Detachment Delta
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Epigraph
Foreword
CHAPTER ONE - Cop Killer
CHAPTER TWO - Monkey Wrench in the Gears
CHAPTER THREE - A Day in Court
CHAPTER FOUR - Making Up
CHAPTER FIVE - New Operation
CHAPTER SIX - Bad Guy
CHAPTER SEVEN - Plan Your Work, Work Your Plan
CHAPTER EIGHT - Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men
CHAPTER NINE - Getting Closer
CHAPTER TEN - Getting Serious
CHAPTER ELEVEN - Unplanned Rehearsal
CHAPTER TWELVE - Peak Planning
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Pre-deployment
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Serpents
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Time to Go
EPILOGUE
HIT . . . AND RUN
Charlie raised the small radio transmitter that would set off the explosive charge. The small red LED light gave a very faint glow in the blackness of the alley. Charlie looked back up the alley to make sure nobody and no vehicles had entered, blocking his quick exit.
Charlie pushed the switch down on the handset detonator and the windows blew out of the van with the explosion. Rashad’s head was severed completely from his body, and Stinky’s right hand and arm were still attached to the duffel bag, but were separated from his body. The whistle, now turned inside out, had embedded itself in the side of his neck, but missed the jugular vein. He immediately started screaming. Down at the corner, Alexander dropped to the ground, covering his head with both arms protectively.
Charlie was already sprinting toward the other end of the alley.
Titles by Don Bendell
CROSSBOW
The Criminal Investigation Detachment Series
CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DETACHMENT
BROKEN BORDERS
BAMBOO BATTLEGROUND
DETACHMENT DELTA
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
DETACHMENT DELTA
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley edition / January 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Don Bendell, Inc.
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Many of the things in my life that I am most proud of occurred because of the influence of hero figures who fascinated me as a child. They, or their characters, set forth ideals for me to try to aspire to that were idealistic and, in most cases, unrealistic, but they gave a young boy a direction to climb—upward. Thank you to each, and this book is dedicated to you or your memory. They are: Jesus Christ, the Ultimate Man ever, and the Son of God, my Savior and Lord; Marion Michael Morrison (John Wayne); Jock O’Mahoney (The Range Rider); Leonard Franklin Slye (Roy Rogers); Michael Ansara (Cochise); Guy Williams (Zorro); Al LaRue (Lash LaRue); Clayton Moore (The Lone Ranger); Jimmy Stewart; Gary Cooper; my uncle Roy Bendell, highly decorated in WWII; Nez Perce Chief Joseph and Lakota (Sioux) Medicine Man and Chief Sitting Bull, both master warriors, orators, and peace-seekers; WWI Medal of Honor recipient Sergeant Alvin York; and my dad, David C. Bendell, who was dedicated to the ideals of scouting and paddled me anytime I said the words “I can’t.”
Thank you all and may God bless you and your memory.
In respect and admiration, DON BENDELL
Above all, we must realize that no arsenal, or no weapon in the arsenals of the world, is so formidable as the will and moral courage of free men and women. It is a weapon our adversaries in today’s world do not have.
—RONALD REAGAN, President of the United States of America
FOREWORD
C.A.G., or Combat Applications Group, is the actual term for selection for 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta (1stSFOD-D), known by most people as Delta Force, or Detachment-Delta, an actual Special Operations unit that, like the fictional 007, has a license to kill. The U.S. Delta Force is the one military unit whose operations and actions are granted complete presidential immunity from the law. Presidential Decision Directive 25 grants Delta Force “freedom from all legal accountability, including exception from the 1878 Posse Comitatus Act”—a statute imposing criminal penalties for anyone using the military for personal gain, domestic law enforcement, or unsanctioned covert operations. Delta Force members are hand-picked from the C.A.G.—a classified organization within the Joint Special Operations Command at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Delta Force soldiers are trained killers—experts in SWAT operations, hostage rescues, raids, assassinations, and execution of enemy forces. They are almost exclusively composed of members of the U.S. Army’s elite Special Forces (the Green Berets), although occasionally a few members come from U.S. Navy SEALs, Marine SpecOps command, or Army Rangers. In short, the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta is comprised of the world’s ultimate warriors.
(Note: Few in the military even know or understand the meaning of C.A.G., and fewer still know the term Combat Applications Group, or that it is the parent group of Delta. C.A.G. is headquartered in a top secret compound at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, and generals, admirals, congress-men, and other government officials cannot even enter it or interview or question the members of its superelite force, who wear civilian clothing, long hair, beards, or whatever is needed to make them blend into society worldwide.)
Authors, historians, reporters, and screenwriters have never been a
llowed into the compound or allowed access to members of the secret unit. In this novel, in many ways, you will be taken behind the scenes of the real Detachment-Delta. Because of Operational Security (OPSEC) concerns, some actual operations, training methodologies, weapons, and equipment have been purposely altered, although there are no technologies in this book that are truly fictional. Some are very state-of-the-art, and others even reminiscent of James Bond but actually in use by Special Operations operators in the Global War on Terrorism. Some of those operators are in 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, the elite of the elite, “the silent group of the quiet professionals.”
CHAPTER ONE
Cop Killer
CHARLIE Strongheart looked totally out of place in the restaurant directly across the street from the Late Show with David Letterman located in the Ed Sullivan Theater at 1697-1699 Broadway, between West Fifty-third and West Fifty-fourth Streets in midtown Manhattan. The restaurant also had entrances on both side streets and a black-and-white checkerboard tile pattern on the floor. A favorite of many Letterman guests before or after a show appearance, it had standard diner fare. Charlie sat near one of the large picture windows facing the Ed Sullivan Theater. A modern-day traditionalist-looking Lakota (Sioux) man, with ribbon shirt, blue jeans, cowboy boots, beaded belt, and long black braided hair, he was the subject of many stares, especially from several legal secretaries and three female attorneys on their lunch hour, as he was taller than any other man in the room, wider in the shoulders, and had a smaller waistline than most. With a prominent jaw and high cheekbones, he was ruggedly handsome, this especially accented by the deep dimples in both cheeks, and there was an obvious intelligence revealed in his eyes, which were almost black and could stare through a person and seem to see into his very soul. There was a hint of a smile in the corners of his eyes, and if any of the officers of the court who were sneaking occasional glances at him had had a chance they would probably have accompanied him out the door, not realizing that this man was going to expertly execute a New York City cop in a few hours.
A professional assassin, probably one of the best in the world, Charlie noticed everything around him, and he grinned to himself as he saw an obvious hooker leaning against the window, an apparent dealer slipping her what looked like crack cocaine wrapped in plastic, while taking a small roll of bills from her with his other hand. This was done with their hands behind their backs, but toward the large window, where any and all patrons could see the illegal transaction. The red-skinned killer shook his head almost imperceptibly as he thought about how often people treat windows as if they are brick walls. He thought about the times he had seen classy-looking people picking their noses in their automobiles, or singing along with a tune on their car radio with great abandon, as if nobody could see them.
The three attorneys sat at a table laughing and glancing at him from time to time. Their conversation had no legalese as they commented on how good his butt looked when he walked in, how deep his dark eyes looked, and how broad his shoulders were. They started getting more lewd and having fun with one another, but each really did fantasize about him. Little did they know that this was the very night of his dastardly plan.
Charlie finished his meal and headed toward the door with the legal eagles’ glances unnoticed, and their fantasies identical but kept to themselves. Then one gasped as a very large street person, his dark ebony skin glistening with sweat and his head literally touching the arch of the doorway, stepped in front of the egressing Indian, blocking his way. The handsome Sioux was much taller than anybody in the restaurant, but this man towered over him.
The street punk stuck out a catcher’s mitt-sized hand saying, “Give me some money, Crazy Horse.”
Charlie stared up into the tall man’s eyes and said softly, “Get a J.O.B.”
Charlie started to step around, and the man stepped directly in front of him, a nasty grin on his face, saying, “I don’t like to work, Tonto.”
Charlie smiled, and his right hand shot out and grabbed the large man by the testicles as he squeezed hard and twisted. The man’s face contorted with the twisting, and the women watched openmouthed as his knees bent and a strange sound, almost like a raspy hum, came from his gaping mouth.
Still grinning, Charlie said, “Tell you what, O.J., just go back to the country club and beg for money there.”
He let go and walked past the man, who fell on one knee, holding his groin and moaning, as the prettiest attorney chuckled and said to the others, “I have vacation coming up, and I am heading west. Time for me to visit some Indian reservations. I want one of those.”
The woman next to her, a paralegal, said, “Can I go on vacation with you?”
Charlie was already a half block away, at his hotel on West Fifty-fourth Street. He went up to his room and lay down, preparing for the night’s activities. He slept for one hour, allowing his body clock to awaken him. He got up and started stretching, then went downstairs to the hotel’s small workout room. The killer started the treadmill slowly at 3.4 miles per hour, which he walked at for five minutes while watching FOX News mounted on the far wall. Then he cranked it up to 4 miles per hour for ten more minutes, then set it at 5.5 miles per hour and jogged for the next fifteen minutes, starting to work into a sweat. He then began slowing down, which lasted another ten minutes.
When he got off the treadmill, Charlie drank a plastic bottle of water and lay on his back sticking his legs up in the air, crossed at the ankles. Then he placed his hands at his sides, palms down, one inch above the floor. He slowly did a crunch sitting up as far as he could, then lay back down. He crossed his sinewy left arm over his eight-pack abs and slowly did ten more, lay back, crossed his right arm over, and did ten more. Then he pointed both toes and legs together, lifted both feet six inches off the floor, and held them there while he slowly counted to two hundred.
Charlie then ignored the machines and grabbed a chrome barbell off the rack and started doing a series of four sets of ten repetitions for a variety of exercises. He exploded and exhaled as he did each rep, then inhaled and slowly returned the weights to position after each. He lifted for an hour, then cooled down by doing some slow stretches.
He returned to his room, changed into trunks, and went down to the hot tub. There, he let the warmth soak into his muscles, and he let his body go limp.
Returning to his room, he lay down on his bed naked after showering, and he slept for another full hour, awakening feeling refreshed. Next, he sat cross-legged on the bed and opened the sliding door to his balcony, from where he could hear the familiar street sounds of the Big Apple.
Charlie took out a piece of hemp rope, with sage and other items added to it. He lit it and set it on a saucer from the room’s coffee setup. Then in the manner of his ancestors, and using an eagle wing from his valise, he fanned the rising smoke into his face and body and got lost in the thoughts of riding his chestnut and white overo paint horse at Pine Ridge Reservation.
Finally, Charlie dressed and went downstairs for dinner. He ate a chef salad and drank iced tea. No beers or wine tonight. He had to be totally clearheaded.
Virginia Hampton was an outstanding labor relations attorney, a workaholic, and the prettiest and sexiest-looking of the women who had been in the restaurant and fell in lust with Charlie earlier. It was just coincidence now that she was working late on a brief she was preparing and her office was just down the street. She came in to the hotel restaurant wearing a black pin-striped two-piece business outfit with a white silky blouse underneath. When she spotted Charlie, she immediately undid the top two buttons on the blouse, which would reveal a nice hint of her ample cleavage. She could not believe her luck.
His eyes had already caught hers, and because he was the best, he immediately recognized her as one of the hot women in the diner who he felt were talking about him. He saw her undo the buttons, and he started fantasizing about what she must look like under the expensive business outfit. Charlie, however, also knew he had a
job he was required to do, and he had not become one of the best hit men in the world by not being tough-minded.
She walked over to his table and looked flush, her face almost as red as her hair, which was the color of a blazing fireplace. The suit could not hide her curves at all. Virginia boldly pulled a chair out and sat down across from Charlie. He hated himself for what he was about to do.
Virginia said, “I apologize for being so bold and brash, but may I join you for supper? Dutch treat, of course.”
Charlie smiled, and she nervously placed a napkin across her lap.
The attorney went on, “I have a law office down the street and saw you handle that monster in the restaurant this afternoon, and honestly, it is wonderful to see a real man in this country anymore.”
Charlie smiled and put his hand up, which stopped her.
He said softly, “I want to save you a lot of time and effort, ma’am, before this goes any further. I am gay.”
Her face really flushed now, and she could feel her ears burning.
Virginia, the great courtroom orator, was at a total loss for words. “I am so sorry, sir. I, a, a, excuse me.”
Tears welled up in her eyes, and she almost ran out of the restaurant.
Charlie took a bite of chef salad and shook his head with a smile, whispering to himself, “Charlie, you dumb-ass Redskin! You could have been lost in that all night.”
Then, with the discipline of years and pride in his deadly proficiency, he put the incident out of his mind and started thinking about the events before him this evening. One error, one slip, one mistake, and he could end up very dead. Instead, he planned for one New York City police officer to be the dead man.