Read Online Eyes of the Hammer (The Green Berets) by Bob Mayer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bob Mayer
Tags: Mysteries & Thrillers
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need them to do. If they give you a hard time, or become uncooperative, let me know right away. I'll relay that to Secretary Terrance and he'll grab the CIA director and get some action. As you can tell this is being watched at the highest levels. I know you can handle it."
Sensing he was dismissed, Pike stood up and saluted the chairman. So much for any time off, he thought as he left the room and worked his way to his basement office. Pike leafed through the folder. Nowhere in there was a written order spelling out the operation. He was struck with a peculiar sense of déjà vu. He'd had some experience running missions without written orders.
Pike entered his office and threw the file down on his desk. He stretched his back, trying to ease the constant ache. That discomfort was a reminder of one such official "unofficial" mission almost twenty years ago.
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
SUNDAY, 5 AUGUST
FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA
8:00 A.M.
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
Sensing he was dismissed, Pike stood up and saluted the chairman. So much for any time off, he thought as he left the room and worked his way to his basement office. Pike leafed through the folder. Nowhere in there was a written order spelling out the operation. He was struck with a peculiar sense of déjà vu. He'd had some experience running missions without written orders.
Pike entered his office and threw the file down on his desk. He stretched his back, trying to ease the constant ache. That discomfort was a reminder of one such official "unofficial" mission almost twenty years ago.
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
SUNDAY, 5 AUGUST
FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA
8:00 A.M.
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
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