Payback: Delta Force Unleashed Thrillers, #1

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Table of Contents

The Novel

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Acknowledgments

Sample of Next Book

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Thank You!

About the Author

Also by the Author

For the nearly 500 healthcare workers who have died fighting Ebola.

People are still dying horrible deaths in an outbreak that has already killed thousands. We can't let our guard down and allow this to become double failure, a response that was slow to begin with and is ill-adapted in the end. It is extremely disappointing that states with biological-disaster response capacities have chosen not to utilize them. How is it that the international community has left the response to Ebola—now a transnational threat—to doctors, nurses and charity workers?

Dr. Joanne Liu, Médecins Sans Frontières

January 13th, 2015

PREFACE

Joeblow, Liberia is a town so small it doesn’t even appear on most maps. Yet if you were to Google it today, you would find hundreds of hits, for it is now a town that should never be forgotten.

A town where just recently, the last mother died.

Since the Ebola outbreak began in late 2013, early 2014, every single mother in the small town has died, it tradition that the women of the village take care of the sick, and without the proper knowledge or equipment, these caregivers inevitably contracted the virus themselves, again being cared for by the surviving women.

I wonder who took care of the last mother.

This book deals with difficult topics, with much of the imagery taken from actual accounts, photos and reports of the outbreak. It was difficult at times to write, and I am sure will be difficult at times to read.

But this virus cannot be ignored.

And discussing it must not be avoided simply because it makes us uncomfortable.

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Howard University Hospital, Washington, D.C.

"I’m afraid it’s bad news."

Command Sergeant Major Burt Big Dog Dawson felt his chest tighten at the words. To say he was surprised would be a lie. He had known all along what the answer would be, but until it was confirmed, they had all been in a holding pattern, waiting, wondering, helpless. He could hear the feet shuffling in the room, no one sitting, no one talking, everyone waiting, hoping for the best, fully expecting the worst.

And now that their worst fears were confirmed, it made no difference.

They were still helpless.

Their friend was still dying.

Dawson had known him for years—many years—and had never seen fear on his face until today. And he thought nothing less of him, none of them did. If he were to die today from what had happened, he would die a hero. History would decide whether or not their overall mission had been a success, but history could never question that this man had done the right thing, had put the life of others before his own, despite the fact he had a family, a son.

He tore his eyes away from his friend, a friend who felt a million miles away on the other side of the isolation chamber’s glass walls as he felt the tiny hand in his squeeze harder. He looked down at the little boy whose father lay so close yet so far away.

And the grip on his chest ratcheted another notch tighter as he saw the fear on his Godson’s face. He looked at his friend’s wife, Shirley, a woman he had also known for years, a woman he respected immensely, who had never questioned her husband’s career choice, his constantly being called away at the last minute, the nature of the job not only preventing him from telling her to where, but making it necessary for them both to lie to their family and friends.

For no one could know they were Delta Force. Officially 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, they were America’s elite Special Forces, created in 1977 by Colonel Charles Beckwith as an answer to the growing threat of terrorism around the world. After an ignominious beginning in the deserts of Iran during the Iran Hostage Crisis—known as Operation Eagle Claw—they had served with honor and distinction, successfully carrying out hundreds of missions over the ensuing decades.

Their failures were few.

And despite his friend now lying in a hospital bed, dying, there was no way he was going to let anyone think his friend had failed, even if he himself had. Dawson blamed himself for what had happened. He had been too slow, their enemy far better prepared, far better connected than they had anticipated.

They had been betrayed.

And he should have anticipated it.

He exchanged glances with the rest of the team, all their faces impassive, their concern revealed only by their eyes and their silence. Shirley tried to speak but the words got caught in her throat. She turned to Dawson, her eyes beseeching him to take over.

What’s the word, Doc?

The doctor’s face was grim with a hint of fear, this the man who had taken care of his friend since the moment he had arrived.

And he, along with several others on Bravo Team, had all been exposed.

The testing confirms Mr. Belme has Ebola.

Shirley gasped out a cry and nearly collapsed, two of his men catching her and helping her into a chair. Bryson began to cry, more because his mother was crying rather than an understanding of what was really going on. He hugged Dawson’s leg, hard. Dawson patted him on the head as he battled to control his own emotions.

What’s the prognosis? I’ve heard the fatality rate is up to ninety-percent.

With the massive dose he received, and the method in which it was delivered—I hesitate to guess.

Dawson looked at his friend through the glass. He was asleep and hadn’t heard the verdict. He’d at least have a few more minutes of peace before the horror of his new reality would set in.

And Dawson swore he’d kill the man responsible.

The man responsible for infecting the best friend he had ever had.

Master Sergeant Mike Red Belme.

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Across from the Norfolk Waterside Marriott Convention Center

Norfolk, Virginia

Four days earlier

"Let me take the shot, BD."

Command Sergeant Major Burt Big Dog Dawson shook his head, peering through his binoculars at the scene across the street. He was prone on a rooftop across from the Norfolk Waterside Marriott Convention Center with three of his men and a sniper team from his unit. Sergeant Carl Niner Sung, the best sniper he had ever known, had made the request. A request Dawson so desperately wanted to approve.

Negative. Kill him, the rest of the hostages die.

"But I’d feel so good putting an extra hole in this bastard’s head."

You’ll get your chance before the day’s out.

They had been training at the Unit just a few hours ago when word had come down the pipe that the Secretary of Defense had been taken hostage along with another twenty-two guests at a conference. Security had been tight but light, relying more on the small size of the conference, its rather contained location, and the fact no one knew he was going to be there.

But somebody had known.

And leaked it.

Their best guess was eight hostiles, the security team forced to stand down the moment a waiter serving drinks placed a weapon against the Secretary’s head.

It was a no win situation. If the detail of eight were made up of his own men, he would have taken the shot knowing full well that his team would eliminate anyone else that popped up.

But that was what they trained for, day in and day out, and on far too many occasions actually put into practice. They were all Delta Force operators, part of Bravo Team, led by him, though command structure in Delta was quite loose. They were all Non-Commissioned Officers, NCO’s, sergeants, the grunts of the trade. Officers might run the wars, but a soldier in the trench didn’t run to his Lieutenant for advice when his ass was under fire, he ran to his sergeant. Sergeants were the true leaders of men on the battlefield, experienced, well trained, and used to the trenches where the men they led suffered, not the command tents the officers usually found themselves in.

His men were Delta Force, the most highly trained group of soldiers in the world, and the only military unit in the entire US Armed Forces that could legally operate on American soil, the President having the sole authority to suspend Posse Comitatus if he saw fit.

Which was why they were legally present here today beyond just an advisory capacity. Local SWAT had been pulled back, and were none too pleased at first, but Dawson had assuaged their commander’s ruffled feathers fairly easily.

If this turns into a Charlie-Foxtrot and the Secretary of Defense gets killed, do you want us to take the blame, or you?

The man hadn’t replied, but Dawson could tell he was processing the words.

If we screw up, we take the blame. If we succeed, we were never here, you take the credit. Either way, it’s win-win for you.

The man pursed his lips then sighed. You’re Delta, aren’t you?

Dawson shook his head with a slight smile. Never heard of them. Some kind of airline or something?

The man had laughed, the ice broken. "I’m a former Ranger. So are some of my men. If Delta—or whoever—wants to take over, we’d be honored to back them up."

With the majority of the Delta Force being made up of former US Army Rangers, support had been quickly garnered and local SWAT was now securing the perimeter, keeping the cameras out of sight. With today’s 24/7 live news coverage, one of the last things they needed were the terrorists inside watching a live feed of his assault on their building.

Which was why Control back at Fort Bragg was monitoring every news feed whether over the air, satellite, cable or Internet, for any possible leaks. Cutting cable and power meant nothing nowadays. With cellphones and satphones there was pretty much no way you could guarantee your hostiles’ communications had been terminated.

So the press was kept back.

The shot rang out, a crack that echoed between the buildings, and yet another hostage crumpled to the ground, the terrorist saying nothing, merely turning on his heel and walking back inside, his back to the police, a final insult to law and order in this great country, knowing they wouldn’t dare touch him.

Zero-One, Zero-Two. We’re in position, ready to breach, over.

It’s about damned time.

He didn’t blame his second-in-command, Master Sergeant Mike Red Belme. Maps of the sewage system had been late to arrive, but as soon as they had, it had only taken fifteen minutes for Red’s team to get into position. Red was his best friend. Dawson had been best man at his wedding and was Godfather to Red’s young son, Bryson. He trusted Red with his life, as he did every single man on his team. They had been through hell and back over the years, and he’d die for any one of them.

But let’s try to avoid that today.

Acknowledged. Control, Zero-One. We’re ready to execute. Advise of any flags on the play, over.

Zero-One, Control, you’re cleared for entry, over.

Roger that, Control. Bravo Team, Zero-One. Eliminating rooftop targets in three, two, one, execute!

Two muffled but still loud shots could be heard, Niner’s M24A2 Sniper Weapon System firing a shot at incredible velocity across the street to the target rooftop. Before the report even registered the target was down, a moment later the second target dropped, taken out by another sniper team on the opposite side of the building.

Control, Zero-One. Any sign of activity, over?

Negative, Zero-One, you’re still clear, over.

Two down, six to go. Or more.

He rose, the sun low in the horizon behind them, at just the perfect angle to blind anyone who might be looking out the window of their target building. But according to Control they were clear. Sergeant’s Will Spock Lightman, Trip Mickey McDonald and Eugene Jagger Thomas stepped up beside him. Ready? he asked, already knowing the answer. These guys were the definition of born ready.

Spock cocked an eyebrow. Aren’t we always?

Then let’s do it.

He raised his grappling gun, took aim at the roof below them and fired, the hook sailing through the air dragging a coil of rope sitting at his feet. Three more fired beside him, the lines arcing gracefully and silently through the air, embedding with a thud into the concrete below, small puffs of pulverized concrete dust indicating the impact points.

They quickly tightened off all four lines and Dawson hooked his harness to the rope and stepped to the edge, the others doing the same. Bravo Team, Zero-One, proceeding to target rooftop, over.

He stepped off, leaning back in the harness and slid down the steep incline. This was always the exciting moment for him, his heart skipping a few beats as he eyeballed the hook at the other end, wondering if it would pull out. If it came loose before he was too far, he could brake then swing backward, hard into the building he had just come from, and depending upon physics, he would probably survive with a few broken bones, perhaps just some bruises.

But once past the point where the rope was longer than the drop to the ground, he was hitting pavement no matter what he did.

And those broken bones might never mend properly.

Which would mean he’d be out of the Unit.

I’d rather be dead.

He wasn’t sure if he actually meant it. There were enough men in Delta that had been injured seriously enough to never be able to return to duty, at least not Operator status. Some were able to go back into combat in the regular forces or command a desk, but Delta needed all of its personnel at 100%.

99% didn’t cut it.

He passed the point of no return, not that there was any possibility of return, gaining speed as he did so. He had his hand ready to pull his Glock 22 from its holster on his hip just in case he had to cut loose and shoot out a window in the hopes of sailing through it rather than being yanked back and onto the pavement.

He cleared the edge of the roof, a slight sigh of relief escaping as he braked, rapidly killing his speed as his feet hit the roof, running to a stop. He unhooked himself and quickly checked the two bodies confirming the kills as the others regained their footing.

Bravo Team, Zero-One. We’re on the rooftop. Zero-Two, execute breach, over.

Zero-One, Zero-Two. Proceeding with breach, over.

Dawson motioned for Spock and Jagger to secure the door leading to the stairwell when a cellphone began to ring. Dawson spun toward the hostile Niner had taken out and saw a cellphone flashing in the man’s hand.

Control, Zero-One. One of the hostiles has a cellphone ringing up here. We’re about to be made, over.

This is Control Actual, came Colonel Thomas Clancy’s voice over the comm. Proceed at your discretion, over.

Roger that, Control Actual, proceeding, over.

Now let’s just hope they assume we’re jamming their signal.

"What a wonderful stink we’ve discovered."

Master Sergeant Mike Red Belme smiled at Sergeant Leon Atlas James as he tried breathing through his mouth, which while masking some of the smell threatened to overwhelm him with the taste. He wasn’t sure which was worst.

He swallowed.

Taste.

He switched back to his nose.

Not much longer, he said. According to the map we’ve got a hundred feet to go then we’re directly under the parking structure.

In the loosely organized Bravo Team, he was considered second-in-command merely based on seniority, and the fact someone had to be. All of the men were essentially equals with their own area of highly specialized expertise. Their unit was top secret, their missions highly classified, and with them usually being undercover quite often, they were allowed to sport civilian haircuts and beards, privileges reserved for the Special Forces community.

Which was why he kept his hair completely shaved, his scalp kept clean with the blade of his prized Bowie knife. The guys always laughed at him when he would break it out in the field to take off a little stubble, but it was the sharpest blade he had, and its length meant fewer strokes.

It was just more practical than a shaving kit.

And cooler.

His son Bryson loved watching him perform the ritual, it necessary because his namesake red hair was far too noticeable and far too out of place in most of the locales he found himself in.

Shaved heads however were far more common, and often went unnoticed with a traditional keffiyeh covering his scalp.

There it is, said Atlas, the ridiculously muscled man’s deep voice echoing through the sewers they were now in. Red looked up and saw the access hatch above, highlighted by Atlas’ flashlight.

Red motioned and Sergeant Zack Wings Hauser rushed forward and unfolded a ladder, Sergeant Danny Casey Martin jumping up the steps, lighting a Broco cutting torch as he did so.

Zero-One, Zero-Two. We’re in position, ready to breach, over.

Dawson’s voice acknowledged and the all-clear was given by Control. Moments later the order they were waiting for came through.

Bravo Team, Zero-One. We’re on the rooftop. Zero-Two, execute, over.

He smiled, motioning for Casey to proceed. Zero-One, Zero-Two. Proceeding with breach, over.

Within moments Casey was cutting through the metal cover that would give them access to the conference center’s parking structure. As they waited updates came in over the comms and by the time Casey was through, Dawson and his team were safely on the roof, the two lookouts eliminated.

I’m through. Casey tossed the torch down to Wings then punched up with the heel of his hand, the metal hatch lifting up then hitting something. Shit! hissed Casey as he pushed the hatch, it again hitting something. He shoved his head up and peered through the several inches of opening. There’s a goddamned car parked here!

What? Red stepped forward, looking up at the hatch then the map on his tablet computer. This isn’t a parking spot!

Well, somebody’s parked here.

Cut the hatch off, see if we can squeeze under, said Red as he activated his comm. Zero-One, Zero-Two. We’ve got a problem here. There’s a car parked over the hatch. Give us a moment to see if we can still make entry, over.

Roger that Zero-Two. We’re entering the stairwell now, over.

The torch was relit and Casey made quick work of the hinges, now exposed with the hatch open a few inches. Within a minute he was handing the torch then the hatch down. He stepped up.

No way we’re fitting under this, he said. But it’s on a bit of an incline. If I can cut the brake cables it might roll out of the way.

Do it.

Casey pulled a set of cutters and went to work, the snap of lines being cut indicating excruciating progress, this a delay he hadn’t counted on.

It would just mean a little more hustle on their part assuming Casey succeeded.

Shit.

What?

Transmission’s engaged. I’ll need to cut through the driveshaft. Hand me the torch. He reached down then stopped. Wait a minute. Hammer.

Atlas handed it to him. Tapping then the sound of something metal hitting the concrete was followed by a laugh. Thar she goes! said Casey as he stepped down. The driveshaft was almost rusted through. That thing’s a deathtrap.

Red looked up and smiled as the undercarriage slowly began to move, gaining speed, emergency lighting suddenly revealed as the way cleared.

Go! Go! Go! he hissed, motioning for the others to climb the ladder as Casey pushed himself through the opening. Zero-One, Zero-Two, we’re through, over.

Copy that, report when in position, over.

Red stepped up the ladder and raised his hands, Mickey and Wings hauling him up. There was a smashing sound, not too loud, to his left. He looked to see the car, a Jaguar XK-8 convertible, pressed against the far wall at the bottom of the incline, the front end a little crunched, but nothing too severe. He looked around. What the hell was that doing parked in the middle of the lane?

Casey shrugged. It’s a Jag. Probably broke down right here.

Where’s the owner? asked Wings as they headed for the stairwell, sweeping the entire area for hostiles.

They reached the door, Atlas checking the window. Looks clear.

Red activated the comm, about to notify Dawson when a noise behind them had them all spinning. He raised his MP5 submachine gun as something in the shadows rushed toward them.

"Halt and identify yourself or we will kill you."

Shoes skidded on dirty concrete, the sound suggesting the smooth soles of dress shoes. Wings activated the tactical light on his weapon, aiming it at the new arrival.

A business suit filled with a terrified civilian was revealed.

Hands up!

Hands, trembling, shot up.

Identify yourself.

Brimah Macaulay.

Unusual name. What are you doing here?

Hiding in my car. I heard gunfire just after I parked and have been down here ever since.

Red kept his weapon trained on the man, his skin a dark black just like all of the hostiles. He just couldn’t take the chance. He was about to have Atlas frisk the man when a shot rang out and Wings dropped. Red spun toward where he thought the shot came from as he dropped to a knee, the hard surfaces of the parking garage creating an echo chamber. Mickey fired, three rounds, toward the left. Red adjusted his aim, spotting the shooter coming down the ramp doubled over, at least one of Mickey’s rounds having found its target. Red squeezed the trigger, taking the man down as Atlas rushed toward the new arrival, weapon raised.

Something moved to their right. Red hit the ground, rolling once as he took aim at their civilian. Macaulay was reaching behind his back for something and just as Red got a bead on the man the grip of a Beretta was revealed.

He fired twice, both shots hitting the man in the center of his chest, his eyes bursting wide in shock as the wounds quickly stained his shirt. Red scanned the rest of the garage for other targets but found none.

Wings moaned.

Red didn’t look, instead continuing to cover their position as he activated the comm. Zero-One, Zero-Two. Shots fired, I repeat, shots fired. Two hostiles down, One-Two has taken a hit, standby, over. He watched Atlas give the thumbs up as he disarmed the corpse. You okay?

Wings moaned again. Yeah, took one in the vest. Red stole a quick glance and saw Wings push himself to his knees as he examined his body armor, wiggling the round free. He stuffed it in his pocket. That one had my name on it.

You good?

Yeah. He stood, sucking in a deep breath as he stretched out his chest. Ribs are tender, not broken.

Good. Sort yourself out. He pointed to Macaulay. Get the body out of sight, check for intel.

Casey quickly patted the man down, shaking his head. Nada. Just a couple of mags and a cellphone.

Okay, take the cellphone and the weapon.

Mickey nodded, shoving the weapon in a loop on his utility belt then dragged the body in behind a parked car, a bloody streak revealing the hiding spot should anyone really be looking. Atlas tossed his own man into the back of a pickup truck as if it were a sack of potatoes.

I’d love to see him arm wrestle Stallone.

One of Red’s favorite movies when he was a kid was Over the Top. He didn’t know why, it wasn’t that great a movie. But something about arm wrestling just appealed to him and he had exercised his right arm like a madman, challenging everyone he could, even mimicking the turn of the ball cap, a switch that transformed him from ordinary, skinny teenager, to full blown, musclebound action hero.

He rarely won.

It wasn’t until his late teens that he had his growth spurt, put on six inches in height and forty pounds of body weight and decided the Army was the life for him.

He had thought he was strong until he met Atlas.

The man redefined the word.

Atlas jogged back to their position, smacking Wings on the chest with the back of his hand. Wings winced, knocked back a step. You good?

Wings