Detachment Delta

Table of Contents

 

 

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.

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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eISBN : 978-1-440-65791-7

 

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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

—RONALD REAGAN, President of the United States of America

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 allowed 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.”

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.”