CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Time to Go

WHEN they got back to Fort Bragg, the Quick Reaction Force Team under Custer, now referred to as Team Dog Soldier, in honor of Charlie, had practiced various rescue scenarios repeatedly and had made mock-ups of different Iranian buildings and houses.

Charlie and Fila immediately started practicing with the car and found all the devices located on it. It had been armor-plated and fitted with all kinds of neat devices, which had been learned from the super-secret British 14 company.

They stopped speaking in English and only spoke in Arabic and Persian. Charlie started wearing the specially made hearing aids and practiced all day long and part of the evenings with the team of linguist/translators provided for him by the Central Intelligence Agency and the Defense Intelligence Agency.

Davood was being watched day and night, and Detachment-Delta had a constant stream of reports every time he moved, which was very frequently. He had built a large compound southwest of Tehran and started training his operatives there. Many were assembled there now, being trained on all aspects of jihad.

Within three weeks, Charlie, Fila, and the entire team were on the ground in Mosul, awaiting the green light. They stayed in air-conditioned trailers that had been brought in, and which remained on the edge of the tarmac. The Rangers stayed there, too, and maintained a tight twenty-four-hour-per-day security perimeter for the Delta operators.

Finally, after a week, the message came in. An operative had delivered a message to one of Davood Dabdeh’s lieutenants about a wealthy Iraqi businessman with an Iranian wife wanting to meet with him privately about conducting business. Charlie’s character would hire Davood’s trained terrorists to sabotage American offshore drilling rigs, and he would also use them to kidnap wives and family members of the American oil companies drilling at the new platforms because of the oil crisis, until he could start taking over each little oil company by intimidation and strong-arm tactics. Then the platforms would also be disguised as staging areas for hit-and-run attacks inside the United States.

Dabdeh loved the idea, but saw no reason in the world why he would need this Iraqi to carry out such a plan. That, he did not convey in his message. He sent word to meet him out in the desert off of Highway 5, which runs between Tehran and Qom, and is in fact called the Tehran-Qom Highway. It is a well-paved, well-maintained roadway which runs for seventy-four and a half miles between the two major cities, but in between is some of the most desolate desert one could possibly imagine. There were a couple major ridges along the way and many gullies and gulches.

It was in one of these where the Special Forces team went with members of the Free Iranian Freedom Fighters Party, which is called the Komala, and which had created the hideaway and landing zone. Oddly enough, this party was headquartered in the mountains in Kurdistan, much closer to where Charlie and Fila were staying in Mosul than to the guerilla base near Qom in the southern part of the vast desert area. Davood Faraz Dabdeh’s compound was also located some miles off of the Tehran-Qom Highway, also out in the desert but very close to Tehran.

The Komala had become one of the strangest revolutionary organizations in the world, in that there were actually two different Komala organizations and both of them had a red flag as their symbol. Both had the same founder, and each Komala had a separate headquarters, and the headquarters were actually within sight of each other. They were not identical twins, though. One Komala Party, which had a team of Special Forces advisors working with it, referred to itself as a leftist party, but the other Komala was actually affiliated with the Communist Party.

Both originally opposed the United States and most European nations, and the opposition was mainly because the U.S. supported the Shah of Iran, who brought a great deal of death and suffering to the revolutionaries. After the shah was deposed, however, and the Ayatollah Khomeini took the reins of power in Tehran, it got much worse—much, much worse.

In the beginning there was only the original Komala, or the Association, which was called the Iranian Freedom Fighters Party by many outside of Iran. Then after the ayatollah ascended to power and the suppression got worse, one group, which did not like the Communist Party or its precepts, became the leftist Komala—but not the communist Komala. It kept the name and the flag, but was diametrically opposed to its communist twin, and conversely so was the United States. Its group started becoming known outside Iran as the Free Iranian Freedom Fighters Party.

Dave, Charlie’s soon-to-be-hopefully father-in-law, had commanded the 5th Special Forces Group at Fort Campbell, and he knew from his friends still there that a small contingent from the 5th Group, working with the Free Komala, had gone with some of the Iranians they advised to a place in the desert about twenty miles or so from Qom, but that was all Dave’s friends knew about it.

But knowing that Charlie and Fila were going on a very dangerous assignment, Dave also knew that they would have simply told him if that assignment was into Iraq or Afghanistan. They would not have told him what their mission was, but they certainly would have stated that they would be in Iraq or Afghanistan. He also knew that after he knew Charlie in Ranger School, when his haircut was “high and tight,” and Charlie ended up with 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, he had grown his hair out long and worn it in a traditional Native American style or a long ponytail. He was expecting that before he met Charlie again. When he saw that Charlie was working on a beard and had his haircut high and tight again, a buzz cut actually, he knew he had to be going on an assignment where he would be trying to blend in with a traditional Muslim environment. The clincher was knowing that his daughter, who he knew was in the Funny Platoon in Delta, spoke flawless Persian and Arabic, so chances were almost 100 percent that the pair was going into Iran on a very dangerous mission.

The entire mission was told to “saddle up.” Charlie and Fila went into their trailer. As a precaution he changed the powerful batteries in his fake hearing aids, just so he would not have to worry about one of them dying out in the middle of the mission.

Fila helped him attach the beard which covered his face from sideburn to sideburn and had been specially made with great pride along with two backup beards, by one of the top makeup experts in Hollywood.

Fila put on her twin inner-thigh holsters and put a little Glock Model 19 in each holster, as well as a good supply of ammunition. She had ample breasts, and a sheath holding her Yarborough knife hung upside down under them. Charlie wore boxer briefs under his tailored suit, and he’d had a little holster sewn into the right leg. He now placed a black tactical switchblade knife in the holster, where it would be safely stored right next to his penis. He assumed he would be patted down before meeting with Dabdeh, but he figured he would not be patted down so thoroughly that some bodyguard would get his hands that close to his groin. Because Fila was a woman, and they both understood the mind-set of the group they were dealing with, and because she was supposed to be Charlie’s wife, they knew she would not be patted down or searched.

They finished getting ready, and Charlie took her outside the trailer and around behind it. They looked out beyond the buildings, and he pulled a cigar out of a pouch and lit it. Then he blew out smoke and waved it over their heads with his hands. He did this several times.

He said softly, “Bow your head, honey.”

They both did, and he said, “Father God, I pray to you in the spirit and the manner of those who have gone before. You are the creator of Mother Earth on which we stand, and Brother Sun, and Your Son our Heavenly Savior, who the Jewish call Y’Shua ha M’Shia. We, my fellow warrior, the woman I love and I, now go into battle. Shield our bodies from the spears and lances of our enemy. Protect our fellow warriors, and help us to strike down the evil ones for your sake and honor. Help us to count many coup and earn many eagle feathers. Grant us wisdom, discernment, and courage. Heavenly Father, grant us your righteous flaming arrows to shoot from our bows. Help us to sanctify your power and glory with the sacrificial blood of your enemies on our blades, those who destroy your greater glory and legacy by trying to destroy all who carry the Good News and those who are called Your Chosen People. Help us to return victorious and then be blessed with a wonderful life and many children, to be raised in your eyes and under your guidance. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”

Fila kissed him.

Charlie said, “It’s time to go to the office, darling,” and grinning, they walked around the corner of the building and toward the Super Hercules and an uncertain fate.

 

CHARLIE and Fila blinked at the vast expanse of light sand desert before them. The QRF team, Komala, and the three-man 5th Group team were putting up the camouflaged cargo netting over the C-130 Super Hercules. The Little Birds were assembled and were warming up.

The report came in on the commo man’s satlink laptop that the caravan of white Mercedes sedans had left the training compound and were heading south on Highway 5. Davood Dabdeh was in the third of five vehicles. Charlie and Fila shook hands all around, got in their BMW, and headed out toward the highway. If the calculations were correct, they should arrive at the rendezvous spot along the highway about ten minutes or so ahead of the caravan of bad guys.

Custer personally went to each man and asked when he had cleaned his weapons. He checked personally to make sure the Little Birds were filled with fuel and loaded with ammo. He would not stop, between now and when the mission was accomplished or they were called into action, double and triple checking anything that could go wrong.

Something was about to. The one factor that had been overlooked was the coldness and sheer cunning and outright meanness of Davood Faraz Dabdeh.

When he was young, he was essentially raised by his uncle, who was an imam and who also liked to molest little boys. That is how Dabdeh developed his own penchant for homosexual behavior. He was his uncle’s favorite victim. Davood also raped and beat his two younger sisters when he was a teenager. His father scolded him and whacked him with a rod. Then he made him go and watch each time as the neighborhood zealots, and those who were simply followers out of fear and intimidation, stoned his sisters to death as honor killings for forsaking his family honor.

His father was also very, very wealthy, as he had been basically the guardian of the deep secrets for Ayatollah Khomeini. His pockets got lined, and he was brought in on many oil and other deals.

Davood inherited the estate because he was the sole surviving son when his father and mother both died in a Mercedes rollover. The young man who’d helped Davood bludgeon them into unconsciousness and then stage the accident on one of the winding mountain roads northwest of Tehran was now his chief bodyguard and frequent spokesman.

His name was Yaghoub Ardeshir, and was in the lead Mercedes, speaking to Davood when needed, using an earpiece and mike.

Yaghoub was Davood’s friend, his only friend ever. Their joys were drugs, raping and terrorizing women, and killing people sadistically. Yaghoub was most interested, though, in being close to Davood because he knew the man’s drive would make him a world leader in jihad.

He knew that he personally was a brutal killer, but he killed Muslims, too, not just infidels. He was very worried about ever getting into Paradise and did want the honor and glory someday of giving his life in the taking of many infidel lives. He was, however, not into dying just yet. He also believed he was a major disciple to Davood Faraz Dabdeh, who he was sure had the blessings of Allah.

The translators were very puzzled when Charlie and Fila pulled off the highway and stopped the car.

They heard Fila say to him, “Charlie, this is a good day to die.”

Then they were even more puzzled when he responded, “Yes, Fila, it is a good day to die.”

They had no clue the two had just spoken the words all true Lakota warriors said before going into battle.

The next seven minutes were like an eternity, and the pair mainly stared into each other’s eyes and smiled warmly while holding hands. They finally spotted the caravan of black Mercedes.

Charlie said, “Brave up, warrior. Here come the white eyes. Hokahey!”

That struck Fila’s funny bone and she started laughing. She had to control herself, though, as she handed the stick to Charlie and got out of the car, cowering on the passenger side. He started whacking her on the back, and as he felt the blow hit her Kevlar, she pretended to wince and scream in pain.

Now, the translators listening really thought the pair was crazy.

Charlie pointed his finger angrily at Fila and said, “There, woman. That is a hint of what you will get when we get married if you do not have breakfast and the newspaper ready for me each morning.”

She bowed in mock subservience and said in a low tone, “In your dreams, Buster.”

She put the stick in the car and walked forward meekly as the other cars pulled up. The occupants were close enough to have seen the mock beatings.

The problem Charlie and Fila would soon face, though, was that Davood Faraz Dabdeh did not think rationally, and that would prove to be the shortcoming in all the extensive planning and rehearsals of the Detachment-Delta members.

Charlie did not wear sunglasses, as he wanted total clarity. He was a handsome Iraqi with his massive build and rugged good looks, and his Italian-tailored suit, the ends of his turban flowing softly with the desert breeze. Fila’s beauty was hidden from view as she bowed her head and her clothes hid her great figure.

The Iranians had not left their cars yet, and Charlie whispered, “You know what I never asked. What does Fila Jannat mean in Farsi?”

She grinned to herself thinking about him asking such a question right now facing this danger, and it calmed her.

Acting like a ventriloquist, with her lips not moving, she said, “You are amazing, Sergeant Strongheart. Fila means ‘lover’ and Jannat means ‘paradise.’ ”

Charlie turned and looked at her, winking with his head away from the Iranians and saying, “That sure fits you. If anything happens to me, you survive and accomplish the mission. Love of country and freedom is what is most important now, not of each other.”

She bowed as if receiving an order and said, “You are preaching to the choir, Sergeant. And by the way, I love you.”

Just then he heard the car doors open as Yaghoub Ardeshir and three henchmen, all armed with automatic weapons, got out of the lead Mercedes. Charlie knew Yaghoub by his size alone, as he was six foot five, slightly taller than Charlie, and weighed 251 pounds.

Not knowing that the exchange he and Fila just had had been listened to by Pops, Kerri Rhodes, and the President of the United States, who all smiled and shook their heads, Charlie whispered to Fila and into his mike, while smiling, “The big guy is Yaghoub Ardeshir, and there are three more with AK-47s. Ardeshir is carrying . . . It looks like a Soviet high-caliber pistol. Can’t talk.”

They approached and Charlie stepped forward, palms up, saying, “Asalamalakum,” the traditional Arabic greeting, meaning “Welcome, peace be upon you.”

Yaghoub said, “Salam,” the simple Farsi word for “Hello.”

They grabbed each other by the upper arms and kissed next to each other’s cheeks three times in the typical greeting.

Then Yaghoub indicated that Charlie should put his arms up and allow himself to be frisked. Charlie complied.

Charlie spoke to him in Arabic, and his “wife” translated, “My wife is Persian, and I am Iraqi from Tal Afar. She must translate for me.”

Yaghoub put his finger up to his ear and spoke, apparently to Davood Dabdeh, saying, “He has no weapons. His wife is Persian and translates. He speaks Arabic only. He is from Tal Afar. He is hard of hearing, too. He wears hearing aids in his ears.”

“Shoot the Iraqi dog. We don’t need him. I like his idea, but we can do it,” Davood said into the earpiece. “Bring the woman. We will have fun. Leave his body here in the sand. The desert can be his new friend.”

Yaghoub grinned and, in Farsi of course, said, “You want her in your car or mine?”

This was the only warning that Charlie and Fila received.

Samireh Ahoo was a very devout Muslim who grew up in Detroit, Michigan. After September 11, 2001, her two brothers enlisted in the Marines and fought in both Iraq and Afghanistan. Since her mother was Iraqi and father Persian, she was multilingual, in Arabic and Farsi. She was also a very patriotic American and wanted to contribute on the GWOT; she was working as a translator/interpreter for the Central Intelligence Agency within six months of the attacks.

She was very alert on this day and quickly said into the earpiece, “Look out, he wants to take Fila to the car.”

At the same time, Fila’s mind flashed methodically and immediately through her choices. Should she break character and go for a gun, or should she remain in character and warn Charlie in Arabic?

As soon as Davood Dabdeh had responded, Yaghoub raised his gun toward Charlie, an evil grin on his face. The CIA translator was issuing her warning, and Fila did not have to think but react. Her hands went down under the front of her dress. Her right hand gripped the handle of one Glock just as Yaghoub’s gun flashed and blood flew from the face of Charlie Strongheart, who fell to the ground face-first in a lifeless heap.

A hard thump hit her in the center of her chest, knocking her backward, and she saw that the jihadist closest to Yaghoub with his AK-47 in his hand had just shot her in the center of her chest, hitting her heart plate at an angle. She fell backward but aimed with a two-handed grip and put two bullets into the forehead of that terrorist.

She swung the gun toward Yaghoub, the man who had just murdered the man she loved, Charlie Strongheart, who was now lying facedown in a pool of his own blood.

His words, “Brave up,” were in her mind as she fired at Yaghoub’s forehead, but a split second before she fired, something slammed into the back of her head and her bullet hit Yaghoub in the left shoulder. Darkness enveloped her. She saw her true love dead in front of her and wanted to cry, but she could not. As Fila slipped into unconsciousness, she felt hands roughly grab her and drag her.

The terrorist behind her had butt-stroked her in the back of the head with his AK-47. Now he and the other remaining terrorist dragged her to the lead Mercedes and tossed her in the backseat.

When Charlie was in the 3rd Special Forces Group at Fort Bragg, besides running and weight lifting three days a week he drove to a boxing club in Fayetteville, put on wrist wraps, and trained and worked out boxing and kickboxing. When he did that, he would work out with several boxers sparring but controlling their punches and wearing sixteen-ounce boxing gloves. Two things happened during those sessions; one of those was that Charlie learned from an undefeated professional boxer that all he had to do most often was barely slip punches and let them graze his cheek or jaw, as he barely moved his head out of the way. That would save a great deal of wasted energy. The man explained that too many boxers wasted time moving an arm to knock a punch away, while the best boxers practiced economy of movement all the time. He urged Charlie to allow punches to be thrown at his face and simply move enough to avoid letting anything other than the boxing glove graze his face as it went by. Then, he said, was often the best time to counterpunch, as many boxers would throw such a punch and then be out of position, off-balance, or drop their guard. Charlie started doing this in practice and with time learned to really relax fighting and not swing an arm up defensively every time the opponent moved. He also noticed he was not biting on feints all the time, like he had earlier. He was amazed at how much better he was as a fighter and how much more endurance he had when he learned to relax and use this technique.

The other important lesson he learned at the time came indirectly from former World Heavyweight Champion and boxing legend, Muhammad Ali of all people. This boxer actually had been a sparring partner of Ali’s back in the day. He told Charlie how generous Ali was to his partners.

Everybody called him Champ, and he said that Champ used to have three sparring partners he worked out with at once—a guy his upcoming opponent’s size, then a real big, strong heavyweight, and then someone smaller and much faster. He said that Champ would allow his opponents to hit him, and they would really tee off on him since he was the Champ. He would do the rope-a-dope and taunt them and even put his hands down and let them hit him sometimes.

He said after one of those sessions he said to Ali, “Champ, why do you let the other guys and me hit you full power like that?”

The boxer said Muhammad Ali grinned at him and said, “ ’Cause I don’t want it to be no surprise in the ring in a real fight.”

The friend then went on to explain to Charlie that it was important to let himself get hit and keep sparring nonstop in the ring. He did this, too, in practice and really learned to take a punch. This helped him win several boxing smokers at Fort Bragg. His mind-set was to work through the maze if he got his bells rung, and keep fighting.

These two factors came into play on this day, as well as the warning from the translator.

The Little Bird helicopters whizzed along the highway at top speed, and dust blew all over Charlie as the first set down and Custer jumped off and ran to him.

He rolled Charlie over on his back, and Charlie, barely able to speak, said softly, “Medic, quick, smelling salts.”

There was a horrible gash under his right eye and the cheek was torn open, leaving his chipped and cracked cheekbone exposed.

Charlie thought he heard Custer yell, “Medic!” and he suddenly was smelling that old horrible smell of ammonia. He had always wondered why they called them smelling salts and not “horrible ammonia or bleach smell that wakes you up quickly.”

Charlie sat up and shook his head, blood flying all over the Delta medic and Custer.

Things now flooded into his mind, and he yelled, “Fila?”

Custer said, “They took her, Charlie, but we will get her, I promise you we will!”

“Bullshit!” Charlie said, trying to stand but falling back. “I am still in charge! Doc, quick patch me up fast. Give me a shot of adrenaline. Stop the bleeding. I need weapons.”

The medic gave Charlie a shot of adrenaline and said, “Poke, you have lost lots of blood, have a concussion, a broken cheekbone . . .”

Charlie said, “Screw that! We are SF! Delta Force, not the Kindergarten Whammies football team! Get me on my feet! Let’s go!”

His head started clearing as they roared off in the three Little Birds.

The medic held on to Charlie’s arm as they roared along, paralleling the highway at treetop level, if there had been any trees. He somehow patched the bloody cheek and got a bandage over it. Charlie’s hair and shoulder were drenched in blood. He did not care.

Custer said, “I called for the Spooky.”

Charlie said, “Negative! Our mission is to affect the job without making international news headlines. Any major air strikes will end up on the evening news back home. They are headed towards his compound, and I have a target to take out, and we have an operator in enemy hands. We can handle this by just doing what we practice over and over.”

While they flew, Charlie was handed an M4A1 fully automatic rifle with an A203 grenade launcher mounted underneath. He was also handed a Glock 17 and several magazines. He tossed off his suit coat and put a tactical vest on, and he made sure he had ammo.

Charlie asked Custer, “Was Booty shot?”

“No,” Custer said, “The vid cam on the UAV showed the guy behind her butt-smashing her in the back of the head. Like you, she is going to have a nasty headache, Poke.”

Charlie was reminded how bad his cheekbone was hurting and his head was aching. His eyes went out of focus every few minutes, and he had nausea a few times. He knew he had a concussion. That did not matter right now.

Custer touched his arm and said, “Don’t worry, Charlie. We’ll get her back.”

Charlie looked straight ahead, saying, “Damned right we will!”

Several minutes later, Custer said, “HQ reports that a UAV has them pulling into the road to the compound.”

Charlie gave him a thumbs-up.

He said, “Are you translators still there?”

Samireh said, “Yes, sir, we are.”

The President, Kerri, and Pops were all still monitoring his powerful microphone transmissions.

Charlie said, “Who warned me about him taking Fila?”

“That was me, sir.”

Charlie said, “Ma’am, you saved my life. I got shot in the face, but your warning gave me enough time to keep it from being through my head. God bless you, ma’am. If I survive this, my fiancée and I are taking you out for a big steak dinner. How’s that?”

“Sounds great!”

He said to Custer, “What’s our ETA?”

Custer said, “That is the compound coming up on the horizon.”

Charlie gritted his teeth and whispered to himself, forgetting that he was being listened to, “Stay alive, sweetheart,”

 

FILA opened her eyes. She was in the backseat of the Mercedes, between two men and slumped over, lying head down toward the floor. The man behind her was moving around, and she did not know it was Yaghoub bandaging his shoulder. The one to her right was the one she was facing more directly. She would take him out first. Carefully, she slid her right hand up her thigh and discovered that both guns were gone. She slid her hand up farther and gripped the Yarborough knife. The car passed through a gate and was stopping. Her hand came out and up, and the blade went up into the base of the man’s chin and drove straight into his brain. Both his legs straightened out, and he started convulsing violently.

Yaghoub’s massive right arm wrapped around her neck from behind smashing and bloodying her lips and nose. Fila bit down on his forearm with all her might, and he screamed in pain, but she kept biting. He tried to use his left arm, but it would not work. She switched the knife in her hand and let go of her bite, pivoting at the hips and ramming the blade into his torso, just below the right rib cage. She twisted the knife as hard as she could, and he screamed in paralyzing pain. This totally unnerved the jihadist driving, who started yelling himself in panic. He knew he was next. The car was now stopped.

Fila’s immediate concern was the monster next to her, who had killed her fiancé, or so she thought. She spun around and reversed the knife again, into an underhand hold, and struck forward, plunging it accidentally into his right bicep. He was genuinely scared to death for the first time in years, and he had the deer-in-the-headlights look. He screamed in pain again, and Fila turned the knife upward and thrust straight up with all her energy, and it went up into his sinus cavity. Blood spilled out his nose and down his throat. His eyes were opened wider than she had ever seen on anybody.

Staring into those panicked eyes, she pulled the knife out and in English said, “Yes, I am a woman and an American soldier and this is for Charlie, you piece of trash.”

She cut sideways, and his throat was slashed open all the way to his spine. Blood gushed out, and she heard him gurgling and drowning in it, as his massive body went limp and he voided his bowels and bladder. The door slammed, and she realized she was surrounded by crazed trained killers, all pointing guns at her. She jumped into the front seat and started the ignition, then she spotted Davood Faraz Dabdeh aiming an AK-47 at her. She looked around for a weapon and, finding none, stuck out her jaw defiantly and flipped him the middle finger. He opened fire and so did his men.

Fila waited for death but was amazed. The car was armor-plated. Hundreds of bullets bounced off the vehicle, even the windows. She saw the gate they had just come in, but she had a mission and that was to kill Dabdeh. She spun the wheel, slammed it into gear, and headed right toward the psycho killer. More bullets peppered her car, but she was intent on killing him. Fila reached down and grabbed her cyanide pill. She would not be taken prisoner again, nor would she ever be raped again. Those were certainties. She put it between her lips, but not her teeth.

She was upon her target, and a shoulder-fired rocket hit the rear of the car, just as she was about to run him over. The right front fender sent him flying off to the side as her rear end slid around, but he rolled to his feet, bloody and limping, but alive. Fila saw a man with a rocket tube on his shoulder. Then she saw a chance—a window in the stone wall, so the wall would not be as strong there. She floored it, stomping down on the accelerator. She might get killed, but Charlie was gone anyway, she thought. More bullets hit her car, thousands now, as trainees and cadre alike shot at her. Men jumped out of the way as the Mercedes sped across the courtyard. Right before she hit the wall, Fila spit out the cyanide pill.

She screamed as loud as she could, “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” and the heavy white car crashed through the wall, hitting so hard on the desert floor it knocked the wind out of the courageous sergeant and bounced several times, but she kept the pedal down, wondering why the air bag did not deploy. The bags had apparently been disabled.

A Mercedes came through the gate of the compound and sped toward Fila. She saw it in her rearview and slammed her brakes on, spun the wheel to the left, and floored it, spinning around 180 degrees.

“Screw this running!” she said boldly, stomping on the accelerator.

Just as she had crashed through the wall, the three Little Birds topped out over the rise and were heading right at the compound. They were now witnessing her acts of boldness and sheer courage, and Charlie got a lump in his throat.

Again, forgetting he was miked, he whispered with great relief, “Fila!”

They watched her car bear down head-on with the other white Mercedes, and the two cars roared at each other. It was a test of wills, and she made up her mind. She was going straight in.

Custer slapped Charlie’s arm and yelled, “Look at that! She has brass balls, man!”

Charlie gave him a sidelong glance.

Custer laughed. “I don’t mean literally.”

Charlie held his breath. The windows came down in the other car, and men leaned out firing. The third Little Bird zoomed up, flying almost sideways and whirrrr, brrraappp. The 3,000-rounds-per-minute mini-gun opened with every fifth round a tracer, and Fila’s heart raced as she saw the ribbon of flame over her roof tear into the approaching Mercedes, which now disappeared in a cloud of dust and sand. She was on it and still would not stop. The driver swerved at the last second, and it went sideways and did twelve rolls through the sand sideways. The Little Bird lit it up while it rolled, shredding the tires, and one tracer finally made its way into the gas tank.

Charlie looked at the medic by him and yelled, “Gotta move, Doc!” He crawled off the bench into the chopper, and it set down while the other two hovered and covered. The dust settled, and Fila, blood streaming from her lips and nose, ran from the car and stopped short seeing Charlie running at her, bandage on the side of his very bloody head. She could not help herself, tears streaking down her cheeks.

“Charlie!”

They flew into each other’s arms, and ran to the Little Bird, where they jumped side by side on the bench. Custer slapped her arm with a thumbs-up.

Charlie yelled, “Doc!”

The medic was right there, swabbing her face with gauze. She smiled and took it.

She said, “Bloody lips and bloody nose! You should see the other guy! The one who shot you.”

“Shoot him?”

“No,” she yelled as the Little Birds lifted up amid a hail of gunfire from the compound. “Got him and one more with my Yarborough knife!”

Charlie put his hand on her shoulder

He yelled to Custer, “Call it in that the number two man is dead. Yaghoub Ardeshir.” He grinned at Custer and said, “Booty killed him with her Yarborough knife!”

Custer grinned broadly and gave her a thumbs-up.

“I need weapons!” she said.

Custer yelled, “Booty needs weapons.”

She was handed an M1911 Colt .45 automatic, four magazines, and an M-14 7.62-millimeter rifle.

She reached up under her dress and got her Yarborough knife sheath out and attached it to the belt she was handed. That knife would never leave her side the rest of her life. The father of the modern Green Berets had reached out from the grave and saved another life, she thought. God bless General Yarborough. Heaven must be safer.

Booty leaned over and yelled into Custer’s mike above the rotor noise, “Dabdeh is wearing a light tan suit and tie, sunglasses, and no turban.” She looked at Charlie and winked, “And he is limping.”

He laughed.

She said, “Just missed him.”

The armed Little Bird came up sideways again as the three aircraft went up and over the wall of the compound. The mini-gun went to work, and automatics cracked in a steady staccato from all the Delta members. Bloody bad guys fell all over the compound, and Custer winced as a 7.62 bullet slammed into his forearm, shattering the radius.

Charlie yelled, “Doc!”

He immediately put an army pressure bandage over the wound, and Custer jumped down, yelling, “Thanks!”

When they first came up over the wall, Charlie and Fila saw Davood Faraz Dabdeh ducking into a door at the far end of the courtyard, and they fought their way there.

Custer and two others were right behind them firing in all directions. There were many more trainees, but none with the experience and training of the men, and now one woman, of Detachment-Delta, who established fire superiority. They made it to the door, and Charlie looked at each to ensure they were locked and loaded and ready to rock and roll. He went through first with a crash, with Custer right behind him. Charlie covered the center of the room with his weapon, while Custer moved to the right along the wall and took that side, and Fila moved in and immediately swept the left side of the room. Custer and Fila both made out gunmen in their respective corners and fired simultaneously, hitting each terrorist with two bullets center mass in the face. Something flew into the room and thunked on the floor,

Charlie yelled, “Grenade!”

The others went out the door, diving into the courtyard, but Charlie went headfirst into the room where the grenade was thrown from. This caught Davood completely off-guard. He was not expecting such a bold action by anybody. The grenade went off and he went into the next room and spun around, AK-47 in his hands ready to open up. The others came into the room Charlie was in, and all had been untouched by the grenade.

Charlie worked his way over to the door and looked in. He gave the medic a hand signal for a flash bang grenade. The man reached in his tactical vest and pulled one out, tossing it to Charlie. Charlie caught it, as the group tightened up behind him. He pulled the pin, mouthed the words, “One, two, three,” and tossed it in the other room.

The army describes the XM84 stun grenade in this way:

 

The XM84 Stun Grenade is a non-fragmentation, non-lethal “Flash and Bang” stun grenade that is intended to provide a reliable, effective non-lethal means of neutralizing & disorienting enemy personnel.

The M84 non-lethal Stun Grenade is a non-lethal, low hazard, non-shrapnel-producing explosive device intended to confuse, disorient or momentarily distract potential threat personnel. The device produces a temporary incapacitation to threat personnel or innocent bystanders. This device will be used by military personnel in hostage rescue situations and in the capture of criminals, terrorists or other adversaries. It provides commanders a non-lethal capability to increase the flexibility in the application of force during military operations.

Detonating the M84 Stun Grenade in the presence of natural gas, gasoline, or other highly flammable fumes or materials may cause a serious secondary explosion or fire, resulting in death or severe injury to friendly forces or unintended victims, as well as serious property damage. The operator must wear proper hearing protection when employing the M84. Injury to personnel could result if the grenade functions prior to being deployed.

 

Davood Faraz Dabdeh had stopped long enough in the next room to kick over the can of gas and drag the box of blasting caps next to it. He was hoping they would use a hand grenade, or even a tracer round that might ignite the gas. The explosion sent all flying backward, totally stunned as part of the walls around them collapsed and the group was covered with debris. Charlie got the concussion the worst, because he was the only one not wearing a Kevlar vest. Fortunately, he had put on his K-pot, or Kevlar helmet, preventing him from worsening his concussion and fractured eye socket and cheekbone. Blood did pour from his bandage again. All were stunned and their guns had gone flying.

Davood Faraz Dabdeh limped forward. Fila had broken his right foot and cracked his shinbone with the car. He also had bruised ribs from landing on his rifle stock. He was amazed and amused as he walked forward slowly that this stupid infidel in the suit was reaching into his pants to grab his manhood at a time like this. He walked forward menacingly, slowly relishing the moment. He felt he was going to get away. He always had, his whole life, so he was not filled with wide-eyed panic like all his trainees. He was now ten feet away and felt that would be close enough to start shooting this infidel in various limbs so he could watch him scream. The man still was playing or protecting his manhood. Davood grinned, and that was when Charlie’s hand came out of his boxer shorts and suit pants, and the switchblade whipped open with a click that could be heard above the outside gunfire and explosions. It flew from Charlie’s underhand throw and stuck deeply into Dabdeh’s right shoulder, and he dropped his AK-47, gritting his teeth in pain. He bent to grab it, and this was the split second Fila was hoping for. She lunged for the Colt M1911 .45 pistol lying five feet out of her reach and opened fire on Dabdeh, who took a round in the same spot as the switchblade. Charlie got to his feet swaying and picked up his M4A1 and his Glock.

He said, “Tend to them and their wounds, Fila.”

He headed toward the door.

She said, “No, you need backup.”

Charlie cut her off and said, “That was not a request, Sergeant.”

She said, “Sorry,” and moved immediately over to Doc to check on him so hopefully he could help give aid to the rest.

Charlie did not even look back. He felt bad about snapping at Fila, but this was combat, and he was the commander on the ground. He was doing exactly what he would have done with a team of men who were working with him for the first time. Two were functioning and the others were all wounded and needed care immediately. He had to chase his target and take him down. That was his mission, but he also wanted his men taken care of, especially if they could get up and keep fighting and rejoin him. That would be his best force-multiplier. If Fila could not handle what he had done, she would have to transfer out to another unit. He knew he was correct.

Fila was treating Doc, who was thankfully just stunned, and he and she worked on Custer, who had a concussion himself now and a fractured collarbone. Doc lifted his arm and had Fila hold it against Custer’s tactical vest. Doc then produced a roll of adhesive tape and started wrapping it around Custer’s chest and upper arm, immobilizing the arm up against the chest, his palm facing in. Custer was in a daze looking around, a blank stare on his face.

Fila took Custer’s headset and radio and put it on. She asked about the other half of the team as the withering fire was now just occasional bursts. The other team member was unconscious. Fila told them their situation and said they could use help when they could spare it.

Charlie was quickly and none too carefully breaching each room looking for Davood Faraz Dabdeh, his target. Dabdeh was losing blood and knew it. He started thinking about how he could get excellent medical treatment if he simply surrendered. There was a noise, and he looked up and there was Charlie with an M4 pointed at him. Dabdeh was caught flat-footed and stared into Charlie’s cold eyes.

He said, “I surrender, American. I need medical care,” and he dropped his AK-47 and raised his one working arm.

Charlie had forgotten that Dabdeh could speak a little English and even had a little bit of a British accent.

Charlie raised the M4 up to look through the holographic sight. He put the red dot on the center of Dabdeh’s chest.

Davood gulped nervously, “I surrender. You do not want your CNN to say you are a murderer, now, do you?”

The President, Pops, and Kerri all listened, as did the remaining translator Samireh.

Charlie said, “I am Master Sergeant Charlie Strongheart, a dog soldier of the Lakota Nation, descendant of Chief Sitting Bull and great-nephew of White Bull. I am with the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, and we do not perform for the news media. We operate in the shadows. I am a warrior, not a murderer, and I am here to kill you. I am not here on a mercy mission. You know the rules of the game. Now die.”

He squeezed the trigger, and Davood Faraz Dabdeh stopped smiling, as his heart exploded from all the bullets that tore into it. He slammed against the wall and slid into a sitting position, eyes opened wide in horror at death. Charlie took out his cell phone and started snapping pictures.

The President of the United States called Pops, and the colonel answered.

The President identified himself and said, “Are you on a secure line?”

Pops said, “Yes, Mr. President.”

The commander in chief said, “We will have to do a citation about her carrying troops to safety and giving them medical care under fire in Afghanistan or Iraq. Americans don’t want their pretty young daughters getting shot and killing bad guys. We will have to make up a fake battle in one of those countries, but if I do not get anything else through Congress before I leave office, those two are going to be awarded the Medal of Honor. Everybody else on that mission better be getting nothing lower than the Silver Star. We will have a talk with the translators. Now I have something else to attend to right away. Get them home safe, pal.”

“We will, Mr. President.”

The three Little Birds buzzed back toward the desert base camp and soon spotted an Iranian Elite Republican Guard patrol on Highway 5 around the BMW. They were checking it out and had picked up the body of the terrorist Fila had shot dead. Charlie pulled out a small box, waited until a civilian car had driven safely past and beyond it, and pushed the enter button. The car exploded just as some of the soldiers noticed the Little Birds skimming over the desert floor.

The Detachment-Delta team had no deaths but a number of wounded. They still had to get out of Iran, though. The president of Iran was being rushed to an underground bunker, as were several high ayatollahs, imams, and government officials. The official alarm had just gone off that Tehran was under attack by Israel and the United States. Jet fighters had been scrambled, but several of them hearing the alert suddenly had trouble getting their jets started.

 

THE President turned to Kerri Rhodes. “Kerri, I want you to personally go to the CIA and speak to those translators.”

She left and the President stood in front of his desk.

He called for his secretary, and he said, “Send in that reporter, please.”

The young man entered the room, and they introduced themselves.

The President said, “Have a seat, Alan. Please.”

They sat down, the President in a chair and Alan in a small love seat right in front of the center rug, individually designed by each new president.

The chief executive said, “Well, Alan, I promised you an exclusive interview, and you are going to get it. But first, off the record, why did you come to us instead of your editor with this outlandish story by this Major General Rozanski? I would think, even though it was not true, it could have gotten you plenty of accolades and awards for your paper.”

“Well,” Alan said, “Mr. President, I did not like the general when we met, but I do not allow that to interfere with how I write a news story. But I wondered how a man could make a living fighting for this country and wearing a uniform and then betray his chain of command. My father earned a Silver Star in Vietnam in the U.S. Navy. He was a Seabee, and I saw how the press treated him and other Vietnam veterans.”

“Good for your father,” the commander in chief said.

Alan went on. “Then during the course of the interview, the major kept getting angry, sir, and he called you a damned queer.”

The President laughed and said, “I certainly have been called a lot worse, young man.”

“That was not it, Mr. President,” Alan said. “I am gay, sir, and my boyfriend, who I loved very much, was a New York City firefighter. He gave his life saving others in World Trade Center Building Number One on September 11, 2001. It is more important to me to preserve truth, and Thomas’s legacy, than to build my journalism career on some self-centered egomaniac’s political ambitions.”

The President said, “Why aren’t there more journalists like you around? I thought they all died.”

He went to his desk and got a notebook, and returned, and started looking at his notes.

First, he looked at the reporter and said, “Alan, first of all, I want to express my deepest condolences on your loss of Thomas. You should always be very proud of him. Secondly, I did some checking on the names Major General Rozanski accused of this. Master Sergeant Charlie Strongheart is not in Delta Force. He is a Green Beret serving at Fort Bragg. That Sergeant First Class Fila Jannat he mentioned is an intelligence specialist and is a member of an intelligence group that is attached to Special Forces at Fort Bragg, also. She has a desk job and this loon tries to claim there are women in Delta Force? Working closely at Bragg is where I am told that she and Sergeant Strongheart met and fell in love. His group is deployed to Afghanistan, and she has been deployed there, too. We just got word today that their complex was attacked and both of them and many others were severely wounded, but from the report I got they were in the mountainous area along the Pakistani border and came under attack because they were developing solid leads about al Qaeda leadership hiding in that area just across the border. They are both in a hospital in Germany, and Sergeant Strongheart is undergoing surgery right now.

“The report I got was that either al Qaeda or Taliban or both attacked their compound and both of them were wounded, and Sergeant Jannat continuously exposed herself to enemy fire to save wounded soldiers from her office and dragged and carried some to safety under fire, and Sergeant Strongheart also distinguished himself by leading repeated attacks against the enemy, killing many, despite his own wounds. I will give you the exclusive news break on it as soon as our Public Affairs Office gives us the release. I will tell you this. I spoke to the overall task force commander there and both his and her commanding officers, and both of them have been submitted for the Medal of Honor, our nation’s highest honor, and this trash-talking desk jockey general wants to slander two of our nation’s bravest and finest. Rozanski knows about the investigations going on about his own moral character and shady dealings, so he is simply trying to divert attention.”

“He is being investigated?” Alan said.

The President said, “You didn’t know that? I’ll have to ask the FBI director and secretary of the army what I can tell you, but we will definitely give you the exclusive on Major General Damien Rozanski. Give me a few days to talk to those people and find out what we can say right now, but you can be there when he is arrested if you want.”

The President asked Alan if he wanted tea or coffee and started thinking about how he would teach Damien Percy Rozanski about playing politics with the big boys.