Strike Force Bravo Read Online Free Page B

kneeling in a holding pen. Handcuffed and shackled around the ankles, they were no doubt Al Qaeda prisoners. Ozzi could see their faces as they drove by. None looked happy.
    He was heading for a barracks built separately from this main compound; indeed, it was nearly a half-mile farther down the road. It was a slightly smaller building, with its own half-dozen rings of razor wire encircling it. While Ozzi had seen small armies of guards watching over the Islamic detainees back at the main compound, the road leading to this barracks was being guarded by three Bradley Fighting Vehicles, each sporting a huge cannon and several machine guns onboard.
    His Hummer reached the barracks’ main gate and a squad of Army Rangers appeared. Ozzi had his ID card scanned once, twice, three times. Finally the Hummer was allowed in.
    Inside the front door of the building he was met by another squad of Army troops. Green Berets, no less. The Army is all over this place, he thought. Two were guarding a door at the far end of the room; three others were manning a check-in station. Once again Ozzi’s bar code was triple-scanned. Then he was frisked. He was beginning to think there were little green men from Mars behind the next door.
    He was finally led into the room, escorted by two Green Berets. Four men in prison garb were sitting around a crude metal table. Two were sporting bandages on their heads and hands. They were not Arabs. All four were white, obviously Americans, obviously military. The oldest was in his early forties and had bright red hair. He was one of the bandaged. Ozzi pegged him as the officer in the group. The other three were just kids, like him, in their early twenties. All three were the size of linebackers, though, with WWF muscles straining the upper sleeves of their bright orange detainee clothes.
    Definitely Delta Force… Ozzi thought.
    The men barely looked up when Ozzi walked in. They were not handcuffed or in leg restraints, as the Al Qaeda prisoners up the road had been. But they were so rough-looking, it seemed like they should have been. Ozzi’s Green Beret escort surprised him by turning on their heels and leaving without a word.
    Suddenly it was just him and the four strange men.
    He introduced himself as a member of the President’s National Security Council, a lie. He asked if each man was comfortable, if they needed coffee or a cold drink. All four declined with a shake of the head. Ozzi got down to business. He told the men of the startling events at the Tonka Tower now just 12 hours old. He explained in detail the actions of the special ops force that, at the very last second, managed to save the lives of hundreds of American children. As he spun his tale, Ozzi watched each man’s reaction, hoping a facial expression could provide him a clue. A raised eyebrow or a slightly dropped jaw could speak volumes about a person, depending on what he was hearing when his guard was let down.
    But these men were very odd. They were interested in hearing what had happened—and were obviously learning about it for the first time. Yet they didn’t seem especially surprised by the dramatic events.
    At the end of it there was a long silence. Finally the guy with the red hair spoke. His name tag identified him as CURRY, R .
    â€œThe world is rid of eight more mooks—and that’s a good thing,” he said. “But why are you telling us this?”
    â€œBecause of what happened at the Strait of Hormuz last month,” Ozzi replied sternly. “We thought you guys might know the people who were involved in this latest incident, seeing as you were involved in the last….”
    What did these four men have to do with Hormuz? A lot. On that day, the crucial information regarding the on-coming hijacked airliners had been delivered to the Lincoln by an unauthorized helicopter—actually a Stealth version of a Blackhawk helicopter. It had been chased by two F-14 Tomcats, then