Pike pulled out a notepad and started sketching the framework for operational support for this mission. Most other officers would have picked up the phone and immediately alerted 1st SOCOM to get a Special Forces team moving. Pike had long ago learned the value of patience and careful review of options before action. He wouldn't start the wheels turning until he figured out where the wheels were going.
CHAPTER TEN
Riley was methodically kicking the heavy bag that hung in the corner of the team room. Ten turn kicks left leg, ten right leg, ten back kicks left, ten right. He pressed on as he felt the sweat pour off his body and the pleasant pain of exertion flood his limbs.
The team room for 055 consisted of the top floor of a renovated World War II barracks. It was essentially a large bay, almost sixty feet by twenty-five feet. The dominant feature in the room was a large T-shaped table in the center. Wall lockers holding the members' field gear stretched along one wall.
The corner in which Riley was working out held both a heavy and a light punching bag, a lifting bench, and assorted weights that team members had deposited over the years. The floor of the room was tiled in an ugly shade of red in which some long-forgotten team member had taken the time to cut and emplace white tiles to spell out the detachment's number, 055, and the motto of Special Forces — De Oppresso Liber: to free the oppressed.
A refrigerator sat against another wall, flanked by two large padlocked boxes that contained the team's radio and engineer equipment. The refrigerator was technically used to store batteries for the radios. In reality the batteries took up only the bottom shelf; cases of beer and soda filled the rest of the shelves. The soda was for the duty day and the beer for after hours when most of the unmarried team members would hang around until the early morning. In extremes, the team room became home for members who had had too much to drink.
Enjoying one of those cold beers, MSgt. Dan Powers sat with his feet on his beat-up desk and watched Riley from across the team room. "Damn, compadre, don't you ever get tired? I mean it's hot out and everything, and it's Sunday. The good Lord designated today as a day of rest. Why don't you take a break and grab a brew?"
Riley paused. "I can see you're resting enough for both of us. Dan, one of these days that beer belly of yours is going to get you in trouble." He stepped back. With a yell he leapt and hit high on the bag with a flying side kick. The bag lurched, then settled back, rattling the chains that connected it to a beam in the ceiling.
Powers burped. "Yeah, Dave, it might at that. But I'll die happy. Guess you little greasers need to work out to be tough, not being a natural-born stud like me." He scratched his belly under the worn-out green T-shirt that made up his off-duty garb. "Hey, you hear we might be getting a team leader? A real live commissioned officer? Not like you make-believe warrant officers."
"Keep it up, redneck." Riley started working his arms. His hand strikes rattled the bag only slightly less than his kicks had. "Any idea who? Somebody from inside group, or is it a new guy from the qualification course?"
"Don't know. Just heard a rumor there're two officers coming into battalion. But, hell, with four teams that need captains we probably won't get one. The colonel likes you too much. You ain't raped nobody lately or created any international incidents. Besides, I like you as team leader and I don't need to be breaking in no new captain."
Riley smiled as he continued punishing the bag. He and Powers had been running the team together for over a year. Their initial mutual respect for each other's competence had grown into a genuine friendship. That friendship was a critical ingredient in making the team one of the best in the battalion, which is why they'd been picked to join the nuclear facility testing team. Riley was glad that mission was over.
Riley felt the team deserved a break. Everyone had been frozen in the assignment for the year, as the team traveled around the world. Now people could move, and three of the nine team members were leaving in the next week. That left the team with only six of its twelve authorized slots filled. Hopefully, they would get some time off. One of the greatest banes of Special Forces duty was the time spent away from home.
Riley knew he'd get in some replacement people, but he wasn't sure he wanted a captain. He'd never worked under a team leader since he'd gotten his warrant over a year ago and he wasn't sure how he'd like it. He figured it'd be nice to have someone else get all the ass- chewings but not at the expense of losing control of the team. It would upset the benevolent dictatorship under which Powers and he ran things.
Riley also wasn't sure what the team's next assignment would be. In 7th Group, almost everyone spent at least half the year down south in Central America training local military and police forces. The 2d Battalion operations officer had told him before the Plattsburgh trip that 055 wasn't going anywhere for the next couple of months at least. Which was just fine with Riley.
Riley started working the striking edges of his hands on a two-by-four wrapped in hemp rope to toughen the calluses. We'll probably be pulling post police call for the next couple of months, he figured, since most everyone else in the battalion was deployed. As near as he could tell by looking at the battalion training board, when he'd gone up to talk to the ops officer, eleven of the fifteen operational teams were gone. One of the four remaining was the Gabriel demonstration team, which did all the shows for the "Great American Public" at Fort Bragg and as requested around the region.
Riley could do simple army math as well as anyone. That left three teams to pull all the crap details that came down from group headquarters. The thought of picking up pinecones at Fort Bragg didn't thrill Riley but it beat traveling around constantly. At least for a week or two. Then Riley knew he'd be anxious to be on the move again, doing something. Hitting the singles' bars in Fayetteville, North Carolina, wasn't his idea of a fun time.
Finished punishing his hands, Riley turned to his team sergeant. "Hey, Dan, let's go over to the sports club range and do some shooting. I got about three hundred rounds of 9-millimeter in my trunk I want to burn up. Let's go get your H and K submachine gun and pop some rounds out of that."
Powers burped amiably. "It's hot out there, man. I know you dark-skinned folks like the heat, but us fair-skinned people gots to be careful. Don't you ever sit still and just enjoy yourself?"
Powers crushed his empty beer can with a massive paw. "Yeah, all right. I got nothing else to do. Bought me a new shotgun yesterday that I need to break in anyway. Wait'll you check it out — a twelve gauge with a ten-round box magazine that can be fired on semi-automatic."
Riley laughed. "What the hell are you going to use that on? You have hordes of deer attacking you on your hunting trips?"
"Never know, my friend, when you might need a lot of firepower." The phone in the hall outside rang. Powers got up and headed toward the door to answer it. "Who the hell could that be on a Sunday morning?"
Riley was toweling himself off when he heard Powers start cursing. "Goddamnit! Goddamnit! I knew I should'a took off for the mountains for the weekend to get away from the freaking phones."
Riley poked his head out the door. "What's the matter?"
"A goddamn alert! You believe it? We've only been back a couple of days and they have to alert us! Sometimes I get sick and tired of these goddamn army games."