Full Assault Mode (48 page)

At 110 degrees Fahrenheit, the heat shocked Kolt’s face and exposed hands immediately. In a second, once fully submerged, his entire body felt it, automatically making it difficult to hold his breath. No more noise, no more distinct smell of gunpowder, but, surprisingly, a lighted pathway. Subsurface lighting illuminated the top of the zircalloy-clad fuel assemblies that rested on the bottom of the pool, the very top of the assemblies roughly twenty-three feet under water.

After the bubbles from the initial plunge cleared the unoxygenated water around Kolt, he began breaststroking and frog kicking rapidly to descend, anticipating the terrorist still above on the fuel deck would be blindly pumping rounds into the pool. It was surprisingly clear underwater, not unlike the deep end of any Olympic swimming pool. Three rounds pierced the water at a steep angle, creating scattered minibubbles that quickly dissolved. Just off the left side of his head, the rounds prompted him to adjust his body to angle his dive closer to the painted concrete. Kolt knew the shooter was taking a big risk, since he might inadvertently strike his al Qaeda brother.

Three more hard pulls of breaststroke, and Kolt spotted a dark human-size figure below. As Kolt closed the distance, it was obvious that the gunfight on the fuel deck couldn’t be heard from thirty feet below the water’s surface. That, or the terrorist below simply ignored it, electing to remain focused on the primary task Allah expected of him.

As Kolt descended, his concern with the hot water lessened as he became increasingly spooked by the high radiation dose he was certainly receiving. The crimson blood filling the water from his winged shoulder was no defense against the deadly beta and gamma radiation emitting from both sides of the cladding. Water, or blood, offers exceptional shielding, but the longer he stayed underwater, the greater the dose he would absorb. The closer he moved to the stainless-clad spent-fuel assemblies, the chances of taking an accumulative lethal dose multiplied. Every two feet Kolt moved closer to the spent fuel assemblies he increased the radiation dose by a factor of 10. Worse, touching the assemblies would be certain death.

Is this worth it? I’m a dead man whether I stop this asshole or not.

Kolt took three more full strokes and frog kicks and spotted the submerged terrorist, a yellow scuba tank attached to his back, a belt of hard lead blocks surrounding his waist, the black hose regulator routed from the tank over his right shoulder. This terrorist was not worried about the radiation, knowing his soul was soon to be in paradise, knowing he had enough oxygen to ensure he got there.

Kolt couldn’t be certain, but he saw what looked like some type of transmitter in both hands of the terrorist, still unaware of Kolt’s presence. As Kolt did a free dive closer, he was able to make out the terrorist’s right hand pushing buttons. A red light blinked three times on a dark square box attached to a circular pipe only a few feet from the terrorist. A strong swimmer on any other day, the heat, coupled with the adrenaline, forced Kolt’s body to exhume what oxygen he had stored in his lungs. Kolt understood shallow-water blackout, where cerebral hypoxia could trigger loss of consciousness with little warning.

I hate the fucking water!

A second light, this one green, flashed and remained steady on the same dark object.

Decide, Kolt!

After one more full but powerless stroke, Kolt recognized the object wrapped in clear Bubble Wrap. Just to the right, four or five feet away, Kolt picked up on a second green light. A second package, wrapped the same but slightly smaller than the one closest to the terrorist, was attached to some type of basketball-size transfer valve.

Kolt understood the bastard’s plan. One explosive charge on the stainless steel fuel assemblies, a second smaller one, most assuredly designed to destroy the crossover valve. The terrorists had done their homework; the damage would be irreversible.

Compromise this asshole’s air source, or condemn myself to a watery grave.

Kolt swam in behind the terrorist, grabbing the top of both shoulders and wrapping his legs tightly around the terrorist’s waist. The terrorist’s reaction was instant panic. He dropped the transmitter from his hands and began flailing madly. Locked together, they began rolling over and over, Kolt’s natural buoyancy not enough to counter the belt of weight around the terrorist.

Upside down and with bubbles moving up toward the surface, past the terrorist’s bare feet, Kolt reached around and yanked the regulator from the bomber’s mouth. As Kolt did so, he noticed the thin and black curly hair as it floated underwater. The terrorist turned his head, and Kolt recognized the high forehead.

Fucking Nadal!

On the extreme edge of passing out, Kolt shoved the regulator in his own mouth and took a deep hit of oxygen. He’d never enjoyed breathing as much as he did then. Invigorated, he squeezed his leg-lock tight around Nadal’s torso as they rolled again, this time to the opposite direction, much like Tarzan would cling to a massive alligator.

The terrorist reached back with his right hand, grabbing ahold of the hose regulator and pulling it out of Kolt’s mouth. Kolt could see the deformed hand, the one missing two fingers, confirming beyond any doubt that he had found Nadal the Romanian. Kolt reached up with both hands and put a tight kink in the hose before tying a double overhand noose in the hose. A sudden thought flashed in his mind—
now I know why SEALs do this kind of training
. Kolt grabbed the black knob and turned it hard clockwise, killing the air feed into the primary mouthpiece, just as a SEAL buddy of his had done to him one day while diving off the coast of Newport News. Kolt didn’t think it was funny then, and he knew Nadal certainly wasn’t finding it funny now.

Nadal whipped his head around to the right again. His eyes were wide with fear. Kolt knew that Nadal needed to escape his clutch, or he would die a failure. Kolt kept the pressure on, refusing to relent. He squeezed the scuba tank hard, keeping it to his front, not letting Nadal turn around inside the leg lock. With his right hand, Kolt wrapped the knotted black air hose twice around Nadal’s skinny neck. Arching his back, Kolt pulled the hose as tight as he could.

Kolt tightened his grip as Nadal thrashed to get free. He was fighting longer and harder than Kolt anticipated for someone without oxygen. Kolt knew he needed air, too, but he was more focused on keeping Nadal between himself and the fuel assemblies to manage the radiation dose he was certainly receiving. Water and a human body were excellent shields from deadly radiation. Whether Kolt was receiving a lethal dose or not, they could continue to struggle for another ten seconds, fifteen max, before shallow-water blackout set in.

Kolt sensed the water pressure as a large splash shook the water above him and to his right rear. Something large had fallen into the pool. A body, the body of a security officer, or maybe the terrorist Kolt had exchanged a few mags with on the fuel deck earlier had joined the party. Just past the sinking man, small white spotlights criss-crossed above the water’s surface. As the body sunk deeper and deeper, Kolt recognized the lifeless body of the other terrorist, blood contaminating the water near his back and left leg.

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.”