The Enemy Within

“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 god damned 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 even 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.