The Enemy Within

“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-cheated 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 Trigging 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 organisations collaborated on counter terror 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 jagging 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.”

Headquarters, Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina.

Officers, senior NCOs, their wives and sweethearts crowded the dimly lit, airconditioned 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.