One Killer Force: A Delta Force Novel (10 page)

As the first few gangly dogs cleared the cages, somebody killed the music, cueing the chanting crowd to put a lid on it, as if some giant hand had held up an index finger vertically in front of two lips, or run its hand menacingly across its throat.

General Ri turned his head to see the first three dogs, one brown and spotted white, two darker but pure, taking the forty feet at a greyhound racing gallop. Ri’s eyes widened; Kang figured twice as wide as if he’d been facing a firing squad with no hood.

Kang turned back to the pack of canines closing in, now seven or eight free of the cage, kicking mud out from under their paws as they pulled and pushed through the slippery surface. Their eyes beamed death.

Two of the dogs, the two darker ones, met each other’s pace, and from six feet away, just a few feet past the metal stake, launched themselves into the air like flying monkeys. One bounced off Ri’s right shoulder as the general flinched to defend himself and fell to the mud, landing on his side. The other dog clinched a mouthful of Ri’s left triceps, practically tearing it off with one bite, scratching its four paws on Ri’s naked back to secure purchase. The dog shook his head violently left to right, tearing a large piece of Ri’s arm away from the bone, as the second dog, now back in action, sank his teeth into Ri’s narrow side just under the rib cage.

Kang tried not to listen to Ri’s screams, eerie horrific sounds of imminent death and shock that Kang was sure could be heard across the Taedong River easily into southeastern China and as far southeast as the Korean Demilitarized Zone and the border with South Korea. But Kang knew breaking his disinterested, statuelike demeanor to cover his ears would likely condemn him to a similar fate. Pak had not flinched; neither would Kang.

With all dozen dogs now fighting for flesh, feeding their insatiable appetite, the last few faint screams of General Ri, traitor to the Motherland, were all but muffled by the slurping and chomping of large pieces of bone and flesh. Part of a bloodied arm being worked over by a few there, a hand fought over nearby, two dogs playing tug-of-war with a lower leg near the metal stake, the blood mixing with the muddy surface and changing the color to a dark brunette.

Pak spoke first, breaking Kang’s trancelike stare at what was left of his former colleague, General Ri. “The honorable thing to do would have been for the conspirator to show the dogs his neck,” he said, “not hide it.”

“A cleaner kill, yes,” Kang said as the balcony party members began to stir, with the spectacle complete. “Less suffering.”

“I will not rest until I expose all the traitors,” Pak said. “It is my duty.”

Kang’s stomach tightened and his chest bounced. Nervous and threatened, he looked at his wristwatch as if he had somewhere to be. The small picture of dictator Kim Il Sung’s face on the dial reminded him of what he knew he needed to do.

“I must do my duty as well,” Kang said.

*   *   *

Kolt Raynor lifted the dark green .50-caliber ammo can a few inches off the tile floor, felt the weight to gauge how much ammo he had left, then placed it back on the floor. He opened the can’s hinged top, confirming that the contents matched the can’s yellow paint pen mark denoting 5.56 mm rounds by seeing close to a thousand loose and brilliantly shined brass-and-copper-jacketed bullets dumped inside, and refastened the top.

Next, Kolt turned to his HK416, opening the battery compartment on his EOTech day optics and his new ATPIAL/LA-5 High Power Advanced Target Pointer Illuminator Aiming Laser, and swapped the batteries for fresh ones. He pulled his PSQ-36 Fusion Goggle System, the latest in combined night vision and thermal imaging, from his Ops-Core helmet and replaced those batteries as well, ensuring he was all set for his solo night fire on range 19C.

Kolt locked his team room’s vault, threw on his Multicam fatigue top, and headed for the squadron bar. He opened the large refrigerator, pushed the various foreign and domestic beer bottles out of the way to get to the partially frozen entrees in the back, grabbed a Red Bull from the door rack, and moved to the microwave.

Three minutes later, Kolt wolfed down the turkey and broccoli in a half-dozen swallows, slammed the last bit of energy drink, and made tracks for the Spine, headed to the Unit cafeteria. He was late for the Unit Informal, as usual, and since it wasn’t quite dark enough for his liking, he knew Webber would frown on him not making an appearance.

Kolt entered the cafeteria, took a few hard stares from some of the boys for his tardiness, and spotted Slapshot and Digger near the keg. Heading their way, he shook hands with a couple of former operators, old-timers in town for the annual get-together, and nodded to several others, knowing he’d get over to them to say hello soon.

It was standing-room only, jam-packed with type-A males either in civvies or fatigues, both current and former operators and support personnel. Near the back windows, Kolt spotted the big hair-salon do of Webber’s old lady, who, after catching Kolt’s eye, waved him down like she was flagging a cab in Times Square.

Kolt cringed.
Damn!

Typically, the occasion was reserved for Unit members, not necessarily their better halves, but as everyone learned years ago when Webber took command, his wife not only liked to buck the system, crash the party, and throw her husband’s rank around, she liked to spike the punch and hug the keg.

“We were wondering if you would ever grace us with your presence, Kolt,” Mrs. Webber slurred, grabbing Kolt’s left arm as she tried to balance herself in her heels.

“Yes, ma’am,” Kolt said, catching an invisible headwind of barrel-aged cocktail before helping her from making a scene on the floor.

“I’m expecting you again at this year’s Unit picnic,” she said. “The kids always love the pool and you are my best lifeguard.”

“Uh, yes, ma’am,” Kolt said, catching her from stumbling a second time and immediately wondering how he could pawn that duty off to some other schmuck this year.

From behind, Kolt heard Colonel Webber. “Lilian, dear, can you excuse us? I need to speak to Major Raynor for just a moment.”

Mrs. Webber grabbed the colonel’s arm and spoke rhetorically. “Lighten up, Jeremy, it’s close of business already,” practically falling into him, before peeling off and turning to the nearest group of mingling operators.

Webber smiled and looked at Kolt, shrugging his shoulders as if to say
Women!

Kolt couldn’t tell if Webber’s brush contact was the prelude to crushing news or happy, happy, happy. Going in the Atlantic last month during the training exercise hadn’t been Delta’s fault. Taking over the mission from Gangster in Syria and killing the Butcher was another matter. Yes, a wanted war criminal was dead, but would the higher-ups reward him for that or punish him for yet one more “irregular action”?

“The SMU board results are in,” Webber said.

Kolt nodded.
Here it comes
.

“Congrats, you’re taking a sabre squadron.”

Kolt was ready to say fine, to hell with them anyway, so hearing he’d been selected caught him off guard.

“Say again, sir? A sabre squadron?”

“No one is more surprised than me, except perhaps Mason, but you got it.”

Kolt could only imagine how much Admiral Mason was surprised.
Asshole is probably having a coronary right now
. Kolt smiled.

“I’m guessing you had more than a little to do with that,” Kolt said. He knew his track record was far from standard, but that’s what you got when you jumped in the shit as often as he did.

Webber shrugged. “Your DA photo bullshit was a little much, but I just helped the board see past some of your rough edges.”

Kolt nodded. “No easy feat, I’m sure. Thank you, sir.”

Webber’s smile vanished. “Your squadron just deployed to Ukraine.”

Kolt blinked. He knew they’d deployed, but he didn’t know why.

“The agency has a bead on Marzban Tehrani,” Webber said. “Intel sounds legit, both Iranian scientists are with him as well, they say.”

Kolt shook his head. Iranian scientists in the Ukraine with a terrorist like Tehrani could only be bad fucking news.

“Wait a second, my squadron?” Kolt said. “The alert squadron? Noble Squadron? That’s Gangster’s command.”

Webber looked Kolt dead in the eye and paused. “Was Gangster’s squadron,” Webber said. “You are the new Noble Zero-One.”

“He lost his command? Shit, sir, was that because of Syria?” Kolt said. Relieving troop commanders during wartime was one thing, but replacing a squadron commander was entirely uncommon.

“Wasn’t your call, so don’t sweat it,” Webber said.

“Look, things got fucked up, but we accomplished the mission in the end,” Kolt said.

Webber hesitated before speaking again. When he did, his voice was lower. “Kolt, bad news doesn’t get better with time. Most of the building knows by now, but Noble’s entire chain of command has been relieved for cause.”

Kolt whistled quietly. “What the hell is going on?”

“Syria. The Butcher hit. The four men that day, they were innocent. Agency intel was incorrect. But they weren’t the first.”

Kolt nodded. “I wondered why squat was said at their hotwash about the hit on the house.”

“The target house was not correct. The CIA asset’s info was faulty, and no weapons were found,” Webber said.

Kolt shook his head, rubbed his hand across the top of his head.

A peal of laughter followed by a roar made them both turn. Lilian Webber was regaling several operators standing around her with a story that clearly tickled their funny bones.

Webber rolled his eyes. “As I was saying, the target house was wrong. This is why, despite your charming lack of orthodoxy, you get the command.” Webber’s voice was growing in volume again. “Your instincts were bang-on on that mission. The culture of Noble Squadron has deteriorated in the past few years. It has to change.”

“So what am I up against, coming in behind Gangster?” Kolt asked. Suddenly, getting command of a sabre squadron didn’t sound so appealing.

“Kolt, it’s bad; I’m not putting you in command without full knowledge of the scope of the problem. The entire squadron was privy to the sketchy killings, lifting gold and cash off targets, random vandalism,” Webber said. “Gangster was giving out cash awards for the most kills on each rotation to the box.”

Any sympathy Kolt had had for Gangster evaporated. “Bloody pirates,” Kolt said, shaking his head. “How? How could they have slipped through the assessment and selection process? That’s supposed to weed those guys out.”

“I don’t have the answer for you, Kolt. I wish I did, but I don’t,” Webber said. “But I do know we have been at war a long time. Not an excuse, just fact.”

Kolt took a deep breath. “I’m not sure I am the right guy, sir.”

“I understand the hesitation, Kolt, that’s natural,” Webber said. “I’ve given this a lot of thought. Bottom line is we need you to fix the problem. You’ve been down range more than most guys. If anyone can relate to the ugliness of war, it’s you.”

“I know Noble has lost more operators than any other squadron, but this is something entirely different,” Kolt said. “It’s not about turning targets, it’s about integrity and a lack of respect for basic humanity.”

“Look, Kolt, I can’t force you to take the command, but I did go to bat for you at the SMU board, as did Captain Yost,” Webber said. “There are things brewing, besides Ukraine, something in North Korea, and others that can’t be shared just yet. Suffice it to say that not only does Noble need you to take the squadron, but the entire Unit does as well. It’s isolated in Noble, it’s not prevalent in the Unit.”

“That asshat, Yost?” Kolt said as he smiled ear to ear, almost ignoring Webber’s last gloomy comment.

“He referred to you in a similar way as well,” Webber said. “But you impressed him in Bosnia way back when, and he never forgot.”

That surprised Kolt. He had a tendency to think everyone took a dim view of his actions. Maybe they were able to see beyond that. It made him realize his own impressions of people were too often immediate and set in stone.

“If you see him before I do, sir, please pass along my thanks.”

“Can do. Now, I need to hear it from you. Will you accept command?”

Kolt was about to say yes when a thought occurred. “Sir, who is my squadron sergeant major going to be? I want Slapshot.”

Webber looked hard at Kolt. “You can have Slapshot, and I need you to take Hawk, too. If she gets through Whistle-stop and the board she’ll need a commander that will give her a good and fair test.”

That surprised Kolt. He hadn’t seen Hawk in months and wasn’t exactly sure where the two of them were at.

“Sir?”

“You’ve operated with her the most, and the pilot program deserves an honest and thorough assessment,” Webber said.

Kolt tried and failed to come up with a good counter, mainly because there wasn’t one. Kolt knew Cindy “Hawk” Bird was solid, proven, and as brave as any male operator. He knew Webber’s pilot program to knight a female as an operator had many critics, not just inside the building with the old-timers, but even inside JSOC. And Webber had stuck out his neck for Kolt at the SMU board. That couldn’t have been easy.

Kolt nodded. “Throw in Digger, sir? I need a master breacher and he has the language skills.”

“Deal,” Webber said.

Kolt’s smile was ear to ear.

“Sir, it is my honor to accept command.”

Webber smiled back. “You’re damn right it is.”

He held out his hand and Kolt took it. For better or worse, he’d just gotten what he wanted.

SIX

Joint Defense Facility, Pine Gap, Australia

Carlos Menedez II closed his eyes and worked his jaw until his ears popped. After an interminable twenty-four-hour flight with a four-hour layover at LAX, his Virgin Australia International flight, 6862 from ATL, was finally making its descent into Brisbane, Australia. Leaning forward in his seat, Carlos opened his eyes and strained to get a visual on Pine Gap, the National Security Agency’s prime Southern Hemisphere intelligence collection center, from the air.