Fayette-Nam--as they called Fayetteville, North Carolina, in the 1960s--
hosts the largest army base in the world: Fort Bragg, home of the XVIII
Airborne Corps. Breaking the monotony of the harsh red Carolina clay
around it, the town sports a variety of go-go bars, honkytonks, and
tattoo parlors to refresh and spiritually solace the base's hundred
thousand personnel. Known far and wide as a "macho post," Fort Bragg
houses front-line units ready to mobilize on a moment's notice. During
the Persian Gulf crisis, they were among the first to ship.
The post deserves its macho reputation for a number of reasons, not the
least being a highly classified square-mile compound, referred to
locally as the Ranch, that nestles in a remote and secure corner of its
sprawling 135,000 acres. There, protected by a twelve-foot-high fence,
with armed guards and video cameras along the perimeter, is the nerve
center for Delta Force, America's primary answer to terrorism. Now part
of the Joint Special Operations Command--informally known as "jay-soc"--
Delta Force is the pick of the U.S. Special Forces, a unit of some
seventy men specifically organized, equipped, and trained to take down
terrorist situations. Of course, Delta Force formally does not exist--
"The only Delta we know about is the airline," goes the official quip.
Although they rarely have an opportunity to display their capability,
Delta personnel practice free-fall parachute jumps from thirty thousand
feet, assault tactics on aircraft using live ammo and "hostages," high-
tech demolitions, scuba insertions, free-climbing techniques on
buildings and rock faces-- all the skills needed to take terrorists by
surprise, neutralize them, and rescue hostages. The leadership of this
nonexistent organization occupies a large windowless concrete building
topped by a fifty-foot communications bubble--which recently replaced
Delta's former shabby quarters in the old Fort Bragg stockade.
Since the late 1980s, Delta Force has been led by Major General Eric
Nichols, a fifty-three-year-old Special Forces veteran of Vietnam who
holds an advanced degree in nuclear engineering. He is short--barely
five feet ten--with darting gray eyes and an old scar down his left
cheek. He also moves with the deftness of a large cat. Like his hand-
picked men, he is highly intelligent, physically honed to perfection,
and possessed of a powerful survival instinct. His only weakness is a
taste for Cuban cigars, which he satisfies with Montecristos smuggled
to him by resistance forces on the island--acquaintances whose identity
no conceivable amount of torture could extract.
When Nichols breached the open doorway of the new officers' lounge,
those in attendance were deep in a cosmic game of five-card stud, with
two--Lieutenant Manny Jackson and Captain Philip Sexton--particularly
engrossed, hoping desperately that the hand they now had in play would
somehow miraculously recoup their staggering losses for the evening. He
paused a moment, involuntarily, and surveyed the men, feeling a surge
of pride, as always, in the way they carried themselves. A bearing that
in others might have seemed arrogance on them only affirmed their
competent self-assurance.
And why not? Usually fewer than half a dozen volunteers finished out of
a class of fifty: a lightweight like Chuck Norris wouldn't stand a
chance. Mostly in their early thirties, with the powerful shoulders of
bodybuilders, the "shooters" of Delta Force did not resemble run-of-
the-mill service types. For one thing, since they had to be ready for a
clandestine op at a moment's notice, they deliberately looked as
unmilitary as possible, right down to their shaggy civilian haircuts.
Although they wore olive-drab one-piece jumpsuits during daily
training, here--informally "off the Ranch"--it was sports shirts,
tattered jeans, and sneakers.
Naturally he noticed the poker game--bending the regs was, after all,
Delta Force's modus operandi--and he just as routinely suppressed a
smile. He simply wouldn't "see" it.
But with the monetary stakes he counted on the table, he realized that
his news could not have come at a worse time. On the other hand,
legitimate ops were few and far between, and they were always eager for
action. Some real excitement, at last. He knew every man in the vinyl-
trimmed gray room would feel a rush of adrenaline.
He took a deep breath and broke up the party.
"Heads up, you screw-offs." It was his everyday formal greeting. "Bad
news and good news. Report to the briefing room at 2130 hours, with all
personal gear. Be ready to ship."
There was a scramble to salute, followed by a frenzied bustle to
collect the money still lying on the table. In seconds everybody was
reaching for his jacket. They had only fifteen minutes, but they were
always packed.
The briefing room was a windowless space next to the Ranch's new
headquarters building. It contained a long metal table in the center,
blackboards and maps around the walls, and the far end was chockablock
with video screens and electronic gear. As the unit members filed in,
they noticed that maps of the eastern Mediterranean now plastered the
left-hand wall. Next to these they saw blowups of KH-12 photos of a
small island, identified only by latitude and longitude coordinates.
"All right, listen up," Nichols began, almost the instant they had
settled. He had just fired up a brand-new Cuban Montecristo and was
still trying to get it stoked to his satisfaction. "I've picked twenty-
three men. I'll read off the list, and if you don't hear your name,
you're dismissed."
He read the list, watched much of the room clear, and then continued.
"Okay, you're God's chosen. I picked the guys I happen to think are
best suited to the way I see the op shaping up. To begin with, we're
going to be airborne by 2300 hours, which a check of your watches will
inform you is less than an hour away. Which means no bullshit between
now and when we ship out. We'll be flying Bess--everybody's favorite C-
130-- with two in-flight refuelings. Destination officially classified,
but if you guessed Souda Bay I'd have to say 'no comment.' Wherever it
is we're going, we're scheduled in at 1630 hours local tomorrow. For
now I want to go over the general outlines of the op. There'll be a
detailed briefing after we land. In the meantime, I've put together a
packet of maps and materials for everybody to study on the plane. I
suggest you hone your reading skills. Now, here's what I'm authorized
to tell you."
They listened intently and without interruption as he proceeded to give
a rundown. They would be making a scuba insertion onto a Greek island--
operational maps with the general geography were in the packet--where an
unknown number of hostiles had seized an American industrial facility
and were holding hostages. He then provided a rough description of the
SatCom facility using satellite maps. They would rehearse the insertion
at an appropriate location in the vicinity and then chopper to a
carrier some twenty klicks south of the island, where they would
undergo their final prep.
It was a thorough, if circumspect, briefing--which was what they
expected. Since its inception, Delta had always operated on a top-
security basis. Information always came as late into an operation as
possible, on the theory that it was a two-edged sword and lives were at
stake. Frequently the command did not divulge the real background and
strategic purpose of an op until after its conclusion, thereby avoiding
sending in men with extractable information.
Questions? Right away they all had plenty. What was the layout of the
facility on the island? How many hostiles were there? How were they
equipped? What was the disposition of the hostages? How many? Was their
objective merely to extract the friendlies, or were they also ordered
to "neutralize" all the hostiles?
Answer: You'll get a further briefing at the appropriate time.
The biggest question of all, however, was why the urgency? Why was
Delta being called in to take down a situation that had no military
dimensions. Where were the civilian SWAT teams? If this was merely an
industrial matter, why wasn't somebody negotiating?
They knew "Bess" was already being loaded with the gear the brass would
think they would need. In addition, however, each man had certain
nonissue items, something to take along as a talisman for luck--a backup
handgun strapped onto the ankle, an extra knife. Carrying such
paraphernalia was against the regs, of course, but Major General
Nichols always took such niceties in stride. If the job got done, he
had selective blind spots as far as such things were concerned.
Nichols actually knew a lot more than he had told his men. He had
already planned the op in his head. For the insertion, backup would be
provided by two Apaches that would be armed and ready to carry out a
rocket attack on the facility radars and the two launch vehicles. Once
they had secured the hostages, they were going to treat the terrorists
to a goddamn big surprise. There would be no place to hide. If he had
to, he was prepared to blow the place to hell. Let the insurance
companies worry about it.