cleavage.

“Surprised, clientele doesn’t seem rowdy enough for you.”

“Stick around till after twenty-two hundred. You’d be surprised,” Kolt replied.

“I’m sure I wouldn’t be, but I’ll pass. Thanks,” Hawk said.

“I see Troy has upgraded your preppers’ bracelet,” Kolt said as he noticed the olive-green and tactical-tan military 550 cord around her wrist.

“Yeah, a double dragon knot this time, made with twenty feet of paracord,” Cindy said as she held her wrist up and turned it side to side to show Kolt. “This one also has a buckle whistle and a magnesium fire starter weaved into the cord.”

“Shit, they probably banned those things from tryouts, just like GPSs,” Kolt said, smiling before taking a swallow of ice water.

“It doesn’t really match the outfit, but Troy gives me shit if I don’t wear it.”

“Guess that telegraphs who you are seeing tonight,” Kolt said.

“Look, Kolt, it’s really good to see you, but I’ve only got a few minutes,” Hawk said, wondering if Kolt would see through her bullshit. She missed Kolt and the Unit, for sure, just too proud to wear it on her shoulders.

“Yeah, no worries. Just wanted to pick your brain for a minute, Hawk.”

“Kolt, as much as I want to, you know I can’t tell you anything about the Unit. I’m on PCS leave right now, anyway.”

“Guess Webber went through with it after all, huh?”

“Colonel Webber actually was willing to keep me,” Hawk said. “But I had to move to the NBC shop.”

“They spent a lot of money on you, Hawk. You kicked ass for over a year with several pretty hairy deployments under your belt. I’m sure they’d welcome you back in a year,” Kolt said, trying to keep Hawk motivated.

“Maybe, heading to Fort Stewart, and, to be honest with you, I’m OK with it,” Cindy said, making sure to maintain eye contact, lest she make it obvious that she was talking smack.

“Time heals all wounds, Hawk. They need you there.”

“The Unit doesn’t need anybody, Kolt. You know that better than most. But, we’ll see,” she said.

“What about you. What’s up?”

“I’ll cut to the chase, Hawk. It’s about the Romanian cell,” Kolt said. He didn’t have time to get to Tungsten headquarters in Atlanta, and it would be a pain in the ass and too time-consuming to trade encrypted e-mails with Carlos and the analysts. He could probably hit the local library and do some open-source research on the Internet. But none of those options was as good as meeting with Hawk. He knew she’d know the answers to the terrorists’ questions, at least fill in the major gaps, and was thrilled she agreed to meet him on such short notice.

“C’mon, Kolt, I don’t know too much about that,” Hawk said with as much sincerity as she could muster.

Kolt could see Cindy was uncomfortable with the topic. He realized now that it would be tough to get anything worthwhile from her. Kolt wished he could tell her he was working a SAP, working deep-cover ops for Tungsten, which might motivate her to help a little more. Reminding her of the threat to the homeland would certainly do that.

“I know, but I really just wanted to pick your brain about how a commercial nuclear plant works,” Kolt said.

“Jesus, Kolt, we could be here for a week to get through that,” Cindy said, grabbing a couple of white cocktail napkins and reaching back for a pen from her purse. She could see it in his eyes that he couldn’t walk away from the Unit, the mission. She understood that.

“I just need the basics, Hawk,” Kolt said. “What are the main buildings and what exactly does the nuke plant want to protect from sabotage?” Kolt figured if he knew at least this much, if he could gain a good appreciation for where and what he needed to keep Farooq and the gang away from, he would be in a better position to help manipulate a pseudo-false-flag attack that would minimize the number killed and maimed.

Cindy started to draw a series of rectangles in various sizes, a large circle in the middle, and smaller circles outside the rectangles.

“OK, nuke power one-oh-one. Don’t blame me; you asked for it,” Cindy said, pointing her pen at the large circle on her paper, seeming to get into it a little more.

“This large circle is known as the main reactor. It’s where the nuclear fuel rods are stored. They are megahot, and when they come in contact with water, it produces a lot of steam. The steam is then pumped out to massive turbine generators, which in turn produce electricity. I recall some refer to the reactor as containment.”

“OK, got that,” Kolt said. “What next?”

Cindy continued. “One of these rectangular buildings could be the main control room. This is like a spaceship full of computers, sensors, buttons, and switches. The smart people that run the plant work in here. If you protect these two places, the reactor core and the control room, you are good to go.”

“Basically the head shed, or even a joint operations center?” Kolt asked, wanting to understand the function of the control room a little more.

“Something like that,” Cindy said.

“OK,” Kolt said. “That’s great information.”

“Pretty simple, really. All these rectangles and the large circle are collectively known as the power block. It’s controlled access.”

Kolt thought he understood about the reactor core and control room. It seemed a lot easier than he had figured.

“So that’s it. The armed security officers have to only be concerned with stopping anyone from messing with the main reactor or the control room?” Kolt asked.

Cindy looked at her napkin for a moment. Chewed on the back end of her pen. “Well, no. In fact, there is a third concern. The spent-fuel pool could be attractive to a terrorist, too.”

“I got the control room. It runs the place. Whack a bunch of buttons and switches, and the plant can’t properly cool the reactor fuel and it overheats. But what’s the spent-fuel pool do?” Kolt asked.

She obliged Kolt. “It’s where the old fuel is sent after it can no longer produce electricity.”

“Why protect it if it is spent already?” Kolt asked.

Cindy sighed. She looked at Kolt. “Kolt, yes, it is spent, but it’s still a major radiological hazard, and it’s still hot as Hades for years and years. If that spent fuel isn’t continually cooled, it would be a meltdown similar to the reactor core losing its coolant. Think Fukushima in Japan a couple of years ago. You’d have a major radiological release on your hands that could possibly kill hundreds of thousands of innocent Americans.”

“OK, I got it, Hawk,” Kolt said. “I see you really earned that university degree after all.”

“University my ass, Kolt. Uncle Sam taught me all this in my NBC training,” Hawk answered.

“Iranian DUGS, Syrian sarin attacks, and Russian HDBT target folders probably didn’t hurt, huh?”

Kolt certainly was impressed with Hawk’s knowledge about nuclear power plants. He knew she had been working the targets in Iran, where she studied all that nation’s known deep-underground structures and hardened, deeply buried targets. But Kolt needed more. He really needed to know everything the intel shop at the Unit knew about the chatter of attacks on power plants in the United States. Kolt knew that knowledge base resided in the head of the lady he was dining with. He decided to go for it.

“These pools—is there any possible connection to the pools and those guys that washed up on the shore of the Hudson? Kolt asked, the comment by Farooq the night before in the hotel room still fresh in his mind.

“I don’t think so,” Hawk answered.

Kolt pressed it. “For example, is it possible that a diver could get to the spent-fuel pool from a large body of water like a river or reservoir?

“No, no chance,” Hawk answered. “The pool water in a nuclear power plant is not connected to the cooling water drawn from a big body of water that is needed to cool the main reactor.”

“No?” Kolt asked.

“Well, not directly, no. You can’t swim to it through a long connection of pipes or anything like that. Too many twists and turns, cutoff valves, small pipes, and vertical turns to get a body through.”

Kolt turned the napkin around a little so he could see it clearer. “The pool—it’s inside what you said is the power block?”

Hawk’s cell phone chirped. “Yes. Look, Kolt, hate to break up our date here, but I really gotta go.”