“Congratulations, gentlemen. You’ve survived another jaunt through the Delta Force House of Horrors. And better yet, you did it without killing any of the people you were trying to save. This time. By the grace of God.”
The familiar sarcastic voice from the open doorway brought Thorn around with a smile on his face.
Sergeant Major Roberto “TOW” Diaz strode into the room and stopped with his hands on his hips, surveying the situation before him with a mildly disgusted look. The short, muscular, dark-haired man, the senior NCO in Delta Force’s A Squadron, exuded raw energy and strength even at rest. Intensely competitive, he worked hard to stay in the kind of physical shape that routinely let him outmarch, outfight, and outlast men ten or fifteen years younger. No one who saw him in the field would have guessed that he was forty-five.
“Fourteen point two seconds to clear one friggin’ room,” Diaz announced, apparently to the world at large. He looked at each man in turn before shaking his head. “That’s slow, gentlemen. Awful slow.”
He paused significantly. “My arthritic grandmother could rip this place apart faster than that.”
There was a low rumble from the back of the room. “Hell, Tow, your grandmother can fly to the god damned moon on her own power. According to you, anyway.”
Diaz grinned. “Maybe so, Nick.” He glanced at Thorn and his grin got wider. “I guess I shouldn’t have expected more from a team leader who spends most of his time these days sitting on his butt at the Pentagon.”
Thorn hung his head in mock shame. “Mea culpa, Sergeant Major. I am but a lowly staff weenie now. Ignore my august rank and close, personal friendship with your new CO. Pour out your wrath on my trembling shoulders. But, please, oh please, spare my beloved men.”
The room erupted in laughter.
Diaz was the first to sober up. “Okay, okay.” He held up a hand for silence. “Let’s run through the overall results before I walk you through one-on-one.
“First, you accomplished your mission. Four of four bad guys are down and dead. Four of four hostages are secure and safe.” He shrugged. “Your time was bad, but your accuracy was good. The computer scores you at ninety-four point four percent. For those of you who barely scraped through first-grade math, that means that seventeen out of the eighteen rounds you fired hit their targets.”
Thorn nodded to himself, pleased by that. Not many outfits in the world could go into such a confused close- quarters battle and shoot with such precision. At least some of his skills were still intact. He listened to the rest of the sergeant major’s general critique with a somewhat lighter heart.
His satisfaction faded when the other man led him across to the dummy terrorist he’d gunned down.
Diaz prodded the shredded female mannequin with the toe of a combat boot. He looked up at Thorn. “You hesitated.”
Thorn replayed the confrontation in his mind and nodded slowly.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t do it again,” the sergeant major said sternly. “A woman… a kid… it doesn’t matter. The round they fire will kill you just as dead. Look at the hands first. Always. Got it?”
Thorn nodded again, acknowledging the fairness of the criticism. Delta Force troops needed lightning reflexes and absolute confidence in their own judgment. A soldier who was too slow or too unsure in action could get himself and a lot of other people killed.
Confident that his message had been heard and understood, Diaz turned away, focusing his mind and sharp tongue on the next man in line.
Thorn exhaled softly. It could have been worse a lot worse.
Debrief over, Peter Thorn trotted down the central stairs of the House of Horrors the Delta Force nickname for the three-story building it used to rehearse assaults and hostage rescues. Besides the areas used for room- clearing drills, there were stairwells and elevator shafts so teams could practice every aspect of urban warfare. One large room even held the mock-up of part of a wide-body airliner fuselage.
The House of Horrors was the centerpiece of the $75-million compound known rather unimaginatively as the Security Operations Training Facility. It was the home base for the Delta Force. Besides the shooting house, the complex contained vertical walls used to rehearse cliff climbing and rappelling. There were extensive firing ranges where commandos could hone their skills with a variety of weapons and explosives. Other areas allowed them to practice combat driving, escape, and evasion.
Racquetball and basketball courts, weight rooms, an Olympic-sized pool, and a sauna helped Delta Force soldiers stay in peak physical condition. And when they were off duty, they could relax in the compound’s living quarters, cafeterias, and separate squadron bars. Essentially, the facility was a small, totally self-contained city hidden by berms, electric fences, and pine trees in a distant corner of Fort Bragg. Guards and sensors ringed its boundaries, making sure that nobody got in or out without a top-security clearance.
Thorn came outside into the sweltering heat of a North Carolina summer afternoon and immediately slowed to a walk. Breathing deeply to clear the last traces of smoke and cordite from his lungs, he yanked the helmet and black balaclava off his head and ran a trembling hand through his sweaty, tangled hair.
He frowned. Muscles that ordinarily wouldn’t even have noticed the effort he’d just put them through were already aching. Jesus, he thought wearily, two weeks behind a desk and I’m already falling apart. Technically, he’d just come down to Bragg for a meeting with Major General Farrell and the rest of the JSOC staff. Tagging along on today’s exercise had been his own bright idea. Well, maybe it hadn’t been so bright. Disgusted, he headed toward the BOQ and the nearest cold shower.
TOW Diaz came up from behind and punched him lightly on the shoulder.
“You’re getting old, Pete. Or soft. Or both.”
“No shit,” Thorn growled. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He glanced at the barrel-cheated noncom walking beside him. “How’s everyone at home, Tow? Nadine and the kids all okay?”
“They’re good. Real good.” Diaz’ leathery face wrinkled up in a smile that was pure paternal pride. “You heard that Jimmy got into the Point?”
Thorn nodded. “I heard.” At eighteen, James Diaz was the oldest of the sergeant major’s four children. Winning admission to the U.S. Military Academy had been the kid’s lifelong dream one aided and abetted by his soldier father. “That’s great news, Sergeant Major.”
“Sure is.”
“So no big college tuition bills for you,” Thorn teased.
“Nope.” Diaz looked smug. “A. few plane tickets, a few hotel bills for the Army-Navy game, and a little spending money. That’s it.”
“Uh-huh.” Thorn paused significantly. “Of course, when Jimmy graduates, he’ll outrank you. Could get kind of awkward saluting your own son all the time.”
Diaz shrugged. “So maybe I’ll just take my twenty-plus, retire, and go soak up the sun somewhere.”
“Right.” Thorn snorted. The sergeant major was as much an Army brat as he was. The only way the service would put TOW Diaz out to pasture would be at bayonet point.
He changed the subject by nodding over his shoulder at the building behind them. “Which outfit holds the House of Horrors’ trophy these days? Still A Squadron? Or have you let your guys screw up and give it to B or C?”
Now it was Diaz’ turn to look disgusted. “Would you believe a Trigging HRT section eked out a win yesterday?
Shaved a full quarter second off our best time.”
Thorn whistled in amazement. The Hostage Rescue Team, or HRT, was the FBI’s counterpart to the Army’s Delta Force and the Navy’s SEAL Team Six. The FBI had jurisdiction over terrorist attacks or hostage-takings inside the United States itself. All three organisations collaborated on counter terror tactics and training. All three were also highly competitive.
He shook his head. “The Hoover boys just got lucky, I guess.”
“Sure they did,” the sergeant major agreed. He motioned toward an eight-man section jagging past them in full assault gear. “That’s why I have our guys out working night and day to develop their good luck.”
Thorn winced inside. Diaz hated to lose at anything. Maybe he had picked a good time to transfer to the Pentagon after all.
“You down here for much longer, Pete?” The NCO turned toward him.
“Want to give the course another go-around tomorrow?”
