Free Strike Force Bravo by Mack Maloney

again. “Well, when you get back home, you can grab a cheese steak sandwich on me. OK? Bye….”
    â€œBut, sir…we have our orders,” the squad leader told him.
    â€œWe have our orders, too,” Bingham said. “Want to know what they are?”
    â€œSure….”
    â€œThat no one knows who we are, or where we are—at all costs.”
    As he was saying this, each of the Delta guys took a step forward, tightening the ring around the SEALs.
    â€œYou guys are nuts,” the squad leader replied harshly, breaking the protocol. “You really think I think you’ll shoot us?”
    â€œ You were going to shoot us, ” Bingham reminded him.
    The Delta guys came in closer. The SEALs cocked their weapons and the tension ratcheted up another notch. One wrong move now and a lot of the people in the room would be dead.
    â€œWe have our orders,” Barney, the squad leader, said again. A bead of sweat was making its way down his nose. His arms and back were soaked with perspiration. He looked at the Delta guy closest to him again. The man wasn’t sweating at all.
    â€œAnd we have ours,” Bingham repeated, his voice very low. “And you’ve got five seconds, starting now, to lower your weapons. Four seconds…three…”
    Each SEAL remained in place. They had to. They were Team 99; there was no way they could back down to these freaks.
    â€œTwo…”
    The Delta guys flicked on their laser aiming devices. Now each SEAL had a tiny red dot dancing between his eyes.
    â€œOne.”
    There was a loud pop! An instant later, a great white flash filled the hall. Its light was blinding. An instant after that, the huge door that had been slammed shut behind the SEALs was blown into a million pieces. The flames and smoke were intense, just for a moment. Then, more armed men began streaming into the room. They were not military, or at least they were not in uniforms. They were all wearing flak vests, sunglasses, ball caps, and jeans. They moved with frightening swiftness, taking up positions around the Delta guys.
    Just like that, the circumstances inside the mess hall had changed again.
    The new arrivals aimed their weapons at the Delta soldiers, who still had their guns trained on the SEALs, who had never taken their guns off the four men sitting at the table. The four looked more than mildly surprised at the sudden appearance of the civilian gunmen.
    Finally, someone yelled: “Who the fuck are you guys?”
    That’s when one more person walked into the mess hall. He took off his helmet and calmly brushed back his unruly hair.
    It was Major Fox of the DSA. A long way from home.
    He waved his red ID badge over his head.
    â€œI am from the Defense Security Agency,” he announced to the mystified crowd of soldiers. “Anyone here ever heard of us?”
    His question was met with blank stares all round.
    â€œI didn’t think so. OK, all you have to know for now is that I’m in charge here. And as my first order, I want everyone to lower his weapon.”
    Fox put his helmet back on and took a paper bag from his pocket.
    Then he collapsed into the nearest chair and said: “There’s something very important we’ve all got to talk about.”
    Â 
    Fox was exhausted.
    The last time his feet had stayed on the ground was 20 hours ago, back at Andrews, in the middle of a downpour, another of his wife’s peanut butter sandwiches packed inside a tiny brown bag.
    From there an aerial odyssey began, carrying him, in the back of a C-17 Globemaster cargo jet, to Luke Air Force Base in Utah, where he was transferred to an S-3 Viking naval bomber, which brought him to Guam, with three aerial refuelings to kill the boredom over the Pacific. From Guam it was a chopper trip over to Oki Jima, for a quick walk around, then back by chopper to Guam, then back on the S-3 for a flight down to the carrier USS Roosevelt. From there, another