Free One Killer Force: A Delta Force Novel by Dalton Fury

appearance of the military uniform has no business assessing at an SMU board for a squadron command billet.”
    Webber saw nods around the table, other heads bobbing from behind the computer screens.
    Webber looked at Shents’s photo again. He knew him to have been a sound troop commander years ago. Nothing like Kolt Raynor for sure, but definitely solid. Webber was of two minds when it came to the dog-and-pony show and the emphasis placed on how an officer looked. Whether a nominee’s infantry crossed rifles or Special Forces crossed arrows were crooked on his lapel, or if faint thumbprints could be seen on buttons or shined brass, was pedantry taken to a whole new level. On the other hand, attention to detail mattered. But even then, he could forgive an eccentricity or two if the officer demonstrated one thing above all else.
    Can this guy lead action heroes or not?
    “Looks to be a top-notch candidate for a squadron,” Ambassador Bill Mason, the former Joint Special Operations commander, said, not entirely unexpectedly.
    That didn’t take long, Webber thought.
    Motionless in his high-back leather swivel chair, Webber didn’t bother to acknowledge Mason’s comment, playing it off as if he was in another room or at a different board meeting.
    If asked, Webber would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little uncomfortable at the lickies and chewies table before the meeting kicked off. No way he could have avoided talking to the former JSOC commander. But he knew he wasn’t the only one that wasn’t too keen on Bill Mason’s leadership style, or a little queasy about small-talking with the former navy three-star.
    More pressing this morning, and working against Webber’s desires, was that at least a dozen men in the room knew of retired and now ambassador Mason’s personal dislike for one Delta Force Major Kolt “Racer” Raynor.
    “Webber?” General Swacklion said. “Any reason to go on? Major Shents looks like a six-plus rating to me.”
    Webber was cautious with his response, knowing Swacklion and Admiral Mason were pretty tight. Webber continued to read Shents’s previous units of assignment and his awards and decorations listed in the accompanying ORB. More for show than concern, as he knew his man’s file cold.
    Webber remembered Shents’s potential years back, but the major had gotten soft over the years, lost some of his mojo taking cush assignments, and, some would say, dodging combat. Sure, Shents was a good man, he just wasn’t a good choice for what he was being assessed for now.
    A six-plus? I was thinking a low three rating, barely qualified.
    “He is, sir, top notch for sure,” Webber said, stalling for time. But Webber knew he was there to only fill one squadron command slot, with two other nominees, including the long shot, Raynor. Webber knew exactly who he wanted selected, although he was unable to outwardly show it for fear of showing signs of favoritism.
    Unfortunately, for two of the three Delta officers being assessed today at the special mission unit command board, their time in Delta was over. The board was known around the community as “death row select,” because not being picked here put your true name back on the army or navy open rolls, out there again for all to see, and condemned a special ops man to a conventional unit battalion command, an instructor slot in one of the many schoolhouses, or even an assignment pushing papers inside the halls of the Pentagon.
    Webber looked over at Hank Yost and lowered his glasses to the edge of his nose. Yost picked up on the gesture.
    “Mr. President, Major Shents is certainly qualified,” the SEAL commander said, “but I recommend we review the other two candidates before we put it to a vote.”
    Admiral Bill Mason was quick to pipe in. “Qualified, Hank? I’d say top-three graduate at West Point, honor graduate at Command and General Staff College at Leavenworth, makes him the front runner.”
    “Yes, sir, nothing against Major