Way of the Warrior (Troubleshooters #17.5)(126)
After fourteen motionless hours—fewer than a dozen steps from a hundred and thirty terrorists—moving smoothly and naturally was a challenge as Michael rose from his hiding place. He shook off the sand and swung his AK-47 into a comfortable position. The four of them approached the prostrate group in staggered formation from the southeast over a small hillock.
The Delta operators interspersed themselves among the other trainers and knelt, blending in perfectly. Of necessity, they all spoke enough Arabic to pass if questioned.
Michael didn’t check the others because that might draw attention. If they hadn’t made it cleanly into place, an alarm would have been raised and the plan would have changed drastically. All was quiet, so he listened to the muezzin’s words and allowed himself to settle into the peace of the prayer.
Bismi-llāhi r-rahmāni r-rahīm…
In the name of Allah, the most compassionate, the most merciful…
He sank into the rhythm and meaning of it—not as these terrorists twisted it in the name of murder and warfare, but as it was actually stated. Moments like this one drove home the irony of his long career to become the most senior field operative in Delta while finding an inner quiet in the moment before dealing death.
Perhaps in their religious fervor, the terrorists found the same experience. But what they lacked was flexibility. They wound themselves up to throw away their lives, if necessary, to complete their preprogrammed actions exactly as planned.
For Michael, an essential centering in self allowed perfect adaptability when situations went kinetic—Delta’s word for the shit unexpectedly hitting the fan.
That was Delta’s absolute specialty.
Starting with zero preconceptions in either energy or strategy allowed for the perfect action that fit each moment in a rapidly changing scenario. Among the team, they’d joke sometimes about how Zen, if not so Buddhist, the moment before battle was.
And, as always, he accepted the irony of that with no more than a brief smile at life’s whimsy.
Dealing death was one significant part of what The Unit did.
U.S. SFOD-D, Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, went where no other fighting force could go and did what no one else could do.
Today, it was a Yemeni terrorist training camp.
Tomorrow would take care of itself.
They were the U.S. Army’s Tier One asset and no one, except their targets, would ever know they’d been here. One thing for certain, had The Unit been unleashed on bin Laden, not a soul outside the command structure would know who’d been there. SEAL Team Six had done a top-notch job, but talking about it wasn’t something a Delta operator did. But Joint Special Operations Command’s leader at the time was a former STS member, so the SEALs had gone in instead.
Three more minutes of prayer.
Then seven minutes to help move the trainees into their quarters where they would be locked in under guard for the night, as they were still the unknowns.
Or so the trainers thought.
Three more minutes to move across the compound through the abrupt fall of darkness in the equatorial desert to where the commanders would meet for their evening meal and evaluation of the trainees.
After that the night would get interesting.
Bismi-llāhi r-rahmāni r-rahīm…
In the name of Allah, the most compassionate, the most merciful…
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in the Night Stalkers series
Bring on the Dusk
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Also by M.L. Buchman
The Night Stalkers
The Night Is Mine
I Own the Dawn
Wait Until Dark
Take Over at Midnight
Light Up the Night
Bring On the Dusk
The Firehawks
Pure Heat
Full Blaze
Hot Point
Read on for a preview of the next West Coast Navy SEALs romance
A SEAL Forever
ANNE ELIZABETH
Master Chief Declan Swifton of SEAL Team FIVE rolled over the side of the Rigid-Hulled Inflatable Boat and slid soundlessly into the Pacific Ocean. The RIB took off without even a comment from the operator, leaving Declan to sink further into the drink.
The temperature cooled as he swam away from the surface. Fish skirted the edges of his thighs, small shimmers of movement against his skin. He scissor-kicked his way forward. The ocean currents caught him, dragging him in the direction they wanted to go, toward shore. He lay with his arms at his sides, frog-kicking only. Above him, he could see the afternoon sunlight glistening and frothy foam chasing away the glassy surface. Down here, things were different…calmer. Peaceful in a way few souls would understand, and yet, he knew that even he would have to surface soon.
His lungs would start to ache and burn, his gut would begin to feel as if it would cave in, and that would force him to either head topside or drink in the salt water. But there was still time. This was the water in front of Imperial Beach and the apartment he lived in. He knew it very well.
Scanning the ocean floor, he gauged it would be about thirty seconds until he reached one of the many rocky sand bars out here. He’d have to pull up before then or the force of the current would smack him against the side. As his body began to complain, he used both arms and legs to draw himself upward. Breaking the surface, he opened his mouth and drew in air like a thirsty man.