knee deep, you’re doing it all wrong,” replied Niner as he rose from the couch, heading to the door. Dawson popped another pretzel in his mouth followed by a chug of Bud. The game was coming on soon, and Stucco had offered up his living room for the single guys to come and watch.
Dawson glanced around at the full house, every chair occupied, and now the floor filling up. Neither Stucco nor his wife had expected everyone to accept.
He should have known better.
Dawson, leader of the Delta Force’s Bravo Team, the United States’ most highly trained group of operatives, surveyed his men with pride. These were the modern day heroes, men who would lay down their lives for their comrades and their country, and the world would never know. These men wouldn’t be starring in Hollywood movies, their names splashed across the nation’s newspapers. These men fought the unknown battles, the missions too covert for the public to know about. They eliminated the threats the average American would be terrified to know existed.
They let the nation sleep at night, secure in the knowledge that men like these were there to protect them.
Niner poked his head in the room. “Hey, BD, it’s for you.”
Dawson’s eyebrows shot up, and he rose from the couch. Pointing at the empty piece of prime real estate, he said to the group at large. “That better be here when I get back. I didn’t get here on time to sit on the floor.”
“You snooze you lose!” yelled Spock as he dove over the table, spinning in the air to land on his back. But Atlas had already leapt from the ottoman he was sitting on and toward the empty seat. He stuck out a massive paw and grabbed Spock’s shoulder, stopping him dead in the air.
They both dropped; Atlas on the couch, Spock slamming down on the table he had been trying to clear. The ruckus brought Stucco from the kitchen, his hands held high like a surgeon, dripping in marinade.
“What the hell are you animals up to?”
Spock looked up from the broken table, an eyebrow cocked, as if asking, “What are you talking about?”
Stucco pointed a finger at him. “You’re paying for that.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Clean it up before Sheila sees it, otherwise she’ll never let me have you guys over again.”
Dawson shook his head, a huge smile on his face as he went to the door. He opened it and took a step back, genuinely shocked at who was standing there.
“Colonel Clancy, sir, to what do I owe the honor this fine afternoon.”
“Sorry to disturb you, Sergeant, but I need to talk to you.” Clancy, the officer in charge of Delta Command, and a man Dawson implicitly trusted, stood on the step in civilian attire, something Dawson couldn’t remember the last time he had seen.
“No trouble, sir, would you like to come in?”
Clancy shook his head. “No.” He nodded toward Dawson’s poppy red 1964½ Mustang. “You still good to drive?”
Dawson smiled. “Sure, I’m only half way into my first.”
“Good. Then let’s go for a drive.”
They strode across the street together and climbed in the car. “Top up or down?”
“Leave it down, it’s a beautiful day, and this is just two friends out driving.”
Now Dawson knew something was definitely up. He respected Clancy, he liked Clancy, but never would he have described them as friends. And neither would Clancy. He was a colonel, Dawson a sergeant. Clancy was upstairs, Dawson definitely downstairs.
The engine roared to life as Dawson turned the key. With a glance over his shoulder, he pulled away from the curb. Nothing was said for a few minutes until they were out on the open road.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m meeting you like this.”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“Something big is going down, and I need your team in place, right away, just in case.”
“No problem. What’s up?”
“You’ve seen the news?”
“I assume you mean the Vatican thing? Heard it on the radio this morning but
Dawson glanced around at the full house, every chair occupied, and now the floor filling up. Neither Stucco nor his wife had expected everyone to accept.
He should have known better.
Dawson, leader of the Delta Force’s Bravo Team, the United States’ most highly trained group of operatives, surveyed his men with pride. These were the modern day heroes, men who would lay down their lives for their comrades and their country, and the world would never know. These men wouldn’t be starring in Hollywood movies, their names splashed across the nation’s newspapers. These men fought the unknown battles, the missions too covert for the public to know about. They eliminated the threats the average American would be terrified to know existed.
They let the nation sleep at night, secure in the knowledge that men like these were there to protect them.
Niner poked his head in the room. “Hey, BD, it’s for you.”
Dawson’s eyebrows shot up, and he rose from the couch. Pointing at the empty piece of prime real estate, he said to the group at large. “That better be here when I get back. I didn’t get here on time to sit on the floor.”
“You snooze you lose!” yelled Spock as he dove over the table, spinning in the air to land on his back. But Atlas had already leapt from the ottoman he was sitting on and toward the empty seat. He stuck out a massive paw and grabbed Spock’s shoulder, stopping him dead in the air.
They both dropped; Atlas on the couch, Spock slamming down on the table he had been trying to clear. The ruckus brought Stucco from the kitchen, his hands held high like a surgeon, dripping in marinade.
“What the hell are you animals up to?”
Spock looked up from the broken table, an eyebrow cocked, as if asking, “What are you talking about?”
Stucco pointed a finger at him. “You’re paying for that.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Clean it up before Sheila sees it, otherwise she’ll never let me have you guys over again.”
Dawson shook his head, a huge smile on his face as he went to the door. He opened it and took a step back, genuinely shocked at who was standing there.
“Colonel Clancy, sir, to what do I owe the honor this fine afternoon.”
“Sorry to disturb you, Sergeant, but I need to talk to you.” Clancy, the officer in charge of Delta Command, and a man Dawson implicitly trusted, stood on the step in civilian attire, something Dawson couldn’t remember the last time he had seen.
“No trouble, sir, would you like to come in?”
Clancy shook his head. “No.” He nodded toward Dawson’s poppy red 1964½ Mustang. “You still good to drive?”
Dawson smiled. “Sure, I’m only half way into my first.”
“Good. Then let’s go for a drive.”
They strode across the street together and climbed in the car. “Top up or down?”
“Leave it down, it’s a beautiful day, and this is just two friends out driving.”
Now Dawson knew something was definitely up. He respected Clancy, he liked Clancy, but never would he have described them as friends. And neither would Clancy. He was a colonel, Dawson a sergeant. Clancy was upstairs, Dawson definitely downstairs.
The engine roared to life as Dawson turned the key. With a glance over his shoulder, he pulled away from the curb. Nothing was said for a few minutes until they were out on the open road.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m meeting you like this.”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“Something big is going down, and I need your team in place, right away, just in case.”
“No problem. What’s up?”
“You’ve seen the news?”
“I assume you mean the Vatican thing? Heard it on the radio this morning but
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