Detachment Delta (10 page)

More participants were introduced and all aspects of the operation were covered by various experts.

At the end of day, Pops said to the Delta operators, “Can I buy you all a beer at the Green Beret Club?”

All agreed and met less than a half hour later on Smoke Bomb Hill, driving up over the curb and parking under pine trees across the street, as the place was always so packed. They went inside, ordered drinks, and got out of the main room, filled with civilian-garbed Special Forces retirees, as well as those still on active duty and wearing duty uniforms. The small group went out onto the adjacent enclosed porch and got a table in the corner, avoiding some of the loud chatter from within. On seeing the ages of the group and their manner of dress, long hair, and facial hair, everyone else there figured these were Delta Force operators. Several in the room knew they were, as some had served with each person. They ignored the Delta group, knowing they would want to be left alone. After two or three beers Weasel would always start to become philosophical, much to everyone's delight. He grew up not far from Billings, Montana, the son of a third-generation cattle rancher. He loved the American Indian growing up and read many books on the subject. Whenever he had a little too much to drink, he would always try to impress Charlie with what he considered Native American folklore and philosophy.

His opportunity came when Booty said, “I could not believe what a jerk that retired general was. What was his name, Rozanski?”

Weasel took a long sip of beer and grinned, saying, “Yes, but you never let that interfere with accomplishing the mission. Since Poke and Custer both are here, I want to tell you a little story.

“There once was a young man who was a member of the Cheyenne nation. His father was a great leader in his tribe and was the leader of his family's band, a leader in both war and in peace. When the buffalo disappeared, he was the man all turned to for words of wisdom, for he understood the buffalo and the seasons, even grazing patterns.

“Walking among the lodges, he would feel all eyes on him waiting, hoping for some word of comfort to let them know the buffalo would come, and with them would come the hides needed for the approaching winter months, and the food for their bellies, the tools made of bones, and the fun sitting around a fire at night wiping greasy fingers onto the arms and legs to comfort the skin treated so harshly at times by Father Sun.”

Here he paused to take a long drink from his beer and begin the next glass provided by Pops.

Weasel went on, looking out as if he were Chief Gall surveying a field of battle on the grassy plains of Montana, “Sensing the fear and apprehension, Fights the Bear would stop within the tribal circle and many would gather round. He would pause and survey the crowd, so his words would have greater effect when he spoke.

“Finally, he would say, ‘Hear me, my people, for my words have iron. Mother Earth is feeding her children, the bison, in the valley of the Greasy Grass, then they will move this way and will soon feed in our valley, maybe seven suns (days), maybe ten. The bear lives in my belly, too, but we have many rabbits here to eat, and berries, and fish in the river, and soon
tatanka
(buffalo or bison) will come here and our bellies will be full, our dogs will have bones, our lodges will be warm. Do not fear.'

“People would go about their way, feeling relieved and better and hopeful for the future, and his little son, Red Moccasins, would stare up at his dad with wonder and admiration, but without a cursory glance at his little boy, Fights the Bear would walk on to the games lodge for a game of chance with his friends. His oldest son, the apple of his eye, Angry Horse, had tried to count coup in the season when the snows melt, and he fought the mighty bear, but a grizzly weighing over one half a ton broke his neck and killed the young man. Privately, Fights the Bear wept.

“When Red Moccasin's older brother died, it seemed to him like his father, the father of the youngest son, had died, too. He no longer looked at the little boy. He did not teach him how to hunt or fish or trap. But Red Moccasins was a young man of great wisdom who would also someday alleviate the fears of his tribe. He knew that his father, although he acted like he did not know him, actually loved him so much he feared he might lose another son if he loved too much. Red Mocassins knew that Fights the Bear was like all others and was also afraid. He was afraid of loss. Red Moccasins tried to speak to his father about this, but the old man would not listen. His heart was cold. So Red Moccasins decided to love his father for what he was, and grow up to be a better man, and he grew to be a mighty and wise chief and a great warrior and a leader among the dog soldiers and the strong-hearts.”

Charlie grabbed a napkin and pretended to be crying and wiping away tears.

He said, “Kind of brings tears to your eyes, doesn't it?”

The group started laughing and Weasel just stared at him, finally saying, “Stick it up your red ass, Poke.”

He took a swallow of beer, and Custer said, “Now, there is some wise philosophy.”

Everybody laughed even harder.

This evening was now turning into a going away party, maybe a farewell party, as everybody drank more rounds.

Getting serious, but winking at Booty, Pops, and Custer, Charlie said, “Weasel, that was a great story. I have one for you now to tell your grandchildren.”

Weasel looked up from his beer and said, “Huh?”

Charlie said, “There was a magnificent, mature bald eagle, sinewy and graceful in flight, a gentle quiet bundle of muscled power at rest. There was wisdom in those sharp eyes that could see a rabbit stirring miles away on the prairie. Young eaglets came to him to learn how to become an eagle, but most were not willing to listen to all, and one by one they would perish.

“The life of an eagle is harsh and tough, and only the strongest survive. Some would listen and learn and live longer, but very few would do all that he would suggest. Very few got to the point where their head feathers and tail feathers were pure white like his. Many would perish while still covered with down, and some even armored with a coat of brown feathers. A few, a very few, would make it long enough to grow some brown and white feathers. He hurt for those who did not make it, but knew that was the way of nature, and of life itself.

“One day, he was teaching one of his young protégés, a handsome young bird named Egbert. This was a bird who had actually become garbed in the fine plumage of brown and white speckled feathers, but had not earned that pure white crown.”

While Weasel sat transfixed by the story, his eyes a little glazed, Charlie quickly turned his head and grinned at Booty, whispering, “Egbert?”

He continued, “Out over the prairie, the elder eagle spotted a wicked storm brewing and headed their way. He knew, from his own survival and lessons learned at the side of his father, what a real eagle has to do to survive such a plight.

“He looked at Egbert and said, ‘If you want to become an eagle that this country uses for its national symbol, a bird of great wisdom and power, if you truly want to soar, you must follow me when this storm arrives and do whatever I tell you.'

“The winds of the storm were increasing, and lightning flashes crashed into objects far out on the prairie, now getting drenched like a giant sponge. The front of the storm was approaching like a giant tidal wave, and Egbert trembled in fear. He spotted a small overhang on the cliff face and thought it might produce shelter from the storm. He would get drenched but maybe he would survive.

“In a panic, Egbert bolted for the overhang and the old eagle screamed, ‘Egbert, that will not work! Follow me!'

“The storm was almost upon them and the thunder made frightening sounds. Shivering, Egbert huddled under the overhang and watched in more fear as the mighty eagle flew directly into the path of the storm and entered the black clouds, leaving Egbert to get drenched and shiver in fear and panic, but scared enough to decide not to move. He would show that old eagle.

“There was a loud crash and a blinding light as the lightning bolt tore through Egbert's body, which was now tossed off the cliff by the powerful winds, to simply become just one more piece of muddy ruins on the canyon floor below. He was not dead though. He was in frightful pain, but before he crashed onto the rocks at the cliff base, he remembered how many times the wise old eagle had helped him learn and grow before. With his last strength, he started flapping his wings harder than ever before. Still scared, he looked up at the black skies all around him, but he closed his beak tightly, determined to survive. He would think of everything that old eagle ever taught him. Right before he hit the ground, a big swirl of wind caught under his wings and lifted him up. Worn out and still frightened, he smiled and said, ‘Oh.'

“In the meantime, the wise old eagle sought out the most powerful winds in the storm and used their fury to lift him up higher and higher, until he emerged into the sunlight thousands of feet up, high above the killer storm below. He felt very badly for Egbert, but knew the best way to keep teaching eaglets how to be mighty eagles was to first always be one himself. Even stronger than before from the struggle, the wise old eagle soared above the storm, watching the ferocious winds below as he dried out in the sunlight and swirled in the warm blue skies, his majestic wings reaching out and brushing the cheek of God. He heard a noise and saw Egbert approaching.

“Flying by his old mentor, Egbert smiled, saying, ‘I'm sorry I did not trust you.'

“The old eagle grinned. ‘That is how we get scars. When they heal, you will be even stronger.'

“On the horizon, they spotted a sun-drenched snow-capped range and decided to soar over and admire its beauty. That, Weasel, is the end of the story.”

Everybody looked at Weasel and grinned as he, seemingly oblivious to them, wiped away a tear from his eye and said, “I love you, Poke.”

Everybody laughed and Pops said, “I think we had last call already. Come on, Top, I'm driving you home.”

Weasel looked up slowly and said, “That was a wonderful story, Boss. Did you hear it?”

Pops laughed and said, “Sure did, Top. Let's saddle up.”

“Yes, sir.”

CHARLIE
opened his eyes and looked out the window at the very first rays of morning sun piercing through the glass above his head. He closed his eyes, half awake and half asleep, remembering back to an incident in training that really put Charlie's name and face in everybody's mind for some time.

Charlie had, like many men in Special Forces, a varied background in the martial arts, starting in childhood. He held black belt ranking in freestyle karate, had studied Brazilian jujitsu long enough to earn a brown belt, and had trained for two years in Muay Thai kickboxing. He had also been a star middle linebacker in high school, making all conference his junior year and all state his senior year.

At the time, he was a sergeant first class with the 3rd Special Forces Group at Fort Bragg and had just returned from Afghanistan. He was volunteered for an assignment to the JFK Special Warfare Center, where he was to help out as an “aggressor” for Special Forces trainees going through Small Unit Tactics and Training exercises.

An Operational Detachment-A consisting of twelve trainees was to search a group of buildings that were set up for this exercise. The buildings contained hidden aggressors armed with industrial-strength red-paint guns. The trainees also had paint guns and were to breach doors, enter buildings, and kill, or preferably capture, aggressors hiding therein. To that end, the team commander, a young captain, carried a couple pairs of flex cuffs to restrain captives with.

The customary breach was to set up an explosive and blow the door to the room. Any aggressors within would hide in the next room while the door was blown, and then jump into the room and try to shoot the Americans as they entered.

The job of each trainee or each aggressor who got shot was to drop in place and die in a rapid and grotesque manner. The Tacs (Special Forces-qualified training sergeants), who are like drill sergeants on steroids, were assembled and watching the trainees go through this exercise.

The plan was for four men to blow the door, and then breach the room and search for any aggressors, killing or taking them prisoner. The men approached the door, while the rest of the team covered the outside watching for potential escapees. The assault team used a small C4 charge to breach the door, as they hid behind a Kevlar shield.

Instead of hiding in the next room, Charlie stood in the middle of the room and braced himself for the explosive impact. He knew that the first trainee would come into the room and move to his right, his eyes sweeping the whole right side; the second would move in and go to the left, his eyes sweeping the left; the third would come in with his eyes sweeping the center of the room; and the fourth would stay back close to the door, covering all.

The door blew and Charlie shook it off, aiming at where he thought the center mass on the first trainee would be coming through the door. Sure enough the first trainee appeared in the doorway and Charlie watched the fake blood splatter all over the center of the man's Kevlar. Shocked, he looked down and then fell, feigning death right in the doorway to the room. The second man was right on his heels and had to jump over him, getting blasted by two red paintballs in the center of his chest before his feet hit the floor. When they did, he fell backward on top of the first faux dead trainee. The third man jumped over his dead partners and Charlie had him center-mass coming over the pile. He squeezed and
Click! Click!
He looked down and saw his rifle was jammed. Charlie's eyes went up and everything went into slow motion. He saw a grin start on the face of the third trainee, and his eyes open slightly, while also seeing his trigger finger tighten, and Charlie drop-stepped with his left foot spinning sideways. The man's paintball splattered on the wall behind Charlie, and he immediately drop-stepped with his right foot and drew his chest back, as a second paintball also slammed into the wall. The trainee knew he had to take more careful aim. Charlie threw his weapon up in the air for a distraction and took two long fast steps and hit the trainee with a diving tackle, his shoulder catching the young man in the center of his midsection, as Charlie heard the wind leaving him in a rush. They flew backward out into the dirt in front of the building, and the trainee, now under Charlie, scrambled to get free and struggled to breathe right, getting panicky.