RW11 - Violence of Action (21 page)

Everyone on SIX had to be trainable, and that meant they needed to possess the ability to adapt, to change their way of thinking and doing things. Everyone on SIX also needed to be fully capable of “going over the railing” as operators regardless of their positions within the Team. No purely backroom talent here. I wanted and needed exceptional dedication to the mission and a level of loyalty to the Team from my operators that was unheard of in the regular Navy. If SIX was going to be writing the book on naval counterterrorism, then each operator, regardless of rank, needed to share the responsibility of making the program work.

I personally interviewed all SEAL candidates for selection to the Team. Had the operator deployed at least once with a SEAL platoon? Had he seen combat? How had he performed under fire? Did he have any apprentice union trade skills? Foreign language capability? Was he married? Shacked up? A single guy on the prowl? What were his career goals? Was he flexible in his thinking? I ran the ratline to all those hairy-assed UDT and SEAL chiefs and put the names to them. Who was this guy? Did he have what it would take to be a shooter and looter on the hardest, meanest SEAL Team ever stood up? Would you go to war with him? After I’d checked each hopeful operator or officer out as completely I could, it was decision time. Some made it, some didn’t. I pissed off the overall SEAL community big-time. They saw me as having a blank check and the heretofore unheard of opportunity to skim off the pick of the litter when it came to standing up and staffing a brand new shiny SEAL Team. They were right. I did. Those were my orders and that was my mission. Straight from the CNO himself. Seemed pretty clear to me. They didn’t have to like it, the new Team, or me.

They just had to do it.

And they paid it all back to me in spades when they finally succeeded in taking my command of SIX away from me. Of all the bullshit the Navy and my detractors in the SEAL community could have pulled, this was the worst. I loved each of my operators like a son. I loved commanding the roughest, toughest, baddest, and most capable SEALs ever to walk the face of the earth. I loved leading from the front rather than from behind a desk. I loved knowing that if the call came we would whip our enemies like they’d never been whipped before. SIX was my vision. It did not exist until I created it in my mind and then birthed it with as much pain and love as a mother does a newborn child. When it was taken from me for no other reason than petty jealousy and stupidity, it was as if they’d driven a steel rod through my roguish heart. Think outside the box? We did it better than anyone. Operate faster, farther, deeper, and meaner than anyone had ever gone before? Call on SIX. However, the Navy in all its vindictive pettiness and mindless worship of the conventional saw fit to separate me from what I so carefully and skillfully had built up.

But in the end it did them no good. Men—
real men
—will only go past the Gates of Hell and into the lair of Satan himself with a leader who has trained beside them and who they know is willing to shed his blood alongside theirs in battle.

Yes, I rewrote the rulebook by declaring there were no rules—just
my rules
—in the business of identifying, hunting down, and bringing to justice the jackals who too often called themselves “freedom fighters” and “holy warriors.” And now I was back in the saddle and hunting a renegade Special Forces colonel and the ball-busting weapons-grade atomic suitcase he’d bagged from our own tactical nuclear weapons arsenal.

Now you know why I’d insisted that SIX join in for the final run at Blanchard. It was sweet fucking satisfaction to get back what I thought of as my own team. Murphy, that rat-bastard, must have decided to fuck with the Navy more than me for once. I liked his style. Someone wearing whites back on the East Coast had to be spinning like a fucking top over this turn of events. There is justice, and when it comes my way I drink it in with as much pleasure as a tall glass of Dr. Bombay’s finest Sapphire on the rocks, no salad, no perfume. Ahhhh!

In my gut, I had the feeling that the tide of this battle might just be turning a little bit in my favor. I had a live prisoner and his commo gear intact. I had another egghead inbound—and I’d ensure this one didn’t get blown up while doing his job. I had a platoon of fucking hairy-assed, name-taking, skull-crushing shooters from the finest counterterrorist team in the world now under my command again. And I had Karen talking to me like the shit with Karras had never fucking happened.

It occurred to me that maybe I could get laid after all this was over. That idea alone was enough to put a new bounce in my roguish step as I went looking for my team.

“The FBI just finished with Lassiter,” Paul told me. “All they got was
Yahweh
this and
Yahweh
that from him. A bomb tech from the Portland Police Bureau deactivated the laptop’s IED and the computer geek is cracking the firewalls now. If there’s anything useful on the hard drive we’ll have it any minute. Whaddaya want to do with this asshole?”

Like me, Paul was dressed in new camouflage fatigues. His combat harness was heavy laden with full thirty-round magazines and forty-mike high-explosive grenades for his Colt M4A1 modular assault rifle system, complete with visible and infrared laser aiming devices, sound suppressor, day and night optics, and even a handy-dandy little flashlight. Hanging off me by its Tactical Tailor three-point combat sling was a new Modular Weapon System assault rifle with the recently introduced Rail Adapter System. The compact 5.56 Colt rifle featured an improved butt stock and M203 grenade launcher capability. The rail adapter system, or RAS, allowed me to quickly enhance the rifle’s capabilities to include state-of-the-art day and night optics as well as thermal imaging and laser aiming devices. I’d ordered all assaulters to leave the MP-5s and any other sub-guns they’d brought behind. Pistol ammunition does not penetrate SOF body armor and SOF body armor was what Blanchard and Nemesis were no doubt living in at this moment. I knew from firing thousands of rounds of 5.56 ball ammo
through
every available model of lightweight ballistic vest that assault rifles were what we’d want on deck once we made contact with Nemesis. We’d use our handguns for head and lower body shots, if offered or necessary. The grenade launchers would come in handy if we needed to blast our way into or through anything. I wasn’t worried about accidentally setting off the SADM during the course of a firefight. Small arms fire wouldn’t affect the device one way or another given its construction. High velocity, high rate of firepower weapons systems were the order of the day when it came to taking out its hijackers.

“Where are Trace and Danny?” I asked.

Kossens adjusted his rifle’s harness so the weapon now hung straight up and down from his chest. His right hand was wrapped lightly around the weapon’s hard plastic pistol grip. His trigger finger lay along the M4’s lower receiver just above the trigger guard. His every movement proved he’d been well trained in weapons handling. “They’re hanging out at the new operations center, which is co-located with the PJs now. The bomb that killed Mr. Moore blew the shit outta the old Op-Center. Pretty intense structure damage. Base commander sealed it off and moved his staff and everybody else involved across base into the PJs’ building.”

“Lassiter?”

“Feds got him over at the aviation shack. They used the pilots’ lounge to interrogate him. Danny told the agents to stand by until we found out if you wanted to see the little prick before they haul his ass outta here and back to D.C. for further questioning.”

Fuck! I needed whatever the techno-geek could get off the laptop and I needed a face-to-face with Lassiter before the Feds scooted him off to an isolated cell for the duration. “Find Trace and Danny. They’re riding shotgun on the ’hawks when we launch. Dahlgren is too shot up to move as fast as we’ll need to once we’re on the ground, and I need Danny as Command & Control of the helos once this party gets going.

“Get with the platoon commander and have him break his people down into two groups. I want his best assaulters going in. I want a six-man team standing by on the CH-47 to either come in hot to bail us out, or to recover the device and us once we’ve made the hit. Load a Zodiac, too. No snipers this time around. We’ll be moving too fucking fast to use them properly and I want
everyone
on the assault team, including your young ass! Clear?”

Paul smiled. “Aye, aye, Skipper! Where will you be?”

“Lead bird, first chalk. Right the fuck where I’m supposed to be, asshole! Now get the fuck moving. I gotta do a sit-down with Blanchard’s S2 and I’m in no mood for being preached or lied to!”

After Paul left I headed for the pilots’ lounge. I needed to know what was on the laptop so I figured to stop by the Op-Center first and see what Egghead #2 might have pulled off its hard drive. I was also wondering when the fuck we’d be hearing from Blanchard. I felt isolated from the rest of the world at the PANG. The only way in or out was by helo or fixed wing, since the roadways were now totally clogged with throngs of fearful civilians trying to flee the area as rumors of a nuclear weapon being detonated in downtown Portland were reaching the airwaves. Things were mighty fucked up in Portland. If Blanchard’s plan was to set up as many open-air targets as possible, it was working exactly as he’d envisioned. The dirty nuke’s detonation had generated enormous fear and panic, driving people out into the open so that the real device’s blast would do the greatest degree of killing possible. Added to this was the grim fact that there was no standard emergency response or law enforcement asset to search for Blanchard and his team. All conventional communications were by now overloaded and useless. The cops and National Guard were likewise hemmed in and unable to effectively mount any form of offensive, proactive action against Nemesis.

Portland was fucked.

There was a lot I didn’t fucking know right now but what I did was key. I
knew
Blanchard was not going to kill himself in the process of taking out Portland. He and what was left of his crew wanted to survive as much as me and mine did. The colonel saw himself staying alive to lead a race war within the United States. To do so he needed to get away clean
before
the SADM detonated. Given how fucked up moving around in the city was right now, that meant he planned to travel by either air or water. Fixed wing was out as we controlled all the possible short landing strips in immediate proximity to the city. Infiltration and extraction by helo was a strong possibility and I reminded myself to have the air traffic control people start watching their screens for any unidentified or unknown choppers entering or leaving the Portland area. Shit, I thought to myself, these bastards could score a chopper easy as pie if they considered hijacking one of the half-dozen television news birds scooting around the skies over Portland with their minicams and eye-in-the-sky reporters! I needed those fuckers grounded ASAP, free press or no free press. Of course, Blanchard would consider this as well and opt for something far less obvious to figure out and counteract. I was up against one
velly velly
smart snake. We were playing a deadly game of nuclear chess and for every move I made, I felt like he was somehow instantly countering me on the board.

I was really going to enjoy killing the bastard when I found him.

The secure cell I’d been given by Danny began ringing its fucking little ass off. I pulled the phone from a pouch on my combat harness and hit the
TALK
button. “Go!”

It was Barrett. “Dick? Where are you?”

“About halfway to the new Op-Center. What’s up?”

“I’ll link up with you at the Op-Center. We didn’t get much off the laptop. Moore’s replacement says the system was scrubbed. The hard drive needs to be sent to a facility where they can recover information that’s been deleted so the casual user can’t see or find it. That takes time and time is what we are out of.”

“Fuck me to tears, Danny!”

Barrett managed a dry laugh. “Hold on, Marcinko. The geek did find something interesting. From what I understand these freaking scrubbing programs aren’t perfect. He located a partial file that Lassiter missed deleting. We may be able to use some of the information against Lassiter when we interview him. I’ll wait for you here.”

“Roger that!” I snapped the phone closed and began jogging toward the lights of the Op-Center. Danny was right. We were out of time. Any moment now the sky could light up as the SADM detonated and it would all be over for anyone within the blast radius of the device, including Dick Marcinko and Company. Whatever had been found on the laptop was perhaps the key to averting the ultimate terrorist act. And if Lassiter wouldn’t talk with the Feds I promised myself he’d talk with
me
. I owed him that little funfest.

I burst through the door to the Op-Center and found nearly everyone there watching a bank of hastily arranged television monitors. I recognized Colonel Max Blanchard’s face on the multiple screens immediately. Fuck and double fuck! My gut went sour as I heard his voice. This was the long-awaited final message from the Doomsayer himself. I shut the door behind me and stood rock still, my arms folded across my chest. If the jig was up it would happen now and there wasn’t a damn thing that I or anyone else could do about it. Son of a bitch, I whispered to myself, so fucking close yet so fucking far away!

“…in five hours I will slay those who have mocked the teachings of Yahweh, who have defiled themselves by living among the dark races, who have given themselves over to the hated Jews whose plan is to destroy White Israel. The instrument given to me by the One True God is a tactical nuclear weapon taken by my brave and loyal followers from the powerless and corrupt government of the so-called United States. You cannot flee, you cannot escape, you cannot stop what has been prophesied. White men and women rise up! Rise up against the filth that lays claim to our future! Upon the destruction of this vile nest of unbelievers, prepare yourselves for the war that will cleanse America! You will not have to find us! We will find you! And together we will achieve the final victory and create the homeland we deserve!”

“Fucking nuts!” I heard someone toward the front of the crowded room say. The angular face of a local newscaster replaced the messianic image of Blanchard. I heard her say the videotape we’d just watched had been left in the lobby of the downtown television station by an unidentified man just fifteen minutes prior to broadcast. Well, I thought to myself, if he’s telling the truth, we’ve got five fucking hours left to find the bomb. After that it’d be kiss my butt cheeks goodbye as well as those of the Rose City’s collective multi-culti, socially diverse ass. The television was now showing live footage shot from a helicopter flying over downtown Portland. Looting had broken out in the downtown area near where the dirty nuke had been detonated, and it was reported that growing bands of gang members were roaming the city and the outlying urban residential areas mugging and thugging anyone in their path. Scattered shootings were being reported throughout the city as the police engaged random snipers, who were in turn engaging looters and gang members. All emergency services were “temporarily on hold until new priorities for response can be reestablished,” and the National Guard was being pulled out of the city to be “redeployed where they might do the most good.” I figured that would probably be about a hundred miles from Ground Zero so there would at least be someone around to seal off the crater Portland was doomed to become if I didn’t get a fucking
break
sometime soon!

“Goddamn it Dick whatthefuckwasthat we just heard!”
Danny Barrett bullied his way through the mass of military and civilian uniforms and charged up in front of me. I’d seen Danny pissed off before, even mad, but never Fucking-A Furious. He was shaking his big ham hock of a fist in my face and I had no doubt he’d have crushed Blanchard’s skull like a ripe peach if it were at all possible in the here and fucking now.

“Danny,” I said, “the bastard just started the doomsday clock’s final countdown. I figure we got just three fucking hours to find the nuke and Nemesis. After that, we’re gonna have to either keep searching for the device or go after Blanchard as he and Nemesis will be in their E&E net. We lose the nuke, we lose the city. We lose Blanchard, we still lose the city
and
we set ourselves up for a rematch whenever he chooses. He’s got us by our furry little balls and he knows it. Now what did we get from the damn computer?”

Barrett cooled down immediately. Running a hand through his hair he shook his head from side to side. I knew he was frustrated. So was I. But time was not on our side and we had to keep focused and keep moving. Hundreds of thousands of lives depended on our staying the course and overcoming the truly shitty odds against us. Outside the PANG everybody and his mother was going nuts. We couldn’t. We had to go
into
the city while everyone else was trying to get
out
of it. And we had to find a single shiny suitcase and the nutjobs who were probably right now putting it in position where it would do the most harm possible. How and where the fuck would Blanchard do it? The look on my face must have given my thoughts away as Danny punched me hard in the shoulder.

“Okay, ya hairy ass cocksucker! But you better get to the colonel before I do. If you don’t, I’ll leave you just enough to whet your whistle but not much fucking more. The egghead found a partially deleted file that cyber-shoved its way to a crack in the operating system. You can ask Bill Gates himself what that all means, I’m just telling you what I was told. Basically, the geek explained that the bit of information we recovered was supposed to have been flushed by Lassiter but somehow got stuck and he found it. It’s the remainder of an e-mail message from Blanchard to Lassiter, possibly about the placement of the device. It’s garbled, but the words ‘Wind Storm’ appear three times in what we got. No precise reference or linkage. Just ‘Wind Storm.’ It only stood out cause it came up multiple times. Whadda you think?”

I jerked my head to the door and we rumbled outside into the dark night air. “I think I need to see Lassiter and run it past him. He’s in federal custody and I promised Karen I’d leave him in one connected piece regardless of the cost. Still, there’s more than one way to skin a Tango. Find Paul and get gunned up. You and Trace are riding security on the birds when we go in. The platoon should be nearly here and ready to roll. Call fucking Clay and bring him up to speed. Tell him to see to it all civilian air is grounded over and around Portland. The Air National Guard guys have to have permission to shoot anything flying other than us outta the skies from now until further notice, including news choppers. I’m gonna go chat with the asshole and ask him about Wind Storm.”