RW11 - Violence of Action (9 page)

I continued.

“We also entered the submarine and roamed through it at will. I personally planted simulated explosive devices throughout the vessel, including its nuclear reactor compartment. It was determined that if these devices had been real and had gone off, the reactor would have been breached, resulting in the fallout and contamination inherent in such a disaster.”

“Good God in Heaven,” someone on my right flank muttered.

“We could have commandeered the submarine and taken it to sea. My men were trained and capable of doing that. From there, using the nuclear weapons onboard, we could have wreaked havoc on any target of choice that caught our fancy. And yes, we had access to the launch codes and could have gotten them by the same means if we’d been the real-deal bad guys.”

The room was silent. No one was taking notes anymore. I couldn’t tell if any of the silly fuckers were even breathing. Karen gave me a nearly imperceptible nod to move on. The knife was in deep; it was time to twist it home.

“Contrary to the NSA’s version of The Truth regarding the security of our nuclear weapons systems and munitions, I proved it wasn’t necessary for a terrorist team to actually invade the hull of an attack sub to cause an improvised nuclear disaster.

“The most effective and nondetectable method of shattering a nuclear submarine’s reactor compartment is to place what we call a ‘bubble charge’ beneath the sub. The charge floats below the hull of the sub and is held in place by a line or cable attached to both the bow and stern of the vessel. When the charge either detonates by using a timer, or is command detonated using any number of remote devices or techniques, the explosion creates a massive air bubble that literally lifts the sub out of the water. The vessel’s weight then takes over and breaks its keel. During this process the reactor compartment and nuclear core is shaken out of its secure cradle. The result is a series of severe—and lethal—radioactive leaks.

“We determined it was easier and safer for a terrorist cell to attack a nuclear sub and its reactor using the latter method. Keep it simple, I always say. Besides, once you’ve seen the insides of one sub, you’ve seen them all.”

I returned to my seat. Inside I was waiting for the Troll to fire back. He’d taken a hard hit and now the fucking NSA was in poor field position. There was no doubt in my mind this meeting would end with Karen getting the support she required to proceed with briefing the president as to the reality of what the nation was facing. That done, I’d get my marching orders to locate the missing SADM, recover it and then do what I do best. And that was to kill the motherfucker and his Tangos who’d zapped Beckstein and a whole team of loyal NEST soldiers, and were now threatening to start a holy war dressed up in some fucked up, half-baked racist bullshit.

“That was a submarine base,” erupted the Troll. “We’re talking about tactical nuclear weapons no bigger than a travel bag,
not fucking submarines
!”

All eyes were on me. It was time to play my trump card. “Later that year my team and I successfully bagged six man-portable tactical—or suitcase—nukes. We took them from a not-so-secure DOE convoy transporting the devices from their Concord, California, storage facility to the Naval Station at SEAL Beach, California. SEAL Beach is where the Navy loads its conventional and special ordnance munitions for overseas deployments. My operators and I had no trouble getting accurate insider information using illegal wiretaps, a couple of bigtitted women, and the penetration and infiltration of the base commander’s private office and safe.

“Yes, I am every bad thing the NSA says. And yes,
some
even say I’m a fucking disgrace to the starched white dress uniform of the commissioned assholes who first recruited me, trained me, and sent me to Viet-fucking-Nam. But today I’m here to tell you the son-of-a-bitch who shot a man in the face from an arm’s distance away and then has the balls to tell us he’s got a fucking SADM hanging between his legs is as serious a motherfucker as one can get.

“I wasn’t brought here to entertain you. I was brought here to tell you the Fucking-A Truth and then to track down and kill my—and your—enemies.”

The good Ms. Reich spoke right up, asking, “You gave the SADMs back after the exercise was over, Captain?”

“I certainly did, Ma’am,” I replied. “I also gave back the truck they were being transported in and all the little toy soldiers we’d taken POW, too.”

No one else seemed ready or willing to ask me anything further so Karen delivered the
coup de grace
. “I am not at liberty to give you specifics, but just before we gathered for this meeting I received confirmation of an earlier report that a United States military convoy transporting a man-portable nuclear device was slaughtered earlier today, just a few hours after Samuel Beckstein’s murder. The SADM they were carrying is missing. There is every reason to believe this threat is real and, therefore, I’m adjourning this meeting,” said Karen. Shooting a sharp look at Carl, she continued, “I know the president will be grateful for all your candor and helpful advice as we prepare to handle this situation, as well as your complete discretion. Is there anyone other than the NSA who doesn’t feel Captain Marcinko is the right man for the job we have before us? If so, please raise your objections now and I’ll present them to the president for his consideration.”

Glorious silence.

“No? I remind all of you that this meeting was video-recorded for the official record and that everything we have discussed will remain strictly confidential until you are specifically told otherwise. On the president’s behalf, I thank you all for your time and attention today. You will each be receiving your particular directives in the hours to come.”

As the others stood and began to file out of the room, Karen reached over and placed a hand on my forearm. “Dick, please stay behind a moment. I want you to meet someone you’ll be working with on this. His name is Clay Mulcahy. He’ll be your direct link to the president and myself. Your operation is code-named ‘Velocity.’ The president and I determined before this meeting that once we got everyone on board we’d need to move right away.

“You’re to work with Clay to assemble a team of your choosing to conduct this mission. The president orders you to locate and recover by any means necessary the missing SADM. You will also confirm who the people are who killed Mr. Beckstein and mounted this operation against our homeland. All of OISA’s resources and assets will be made available to you. Once done, you are to track the terrorists down and neutralize them. Are the president’s orders understood?”

As I watched poor Carl-the-Troll trudge out of the room to get back under his bridge somewhere, I nodded in affirmation of my marching orders. I’d have my chance to deliver Rogue Warrior-style justice to the bastard I’d just heard threaten my country and its people. And upon the authority of the president of the United States himself I’d gut the cocksucker or die trying!

I am the son of an immigrant family who came to America with nothing but their hopes and dreams. Whoever was behind the electronic voice was now my enemy, my family’s enemy. He was all of our enemy, even Carl the fucked up little NSA asshole with his beady eyes and dumb fuck attitude. When I’ve identified my enemies I keep them to my front and in my sights until I’ve taken them down and fucking out.
Yahweh
or whatever this asshole called his fucking god could kiss my hairy SEAL ass.

It was time to get it on.

Clay Mulcahy gripped my hand like the former boxer he was. Half a head shorter than me and with a spit-shined skull that gleamed under the room’s soft lighting, he made no bones about how fucking strong he was as we squeezed paws. “Dick Marcinko! How the fuck are you? Heard a lot about you, most of it bullshit I’m sure. You got the word, yes?”

“Which word in particular is that? I got the whole goddamn dictionary coming across the transom right now. Fill me in.”

Mulcahy grinned. “Shut the door. We’ve got a call from the president due to ring through in about two minutes.”

Glancing at Karen I saw her smile. I’d heard of Mulcahy now and then while traveling the Old Boy circuit. He’d done ten years with the Secret Service as a field operative. Someone in federal service offered him a better berth with OISA and he’d jumped ship to join Karen & Company. Word was he’d climbed up the ladder the hard way, one rung at a time. A Golden Gloves fighter, he’d punched his way through college and grad school in New York and come away with fast hands and a shiny new law degree. He’d done serious time chasing bad guys for the SS and had a kill or two under his belt. His beat at OISA was managing extremely sensitive operations under the direction of the president. I’d heard it said that some hotshot with the FBI once challenged his integrity during a meeting in the Oval Office. Mulcahy, as the story went, knocked the senior agent out with one punch as the president looked on. On meeting him, I didn’t have any reason to doubt the story.

I gladly dropped back into one of the comfortable conference room chairs. Fuck was I tired! And I had the sinking feeling that sleep was going to be a scarce commodity for the time being. After this phone call, I wanted to get to work on Blondie and find out what Trace and Paul were up to.

The audiotape might have been laughable if it weren’t for how it was delivered. Blowing a man’s brains out to send a message beats UPS any day of the week. I didn’t have a lot of experience tangling with our so-called
domestic
motherfucking terrorists. Up to now my focus had been the international strain of vermin. Globetrotters and bad men with worse breath who flew in from here, there, and elsewhere to deliver bombs, bullets, and political bullshit at the expense of innocent lives and property. Homegrown religious fanatics had never entered into the Rogue Warrior’s world of sanctioned mayhem. Well, until now that is.

“Clay, I’ve already told Dick about ‘Velocity’ and the president’s directive,” Karen said. “Also that you’ll be managing the behind-the-scenes activities once Dick and his team go operational.” She pulled a chair up next to me and sat. I could smell the perfume she was wearing. For a half-second I wanted to grab her, climb up on the high polished table and do the wild thing right there.

Say what you will, I’m consistent. That’s a good thing.

Mulcahy remained standing. “While you all were meeting I was trying to get more intelligence on the NEST team out of Los Alamos that got hit. I have the fucking world out there picking up the pieces but the fact is whoever did the job got clean away with the cargo. It’s confirmed, no one on the NEST team survived. My guys on the ground tell me the job was completely professional using military weapons and munitions. We’ve locked the area down for a hundred miles in every direction but that means shit and we all know it.”

I was about to ask Clay the first of about a hundred fucking questions when the phone rang.

“That’ll be the president,” Mulcahy said. “I’ll switch us onto the speaker line.”

As Clay fiddled with the phone system Karen leaned over and whispered a few additional bits and pieces of information I’d need regarding team preparation. Danny Barrett was on his way in and, if I wanted him, he would be flying out with us. Damn straight I wanted him. OISA had likewise tasked some shit-hot NGO intel operator they had on the hook to brief me on the Christian Identity Movement and its hyper-radical leadership. I’d heard of Christian Identity from my old running mate Danny Coulson when he was commanding the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team and hunting domestic terrorists around the country. Danny didn’t think much of their philosophy or their activities and he’d taken down some of the worst of the “Soldiers of God” using HRT as his velvet hammer.

“Mr. President? You’re on speaker, sir. Mr. Marcinko and Karen are here with me. We are secure.”

Hearing the president’s voice, even though it was reaching me through the room’s highly sophisticated and expensive speaker system, I instinctively sat up straight, squared my shoulders, and pulled my feet together. I was now sitting in the position of attention I’d learned many years ago when I was a young buck fighting my way through Officer Candidate School (or Organized Chicken Shit, as I prefer to call it) in Newport. Here I was in the virtual presence of the commander-in-chief of my country’s armed forces. Wasn’t it just this morning that I’d been in the Manor’s gym cursing the weight pile and figuring out how to get my tractor running? In the course of a single day I’d seen a man’s skull splattered all over his house; seen a soccer mom’s brains on the headrest of her SUV on the streets of D.C.; gotten the shit kicked outta me by some still unidentified asshole who I just
knew
was somehow involved in whatever crazy game we were now playing; schmoozed a gaggle of beltway hotshots on behalf of my
velly velly
pretty boss; listened to some fucking whacked out electro-voice tell me he was about to blow a U.S. city to Kingdom Come because everyone but him and a few self-deluded white men hated Jews and everyone else; and learned a fucking NEST team transporting a man-portable nuclear weapon had just bought the farm out in New Mexico and a fucking SADM was now AWOL.

Oh yeah, it had been one hell of a day for old Demo Dick Marcinko. And now the President of the Most Powerful Country on the Face of the Planet was holding a private landline chat with me from across town…or wherever the fuck he was at the moment.

I’m supposed to be retired!

“Karen? Dick? I don’t have much time to spend with you and I know you’ve a great deal to get done. I’ll make this quick, if you’ll forgive me.” I instantly recognized the president’s distinctive soft Texas drawl and his manner of addressing people as if he’d known them for years. I have a genuine respect for the man now sitting in the White House. Second-guessed and made fun of on the late night talk show circuit, the man who I was now taking my marching orders from had surprised the nation by his forceful, determined leadership following September 11, 2001. He’d been leading a nation at war against my longtime enemy, terrorism, ever since. He had not faltered, he had not weakened; he had not softened his or the country’s position on the final objective. And we were winning.

“Mr. Marcinko, or may I call you Dick?”

“Dick is fine, Sir.”

“Good, I like that. Dick, Karen has told me a lot about you. She thinks very highly of you and that’s why you’re sitting where you are right now. And right now we need you and your unique abilities and talent to find our missing nuclear weapon before it can be used against a defenseless American city and its citizens.”

The president’s voice took on the hard edge I recognized from many of his past speeches. This was no courtesy call. He had Clay Mulcahy and Karen around for that kind of thing. This was personal. Between him and me. I felt the hackles on the back of my neck stand up as he continued. Adrenalin began pumping through my depleted, aching body. I was in the No Shit Zone, and I was loving every minute of it!

“Dick, America has asked you to serve her faithfully for over thirty-five years now. I’ve read the record. You’ve never failed to answer the call to duty and to do whatever it took to get the job done. You’ve pissed some mighty important people off along the way, Captain. And you’ve paid for doing things your way, haven’t you?”

“Yes sir, Mr. President, I have. But I’d do it all again the same way if given the chance.”

The president’s laugh echoed throughout the room. “No doubt you would, Dick, no doubt you would. Listen carefully, Captain Marcinko, this is what I’ve done and this is what I require you to do on behalf of the country and at the direction of your president.”

I felt the pressure of Karen’s hand on my forearm. Mulcahy was pulling several sheets of paper from a flat black leather document carrier he’d brought into the room with him. He laid two single sheets out in front of me. I saw that both bore the Presidential Seal at the top and the president’s signature at the bottom. They were dated for today. Before I could read any more the president continued.

“At Karen’s request I’ve reviewed the circumstances of your felony conviction. In doing so I’ve also reviewed your service record, and your continued efforts on behalf of the country in the fight against terrorism. It is my belief, based upon the evidence provided to me during this review, that we cannot ask—in good conscience—for you to do any more than you have done unless we do something for you in return.

“I make no judgment about the criminal case brought against you, Captain. But I do find it difficult to believe we spent 60 million of the taxpayers’ dollars to put a man in a federal institution for ten months…and needed two trials to do so. I concur with the recommendation of the Justice Department that you be granted a full presidential pardon. You have that pardon in front of you. Congratulations, Dick.”

I heard myself thanking the president even as my fingertips touched the most important piece of paper I’d ever been given. A pardon. My personal and professional honor restored by presidential decree. I’d given up even dreaming such a thing could happen. But it just had. I sat rock still. If I was dreaming I didn’t want to wake the fuck up.

The president continued and I forced myself to pay strict attention. Celebrations could come later. And I would celebrate this. Stand by, Dr. Bombay!

“Dick, the second piece of paper Clay has given you is my formal directive to you regarding ‘Operation Velocity.’ It would be absurd to ask you to put yourself in harm’s way legally or otherwise after what you’ve just received. My orders to you and your team are very simple and clear.

“You are to use all available means and resources to locate the missing nuclear weapon and to return it. You are to identify, locate, and destroy the terrorists who have committed this and any other act in support of the insanity being directed against the United States and its people. You have my express and specific authorization as commander-in-chief to do
whatever it takes
to accomplish your mission, Captain! Do I make myself clear?”

A massive smile erupted from my lips. “Fucking-A Tweety you do, sir!”

“Oh God, Dick!” Next to me Karen buried her face in her hands.

Mulcahy was too busy pulling a second sheaf of papers from his folder to worry about my lack of presidential decorum. He slid a half-inch-thick file across the table to me. “Read these first,” he ordered. “I’ll be your handler here in Washington. Anything you want or need you route directly through me. I’ll have secure phone, fax, and pager on hand. You’re good as gold, Marcinko. Just don’t fuck up.”

I nodded. Those were the same words the CNO used when he chose me to build SEAL Team SIX from scratch.
God, I love those words.
And fucking up was something I’d stopped doing a year ago. Fucking up was now something I did to others before they could do it to me. Fucking Up Others is an art form perfected by the Rogue Warrior and something he now teaches those who he is shaping in his new and improved image. I’d just had the world handed to me on a presidential silver platter. I would not fuck up.

“Dick? Before I go…?”

“Sir?”

The room was silent. For a moment I thought the president had hung up. When he again spoke, a chill gripped me at the base of my spine. “Dick, you and those supporting you have quite a job to do. It’s a job no one else is capable of getting done. You mustn’t fail. You simply cannot fail. You may operate in any manner you deem necessary to ensure failure does not occur. You may do so with express guidance and authorization, or without it. As your commander-in-chief, I bear full responsibility for this operation, come what may. Good luck to you all. God Bless America!”

It was Mulcahy who spoke first after the president hung up. His voice was somber. “Okay Dick, it’s your call now. What’s the next step?”

“I got a monkey upstairs who knows something about this,” I growled. “I’m going to have a wall-to-wall counseling session with him. All bets are off from here on out. I’m going to start at the bottom so we can climb our way to the top where I believe we’ll find the nuke and the asshole who took it. And then I’m going to kill him. You just need to start figuring out where to bury the bodies.”

I looked over at Karen as my fingers lightly touched the letters bearing the president’s signature. “You did the paperwork on this didn’t you?”

She nodded once. “You’ve earned the right to have your name cleared and the slate wiped clean. The president agreed when he saw the evidence. And he’s right. We can’t ask you to take this mission on and not give you something in return.”

I carefully folded the letters and put them in my breast pocket. They were probably the most valuable things I’d ever received and I wanted them right where I could read them again in case I started to think all of this was a dream. Or one seriously fucked-up nightmare.