Full Assault Mode (46 page)

Instantly, Kolt recalled again what Hawk had said about air bottles and small tanks.

That’s it! The pool! Those bastards are going after the spent-fuel pool!

Kolt stowed his pistol and cell before frantically climbing the ladder rungs and crawling out of the catch basin.

Now on his feet, he looked to enter the protected area through the main entrance facility. His site-issued badge provided access up to the vital area of the power block, but he would be unable to enter the radiological controlled area. From there he would have to figure out how to get through the magnetically locked high-security doors when he got to them. Kolt instinctively tapped his chest, looking for his site-access picture badge. Nothing.

Kolt looked at the ground around his feet, then turned fast to look at the route he had taken. No sign of it. He jumped back over to the catch basin and looked back into the hole. It was too dark to see if he had dropped it in there or not.

You’re wasting time here, Kolt!

Kolt had to decide. Did he really need to be a damn hero again? Did he really need to enter the power block? Hell, Yellow Creek has a sound protective strategy. They have sufficient defense in depth to thwart any attack. They have a lot of guns all around the outside perimeter, all protected by elevated bullet-resistant enclosures. Moreover, inside the buildings, more armed responders waited for any adversary attempting to enter and reach vital plant equipment.

They have a shit ton of guns here!

Kolt arched his back and drew in a deep breath. Why not just let the normal armed response handle it? Call it an op, let the cops help if they can. The popo are swarming all over the place. Yellow Creek is good to go. They will survive.

Shit, Kolt, just walk over to the ambulance and check on Hawk’s status.

Kolt turned to look back toward the flashing ambulance lights, to where he had carried Hawk and turned her over to the paramedics. They were just as much heroes as the armed officers inside. Everyone had a part to play. It was a team effort.

Kolt heard the PA announcement again. “CODE RED, CODE RED. INTRUDERS HALT. DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED,” the only interruption to the incredibly annoying and loud wail of the emergency siren.

Hawk’s last words came back to him again. “Air bottles. Small ones.” Yes, that’s what she said. He was sure of it. That’s exactly what she whispered from inside the Durango.

Son of a bitch! Those bastards are going to come up from the underground and get in behind the security force. What if the highly trained armed officers don’t detect the terrorists before they reach the spent-fuel pool?

Aww, hell!

The decision had been made. Fortune favors the bold!

TWENTY-NINE

Kolt took off for the breach in the fence made by Joma and his rabbit VBIED. He sprinted past the police officers and gathering crowd of plant employees, turned left beyond a tan-colored two-story sheet metal building, and saw the breach point. The fence had been crushed under the weight of the vehicle. If nothing else, Joma had at least created a positive breach in the protected area perimeter.

Kolt considered pulling out the Ruger but quickly reconsidered. He knew that would be the quickest way to get stitched by a responder in a tower position.

I’m not shooting a dang security officer out here. Think!

Kolt instinctively reached to his rear pocket and pulled out his credentials. He opened the black leather folder to expose his shiny gold badge, the one marking him as a federal agent with the U.S. Department of Energy. Sure, it was the shallowest cover imaginable and only meant to protect his true identity while he was at Yellow Creek.

It was fake as hell, but nobody besides Kolt knew the real deal.

Kolt raised the badge high in the air and took off at a dead sprint. He hit the first fence at full stride, keeping his knees pumping high to prevent tripping over the razor wire and intrusion-detection wire that were obviously entangled in the fencing. No response.

Kolt continued to the second, most inner fence, keeping the badge high in the air for all to see. Off to his left, out of the corner of his eye, the still-smoking black Durango sat on what looked like four flat tires. Joma’s body would be nearby, but he didn’t care to confirm it.

And, as before, when he made his way from the power block to the Durango, the distinct sound of supersonic .223 rounds, mixed with the wailing emergency sirens, cracked as they passed over his head. Other bullets skipped off the tarmac closer to his feet. Kolt dropped his arm, the badge obviously not fooling anybody, and increased his speed by pumping both arms in tandem with his legs. Kolt fully expected to take a through and through with each stride he took.

Kolt hit the revolving glass door leading into the four-story administration building at full speed, bouncing off the glass as it slowly rotated around. As soon as it opened to the inside, Kolt dove to the freshly mopped floor and scrambled behind the leather couch in the visitors’ waiting area. He sat up, back to the couch, desperately trying to catch his breath and amazed he covered the distance without as much as a single flesh wound.

He waited about twenty seconds before he rolled to his knees and stood up. He paused to get his bearings, not wanting to head in the wrong direction, and looked to the hallway ahead of him.

Kolt drew the Ruger from the appendix area of his pants—how he wished he had secured another mag or two from the dead terrorist—then headed down the hallway toward the turbine building.

Entering through the unlocked red fire door, he noticed the posting requiring hearing protection from that point forward. As Kolt entered, he could hear the turbines whining as the plant obviously had not been scrammed yet. As much as the noise was irritating, he knew it would provide him some cover as he continued across the turbine deck toward the fuel-handling building.

Kolt crossed to the other side of the turbine deck, pistol at the low ready, then moved another rough two hundred feet, passing an arm’s length from the two giant light-green turbines before eyeing the light-blue door he needed. Beyond that door, he recalled, was the quickest way.

Kolt stopped just short of the door, contemplating whether he should ease through it or go dynamic. Uncertain if an armed responder was on the other side or not, he knew the closer he moved to the vital equipment required for safe shutdown the more likely he was to have trouble with armed officers. And the ones outside would no doubt be doing their damnedest to alert everyone inside.

Kolt yanked the fire door open and sprinted to the first piece of cover he could see: a concrete column just seven or eight feet away. It wasn’t pretty, but it would absorb bullets, for sure.

The first burst of .223 impacted the corner of the concrete column just as Kolt was sliding in behind it. Concrete chips peppered the area, leaving a small dust cloud floating in the air.

Shit! That was close.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Kolt yelled from behind the pillar.

The officer didn’t comply; instead, he unloaded what must have been the rest of his thirty-round magazine. More chunks of the concrete broke away with each bullet’s impact as Kolt turned away and covered his eyes with his left forearm. Kolt planned to wait for a lull in fire, when the officer would be reloading, but a ricochet found the meaty portion of his upper left shoulder, stamping a through and through that hurt like a bitch. A lull in fire.

“Dude. Cease fucking fire!” Kolt yelled. “I’m hit!”

“What’s the running password?” the officer yelled, his voice muffled by the air filters and positively sealed gas mask.

Running password? How the hell …

Kolt knew a standard running password was a single word, something that could be remembered easily and recalled when things got a little crazy, like now. Usually they are well-known words like colors, or states, or even models of cars. Unfortunately, such passwords are changed every twelve hours, which meant whatever Kolt said would be a wild-ass guess.

“Chevrolet!” Kolt yelled. “Chevrolet!” Kolt hoped to either get lucky or maybe prompt the officer to think the guy behind the concrete pillar was close enough and maybe had just forgotten the password of the day. Any password with conviction, even a fake one, and the guy just might buy it.

“Wrong, sucker!” the muffled voice responded before letting loose another half-dozen .223 rounds toward Kolt’s hiding position. “Drop your weapon and show yourself!”

Kolt pulled the pistol from his pants and slid it out into the open floor, hoping it would calm the officer by showing him he would not be armed once he stepped from behind cover. Kolt then yanked his creds out of his back pocket, put his hands up, stepped from around the concrete corner, and walked toward the man with his creds out, badge visible, and holding his wounded left shoulder.

“Officer, I’m a federal agent,” Kolt said, continuing to close the distance. “How about pointing that rifle in a different direction?”

Kolt noticed the rifle wobbling, the muzzle drawing large figure 8s in the air, heavy in the stocky officer’s hands. He watched the officer pull his black protective mask up off his face and rest it higher on his forehead, exposing his entire face. He was certainly scared shitless, and breathing extremely hard, two data points Kolt knew he needed to mind or he was going to be tasting lead in an instant.

“On your face, buddy!” the officer ordered. “Lay down!”

Kolt immediately dropped his hands and went to his knees. He placed his opened creds’ case with his badge facing up on the floor next to him, hoping the officer would take the bait.

The officer came out from behind his V-wedge ballistic defensive position and cautiously moved toward the prone Kolt. Kolt had turned his face toward the officer, first seeing his fairly new tan Rocky assault boots, then working his eyes up the unbloused battleship-gray pants, past the man’s black-mesh tactical vest and the obvious access badge at chest level hanging on a yellow lanyard. Kolt watched him sling his rifle behind his back. The officer stopped for a moment and struggled to slip the stowed handcuffs from the black pouch on his duty belt.

Kolt picked up on the officer’s rifle falling off his shoulder, still hanging by the sling and sliding back toward his front as he leaned over to reach for Kolt’s wrists.

In an instant, just at the point where the officer touched Kolt’s wrist, Kolt launched.

He immediately rolled over, pinning the muzzle of the rifle under his body weight and forcing the officer to move closer to him as the sling controlled his momentum. In a half second, the two were chest to chest, mano a mano. Not a good place to be with Kolt Raynor.

Feeling the officer resist, pulling himself up and away, Kolt released the pressure off the rifle, simultaneously slipping in a tight ankle pick while controlling the officer’s sleeve with his other hand. The officer continued his momentum up as Kolt yanked the right ankle off the gray-painted floor, sending the officer hard to his back.

Maintaining the sleeve grip and thus elbow control, Kolt palmed the dirty floor to raise his rear end up just enough to swing his left leg around the officer’s raised left arm, letting his leg slam down over the officer’s chest. Kolt slid his left hand a few inches up the controlled forearm and then grabbed the wrist with his right hand, rotating it clockwise to ensure the officer’s thumb was pointing directly at Kolt’s boots and that the elbow joint would lock.

Kolt leaned backward, maintaining leg pressure on the officer’s chest and stomach, and completed the arm bar by bringing the controlled arm to his chest. The officer yelled out, obviously feeling the severe pain and anticipating having his arm broken. But Kolt simply held pressure, letting the officer scream out, and grabbed the handcuffs lying on the floor nearby.

With one hand, Kolt opened one cuff and slapped it on the controlled wrist, squeezing the metal ends together, ensuring they locked. Kolt pushed to a knee, eyed the pipe to his rear, and dragged the officer like a fresh trophy buck seven or eight feet before cuffing him to a silver conduit the circumference of a convenience-store energy shot.

The officer was breathing extremely hard, certainly not wanting any more of Kolt.

“Don’t kill me, man!” the officer pleaded.

“Chill out, brother. I’m here to help,” Kolt said as he cleverly unclipped the front sling swivel from the black rifle and unsnapped the officer’s vital area-access badge from the neck lanyard, pulling both critical items of interest away from the supine officer.

Kolt looked at the photo badge for a second before shoving it in his front pant pocket. He then thumbed the mag-release button, dropped the mag, eyed the remaining bullets, and slipped the partial mag in his left rear pocket. The movement sent a sharp pain through his shoulder. Walking back toward the shot-up pillar, Kolt grabbed his creds and the Ruger and walked back to the tethered officer.

“Officer Polamalu? Am I pronouncing that correctly?” Kolt asked. “Listen, I can’t release you just yet, but I’ll trade you this pistol for your fresh mags.”

“I thought you were one of them,” the officer said as he handed Kolt the only fresh thirty-round magazine he hadn’t dumped yet.

“No worries. Aiming is a bitch when it’s for real, isn’t it?” Kolt said. “That should have been a chip shot for you at that range.”

“Sorry about that,” Officer Polamalu said, almost with a look of shock on his face.

“Look, man, have you seen anyone? Any of the attackers?”

“No, no, you were the first person I fi”—

“Control room. Which way?” Kolt said, letting the officer know he was in a big hurry and didn’t know exactly where he was.

“It’s that way,” the officer said, pointing behind Kolt and down a long, wide hallway.

“Where did you come from?” Kolt asks. “Where is the pool?”

“I came through the orange and blue door that way. But I was redirected to move here from the pool floor,” the officer said, pointing to Kolt’s right. “Maybe five minutes, tops.”