The fourth book in the Detachment Delta series. When American missionaries are taken hostage by Algerian rebels, the call for a rescue comes to the most elite of military units––the Delta Force.

With a presidential election approaching, Americans are living in fear of a terrorist attack, aimed at taking lives, influencing politics, disrupting the democratic process. General Darren Kragle, a legendary soldier, is at the heart of the effort to keep the election running smoothly.

On the other side of the world, in tumultuous Algeria, Kragle's son Cameron, a former special forces soldier, has agreed to accompany a group of missionaries as added protection, but finds himself no match for a ruthless band of rebel kidnappers. But Cameron is just one son in the legendary family, and soon two of General Kragle's other military sons, Delta Force commandoes, are sent to Algeria––one to rescue Cameron and the other hostages, and the other to rescue a kidnapped American ally. A troubled nation's hopes for peace hang in the balance.

The Kragles have given more than their fair share to the War on Terror and the fight for American freedom––having paid in blood, sweat and the lost lives of loved ones. And as General Kragle tries to prevent a catastrophic nuclear attack on American soil, an attack that has targeted the president himself, his courageous sons won't give up their battle until they are all three safe on friendly soil.

Detachment Delta

Operation Aces WildBy Sasser, Charles W.

Avon Books

ISBN: 0060592206

Chapter One

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

Major Brandon Kragle, tall and broad-shouldered, a strikingexample of health and Army Special Forces conditioning,stood spread-legged in the center of whatappeared to be an ordinary living room -- a new sofa, televisionset, lamps, end tables, coffee table, clean carpet,framed photos on the wall. Appearances weren't alwaysreality. The living room was actually one of four suchrooms at the Shooting House, also called the House ofHorrors, on the U.S. Army Delta Force compound at FortBragg, North Carolina.

Five sergeants preparing to enter the CQB (close quarterbattle) phase of Delta Force training were positionedabout the dimly lighted room among life-sized paper humantargets and real-looking mannequins in natural "terrorist"poses. One mannequin crouched behind a student,its hand on the soldier's neck, the other hand pointing apistol at the door. A second "tango," as terrorists werecalled, stood on his other side brandishing a stubby Uzisubmachine gun.

"We're not peacekeepers or nation builders," MajorKragle barked. "We're the only unit in the military that remainson a constant war footing. We don't take prisonersin this business. It's serious business, and you have to killand be damned good at it."

The major's tough, determined demeanor, indeed everything about him, suggested a thorough professional.Thick mustache, cropped dark hair, and weathered skingave him a craggy outdoors look. In a previous incarnationhe might have been an Indian fighter or mountainman. Striking gray eyes swept a hard gaze over the fivesergeant trainees. If they passed this final shooting phase,they became full probationary members of the U.S.Army's 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta.Delta Force: the nation's crack counterterrorist unit.

The door crashed open and three other fit-lookingarmed troopers in jeans and T-shirts or sports shirts burstinto the room. One of the students flinched. Major Kragleintroduced the three as members of Troop One, of whichhe was commanding officer.

Staff Sergeant "Ice Man" Thompson, Troop One'sweapons expert, was an average-looking man in his thirtieswith prominent scars on his left cheek, souvenirs obtainedon clandestine missions into Afghanistan and the Philippines.In addition to being a master of both foreign and domesticweapons, he was a gourmet cook and former worldtitle middleweight kickboxing champion. He was the kindof guy no one laughed at if he were caught in the kitchenwearing an apron. He carried an Uzi submachine gun.

Sergeant "Mad Dog" Carson was a communicationsguru. Outward appearances marked him as a real knuckledragger, not exceptionally tall but with shoulders so broadhe almost had to turn sideways to get through a door, armsas thick and as long as fence posts, upon whose ends wereattached hands the size of a gorilla's. Long, dark haircurled up around his neck from out of a slogan T-shirt thatread Kill 'Em All, Let God Sort 'Em Out. Dark eyesfilled with surprising intelligence and cunning glared atthe new meat.

"Fu-uck," he said, forming two syllables out of theword and thus amplifying its obscenity. "They look like abunch of pussies to me."

None of the five dared contradict him. He wore a holstered9mm pistol.

Sergeant First Class "Gloomy" Davis's most strikingfeature was his pale blue eyes, as cold and sharp as glacierice. He was a wiry little man with great drooping blondmustaches and a web of laugh lines at the outer corners ofhis eyes that softened his appearance, if only a little. Underneathhis black T-shirt inscribed with Love a HookerHogette he wore a single bullet on a chain. The "hog'stooth" identified him as a trained sniper. He carried astubby MP-40 submachine gun.

One of the students tried to be funny and ease the tension."Doesn't anyone in Delta have real first names?" heasked.

Major Kragle shot him a look that would have witheredpoison ivy, then ignored him.

"We're not cops," he continued. "We don't capture tangosand send them to prison so their asshole buddies cantake more hostages to negotiate for their release. But ifthey want to be martyrs and go see Allah and his virgins,we're here to send them on their way. We drop them wherethey stand."

He paused to let his words sink in.

"In this scenario," he said, "you five men are hostagesheld by terrorists in this room. You are women and oldmen and five-year-old kids. In a few minutes you are goingto be rescued and these tangos are going to be dead."

The sound of increased breathing filled the room. MajorKragle rewarded the trainees with an icy grin.

"Don't worry," he added, "we haven't shot a student all week. It would ruin my whole day if I had to explain toColonel Buck, my boss, how we busted in and shot up abunch of people we're supposed to be rescuing."

A cautious hand went up. "Sir? Are you using liveammunition?"

"You betch-um, Red Ryder."

He placed a handheld radio on the coffee table.

"Listen carefully when the radio comes on," he directed."Watch closely."

He and the three enlisted men abruptly left, closing thedoor behind them. The trainees remained still and eerilyintent, not knowing what to expect.

After a moment, the radio crackled to sudden life."Stand by . . . Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . Execute!Execute! Execute!"

An immediate blast blew the door open and filled theroom with smoke. The four-man assault team, which hadstood so calmly in this room only minutes before, explodedinto action, hurling themselves through the dooron the run, intent and deadly.

Continues...

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