Target America

78

Senior Chiefs Eddy Cox and Billy Caraway were both passed out on a pair of beach loungers in front of the Hotel del Coronado when Cox’s iPhone began to chime. With standing orders not to leave the island now that the military stood at DEFCON 1, a number of SEALs from Team III had taken rooms at the hotel, and with the announcement the night before that DC was being evacuated, Cox and Caraway had spent the night drinking hard.

Cox didn’t even look at his phone; he just pitched it out into the sand. But then Caraway’s phone began to ring, and the two of them sat up looking at each other, bleary eyed.

“What the fuck?” Cox mumbled. “Better check who it is.”

Caraway dug the phone from the pocket of his surfer shorts. “Fuck, it’s Brighton.”

“Senior Chief Caraway,” he answered, sounding surprisingly spry considering the volume of tequila he’d imbibed the night before. “What can I do for you, Commander?”

“Are you and Cox still at the Del?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Listen very carefully, Senior Chief — and this is not for publication… the loose nuke is somewhere on Coronado, and we have to find it before 08:45. So gather your squad and meet me in the parking lot in front of the hotel. I’m crossing the bridge now.”

“Aye, sir!”

“Do not draw attention to yourselves. We are black. Understood?”

“Aye, sir!”

Caraway sprang up from the lounger, glancing at the time before tucking away his phone. “Fuck me! It’s already 07:00! Get up, dude! We gotta roll!”

Cox swung a leg over the lounger, putting a foot in the sand. “Fuck was that about?”

“The fuckin’ bomb’s here on the island! We’re mobilized black!”

Cox looked up at him, suspicious as hell. “You takin’ a shit?”

“No! Get the fuck up! He’ll be here in five, and we gotta gather the squad.”

A minute later, they were moving briskly through the hotel, which was crowded with international tourists flowing to and from the elaborate breakfast buffet. Constructed almost entirely of wood, the 680-room beachfront luxury inn had been the largest resort hotel in the world when it first opened to the public in 1888. The Del had since been the centerpiece for a number of feature films, including Some Like It Hot, starring Marilyn Monroe.

Topping the stairs to the second floor, Caraway turned left down the hall, and Cox turned right.

Caraway burst through the door of a room where two team members were bedded down with a pair of French girls they’d picked up the night before. “Stand to!”

The women quickly covered up as one of the SEALs came out of the john gripping a .45. “What the fuck, Senior Chief? I almost blew your shit away!”

“We’ve been activated, Santiago! You two be out front in three minutes!” Caraway disappeared down the hall.

Five minutes later, seven disheveled SEALs stood in a huddle in front of the Hotel Del dressed in flip-flops, shorts, and T-shirts.

“Okay, here’s the skinny,” Caraway said, keeping his voice low. “There’s a nuke loose on the island, and we got almost no time to find it. Brighton’s on his way to dope us in on the details. But be advised we are black, so don’t call anybody and don’t say anything to give away our mission to the locals.”

“I thought the bomb was in DC,” one of them said.

“I don’t know the backstory,” Caraway admitted. “Maybe the CIA got it wrong. Maybe we’re looking for a second weapon. All I know is that Brighton said we gotta find it by 08:45.”

“Today’s 9/11,” remarked another SEAL, checking his watch. “First plane hit the tower at 08:46 eastern time, and it’s already after ten o’clock back in DC. Hell, boys, I’ll bet they got it wrong.”

Cox spotted Chief Petty Officer Adam Samir coming out of the hotel with a gorgeous brunette on his arm. He smacked Caraway on the back. “Look over there: Ain’t that Samir from EOD?” Explosive Ordnance Disposal.

“Yeah, get ’im!” Caraway said. “We might need him.”

Cox slipped through the crowd to catch Samir by the elbow as he was stepping up to the valet booth. “Samir, I need to talk to you a minute.”

Samir looked at him as he handed the man inside the booth the ticket for his car. “What’s up?”

“It’s private,” Cox said, offering the woman a strained smile.

“Just a second,” Samir said to his new bride. He led Cox up the sidewalk, spotting the other SEALs on the far side of the carport. “Make this quick. I’m on my honeymoon.”

Cox felt his stomach fall. “The nuke’s here on the island, and we’re going after it. Commander Brighton’s gonna be here any second. We might need you.”

“What are you talking about? The nuke’s in DC.”

Cox shook his head. “Somebody fucked up. It’s here.”

Brighton pulled up in a black 2012 Ford Bronco, and the SEALs began loading in.

“That’s him,” Cox said. “Look, this ain’t a fuckin’ drill, dude. It’s the real deal, and if we don’t find the damn thing by 08:45, your honeymoon is over anyway.”

“Shit!” Samir hissed, knowing that SEALs wouldn’t joke about this kind of thing. “Gimme a minute.” He went over to his wife. “Baby, you gotta get off the island.”

“Why?” she said, her face tightening with fear. “What’s wrong?”

“The bomb here is on Coronado. When the valet brings the car around, get in and go to your mom’s up in LA. Don’t stop for gas — don’t stop for nothing. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Adam, it’s our honeymoon! Let somebody else go!”

“Who?” he asked. “Who else are they gonna find to do my job, baby? They’re rolling right now, and I’m the only EOD guy here.” He took her by the arms and kissed her. “I love you!”

The valet pulled up and got out, holding the door open for her.

“I’ll call you soon as I can,” he promised.

She was too angry and hurt to say anything. She just got into the car and pulled the door shut.

Samir had never felt like a bigger piece of shit in his life as he trotted over to Brighton’s Bronco. Cox was holding the seat forward for him to cram himself in the back with the others.

“It’s a stroke of luck you being here,” Brighton said, shifting into drive and pulling out.

“With respect, sir, I don’t feel lucky at all. What the hell is going on?”

“I was just briefed over the phone by SOG’s chief spook back in Langley,” Brighton said. “There’s an RA-115 suitcase nuke here on Coronado… two-kiloton yield, gun-barrel detonator. Built with 1970s technology, but possibly modified.”

“Conspiracy buffs have been talking about the RA-115 for years, sir.”

“So you’ve heard of it. That’s good. You know something about it, then.”

“What I know, sir, is that it’s a myth.”

“Try telling that to the refugees living in those big white tents outside of Albuquerque, sailor. The isotopes from the New Mexico Event are from Russian uranium — and that’s confirmed top secret.” He took a sheet of paper from the dash and gave it to Caraway, who sat beside him in the middle. “We got ten addresses to check out. Now, which one of you maniacs runs around with the illicit weaponry in his rig? And don’t tell me nobody!”

The five SEALs crammed into the back all looked at Senior Chief Cox.

“Uh, sir, that would probably be me,” Cox admitted. “But I can explain. Most of it fell off an army deuce and a half that I was following back from—”

“Stow it,” Brighton said. “I pardon you for your sins. Where are you parked?”

“That’s my Blazer over there in the hotel lot, sir. The red one.”

“A Chevy,” one of the others muttered. “Good ol’ Government Motors.”

“Hey, fuck you, Mopar!”

Samir snickered.

They stopped behind Cox’s Blazer, and he jumped out, opening the back door and unlocking a steel Knaack jobsite storage box.

Brighton looked inside. “Christ, Chief. Leave anything on base for the navy?”

“I like to think we’re ready for anything, sir.”

“I can see that.” Brighton reached into the box and removed one of two Benelli 12-gauge entry weapons, giving it to Caraway. “Put that in my rig.”

There were also a pair of M4s, an Mk 48 squad automatic weapon (SAW), a semiauto SR-25 in 7.62 mm, and a pair of semiauto US Navy Mk 12 Special Purpose Rifles (SPRs) in 5.56 mm. They divided up the weapons into two groups, loading half into Brighton’s Bronco.

“Cox, you take four men and the SAW.” Brighton tore the paper with the addresses in half, handing him the bottom of the page and checking his watch. The time was almost 07:30. “You take the five addresses here on the south end. I’ll take Caraway and three other men north — the EOD man comes with me.

“Now remember,” he said. “Keep it casual. Don’t go looking for a fight. Just knock at the door and have a quick look around. We’re probably looking for Chechens, so if you see anything suspicious, hear anybody speaking with a Chechen accent, call us. SOG is working to get an FBI team in here on the quiet, but those gears are slow to mesh, so don’t count on backup from law enforcement. For now, we’re it. Any questions?”

“Yeah, what do we do if we actually happen to find the bomb?” Cox asked.

Brighton looked at Samir.

“Don’t touch it,” Samir said. “Secure the perimeter and call me. If there’s a timer, be sure to sync it with one of your watches, but get the hell away from it. There’s no telling what they’ve done to it or if it’s even properly shielded. If it’s really an RA-115, then it’s old enough that the shielding may have corroded by now, and you don’t want to be exposed.” He looked at Brighton and shook his head. “Hell, sir, we don’t have a goddamn Geiger counter.”

Brighton put a hand on his shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, son, I’ll be right there beside you — no matter what.”