The Enemy Within

by Larry Bond

  Great. This was going to be a bitch.

  He pointed to the door and held up two fingers, signaling the type of breaching charge he wanted.

  Staff Sergeant Callaway, the team’s demolitions expert, nodded sharply, eyes bright behind his thick goggles. The tall, broad-shouldered noncom laid his weapon aside, yanked open the Velcro tab on one of his assault vest’s gadget pouches, and carefully extracted a thin sheet of explosive rolled into a cylinder. Moving slowly and surely, he straightened up, unrolling the demo charge at the same time.

  Thorn spoke softly into the radio mike taped to his throat. “Team Lead. Five seconds.” He tightened his grip on his MP5 and tugged a beer-can-shaped flash/bang grenade out of his left leg pouch. “Four. Three …”

  Callaway slapped the paper-thin sheet of explosive onto the door, triggered the detonator, and whirled away.

  “One.”

  WHUMMP! The door blew inward and slammed down onto the floor. Special timers had detonated the top of the demo charge a split second ahead of the bottom, directing the blast downward.

  Without waiting, Thorn rolled out, lobbed his grenade through the smoke, and rolled back against the wall. “Grenade! Go! Go!”

  His number two man glided through the doorway and moved left just as the flash/bang went off in a rippling, blinding, deafening series of flashes and staccato explosions that would confuse and disorient anyone inside the room.

  Thorn followed him into the smoke, sliding to the right with his submachine gun at shoulder level, ready to fire. He kept moving along the wall, his eyes scanning back and forth through the arc he’d assigned himself. The adrenaline pouring into his system seemed to be stretching time itself. Every dazzling flash from the exploding grenade lit the room like a giant, slow-motion strobe light.

  Motion tugged at the corner of his left eye. He spun in that direction, aiming, centering the target coming at him in his rear sights. A woman wearing a jacket and skirt loomed out of the smoke. His finger relaxed minutely on the trigger.

  Her hands were full.

  Thorn’s trained instincts took over. He squeezed off a three-round burst that knocked the half-seen figure backward to the floor. He spun right, still moving forward, hunting new enemies in the gray haze. Submachine guns stuttered briefly off to his left as other members of the team engaged targets of their own.

  He edged past an overturned desk. There! More movement off to his right. He whirled that way, seeing a man rising to his knees. His MP5 came up and centered on the man’s chest.

  Thorn fought off the urge to fire. The kneeling man was unarmed. He barked out a command. “You! Down! Now!” He emphasized the order with the muzzle of his submachine gun.

  The man dropped facedown and lay still.

  Thorn scanned through his arc again, searching for further signs of movement. Any movement. Nothing. He looked again, even harder this time. Still nothing. His pulse began slowing, falling toward normal. “Team Lead. Right side is clear.”

  His backup man echoed his assessment. “Number Three. Confirmed. Right side is clear.”

  More voices flooded through his earphones as the rest of the assault team checked in.

  “This is Two. Left side is clear.”

  “Number Four. Confirmed.”

  Thorn waited for a final report from his snipers before allowing himself to relax. They had good news. None of the terrorists had escaped the room during the assault team’s attack. He spoke into his throat mike. “Control, this is Team Lead. Exercise complete.”

  A laconic voice answered. “Roger, Lead. Exercise complete. Weapons safe.”

  Thorn and the others snapped their safety catches on and stood easy.

  Recessed overhead lights came on suddenly, illuminating the shooting room. High-speed fans kicked in with a low, vibrating hum, clearing the smoke still hanging in the air.

  Thorn glanced around at the assault team’s handiwork. Mannequins and pop-up targets—the hostages and terrorists—were scattered through the make-believe office. Those shown carrying weapons were bullet-riddled. Those that were unarmed looked intact.

  “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 goddamned 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 e
ven 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-chested 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 frigging 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 organizations collaborated on counterterror 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 jogging 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?”

  Thorn laughed. “No thanks, Tow. I filled my monthly masochist quota today and I’ve got meetings all day tomorrow. Besides”—he smiled crookedly—“the general’s wife wants us all at her big soiree on time and smelling like roses, not like the inside of an old gym bag. And you can guess the uniform of the day.”

  Diaz groaned softly. “Dress blues, Colonel?”

  “Dress blues, Sergeant Major.”

  JUNE 25

  JSOC headquarters, Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina

  Officers, senior NCOs, their wives and sweethearts crowded the dimly lit, air-conditioned bar, chatting politely in small groups as white-coated waiters circulated deftly among them with trays holding drinks and hors d’oeuvres. A jukebox played in the far corner, lofting soft music, a mix of light rock and pop tunes, over the buzz of conversation.

  Thorn stood close to the door with Sam Farrell and Lieutenant Colonel Bill Henderson, the tall, thin man who now commanded Delta’s A Squadron. They were talking shop.

  “You getting anywhere with the CIA on this Bosnia thing, Pete?” Farrell asked.

  “Not very far.” Thorn shrugged, wishing for the hundredth time that he hadn’t tied his tie quite so tight. The dark blue jacket, starched white shirt, and black bow tie of the Army’s regulation dress uniform won him a lot of admiring female glances at formal dinners and other official functions, but they never rested easily on his shoulders. He preferred more comfortable working clothes.

  “What the hell is the CIA’s problem?” Henderson frowned. “They fighting some kind of turf war with you?”

  “Maybe a little.” Thorn waved off another drink from a passing waiter and turned back to the subject at hand. He repeated Joe Rossini’s reasoning. “But the main glitch is that Langley has different priorities. They’re trying to keep Congress happy by looking for the next big issue. Nukes. Drugs. You name it.”

  He shook his head. “The way they see it, terrorism is pretty much a dead horse—for right now anyway. The Iranians knocked the crap out of the HizbAllah and the rest so badly that nobody believes they’re in shape to do more than run for cover.”

  “You think Langley might be right?” Farrell eyed him closely over his drink.

  “Could be,” Thorn admitted reluctantly. “Like Taleh said, I could be chasing ghosts. We sure haven’t been able to pin down anything solid in those first reports.”

  “But …” Farrell prompted him.

  Thorn nodded. “That little prickling feeling at the back of my neck isn’t going away. The HizbAllah may be on the ropes, but desperate men take desperate chances. I think there could be real trouble brewing out there somewhere—and I’d rather not find out about it the hard way.”

  “Okay,” Farrell said firmly. “Keep after it. There may not be any pot of gold at the end of your rainbow, but looking can’t hurt.” His mouth tightened. “Starting tomorrow, I’ll see if I can get you some satellite time and better access to Langley’s HUMINT sources.”

  Thorn felt better. HUMINT, the intelligence jargon for information obtained from human agents, was crucial to effective counterterrorist work. Even the most sophisticated spy satellites couldn’t find terrorist training camps unless you pointed them at the right general area. If the CIA could bribe, blackmail, or bug someone in Bosnia with direct knowledge of this rumored terrorist recruiting campaign, he and Joe Rossini could start zeroing in on the right target.

  “That would be great, sir.” He swallowed the last remnants of his gin and tonic and put the glass down on a nearby table. “I’ll phone my off
ice first thing and have them send down—”

  A woman’s languid southern drawl cut him off. “Why, Sam Farrell and Peter Thorn, I am appalled. Talking business on a social occasion? You ought to be ashamed. And you, too, Bill Henderson.”

  They turned in unison like guilty schoolboys to see Louisa Farrell, the general’s wife, smiling at them. She wasn’t beautiful in the classical sense, but her violet eyes, elegantly styled silver hair, and natural poise made her what TOW Diaz would call “a powerfully handsome woman.”

  She swept in among them and took Thorn by the arm. “Now, you just come with me, Peter. You can talk shop with these two boorish misfits anytime. But I don’t see enough of you these days.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Thorn surrendered to the pleasantly inevitable. He half turned toward Farrell. “With your permission, sir?”

  The general grinned. “I wouldn’t dream of standing in my wife’s way, Colonel. They don’t pay me enough. I’ll pick up the pieces later.”

  What exactly did he mean by that? Thorn wondered.

  Louisa Farrell answered his unspoken question. “Come along, Peter. I have someone I’d like you to meet. A new friend of mine. I think you’ll like her.”

  Oops. It must be his turn again in the pet bachelor circus center ring. Most Delta Force operators were married and none of their wives seemed able to resist playing matchmaker. The general’s wife was one of the most determined.

  “Look, Louisa,” Thorn protested. “I’m not looking for a bride right now—”

  “You hush up, now.” She laughed. “You can squirm and toss and turn all you like, but it won’t put me off my stride. You hear me, Peter Thorn?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He shrugged inwardly. He’d just have to shut up and soldier through the rest of the evening. Idly, he wondered who the JSOC officers’ wives’ club had selected as the ideal Mrs. Thorn this time.