RW11 - Violence of Action (14 page)

“The Pacific Northwest has long been identified by the White Supremacist Movement as its natural homeland. Oregon, Washington, Idaho, and Montana are where all good supremacists want to isolate themselves and create an all-white society. The major players in the movement, including Posse Comitatus, the neo-Nazi National Alliance, the White Aryan Resistance, and the infamous but martyred Order, all have deep, deep roots in this area of the country, particularly in Oregon.

“Portland is seen by the Movement as a multicultural, ethnically diverse, liberal obscenity. It is the ideal target for someone like Blanchard, who fancies himself as a Phineas Priest figure in the Christian Identity faith. By destroying Portland, the Sodom of the Pacific Northwest in the eyes of all good White Men, Blanchard will assume a very powerful, perhaps undisputed position in the worldwide white racist matrix. In doing so, he no doubt hopes to ignite a race war in the streets of America. This is what white racial holy war doctrine ordains must take place for America to be purified as decreed by
Yahweh
’s prophets to His people.”

Trace spoke up. “We’ve heard the term ‘Phineas Priest’ before. What’s it mean exactly?”

“In Christian Identity a Phineas Priest is the ultimate warrior. He extracts retribution for grievous sins against
Yahweh
’s teachings. He slays race traitors, homosexuals, and any others seen as an abomination to
Yahweh
. The Phineas Priest can undertake any action he believes necessary against the oppressor, who is most often referred to as ZOG, or the Zionist Occupational Government. Such priests are highly regarded in the movement. Blanchard and his followers may believe themselves to be such priests. If so, you are dealing with zealots beyond your wildest dreams. They cannot be reasoned with, threatened, intimidated, or stopped by any rational means. The fact these people are also trained, elite commandos makes their position within the Movement that much more secure. I warned about the impact of such a development several years ago. Clearly, no one was listening.”

“You and me both, Mr. Monson. Anything else you can add?”

Monson leaned forward, aiming his pipe at me stem first, like a short-barreled pistol. “It is my belief that while Colonel Blanchard may be a holy warrior in his own eyes, he has no intention of becoming a martyr. He will not hesitate to detonate the device. He will position it where it will do the most damage, but where he and his team will have the greatest possibility of making a successful escape before the blast occurs. He has planned this operation carefully and well. He does not intend to be stopped. Anyone who gets in his way will die. When you think you have him, that’s the time to watch your back. Make no mistake, Captain, you are in for the fucking fight of your life as soon as you walk out this door.”

Well, I thought to myself, isn’t that special?

I thanked the panel of experts and excused them along with the handful of admin help that had been busy squaring our shit away since my arrival. When the door closed it was just me, Danny, Trace, and Paul. Our individual kit was stored in our own daypacks or heavy-duty gym bag. Our weapons were locked and loaded. If necessary we could catnap on the flight out to Oregon. There remained only one more thing for me to say before we hauled ass for the chopper and then Andrews.

“Anyone who wants out has my blessing,” I said quietly. “This is about as close to a one-way ticket as it can get. If Blanchard knows we bagged Karras, he can and probably will fall back onto whatever contingency plan he’s made for such a development. That means he could blow the nuke a minute from now, or while we’re in Portland trying to get a handle on Karras’s linkup with his two Nemesis pals. There won’t be a single safe zone near where we’ll be operating. We all know what a SADM is designed to do. Your call. Make it now.”

The silence was short-lived. “We’re wasting time, Skipper.” It was Kossens. The kid stood up and hefted his daypack over one broad shoulder. He looked at me with an expression I’d seen on the faces of so many of my shooters before. If I’d lead, he’d follow. It was as simple as that. Or as complicated. I knew he was speaking for Trace and Danny, as well.

So that was that. I stood up and grabbed my MP-5 and my well-packed (and lethal) gym bag. “Saddle up! We got a plane to catch.” Danny opened the door for us and we trooped out of the dark conference room and into the brightly lit hall. Mulcahy was waiting at the elevator, holding its doors open for us. I gave him a quick thumbs-up. He nodded in return. “Trace on point! Kossens, up second. Then Danny. I’ll pull drag. Let’s get the fuck outta here!”

As I watched my team head for the elevator, I realized just how fucking fortunate a man I was right then and there. I was doing the only thing I’d ever wanted to do—leading warriors into battle. We weren’t many but we had heart. And a just cause. The odds were against us, but when haven’t they been? Squaring my shoulders I started after Danny “Big-As-A fucking-Barn” Barrett.

Hell, it was as good a day to die as any other.

Tagging and bagging terrorists is done one step at a time. Their organizations are cellular in structure with each cell operating on a need-to-know basis. It’s how they stay alive in a world that is hunting their heads 24/7. I knew we’d have to climb up the organizational ladder to get to Blanchard and the nuke. Karras was our big break into the chain. It was time to start taking heads. And we’d start with the two Nemesis operators Karras was supposed to hook up with outside of Portland.

The PAVE Hawk helo we were taking to Karras’s rendezvous point was courtesy of the ParaRescue unit stationed at the Portland Air National Guard base, or the PANG as they call it. Danny, Trace, Paul, and I were sitting bunched up on the aluminum plate floor of the chopper, a thick braided fast rope coiled at the lip of the open starboard side door. It was ready to be kicked once we were at the target. I had two hotshit PJs onboard as fast rope masters for our infil. They would also provide emergency trauma medical assistance if any of us needed it once the hit went down. HRT shooters and looters were prepositioned at ground zero. That had not been an easy task. The bad guys, or BGs, were holed up in a luxury hotel called the Fitzgerald, as prime a piece of commercial real estate as can be had overlooking the mighty Columbia River. According to our hasty intelligence work at the hotel, they were in a two-bedroom suite, about a thousand square feet total. I knew the assholes we were after would have their room wired for sound and ready to barricade themselves in if they couldn’t get clear of an assault team. And I knew they were holding serious firepower and were more capable than most of employing it effectively in a fight. We were up against my worst nightmare: terrorists not only trained as well as we were, but also in possession of our intellectual property regarding strategies, tactics, and the most modern techniques of Hun-busting scumbags. They knew our countermeasures and our countercounter measures. There was no room for error in dealing with these guys. It would be kill or be killed.

My biggest concern was that the bad guys were prepared to blow exit holes in all directions at once. They sure the fuck weren’t going to entertain a gun battle with overwhelming odds unless forced into it. And they were unlikely to try to bust out down the main hall with all the heat that they knew would line that gauntlet. No, these bastards—if they were thinking like me—would be prepared for us with prepositioned explosive breaching charges to blast their way through walls, ceilings, and floors if necessary to save their asses. If they did so, I wanted HRT in position to stop ‘em dead in their tracks. Getting innocent civilians injured or killed is not my style. We had to contain the Nemesis cell first, and then ensure it couldn’t pull its head out of the noose I’d set for it once the fun began.

The HRT commander, fresh in from Andrews AFB, had done a great job of quietly infiltrating his shooters into position. Over the last hour, they’d sealed off the floors above and below the BGs and also taken up positions in the rooms on either side of the two bastards, and across the hallway. They held the rooms directly above and below the target suite. Electronic communications were being kept to a minimum for fear of being intercepted by the BGs. Fucking Blanchard had looted the Nemesis war locker and his team was in possession of some extremely sophisticated electronic wizardry. All of which I had to assume was being used against us at this very moment. It was back to the basics for the Rogue. Hand and arm signals, written notes passed between those needing to know, and hard-line phones for final coordination.

Take a note! An expert is someone who does the basics better than anyone else.

And my expertise is in taking out Tangos. No one is better at it than
moi
.

“ONE MINUTE!”

The warning came from the pilot of the ’hawk as he put the agile helo hard to port and started his run for the target. My soon to be new best friends had taken a room facing the river, one floor below the penthouse. HRT owned both the penthouse and the roof of the building. I had snipers covering all four corners of the upper decks from adjacent buildings. On the ground floor there was a second team of HRT shooters just in case these crazy fucks tried to BASE jump the balcony. I wouldn’t underestimate their imaginations. You hunt terrorists, you learn to think like a terrorist.

“THIRTY SECONDS!”

We were coming in way fast. This was going to be one fucking hairy rope ride. I’d ordered the pilot to come in just above the roof and to flare hard. That way anyone on the roof or the target balcony would be hammered by the fierce rotor wash of the powerful special ops chopper. A PJ would kick the rope over the side and the kids, Danny and I would then damn near free-fall onto the wide balcony from which our little pals had enjoyed a panoramic view of the river. It would be tight, very tight. Asshole pucker time tight. It would take about thirty seconds for all of us to make it onto the balcony, hopefully fast enough to surprise the bastards. The sliding glass door onto the balcony was reported closed and the curtains inside were drawn. I was counting on that combined with the general surrounding city noise to mask the sound of the approaching helos long enough for us to make our move. One slip, one miscalculation and it was a twenty-story free fall to the pavement. The aircrew and the PJs had to be right on the money or the team and me would be cashing in our chips with the Man Upstairs. If that happened, HRT had their orders. Get in and take ’em out. The fire department could hose what was left of me off the sidewalk afterward.

The Fitz was coming up fast. I felt a light shoulder squeeze and knew the PJ behind me was letting us know we were nearly on-target. I’d hit the rope first. Lead from the front, even when the front means going down. Trace was #2 to ride the string, then Paul. Danny would cover our six and be last man on the deck. As fucking big as he is, we’d want to be inside and kicking ass before his boots hit the cramped confines of the balcony.

To get us through the sliding glass door, I’d brought along a 37-mm Less Lethal beanbag gun. Slung around my neck the short, powerful little hand cannon was set up to fire a hardened breaching projectile recently developed for use by both DELTA and SEAL Team SIX. My plan was to slide like a raped ape down the fast rope and as soon as my go-fast boots made contact with the balcony I’d blast the glass and then launch all 240 pounds of Rogue Warrior badass into the suite. Once inside I’d transition to my Glock 26 and we’d go toe-to-toe with whoever was home. I knew I had to get off the balcony and into the suite
fast
. If I got hung up after touching down I’d get clobbered by Trace, Paul, and Danny coming down the rope hot on my heels. Plus, the jig would then be up and the BGs would most likely strafe the balcony with more firepower than I cared to think about. If that happened we’d be ground round perfection on a bun. Not my idea of a successful end to the mission.

“GO!”

The helo flared hard then flattened out and assumed a hover. As if in slow motion I watched the heavy coil of rope get kicked clear of the deck and become taut as it dropped to its full length. Reaching out with gloved hands I grabbed the string and launched my ass out of the bird. With a slight twist I cleared the lip of the cargo platform and began spinning around and down the rope. I left my feet free and used the heavy rope as a guide. There was no time or need to slow my decent. I had to get to where I was going
fast
. I figured we were about forty feet above the balcony. As soon as Danny landed, the crew would release the fast rope and it would fall to the street below. The helo would have to get away from the target
muy rapido
as the expected firefight was bound to erupt as soon as I pulled the trigger of the 37-mm. Then we’d be on our own with nowhere to go but forward, straight into the lion’s den.

I grunted hard and loud as the heels of my Nike tactical boots bounced off the wrought iron railing of the balcony and my ass struck it dead center of my tailbone. Fuck! Ignoring the sharp pain that shot up the length of my spine and exploded inside the core of my brain I stepped clear of the rope and moved off to the left. Trace was hitting the deck even as I raised the 37-mm hand cannon and pressed its squat, ugly trigger.
BOOM!
I heard the round go off and felt the recoil of the weapon as it bucked rearward and up. The specially designed projectile hit the glass door and—

—Nothing happened.

Well, not exactly
nothing
. More like,
not a fucking thing
! The damn round struck the thick window glass and bounced off! I heard someone behind me—Paul, I think—yelp as the fucking beanbag ricocheted into him. At the same time I felt the exposed platform of the balcony shudder like it had been smacked with a pile driver from hell. That would be Danny, I thought. For an instant I had a vision of all of us falling to our deaths as the balcony gave way beneath our combined weights. I didn’t know how much it could support, but there was some serious beef slamming into it and most such luxury options were not constructed to be landing pads.

I fired a second beanbag at the glass. This time I was rewarded with an impressive spider web as the second 37-mm round whacked the sliding glass portal hard. Still no entry point but at least I was making some mighty fucking progress. With the helo now gone I could hear the sound of muffled gunfire coming from deep inside the apartment. There was a huge explosion off to my right and then all hell broke loose to my front. As predicted, Nemesis was trying to bust out through one of the adjoining apartments and had run straight into the HRT blocking force I’d put in place for just such a contingency.

As I was pressing the fucking trigger of the ’37 one more fucking time I watched an impressive chunk of glass disappear just above my head. The portal began to crumble as the impact of a .300 Magnum Winchester round went through the already weakened window. An HRT sniper on a neighboring roof, observing our predicament through his 10X scope, had saved our asses with one well-placed round.

“GOGOGO!” I yelled as I booted the rest of the glass and dashed into the main living room of the suite. Off to my right I could hear what sounded like a furious gun battle taking place and I motioned hard to the team to swing away from the walls and toward the left portion of the room so we could see what the fuck was happening and not shoot each other in the process.

The Nemesis breaching charge had started a small fire and smoke was rapidly filling the apartment. The damn smoke detectors started beep-beep-beeping like crazy and then with a sudden
pop
the overhead fire sprinkler system went off. The entire suite now felt like it was home to a freaking tropical rainstorm! We’d just taken cover behind a very nice (though now very wet) sofa and chairs when one of the Nemesis operators burst in from the adjoining bedroom where all the gunfire was happening. I was trying to get a good bead on him when he saw me and swung a Colt M-4 assault rifle up and began sending one long stream of 5.56 skull busters down in my direction. Time for Dickie to make himself scarce!

No one could hear shit over the roar of gunfire that was bouncing around the apartment like thunder trapped in a fifty-five-gallon oil drum. The fucking sprinkler system was working just fine, which meant it was practically drowning us and making it near impossible to get a good sight picture on anything more than three feet in front of our faces! I hoped to hell as I rolled and tucked up behind a non-bullet-stopping lounge chair that the HRT team outside the door in the hallway would hold their position. If they blew the fucking door and flooded the room we were now in, there’d be one helluva lot of friendly fire causalities to account for.

“DICK!”

Hearing Trace yell my name I chanced a peek and watched her as she heaved a flash bang grenade toward the Nemesis shooter. I clamped my eyes shut just as the damn thing went off. The resulting explosion made me even harder of hearing than I already was. I barely registered the rattle of subgun fire as the kids and Danny maneuvered their way around the fucking mess we’d made of things. This little surprise attack was going nowhere fast. And where the fuck was that other BG?

The high-pitched stutter of a squad automatic weapon erupting behind me answered that question. BG2 must have been holed up at the opposite end of the spacious suite and he was now putting in his two cents. Me and my team were now caught between BG1 and BG2. I didn’t know exactly where BG1 had slithered off to, but he sure the fuck wasn’t still in the hallway where I’d last seen him trying to kill my big ass. The fucking automatic weapon working its way up and down the walls and tearing the absolute shit outta anything in its way was now my primary concern. That shit had to stop!

Scrunching over on my side and changing my pistol’s empty magazine I saw Paul. His face and both his hands were bleeding badly. He was lying flat on his back in front of the shot-to-shit couch and yelling like a motherfucker into his handheld ICOM. I couldn’t hear a fucking word he was saying. I didn’t have a clue where Danny was. Trace was hunkered down to my right, flat on her belly, sending a full magazine of 10-mm hornets into the hallway where the SAW gunner was holed up and pinning us the fuck down. Well, suppressive fire is better than no fire at all.

I did a quick battlefield assessment of our situation. First, we were fucked up beyond all repair, or FUBAR. I could live with that. Been there and done FUBAR many times before. I—we—just needed to keep our heads and fight our way out. The BGs were split up, which was good. They were holding their own, which was bad. It was pretty fucking clear HRT couldn’t get into the apartment from where they were. They were still in a firefight with BG1 who was tossing lead to his front and rear with great skill. That was bad. It was also clear BG2 was in full control of his half of the homestead and with the fucking SAW he owned our asses. Of the two Nemesis players he was the greater threat. If it were me I’d be getting ready to stroll down the hallway and into our damp little patch of Hell with a 250-round drum of man-killers on full auto. Unless a lucky shot took him out we’d be chopped to bits as he worked the gun around the room. After that it wouldn’t matter who won. Me, the kids, and Danny Barrett would be hunka-hunka bleeding corpses. End of story.