Read Online RW11 - Violence of Action by Richard Marcinko - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Marcinko
Tags: thriller
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naval operations for Plans and Policy (OP-06), to create Red Cell for the express overt purpose of evaluating the vulnerability of U.S. naval installations worldwide to terrorist attack. In reality, Red Cell was tasked with conducting covert counterterrorist missions. We were given the job of waging preemptive strikes against terrorists and their organizations before they could mount operations against the unsuspecting, the unprepared, and the innocent. This meant my operators would find ’em, fix ’em, and then kill ’em without warning or mercy.
Ace Lyons knew our allies in Israel and Great Britain had long practiced this form of covert warfare. International law states that terrorists are equal to criminals and therefore not subject to the same rules of engagement extended to the uniformed armies and even to recognized guerrilla militaries. By the mid-1980s America was just entering the business of taking out Tangos before Tangos took out targets. Red Cell was to specialize in the overseas infiltration, penetration, and elimination of identified terrorist cells. I selected fourteen balls-to-the-wall plank owners for Red Cell, three officers and eleven enlisted operators. Thirteen of these men came from SEAL Team SIX, that nasty bunch of motherfuckers I’d created in my own “Kill ’em all and let God sort ’em out” image. The fourteenth came from the Marine Corps’ ultra-elite Marine Force Reconnaissance teams.
The chaotic, confusing area surrounding Dulles Airport had been the perfect place to headquarter Red Cell. You could hide half the regular Army in the sprawling maze of its terminals, storage areas, commercial warehouses, and runways. And from Dulles we could fly to anywhere in the world anytime, using specially prepared false passports and i.d. Our equipment, including weapons and explosives, was slipped into commercial airliners’ cargo holds by my operators posing as hardworking, underpaid, dumb-ass luggage handlers. And still we were within driving distance of the Nation’s capitol with easy access to everything that cesspool of bullshit and self-serving, power-hungry asswipes has to offer. (Yeah, I love D.C. as much as it loves me.) Red Cell soon became an integral part of the nation’s direct action counterterrorist arsenal. Like Shaft, we were bad motherfuckers!
It’s my personal opinion that if the Navy had left me and Red Cell alone, there very possibly would have been no Obie Wan bin Ladin alive to plot the attack on September 11, 2001. We’d have paid a housecall to him and his lieutenants early on, and then begun hunting down his cells here in the United States. But that’s another fucking story.
A black Ford Expedition was waiting for us at the landing pad. Not too much later we were in the bowels of the city, our driver winding his way through D.C.’s fucked up traffic circles and grids toward a fashionable business district about twenty minutes from the White House. The Expedition pulled over to drop us off in front of an austere, tidy six-story brick townhouse. Once a single-family residence, later converted to overpriced yuppie apartments, it was now the discreet headquarters for the recently formed OISA. Honeycombed throughout the building were ultra-secure briefing rooms constructed like the bug-proof bubble rooms, or Special Classified Intelligence Facilities (SCIFs), where I’d been briefed in the old days when secret shit really had to be kept secret.
Where somebody’s grandma used to hold her afternoon tea parties there were now specially constructed holding cells used to carry out private conversations with those found to be less than cooperative. We’d be dropping Blondie off in one of these cold little rooms for the time being. I had big plans for that little fuck. My balls started to feel better just thinking about it.
As we climbed out of the car, the driver said, “Fourth floor, Sir. They’ll meet you at the elevator.” With that, he pulled away from the curb
Ace Lyons knew our allies in Israel and Great Britain had long practiced this form of covert warfare. International law states that terrorists are equal to criminals and therefore not subject to the same rules of engagement extended to the uniformed armies and even to recognized guerrilla militaries. By the mid-1980s America was just entering the business of taking out Tangos before Tangos took out targets. Red Cell was to specialize in the overseas infiltration, penetration, and elimination of identified terrorist cells. I selected fourteen balls-to-the-wall plank owners for Red Cell, three officers and eleven enlisted operators. Thirteen of these men came from SEAL Team SIX, that nasty bunch of motherfuckers I’d created in my own “Kill ’em all and let God sort ’em out” image. The fourteenth came from the Marine Corps’ ultra-elite Marine Force Reconnaissance teams.
The chaotic, confusing area surrounding Dulles Airport had been the perfect place to headquarter Red Cell. You could hide half the regular Army in the sprawling maze of its terminals, storage areas, commercial warehouses, and runways. And from Dulles we could fly to anywhere in the world anytime, using specially prepared false passports and i.d. Our equipment, including weapons and explosives, was slipped into commercial airliners’ cargo holds by my operators posing as hardworking, underpaid, dumb-ass luggage handlers. And still we were within driving distance of the Nation’s capitol with easy access to everything that cesspool of bullshit and self-serving, power-hungry asswipes has to offer. (Yeah, I love D.C. as much as it loves me.) Red Cell soon became an integral part of the nation’s direct action counterterrorist arsenal. Like Shaft, we were bad motherfuckers!
It’s my personal opinion that if the Navy had left me and Red Cell alone, there very possibly would have been no Obie Wan bin Ladin alive to plot the attack on September 11, 2001. We’d have paid a housecall to him and his lieutenants early on, and then begun hunting down his cells here in the United States. But that’s another fucking story.
A black Ford Expedition was waiting for us at the landing pad. Not too much later we were in the bowels of the city, our driver winding his way through D.C.’s fucked up traffic circles and grids toward a fashionable business district about twenty minutes from the White House. The Expedition pulled over to drop us off in front of an austere, tidy six-story brick townhouse. Once a single-family residence, later converted to overpriced yuppie apartments, it was now the discreet headquarters for the recently formed OISA. Honeycombed throughout the building were ultra-secure briefing rooms constructed like the bug-proof bubble rooms, or Special Classified Intelligence Facilities (SCIFs), where I’d been briefed in the old days when secret shit really had to be kept secret.
Where somebody’s grandma used to hold her afternoon tea parties there were now specially constructed holding cells used to carry out private conversations with those found to be less than cooperative. We’d be dropping Blondie off in one of these cold little rooms for the time being. I had big plans for that little fuck. My balls started to feel better just thinking about it.
As we climbed out of the car, the driver said, “Fourth floor, Sir. They’ll meet you at the elevator.” With that, he pulled away from the curb
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