The clerk nodded. “Yeah, good luck with that.” He waved him on. “Next!”
Billy moved down the line and placed his hand on an electronic palm scanner. Giggles from behind him drew his attention. Two girls still in line ogled him. They giggled again. He blushed. One of them pointed at his feet. Looking down, his left pant leg was partially tucked into his sock. And it didn’t match his other sock.
Shit!
He quickly fixed his pants, resigned to having to go through the rest of the day with mismatched socks and a pair of co-workers who were aware of his predicament. He tried to put some people between him and the girls as the last couple of interns who had been even later than he finished being processed.
Then a tour he had been looking forward to for years finally began.
He studied every room and corridor in awe, his chest pounding in excitement as the White House intern tour wound through the building. He had been here years before with his father, but had been too young then to appreciate it. When the administration changed, his father didn’t take him back to the White House again. “When they’re voted out and our people are in, then you can go back,” he recalled his father saying. That had taken eight years. Now he was back, but to work.
Eighteen years old, working in the White House. Shit yeah!
“Rough morning?” a voice asked from behind, startling him out of his reverie. He spun on his heel to see one of the girls who had been laughing at him earlier. Blushing again, he nodded.
“Yeah, my power went out, so…you know?”
“My name is Rachel,” she said, extending her hand.
“Billy.” He shook her hand nervously, realizing he was probably as crimson as a lobster.
“Next time you do the laundry, Billy, you should match your socks after they dry,” she said smiling. “That way that doesn’t happen,” she said as she pointed at his feet. She laughed again and walked back to her friend who was trying to cover her own cackle with her hand.
Bitches.
They giggled some more then he heard Rachel say, “But he is kinda cute!” to which the other one nodded and laughed again as she tugged her friend toward the group that had moved on.
Very hot bitches.
1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta HQ, Fort Bragg, North Carolina
A.k.a. “The Unit”
Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson expertly flipped each of the several dozen burgers on the charcoal grill while sweat glistened off his chiseled chest, partially revealed by a half-buttoned Hawaiian shirt. The aroma of grilled meat filled his nostrils and his stomach growled. I love barbeque. It was a perfect summer day. The sun shone down out of a crystal clear sky, the light breeze taking the edge off the heat. As he flipped the final burger something hit him in the back of the head.
He swung around, ready to defend himself.
“Sorry, Mr. Dog, I didn’t mean to hit you.” The small boy grabbed the beach ball that had gone astray and ran back to the group of waiting kids.
“No problem, Bryson,” he called after him. Mr. Dog. Now that’s funny. His buddies in boot camp over twenty years ago had filled out his initials, BD, to “Big Dog”. At first he couldn’t stand it, but eventually it grew on him, especially once it had been shortened by most of his team to BD. It was better than some of the other nicknames he’d heard over the years. He now led Delta Team Bravo, a team of the most highly trained black ops specialists the U.S. Military had to offer. The 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta, a.k.a. Delta Force, had been created in the 1970’s as an answer to the growing problem of international terrorism. Since the Iran Hostage Crisis debacle—which if you asked insiders had more to do with political interference than poor training—they had served with distinction in many operations the American public knew nothing about. This was their lot in life—to do spectacular things, under the radar, for no credit, and the promise of complete deniability if something went wrong.
Dawson had served with Delta Team Bravo for over seven years and had been on missions in Iraq, Afghanistan, Kosovo, Serbia, the Sudan, Syria, Iran and others. All had been successes in two ways. One, the mission was accomplished and two, nobody knew they had been there. His men were fiercely loyal to him, and he to them, having been through hell together too many times to remember. All were NCO’s, Non-Commissioned Officers—sergeants of various stripes—command structure being fairly loose among each team, but ultimately there was always one man in charge, and for now it was him. The officers at their HQ planned the missions, the Non-Coms executed them.
Today was one of many family barbeques the team hosted behind The Unit in the secluded complex on Fort Bragg where they could train away from the prying eyes of the public or regular forces. Normally they weren’t all able to be here, but today was a rare day. A roar of laughter erupted from one of the picnic tables, a reaction to a joke that likely couldn’t be repeated in polite company, a.k.a. the wives and girlfriends, who sat at another table talking amongst themselves. Dawson had only ever been married to The Unit and the way his life was going, he expected it to remain that way.
He checked the burgers again. Almost ready. He laid the buns out on the grill to toast them. More laughter from the table. He looked over and saw the comedian was one of the two new guys, Trip “Mickey” McDonald. Speaking of bad nicknames. Mickey’s huge ears stuck out of his head like Prince Charles’. One comparison to Mickey Mouse during training and he had been saddled with “Mickey” ever since.
What’s so funny?
Sometimes he missed the old days when he wasn’t the boss. He’d be sitting at that table with his men, laughing and telling one of his blue jokes from his extensive repertoire.
Shit! The cheese. He hastily peeled off slices from the stack next to the grill as he heard Mickey laughing hard.
“So, what did BD do?”
“Well, you’d never believe it, but BD is a very chivalrous man,” said Smitty, a long-time member of the team. This elicited several guffaws from the men, even a raised eyebrow from Dawson. “So anyway, this hostage just wouldn’t stop screaming. He kept telling her to shut-up, that he was there to rescue her, but she wouldn’t believe him.”
“Yeah, and she had taken one of those self-defense courses,” chimed in Mike “Red” Belme, his second-in-command. “You can see where this is going, eh?”
“Don’t tell me—”
“Yup, as soon as he cut her bindings she kicked him in the balls, kneed him in the nose then ran out of the building screaming at the top of her lungs,” finished Smitty.
Dawson winced.
“Luckily I’d already taken out the hostiles so she was safe, but the local Yemini’s had no clue what she was saying,” explained Carl “Niner” Sung, probably The Unit’s best sniper. Korean-American, he had earned his nickname in a bar fight years ago, a redneck calling him “slant-eyed” and Niner embarrassing him by slinging back a few of his own including “Nine Iron.” The man was so irate he took a swing. The resulting brawl had resulted in several arrests—after the team had left the bar. From then on he had insisted his nickname be “Nine Iron” which had been shortened to Niner over the years.
“She was half-naked in the middle of a bunch of burqa clad women! The locals—” Red’s face now matched his nickname as he tried to stifle his laughter to tell the story. Losing the battle, he motioned to Smitty to continue.
“Yeah, the locals were about to start stoning her when BD comes stumbling out of the building she’d been held in, cupping his boys.”
“So he grabs her, throws her into this piece of shit Toyota truck we’d commandeered and drives away,” said Red. “But the chick starts screaming again and tries to get out.”
“Yeah, but this time BD’s not havin’ any of it. He backhands her in the face and knocks her out cold!” said Niner.
“No shit?”
“No shit!” laughed Niner. “I’m tellin’ ya, Mickey, I saw it through my scope. Out cold.”
&nbs
p; Smitty nodded so hard his sunglasses fell off their perch on top of his head. “Yeah, so after we get picked up at the rendezvous, she’s nursing a bloody nose and Big Dog is nursing a set of sore balls. And you know what he said?”
“What?”
Everyone at the table said in unison, “From now on, I don’t go anywhere without a cup!”
Dawson smiled as his men exploded in laughter.
And his boys twinged at the memory.
“Burgers are up!” he announced. Cheers from the kids preceded their stampede to the grill as he rationed the burgers onto Styrofoam plates. He was about to fill up a plate for Bryson when his cellphone rang. Shit!
He flipped it open. “Speak.”
“Mr. Jones, I need you at the flower shop for a delivery.” The monotone voice on the other end signaled the pending end to the afternoon’s festivities.
“Five minutes.” He snapped the phone shut and motioned to Red, his friend and comrade for over ten years. “I have to go, you take over.”
“No problem, BD.” Red took the lifter from Dawson’s hand and smiled at his boy Bryson as he held out his plate. “I’ll hold down the fort ’til you get back.”
“Thanks. Have the boys watch the beers, I have a funny feeling we’re going to be busy soon.”
Red nodded. “Will do.”
Dawson crossed the field to the parking lot and climbed in his prized 1964½ Mustang convertible in original Poppy Red. The engine roared to life with a turn of the key and minutes later he was pulling into the HQ parking lot, wondering what the presumed mission would be and where.
Anywhere would be fantastic.
As he covered the short distance to the Colonel’s office, he only hoped for one thing. That it was interesting. He wasn’t a big fan of surveillance missions—too much ass sitting. He preferred the adrenaline fueled infiltration type missions, ones where hands got dirty, weapons got fired, C4 was put to its intended use.
At the end of the day he wanted to have done something useful for his country, something that would make a difference, even if the general public never realized it had ever happened.
He passed through the outer office, the Colonel’s secretary Maggie not there. Odd. He knocked on the inner office door.
“Enter!”
Dawson pulled the door open and stepped inside. “What’s up, sir?” he asked as he closed the door behind him. Colonel Thomas Clancy, the head of Dawson’s unit, sat behind his desk, fishing a cigar out of an antique humidor that occupied a prominent position on his desk exposing his one last vice. An impressive array of medals and awards decorated the walls, revealing a career that had only recently involved a desk.
Never being one for formality when within the confines of his office, Clancy grunted an acknowledgement as he ran the cigar under his nose, inhaling the intoxicating smell. “I don’t know,” he said, motioning to the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you, sir.” Dawson sat down. “You don’t know?”
“You were specifically requested by Control.” Clancy snipped the tip off his cigar. “Beyond that, I have no idea. I’m out of the loop on this one, Sergeant Major.”
Dawson didn’t like the sound of that. Clancy was a commanding officer that Dawson respected—not just the rank and position, but the man. He knew whenever he was on a mission Clancy had his back, but with the Colonel out of the loop—which was rare—he couldn’t trust that he and his men wouldn’t be left hung out to dry should something go wrong.
He had asked for interesting, and it looked like he may get it, the old Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times” coming to mind.
“When do I get briefed?”
“He’s waiting now.” Clancy flicked his butane lighter and carefully lit the cigar, rapidly puffing until he was satisfied it was completely lit. Placing the lighter back on his desk, he took a long drag and exhaled, letting the smoke waft over his face, allowing him to enjoy the fragrance one more time. His ritual finished, he turned back to Dawson. “Report to the comm center and don’t report back to me until Control says to. Understood?”
Dawson rose and snapped to attention. “Yes, sir!”
Darbinger Residence, Washington, DC
“What’s on your mind, dear?”
Lesley Darbinger looked up at his wife of over twenty-five years, spotting her look of concern. Nora knew him well enough to know something was wrong, and despite his best efforts, he was unable to hide this afternoon’s news.
“Anything you can talk about?”
Darbinger swirled the cognac in his glass, watching the viscous fluid stick to the edges. Good legs. He looked up at his wife and smiled. “Oh, nothing wrong,” he reassured her. “Just finishing up some old business.” He knew damned well she would read right through the lie, she knowing him too well. Besides, cognac this early in the day was always a dead giveaway to something being wrong. Jackson had sent him home shortly after the news had been delivered, the President himself cancelling all of his appointments for the rest of the day. Her joy at seeing him home so early—something rare these past few years—had been short-lived, his gloom obvious.
Old business.
He was tired of this business. It wasn’t his, it was never meant to be. He had merely joined in something his best friend had thought important. He would be lying to say what he had become involved with for friendship’s sake hadn’t become important to him as well—very important—but it had never been all-consuming like it was for Jackson.
For Jackson it was an obsession.
“Old business?” She frowned and sat down beside him. “You don’t mean—”
He cut her off with his finger. “Remember, we don’t say their name. Ever.”
He could see the color drain from her face as she nodded, a look of fear clouding her eyes he hadn’t seen in years. The fear she felt was one of his few true regrets in life. He should have never told her all those years ago why he had been so troubled, but he had. After all, she was his wife, and she deserved to know what was bothering her husband. She had understood, never truly believing, but when the rift had come between Jackson and the Triarii, and Jackson’s actions had put their collective lives at risk, she had been shaken to her core.
And he didn’t blame her.
“Are we going to be okay?”
His heart ached as he saw the fear, her bottom lip trembling slightly as she asked the question. He smiled, trying to convey confidence, strength, neither of which he had at the moment.
“They can’t touch us now,” he replied as he patted her hand. “But a thirty year journey may finally be about to end.”
“You promised me it was over before, Lesley,” she said, her tone suddenly firm from anger. “After that Smithsonian incident, you promised me. I don’t want to go through that again.”
It was one of the few lies he had ever told her, telling her it was over, that he had left that part of his life behind. But he knew deep down she didn’t believe him, but like a good partner had indulged the lie, realizing it was told for her benefit, to try and mollify her fears.
But it was still a lie.
“Like I said,” he repeated, “they can’t touch us now.”
She rose and left him alone, the fear and anger in her posture clear as his thoughts drifted to the Smithsonian incident that had changed their lives almost ten years ago.
He sighed, draining his glass.
Ten years of lies and deceit might finally be coming to an end.
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
Burt Dawson didn’t have much time to pull together his thoughts. His briefing from Control was true to the word—brief. Which was quite often the case in his business so no red flags were raised. He would still rather be reporting to Colonel Clancy, but apparently the secrecy of this op was so tight, even their regular Ops Center wasn’t going to be used, instead it being controlled from elsewhere. Where, he wasn’t privy too. All he needed to know was that his team’s comms would al
l be patched through to this secret Ops Center.
Which meant they were completely cut off from those he trusted at The Unit.
Again, unusual, but not unheard of.
What Control had told him could be seen as justification for all the secrecy. Apparently a homegrown terrorist cell had stolen a highly classified DARPA project during shipping. It along with the perpetrators had fled the country to a training camp they had set up in Peru. Buzz had it they were planning multiple attacks on American targets around the world and at home.
Their orders: infiltrate the training camp, recover the stolen item, interrogate the prisoners, and once identified, eliminate them if they were on the President’s Termination List.
A straightforward mission that he had done at least a dozen times if not more. The only difference this time were the terrorists. All apple pie eating American men and women—university students who had fallen under the spell of a madman named Professor James Acton.
Dawson’s orders for Acton were different. Once the item was retrieved, Acton was to be executed immediately—he was already confirmed on the Termination List.
Dawson wasn’t sure how he felt about the mission—he had even asked if Control would rather the targets be captured and returned to the United States for prosecution. The suggestion had been angrily shot down, the orders reiterated. The only explanations for the reaction that Dawson could think of were that either what they had stolen was too secret for them to remain alive now that they had seen it, or that the President didn’t want word of a bunch of American born and bred students hating their country so much that they’d spill innocent blood to further their aims.
Aims of which he had no idea what they were.
Remember 9/11 and how young those hijackers were.
He sometimes had to remind himself that the bad guys weren’t always men who had experienced enough of life to know they didn’t like it. Too often today it was young people who were still popping pimples and hoping to pop cherries that were being pulled into extremist activities.
It was sickening.
As he pulled up to The Unit and watched the young kids running around playing, he couldn’t help wonder if some bastard in their future, like this Professor Acton, would corrupt their young, innocent minds, and have them hating the very country their fathers were fighting to protect.
The Protocol (A James Acton Thriller, Book #1) Page 3