Drone Strike: A Dreamland Thriller (Dale Brown's Dreamland) by Jim DeFelice, Dale Brown Read Free Book Online Page A

kept trying, shrugging and pulling his shoulders as the other man tightened his grip. Finally, the uneven ground became an ally—they fell together. Turk tried rolling away but the other man’s arm remained clamped to his neck.
    “Knock it off! Knock it off!” yelled Danny Freah, appearing above them. Freah was the head of Whiplash’s special operations ground unit and ostensibly in charge of the training, though Turk had only seen him on the first day, and then for about thirty seconds. “Knock it the hell off! Now!”
    Turk’s attacker gave him one last squeeze, then pushed him away. Turk coughed violently as he caught his breath. Meanwhile, two men in black fatigues ran out from behind the hill and began attending to the man Turk had bloodied. The man was sitting upright, his entire face a thick frown. As soon as the medics saw he was OK, they started teasing him.
    “Pilot beat the shit out of you good, Jayboy,” said one.
    “The geek owns your ass now,” said the other.
    “Fuck yourself,” said Jayboy. He was in green and brown digi-camo, like the man who’d been choking Turk. “Both of you.”
    “I’d say you gentlemen are doing a good job.” Danny put his hands on his hips. “An excellent job. A Delta Force job.”
    Jayboy grumbled a curse under his breath. Turk offered his hand to the man who’d been choking him. The soldier frowned and brushed past, joining the knot of soldiers who’d been trailing him and were just now catching up.
    “Hey, Grease, no hard feelings,” Turk yelled after him. “You taught me that release. I almost got it.”
    Grease—Jeff Ransom—didn’t answer. That wasn’t uncharacteristic, and in some ways was even an improvement: the six-six Delta Force sergeant first class was generally openly antagonistic. But it peeved Turk—in his mind, he’d fought to a draw against big odds. That meant he had gotten the better of his trainers, finally, and the soldiers ought to admit it. They’d sure ranked on him when they had the advantage.
    Jayboy—his real name was Staff Sergeant Jayson Boyd—knelt with his head back now, clotting the bleeding in his nose. Turk went over to him and apologized.
    “I’m sorry I bashed you,” said Turk.
    “Forget it,” grunted Jayboy.
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Yeah.”
    “I’m getting better, huh?”
    “Fuck you, Pilot.”
    “Turk, you’re with me,” shouted Danny. “Everyone else, knock off for the day. We’re done.”
    Finally, thought Turk. Playtime is over. Now I get to fly.
    Tired and sore but floating on a wave of triumph, Turk fell in behind Danny. He walked as fast as he could manage but quickly lost ground. His clothes were sopping with sweat and every muscle in his body ached.
    He’d considered himself in good shape until this week. The Delta trainers had ragged him about that: “Come on, Pilot. You’re in good Air Force shape . Now it’s time to live with real standards.”
    Pilot.
    It was the first time Turk had ever heard that used as a slur.
    When Danny reached the Humvee, he waved the driver out of the vehicle and got in behind the wheel. He backed the Humvee into a U-turn and waited for Turk.
    “I see you’re getting the hang of things,” Danny said as Turk climbed in.
    “I didn’t mean to bash him so hard.”
    “Hell no, hard is good.” Danny smiled as he put the Humvee in gear and sped away. They skipped the turnoff for the cafeteria—a barn that had been very slightly modified—and headed toward the county highway that divided the property in half.
    Maybe we’ll get lunch someplace nice, thought Turk. But when they reached the road, they went straight across, driving along a scrub trail.
    “Pretty country,” he told Danny.
    “Very nice.”
    “So I guess you’re going to tell me what’s going on soon, right?”
    “We’ll be there in a few.”
    Minutes? Hours? Danny didn’t say. Turk knew better than to press the colonel any further, and contented himself with gazing out the window, looking for