Detachment Delta Read online

  Dabdeh loved the idea, but saw no reason in the world why he would need this Iraqi to carry out such a plan. That, he did not convey in his message. He sent word to meet him out in the desert off of Highway 5, which runs between Tehran and Qom, and is in fact called the Tehran-Qom Highway. It is a well-paved, well-maintained roadway which runs for seventy-four and a half miles between the two major cities, but in between is some of the most desolate desert one could possibly imagine. There were a couple major ridges along the way and many gullies and gulches.

  It was in one of these where the Special Forces team went with members of the Free Iranian Freedom Fighters Party, which is called the Komala, and which had created the hideaway and landing zone. Oddly enough, this party was headquartered in the mountains in Kurdistan, much closer to where Charlie and Fila were staying in Mosul than to the guerilla base near Qom in the southern part of the vast desert area. Davood Faraz Dabdeh’s compound was also located some miles off of the Tehran-Qom Highway, also out in the desert but very close to Tehran.

  The Komala had become one of the strangest revolutionary organizations in the world, in that there were actually two different Komala organizations and both of them had a red flag as their symbol. Both had the same founder, and each Komala had a separate headquarters, and the headquarters were actually within sight of each other. They were not identical twins, though. One Komala Party, which had a team of Special Forces advisors working with it, referred to itself as a leftist party, but the other Komala was actually affiliated with the Communist Party.

  Both originally opposed the United States and most European nations, and the opposition was mainly because the U.S. supported the Shah of Iran, who brought a great deal of death and suffering to the revolutionaries. After the shah was deposed, however, and the Ayatollah Khomeini took the reins of power in Tehran, it got much worse—much, much worse.

  In the beginning there was only the original Komala, or the Association, which was called the Iranian Freedom Fighters Party by many outside of Iran. Then after the ayatollah ascended to power and the suppression got worse, one group, which did not like the Communist Party or its precepts, became the leftist Komala—but not the communist Komala. It kept the name and the flag, but was diametrically opposed to its communist twin, and conversely so was the United States. Its group started becoming known outside Iran as the Free Iranian Freedom Fighters Party.

  Dave, Charlie’s soon-to-be-hopefully father-in-law, had commanded the 5th Special Forces Group at Fort Campbell, and he knew from his friends still there that a small contingent from the 5th Group, working with the Free Komala, had gone with some of the Iranians they advised to a place in the desert about twenty miles or so from Qom, but that was all Dave’s friends knew about it.

  But knowing that Charlie and Fila were going on a very dangerous assignment, Dave also knew that they would have simply told him if that assignment was into Iraq or Afghanistan. They would not have told him what their mission was, but they certainly would have stated that they would be in Iraq or Afghanistan. He also knew that after he knew Charlie in Ranger School, when his haircut was “high and tight,” and Charlie ended up with 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, he had grown his hair out long and worn it in a traditional Native American style or a long ponytail. He was expecting that before he met Charlie again. When he saw that Charlie was working on a beard and had his haircut high and tight again, a buzz cut actually, he knew he had to be going on an assignment where he would be trying to blend in with a traditional Muslim environment. The clincher was knowing that his daughter, who he knew was in the Funny Platoon in Delta, spoke flawless Persian and Arabic, so chances were almost 100 percent that the pair was going into Iran on a very dangerous mission.

  The entire mission was told to “saddle up.” Charlie and Fila went into their trailer. As a precaution he changed the powerful batteries in his fake hearing aids, just so he would not have to worry about one of them dying out in the middle of the mission.

  Fila helped him attach the beard which covered his face from sideburn to sideburn and had been specially made with great pride along with two backup beards, by one of the top makeup experts in Hollywood.

  Fila put on her twin inner-thigh holsters and put a little Glock Model 19 in each holster, as well as a good supply of ammunition. She had ample breasts, and a sheath holding her Yarborough knife hung upside down under them. Charlie wore boxer briefs under his tailored suit, and he’d had a little holster sewn into the right leg. He now placed a black tactical switchblade knife in the holster, where it would be safely stored right next to his penis. He assumed he would be patted down before meeting with Dabdeh, but he figured he would not be patted down so thoroughly that some bodyguard would get his hands that close to his groin. Because Fila was a woman, and they both understood the mind-set of the group they were dealing with, and because she was supposed to be Charlie’s wife, they knew she would not be patted down or searched.

  They finished getting ready, and Charlie took her outside the trailer and around behind it. They looked out beyond the buildings, and he pulled a cigar out of a pouch and lit it. Then he blew out smoke and waved it over their heads with his hands. He did this several times.

  He said softly, “Bow your head, honey.”

  They both did, and he said, “Father God, I pray to you in the spirit and the manner of those who have gone before. You are the creator of Mother Earth on which we stand, and Brother Sun, and Your Son our Heavenly Savior, who the Jewish call Y’Shua ha M’Shia. We, my fellow warrior, the woman I love and I, now go into battle. Shield our bodies from the spears and lances of our enemy. Protect our fellow warriors, and help us to strike down the evil ones for your sake and honor. Help us to count many coup and earn many eagle feathers. Grant us wisdom, discernment, and courage. Heavenly Father, grant us your righteous flaming arrows to shoot from our bows. Help us to sanctify your power and glory with the sacrificial blood of your enemies on our blades, those who destroy your greater glory and legacy by trying to destroy all who carry the Good News and those who are called Your Chosen People. Help us to return victorious and then be blessed with a wonderful life and many children, to be raised in your eyes and under your guidance. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”

  Fila kissed him.

  Charlie said, “It’s time to go to the office, darling,” and grinning, they walked around the corner of the building and toward the Super Hercules and an uncertain fate.

  CHARLIE and Fila blinked at the vast expanse of light sand desert before them. The QRF team, Komala, and the three-man 5th Group team were putting up the camouflaged cargo netting over the C-130 Super Hercules. The Little Birds were assembled and were warming up.

  The report came in on the commo man’s satlink laptop that the caravan of white Mercedes sedans had left the training compound and were heading south on Highway 5. Davood Dabdeh was in the third of five vehicles. Charlie and Fila shook hands all around, got in their BMW, and headed out toward the highway. If the calculations were correct, they should arrive at the rendezvous spot along the highway about ten minutes or so ahead of the caravan of bad guys.

  Custer personally went to each man and asked when he had cleaned his weapons. He checked personally to make sure the Little Birds were filled with fuel and loaded with ammo. He would not stop, between now and when the mission was accomplished or they were called into action, double and triple checking anything that could go wrong.

  Something was about to. The one factor that had been overlooked was the coldness and sheer cunning and outright meanness of Davood Faraz Dabdeh.

  When he was young, he was essentially raised by his uncle, who was an imam and who also liked to molest little boys. That is how Dabdeh developed his own penchant for homosexual behavior. He was his uncle’s favorite victim. Davood also raped and beat his two younger sisters when he was a teenager. His father scolded him and whacked him with a rod. Then he made him go and watch each time as the neighborhood zealots, and those who we
re simply followers out of fear and intimidation, stoned his sisters to death as honor killings for forsaking his family honor.

  His father was also very, very wealthy, as he had been basically the guardian of the deep secrets for Ayatollah Khomeini. His pockets got lined, and he was brought in on many oil and other deals.

  Davood inherited the estate because he was the sole surviving son when his father and mother both died in a Mercedes rollover. The young man who’d helped Davood bludgeon them into unconsciousness and then stage the accident on one of the winding mountain roads northwest of Tehran was now his chief bodyguard and frequent spokesman.

  His name was Yaghoub Ardeshir, and was in the lead Mercedes, speaking to Davood when needed, using an earpiece and mike.

  Yaghoub was Davood’s friend, his only friend ever. Their joys were drugs, raping and terrorizing women, and killing people sadistically. Yaghoub was most interested, though, in being close to Davood because he knew the man’s drive would make him a world leader in jihad.

  He knew that he personally was a brutal killer, but he killed Muslims, too, not just infidels. He was very worried about ever getting into Paradise and did want the honor and glory someday of giving his life in the taking of many infidel lives. He was, however, not into dying just yet. He also believed he was a major disciple to Davood Faraz Dabdeh, who he was sure had the blessings of Allah.

  The translators were very puzzled when Charlie and Fila pulled off the highway and stopped the car.

  They heard Fila say to him, “Charlie, this is a good day to die.”

  Then they were even more puzzled when he responded, “Yes, Fila, it is a good day to die.”

  They had no clue the two had just spoken the words all true Lakota warriors said before going into battle.

  The next seven minutes were like an eternity, and the pair mainly stared into each other’s eyes and smiled warmly while holding hands. They finally spotted the caravan of black Mercedes.

  Charlie said, “Brave up, warrior. Here come the white eyes. Hokahey!”

  That struck Fila’s funny bone and she started laughing. She had to control herself, though, as she handed the stick to Charlie and got out of the car, cowering on the passenger side. He started whacking her on the back, and as he felt the blow hit her Kevlar, she pretended to wince and scream in pain.

  Now, the translators listening really thought the pair was crazy.

  Charlie pointed his finger angrily at Fila and said, “There, woman. That is a hint of what you will get when we get married if you do not have breakfast and the newspaper ready for me each morning.”

  She bowed in mock subservience and said in a low tone, “In your dreams, Buster.”

  She put the stick in the car and walked forward meekly as the other cars pulled up. The occupants were close enough to have seen the mock beatings.

  The problem Charlie and Fila would soon face, though, was that Davood Faraz Dabdeh did not think rationally, and that would prove to be the shortcoming in all the extensive planning and rehearsals of the Detachment-Delta members.

  Charlie did not wear sunglasses, as he wanted total clarity. He was a handsome Iraqi with his massive build and rugged good looks, and his Italian-tailored suit, the ends of his turban flowing softly with the desert breeze. Fila’s beauty was hidden from view as she bowed her head and her clothes hid her great figure.

  The Iranians had not left their cars yet, and Charlie whispered, “You know what I never asked. What does Fila Jannat mean in Farsi?”

  She grinned to herself thinking about him asking such a question right now facing this danger, and it calmed her.

  Acting like a ventriloquist, with her lips not moving, she said, “You are amazing, Sergeant Strongheart. Fila means ‘lover’ and Jannat means ‘paradise.’ ”

  Charlie turned and looked at her, winking with his head away from the Iranians and saying, “That sure fits you. If anything happens to me, you survive and accomplish the mission. Love of country and freedom is what is most important now, not of each other.”

  She bowed as if receiving an order and said, “You are preaching to the choir, Sergeant. And by the way, I love you.”

  Just then he heard the car doors open as Yaghoub Ardeshir and three henchmen, all armed with automatic weapons, got out of the lead Mercedes. Charlie knew Yaghoub by his size alone, as he was six foot five, slightly taller than Charlie, and weighed 251 pounds.

  Not knowing that the exchange he and Fila just had had been listened to by Pops, Kerri Rhodes, and the President of the United States, who all smiled and shook their heads, Charlie whispered to Fila and into his mike, while smiling, “The big guy is Yaghoub Ardeshir, and there are three more with AK-47s. Ardeshir is carrying . . . It looks like a Soviet high-caliber pistol. Can’t talk.”

  They approached and Charlie stepped forward, palms up, saying, “Asalamalakum,” the traditional Arabic greeting, meaning “Welcome, peace be upon you.”

  Yaghoub said, “Salam,” the simple Farsi word for “Hello.”

  They grabbed each other by the upper arms and kissed next to each other’s cheeks three times in the typical greeting.

  Then Yaghoub indicated that Charlie should put his arms up and allow himself to be frisked. Charlie complied.

  Charlie spoke to him in Arabic, and his “wife” translated, “My wife is Persian, and I am Iraqi from Tal Afar. She must translate for me.”

  Yaghoub put his finger up to his ear and spoke, apparently to Davood Dabdeh, saying, “He has no weapons. His wife is Persian and translates. He speaks Arabic only. He is from Tal Afar. He is hard of hearing, too. He wears hearing aids in his ears.”

  “Shoot the Iraqi dog. We don’t need him. I like his idea, but we can do it,” Davood said into the earpiece. “Bring the woman. We will have fun. Leave his body here in the sand. The desert can be his new friend.”

  Yaghoub grinned and, in Farsi of course, said, “You want her in your car or mine?”

  This was the only warning that Charlie and Fila received.

  Samireh Ahoo was a very devout Muslim who grew up in Detroit, Michigan. After September 11, 2001, her two brothers enlisted in the Marines and fought in both Iraq and Afghanistan. Since her mother was Iraqi and father Persian, she was multilingual, in Arabic and Farsi. She was also a very patriotic American and wanted to contribute on the GWOT; she was working as a translator/interpreter for the Central Intelligence Agency within six months of the attacks.

  She was very alert on this day and quickly said into the earpiece, “Look out, he wants to take Fila to the car.”

  At the same time, Fila’s mind flashed methodically and immediately through her choices. Should she break character and go for a gun, or should she remain in character and warn Charlie in Arabic?

  As soon as Davood Dabdeh had responded, Yaghoub raised his gun toward Charlie, an evil grin on his face. The CIA translator was issuing her warning, and Fila did not have to think but react. Her hands went down under the front of her dress. Her right hand gripped the handle of one Glock just as Yaghoub’s gun flashed and blood flew from the face of Charlie Strongheart, who fell to the ground face-first in a lifeless heap.

  A hard thump hit her in the center of her chest, knocking her backward, and she saw that the jihadist closest to Yaghoub with his AK-47 in his hand had just shot her in the center of her chest, hitting her heart plate at an angle. She fell backward but aimed with a two-handed grip and put two bullets into the forehead of that terrorist.

  She swung the gun toward Yaghoub, the man who had just murdered the man she loved, Charlie Strongheart, who was now lying facedown in a pool of his own blood.

  His words, “Brave up,” were in her mind as she fired at Yaghoub’s forehead, but a split second before she fired, something slammed into the back of her head and her bullet hit Yaghoub in the left shoulder. Darkness enveloped her. She saw her true love dead in front of her and wanted to cry, but she could not. As Fila slipped into unconsciousness, she felt hands roughly grab her and drag her.<
br />
  The terrorist behind her had butt-stroked her in the back of the head with his AK-47. Now he and the other remaining terrorist dragged her to the lead Mercedes and tossed her in the backseat.

  When Charlie was in the 3rd Special Forces Group at Fort Bragg, besides running and weight lifting three days a week he drove to a boxing club in Fayetteville, put on wrist wraps, and trained and worked out boxing and kickboxing. When he did that, he would work out with several boxers sparring but controlling their punches and wearing sixteen-ounce boxing gloves. Two things happened during those sessions; one of those was that Charlie learned from an undefeated professional boxer that all he had to do most often was barely slip punches and let them graze his cheek or jaw, as he barely moved his head out of the way. That would save a great deal of wasted energy. The man explained that too many boxers wasted time moving an arm to knock a punch away, while the best boxers practiced economy of movement all the time. He urged Charlie to allow punches to be thrown at his face and simply move enough to avoid letting anything other than the boxing glove graze his face as it went by. Then, he said, was often the best time to counterpunch, as many boxers would throw such a punch and then be out of position, off-balance, or drop their guard. Charlie started doing this in practice and with time learned to really relax fighting and not swing an arm up defensively every time the opponent moved. He also noticed he was not biting on feints all the time, like he had earlier. He was amazed at how much better he was as a fighter and how much more endurance he had when he learned to relax and use this technique.

  The other important lesson he learned at the time came indirectly from former World Heavyweight Champion and boxing legend, Muhammad Ali of all people. This boxer actually had been a sparring partner of Ali’s back in the day. He told Charlie how generous Ali was to his partners.

  Everybody called him Champ, and he said that Champ used to have three sparring partners he worked out with at once—a guy his upcoming opponent’s size, then a real big, strong heavyweight, and then someone smaller and much faster. He said that Champ would allow his opponents to hit him, and they would really tee off on him since he was the Champ. He would do the rope-a-dope and taunt them and even put his hands down and let them hit him sometimes.