He pointed at the beach area on the sand table. "We're Gonna drop in right here. Inside the camp, so we don't lose the element of surprise getting through the minefield and concertina."

He waved a hand at Jenkins. "While all this is going on, our bird racetracks after dropping us, comes back in low over the beach and heavy-drops the rest of our trash.

"By now we've cleared the machinegun nests and secured the DZ, such as it is. We don't blow the boats, we sweep them. As a backup, though, part of the heavy-drop will be a couple rubber ducks—'inflatable rafts' for you land-lubbers. Rather than wait for someone to attempt escape with the hot potato, we send a team in to secure it and bring it back to the boats while our sappers rig the dock with C-four. We load ourselves and our trash in the boats and shove off. Once we're a safe distance out, we blow the dock.

"Originally, extraction would be accomplished via link-up with the rebel force and movement overland back to the south. I never did like that plan. I like it even less since our little warm-up this morning. I've been talking it over with our pilots here, and we've got some alternate plans we intend to propose to Mugabe. There's an American sub prowling around the Gulf of Aden that might be able to pick us up. Lieutenant Colonel Haugen is aware of some Marine Corps Chinooks at the US Combined Joint Task Force HQ in Djibouti that could just possibly stray off course on their next training sortie, and accidentally pick up some stowaways. Failing that, Captain Jenkins is willing to fly back in for us."

Cavarra next went over the sub-unit tasks. He kept it as simple as possible, because the details of any plan are the first casualties in combat. But he did go over his organizational breakdown.

He subdivided the squad into two-man teams: McCallum and Terrell were the easiest to pair, since two engineers cooperating could accomplish four times as much as any lone sapper. Snipers Campbell and Cole were another natural team. He paired Zeke with Siyr, needing his most trustworthy man to keep close watch on his most suspicious. Similarly, he teamed the reliable Bojado with the hapless DeChalk. Ignoring their senior ranks, he put Mai and Lombardi together. Now the LIFERs could gig each other on sleeve-rolling procedures or LBV configuration...maybe kill each other off over some heartfelt uniformity issue...but in any case, stay out of everyone else's way. Scarred Wolf and Fava-Vargas made up his weapons team.

"Service and support: Mr. Baker, the aircraft mechanic--he'll be shoving off the heavy-drop. And Mugabe--our official link back to the World.

"Command and signal: Chain of command is as follows...myself, McCallum, Pappadakis, Scarred Wolf, Lombardi."

As expected, there was some grumbling over this. He knew Zeke was a competent NCO, but the firefight had told him something about the others, as well. McCallum was a natural leader, knew his tactics and could think on his feet. Scarred Wolf was the model fighting man and, with instincts like his, would make the right calls. Lombardi was no genius--of a military, or any other variety--but he kept a cool head when bullets were flying.

"Challenge is 'loiter,' password is 'scramble.' Running password is 'razorback'."

The radios they'd be using amongst themselves were short-range, on a fixed frequency. He now gave the frequency for the team radio they'd use to keep in touch with the other friendlies.

He asked for questions.

"Why are we blowing the dock?" Zeke asked.

"While we're floating out into the Red Sea," Cavarra explained, "that dock would make a nice platform for them to set a heavy weapon on. Depending on how industrious they are, they might even break it loose from shore and use it as a raft to pursue us."

Lombardi indicated himself and Mai. "Why did you pick us to handle the nuke?"

"Why?" Cavarra sang, "because we like you. M-O-U-S-E."

"That's something for the lowest ranking man," Mai complained, "not the highest."

Cavarra opened his mouth to reply...

"I volunteer to retrieve the device," Siyr said.

Everyone stared at him.

 

 

 

26

 

 

At 0300, Siyr completed his second round through the camp. He peeked inside the tent and counted the sleeping forms. Satisfied, he stalked toward the front gate.

Sentry stood stiff-legged in between the tents. He watched curiously as Siyr approached.

Siyr knelt beside the dog to pet him and be sniffed. If he had to kill it coming back into camp, things would get rough.

Sentry followed him almost to the gate, then watched him disappear into the darkness. He trotted back to the center of camp and, following his nose, entered the pilots' tent to sit beside his master's bunk.

Puttcamp didn't stir. He slept heavy with a few beers in his system. Sentry fidgeted for a moment, then nudged Puttcamp with his nose and licked his eyelid.

Puttcamp started. In a short moment he remembered where he was. He rubbed his eyes, swinging up to a sitting position.

Sentry sat with his back to his master, ears down as if expecting a reprimand.

"What is it, boy?"

 

***

 

Siyr walked south along the river, sticking close to the foliage so as not to silhouette himself. A few klicks out, he gradually saw the outline of the Jeep emerge from the blackness.

The Mossad agent recognized Siyr and felt relief. He'd made it. Last he'd seen Siyr, he was running into a village about to come under attack. Possibly running to his death.

The agent nodded for Siyr to get in the Jeep with him.

"We'd better not," Siyr said, softly. "There's a dog in the camp and driving around tonight would be pushing our luck."

"I didn't hear him bark when I parked here."

"He doesn't bark. He appears to be extremely well-trained. I tried to make friends but he only tolerated me. I think it would be safer if we just stay here."

"Well, we can at least sit in the Jeep so our voices don't carry as far."

Once inside with the windows rolled up, the Mossad agent asked, "How many survived?"

"All of them. Two have minor wounds."

Siyr told his incredulous superior all about the firefight and the other pertinent developments since then.

"So the mission is going ahead as planned," the agent said.

"Yes, sir. And I believe they have an excellent chance at success. Cavarra is a shrewd commander. He's scrapped the CIA plan and made his own."

The agent listened to him explain the plan, then considered it silently for a time. A jackal yipped in the night. Something splashed in the river.

"Still, there are no guarantees," the Mossad agent said. "You must be ready to do what we discussed."

Siyr nodded. "I am."

"And what might that be?"

The voice came from outside.

They peered into the darkness outside the agent's door and into the muzzle of a Galil. Holding the rifle was a dark figure with night vision goggles protruding from his face.

Keeping his exposed upper body perfectly still, the agent reached for the knob on the side-spot lever hanging over the edge of the dash.

Cavarra saw movement on the corner of the cab, but didn't recognize exactly what it was in the murky green light of the PVS5 display. It was a small object rotating. It wasn't the door opening or a weapon being leveled...

By the time he understood, the spotlight beam caught him right in the goggles. Everything washed out. He was blind.

In a split second, the doors flew open, the driver tackled him and brought a tanto blade to his neck. Siyr came around behind and covered him.

"Do you recognize him?" the agent asked.

"It's Cavarra," Siyr said.

"Don't try anything stupid, Commander Cavarra," the agent said.

"Put 'em down and cut that light," Puttcamp said, in English, from behind Siyr. "I can pop both of you before you turn around."

A leopard screamed, far off. Something scurried in the brush.

The man with the knife withdrew it, stood and backed away. "Remember," he told Cavarra, "I could have killed you."

Siyr lowered his rifle.

Cavarra slowly sat up and removed the goggles. The spotlight was switched off as he blinked his eyes several times.

"That's good," Puttcamp said. "Now you two move away from the vehicle. But first, Siyr, set that weapon down on the hood."

Siyr looked at the agent, who nodded. They did as they were told.

"Thanks, Gordy," Cavarra told Puttcamp, climbing to his feet. "What is this, Siyr?"

Siyr took his time answering, and then did so softly. "Commander Cavarra, this is Colonel Dreizil."

"Who do you work for, Colonel?"

"Mossad. Israeli intelligence," Dreizil said. "You speak good Hebrew. When did you learn it?"

"On my own time. But let's all be polite and talk English so my buddy doesn't feel left out, okay? Why are you interfering in this mission?"

"Not interfering, Commander," Dreizil said, in English. "We want to help."

"Is that why you've got Siyr spying on us? Is that why you tipped off the PDF about us?"

"The PDF raid was not our doing," Dreizil said, "though it's understandable how that might occur to you. I'm trying to find out who tipped them off, and why."

Cavarra had no idea why the Israelis would want this mission compromised.

"Since your country has chosen to act without the cooperation of mine," Dreizil said, "we wanted 'ears on the ground,' so-to-speak. That's why Mr. Siyr has been reporting to me."

"My sincere apologies, Commander," Siyr said. "I regret I had to deceive you, but I must follow orders."

Cavarra brushed himself off. "And what are your orders, exactly? And what happens now that your cat is out of the bag?"

"Good question," Dreizil said.

"I've got another one," Puttcamp said: "How many men are working for you?"

"Just we two," Dreizil said.

"Okay," Cavarra said, "let's go back to the big question, then: Why are you spying on somebody trying to save your country?"

Dreizil chewed his lip. "Have you ever heard of Masada?"

Cavarra shrugged. "Yeah. I watched the miniseries."

"Cute. How very American. What do you know about it?"

"Roman garrison on a steep hill. Jewish guerrillas...Macabees, right?"

Dreizil sighed. "Not really. But go on."

"...Jewish guerrillas captured it. Roman Army laid siege. When they finally breached the walls, they found the defenders had all committed suicide rather than be taken prisoner." He reached behind himself to pull a thorn out of his upper thigh. "At the beginning of the series, they showed Israeli soldiers visiting the place, taking a vow that it won't happen again...or something like that."

Siyr shook his head. "We resolve to die before we let Israel fall to her enemies."

"We?" Cavarra echoed, looking closely at the African. "Who are you--Sammy Davis the Third?"

"Once," Dreizil said, "Israel's contingent strategy was built atop what some called the 'Masada Complex.' But we've had atomic weapons for some time, now, and our defense forces are guided by a 'Samson Complex'."

"Samson? From the Bible?"

"He died killing as many enemies as possible."

A baboon shrieked in the distance.

Cavarra felt just a touch queasy.

"When Egypt and Syria surprised us on Yom Kippur," Dreizil said, "the situation looked very grave for the first few days. With a country as small as ours, national survival can be determined in a matter of hours. Maybe even minutes."

"Had the Moslems defeated us," Siyr said, "there would be no Israel today."

"Most of the world never suspected how close we came to nuclear war in 1973," Dreizil said. "But our air and ground forces managed to turn the tide. By the time it was over, we could have rolled through Cairo and Damascus...but then your beloved United Nations intervened. They ignored the war while we were overwhelmed. It was only when we began winning that they cried for peace."

"So what you're telling me," Cavarra said, "is that you'll blow 'em to hell and gone before you'll let them drive you off the land."

"If they destroy us," Siyr said, "they will be destroyed, too."

"It is beyond even that, now," Dreizil said. "Thanks to you Americans and your U.N. designed 'peace process,' Israel is being forced into a policy of a preemptive nuclear first strike."

"Crucial defensive terrain," Siyr said, "which we paid for in blood, has been handed over to our enemies."

"In exchange for your empty promises of peace," Dreizil said. "Jericho, the Gaza Strip, the Sinai...and of course you want us to surrender the 'West Bank'."

Cavarra had nothing against the Israelis. If anything, he admired them for their tenacity and combat record. But he didn't like hearing anybody break bad on his own country. He knew Dreizil didn't mean to insult him personally...but it felt as though he was spitting all over Cavarra's very identity. "Don't talk like the United Nations is some ally of ours," he said. "It's as anti-American as it is anti-Semitic."

"Ah, but when have Americans ever hesitated to feed the mouths that bite you?"

"Ask Fidel Castro or Saddam Hussein," Puttcamp said.

"Or the Russians or the Red Chinese or the North Koreans or the Saudis or the Afghans," Dreizil said.

"The point is," Siyr said, "the bomb in the terrorist camp is intended for an Israeli target. Israel will not allow it to reach that target."

"That's what I'm here to prevent," Cavarra said. "Remember?"

Dreizil nodded. "And your victory back in the village was most encouraging. But you must admit, the possibility of failure is substantial."

"That doesn't mean we will fail," Puttcamp said

"But if you do," Dreizil said, "Siyr and myself are in a position to report it while there is still time for Israel to take action."

"Take action..." Puttcamp said. "You mean nuke 'em 'til they glow, then shoot 'em in the dark?"

"We would probably pursue a conventional solution first," Dreizil said. "But that will prompt an ugly situation. Bush's precious 'coalition' might self-destruct. It would likely lead to a nuclear confrontation anyway. Russian warheads have been smuggled into the hands of many of our enemies, and Iran is close to developing its own nuclear capabilities."

Cavarra exhaled heavily. "Look, I want to get the bomb away from the bad guys, too. We all do. I don't want terrorists to nuke Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, New York...or even Cleveland. And I'm Gonna do everything I can to stop 'em." He pointed to Siyr. "But I'm not jumping into a hot DZ with your stooge behind me. If we fail, fine...do what you gotta' do. Chances are I won't be alive to care. But watch from the sidelines, 'cause I won't tolerate your interference."

"I'm afraid that's unacceptable," Dreizil said.

"I don't know what to tell you, then," Cavarra said.

"Perhaps there's a suitable compromise," Siyr said. The other men broke eye contact and looked to him. "You mentioned detaching a man to the Sudanese rebel force," he reminded Cavarra. "Make me that man. Then you needn't worry about me sabotaging your mission. Plus, I speak a few Sudanese dialects--I might be the best choice for a liaison."

This suggestion jarred Dreizil. Cavarra didn't miss his apprehensive look.

They all had the same goal: Keep the terrorists from using the bomb. So Dreizil and Siyr had no reason to sabotage the mission. And what damage could Siyr do to Cavarra's team if he was with the rebel force? After all, the rebel force had the same goal, too. The fact that Dreizil seemed to dislike the idea made Cavarra like it even more.

Why?

He didn't doubt much the Israeli had told him. Yet he still didn't trust him.

"Why did you volunteer to grab the nuke, Siyr?"

Siyr shrugged. "It doesn't matter if I am carrying the bomb, or half a mile away. If it explodes, I am dead either way."

"Everybody on the team knows that. Their concern with handling it is the radiation. They don't want to catch cancer or grow a third eyeball or have both their arms fall off. Why doesn't that concern you?"

"It does concern me," Siyr said.

Dreizil watched the African just as intensely as did Cavarra.

"I am an Ethiopian Jew, Rocco. I'm also a patriot and soldier of Israel. To protect Israel, I will risk not only death, but radioactive infection."

Cavarra believed this, but had the impression something important was left unsaid. Dreizil seemed satisfied with Siyr's answer, but still upset about something else.

"What were you two talking about when I got here?"

They both played dumb.

"You said, 'you have to be ready to do what we discussed'."

Dreizil thought fast. "We weren't sure we could trust you. Trust that you would, or could, pull off this mission. We planted Siyr in your team to handle things if you couldn't. Or wouldn't."

"You mean frag me?"

"To do whatever had to be done. And you aren't the only question mark--you've got quite a few dark, Arabic-speaking men on your team. How much do you really know about them?"

"There's a couple Richard-heads, but they're not Al Qaeda spies," Puttcamp said.

Dreizil looked a little too smug. "We try to prepare for every contingency. We can't afford to let anyone betray us, for any reason."

"Then you'll understand why I can't let your boy jump in with us," Cavarra said. "He goes in with the Sudanese, or he doesn't go."

 

 

 

27

0525 16 AUG 2002; NUBIAN DESERT, SUDAN

CAMP ALI

 

 

A camp trainer kicked Bassam awake.

"Report to the medical tent immediately!" the trainer yelled.

Bassam scrambled to get dressed, sleepiness flooding quickly away from the shock of the kick. He'd got back to camp less than an hour ago.

What an incredible day--the most spectacular day of his life! He hadn't wanted it to end.

All his life he'd been treated roughly. Rough physically; rough verbally. The beatings from his foster family, the beating from the PLO, the beatings of the Mujahedin, the kicks and slaps from the camp trainers... But in that wonderful place of sweet smells and pretty music, a gentle creature caressed him with soft words and tender touches. It was incredible. Woman.

On the ride back to camp, he replayed those wonderful hours in his mind over and over.

Bassam was physically exhausted, but the fire in him burned hotter than ever. Other men, some even younger than himself, tasted those pleasures whenever they desired--maybe even took them for granted…because they were born wealthy, privileged, and/or handsome. Some boys his age had never received a single beating--boys who actually deserved punishment. Boys who had no excuse for their shameful behavior.

He hated them all: everyone more fortunate than he. That included other Moslems. It included other Palestinians. It included the man who'd just kicked him.

Surely Allah could differentiate between the true warriors and the spoiled hypocrites. Surely Bassam would be rewarded some day for enduring all the cruelty from those who surely would be punished.

Bassam found the medical tent brightly lit. Commandant Ali waited there for him, with a doctor. Bassam started to ask what was going on, but was hushed.

Ali told him to cooperate with the doctor in every way, then left.

The doctor examined Bassam extensively, especially around the privates. He had him urinate in a jar. He inspected his rectum. It was all quite humiliating.

When the exam was finally complete, the doctor told Bassam to go wait outside the commandant's tent.

 

***

 

Bassam waited for hours. The sun was up and burning hot before Ali called him in.

"Sit down, Bassam."

The boy did so.

"We've discovered something unfortunate," Ali said. "The woman you were with..."

"Shondana?"

"Yes. It seems she has entertained some Jews, in the past."

Bassam bristled at the thought of those fat, spoiled pigs touching his woman.

"The filthy animals brought with them a symptom of their depraved culture. The woman carries a disease."

Bassam's gaze roamed around the tent, then rested back on Ali.

"Had we known of this before, we wouldn't have allowed you to consort with her. As soon as we learned, we brought a doctor here to see if he could help you."

"You mean I...she..."

Ali nodded gravely. "She has passed this horrible disease on to you."

"So fast? But--"

"It is a fast acting disease, Bassam. The Jews and Americans, in their boundless debauchery, have spread the most horrible diseases known to man. If it were anyone else, Bassam, I would try to protect them from the truth of it. But because of your courage, I know you can handle it: It is fatal and irreversible."

Bassam pursed his lips for a moment. "How long do I have?"

"You probably won't feel any different for a week or so. Then your insides will start rupturing. Your private parts will swell, twist, then shrivel. There will be excruciating pain with no relief, and a foul smell that will grow worse and worse. You won't be able to urinate. Many infections will occur within you. Your bladder will swell and burst. The pain will be too great for you to walk or even crawl. You'll likely contract more diseases, since your body will be too weak to fight them. Death will be slow and very painful."

Bassam imagined the humiliation of living in his own filth, unable to even use the latrine on his own; covered by flies and maggots, too weak to fend them off. "How long will the suffering last?"

"Someone as strong and courageous as you...maybe weeks. Of course, it will seem like centuries to you, with all that pain. We'll have to remove you from the camp, of course, to some spot out in the desert. Perhaps we can send a holy man out there to pray for you once a day or so. Once you die, we'll have to incinerate your body, so no uncleanness spreads. If you wish, we can bind the woman who gave you this disease, throw her at your feet and stone her to death while you can still hold your eyes open to see it?"

Bassam shook his head firmly. "Please don't. You say my body must be burnt?"

Ali nodded gravely. "To ashes. Fire is the only way to be sure."

"Would the explosion of a bomb work as well?"

"What do you mean?"

"The mission you told me about. I was to deliver a bomb, right?"

Ali arched his eyebrows. "Oh. Well, yes. I suppose an explosion would do it. But you will be too sick to carry out the mission. We've decided to give the honor to another volunteer. I'm sorry, Bassam."

"But you said I won't feel any different for a week. So I will be able to carry out the mission until then."

Ali raised his hands, fingers spread. "I'm sorry, Bassam, but the mission is scheduled for later. Maybe a month or more. I'm sorry."

Bassam slowly lost his color. "But I am ready to go, Commandant. I can accomplish this mission. I am ready to go right now. This very minute. I know I can do it."

Ali shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, Bassam..."

Bassam's eyes glassed over. He trembled visibly. "Please...why must we wait? What is the target?"

"An office building in Tel Aviv."

"Give me the bomb, Commandant...I will take one of the speed boats to the target...I will leave right now...please..."

Ali stroked his chin. "Well, we have acquired a fishing vessel to smuggle the bomb through the Suez...no. No, that would mean moving the schedule forward... I like you, Bassam. I would like to do this for you, but it would disrupt too many plans."

Bassam slumped in defeat.

Ali chewed on his lip as if wrestling with some great dilemma. "Bassam...if I do this for you...can I trust you?"

The boy came back to life. "Yes, Commandant."

"Will you do whatever it takes to deliver the bomb?"

"Yes! I swear it!"

"Will you fight off whatever infidels try to stop you? Will you detonate the bomb as soon as you place it?"

"I swear it!"

Ali sighed. "Very well. I will move up the schedule. I will arrange it for this week. I hope you won't disappoint me, Bassam. I'm counting on you, as is all of Islam."

 

***

 

When the boy left, Chin strolled over from the mess tent and entered the CP to sit with Ali. "Is he primed?"

Ali nodded. "He was already primed. I still think this ploy was unnecessary. But yes: he thinks it is his idea, and I'm doing him a great favor."

Chin nodded, amused. "Aren't you?"

"Of course I am. I don't know why I went along with this. Maybe your soldiers need this kind of deception, but warriors of jihad are proud to give up their lives without it."

"You went along," Chin said, "because with an operation of this magnitude, it is best to leave nothing to chance."

 

 

 

28

0700 16 AUG 2002; MCLEAN, VIRGINIA USA

"LANGLEY"

 

 

Bobbie Yousko had barely sat down with her coffee when John Boehm entered her office and shut the door behind him.

Bobbie read the look on his face and asked, "What is it?"

"Your team got hit yesterday."

Bobbie forgot the coffee and stared at him. "Hit? Who? How?"

"Don't know the details yet. Haven't heard from my guy in country...maybe they got him with the rest. The crypto lab pulled it out of the radio traffic."

Bobbie felt sick. "How bad is it? Any idea?"

"Some of them must've survived," Boehm said. He took a seat facing Bobbie. "Sudanese Army dispatched the Murahaleen Scouts to hunt them down."

The Murahaleen Scouts were Sudan's version of an SS Panzer Battalion. They were equipped with M60 tanks and M113 APCs donated by Uncle Sam. They had the range, speed and firepower to erase fifty commando teams.

The whole mission required stealth up until the hour of the attack on the terrorist camp. Even then, the team would be relatively safe from overt Sudanese threats while inside the Hala'ib Triangle. But if exposed inside Sudan proper, the commando team was worse than helpless. The US would be unable to deny involvement if the Agency offered any assistance to the mercenaries now.

Bobbie had avoided this danger--or tried to--by recruiting operators who could blend in with the local population and carefully selecting the muster points in war-torn southern Sudan. She consolidated her merc operators in a village just outside Bor, rendered a virtual ghost town by a recent Popular Defense Force raid. Khartoum had no reason to pay attention to a village it had just had annihilated, and the Dinkas in surrounding areas had no reason to look twice at a small group of armed men who spoke Arabic.

Cavarra wasn't the type to pull some stupid stunt that would blow their cover. Then how was it blown? Was there a leak? Where?

"Are you sure about all the operators we hired?" asked Boehm.

Was she? She wondered about DeChalk. He was half-Lebanese, but both parents were Protestant and he'd never worked for a Muslim employer. He hadn't been back to Lebanon since the Syrian occupation began.

Siyr? He was the only non-American on the team. But Bobbie had checked and re-checked him. Not only was he not Muslim, but he'd done some work for the Israelis and was still in good standing with them.

"They're in the middle of a civil war," Bobbie said. "Maybe there's no leak at all. Maybe something just happened and our shooters had a case of bad luck."

"I can have my crew look over all the intra-office activity for the last week," Boehm offered.

This was no small chore. Bobbie couldn't possibly get it done without Boehm. "Please. Please do. I appreciate it."

"Uh, B.Y...?"

"What?"

"Whether we find the leak or not...whether there is a leak or not...your boys are in a pinch over there. It probably won't help them much at this point."

Bobbie nodded. "It won't. In fact, there's almost nothing I can do to help them now."

She had to get in touch with James "Mugabe" Harris. But to do it faster than normal channels risked blowing the man's cover.

 

 

 

29

0726 16 AUG 2002; TEKEZZE RIVER CAMP, SUDAN

 

 

Sentry stood stiff-legged at the gate as the Jeep rolled to a stop before it. Zeke approached, rifle leveled.

As Cavarra opened the passenger door and stepped out, he shook his head at Siyr in the back seat with Puttcamp and pointed at the dog. "You were Gonna try to sneak past that monster? He uses bowling balls for his chew toys."

"What goes on, Rocco?" Zeke asked.

"It's cool," Cavarra said. "Let us on through."

Zeke stepped aside. Sentry recognized Cavarra but watched him closely as he got back in the Jeep.

Dreizil drove them over to the motor pool area, hoarse from arguing all night and more than a little annoyed that the Americans were now aware of his presence.

The men coalesced into a mob around the trio as they walked from the Jeep to the center of camp. Cavarra stopped to address them.

"This is Mr. Dreizil from Israeli intelligence." He didn't allow time for the murmuring to grow into Twenty Questions. "As you can imagine, the Israelis are quite concerned with our mission here. Mr. Dreizil will help us to succeed in any way he can."

McCallum and a couple others stared with a skeptical keenness.

"I'll be discussing with him just how he can do that, so you'll be seeing him around. I'm detaching Siyr to be our liaison with the rebel force. So Zeke and DeChalk are buddies, now. Bojado, you're with me."

 

***

 

Lombardi had everyone lay out their parachutes on the nylon “instant runway” staked out inside the camp. The men re-packed their own TMCs, with his assistance. When done packing, they cleaned their weapons and configured their gear while conversing in the cliques they'd established. The most popular topics were Dreizil and Siyr, and speculations concerning them.

Some suspected Cavarra had either withheld some pertinent poop about Dreizil, or had lied to them outright. Lombardi and Mai were the primary proponents of this theory. DeChalk also subscribed to it, but nobody cared what he thought.

Dreizil had left camp not long after his introduction. Several men recognized his Jeep as the vehicle which had dropped Siyr off just before the firefight, so it was no longer a secret that Siyr had some connection to the Israelis. Cavarra banished him to the supply tent, forbidding him to participate in or observe the actions of the others.

Siyr obediently kept to himself. He cleaned, checked and re-checked his rifle, sharpened his sawtooth bayonet, unloaded his magazines to let the springs rest and re-taped down everything on his web gear that might rattle.

He prayed, then opened his Bible.

 

Now the temple was crowded with men and women; all the rulers of the Philistines were there, and on the roof were about 3,000 men and women watching Samson perform. Then Samson prayed to the Lord, "O Sovereign Lord, remember me. O God, please strengthen me just once more, and let me with one blow get revenge on the Philistines for my two eyes."

 

He removed boots and socks to smear petroleum jelly on the bottom of his feet, then elevated his legs.

Siyr knew all the subterfuge wasn't necessary. Israel's survival was guaranteed by the Creator, not by anything as fickle as US foreign policy. The Mighty One had used the Americans from time to time, but even they would feel His wrath if they defied His Covenant.

Siyr was bound to obey Dreizil's orders; yet he knew Dreizil didn't believe literally in a God who intervened on Israel's behalf. Dreizil didn't believe in much anything he couldn't see, hear or touch. But many things couldn't be seen, heard or touched—gravity, magnetism, radiation, love for Israel—and they were no less real for their intangible inaudible invisibility.

Thoughts were always gloomy before a mission, but this time it was worse. Not because of the danger. Not even because of Dreizil's concern that he wouldn't be able to carry out his mission. What made it bad was that Siyr still had a chance to carry out his mission.

No matter what happened to the Sudanese rebels during the attack, Siyr could get inside the camp. He was armed to the teeth and he'd pulled off rough missions armed with little more than his wits. He could get inside, and he could find the bomb.

When Dreizil first briefed Siyr on the mission, he'd been up front about what was expected of him: If the Americans aborted or double crossed them...if they appeared to be in danger of failure...if they were compromised at any point near the target...if they initially succeeded but were intercepted with the hot potato before extraction...if Siyr even had a bad premonition...he was to secure the device and manually activate it.

He was to detonate the warhead--blow the terrorists, the Americans, and himself, into atoms.

 

Then Samson reached toward the two central pillars on which the temple stood. Bracing himself against them, his right hand on the one and his left hand on the other, Samson said, "Let me die with the Philistines!"

 

The threat would be neutralized a safe distance from Tel Aviv and any other Israeli target. Israel wouldn't have to take any overt action, and could deny any knowledge of it after the fact. "The terrorists blew themselves up. That's what they get for fooling around with nukes." Sudan couldn't raise a too big a stink without drawing attention to her harboring of active terrorist cells.

The Americans would also deny knowledge, of course. Americans let their own soldiers be starved and tortured to death in Asian P.O.W. camps for decades with little protest. They wouldn't even peep about the loss of some mercenaries.

So Israel would be saved, the American-led coalition would hold together--maybe even be strengthened, and the next nation planning to host such an operation would have something to think about.

Dreizil was worried Siyr wouldn't be in a position to do this now, separated from Cavarra's team. Siyr had the opposite worry.

 

Then he pushed with all his might, and down came the temple on the rulers and all the people in it. Thus he killed many more when he died than while he lived.

 

 

 

30

0903 16 AUG 2002; DINKA VILLAGE, SUDAN

 

 

Lieutenant Colonel Qawi adjusted the agaal and shumagg on his headdress as his command vehicle followed the lead tank into town. The village was almost destroyed and no living creature stirred. Flies, birds, jackals and hyenas had gathered for the great feast. He saw dead bodies everywhere. Most--or perhaps all--seemed to be Popular Defense Force personnel.

"Sir," announced a voice over the radio, "we've found some wreckage east of the village. A PDF cattle truck, I believe. There are many dead."

Another voice announced a similar finding west of the village. Still another reported a wrecked gunjeep with PDF markings.

"We'll continue our sweep," Qawi said. "Once we've passed through, A and B Troops will secure a position south of the village. I want two squads of infantry to dismount and search the village thoroughly. C Troop will recon in a spiral from here."

His troop commanders acknowledged his instructions and the Murahaleen Scouts kept rolling through the war-ravaged pattern of rubble that only resembled civilization. Qawi's own vehicle passed the burnt-out hulk of an armored car. After his footsoldiers had searched and secured the village, Qawi himself dismounted and took a look around. He could make little sense of the carnage, and the stench of the decaying bodies almost made him nauseous. He held one side of the shumagg over his mouth and nose while examining the gruesome scene.

Qawi had never been this far south before. General Rahim liked to keep his elite units close to Khartoum, and refused to risk them in petty engagements.

With an approximate body count of the PDF soldiers rotting in and around this village, Qawi understood why Rahim had deployed the Scouts here--it was a matter of pride.

The Popular Defense Forces had never suffered a massacre like this. They were dealing with more than just some gang of primitive tribesmen armed with antiquated or improvised weapons. President El-Bashier needed to save face.

 

***

 

C Troop reported footprints along the river bank leading toward Bor. Qawi briefly considered chasing down the survivors and forcing them to dig mass graves for the PDF, then seeing what intelligence he could squeeze out of them. But that ugly task was hardly worthy of his Scouts. He radioed Rahim's staff to suggest something be done about the bodies.

The enemy had at least one tracked vehicle which left distinct imprints in the ground. Qawi ordered B Troop on point to follow the tracks, and the Murahaleen Scouts were on the move again.

B Troop set an ambitious pace. Too ambitious: in areas of hard ground, the tracks were harder to see. They lost the trail a couple times and had to send wide arcing patrols out to pick it back up. Qawi rotated A Troop to the point and ordered them to slow down.

They proceeded at a snail's pace north. Qawi knew his quarry had moved at a much faster rate, but they couldn't run forever. There would be no refuge for them to the north. Sudan was the largest country on the continent, so they would have to stop somewhere inside it.

Wherever they stopped, the Murahaleen Scouts would find them.

 

 

 

31

1153 16 AUG 2002; TEKEZZE RIVER CAMP, SUDAN

 

 

(At the quick-time.)

As I was boppin' down the street, what did my eyes meet?

A grunt with jumpwings standin' tall

Baddest dude I ever saw

Like my recruiter said to me, "Be all that you can be."

As I was humpin' through the sand, I came upon a rag-tag band.

Freedom fighters, lean an' mean

Baddest dudes I ever seen

Like my recruiter said to me, "Go and save democracy."

 

The chutes were all packed and all bellies were full. Now Rocco's Retreads stood burning under the late morning sun, stripped down to T-shirts. Cavarra led them in rehearsals of the actions to be taken on the objective.

Jenkins burst out of Pete Baker's workshop tent and marched up with an excited look on his face. The anomaly of seeing a jet jock lose his practiced composure was enough to get everyone's attention.

"There's something you all want to take a look at," Jenkins said.

They followed him into the tent where Baker's tools were kept. The mechanic had some electronic gizmos hooked up to his solar-charged batteries, with a small computer monitor. On the screen was footage of the devastated Dinka village from the day before. There was excited murmuring as the men recognized what they were seeing.

"At ease!" Lombardi barked, pushing forward to hear what was being said.

"Turn it up!" somebody said.

"...once-peaceful village in the Sudan," the commentator's voice was saying as the camera panned over the devastation, then zoomed in on men working to bury some mangled corpses, "in an attack that left hundreds dead. Local sources report that this is the work of Christian rebels who want to overthrow the Sudanese government. Southern Sudan is no stranger to violence, having suffered civil war for many years, but the brutality of this attack on the Muslim population has led Khartoum to appeal to the United Nations--"

"What!" cried Terrell. "They attacked us! What kind of--"

"Shh!" Mai hissed.

The scene changed to a studio where male and female anchors turned from the teleprompters to face each other, shaking their heads with dour expressions. "What connection, if any," the female asked the male, "might this have to President Bush's 'War on Terror'?"

"That can't be established concretely at this time," the male replied. "But it's possible that, despite the President's public assertions that we are not at war with Islam...he's even admitted that it's a religion of peace, if you recall...some radical, pro-western factions in various parts of the world have taken all the saber-rattling for a signal. These Christian fundamentalists may very well have decided that the political climate is right for their own war of terror on their Muslim neighbors."

The female frowned sadly. "Just because Islam is a peaceful religion, that doesn't mean every religion is peaceful."

"Exactly," said the male. "In most parts of the world, religion is just one cultural aspect of society. It's when the religion becomes the primary focus that these fundamentalist groups are able to thrive and atrocities like this become just an everyday fact of life."

McCallum cursed. "What is this? One of the Arab news agencies? The BBC?"

Baker shook his head and forced a laugh. "This is network news from the World, man."

"How 'bout Fox News?" Zeke asked. "What are they saying?"

Jenkins shrugged. "The commie asswipe says pretty much the same thing. The neocon asswipe says things like this happen because the US doesn't have a strong enough presence in the region."

The reporters now invited a retired officer into the conversation, as their military adviser. He explained that such an operation was the work of a well-armed, highly-motivated unit, working with deadly precision. Perhaps the Sudanese People's Liberation Army had hired some outside help.

The sound of a gasoline engine lured Cavarra outside. The men's outrage was interrupted by the arrival of Mugabe.

Mugabe swung out of his Dodge and said, "Our peeps are comin', Johnny."

Mugabe's tone was more serious than what Cavarra had come to expect.

"Who?"

They stopped face-to-face. Mugabe looked worn out.

"The rebels. They less than a mile out."

"I don't hear anything." Cavarra looked around for Sentry.

As if reading his mind, Mugabe nodded toward the gate. "The dog hear 'em. He up front waitin'. They on foot."

"On foot? What...?"

Mugabe shrugged. "Unexpected difficulties procurin' transportation."

They walked to the gate where Sentry sat watching the horizon. "We had some unexpected trouble of our own," Cavarra said, and brought him up-to-date on recent developments.

Mugabe grimaced upon hearing of the firefight, then grew even more serious when told about the news program.

"Ain't that some mess? Complete news blackout for twenty years on all the black folks gettin' murdered, here. Then the PDF get they ass kicked good one time and 'stop the press!' Mean old rebels oppressin' the government. The horror!"

Some of the men gathered near the fence to watch the growing line of specks on the horizon.

"Infantry?" Campbell wondered aloud. "We're gonna assault the terrorist camp with straight-leg infantry?"

McCallum shrugged, but looked somewhat concerned himself. "Old School warfare. Happens a lot in the Third World."

As the rebels grew closer, details became clearer: Most carried AK47s. Some had RPGs slung around their backs, some mortar tubes, some machineguns. Aside from their weapons, no two of them were dressed or outfitted the same. They were tall, rawboned black men, shiny with sweat. They numbered around 300.

"What a bunch of douche-bags," Mai said.

"Where did they hump in from?" Bojado asked.

"We're still a long shot from our target," McCallum said. "These jokers are Gonna be smoked if they have to hump there by tomorrow night."

Cole asked the obvious question. "How they Gonna have the stren'th ta fight once they get there?"

"They don't look like they could fight off an old lady even now," Mai said.

McCallum wondered. He could tell a lot about a man just by how he carried himself and his gear. Even if the man was only a silhouette in the distance. These men had their heads up and appeared alert. They maintained reasonable intervals on the march. They carried their weapons at the ready, not like burdensome luggage they'd just as well discard. They'd obviously been marching long miles across the hot wilderness, but they weren't broken.

The rebels drew closer. A white man wearing a garish uniform and hat emerged from the ranks. He walked with a painfully erect posture. He wore shorts that reached almost to his hairy knees. Around his bulging waist was a lacquered pistol belt. Hanging from the belt was a chrome-plated Beretta in a lacquered holster.

Cavarra groaned. "Please say that's not the rebel C.O."

Mugabe flashed him a wiry grin. "That's Chargin' Charlie Thibeault."

"Looks like Inspector Clouseau in military drag. Is he French?"

"French, Belgian...one of those pansies. That's good, though: 'General Clouseau.' I like it."

They went through the gate and walked out to meet the European mercenary.

 

***

 

Cavarra, Mugabe and Thibeault sat alone in the motor pool.

"Seems to me," Cavarra said, "you should circle the wagons out there. Secure the area 360 degrees around this camp, until you're ready to--"

Thibeault made a spitting sound. "You need my men to protect yours? After we marching for three days, we no exhausting enough?" He turned to Mugabe. "And where are promise trucks?"

Mugabe replied in a calm, measured tone, "Like I said, I need some volunteers from your men to drive. I got five trucks stashed about an hour from here--"

"Five! Five trucks? How to pack all my men into five trucks? We feet already blisters!"

He had a point, Cavarra realized. Those poor bullet-stoppers wouldn't be in any shape to attack the terrorist camp after four straight days of humping through this heat. "You can have our two trucks. And our halftrack--it'll serve well as your command vehicle. It's got a Browning M2 might come in handy for you. We got another M2 off a jeep you can have. One of my heroes also captured a recoilless rifle and some rockets. You're welcome to mount it on one of the trucks--"

Thibeault glared at him. "I have nine and three-hundred men. Seven trucks do not more good than five."

"Do you want the vehicles or not?" Cavarra asked.

"Whoa there, General Clouseau," Mugabe said. "Don't be lookin' the gift horse, ai'ght? I'll go find you some more trucks here in a minute."

Cavarra looked at Mugabe. "We got some M-shit-teens you could use for trading. No handguards, but otherwise they're complete."

Mugabe brightened. "M16s? I could trade for a whole fleet of trucks with a few of those! How many you got?"

"Seven. But like I said--no handguards."

"She-it. They can carve handguards outa' wood or bamboo or sumpthin'." He winked at Thibeault. "You'll get your trucks, Clouseau."

"How many?"

Cavarra cleared his throat. "Eight more would do it. If you have to, you can stuff all your men in ten trucks. It won't be comfortable, but it beats humping the rest of the way. Whoever can't fit inside can strap themselves to the hood, the roof, the fenders, and ride Russian-style."

Thibeault played with his moustache for a moment. "This situation much unacceptable. I can be expected to perform not effective."

Cavarra put a gentle hand on Mugabe's shoulder. "You probably need to get going. Go see Tommy Scarred Wolf and tell him I said to give you all our leftovers."

Mugabe hesitated, giving Cavarra a curious look. "Cool," he finally said, rising to leave. "I'll let y'all work it out. Just don't kill each other." He got the names of five men who could drive from Thibeault and left the motor pool.

Both men were silent for a moment after Mugabe left. Cavarra popped his neck and knuckles.

"I don't know what you're getting paid or what your agreement was," Cavarra said. "But you are getting paid, or you wouldn't be here. And I know they didn't promise you this would be a milk run."

"Don't dare to condescend me!" Thibeault exploded. "I am ranking officer here."

"Shut up and listen, before I condescend upside your pointy little head."

Thibeault's eyes narrowed.

"You know about the nuke. You know what happens if we don't get it away from the bad guys. Now I'll help you in whatever way I can, but I can't do my job if I have to fight you all the way, capish?"

 

 

 

32

1326 16 AUG 2002; MALAKAI, SUDAN

 

 

Yacov Dreizil sat alone in a cafe watching the rain through the window, sipping tea.

Tea. The British sure did leave their mark on this part of the world.

Even the Jews, who found themselves in a belligerent position against the United Kingdom after WWII, had picked up many British habits from the occupation.

Dreizil examined his hands. The cuticles not scabbed from his previous inspection were peeling anew.

Now, of course, the United States had replaced Great Britain at the top of Israel's "with friends like this, who needs enemies" list.

Israel was the first nation to volunteer to join the coalition for the "War on Terror," but was snubbed by the US. Some Israelis believed the Americans might quit criticizing Israel for her reprisals against Palestinian terrorists, after the attacks on New York and Washington last year. But apparently acts of terrorism were intolerable, cowardly atrocities only when they occurred outside of Israel.

American politicians who claimed, "We don't negotiate with terrorists," insisted that Israel negotiate with Yasser Arafat

Arafat ordered the murder of Israeli athletes in Munich. He ordered his "holy warriors" to bomb schoolchildren. He cut open the wombs of pregnant women and butchered the babies before their eyes. He hung his own people by meathooks through the neck. The Nobel "Peace Prize" winner had killed even more Arabs than Jews. And though appeasing him had never brought an end to the terror by his followers, the Israelis were expected to sit across the table from his puppets and give them more Jewish land every time they opened their mouths to lie.

Dreizil gnawed at the peeling flesh on his fingers. He stopped long enough to check the safety on the pistol under his trenchcoat for the umpteenth time.

 

***

 

Bunty emerged from the bazaar with a bulging burlap sack. He turned down an alley, unaware of the eyes watching him from the cafe window.

Dreizil paid for his tea and hustled outside to follow the informant. The sky was dark and the rain came down hard. Dreizil couldn't even hear his own footsteps over the constant splatter.

He shadowed Bunty through the alley and along a fenced-off drainage ditch strewn with garbage and animal carcasses. He was thankful the downpour suppressed the stench.

Bunty crawled through a hole in the fence, crossed a weed-ridden field and came to a half-skeletal building. Dreizil followed him to the unfinished warehouse.

Construction had been halted years ago on this place. What portions of the roof existed were in bad condition. Bunty sat down on a truck dock under one such portion and leaned back against the wall.

Dreizil emerged from the rain and loomed over him.

Bunty looked up at Dreizil and was transfixed by the silencer protruding from the trenchcoat.

"So you're not religious," Dreizil said. "You snitch to the PDF for money to buy drugs."

Bunty was speechless. He couldn't even find words to think.

Dreizil had found the driver, hired by James "Mugabe" Harris, who had tipped Bunty off to the men and weapons in the Dinka village. With adequate persuasion, he gave Dreizil a lead on where to find Bunty.

Dreizil knew assassinating collaborators in a country like this was like trying to plug the Titanic with a champaign cork. The driver was tied and gagged under a tarp in the Jeep.

"I-I don't...I didn't..." Bunty said.

Dreizil waved the pistol at him. "Toss the bag over."

Bunty complied.

Keeping his eyes on the frightened Sudanese, Dreizil squatted and dipped his hand in the bag. He wanted to see what kind of inanimate substance almost caused a nuclear holocaust. He expected to feel bundles of Somalian khat, but his hand came out with a sesame cake.

"Please, sir," Bunty said, "my family is starving."

Dreizil studied him. The man was ghastly thin and sickly-looking, like so many of the southern Sudanese. He hadn't come here to consume drugs in private--he'd merely needed to rest his emaciated body before continuing on the journey to take much-needed food to a malnourished family.

"Take your shoes off," Dreizil ordered, pulling some rawhide strips from his pocket.

 

 

 

33

1336 16 AUG 2002; AS SUDD, SUDAN

 

 

Qawi ordered a halt and cursed.

The drought was over. Rain poured down with the density of a waterfall and the river was starting to flood.

The tracks of his prey were being swept into oblivion. Had they crossed the river here and turned back north? Or had they driven along over the rapids to conceal their progress?

Wherever the tracks reemerged, they were disappearing with every liter of pounding water and it would be impossible to find them.

Qawi could now fully appreciate being stationed in the North. Down here it rained nine months out of the year. Even during a dry year, like this one, torrential rains weren't uncommon.

He closed the hatch, hunched down in the turret and opened his map case. Where could they be going?

Certainly they had no intention of raiding anywhere north of Rashad--that would be suicide for any unit the rebels could muster.

Just how large was this force? It was hard to determine since they traveled single-file. They destroyed a 120-strong PDF contingent. By conventional logic, then, that put their numbers at that many or more, depending on entrenchment, surprise, and who had surprised whom. Probably twice as large or larger, and with some respectable firepower.

What could the mission of such a unit be? Possibly to destroy a dam. Maybe ransack a government storehouse. Perhaps a reprisal torching of some Muslim farms...

That was it! The northward movement was just a ploy to throw off pursuit. The real target must be the oil fields across the Sabat River from Ethiopia. The Christians had dried up a portion of the As Sudd swampland adequately to farm. One of the farmers had discovered oil by accident. Within a week, the farmers were dead and the government was drilling there.

The clever rebels must have turned southeast once in the river, so they couldn't be trailed. Tracked vehicles were heavy enough not to be swept away by the current. They couldn't hope to hold the oil fields by themselves, but they could wipe out the crews and set the fields afire to deny Khartoum their use.

Qawi had C Troop cross the river. With A and B Troops on the southwest bank and C Troop on the northeast, his Scouts turned to follow the Sabat down toward the oil fields in the merciless downpour.

 

 

 

34

1641 16 AUG 2002; TEKEZZE RIVER CAMP, SUDAN

 

 

Puttcamp's Skyraider climbed at a steeper and steeper angle until it stalled. Then he performed a wing-over and sent the old bird into a spin.

Haugen dove after and quickly overtook him.

Puttcamp was only a thousand feet off the deck when he pulled out of the spin and swung onto Haugen's tail.

Haugen barrel-rolled and nosed down into a half-loop. Puttcamp followed.

Wingtip-to-wingtip, the Skyraiders dove another few hundred feet and pulled up to skim along the river at strafing altitude.

 

***

 

Cavarra called a break from the rehearsals and the men gathered to watch the aerobatics.

Scarred Wolf stood beside Jenkins, who shook his head and chuckled. "You ever hear the famous last words of a jet jock?"

"I don't think so," Scarred Wolf said.

Jenkins poked his tongue into his lower lip to simulate a wad of chaw and drawled, "'Watch this'!"

"Which fighter jock was that?"

"Any one of 'em," Jenkins replied. "Take your pick."

Scarred Wolf got it, now, and laughed. "Still, it's gotta make you a little jealous. I'm not a pilot and I'm jealous, watching them hot-dog up there."

Jenkins winked. "Oh, I'm jealous, all right. I've just had a lot of practice hiding it."

 

***

 

Mugabe's Ramcharger entered the camp, leading five old five-ton trucks. Scarred Wolf went to meet Mugabe, since the agent would now be needing the M16s.

Thibeault's men cheered when they saw the trucks. Mugabe turned them over to Pete Baker for refueling and a basic inspection.

Mugabe stored the rifles in the back of his Ramcharger and found the European merc.

"Here's sumpthin' to get you started, General Clouseau. I'm headin' into town to find some more. If any's available, I should be able to get plenty for you."

"This is... asinine," Thibeault said. "I no can explain you and this 'Rocco' to understand that I can possible not march 300 men to target by H-Hour with five trucks. We necessary must leave in some few hours. No time for rest. How you more trucks delivered us?"

"I'll try to get them back here before you leave. If I don't, I'll catch up with you."

Thibeault threw his hands up. "I no can believe! You just now arrive, and with only one third of minimum vehicles I require. Where have you been doing?"

Mugabe had meant to get back much sooner, but he'd been contacted by Washington, and had to ditch the volunteer drivers temporarily in a safe spot while he went off to take the call in private. If Bobbie Yousko was willing to dial his direct and unsecured, it must be important.

B.Y. had heard the team was compromised, and was relieved tremendously to learn that it was still intact and the mission going forward. Yousko instructed Mugabe to push the schedule up since their cover was blown, but this was impossible without the trucks for Thibeault's troops. In fact, the lack of transport was now the biggest obstacle to the mission.

B.Y. cursed Kabiu and told Mugabe to find some trucks in a hurry, however he could.

"Don't start trippin'," Mugabe warned Thibeault. "You ain't the only one with problems. You just gonna have to improvise."

 

***

 

The Skyraiders came in for landings on the nylon "instant runway" and taxied to their revetments. Haugen and Puttcamp climbed out of their cockpits and swaggered toward the big tent, talking, nodding and symbolizing maneuvers for each other with motions of their hands.

Cavarra went to fetch Siyr, but the merc wasn't where he'd left him. He groaned. What now? Why had he snuck off again?

At first, he ignored the ruckus outside the camp amongst the rebels. Thibeault was screaming at somebody in Arabic. But in time Cavarra's curiosity got the best of him and he marched out to investigate.

There in the center of the disturbance he found Siyr.

Thibeault saw Cavarra arrive and grew even more enraged. "This is not your affair! I no will tolerate your interference! I am in command here!"

Cavarra held his hands up, palms forward. "Whoa. This is one of my heroes. What's the problem here?"

"One of yours? Why I am not surprised? He tries to have mutiny with my men!"

Siyr shook his head. "Not true at all. I only attempted to arrange the men into a more tactical posture. There is no provision for security here--the men are too close together and nobody is watching--"

Siyr's explanation was drowned out by Thibeault's screaming.

"Get back to camp," Cavarra told Siyr.

Siyr shrugged and headed for the gate. Some of the Sudanese smiled and called to him as he walked past.

When Thibeault calmed down enough to listen, Cavarra said, "I apologize. He didn't intend to usurp your authority."

The mercenary seemed thrown off-balance by the apology. "You sended him to do this?"

"I did not. He must've just noticed the same thing I did..."

"No more your lectures on security."

Cavarra hunched his shoulders. "Like you said, you're in command." He hoped the rebels wouldn't get wiped out because of that.

Thibeault was momentarily silent.

"His name is Ehud Siyr. He's your sergeant-major, and the liaison between you and me. I'll have a talk with him about not stepping on your toes."

"Liaison?"

"Right. He speaks a lot of languages, including some of the dialects your men speak. He'll be handy for you to have around. Not only can he communicate with your troops, he's pretty good in a fight."

"I am not too much certain..."

"Look: This is to be a coordinated attack, right? Now how am I supposed to coordinate with you if we don't have a go-between?"

 

***

 

Cavarra smiled to himself as the old familiar stress headache came back. I must be crazy to enjoy this. He caught up with Siyr back inside the camp. "I need a word with you."

Siyr shook his head. "What sort of imbecile has been hired to lead these men?"

"Knock it off," Cavarra said. "I don't care what you think of him. That's his unit, and you don't go stealing his thunder like that."

"I was only introducing myself among the men," Siyr said. "A few of them commented on the poor state of security, and I could see they were right. All I did--"

"Hey, I admit that's a gaggle out there. But you made him look bad and that's an unforgivable sin with most officers."

"Commander Cavarra, this man makes himself look bad. There is no way to make him look otherwise. He is either a reincarnation of Von Moltke's constipated nephew, or he learned all his tactical doctrine by watching Starship Troopers."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, you see how he's deployed his men...if you can call it a deployment. Even a peacetime bivouac is more tactically sound. And these men he has? They are not stupid cannon fodder as he treats them. They are all volunteers from the SPLA. They've all seen combat...some have seen quite a bit, but he seems to think of them as basic trainees. You know how he selected his officers and NCOs from among them?"

Cavarra shook his head.

"When he took command, he gathered them together in a large building and had each one of them stand up and introduce himself with a short speech. All 309 men. This is the means he used to pluck his chain-of-command from among them."

Cavarra frowned. If this was true, it was almost insane enough to be funny.

"They've not drilled together. He's told nobody of his plan, if he has one. Not even the officers he brevetted. I am afraid all he thinks they are good for is a frontal assault, and perhaps that is the only battle drill he is familiar with."

Cavarra had assumed the Sudanese rebels to be unmotivated and undisciplined. But if what Siyr said was true, they had remarkable reserves of both motivation and discipline just to march for three days with this slab of meat.

"He passed out the mortars and machineguns without bothering to find out who was experienced with them. Yesterday, he had the mortarmen on point."

Cavarra sighed. "How are his subordinate leaders? Hopeless?"

"Actually, no. Some could be better, but all could be far worse. A few have taken the initiative and shuffled the ranks around. They've also put the support weapons in the hands of experienced troops."

"Listen, Siyr: This makes it all the more important that I have you with him. But you've gotta walk on eggshells with this guy. Feed his ego a bit...that might win him over. Then see what you can do with the men and their appointed leaders. But discreetly."

"See what I can do?"

"Draw them a layout of the camp. Give them an idea of what they're up against--"

"They know nothing of the nuclear warhead."

"Not surprising. Well, don't go telling them now. But if you get the chance, drill them a bit in coordinated fire-and-maneuver."

"What about planning?"

"If he doesn't have one, then you might as well help the leaders formulate something tentative. Nothing fancy. Assuming the bunkers have been knocked out, a brief rolling barrage by the mortars right through the mine field and into the camp, followed by sappers to breach the concertina in three or four places. I'd attack from the south--their defenses seem weakest there. Once you breach, have the mortars fire flares over the camp. Emplace the machineguns on the high ground--on top of the pillboxes, whatever's left of them. Once you get that far, the worst should be over. But for the luvva' Mother, remember my guys'll be over on the eastern edge. Make sure they know that."

Siyr nodded. "I will do what I can, Rocco."

 

***

 

While the others checked and readied their night-vision goggles, Scarred Wolf blindfolded himself and arranged to have Cole act as his eyes for the rest of the day.

"What you doing, Chief?" Bojado asked.

"Low-tech night vision."

A few laughed. "It may look like night to you, now," Lombardi chortled, "but the rest of us have broad daylight to see you look like some jackass with a blindfold on."

More laughter.

"He's gonna take it off before the jump," Cole said.

"And he'll have the night vision of a cat," Campbell added.

Mai held up his goggles. "Hello? Earth to the Redskin? It's called 'PVS-Fives'."

"This doesn't require batteries, or throw off your depth perception," Scarred Wolf said.

"What is that?" Terrell asked. "Some old Apache trick?"

"I'm not Apache."

"Whatever," Mai said.

 

 

 

35

 

 

(At a double-time.)

He was a rough tough hard-chargin' US Marine

Loaded down heavy with bullets an' beans.

He lined a hundred 'jockeys up against the wall

Bet a thousand dollars he could grease 'em all.

Greased 99 'til his barrel glowed red

Stuck his Ka-Bar through the last one's head...

 

Dreizil returned as the men were helping Pete Baker load the heavy drop.

Cavarra was bewildered to see the Israeli pulling two gagged and blindfolded Sudanese out of the Jeep. They were barefoot and bound with wet rawhide.

"What's this?"

Dreizil forced Bunty and the driver onto their knees, then turned to face Cavarra. "I want to 'clear the air.' Is that how it's said? I don't want any reason for mistrust left between us."

"You lost me."

"This is one of the men who delivered your trucks. He described what he saw to this man here, and this man passed that information along to the PDF."

Cavarra looked them over. They both appeared malnourished and terrified.

Dreizil switched to Hebrew. "You were worried that me or Siyr had squealed to the PDF ourselves. You are free to interrogate these men until you are satisfied that I'm telling you the truth."

Cavarra locked eyes with the Israeli. "Thanks. But Siyr won't be jumping in with us."

Dreizil tried to look nonchalant. "How about myself, then? You have an extra parachute."

Cavarra's jaw dropped, not sure he had heard correctly. "You're asking to go in with us?"

Dreizil shrugged. "Yes. Most of my jumps were static-line, but I've had some HALO experience."

"You're serious."

"Yes."

"Just why would you want to do that?"

"My country needs to have eyes and ears on the ground during the crucial part of the operation. I've told you why."

Cavarra shook his head. "Stick around for a minute. I'd like to talk to you." He turned away to search the curious faces around the camp. "Mai! Lombardi!"

The two senior non-coms sauntered over. Cavarra pointed to the prisoners.

"Mr. Dreizil says these are the snitches who tipped off the opfor about us. Why don't you take them somewhere and see if you can confirm that."

They lifted the two Africans to their bare feet to escort them away.

"They're both almost starving," Dreizil said. "A little food and they will probably tell all."

Mai sneered back at him. "Oh, they'll tell all."

Cavarra motioned for Dreizil to follow him.

They entered the tent to which Siyr had briefly been banished, and sat down.

"You're not playing straight with me." Cavarra said. "What's really going on?"

"We've been over this," Dreizil said.

"Yeah, and you all but admitted you want to be there in case you have to frag me. As reassuring as that may be, neither you nor Siyr are jumping in with us."

Dreizil smiled weakly. "I guess I can't blame you. But there was no harm in asking."

"What's your real reason? Siyr will be able to tell what's going on just as easily with Thibeault as he would with us. We'll be in radio contact."

"Perhaps. But I have no confidence in either Thibeault or his men."

"What, like you trust me and mine?"

Dreizil sighed. "I have nothing personal against you, Cavarra. If circumstances were different, you and I might get along, you know? We might even be friends."

"I guess that's a compliment," Cavarra said.

"I think you are an honorable man. I have no intention of killing you, or seeing you killed." This much was true, Dreizil realized.

Cavarra folded his arms and leaned back.

"However, the individuals you take orders from are not honorable. This has been proven time and again to my people." Dreizil scratched his chin and opened his arms wide for a moment, as if welcoming a blow to his head or torso.

"America?" Cavarra asked, flinching. "We're the best friends you've got. The only friends."

"Because you give to us with one hand while stabbing us in the back with the other? That doesn't make you our friend. And you give more to our enemies than you give to us. Would you like to compare American arms handouts to Egypt or Saudi Arabia with those given to us?"

"Backstabbing? You're calling us backstabbers?"

"The PLO was bankrupt until your President Clinton bailed them out with US money. He froze the loan guarantee for the Russian immigrants in order to influence our elections against the Likud. His predecessor, Bush the Elder, bypassed the legitimately elected Knesset and negotiated with the leftists of the Labor Party, who were not even in power--"

"Hate to bust your bubble, Dreizil, but there are non-Jews indigenous to Palestine."

"Who refuse to coexist peacefully. Perhaps you've forgotten their celebration after September Eleven? You certainly forget the atrocities they commit against us."

Cavarra never dreamed he'd be obliged to argue in favor of the PLO. "Hey, they want their own country, just like your Hagannah terrorists did during the British occupation."

"There has been a 'Palestinian' state," Dreizil said, "longer than there has been a Jewish state. It is now called 'Jordan.' Where is the worldwide pressure on that country to absorb Arafat and his murderers? Why does no one suggest that the 'poor Palestinians' are given territory from their Islamic brothers? Why must the land be taken from the only Jewish state, which is already the smallest?"

Cavarra's jaw twitched. "The Palestinians are orphans. The other Arabs don't want them."

"So how is this Israel's fault?"

Cavarra could see he'd opened a real sticky wicket, here. No good could come from arguing with Dreizil. How, then, to steer the conversation back to tangible matters? Like what was hidden up the Israeli's sleeve.

Two gunshots pierced the camp.

 

 

 

36

1755 16 AUG 2002; AD DAMIR, SUDAN

 

 

Atef Al-Dura was thickly built for an Arab, and obviously didn't bathe often. He handled the M16s roughly, almost angrily. Mugabe knew Arab traders often behaved this way to disguise their recognition of a great deal.

The two men stood in the hot evening sun between Mugabe's Dodge and a huge Mercedes diesel truck. Three of Al-Dura's men stood nearby watching lazily.

"What about handguards?" Al-Dura asked.

"I'm sure some can be found easily enough," Mugabe said. "Or improvised, if need be."

"Come inside," Al-Dura said, handing the last rifle to one of his men.

Mugabe followed him from the truck lot into the lavish (by Sudanese standards) adobe/stucco house.

Many lamps dimly lit the interior of dark wood and animal pelts. Al-Dura and an armed worker escorted Mugabe into a small room with a long table. They all sat down.

Al-Dura noticed the way Mugabe crossed his legs: American-style, with the ankle resting on the knee. He made no mention of it, and Mugabe seemed oblivious to his observation.

A veiled woman brought in refreshments, and left without a word, shutting the door behind her.

"Why do you need the trucks?" Al-Dura asked, lighting a Turkish cigarette.

"A safari," Mugabe said.

The armed worker gulped tea from the glass set before him.

"You have the necessary permits for this safari?"

Mugabe shrugged. "That's not my concern. I just procure the vehicles."

Al-Dura nodded. "Who are you procuring them for? Who is undertaking this safari?"

Mugabe smiled. "I'm sorry, but I can't disclose that."

Al-Dura leaned back in his chair and sipped from his own glass. "Please drink. We have much cold tea."

"I'm not thirsty," Mugabe lied. "But thank you. I'll drink some later."

The worker stood, stretched, walked to the door and exited.

"Where will your safari be going?"

"Jebel Marra, I suppose."

Al-Dura exhaled smoke through his nose. "I'm prepared to trade fifteen trucks for your rifles. Will that be enough for your party?"

Mugabe's chest tightened. That was too easy. No Arab offered a fair trade right up front. It took hard-fought haggling to get a square deal. "The rifles are worth twice that much," he said, distractedly.

"So you need thirty trucks to haul your party?"

James "Mugabe" Harris sat up straight and put both feet on the floor. An electric charge wrapped around his brain and tingled in his teeth. Oh, snap. Is this it?

As if in answer to his question, the door reopened. The worker came back in, followed by a man he hadn't seen before. The worker stood blocking the door while the stranger stood across the table from Agent Harris.

The stranger had "secret police" written all over his posture and blank countenance.

Agent Harris stole a glance at Al-Dura, who took another drag from his cigarette and flicked ash into a bronze tray.

It was the cellphone. Bobbie Yousko blew my cover with that phone call.

"You are under arrest for espionage, 'Mugabe'," the stranger said. "I don't have to tell you what we do with spies. But if you cooperate--"

In one fluid motion, Harris rose while throwing the table over and drawing his .44 Ruger Blackhawk.

He had a small automatic in his ankle holster--far more popular for spook work. But he liked the balance of the cowboy-style revolver. And if he was going out, he might as well raise some hell on the way.

The secret policeman slapped leather. Al-Dura's lot worker already had his pistol halfway drawn. Flame and thunder spat from the Blackhawk's muzzle. The worker's body slammed backwards into the door, wrenching it off the hinges.

Harris pivoted and fanned the hammer once with his free hand. The Blackhawk roared again. The secret policeman got a shot off, then half of his head disappeared as he backflipped to the floor.

Al-Dura was still seated, cigarette in hand. His mind still hadn't processed all that had just happened in the split-second whirl of violence.

Harris grabbed a chair and broke it across the man's face. In a blur, he whipped out and flipped open his straight razor. He stooped, dipping the blade carelessly downward, then folded and pocketed it. Al-Dura now had a new mouth under his chin.

"Smile, asshole."

Every bullet was precious, now. Harris ejected the empty casings from his smoking six-gun, dropped in fresh rounds, snapped the cylinder back in place and plunged through the door.

A shot rang out close on his left. A burning sledgehammer smashed into his side. He dropped, rolled and fired, punching a huge hole in the shooter.

Figures appeared in the front doorway. Harris fanned the hammer and the doorway cleared.

Blood gushed from him. The pain was incredible and he felt weak. Game over. I'm not Gonna make it this time.

He crashed through a side window backwards and landed on his back outside, somewhat tangled in the curtains. The Blackhawk bucked in his fist and flattened an armed but unsuspecting man.

It never looked this painful in those John Woo movies. Shards of glass sent fire into his spine. He struggled to his feet.

He was dizzy and his vision was washing out. He staggered toward the cover of his Ramcharger. He took a round in his calf and went down. Another shot tore his forearm.

He blinked, saw more men taking aim at him from the truck lot. He fanned the hammer until it smacked into a spent chamber.

He fumbled for the ankle holster, but his fingers wouldn't work anymore, and he couldn't see anything clearly. Gunfire sounded far away and a cold sensation climbed his body.

This is it.

James "Mugabe" Harris bit down on the cyanide capsule and relaxed.

 

 

 

37

1802 16 AUG 2002, TEKEZZE RIVER CAMP, SUDAN

 

 

Cavarra and Dreizil passed Mai on their way to where the shots had originated. The burly marine was stalking away with a scowl that looked even angrier than normal. Dreizil paused to stare after Mai and fell farther behind.

When Cavarra trotted around the side of the halftrack, he saw two dead bodies. Head shots. Lombardi knelt over one, checking vital signs for some crazy reason. He turned to face Cavarra, shaking his head, eyebrows stretched high.

"What happened?"

"Mai greased them and walked away," Lombardi said.

Others from all over the camp arrived to stare at the scene.

The Sudanese were still bound and blindfolded. Cavarra felt sick. "What did you do this for? I said interrogate, not execute!"

"I didn't do it," Lombardi said. "I didn't know Mai was gonna do it. Had no idea...he just did it."

Cavarra sank to one knee and fought to hold his cookies.

Dreizil turned to Lombardi. "Did they refuse to talk?"

"No," Lombardi said. "They told us everything. They tipped off the PDF, just like you said. They confessed everything."

Cavarra shut his eyes tight. Now we're not just mercenaries. We're murderers, too.

"Why were they shot?" Dreizil demanded.

Lombardi threw his hands up.

 

***

 

Bojado caught up to Mai and called out to him. "Hold it right there, Gunny."

Mai stopped and turned, irritable.

"What's your problem?" Bojado asked.

"You talking to me?" Mai asked, through stiff lips.

"I'm talking to you. Aren't you the sick scumbag who wasted two civilians in cold blood?"

Mai sneered. "Oh, spare me. You really Gonna cry about a couple dead sand-niggers?"

McCallum arrived and put one huge hand on Bojado's shoulder. "I got this."

Bojado was only momentarily distracted. "You're a disgrace," he told Mai. "You're a disgrace to the Corps."

McCallum placed himself between Mai and the smaller marine. "So why did you kill the 'sand-niggers,' Mai?"

"They ratted us out. We got what info we needed out of them. They were no longer useful."

"You are a sick puppy," McCallum said. "And a disgrace to...to everything. Whatever you are, you're a disgrace to it. You're a worthless slab of meat and a sorry excuse for a man."

Mai quivered with rage and pointed an index finger at McCallum. "You broke bad on me once and got away with it. Don't push your luck."

McCallum pointed back with a finger as big around as a broom handle. "I'm gonna do a lot more than push."

Bojado reluctantly backed up to give them room.

The others drifted over from the murder site and formed a circle around Mai and McCallum. Everyone but Scarred Wolf (still blindfolded in the tent) and Fava-Vargas (singing, unaware of the gunshots or the subsequent chaos) gathered to watch.

Cavarra made no effort to prevent the fight. If McCallum didn't do it, someone else would, and Mai had it coming. If Cavarra hadn't felt so nauseous, he would have taken care of Mai personally.

The circle of spectators reminded Mai of high school. He would pick fights with haoles in the parking lot almost every week. He was an experienced brawler even before joining the Marines. The angry black giant facing Mai only scared him a little. Mai had beaten big men before. Size and strength didn't necessarily mean a man knew how to fight. In fact, big dudes were often easy to take down.

"C'mon, dogface," Mai taunted. "Take your best shot. C'mon. I'll let you get the first one in for free."

McCallum took a shot.

Nobody present expected such a large man to move so quickly--least of all Mai.

McCallum's left jab smashed straight-on into Mai's nose. Cartilage busted and blood sprayed. Mai's eyes involuntarily shut for a moment. He never saw the follow-up right cross that nearly unhinged his jaw.

Mai fell hard. He instantly scrambled to regain his feet, but McCallum kicked him in the head and put an end to that.

The rest was an anticlimax. McCallum dove upon him, knees pinning his arms down and enormous fists battering his head, but Mai was already out.

Cole, Terrell, Zeke and Lombardi were able to pull McCallum off Mai. Probably because McCallum didn't want to hurt any of them.

 

 

 

38

1844 16 AUG 2002; AS SUDD, SUDAN

 

 

Qawi called a halt.

"Say again," he said. "I didn't copy. Over?" Something about a spy and a shoot-out in Ad Damir, but the rainstorm was making radio conversation difficult.

"Are you still tracking them?" asked the voice on the radio.

"Not exactly. The rain has destroyed their tracks. But I think their target is the oil fields. We're following the Sabat--"

"Negative! Negative! Their target is north. I repeat, north. Over?"

"North where, over?"

"Uncertain of specific target at this time. Regular Army divisions are spreading east from the Nile. You need to about-face and move north on the double. Over?"

"Wilco. How large is the enemy force, over?"

"Unknown. But the high command was very clear: You are to move north. Over?"

"Wilco. Request aerial recon across suspected enemy route. Over?"

"Birds are wheels-up already. Will inform on contact. Over?"

"Roger. Out."

The Murahaleen Scouts reversed direction and cut for the highway.

The deluge hadn't yet made the dirt road unnavigable. The Scouts strung out along the road and drove north.

Qawi wondered what the rebels could be up to. Was it some suicide mission? How big was their force? Was high command right about their target being north?

Just because a spy was caught trying to buy trucks in the North didn't mean the rebels' target was in the North.

Well, he would comply with orders. If high command was wrong, he couldn't be faulted.

Either way, they should be out of this accursed downpour in an hour or two. Then they could refuel and buckle up for a wild ride. It wasn't often he let his Scouts run the M60s at full-throttle, so this should prove a night to remember.

 

 

39

1958 16 AUG 2002; TEKEZZE RIVER CAMP, SUDAN

 

 

(At a double-time.)

When I was young I always wanted to say

"I'm a SEAL, I'm a Ranger, or a Green Beret."

Now that I'm here an' I'm fit to fight

I got a drop into Indian Country tonight...

 

"I know this would happened!" Thibeault complained. "No more trucks. I march all night must again. Four days consecutive!"

The sun sank low and a breeze swept the camp. Thunder rumbled in the distant South, but here only a hint of clouds showed on the horizon. The two men stood near the transport plane, watching Baker check and re-check all three aircraft.

"Look," Cavarra said, "you got seven trucks and a halftrack. Pack as many troops inside as you can. Have as many as possible ride Russian-style. The rest hump for a while, then ride while somebody else humps. Let your men take turns riding and walking, and they'll be fresher at H-Hour. Keep the mortars and other heavy trash on the trucks, though. But you gotta' leave now, to make the objective on schedule."

Dreizil had left some time ago, to see if he could track Mugabe down.

Cavarra's feelings toward the Israeli had softened considerably in the last couple hours. Dreizil saw him during a very weak moment--right after the murder--but made no comment about Cavarra dropping the ball. He also refrained from taking any cheap shots about Americans, murder, civilian casualties or any other topic grazed during their conversations. The connection would have been so easy and tempting to make, thanks to the shocking actions of one homicidal sadist among them.

At the very least, Dreizil--or anyone else--should accuse him of stupidity for trusting Mai. In fact, one could argue that Cavarra caused the atrocity by encouraging Mai to exercise his sadism.

I didn't know he would go that far. How could I have known that?

"So easy for you to say me to march, when you will riding an airplane," Thibeault said.

"I've got a spare parachute, if you really want to ride like the big dogs."

Siyr stepped up and saluted Thibeault. "Would you like me to load the vehicles now, sir?"

Thibeault returned the salute, frowning.

"Your command vehicle is loaded, fueled and ready for you to climb aboard, sir."

Thibeault pursed his lips, then told Siyr, "Very well, Sergeant-Major. Draft rotational roster for men who no can to fit on trucks. They will take turn riding, to walking. Understand?"

"Yes, sir!" Siyr said, and hustled off to load the convoy.

In fact, Siyr had already worked out the roster, and many other details he would let Thibeault take the credit for.

Cavarra breathed easier, knowing Siyr could pull Thibeault's strings.

Siyr barked commands in Arabic, English and Nilotic tongues. Gas and diesel engines sputtered to life. Men ran and shouted. Weapons clattered. Trucks bounced from the force of men jumping aboard. Grim-looking Sudanese rebels tied themselves to fenders, hoods, bumpers and cab roofs while others squeezed inside the cargo holds.

"I'll meet you at the dock," Cavarra told Thibeault, unsure if this was true or not.

 

***

 

Cavarra entered the tent to find his men posing for a picture. At Jenkins' urging, three of them sat together on a cot, Scarred Wolf with hands over his eyes, Fava-Vargas with hands covering ears, and Cole with hands over mouth. All it needed was a "see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil" caption.

The camera flashed and Jenkins said, "Thanks, monkeys. If it don't make the Stars and Stripes, it should at least make the cover of National Lampoon."

Cavarra approached the cot where Mai lay by himself, and squatted next to him.

Mai's nose and lips were badly swollen and lacerated. Some of his teeth were missing. One eye was blackened. Dried blood caked his face in an irregular pattern.

"How's your head, Mai?"

"Fine."

"You gonna be up to speed tonight?"

"What if I'm not?"

Cavarra honestly didn't know. He wished he had a magic wand to just make Mai disappear. "Maybe I deal with you the way you dealt with those civilians."

Mai nodded and stared straight up.

"You got one chance," Cavarra said, "and one chance only: You keep that ugly scar under your nose shut and do exactly as you're told. Save your attitude for the enemy. If you cross the gray line in any way...if I see you so much as give a dirty look at Mac, or anyone else...I'm Gonna deal with you in a language you'll understand. Copy?"

Mai nodded.

"If, by some miracle, you make it through this alive, we'll go our separate ways and never have to see each other's face again. And count yourself lucky."

"Aye aye, sir."

Cavarra rose and returned to the men.

Mai silently cursed everyone and everything in existence.

It happened again. First his career in the Corps was ruined, and now even this mercenary business was ruined. He had no doubt Cavarra meant exactly what he'd said. Haole squid bastard was up in my face from the very beginning. If Mai made it out alive, he'd never work for Soggy again. And he'd never be a marine again, even with a war brewing.

So he was in a place he hated, surrounded by people he hated, on a job he hated. And he'd been humiliated by someone he hated, in front of witnesses he hated.

He had a rifle, a pistol, and live ammo. His gut instinct was to kill McCallum...and Cavarra, and maybe a few others. But McCallum hadn't taken his eyes off Mai for one second since he'd regained consciousness. Even now, across the expanse of the tent, McCallum sat glowering at him. His eyes challenged Mai to try something. Anything.

And Mac wasn't the only one. No less than four pairs of eyes had been watching him at any time. Even the dogface haole Lombardi, who at least seemed a little less of a loser than the others, now looked at him in a way that made Mai furious.

Even if he shot the giant sapper in the back, one of the others would surely kill Mai.

Mai didn't dare step out of line now. An opportunity might present itself when the shooting started, but it wasn't likely. And he didn't want to ever face McCallum again, even with a loaded gun. Someone who knew how to use his size and strength to fight like Mac could with bare hands would also be dangerous with a weapon. McCallum didn't overestimate the value of what nature had endowed him with, or neglect any aspect of a warrior's craft. Mai wanted to stay as far away from him as possible. He feared the nuclear warhead less than he feared Mac.

Still, there was no telling what opportunities fate might present.

 

 

 

40

 

 

(At a double-time.)

F27 rollin' down the strip

Twelve operators on a one-way trip.

Mission top-secret, destination unknown

Some might not be comin' home...

 

Dark amber glasses had replaced Scarred Wolf's blindfold when they loaded the bird that night. He didn't want the moonlight to spoil his vision just yet.

The scene looked otherworldly. A lone transport plane sat quietly on a synthetic runway in the middle of an exotic wilderness. Insects and strange animals sang to a huge, bright moon bathing the alien landscape with a pale, monochrome luminescence. A single-file line of oddly garbed humanoid creatures approached the winged craft, and disappeared into it. Radios squawked in the night. A few quiet voices carried through the air.

Scarred Wolf appreciated the surreal qualities of the scene as if he was not just part of it, but also observing it from some vantage point outside his own body.

Sentry watched the procession intently, as if appreciating it in the same exact way.

The Fokker F-27 seemed unusually roomy, although actually smaller than even the C130s they were all so familiar with. But there were only twelve jumpers, with the thirteenth man, Pete Baker, acting as loadmaster. Also, they didn't have to waddle under the weight of loaded ALICE packs. Their web gear bristled with ordinance and their stomachs stretched happily around the shifting lurps consumed two hours earlier. Scarred Wolf was jumping with the Dover Devil and his rifle/grenade launcher. Fava-Vargas and DeChalk would be jumping with the SLAP ammo. Cavarra had the squad radio, and Zeke had the back-up radio. Everyone else was "Hollywood."

The entire squad now wore Kevlar helmets with short-range headset radios attached. Most operators despised conventional headgear, but Cavarra knew of men who were still alive thanks only to these bullet-stopping brain buckets. They also wore flack vests under their web gear. Some had night vision goggles around their necks ready to slip on when the time came.

Lombardi, the designated jumpmaster, gave the eleven-man "stick" a final visual once-over as they lumbered onto the bird. He and Cavarra made sure seats were taken in assigned stick order. Once seated with belts fastened, Cavarra quizzed them on their sub-unit tasks.

When Jenkins cranked the engines to life, Cavarra left the men alone to their thoughts.

Mugabe had never returned to camp. Neither had Dreizil. Cavarra hoped they'd delivered the trucks to Thibeault's group. Siyr hadn't broken radio silence, which meant Charging Charlie was driving on with the mission.

Baker shut and locked the troop door. Now the red interior lights painted everyone's features a Martian hue.

Outside the transport plane, the A1E Skyraiders sputtered to life. Haugen and Puttcamp performed their own pre-flight inspections. Puttcamp carried Sentry to the cockpit of the Fokker and dropped him inside. Sentry whined. Flying scared him and made his ears hurt.

Lombardi watched the fighter jocks through the window for a moment. Flying scared him, too, but he'd never admit it. He used a signal mirror to help apply camouflage paint to his face. Dark brown on the peaks, light tan in the valleys, exactly as the desert warfare field manuals dictated. Cavarra had insisted he scuff the shine off his jungle boots this time. Saving the warpaint for now gave him something to think about besides the jump.

Lombardi was fascinated by fear. So few things scared him, he actively sought them out. That's why he volunteered for the combat arms. Also why he went Ranger, then Special Forces. It certainly accounted for his 147 static-line jumps and twenty-nine free-falls.

Even when experienced, fear was no big deal once he learned how to channel it. So he paid close attention to every dull smear he applied to his face. This would postpone the fear until it was inevitable. Until he needed it.

The first time Lombardi remembered being scared, he was six years old. He remembered the doorbell ringing. His father cursed and turned the volume down on the basketball game. He screwed the cap back on his beer, placed it in the refrigerator and re-tucked his t-shirt into his ironed jeans as he went to the door.

An irate big man stood on the front porch. Not just big, but tough-looking, too. He cussed at Lombardi's father, angrily. Lombardi didn't know until years later, but the big man was angry because his father had turned him in for letting the grass on his lawn grow too long.

The man was so angry and so large, Lombardi feared for his father. Then Lombardi's father pushed the big man and they began fighting on the front porch.

Though shorter and outweighed by at least 100 pounds, Lombardi's father destroyed the big man. Lombardi watched from the window, so caught up in it he didn't realize his hands were touching the glass, until it was too late.

His handprints were on the glass--there was no mistaking whose they were. He'd been warned a dozen times about touching glass with his bare hands. How the oil from his hands would smear it. He tried to wipe the prints away with his shirt but they only smeared worse. Then his father came back through the front door.

He ran back to the living room, hoping his father wouldn't notice the curtains swinging and look behind them at the smeared glass. When he heard the refrigerator open, he knew he was safe for a while.

He tried to sneak away to clean the window somehow, but every time he tried, his father would ask, "Where you going, Greg?"

"Nowhere."

"Then sit down."

He didn't get a chance for the rest of the day.

He got up late that night, moving slowly and quietly, because his father was such a light sleeper. He took the dishrag from the kitchen sink and wiped blindly at the window, not daring to turn the lights on.

At breakfast no mention was made of the window. Then, to his horror, while waiting for the bus, he looked back and saw that now the entire window pane was covered by a spiral smear.

All day at school he expected to be called to the office, and find his father waiting for him. But it never happened. He got home and found that his mother had cleaned the window spotless. Nothing was ever said about it.

Lombardi remembered that day every time something scared him. First he'd been afraid the big man would beat up his father. Then he was even more afraid that his handprints on the window would be discovered. So afraid that he wished once or twice that the big man had won.

 

***

 

Fava-Vargas dealt with fear the same way he dealt with just about everything...by singing.

 

"...Stand up, hook up, shuffle to the door

Leap right out and count to four.

An' if my main don't open wide

I got a reserve by my side.

An' if that one should fail me too

Look out below I'm a-comin' through.

Scrape my body off the ol' drop zone

Bag me up an' ship me home.

Pin those wings upon my chest

Bury me in the lean 'n' rest..."

 

Pablo Fava-Vargas had no delusions about ever becoming a pop singer. He knew his tenor voice was good--he'd been asked to sing at Mass and a few weddings. But he also realized he was no Michael Jackson. He sang because he loved to sing.

His was a large and very musical family. Not a silent moment ever passed in his house. When his big sisters weren't playing the radio or practicing for talent shows or school dances, his mother was playing the guitar and leading the whole family in Spanish folk songs.

He joined the Navy for job security and college money. He'd only heard of the SEALs from cheap action movies. It was Petty Officer First Class Brinkerhoff who made him want to be an operator.

Brinkerhoff had left SEAL Team Two due to some medical issue he never talked about, but he still had stars in his eyes. He was a man who commanded admiration just by his presence. And he saw some kind of potential in Fava-Vargas to be more than just a one-tour sailor. Their relationship was closer than just that of an "old salt" to a "seaman stain."

Brinkerhoff enthralled Fava-Vargas with tales of his commando exploits. One time he said, "There's a lot more to being an operator than just being tough. You gotta' be tough, but it's a lot more than that. You've gotta' enjoy doing stuff that other men would detest. You've gotta' be at least a little dinky dau--off your rocker"

Fava-Vargas saw the truth in that now. Money alone would never have persuaded him to volunteer for this mission. He volunteered because...well, because he was at least a little insane. He had almost died when the rocket hit the halftrack. His hearing would probably never be the same. And yet when he looked back on the experience, he smiled to himself. Hell, it was fun.

 

***

 

Fava-Vargas' incessant singing reminded Campbell of another man who was more than a little crazy.

Well, "man" might be stretching it. They were all just kids in Panama, really. The oldest of them in their early twenties.

His platoon had just pulled back into a secure area in the jungle for chow and a short rest while awaiting orders. There was a cease-fire in effect, but they all still had live ammo. The platoon leader was at some briefing or after-action review, and T-Rex was the ranking NCO.

T-Rex was, by far, the coolest NCO in the company. He let them do a rucksack flop in place to eat chow, smoke, joke, and let off steam.

Briar was in one of his strange moods that day, and keeping mostly to himself. But he'd got a song stuck in his head, and kept singing the only lyrics he could remember out loud.

A psyops unit had been blasting music and other sounds up at Noriega's penthouse, and the noise carried all over Panama City. When the shooting stopped in their sector, all of them could hear Madness' "Our House" echoing through the streets.

"Our house," Briar sang, "in the middle of the street. Our house...in the middle of the street..."

Maybe it was Ghost's fault. He'd been singing some Spanish song when Briar first started. But who could predict what might set Briar off on one of his kicks?

"Our house...in the middle of the street. Our house..."

Woodstock and Nutsack were ignoring Briar, discussing bodybuilding, Van Halen's last album and all the usual stuff.

Briar wasn't exactly shouting, but he was singing much louder than anyone would dare back at Bragg, or if some power-tripping scumbag like the Weenie (SFC Green) was around. Weenie wanted Briar worse than Bush wanted Noriega. He'd recently punished Briar with a quarter-mile low-crawl through brambles and wait-a-minute vines for referring to his rifle as a "gun"--basic training BS.

"Our house...in the middle of the street. Our house..."

Butthall was off by himself, too, reading a letter from his young wife.

Driftwood and Meeshter were making fun of Thomas'n'shit for finishing almost every sentence he spoke with "and shit:"

"Don't be tryin' to switch your pork patties with my meatballs, 'n' shit."

"This wet heat is wearin' me out, 'n' shit."

"Ya got any more of that Break-Free, 'n' shit?"

Thomas'n'shit shrugged it off while trying to think up a good comeback 'n' shit.

"Our house...in the middle of the street..."

Chief, Splash, Old Man (he was twenty-four) and LaPenis were discussing the possibility that Operation Blue Spoon/Just Cause was pretty much over, and they'd soon be going back to the World.

"Our house..."

Campbell (A.K.A. Cannonball amongst Second Platoon) was watching Ears show him and a couple of the cherries how to sharpen a Ka-Bar.

"In the middle of the street..."

The platoon not only ignored Briar, they refused to even acknowledge his annoying behavior to each other. It was like some huge child were throwing a tantrum and everyone came to an unspoken agreement not to encourage him.

Crack! A rifle shot sent everyone diving to the prone, spilling canteen cups and half-eaten MREs.

The paratroopers grabbed for their weapons, looking out into the jungle for the source of the shot. Not a word was spoken, but they all inwardly cursed the idiot who declared this area secure.

Campbell thought the report sounded mighty close. And it sounded like an M16. Slowly, he turned from the jungle to look behind him.

"My gun..."

Still flopped comfortably, smoking M16A2 pointed skyward, buttplate on the ground, Briar left his finger inside the trigger guard and continued singing.

"...in the middle of the woods..."

He now had the platoon's undivided attention to share his new lyrics.

"My gun...just sent you all down to the prone..."

Once T-Rex realized what Briar had done, he went nutso. The coolest NCO in the company proved that he could be a rampaging jerk, too.

At the Pacora Bridge, Briar had used his body to bridge concertina wire for his buddies. In Panama Viejo, when a DigBat grenade landed in their midst, he ran toward it, knocked Driftwood and Tron out of the way, scooped it up and flung it back where it came from. On the way to the Mariott Hotel, he intentionally exposed himself to draw fire so Splash and Nutsack could cross an open space to set their machinegun in a good spot.

Briar was hell-on-wheels in combat. A great guy to have on your side in any kind of fight. But he was an embarrassment on a weekend pass, a disaster in garrison...and probably a sociopath in civilian life.

Not long after they made it back to Bragg, Briar was in trouble again. Drinking, fighting, whoring...and he got chaptered out. Campbell often wondered where he wound up. Probably some prison or the grave.

Maybe not all volunteer soldiers are as crazy as Briar, but aren't we all a bit dysfunctional?

Campbell didn't understand other civilians--"normal" people. And he knew they didn't understand him. He didn't fit in anywhere. Nowhere but in the middle of insanity like this.

"You were Eighty-Second Airborne, weren't you?" DeChalk asked over the noise of the engines.

Campbell nodded.

"I thought you guys jump static-line."

"We do. I learned HALO for Recondo School."

DeChalk nodded.

Campbell realized he could have said, "I did." But he hadn't. He used present-tense. Inclusive. As if he were still in the Eighty-Deuce.

The Skyraider engines roared louder and louder, then the roar died down a bit. The old fighters must have just taken off.

Now the transport began to taxi.

 

***

 

DeChalk envied these men around him, for the training they'd gone through, the weapons and equipment they'd been allowed to play with. At least once a day he wished he had joined the military. But the US wasn't fighting a war when Sam DeChalk came of age.

The American involvement in Vietnam was long past when he graduated high school. And judging by the US response (or lack of one) to the Iran hostage crisis, it seemed to him the American military wouldn't be involved in a shooting war any time soon. Boot camp and an enlistment of at least two years seemed like a heavy price to pay, just in case a war started somewhere and the US might get involved.

Africa and the Middle East, however, always had some fighting going on. Mercenary veterans of the Rhodesian conflict flooded the US with literature and "merc schools."

After paying to attend numerous paramilitary training courses, hanging out at surplus stores and gun shows, and poring over the classified ads in Soldier of Fortune, he made a contact that paid off.

There was a guerilla war in Lebanon. Both sides were hiring mercenaries who could provide their own weapons and gear. Thanks to his doting mother, money had never been a problem for Sam DeChalk: He had the weapons and gear. He could also speak Arabic. He was in.

Merc work was rather disappointing. Most deals fell through, and the jobs that didn't were usually boring. DeChalk fired very few shots in anger, even after the conflict started heating up in former Yugoslavia.

Still, he'd spent more time in combat zones than the rest of these men put together. It just wasn't fair that they disrespected him.

Tonight, though, he would allow no one to swipe his ammo or otherwise mess him up. He'd be dropping into a target-rich environment with nothing to prevent him from tasting a full dose of combat up-close-and-personal. Tonight nobody and nothing could stop him. Tonight, he'd show them all.

 

***

 

The Fokker lifted off and climbed at a steady angle. Outside, the old fighter-bombers fell into place on the transport's flanks.

Most of the men dozed off almost instantly.

Cavarra and Lombardi remained awake, as did Cole. Mai's eyes were wide open, staring at a spot on the opposite wall of the bird. McCallum calmly stared at Mai.

Terrell dreamed of falling. Falling for miles and miles while bullets riddled his body. Falling into a lake of atomic fire.

Bojado dreamed of Christmas with his family. The bicycle under the tree he hoped would be his.

Zeke didn't dream at all.

Scarred Wolf dreamed of sitting on the porch swing with Linda, watching their kids play outside, discussing her plans for the house and a surprise birthday party for Vince.

Campbell dreamed of being locked in a padded cell with Briar.

Fava-Vargas dreamed about his youngest sister entering American Idol.

DeChalk dreamed he was Chuck Norris in an action film come to life.

 

 

 

41

0149 17 AUG 2002; BEERSHEVA, ISRAEL

IDF CENTRAL COMMAND BUNKER

 

 

He rubbed his eyes and picked up the phone. "General Dahav speaking."

"I have good and bad news for you, Sir," Dreizil's voice said.

Dahav tried to focus his bleary eyes on the officers bustling by the booth he sat in. "Is the transaction going forward?"

"That's the good news. All the merchants survived the robbery."

Dahav sighed. "Good. Thank God."

"They may prove to be shrewd businessmen, sir."

"Go ahead with the bad news."

"First of all, the merchants have discovered our shareholding. Our consultant has been fired."

Agent Siyr was compromised. "Is he well?"

"Quite well. He's found employment with the parent company. But the merchants' own consultant was not so lucky."

That's the CIA operative...Harris was his name. "That's too bad."

"Yes, Sir. In fact, he hadn't completely secured distribution for the product."

Using this metaphorical device, Dahav was brought up to date. Before he hung up, Dreizil let him know he would be driving to the Hala'ib Triangle himself.

Dahav drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment.

Well, they had another three hours before the attack on the camp.

He stepped outside the cubicle and Ben-Gadi met his eyes.

Both of them glanced at the two unlit buttons on Ben-Gadi's console.

"We're holding what we have until further notice," Dahav said.

 

 

 

42

0256 17 AUG 2002; NUBIAN DESERT, SUDAN

 

 

Siyr led the Sudanese rebels at a fast trot, checking his GPS on the run.

The vehicles followed the men on foot.

They were actually on schedule. The target was only a few kilometers away. They might have a chance to rest before the assault.

"How is everyone back there?" Siyr called over his shoulder.

He heard grunts and heavy panting. It was probably time to rotate this group back into the trucks. Despite the daytime heat, the desert air at night was so cool he could see their puffs of breath in the moonlight.

Another three kilometers and everyone would dismount to cover the rest of the distance to the camp on foot.

The radio squawked: Thibeault, excited.

Thibeault had been content to ride along in the halftrack, letting Siyr and his officers attend to the details. The last time he said anything was several hours ago when a plane flew over. He was excited then, too.

"What if we are observed?" he had asked. "What if plane is reconnaissance and have the night vision?"

"We keep going, sir," Siyr had replied. "By the time ground forces arrive, we'll be gone."

Now Thibeault said, "Sergeant-Major, there is movement to our rear I think!"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean something moves behind us!"

"Can you confirm, sir?"

"No! You must confirm!"

Siyr groaned. "Sir, we are on foot. In your vehicle you could ascertain the situation and be back in formation quickly."

"I am in command! You will to obey orders!"

Siyr directed the men behind him to continue at the same pace and azimuth before he fell out.

I've had almost enough of this idiot. Is he a coward or lazy or both and more?

Siyr turned to face backward, catching his breath.

He scanned the horizon, and saw nothing out of the ordina...

The silhouette of a tank turret popped over a rise. Siyr's blood ran cold.

He spun in circles, looking for some kind of cover.

Running parallel to their line of advance, to the east, was a dried out riverbed. Perhaps a half klick or less distant.

Siyr tuned to the frequency he and the officers had agreed to earlier and said, "Enemy to the rear! Enemy to the rear! Run for the wadi on our right and spread out!"

For a moment the convoy continued on its present course as if they hadn't heard or understood him. Then suddenly the trucks veered and accelerated. One of them cut too hard and the top-heavy beast rolled, flinging off the men who'd been hanging onto the outside.

Siyr ran to the capsized truck and screamed at the men inside to get out and run for the wadi. The dazed men had no time to consider what was happening.

Siyr grabbed, yanked and kicked to get them moving. He was relieved to find that this truck was not carrying any mortars or baseplates.

The night erupted in flames as the first enemy shell landed and blew a handful of men into eternity.

Siyr sprinted for the wadi with everyone else.

 

***

 

Qawi saw several vehicles and perhaps hundreds of personnel scrambling for cover in the moonlit desert. The enemy force was a little larger than he had guessed. But still no match for his Scouts.

"C Troop form a skirmish line here," he ordered. "A Troop take the left flank. B Troop take the right flank. This is motorized infantry. All gunners load canister and fire at will."

***

The Fokker troop ship finally leveled off.

Lombardi watched Cole and Cavarra now starting to nod off. Strange how fear affected everyone so differently. It kept him wide awake before a jump, but knocked most men out. Not the fear itself, exactly, but the exhaustion it caused.

Cavarra awoke with a start when the team radio squawked. "Has-Been Dog one, this is Has-Been Rabbit. Over?"

Siyr was breaking radio silence.

"This is Has-Been Dog One, go ahead Has-Been Rabbit. Over?"

"We are taking fire. I say again: We are taking fire. Over."

Cavarra sat up straight in the webbed seating, now wide awake. "Report, Rabbit. Over?"

"Uh...roger... Size: Maybe a battalion. Activity: Attacking us from the west. Location: Five klicks south of target. Unit: Heavy armor with mechanized support. Time: Now. Equipment: Unknown, but no air assets as of yet. Over?"

Cavarra heard explosions and screaming in the background. "How many casualties have you taken?"

"Light so far...but we're being encircled. It looks bad. "

Cavarra closed his eyes and thought. Sweat dripped off his face, splattered on his lap and moistened his shirt. "There's not much I can do, Rabbit...stand by. Over?"

"Roger...out..."

"Has-Been Bird, this is Has-Been Dog One, over?"

"Go ahead, Big Dog," Jenkins replied. "Over?"

"Did you copy conversation with Rabbit?"

"Roger that. "

"Bird Two and Three...change of plans: Break off from Bird One and provide air support for Rabbit. Communicate directly with Rabbit. Over?"

"Wilco, Dog One." This was Haugen's lazy drawl. "We're on our way. Out."

The Skyraiders banked over and accelerated westward.

Cavarra blinked hard. Justin could take care of Jasmine. He'd be like her surrogate father. But who would be Justin's father? Certainly none of Melissa's couch potato boyfriends.

How had Thibeault managed to trip over an armored battalion?

Well, the feces had officially hit the fan. What to do now? Should he scrub the mission altogether? Infantry didn't have a prayer against armor in the open field.

Tel Aviv. Poof. Holy war. The Samson Complex.

He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. Suck it up and drive on.

 

***

 

Ali and Chin emerged from their tents at the same time. They looked at each other, then out into the dark desert from whence the noise was coming. Lights flashed in the distance, followed by the sound of explosions. Small arms fire chattered in the night.

 

 

 

43

 

 

Siyr ran along the wadi, yelling, "Save your ammunition! Spread out! Deploy the mortars!"

The trucks were parked at the bottom of the wadi. Men lay facing outward at the crest of both banks, firing into the dark.

Infantry doesn't have a prayer against armor in the open field. The best we can do is make a fight of it.

He located the recoilless rifle and the men who knew how to use it. "I need you up at the top of that berm. After every shot, slide yourselves down the bank to reload."

"Yes, Sergeant-Major!" The two men scrambled up the ravine to comply.

Siyr weaved through the chaos toward the heavy pounding of one of the M2 Brownings. When he found the gunner, he grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back.

"You're going to melt the barrel if you hold the trigger back like that," Siyr said.

The young gunner looked at Siyr with bulging eyes. He had a crazed look.

"Don't panic," Siyr said. "Panic won't help us. You're wasting ammunition--concentrate on the APCs and shorten your bursts. Repeat after me: 'Fire burst of six!"

"Fire burst of six..." the skittish boy said.

"Good. Say that every time you fire. Your bursts should only last as long as it takes you to say that."

The boy nodded. Siyr patted his shoulder. The M2 could handle longer bursts, but the instruction should compensate for the gunner's greedy trigger finger.

A rocket from the recoilless rifle scored a direct hit on a tank's side armor. A cheer swept through the ravine.

Siyr found the halftrack and a dismounted, panicking Thibeault.

"Why have you been doing, Sergeant-Major? What matter is bad your radio?"

"Sir, we need to get our mortars firing."

"We need retreat!" he shrieked. "Heavy armor! We are all killed!"

"Retreat to where, sir? This is the only defensible position for miles. There's no way we can outrun them, even if we hadn't lost a truck."

"Load everyone you can on the remaining trucks. Everyone else will have to surrender!"

"Surrender?" Siyr echoed.

The rebels within earshot all looked aghast at their commander.

Siyr decked Thibeault with his rifle butt and turned to the nearest man. "Tie and gag him, and put him somewhere out of the way."

"Yes, Sergeant-Major!"

He radioed his Sudanese officers. "This is Sergeant-Major Siyr. I have relieved Major Thibeault for cowardice under fire. I am now in command."

He addressed his officers by name, giving each of them a separate task. Nobody questioned his new authority.

Shells burst in and above the wadi. The blasts shredded men and equipment. A truck took a direct hit and burst into flames.

 

***

 

Qawi watched his tanks deploy with satisfaction. The enemy was completely bottled up, now. He kept his tanks out of RPG range, pounding the ravine with their main guns. Behind them, his infantry dismounted their M113s and prepared to move in for the mop-up.

Down from the sky came the scream of radial engines and the whistle of heavy objects splitting the air: A1E Skyraiders in a power dive.

Haugen released his first bomb at point-blank range. One tank exploded and another was knocked on its side from the blast.

Puttcamp came in behind him and scored a direct hit on another tank.

"Infantry in the open!" crackled Haugen's voice over the radio.

"Roger that," Puttcamp said. "I have a visual."

Heavy machineguns ripped off a harmony to the screaming engines. A hailstorm of lead rained down from the sky, chewing men and APCs to pieces.

 

***

 

Bojado's mother presented him with the bicycle, and he was overjoyed. The whole family was happy for him. They accompanied him outside and cheered for him to ride it.

He fell several times. Then his brother gave him a lecture about centrifugal force and he tried again. Just as he was getting the hang of it, the sky flashed red. A nuclear fireball rolled through the city, removing every structure from its place. He watched his family members reduced to skeletons, then ash.