“Ah, Clements, those boys did good,” Jefferson said.
“Yeah, maybe,” Clements said. It was the best he could do. He was the one who held the most pride for his team, his unit — it was his personal gang, his family, and he cared for nothing more. Clements’ loyalties didn’t go far outside Delta.
“They did just fine,” Thompson agreed. “And hey, that old man, the Colonel… he’s kinda a badass.”
“Sure is,” Jefferson agreed.
Even Clements nodded at this.
“How many he get, Dale?” Thompson asked, turning back to Comstock, who strode behind.
“Four confirmed. Longest was four hundred and thirty meters. Damn good shot,” Dale said, stepping down from the helicopter, also unloading his gear, checking once more his weapon was clear.
“Damn,” Thompson whispered. “Four hundred meters is far. One shot, too. Didn’t have to walk his target either. I think he’ll fit in, boys. I like him. Might be a Marine, but the guy hasn’t given us any shit. Let us do what we needed to, stepped up and got a few himself.”
“He’ll be helpful,” Clements remarked.
Jefferson laughed, looking at the man. “Thought you only liked Delta,” he joked.
“Ah, Marines are all right. Especially famous ones. It’s the Navy boys I can’t stand,” Clements remarked.
“Yeah, no kidding,” Jefferson said. “Colonel Reynolds will be helpful on this mission, whatever it is.”
“Think we’re really going out, Jefferson? Think we’re here to do something big?” Thompson asked.
“Sure as shit are. Don’t know what, but I feel it. What you think, Dale? We doing this or what?” Jefferson asked.
“Yeah, we’re going out,” Dale said, his voice soft. “Don’t know exactly what, but have a feeling it’s an important one. Now let’s get moving. We have a briefing in less than an hour.”
An hour passed. The night grew later, the base quieter, less activity. Guards watched the perimeter, floodlights cast few shadows, most had already hit the barracks for a nights’ sleep. A few came and went, but for the most part, the base was empty.
The six Delta members hurried to get ready. They cleaned their firearms first. Always did. Then, they showered and dressed. They were told casual, and considering the way most of them usually dressed, they took a liberal approach to the matter.
Thompson had on ripped jeans, a Metallica t-shirt, sandals. He had half-heartedly combed his hair back, though it was still full of grease.
They all looked as such, all but Dale Comstock.
Dale looked more ‘soldierly’, if there was such a thing. He was clean shaven, save for the long, black handle-bar mustache, which he kept perfectly trimmed. His head was bald, also freshly shaved. He wore a button-up short sleeve shirt, khaki pants, and boots.
The group walked on, exiting Delta quarters and entering another side of the base. A fence had been constructed, one that secured an even larger area on the base for their use. Two more hangers and a few buildings were within its confines. They headed toward one of the buildings, the headquarters for this mission, where’d they’d meet Colonel Reynolds, and finally this Elizabeth.
They strode on and on, enjoying the warm night air, chuckling and reminiscing about the day’s activity, the gunfight; they joked and laughed and felt confident. Whatever misgivings they held about the Marine were long gone. He truly felt part of the team, which was rare, but they accepted him, enjoying the man’s company, curious to learn why they were here in the first place.
The team was refreshed, in good spirits, on an adrenaline high.
“Take a look at that,” Thompson said, thumping Clements on the shoulder, grinning and pointing.
“What?”
“That dude over there. Carrying the rifle.”
“Sure as fuck can’t be some regular Joe, or they’d have his ass,” Clements said.
“Ha! He looks like one of us. Think he’s Delta?” Thompson asked.
Clements stared hard, saying, “Never seen him before.” Turning to Jefferson, he asked, “You know him?”
“Nah, man.”
“Well, he must be,” Thompson said, taking a good look. “That an AK he’s carrying?”
“Looks it,” Clements replied.
“Not sure why he’d want an AK, but whatever. Must be Delta if he’s in this part of the base,” Thompson said.
“Or CIA or some shit,” Jefferson said.
“Nah, most the CIA scrubs wear suits. That dude is in shorts,” Thompson replied.
“He’s not Delta,” Dale commented, “and not everyone with the CIA wears a suit.”
“Oh, I forgot… we’re CIA now,” Thompson said with a chuckle. “Go figure.”
“Damn right,” Dale said, nodding.
“Then what’s he doing here, Dale?” Thompson asked, pointing to the man.
“He’s Spec Ops all right, but not Delta,” Dale replied, not really answering the question.
“There’s only one other special operations group and…” Thompson started.
“What the fuck!” Clements exclaimed, stopping. Marcus and Hernandez walked close behind, and nearly crashed into the man.
“What’s wrong?” Thompson asked.
“Don’t tell me he’s a SEAL,” Clements said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Dale said, pushing Clements to hurry along. “Let’s get going, boys, we’re running late. Heard that Elizabeth gal isn’t one to piss off, either.”
“You scared of a woman?” Thompson asked Comstock, smirking.
“This one, a bit, yeah,” Dale replied. “Let’s go.” He continued walking, Jefferson, Marcus and Hernandez following.
But Clements held still, Thompson urging him forward. “Let’s go, bro.”
“Seriously, he better not be a SEAL,” Clements said, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a can of dip. He pulled a pinch, a large one, stuffing it into his lip while watching the man across the way. He then offered the can to Thompson, who reached in and grabbed some too.
“Remind me why you don’t like SEALs,” Thompson said, grinning.
“Hate ’em,” Clements said.
“Why, man? Same team and all, just different patches.”
“Dunno, just do. Never liked ’em, never will. He better not be one,” Clements said again.
“Well, we’ll know soon enough. Let’s go, brother man, find out why we’re here,” Thompson said, tugging at the large man.
The private sitting at the desk was a dorky fellow, balding, though he attempted to hide it with a comb over. He was a kiss-ass — you could tell without even speaking to him. He was a man who talked big but would never amount to much more than a desk clerk.
He stood, welcoming the men.
They didn’t respond.
“Um, fellows, I’ll need to see your IDs,” the man wavered.
“Fuck off,” Jefferson said, walking past, the laughter of Thompson filling the entrance area.
“Move kid, or Jefferson here might remove an arm,” Marcus added.
“Oh, okay then…” the man whimpered, pointing to a doorway that led down another hall. “That way.”
They passed a few rooms, finding a doorway at the end. Outside, stood Colonel Reynolds. He was dressed in new fatigues, his face solemn.
“Colonel,” they acknowledged, passing as he held the door open for them.
“This way, gentlemen. Time to get this show started,” Colonel Reynolds said.
54
The room was large. A table stood in the middle surrounded by a semi-circle of comfortable chairs. At the front of the room was a small podium. There, a woman named Viki stood talking with Michael. Both were CIA. Both worked for Elizabeth. She hardly noticed Delta’s arrival, or at least pretended not to.