Full Assault Mode (44 page)

The flat tires inched forward slowly. Kolt’s leg and back muscles gave every full measure. The vehicle had only moved one, maybe two feet. He looked back at the green LED. He watched it tick through the final seconds.
Five, four, three …

Kolt knew he was finished. Sweat beads dripped from his forehead. But he was surprisingly calm. There was no need to run. Nor was there any point, really. In two seconds, the VBIED would detonate, sending vehicle debris and body parts sky-high and scattering them for a thousand feet in all directions. Worse than Kolt’s death would be the destruction of the makeup-water tanks and the hundreds of thousands of deaths that would come from the nuclear meltdown.

Two, one
. Kolt gripped the steering wheel tighter. He pushed harder, trying to gain some rolling momentum. Even another foot or two might protect the tanks from the blast. He knew he was still too close. But it was hopeless. He was out of options. The VBIED would detonate, killing dozens at the plant, eventually killing hundreds of thousands.

Kolt closed his eyes. He thought of TJ, his best friend and teammate who had died six months earlier as they wrestled with Amriki outside Andrews Air Force Base as the president approached in Marine One. A flash of Cindy’s face came over him. He was clearly disappointed that he was unable to save her. She would certainly be killed now. Kolt said his good-byes in an instant, knowing Joma was heading for hell and wondering if he wasn’t himself.

Zero
.

Kolt tensed up. He waited another second, certain the bomb was just a moment or two late. Maybe a faulty wire or some other unseen problem that would fix itself momentarily. He was happy for the delay. He thought of heaven and Jesus before the faces of so many teammates killed in action flashed before his eyes.

But still nothing. No massive explosion. And no obvious explanation.

Five seconds, then ten, then fifteen seconds passed. Kolt opened his eyes.

What the fuck?

A dud. It must be. Or had Kolt been had. Not just him, but all the armed security officers at the plant had been duped. This Dodge Durango was a rabbit VBIED. A fake. A similar vehicle to the real one used to draw attention away from the actual bomb.

Kolt reached down to Joma, who was still chained to the steering column. A long shot, but it was all he had now to connect him to Cindy.

He pulled Joma’s clean-shaven face close to his.

“Open your eyes!” demanded Kolt.

No response. Joma was barely breathing. He had lost a lot of blood.

Kolt shook him violently. “Wake the fuck up, you son of a bitch!” screamed Kolt. “Where the hell is she? Where is the real bomb?”

A faint grin came over Joma’s ashen face. Both eyes opened slightly. Joma coughed. Blood seeped out of the corner of his mouth—he was struggling to stay alive. The emergency sirens began wailing, loud enough to reach five separate counties in a ten-mile radius.

“What’s so funny?” demanded Kolt, straining to hear under the booming sirens.

“Brother Timothy, you are here,” Joma said. “I knew you would not desert me.”

“Joma, where is the bomb?” Kolt said again.

“We tricked them,” Joma said. “Nadal put the real bomb with your wife. Allah willing, she will make the sacrifice for all of us.”

Kolt heard about every other word, but he had heard enough to snap. He back-fisted Joma across his boney face with his right hand. Shook him hard with his left. Strangely, for a moment Kolt wasn’t sure if he was more worried about finding Cindy or about finding the real VBIED.

“Where is the real bomb?”

“It is over,” Joma whispered. “Allah has decided.”

“Allah don’t decide shit, asshole!” Kolt said as he watched what was obviously the final breath exhale from Joma’s lungs. Kolt let go. Joma dropped limply back to the ground, half his body still in the driver’s doorway.

Kolt froze. His mind raced. Think Kolt. Think. He knew he had been tricked. So far, he’d only stopped the fake bomb. The real one was still out there. Somewhere. Maybe it was about to blow. Kolt needed to find it.

That’s it! A second black Dodge Durango. It must be. Joma likely didn’t know which of the two was the real bomb or which one was the rabbit. Either would require full commitment to Allah to attack the plant.

Kolt bolted toward the main access facility, darting in and out of the long shadows. Minimal safety lighting was starting to come on as the backup generators kicked in. High mast lights, sixty feet in the air, slowly powered up.

Running left toward the gravel roadway, Kolt hit the paved walkway at full stride. He passed the plant’s lighted and flashing LED
TARGET ZERO
and
SAFETY-CONSCIOUS WORK ENVIRONMENT
signs on his left. According to the flashing red block numbers, the plant hadn’t had a lost-time accident in six years.

Kolt entered the double glass doors, stepped forward to the card swipe, and fumbled with his badge around his neck. C’mon, c’mon.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Kolt yelled, to ensure he wasn’t fired upon by the security officers in the building.

Kolt swiped his magnetic badge from left to right. It seemed like a lifetime before the audible click was heard, unlocking the turnstiles. Kolt stepped in and pushed the horizontal steel bars forward, baby-stepping along with the turnstile as it opened.

Kolt blew right through the portal monitor that tested for radiation contamination and hit the crash bar on the tinted glass door at full stride. Seconds later, he was outside the building standing on the edge of the parking lot, near a long line of four-foot-tall, poured concrete blocks that served as security barriers.

Kolt’s head quickly swiveled from side to side.

A large crowd full of commotion had gathered. Kolt figured it had to be the standard rallying point for the employees in the event of an on-site emergency. A place to account for everyone. To get a head count and determine who was missing. Kolt figured that at least forty or fifty plant employees were already gathered there.

As Kolt approached the crowd, he saw uniformed men in distinctive tan over tan. He heard them tell everyone to sit down and not move.

It has to be close. Kolt quickly realized that during an attack, this area quickly became the most active and populated spot on the entire property. Moreover, every employee or visitor had to pass this spot coming or going. Where else would the terrorist park a vehicle bomb? This was the perfect place. Kolt jumped on the engine hood of a nearby Ford F-150 and stood to scan the area, searching for the other black Durango. He started on the left, panning to the right, hoping to get lucky and spot the right vehicle.

From only twenty feet away, Kolt noticed a second black Dodge Durango idling quietly in a handicap parking spot. The vehicle running lights were on. Its back windows were tinted dark. But Kolt couldn’t make out anyone in the driver’s seat through the windshield.

But more obvious was the wheel jam pressed down to just above the tire tread. The fender covered several inches of the tire tread. Kolt looked at the front-end fender gap. It was twice the size. That’s it. Had to be. The heavy weight of the bomb in the back of the Durango served to lift the front nose of the vehicle while depressing the rear of the vehicle uncharacteristically low. He couldn’t believe his luck.

Kolt sprinted toward the vehicle, entirely oblivious to the danger ahead. If it was the real bomb, they were all dead.

Kolt stopped at the left rear window. He heard an odd whistling sound, sporadic and uneven. It seemed like it was coming from behind the vehicle, or even from inside. He put his hands up to cover the streetlights as he peered through the tinted window and into the backseat.

He saw the same three wooden boxes, the same wires, the same small box with green LED readout. This one was also steadily counting down.

Kolt tried the back door, but it was locked. He turned his back toward the vehicle, raised his right elbow, and crashed it against the window. Safety glass shattered but remained attached to the polymer-tinted laminate. Kolt elbowed it again, and again, the third time resulting in the window’s falling into the Durango itself.

As Kolt reached into the window and lifted the door lock, the unmistakable odor of death coupled with filthy body odor exited the now-open window. Kolt winced at the smell as he lifted the door handle. He leaned into the backseat and reached over the wooden crates. He made for the bomb timer and turned it around to read it.

2:47, 2:46, 2:45 …

“Shit, shit shit!”

Kolt saw Cindy lying on the floorboard behind the driver’s seat. Her wrists were secure with silver-colored handcuffs. The lime-green skirt she was wearing when they met over a month earlier at the coffee shop had ridden up high on her thighs. Her panty hose were torn in several spots, the skirt and her white blouse heavily soiled in blood. Both feet were bare, the left leg still lifted over the back of the driver’s bucket seat.

“Hawk!” Kolt yelled.

No answer.

Kolt reached for his former teammate. He pulled. Cindy barely moved. Kolt looked closer. She was strapped to the floorboard. Chains ran under the two front seats. Her scrunched-up skirt and soiled blouse, along with some crimson-colored blood, hid the chrome chains wrapped around her torso to anchor points just under the front seats

“Racer. Please, go. You can’t stop it. It’s going to blow,” Hawk faintly said.

Kolt looked Cindy in the eyes. “I’m not leaving you, Hawk.”

Kolt placed his fingers on her neck, feeling for a pulse through her carotid artery. She was barely alive.

“Keep talking, Hawk, keep talking,” Kolt said. He looked over the front seats in hopes he might spot a half-empty water bottle or anything he could give the obviously dehydrated Hawk. An aluminum can of Pepsi was in the passenger’s-side cup holder. Kolt leaned over and grabbed it.

Kolt caught a glimpse of another body. The driver was lying motionless, leaning over into the passenger seat. Kolt looked more closely. The man’s right ear was half gone and bleeding. A skinny heel was jammed into the back of the man’s head, just to the right of his brain stem. There was a black and silver Ruger SR9 9mm still in the man’s right hand, turned backward, with his thumb, oddly, still inside the trigger well of the two-stage trigger.

Just then, Kolt picked up the smell of gunpowder, turning back to Hawk. He could easily see the blunt trauma on her forehead as he poured a little bit of Pepsi onto her lips. Her left eye was swollen shut. Kolt wiped away the blood running down the side of her face. The hair on the side of her head was moist and matted. It wouldn’t be long before she went into shock.

Too much blood in this vehicle. Has to be something more.
Look for the bleeder.

Kolt ripped Hawk’s button-down shirt wide open. The buttons flew. Her left pink bra cup was covered in blood. Blood had run down her stomach, seeping over the angles and into the depressions made by her seven-percent body fat and well-developed ab muscles.

Kolt noticed the bullet hole just above her right breast. It was a classic sunken chest wound. Air oozed in and out with the rhythm of her heart. Kolt knew she was lucky—still only alive because the bullet found her right breast and not her heart. Kolt slapped the palm of his right hand against the wound in a feeble attempt to seal the hole. Her skin was cold, but her blood warm. Kolt could feel the air from Hawk’s body continued to seep out in synch with the faint beat of her heart.

Kolt continued to look Cindy over. His eyes locked down on her right upper thigh. More blood. A lot of blood. Kolt made a fist with his left hand and pressed it, knuckle-down, against the entry wound.

Hold pressure. Control the bleeder, or she is done.

Arterial blood squirted upward, past Kolt’s fist, spraying him in the mouth and neck.

Kolt spit over the driver’s seat.

He looked back toward the bomb’s timer.

2:28, 2:27, 2:26 …

“Move the bomb away from the plant, Kolt!” pleaded Cindy, whispering in her final woes.

“It’s OK. It’s too far from the makeup tanks to cause a meltdown,” answered Kolt.

“I don’t know Kolt,” said Cindy. “Are you sure?”

Kolt turned back to Hawk to tell her to shut the hell up. To stop questioning him like a mother hen. But then Hawk stopped blinking. Her eyes had locked open. Her mouth as well. It was the face of death that Kolt was all too familiar with.

“Hang on, Hawk!” yelled Kolt.”Hang the fuck on!”

He wanted to give her CPR. He wanted to tear his own shirt off. Rip it into thin strips and stuff it in her chest wound to stop the bleeding. He knew he could help her if he could just get her out of the vehicle and lay her on the ground. He’d have more room to work with. To stop the bleeding and dress her wounds. But the chains prevented that. And they weren’t coming off. They had done their job. When Cindy Bird’s captors had secured the Master combination lock to the eyebolt in the floorboard, they had wanted her to remain with the vehicle. The chains worked.

The plant’s loud public-address system grabbed his attention. It droned out instructions on where to go and listed a set of designated locations. Kolt glanced behind him to yell for help. But he stopped. He saw the plant employees, some local police, and the flashing red and blue lights of what he figured was an ambulance bouncing off the other vehicles in the parking lot. They were mustered only about forty-five feet from him. They were too close. And there were more now than when he first arrived on the scene. At least a hundred or so. Kolt couldn’t be sure.

“Open your eyes, Hawk,” Kolt said, trying to maintain his composure as much as possible. “Stay with me, Hawk!”

Kolt did know that when the bomb blew, Kolt and Hawk wouldn’t be the only two victims of the enormous blast. He had seen enough bomb craters and carnage left behind after al Qaeda vehicle bombs were detonated in Iraq.

And then, what might have been Cindy Bird’s last breath provided the key piece of information that just might save two hundred thousand innocent Americans.

“Kolt, air bottles. Small ones,” Hawk said as she closed her eyes, falling into unconsciousness.