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.