Delta Mission: Operation Rudolph Read online

  Delta Mission: Operation Rudolph

  a Delta Force Romance Story

  M. L. Buchman

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  Chapter 1

  Live-fire training.

  She didn’t need any blasted live-fire training. Especially not during a freak snowstorm that was inundating Range 37 at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Betsy’s personal thermostat was currently set to Congo jungle, not three-days-before-Christmas blizzard.

  Okay, the pretty white flakes fluttering down on the rifle range didn’t count as a blizzard—though she’d grown up in Arkansas and it was more than she was used to—but it was cold enough that they were sticking to everything, including her. And her breath showed in puffs. She focused on breathing only through her nose to cut down on the clouds that might give away her position to the instructors.

  The fact that she was out of Delta Force and the Army in three more days didn’t matter to them. She’d done her decade in the field and Christmas Day would mark her release from service. But when command said you did a training, you did one. She was theirs to order about until the moment she walked out the gate.

  Betsy kept low behind a stone wall and pondered the enemy’s next move. She’d barely had a glimpse of the artificial town that was the core of the training range’s purpose. The Fort Bragg training squadron was always rearranging it in unexpected ways. She’d been in the field for a full year on her latest deployment, so the hundreds of hours she’d spent here over the years were now irrelevant.

  The hundred-plus acres of Range 37 was a 360-degree, live-fire shoothouse. Some parts were modern urban, others Kandahar Province-low-and-crammed-together.

  What kind of idiot training scenario sent a solo soldier on a snatch-and-grab mission? Minimum for that type of operation was a four-man team: two to grab, two to guard. Instead, they’d sent her in on her own without any explanation.

  The only way out is through. Old axiom.

  Of course solo was the story of her life. Dad gone from the beginning. While her high school classmates had been discovering friends and sex, she’d been caring for her mother through a fatal bout of cancer. Delta Force, the true loners of the US military, had been as natural to her as breathing. One of the only women there? Sure. Whatever.

  But a one-woman snatch-and-grab operation? She was probably the best they had for that—no matter how stupid an idea it was. Perhaps they were using her to test some crazy scenario just to see how it worked.

  Fine! Time to show them just what she could do.

  She lay down in the snow and fast-rolled across the gap between the stone wall she’d been crouched behind and the brick building next over. As she rolled, she kept her rifle scope to her eye. Her best moving shot for rooftops was actually on her back, not her stomach—an unlikely trick she’d learned by accident in Mosul. Head tipped back, HK416 at the ready, she spotted two hostiles atop the wall on the far side of a broad courtyard. She hit both from her back, rolled onto her stomach, double-tapped an armed bad guy target crouching by a plywood maple tree, then two more into the mannequins on the roof from her back just to make sure the targets stayed dead.

  The six hard clangs of bullets striking metal targets registered only after she was safe behind the red brick.

  She held her fire as two children mannequins peeked at her from a nearby window. A dummy woman rushed across the street, her form gliding on a hidden track. A rough-painted man close behind her, using the woman figure as a shield, had an AK-47. Two harsh rings of metal echoed between the buildings as Betsy shot him twice in the face—all she could see of him—and one more as she hit his knee through the fluttering back of the woman’s dress.

  A particularly large snowflake plastered itself across the lens of her shooting goggles. It left a wet smear when she brushed it aside.

  Betsy had tracked her quarry off the edge of the map somewhere, slipping out of simulated Afghanistan into a quaint French village setting that she didn’t recall ever seeing before.

  The next building over, probably just painted plywood, was an exceptional imitation of rose-and-gray stonework, medieval arches, and cobbled streets barely wide enough for two donkeys to pass. It would make a resting place for the Merovingian French kings back before the Dark Ages. With the snow, it looked perfect for finding a little Provençal bistro with a mug of mulled wine and a cozy chair by a stone fireplace.

  Of course the best that would be waiting for her after this would be a hot cup of coffee and a burger at the SWCS DFAC—the Special Warfare Center and School Dining Facility. If she didn’t freeze to death first.

  A glance back the way she’d come to make sure no one was behind her and—

  Betsy blinked hard, as if that would clear away the obscuring snow.

  There was no longer an Afghan town behind her, though she knew she’d just been through one. She was at the center of a French village that looked too authentic, even for Range 37. Alleys twisted. Yew trees, so old and gnarled they truly might have been planted by some ancient French king, rose before a two-story, stone, row house. A cluster of dormant rose vines climbed a nearby wall, some of the stems thicker than her arm. They’d been there a while…a long while.

  An actual donkey, pulling a tiny cart bearing a large wine barrel, clopped along, his unshod hooves muffled by the fallen snow. The hard rattle of the two ironclad, wooden wheels sounded from the cobbles.

  She spun back to look down the street where she’d just shot the target with an AK-47. More people flowed across the courtyard now, but not gliding on any hidden rail. Some carried gigantic woven baskets, others wooden platters of food—all hurrying this way and that as if preparing for some event. Their clothing was loose and broadcloth.

  And puffs of breath were coming out of their mouths.

  There weren’t supposed to be any real people in a live-fire training except the attackers—in this scenario, just her. If she made a mistake, she could kill an innocent, not that she ever had. She’d always scored perfect marks in target discernment. A man came out a doorway close beside where she lay in the snow and almost stepped on her.

  “Excusez-moi.” He definitely spoke before hurrying down the road. Not a mannequin.

  She sat up carefully, keeping her eye out for potential shooters. All of the people on the streets—and there were more with each passing moment—were dressed for some form of medieval village reenactment like the Norwegian Folk Museum in Oslo, only more French-Grand-Master-painting-come-to-life than simplistic-Nordic.

  Not a one looked at her. She glanced down at herself to be sure that she hadn’t changed as well. Army boots, camo pants, Kevlar shooter’s vest filled with spare magazines for her rifle and a Glock still in its holster. She indeed still held her HK416 rifle and could feel the helmet on her head. Another blink, and she could feel her eyelashes brushing on the inside of her shooter goggles.

  “What the hell?”

  Even the air smelled different. Baked breads, wood fires, roasting meat that made her stomach growl.

  Only one man was out of place now. He stood in the exact center of the courtyard and was looking directly at her.

  Out of place! The alarm went off in her head. Instinct kicked in and she aimed and fired, only at the last moment realizing that he held no weapon. She tried to shift her aim, but knew it wasn’t enough.

  The man leaned slightly to one side and the bullet missed his cheek by a hair’s breadth, smacking into a stone arch behind him and
releasing a puff of rock dust as it pulverized itself.

  Then, as calm as could be, he looked back at her.

  Nobody, but nobody dodged a round fired from an HK416.

  Chapter 2

  Betsy could only stare at him as the villagers continued to mill about without paying any attention to either of them. By now the donkey had drawn even with her position. She reached out to touch it. Though she wore thin gloves, it felt real enough.

  The man, however, didn’t look real. Six feet tall, but slender as a willow branch. He didn’t look unfit or misproportioned, just impossibly slender. He had glorious black hair that fell to his waist, whereas her own blonde was short-cropped and barely reached her jawline. He had a long face with high cheekbones, pale skin, and the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. He was dressed in form-fitting black leather that might be appropriate for a chick on a motorcycle calendar. It did look very fine on him, so maybe she finally understood why guys went so ape over those kinds of calendars. A little. Not much really.

  One thing was for certain, though. It made him look even more out of place in Medieval France than she did.

  She couldn’t react, couldn’t find it in her to move as he stepped among the hurrying townsfolk until he was standing just an arm’s-length away. A thin red line scored his cheek.

  He noticed the direction of her attention and raised a hand to brush at it.

  “I’ll have to remember to move faster in future encounters.”

  “Move. Faster.” People didn’t step aside from bullets moving at 890 meters per second.

  His smile was brief, but dazzling and she could only blink in surprise.

  “But…” She didn’t know “but” what, but it was the only sound she could make.

  “I’m Horatio.”

  “Horatio?”

  “Yes,” his voice was impossibly deep and sounded more like flowing water than spoken words.

  “Is that like ‘Go West, Young Man’ Horatio Alger? Or ‘Alas, poor Yorick’ in Hamlet?”

  “Nor Captain Horatio Hornblower. Just Horatio the Herder.”

  “The herder of what? Who…” No. “What are you?” She forced herself to look away from his dazzling blue eyes. Her gaze landed on a prominently pointed ear where the chill wind blew aside an elegant length of his hair like some runway model’s. He was both the handsomest and the prettiest man she’d ever seen, even if he wasn’t one.

  A group of children, ones she’d have labeled as beggars, gathered together in a group and began to sing in Latin. As a child, she’d chosen to do her confirmation into the Roman Catholic church in Latin. As an adult, she could only wonder why she’d bothered with any of it.

  Orientis partibus

  adventavit asinus,

  pulcher et fortissimus,

  Sarcinis aptissimus.

  “From the east, the pretty Advent donkey carries the sacred baggage?” Maybe not so much with her Catholic school Latin.

  “It is an ancient Latin Christmas carol, popular in twelfth-century France,” the man waved his long-fingered hand negligently about as if that was somehow where they were. “In your language it is called The Friendly Beasts and relates the legend of the animals who helped with the birth of Jesus. That verse is the donkey telling of carrying Mary to the manger.”

  “Oh.” What else was she supposed to say to such a crazy statement. She considered for a moment. This definitely wasn’t Range 37. She rose to her toes and tried clicking the heels of her Army boots together three times.

  Nothing changed.

  Maybe it only worked for ruby Army boots.

  Horatio smiled at her as if he knew exactly what she was doing.

  “Allow me to escort you elsewhere,” he turned sideways to her and offered his arm. At a loss for what else to do, she shifted her rifle to her other hand—in shooting, all Delta operators were ambidextrous— left the safety off, and slipped her fingers about his elbow. He felt as thin as he looked, but he felt as strong as a seasoned operator who could hike fifty kilometers with a full pack, just to get into battle.

  He led her down the street to a doorway that had a wooden sign hung above it depicting a cluster of grapes, and led her inside. The smoke from the big, ill-vented, stone fireplace stung her eyes and there was a rank smell like an entire Delta platoon that had been in the field for a month without bathing. But beneath that, the cinnamon and nutmeg of mulled wine and the richness of mutton stew filled the air.

  Horatio sat with the elegance of a powerful man at a small, rough table close by the warm fire. She propped her rifle against the wall close to hand and sat across from him. Their knees brushed together comfortably. He didn’t draw away, but neither did he press. It was merely comfortable, friendly even. Not something she was used to with men. For the most part they either wanted sex or wanted her to get the hell out of the boys’ club military unit. Horatio the Herder was harder to read and she rather liked that bit of mystery.

  In moments, they were served with clay mugs of wine—enough to plow her under the table if she tried to finish it—and a steaming bowl of stew.

  “The wine is quite acceptable, but I would exercise a degree of caution regarding the stew,” Horatio winced as if it was bad memory.

  She sipped at the wine and decided that if this was good wine, she’d definitely be avoiding the stew.

  Betsy pinched herself, no change.

  “Any chance that you’d know how badly I was injured or when I’m getting off these drugs? Or are you just a gorgeous hallucination named Horatio?”

  Horatio hid a smile with a big draught of wine, but his blue eyes twinkled. They actually twinkled. It made him look very merry. If he really was in full elf-character, which his pointy ears indicated was likely, maybe it was part of his job to be merry. But that didn’t explain how he’d made those pretty blue eyes twinkle. Of course “Elf: identification and interaction with” wasn’t in any part of Delta Force’s Operator Training Course.

  Maybe she didn’t want off these drugs, whatever they were. She’d had morphine after being shot up in Nigeria once and been completely loopy but calm as well. She still remembered portions of that helo ride while the combat search-and-rescue medics struggled to stabilize her. An incredibly handsome stranger, even in a seedy medieval pub, was a far more interesting reaction.

  “I can place you back in Range 37 at any moment you should choose to request it. But I would like to discuss a special mission with you prior to such an eventuality.”

  “A special mission?” She tried the wine again while considering where he might have learned such speech patterns. British sit-coms came to mind. The second sip of wine slammed the back of her throat with its tannic bite. This time it only made her want to gag rather than rip her throat out, which was an improvement. She could also taste the high alcohol content. That, she decided, could be a good thing in the current situation and managed to brace herself through a third taste, but couldn’t manage a fourth.

  “Yes,” Horatio spooned up some of the stew, apparently ignoring his earlier warning—at least until he put it in his mouth. Then looked as if he didn’t know where to spit it out.

  “In the fire.”

  He did so, creating a brief flurry of sparks.

  “Back to my question,” Betsy nudged her own stew bowl a little farther away as a safety precaution. “What are you and why am I hallucinating you?”

  Not finding anywhere to wipe his mouth, he used his fingers, then wiped them on the edge of the table. “You are not hallucinating.”

  “Just what I’d expect a hallucination to say.”

  Horatio sighed before forging on. “This is real. Or mostly real. We see each other, but the locals merely observe a pair of strangers in locals’ clothing.”

  “Uh-huh.” Betsy could only assume this was one of those accidents that was bad enough for amnesia to kick in. Most of this she wouldn’t mind losing, though Horatio himself was a real pleasure to look at. She’d been in the field a long time and dallying with a sq
uad mate just wasn’t an option. Horatio however… He looked far yummier than the wine.

  What had happened?

  Maybe a stone wall of Range 37 collapsed onto her? Or perhaps one of her shots at the metal targets had ricocheted back. At this point it wouldn’t surprise if one of the targets had shot her back. Talking to a reindeer herding elf in a twelfth-century pub made anything seem possible.

  “And as pertains to your earlier question, I am an elf—of the Christmas variety. The one entrusted with the care of Santa’s reindeer, if I may be specific.”

  “Hence, Horatio the Herder,” Betsy didn’t think her imagination was strange enough to cook up this one, which was tipping the scale—impossibly—toward the side of this experience being somehow real.

  “Precisely. My dilemma lies in the fact that it is only three days to Christmas and I can not find the lead reindeer anywhere. I have need of aid from a professional.”

  “Me?”

  “You.”

  “You need me to track down…Rudolph?”

  “Well, his name is Jeremy, but essentially yes.”

  “Jeremy the red-nosed reindeer. Doesn’t exactly have the right ring to it, does it?”

  “Robert L. May was prone to agreeing with you, which is why he changed the name for the Montgomery Ward children’s book he wrote regarding Jeremy’s tribulations as a young reindeer.”

  “Wow!” Betsy managed a large swallow of wine to fortify herself. “You actually delivered all that as a straight line. I’m impressed.” Then she stared down at the wine and wondered what exactly was in it that she almost believed him.

  Chapter 3

  “So, lay it out for me.”

  “Lay it out? What needs laying out of it?”

  Betsy pulled out her Benchmade Infidel knife, thumbed the release, and the four-inch, double-edged blade snapped out the front of the handle. She began carving the Special Operations Command shoulder patch into the wooden table with the point—a stylized arrowhead with a knife up the middle.