Detachment Delta Page 9

  Charlie said, “No, thanks. I’ll just brush and clean up. I need to shower and put on some clean clothes at home. I’ll be right with you.”

  A few minutes later, Charlie appeared in the doorway to the kitchen and smelled breakfast and fresh coffee.

  She had the small table set, and a steaming breakfast sitting on the table. There was French toast, bacon, and grits with butter on them.

  Charlie sat down, saying, “Grits? You’re from Iran, and you make grits?”

  She chuckled.

  “Mom was from South Carolina,” she said. “Grits, black-eyed peas, turnip greens, barbecue, hush puppies, you name it. Oh.”

  She ran to the oven and pulled out some hush puppies and carefully transferred them into a wicker basket covered with a white cloth napkin. She brought them over to Charlie, grabbing a jar of honey and some butter on the way.

  “Hush puppies,” she said. “That is real butter, but I have some margarine somewhere if you’d rather have it.”

  “No, thanks,” he said. “This is great! I only eat butter. Margarine is one chemical away from plastic. Did you know that?”

  “Yes,” she said, sitting down and grabbing her fork. “I only eat butter, too. Margarine was originally invented to fatten up turkeys, but it started killing them. They had a big supply, so they added yellow color to it and started marketing it as a butter substitute.”

  “Amazing!” he said. “This is great, by the way. You are a super cook. I knew that about margarine, too. I won’t ever touch the stuff. Nice house you have here. Where are we?”

  She said, “We are out off of 401 South towards Raeford.”

  “Still in Fatalburg?” he asked, using the local expression for Fayetteville, North Carolina, the main city by Fort Bragg.

  “Oh sure. It’s not very far to Post from here. Where is your place?”

  “I actually live off of 401 North,” he replied, “near Pine Forest High School.”

  “Oh yeah. My dad has friends that live at College Lakes, and I have visited them,” she said. “We aren’t far, in fact, from Seventy-First High School.”

  Charlie said, “Okay, I know where we are then. I need to call a cab so I can get home and get ready for work.”

  He looked at his watch, a Black Hawk Special Ops watch with a ballistic Velcro band. It was good even underwater down to a depth of 330 feet.

  It was 7:30 A.M.

  “What time did you get up and start making this great breakfast . . . oh-dark-thirty?” he asked, gulping some hot coffee.

  “Thanks,” Fila said. “Nope. Just a little bit ago. You are not calling a cab. I’ll take you to your place, and we don’t need to rush. Pops knew I was bringing you here last night, and he said for you and me to hang out for a couple days and get to know each other since we will be working so close.”

  Charlie said, “Speaking of that, how will you feel about shooting Muslims?”

  She laughed and said, “Charlie, nobody hates the jihadists more than a Muslim woman who is converted to Christianity. I knew you would worry about that, buddy, and you can put it out of your mind.”

  Charlie laughed at himself.

  She said, “I spent my childhood in Iran, part of my teenaged years in Iraq, and am a nationalized American. Do you suppose they might have checked me out from ass-hole to elbows before letting me into C.A.G. Selection?”

  Again, Charlie laughed at himself and said, “Sorry, Fila. My life is going to depend totally on you.”

  “You don’t have to explain,” she replied, “I understand totally. In fact, since we have to depend on each other totally, I know how we can start spending time today getting to know each other a lot better.”

  CHARLIE sat in a chair and looked around the plywood-wall room. Behind him, placed on a folding table, was the upper half of a terrorist mannequin with a folding stock AK-47 in his hands. Around his head and neck was wrapped a red and white checked kaffiyeh held in place on his head by an agal, a rope circlet. Wearing ear protectors, Charlie sat still in his folding chair, checking once more to ensure there was a clear line of fire between the mannequin and the door without him being in that line of fire. Charlie wore a black-and-white checked kaffiyeh and an agal himself.

  Suddenly, with a loud bang, the handles blew off the double hollow pine doors, and a woman entered wearing a black burqa with black netting covering her face. In her hand was a small polymer plastic Glock Model 19 9-millimeter automatic. She ran through the door, moving to her right while placing two rapid-fire rounds into the terrorist’s face. Then she put another double-tap into the center of his torso. Then, she purposely dropped her Glock on the floor, and almost instantly, a second Glock Model 19 appeared in her left hand from under the folds of her burqa. Two more quick rounds went into his forehead, and two more went into his chest, right over the heart.

  She ran to Charlie, yelling, “Hands out!”

  He stuck his hands straight out, wrists side by side, so that they would simulate him being handcuffed. Now a large Yarborough knife appeared in her right hand, and it sliced through the air between his wrists as if cutting flex cuffs. Without looking, she placed him behind her with one hand while handing him the Yarborough knife. She led the way out the door, picking up her first Glock and handing it behind her to Charlie. Again, without looking, she took the knife back from him at the same time, and it disappeared just as quickly under the folds of the black head-to-toe Muslim garment. She led him out the doorway of the House of Horrors.

  Outside, she pulled the hot cotton garment off and Charlie gave her a high five. Underneath the burqa, she had worn digital tactical trousers and two Blackwater CQC carbon-fiber composite holsters, carried on standard tactical thigh rigs, plus she had a wide array of Blackwater magazine carriers around her waistline. On the back of her right thigh was the scalpel-sharp Yarborough knife sheath.

  Charlie handed her a bottle of water and opened one himself and started chugging. It was a hot and humid day, and it was especially suffocating in the Shooting House with their adrenaline pumping, and especially with her wearing a full burqa over her other clothes.

  He smiled at her and winked, saying, “Sergeant Jannat, I will have no problem going into Injun country with you as a partner.”

  With Charlie being full-blooded Lakota, this remark really struck her funny bone, and Fila started chuckling, which turned into laughter. Infectious as it was, Charlie started to laugh, too, not knowing why.

  He got a puzzled look and said, “Why are we laughing?”

  She pointed at him and said, “Injun country!”

  Charlie chuckled now and said, “What’s wrong with that, Booty? That is what everybody in SF says for enemy territory.”

  She laughed even harder.

  Charlie smiled, saying, “I take back what I said about you covering my behind.”

  She laughed even harder.

  Seventh Special Forces Group was having a special luncheon at McKellar’s Lodge, which was very close to the Detachment-Delta entrance, so they both had lunch with some old friends there and then went back to the range.

  When they left, one of the younger sergeants at their table said, “So who was that guy, an SF retiree and his wife?”

  One of the master sergeants sitting nearby said, “Naw, that’s Charlie Strongheart. He’s C.A.G.”

  Another one said, “Wal, purty boys, I worked with her. She’s an intel sergeant herself. She was ’tached to us at the Third Herd for a bit in the Sandbox. She went to C.A.G., too, I heerd. If any women deserved to, it was Ole Fila Jannat. They is a clangin’ noise when she walks.”

  “They have women in Delta Force?” the E6 asked.

  The first master sergeant said, “Shh. We’ll have to kill ya, man. Nobody’s supposed to know. They are in what’s that called?”

  “The Funny Platoon,” the Southerner master sergeant replied.

  The staff sergeant spoke again. “A clangin’ noise. That woman was downright beautiful. She is tough?”

  T
he E8 replied, “What d’ya s’pose I weigh, son?”

  “Two-fifty?”

  “Naw, two-sixty-two,” he said. “And I was one of the three wounded guys she carried ta safety under heavy gunfire in Sadr City. She got brass ones awright. Thet’s why she got a Silver Star, too.”

  “Damn!” the staff sergeant said.

  The other master sergeant said, “That old Charlie Strongheart is a handful himself. He has seen the elephant. If they got those two partnered up, somebody is gonna be in a world of caca.”

  The Southern sergeant said, “Wal, ya did notice them boobs and that butt, gents. They are prob’bly jest datin’. I had me a partnuh thet looked like thet, we’d be under the sheets firin’ RPGs.”

  Driving back, Charlie said, “How did you get your hands on a Yarborough knife?”

  She got a sad look and said, “I dated a guy from Third Group I had served with in Iraq. He left me his Yarborough when he died.”

  Charlie said, “Sorry. He must have thought a lot of you to leave his Yarborough knife.”

  Major General William P. Yarborough was the man who encouraged his Special Forces operators to wear green berets on their heads and then tried to get the Pentagon to approve it as official headgear for his special breed of men. Yarborough, who invented the army’s Jump Wings in World War II, where he personally earned four gold stars for his own set of wings, for combat jumps he made, was the commanding general of the USA JFK Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg when President Kennedy did indeed declare the green beret as the distinctive headgear for the U.S. Army Special Forces and referred to it in 1962, saying, “The green beret is again becoming a symbol of excellence, a badge of courage, a mark of distinction in the fight for freedom.” General Yarborough was also an innovator of many things, such as creating the now legendary Special Forces medic, who had training better than most EMTs and physician’s assistants.

  He is considered by most in Special Forces to be the “father of the modern-day Green Berets.”

  For some time now, any young man who graduates from the grueling Special Forces Qualification Course switches on the parade ground from a burgundy to a green beret. But the following day, wearing a class A uniform and his new Special Forces tab, when he walks across the stage, usually in the Fayetteville, North Carolina, Civic Auditorium, the man is handed a diploma and a numbered and personalized Yarborough knife. Designed by Bill Harsey and manufactured by Chris Reeve Knives to be both a tool and a weapon, the Yarborough was the winning design from a field of nearly one hundred different contenders.

  It’s made from CPM S30V steel, an alloy that has greater strength than most blades, as well as superior edge-holding ability, and it is coated with KG GunKote, a baked-on nonreflective corrosion-resistant finish. The handle of the knife is actually canvas Micarta, chosen for its toughness, chemical resistance, and wet-grip capabilities.

  Most people never put the Yarborough anywhere but a display case, but Fila loved hers and used it always in the field. It just never would seem to slip in her grip, even if she was not wearing Kevlar gloves, which she usually did, and even when it was wet.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Getting Closer

  CHARLIE said, “Hey, how about we pop some silhouettes outdoors, go to our places, clean up, and I take you out for a really nice dinner tonight?”

  “Poke,” she teased, “are you asking me out on a date?”

  Charlie thought for a second and said, “No, we are partners. If you were a guy, I would ask you the same thing.”

  “Would you take a guy to the same restaurant where you are planning on taking me?”

  Again, the tall Indian thought, and then said, “Naw, if you were a guy partner, I would invite you but maybe take you to Texas Road House or Hooters.”

  She chuckled and said, “So, are you asking me out on a date?”

  “I guess I am,” he replied. “Pick you up at seven?”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “Nice restaurant,” he said. “I’ll wear a suit or sport coat with slacks.”

  It was exactly seven o’clock when Fila’s doorbell rang, and she opened it. Just having a man do that and not honk the horn was refreshing compared to many of her dates. She was doubly surprised when she opened the door and saw Charlie in a dark blue pin-striped Brooks Brothers suit tailored with a European cut. He wore a cream-colored shirt with French cuffs and a silk striped maroon tie with dark blue and cream stripes. On his feet were shiny black Gucci loafers with strips of bamboo attached to the tassel on them. He held in his hand a bouquet of white roses as well as baby’s breath and ferns.

  He handed them to her and she cooed, smelling them, saying, “Thanks, Charlie. I love roses.”

  “I picked them out of my yard,” he said proudly.

  “Ooh, white for passion,” she said. “Out of your yard?”

  He said, “I raise a few flowers. Keeps the place looking nice. Have you eaten at the Vineyard?”

  “Oh yes,” she said, genuinely enthused. “That is the best eating in Fayetteville. I love the piano music, too.”

  Charlie looked at her, and it took his breath just about. This woman could make any man forget any woman. Her shiny black designer dress clung to her body like the finest silk, which it was. It was low-cut and her cleavage was like a sign to Charlie, shouting “Please Stare!” But he would not allow himself to, as much as he wanted to. The dress was slit up the back, and he noticed her tanned, shapely legs. Fila wore beautiful shiny black stiletto high-heeled shoes with tiny straps that wrapped around her ankles and looked very sexy to him. She had on long dangly earrings that had little crosses at the end of each, and there was a small diamond in the center of each cross. Around her neck was a nice necklace with a large matching cross and a larger diamond in the center of it. She wore several classy-looking dress rings on one thumb and her hand, and he noticed she wore two small toe rings, and an ankle bracelet on her left leg, which matched the earrings and necklace.

  Her hair hung halfway down her back and was very shiny and beautiful.

  Charlie said, “I have to tell you, Fila. If you ever dress like this on our assignment, I am worried you will get me killed. How could I ever take my eyes off of you, you are so beautiful?”

  She blushed and smiled seductively without even meaning to. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him softly on the cheek. He felt his heart beat harder.

  The Vineyard was on South McPherson Church Road, one of the main business streets in Fayetteville, and was considered by many to be the finest cuisine and atmosphere in the military town.

  It was really a classy place with great atmosphere. They had a pianist indoors, but you could also eat outside on the patio. The service was excellent. The waitress they had was very attentive and brought out their appetizers and salads in a very timely fashion. She also checked on them throughout the meal. The couple decided to order one steak meal and one seafood meal and share. So Charlie got a filet mignon smothered in sautéed mushrooms, and it was good enough and tender enough to melt in his mouth, and was cooked medium rare. Fila ordered wasabi grilled tuna, which was very scrumptious. They shared throughout the meal and each chose to have only one glass of wine, because of tying it on at the Green Beret Club the previous night.

  After dinner both declined dessert, but drank lots of coffee while they talked about anything and everything.

  He finally smiled and said, “I just have to ask. That dress is so beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” she interrupted.

  “So, you know how we all think 24/7,” he said. “I have to ask. Where do you have your Glock 19 hidden?”

  She grinned and said, “Come here.”

  He slid over into the chair next to her from his seat across the table.

  “Slide your hand up the inside of my left thigh,” she commanded softly.

  His heart pounded in his ears and the side of his temples. Charlie had not had a woman have this effect on him in years. Ever, he thought. He looked around and sl
owly slid his hand up the inside of her leg. Halfway up her thigh it bumped against the bottom of her molded polymer plastic thigh holster.

  He chuckled and moved back.

  “So,” she countered, “what are you carrying?”

  Charlie said, “I usually carry a Springfield Arms .45 XD Tactical, but tonight, because of you, I am carrying a Glock 19 with Corbon copper-jacketed hollow points.”

  She pretended to speak like a teen and said, “Ooh, Charlie. Me too! We have so much in common!”

  He laughed.

  She then said, “That’s nice, but what else?”

  He chuckled.

  “Okay,” he said, “of course I carry a backup. In my front pocket, I always carry—”

  Charlie stopped as Fila raised her hand, laughing.

  She said, “Did you notice my little black makeup purse I have been carrying tonight?”

  He nodded.

  She said, “I bet you are going to tell me you are carrying the same exact gun in your front pocket, a Kel-Tec P3AT.380. I never leave home without it.”

  Charlie laughed, and said, “One round in the pipe and six in the mag. I can even carry it when I am wearing shorts.”

  Fila started laughing again. He asked why.

  She said, “Nice first date. You and I talk about guns.”

  “I don’t know about you, sweetheart,” he said, “but the more I learn about you, the safer I feel going on a dumb-ass suicide mission into the middle of Iran.”

  “Charlie,” she said, “I already felt safe with you the first time I saw you in the conference room.”

  Now he got embarrassed, and said, “Why do you say that?”

  She replied, “When I heard about you, I of course started asking around. I heard how you needed intelligence really badly on the Taliban, and you went out by yourself at night in the Khyber Pass wearing night vision and waited along the road used by the Taliban, al Qaeda, and major drug smugglers. You waited all night, until you found one straggler behind one patrol of Taliban, snuck up behind him, knocked him out with your gun, and carried him over your shoulders, with flex cuffs on his hands and legs, for over a mile, to where you had your dirt bike hidden. Then, you carried him on that, coasting down an old mountain road, and had to hide several times. Finally, when you could see where your team and the warlord were headquartered across the valley, you cranked up the bike and rode across that valley floor, taking occasional volleys from hidden Taliban and a few RPGs shot at you. Is that story true?”