Option Delta

by Richard Marcinko

  Doom on Dickie. I’d forgotten how quickly Lothar the Hunch-Becked Kraut was able to move.

  I raced to close the distance between us, firing as I moved, putting burst after burst into the truck cab. I didn’t want the motherfucker starting the goddamn engine if I could help it.

  Stone chips kicked up ten yards in front of my size ten double-E’s. I shifted focus and saw that Lothar had flung himself on the ground, finding shelter behind the big, thick wheels. He was firing a small, silver-colored pistol from a prone position. But he wasn’t doing very well.

  Hey, listen, it’s harder than you may think to shoot someone with a handgun when you have a useless right arm and must shoot one-handed with your weak hand,95 and when your adversary is coming at you the way I was going at him, which is to say, trying as hard as I could to shoot the deformed little ScheiBkerl until he was mausetot.96

  His odds improved, of course, when my MP5 ran dry. I transitioned to the USP and kept going. Lothar fired twice more—and then his little handgun ran out of ammo, too. That was when he realized that he was about to enter the lose-lose zone. He gathered himself up, and ran, his Bally boots going tha-wump, thawump, tha-wump on the rough stones. Where the fuck was he headed? I lost sight of him as he disappeared behind the truck. I sprinted after him, came round the corner between the truck and the big steel door—and saw nothing.

  The motherfucker had vanished. Impossible. Then I saw the doorway. It was open. Pistol in hand, I went up to it. My USP in low ready, I cut the pie.

  Nothing.

  I edged forward, moving deliberately, but not rushing things. You don’t want to go too fast. Move too fast and you make mistakes. But move too slowly and the motherfucker has time to get ready.

  I widened the slice of my vision, and assured that Lothar wasn’t waiting on the other side of the door frame with a pistol pointed at my head, I came full around, and made entry.

  It was a small room, maybe ten by twelve, with fluorescent lights that gave everything a cold, greenish tinge. It was empty, too.

  Fuck me. Backed out. Kept going. Down a short corridor. A second doorway—a modern steel door. This one was closed. I tested the doorknob. It twisted. I turned it clockwise, and eased the door open, pushing it slowly away from me. It swung back silently up against a wall. I could tell that no one was behind it. Cautiously, I cut the pie again, peering around the doorjamb.

  Lothar was up against the far wall, working at a folding table. There were four ADMs on the table—three SADMs, and a Russkie suitcase nuke.

  Lothar had one package opened. He was trying to assemble a SADM. The devices travel in six separate pieces: three base rings about eighteen inches in diameter, containing the U-235 fissionable material, a shaft some twenty-eight inches high that holds the demolition substance, a detonating rod, and a top collar for the demolition barrel, which holds all the arming clocks and timing devices. The three U-235 rings have to be linked together, and then attached to the barrel. Then the detonating rod is inserted. Finally, the timing collar is screwed into place. That’s when the SADM can be armed and the timing fuse set. Putting ’em together takes about three and a half minutes. Arming takes another thirty-five seconds.

  Those numbers, of course, work only if you are trained, and Lothar wasn’t trained. So he was having himself a hell of a time trying to fit Tab “A” into Slot “B.” He didn’t even have the U-235 rings in proper sequence.

  “Lothar—”

  He turned toward me. “Kapitän,” he said, his thick lips pulled back from those perfect teeth. And then he whirled, and went back to his work.

  “Lothar—I killed Khaled. He ain’t part of the equation anymore.”

  There was no response. I kept my pistol at low ready and spoke to Lothar’s hunched back. “We have your nets. They’re all being scooped up right now.”

  His movements became even more frenetic, frenzied, maniacal.

  “We have your organization—all of it. I took your Option Delta files, Lothar. Option Delta’s dead. Finished. You’re finished, too, Lothar. Alles kaput.”

  That hump of Lothar’s was humping, pumping, jumping as the crazed Kraut worked at the SADM.

  “And guess what, Lothar—Fred Kohler is alive. He’s giving Schloss Barbarossa a fucking enema right now. Killing your people. Killing the traitors. I wish he were here with me right now so I could let him kill you, you SchweiBpaket faggot.”

  Oh, that finally brought him around. Lothar Beck whirled toward me, his face white with rage. He’d grabbed the twenty-eight-inch-high, three-and-a-half-inch-diameter shaft that held the detonating rod. He’d screwed the timing collar on. His fingers were squeezing the detonating device buttons—but of course, nothing was working. That’s not how you set a fucking SADM off.

  Then, holding it like a club, he charged, unintelligible Kraut and saliva spouting from his lips.

  I wasn’t about to take chances. One does not look properly Roguish if one is in tiny fragments of flesh and bone, and I wasn’t about to find out precisely what kinds of shocks the SADM barrel could withstand. I came up with the USP, got what the great American pistolero Colonel Jeff Cooper calls a “flash sight picture,”97 and shot Lothar twice in the face with a very controlled but fast pair of shots. He went down in an anticlimactic heap, atop the demolition barrel.

  I know, I know: you wanted me to take my time with the Kraut Kockbreath. Kill him inch by inch. Or let Fred kill him in the Euro-manner—centimeter by centimeter. Well, friends, that ain’t the way life works. Sometimes, you just have to shoot the motherfucker dead and screw the high drama of the moment.

  I went up to Lothar, and just to make sure that he wasn’t going to give me any trouble, I kicked him in the head to see if he was faking. He wasn’t faking. So, I rolled him over with my foot and put a shot right into his forehead from eighteen inches away, splattering bone and brain in a pattern that would have done Jackson Pollock proud, all over the concrete floor of the workroom.

  That’s overkill, you say? Well, fuuck you! As my young friend Orca, the SF98 master sergeant from Delta, is fond of saying to his troops, “Always head-shoot every one of the motherfuckers. If you know they can’t get up, then they won’t surprise you when you’ve moved down the line.”

  0157. We linked up with Fred and his team, and began a methodical shutdown of Schloss Barbarossa. Fred and his guys started collecting intel. He was about to personally rip the heart and lungs out of what Lothar had been putting together. Well, that was his domestic concern—not mine.

  Me, I had my own priorities. I got on the phone to John Suter, interruptusing some pretty good coitus from the way he groaned and grunted and growled. I gave him our coordinates, and told him I had four packages waiting for him. He gave me about twenty seconds of passable Ev Barrett profanity, followed by a “Can do,” followed by a long silence to see if, maybe, I was kidding.

  I guess he decided I wasn’t, because he finally drawled, “Oh, fuck. See you in ninety minutes or so.”

  Then, to get even, he said, “Oh, by the way, I have a message for you from the Chairman. He says he and SECDEF have a small logistical problem he’d like you to deal with.” And then, the line went dead.

  0214. I watched as Fred and his guys started going through the piles of raw intel. I grasped Fred around the shoulder. “You gonna be okay?”

  He waved his hand in a dismissive way. “Ja, Richard, alles gut.” He paused. “It will take some time. But I will fix it. Root out the bad ones.” A black look came over his face. “I will deal with them myself,” he said. “Slowly. Quietly.”

  I knew what he was talking about. There are many inconspicuous ways in which traitors can be dealt with. Parachutes that don’t open during jump exercises comes to mind as the most common example. Shoot house accidents work, too.

  But handling those German traitors was going to be Fred’s problem. Me, all I wanted to do was go home. I had this quartet of pocket nukes to hand off to John Suter. I had a dinged-up, stressed-out platoon t
o make whole again. I had the kind of deep, endorphin-repellent pain that lets me know that God loves me more than He loves most others.

  And, of course, there was the Chairman’s message yet to come. John Suter’d said there was a “small logistical problem” that needed some work.

  Oh, the Doom-on-Dickie potential was gonna be very, very high. I’ve heard this song before. And so have you—earlier in this very same book. For those of you who have bad recall, I’ll recap the gist for you. When officers start talking about small logistical problems, I am always transported back to my days as an enlisted man. I learned early on that when someone who wears gold braid on his sleeve starts talking about “a small logistical problem,” it means that I’m about to draw a nasty dose of swabbing latrines, or pumping out bilges, either literally, or figuratively.

  But swabbing and pumping, or jumping and humping (or hopping & popping, and shooting & looting), whether indeed literal or figurative, would all have to wait. For now, we had just over an hour before John Suter arrived, in which to do some real SpecWarrior work.

  That’s right: we had to discover where Lothar kept the fucking beer.

  GLOSSARY

  A2: aforementioned asshole.

  A3: Anytime, Anyplace, Anywhere.

  ADM: Atomic Demolition Munition. Pocket nuke.

  Admiral’s Gestapo: what the secretary of defense’s office calls the Naval Investigative Services Command. See: SHIT-FOR-BRAINS.

  AK-47: 7.63 x 39 Kalashnikov automatic rifle. The most common assault weapon in the world.

  ATE: Accidental Tourist Episode.

  AVCNO: Assistant Vice Chief of Naval Operations.

  Bandity: (Russian) Police slang for hoodlums.

  BAW: Big Asshole Windbag.

  BDUs: Battle Dress Uniforms. Now that’s an oxymoron, if I ever heard one.

  BFH: Big Fucking Help.

  BIQ: Bitch-in-Question.

  BOHICA: Bend over—here it comes again!

  Boomer: nuclear-powered missile submarine.

  BTDT: Been There, Done That.

  BUPERS: Naval BUreau of PERSonnel.

  BUWEPS: Naval BUreau of WEaPonS.

  C-130: Lockheed’s ubiquitous Hercules.

  C-141: Lockheed’s ubiquitous StarLifter aircraft, soon to be mothballed.

  C-4: plastic explosive. You can mold it like clay. You can even use it to light your fires. Just don’t stamp on it.

  C2CO: Can’t Cunt Commanding Officer. Too many of these in Navy SpecWar today. They won’t support their men or take chances because they’re afraid it’ll ruin their chances for promotion.

  CALOW: Coastal And Limited-Objective Warfare. Very fashionable acronym at the Pentagon in these days of increased low-intensity conflict.

  cannon fodder: See FNG.

  Christians in Action: SpecWar slang for the Central Intelligence Agency.

  CINC: Commander IN Chief.

  CINCLANT: Commander IN Chief, AtLANTic.

  CINCLANTFLT: Commander IN Chief, AtLANTic FLeeT.

  CINCUSNAVEUR: Commander IN Chief, U.S. NAVal forces, EURope

  clusterfuck: see FUBAR.

  CNO: Chief of Naval Operations.

  cockbreath: SEAL term of endearment used for those who only pay lip service.

  CONUS: CONtinental United States.

  CQC: Close-Quarters Combat—i.e., killing that’s up close and personal.

  CRT: Cathode Ray Tube. Computer screen.

  CT: CounterTerrorism.

  DADT: Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

  DEA: Drug Enforcement Agency.

  DEFCON: DEFense CONdition.

  DEVGRP: Naval Special Warfare DEVelopment GRouP. Current U.S. Navy designation for SEAL Team Six.

  detasheet: olive-drab, 10-by-20-inch flexible PETN-based plastic explosive used as a cutting or breaching charge.

  DIA: Defense Intelligence Agency. Spook heaven based in Arlington, Virginia.

  diplo-dink: no-load fudge-cutting, cookie-pushing diplomat.

  DIPSEC: DIPlomatic SECurity.

  dipshit: can’t cunt pencil-dicked asshole.

  Do-ma-nhieu (Vietnamese): Go fuck yourself. See DOOM ON YOU.

  Doom on you: American version of Vietnamese for go fuck yourself.

  dweeb: no-load shit-for-brains geeky asshole, usually shackled to a computer.

  EC-130: Electronic warfare-outfitted C-130.

  EEI: Essential Element of Information. The info-nuggets on which a mission is planned and executed.

  EEO: Equal Employment Opportunity. (Marcinko always treats ’em all alike—just like shit.)

  ELINT: ELectronic INTelligence.

  EOD: Explosive Ordnance Disposal.

  F3: Full Fucking Faulkner—lots of sound and fury.

  FIS: Flight Information Service.

  flashbang: disorientation device used by hostage rescue teams.

  FLFC: fucking loud and fucking clear.

  FLIR: Forward Looking Infra Red.

  FMs: Fucking Monkeys.

  FNG: Fucking New Guy. See CANNON FODDER.

  Four-striper: Captain. All too often, a C2CO.

  frags: fragmentation grenades.

  FUC: Fucking Ugly Corsican.

  FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Repair.

  Glock: Reliable 9-mm pistols made by Glock in Austria. They’re great for SEALs because they don’t require as much care as Sig Sauers.

  GNBN: Good News/Bad News.

  Goatfuck: What the Navy likes to do to the Rogue Warrior. See FUBAR.

  GSG-9: Grenzchutzgruppe-9. Top German CT unit.

  HAHO: High-Altitude High-Opening parachute jump.

  HALO: High-Altitude, Low-Opening parachute jump.

  HICs: Head-In-Cement syndrome. Condition common to high-ranking officers. Symptoms include pigheadedness and inability to change opinions when presented with new information.

  HK: ultrareliable pistol, assault rifle, or submachine gun made by Heckler & Koch, a German firm. SEALs use H&K MP5-Ks submachine guns in various configurations, as well as H&K 33 assault rifles, and P7M8 and M13 9-mm, and USP 9-mm, 40- or 45-caliber pistols.

  HUMINT: HUMan INTelligence.

  humongous: Marcinko dick.

  Hydra-Shok: extremely lethal hollowpoint ammunition manufactured by Federal Cartridge Company.

  IBS: Inflatable Boat, Small—the basic unit of SEAL transportation.

  IED: Improvised Explosive Device.

  Japs: bad guys.

  jarheads: Marines. The Corps. Formally, USMC Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children).

  JSOC: Joint Special Operations Command.

  KATN: Kick Ass and Take Names. Roguish avocation.

  KH: KeyHole. Designation for NRO’s spy-in-the-sky satellites, as in KH-12s.

  KISS: Keep It Simple, Stupid. The basic premise for all special operations.

  LANTFLT: AtLANTic FLeeT.

  LODAR: Land Of Der Anal Retentive.

  LTWS: Lower Than Whale Shit.

  M3: Massively motivated motherfuckers.

  M-16: Basic U.S. .223-caliber weapon, used by the armed forces.

  MagSafe: lethal frangible ammunition that does not penetrate the human body. Favored by some SWAT units for CQC.

  MILCRAFT: Pentagonese for MILitary airCRAFT.

  Mk-1 Mod-0: basic unit.

  MOTI: Russian Ministry of the Interior.

  NAVSPECWARGRU: NAVal SPECial WARfare GRoUp.

  Navyspeak: redundant, bureaucratic naval nomenclature, either in written nonoral, or nonwritten oral modes, indecipherable by nonmilitary (conventional) or military (unconventional) individuals during normal interfacing configuration conformations.

  NILO: Naval Intelligence Liaison Officer.

  NIS: Naval Investigative Service Command, also known as the Admiral’s Gestapo. See: SHIT-FOR-BRAINS.

  NMN: No Middle Name.

  NRO: National Reconnaissance Office. Established 25

  August 1960 to administer and coordinate satellite development and operations for U.S. intelligence community. Very spoo
ky place.

  NSA: National Security Agency, known within the SpecWar community as No Such Agency.

  NSD: National Security Directive.

  NYL: Nubile Young Lovely.

  OBE: Overtaken By Events—usually because of the bureaucracy.

  OOD: Officer Of the Deck (he who drives the big gray monster).

  OP-06-04: CNO’s SpecWar briefing officer.

  OP-06: Deputy CNO for Operations, Plans, and Policy.

  OP-06B: Assistant Deputy CNO for Operations, Plans, and Policy.

  OP-06D: cover organization for Red Cell/NSCT.

  OPSEC: OPerational SECurity.

  PDMP: Pretty Dangerous Motherfucking People.

  PIQ: Pussy In Question.

  POTUS: President of the United States.

  RDL: Real Dirty Look.

  RPG: Rocket-Propelled Grenade.

  R2D2: ritualistic, rehearsed, disciplined drills.

  S1: Square one.

  S2: Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up.

  SADM: Special Atomic Demolition Device. Man-portable nuke.

  SAS: Special Air Service. Britain’s top CT unit.

  SATCOM: SATellite COMmunications.

  SCIF: Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. A bug-proof room.

  SEAL: U.S. Navy SEa-Air-Land SpecWarrior. A hopand-popping shoot-and-looting hairy-assed Frogman who gives a shit. The acronym really stands for Sleep, Eat, and Live it up.

  Semtex: Czecho C-4 plastique explosive. Can be used to cancel Czechs.

  SERE: Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape school.

  SES: Shit-eating smile.

  Shit-for-Brains: any no-load, pus-nutted, pencil-dicked asshole.

  SIGINT: SIGnals INTelligence.

  SLUDJ: Top secret NIS witch-hunters. Acronym stands for Sensitive Legal (Upper Deck) Jurisdiction.

  SMG: submachine gun SNAFU: Situation Normal—All Fucked Up.

  SNAILS: Slow, Nerdy Assholes In Ludicrous Shoes.

  SOCOM: United States Special Operations COMmand, located at MacDill AFB, Tampa, Florida.

  SOF: Special Operations Force.

  S&P: Spit-and-polish.

  SpecWarrior: One who gives a fuck.

  SSN: Nuclear attack sub, commonly known as sewer pipe.