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back home,” he’d grumbled.
    Some of his bluster was lost when he watched Cal’s first run through the path Kreyling had designed. Flawless.
    As for the others, Cal was still undecided. They were all special ops trained and each team had their own style. The Aussies were like kids, reminding him of a bunch of caffeine bursting teens going through a paintball course. All smiles despite their deadly aim.
    After an early lunch, they’d head over to the long range, each man getting the option to shoot from either 300, 500 or 1,000 yards. It would give Cal a better idea of how he could utilize the men. They had three days before hopping a flight first to Bahrain and then parts unknown. It wasn’t much time.
    He’d done a lot of reading since meeting the teams. Most people might look at what they were doing as suicide. A tiny force trying to defeat thousands.
    Luckily he had access to a lot of classified after-action reports courtesy of Gen. McMillan. He and Daniel pored over the special ops accounts, marveling at how effective the small forces had been. He’d loved how the CIA’s Special Activities Division (SAD) Paramilitary teams along with Army Special Forces had aided the Kurdish Peshmerga prior to the 2003 invasion of Iraq. Hell, they’d secured most of Northern Iraq!
    Slowly, a picture developed in Cal’s mind. Large ground forces had their uses, but it was the special operations forces who’d wreaked havoc on the enemy. Swift. Deadly. Invisible.
    That’s what they needed to be. Cal wanted ISIS to be looking over their shoulders, scared of shadows, hiding in rat holes. The approach had worked for centuries. Guerrilla tactics. Hit the enemy in unexpected ways. Always the threat of death raining down.
    Yeah , thought Cal. That’s what we’ll be. Shadows .
     
    +++
     
    They ate lunch at The Lodge II, a replica of the log cabin VIP quarters first built at SSI’s headquarters, Camp Spartan, just outside Nashville, TN. Each team sat alone, still not mingling with the others.
    “What do you guys think of the Bulgarians?” Cal asked his fellow Americans.
    “That Valko is one crazy dude,” said Trent. “Reminds me of those Greco-Roman wrestlers who lift people over their heads.”
    “You think you could take him, Top?” asked Gaucho.
    Trent rolled his eyes and took a bite of his BLT.
    “You think we’re gonna have problems with him?” asked Cal.
    “I think you’ll have to be careful,” said Daniel. “They’re good, but not as good as they think. What we’re talking about doing takes finesse. You’ll need to make sure they get that.”
    “Yeah. What about the others? Anything you’ve noticed?” Cal had his own opinions, but wanted his friends’ take.
    “I’m not sure about the Italians. Moretti’s a nice guy, but they were the slowest on the range,” said Trent.
    “I talked to him. Seems they might have some other talents we can use,” said Gaucho. “Moretti and his guys are bomb techs. I guess they did some work in Afghanistan for a while. He lost a cousin over there.”
    “That could come in handy. I should’ve thought about that. Maybe we’ll head over to the explosives range if we have time. You know what, I’ve got an idea.” Cal stood up. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before. Stupid. Rule number one of leadership. Get to know your men. “Gentlemen, if I can get all your number ones over at the bar. Bring your lunch if you’re still eating.”
    Cal ignored the annoyed looks and walked to the bar with the rest of his lunch. Instead of sitting at the bar, he went around the other side and stood at the bartender’s station.
    The five other leaders took seats on the bar stools.
    “I wanted get a better idea of what we each bring to the table. Let’s start with you, Moretti. I hear you guys are EOD.”
    Stefano Moretti smiled. “That is not entirely accurate.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Again the smile, as if he was embarrassed to say. “You know the mafia,