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    SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops - Box Set (Books 7-12)
    SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops - Box Set (Books 7-12)
    SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops - Box Set (Books 7-12)
    Ebook1,841 pages28 hours

    SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops - Box Set (Books 7-12)

    By Eric Meyer

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    About this ebook

    They are the elite of the US Special Forces. Team Bravo, a unit of the Navy SEALs, men who have dedicated their lives to defending the United States from its enemies. Led by Lieutenant Kyle Nolan, these six separate full-length stories have a single factor in common. Each operation will take SEAL Team Bravo across the globe, behind enemy lines, and into harm’s way. The effect is, literally, explosive.

    This second complete box set contains the full text of the second set of six full length novels. That’s right, all six books! Buy the box set today and read them all from start to finish:

    SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops - Hammer of ISIS
    ISIS is on the rampage, and the slaughter of the innocents has begun. The Islamists are on a violent mission to create a Sunni Islamic Caliphate across Iraq and Syria. A Caliphate that could turn the Middle East into a vast field of corpses. Everyone agrees they must be halted, before their blood-soaked crusade becomes unstoppable. The problem is passed to the Navy Seals.

    SEAL Team Bravo Black Ops - Sword of ISIS
    The maelstrom of Northern Iraq. A battleground where the blood-soaked warriors of ISIS pursue their vengeful quest to build an Islamic Caliphate. The world watches in horror as they rape, murder and pillage in pursuit of their brutal agenda. When CIA agent Marv Cohagen and his two SEAL bodyguards are kidnapped in the desert, a deadly new threat looms over the West.

    SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops - Spear of ISIS
    Iraq, a country sliding into chaos and anarchy. A country under siege from an army of bloodthirsty insurgents. These warriors of Islam, fighting to create the Islamic Caliphate, have pledged to soak the desert sands with the blood of the infidels. They are ISIS.

    SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops – Afghan Storm
    Across the brutal killing fields of Afghanistan, an operation is under way to prevent a Taliban massacre. In the middle of the battle, US Navy SEAL Lieutenant Kyle Nolan uncovers a threat that could tear the nation apart. A powerful cleric named Mullah Tarzi has vowed to lead the Taliban in a new war. His plan is to dispatch his fighters and suicide bombers countrywide to reignite the war.

    SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops – Afghanistan in Flames
    When insurgents destroy a refinery, the owners, multi-national corporation Afgas, face bankruptcy. CEO Adnan Kovac devises a scheme to bring the dollars flooding back into the country. He needs a war which will plunge the country into chaos and suck in the major world powers. Their reaction is always the same, to send vast sums of foreign aid money. Money he can use to rebuild his refinery.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSwordworks Books
    Release dateJan 10, 2018
    ISBN9781370370511
    SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops - Box Set (Books 7-12)
    Author

    Eric Meyer

    An internationally recognized expert on the subjects of HTML, CSS, and Web standards, Eric has been working on the web since late 1993. He is the founder of Complex Spiral Consulting, a co-founder of the microformats movement, and co-founder (with Jeffrey Zeldman) of An Event Apart, the design conference series for people who make web sites. Beginning in early 1994, Eric was the campus Web coordinator for Case Western Reserve University, where he authored a widely acclaimed series of three HTML tutorials and was project lead for the online version of the Encyclopedia of Cleveland History combined with the Dictionary of Cleveland Biography, the first example of an encyclopedia of urban history being fully and freely published on the Web.

    Read more from Eric Meyer

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      Book preview

      SEAL Team Bravo - Eric Meyer

      Chapter One

      The Present Day. Somewhere over Iraq

      It was a normal operation, and yet the objective was to kill a man. An evil man, one who made it his mission to slaughter Americans, Iraqis, civilians, and even fellow Muslims. A man who murdered anyone standing in the way of his dream, the creation of an Iraqi Caliphate. ISIS Commander Malik al-Bukhari was a blood-soaked killer. A man who was long past his sell-by date. Taking a life was not something they took lightly. However, in this case, al-Bukhari's premature death would be a cause for celebration.

      Many unknowing civilians, collateral targets, would survive as a result of al-Bukhari's demise. Ordinary Iraqis could look forward to a life free from fear and violence. As much as they could look forward to a peaceful life in a Muslim country.

      Chief Petty Officer Kyle Nolan shivered in the bone-chilling cold of the high-flying aircraft. At least the idea of removing the bloodthirsty ISIS commander from this earth was compensation for the dangers and the discomfort. It was a good operation, a noble mission, one in which any man should be proud of his involvement.

      What was it Shakespeare wrote about Henry V's speech before Agincourt?

      ‘He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d.’

      Well, okay, maybe that was putting it too strongly. In any case, like most SEAL missions, no one would ever know. Even so, taking out this particular target was enough to make a man feel good. He smiled to himself. Like saving the Amazon rainforest. There was another reason he should feel good. Right now, he had the best job in the world, a job he loved, a job he knew helped keep Americans safe and made a difference to their lives. He even enjoyed it hunched in the uncomfortable cavernous, rattling, bone-shaking hold of a highflying C-17 Globemaster, twelve thousand meters above the ground. Usually. Except now, things had changed.

      It changed when his boss dropped the bombshell on him shortly before they embarked on the current operation. With an effort, he put the devastating news out of his mind. It was important to concentrate on the job in hand, and he glanced around the hold. The massive Globemaster cargo aircraft was as familiar to him as his vintage Camaro back home. This particular C-17 was not fitted for cargo. Aircraft and crew belonged to the United States Air Force Special Operations Command, AFSOC, and had a single function, the clandestine delivery of Special Forces operators to remote battlefields anywhere in the world. That meant men like him, and the rest of his small team strewn around the hold, relaxing before the jump. Trying to keep warm.

      Ten minutes to jump. Check oxygen.

      Nolan watched them check the seals around their masks, the operators dark shadows in the dim, red-lit gloom. Their Multicam camo gear made them ghostly shadows, indistinct shapes in the dark, cavernous hold of the aircraft. Each man was loaded with the tools of their trade. Parachutes, half-helmets, NV goggles, webbing, pouches, and most importantly, weapons and ammunition. They'd need all of it, for as some wag had put it, the plan was to read a cozy bedtime story to Mr. al-Bukhari and his buddies. If Paradise were the place he wanted to go, they'd give him a helping hand. A high velocity helping hand; lights out for this particular ISIS 'paparazzo', this pest.

      Nolan couldn't stop his mind wandering. His thoughts drifted, and for the hundredth time he wondered where he'd be in a couple of months’ time. A transfer was the last thing he wanted. Right now, he had what he'd strived for all his adult life. Senior NCO in a SEAL Team. No question, it was without doubt the best job in the whole world, working alongside the best of the best, the elite of the military. Every day presented new challenges, and occasionally, the adrenaline thrills and terrors of fighting their way into a hot zone, and out again. Often taking out the most dangerous men in the world, and doing it under heavy enemy fire.

      It was about to all end. A couple of days ago, his boss Rear-Admiral Jacks had called him to his office, and ambushed him.

      * * *

      They exchanged salutes. He knew something was wrong. They'd known each other for many years and enjoyed a mutual respect. Right now, the short, unflappable, fireplug Admiral Jacks looked tense, which was unusual.

      Chief, how do you feel about things?

      Things?

      Jacks waved a casual hand, like it was obvious what he meant. You know, new weapons, tactics, intelligence gathering systems. We're always trying to improve, but there's a damn sight more we could do. How do you feel about re-equipping with new gear?

      Nolan was puzzled. Why did Jacks look embarrassed? You mean ray guns, lasers? Star Wars stuff?

      Exactly, yes. Well, maybe not that advanced, but in general, more sophisticated weaponry. The kind of thing that'll give SEAL operators a bigger edge when they drop inside hostile territory.

      He'd shrugged. I'm all for it, anything that'll give us an advantage, sure. You got something special in the pipeline, Admiral?

      He speculated on what it could be.

      A new assault rifle, something more accurate and more deadly. Maybe more effective armor piercing rounds, or a laser sight that could see through walls. Perhaps something with an intelligent targeting system, even a true, ultra-lightweight man-portable missile, compact enough for Spec Ops to carry in the field. That would be something.

      Lots of things. He noticed the odd body language. Jacks was an iron bar of a man, yet now he was so stiff it was like he was dipped in liquid nitrogen, You see, Chief, I need an experienced man to take over the evaluation, procurement, and training side of SEAL operations, Special Weapons and Projects. It's a job that would suit you. In fact, I don't believe there's anyone in the world who could do it better.

      So that was it. One name came to the forefront of his mind. Lieutenant McClellan, who else could be behind this blatant attempt to squeeze him out? He'd shaken his head. Not for me, Sir. I want to stay on operations. You can forget it.

      The Admiral didn't look happy. Someone has to do it, Nolan. That someone has to be an experienced man, a man like you. It would mean promotion, a commission in the US Navy, and you'd be in command of your own outfit. Your wife would be impressed, and it would sure make the kids proud.

      My wife is dead, Sir. And the kids are already proud.

      He flushed red with shame. Oh, no, Grace, of course. I'm so sorry about her. I forgot.

      They stood for a few moments in silence.

      Did Lieutenant McClellan put you up to this?

      Jacks kept a straight face. McClellan and I do chat from time to time, that's true. We talk about any problems inside Bravo, and frankly, Chief, he thinks you're not giving him a chance to find his feet. He said you act like you own Team Bravo. That you don't give him a chance.

      That's not the way it is, Sir.

      You're damn right it isn't. I own Team Bravo, not you, not McClellan. Even so, he's not happy, and after all, he is the ranking officer. I want you to give that transfer some thought. I'd like you to give it a go, it's a worthwhile job. Let me know when you get back from the next operation. He grinned. Maybe it's time to hang up your guns, Chief.

      It isn't time, not by a long way. Besides, if you think McClellan can handle the men in a serious fight, you're in for a shock.

      Yes, Sir.

      He'd left Jacks' office with a sense of betrayal. Almost as if he'd been punched in the stomach. He trusted Rear-Admiral Jacks, always had. The tough, experienced SEAL commander had even joined them in the field when the occasion warranted. They were dangerous operations, working inside enemy territory where every gun was turned against you. Now he'd come up with this, it was almost a betrayal. Yet he had no illusions. If they wanted to push him aside, they'd do it.

      As for a commission, there's no way! Too many officers were assholes like McClellan.

      He hadn't told Jacks what everyone in Bravo already knew for a fact. Their leader, Lieutenant McClellan, was a psychopath. Or maybe a sociopath, whatever the current medical jargon was these days. A bully, arrogant and uncaring about the welfare of his men, and as a result, disliked and distrusted by every one of them. The suspicion was he'd toss their lives away without a second thought, if he thought it would advance his personal career a couple of notches.

      More than once the Lieutenant had bragged about his personal agenda, so no one was left in any doubt. A few successful missions in his jacket, promotion to a staff job, and then dump the Navy and enter politics. Maybe even a chance at the top job, Commander-in-Chief, if things went well. The men couldn't wait to see the back of him. Especially when they had firsthand evidence of his vicious and self-serving personality.

      Will Bryce, the big, Petty Officer First Class, was the solid foundation that took the Team to hell and back. He'd discovered a cousin of his, a stunningly pretty black girl, had been at college with McClellan. She told him many of the female students quickly learned to stay clear of his brutal and violent temper. He'd barely managed to stay out of serious trouble with both the college authorities and the cops, and then only because of his wealthy family connections and their high-priced lawyers.

      Frogs were different. There was a thin dividing line between success and failure, between life and death, and there were no lawyers to argue your case. There were good officers like Jacks. There were also bad officers like McClellan.

      * * *

      With an effort he put his problems aside and dragged his mind back to the present.

      Dammit, I'm letting this get to me. I have to handle McClellan in my own way. Not just for me, but for the other men who depend on him. His stupidity and arrogance are liable to get them killed.

      Nolan glanced along the huge cargo hold. Not for the first time the SEAL operators reminded him of Christmas trees going into battle, equipped as they were for a high altitude jump. He made certain his own mask was secure, with oxygen feeding through to the mouthpiece, and waited for the jumpmaster, a senior Air Force NCO.

      Right now, he was walking through the hold to take up position by the rear ramp. When it opened, the cold, airless night would surge inside the fuselage. Without oxygen, they'd die in minutes attempting to breathe the thin, chill air. Yet despite the ever-present risks of high altitude parachute jumps, there was no obvious concern inside the aircraft. They'd done this a hundred times before, and it was as familiar as pouring the breakfast juice. SOP, standard operating procedure.

      Although this night there was a difference. Normally, they worked in hostile environments, but now they were jumping into a so-called 'friendly' country. The Second Gulf War was over, and the troops had gone home. Iraq had been officially declared free of WMDs, and the bulk of the population was friendly. Or so the politicians maintained.

      It was true a democratically elected assembly ruled the country. The people were free. Except for some Muslims the war had never ended. They were called Al Qaeda at first, a product of the crazed Saudi millionaire Osama bin Laden. Recently, a new force had appeared. More fanatical, more brutal, and more deadly than ever. They were called ISIS, the 'Islamic State of Iraq and Al Sham'. ISIS was known for beheading their prisoners, and for their widespread use of suicide bombers. Young men, sometimes women, who appeared in crowded civilian areas and detonated their suicide vests without warning.

      ISIS held out a welcoming hand to fighters from other insurgent groups, including Al Qaeda. The result was their strength increased almost daily. The idea of a Sunni ruled Islamic Caliphate across Iraq and Syria was becoming more and more popular in the Sunni tribal areas. One man in particular, Malik al-Bukhari, a Sunni Muslim and charismatic ISIS leader, had emerged as a new, rising star in the insurgency. In simple terms, it meant he was more ruthless, more violent, and had more blood on his hands, than his rivals.

      Bukhari had built up a power base in the city of Mosul, and was protected by his faithful followers. After he'd ordered the detonation of one bomb too many in the capital, Baghdad, the government of Iraq called on America for assistance. The Iraqi Army generals had already refused to enter the Sunni Triangle, after ISIS defeated a strong force sent to crush them.

      They still wanted al-Bukhari dead, and so the government of Iraq made a request for an American airstrike on his headquarters. Their plea went all the way to the White House, and the President effectively said, 'watch my lips. The answer is no.' He was not prepared to deploy yet more US assets in the Gulf and light the touch paper of Gulf War Three. On the contrary, he was in process of winding down US military activity in the region. There was only one answer to solve the Iraqi problem. An operation that was silent, unseen, and anonymous, nothing for the world's media to create a furor. They passed it to the SEALs.

      Admiral Jacks decided to send in a small team. Ten men, enough to carry out the hit, but not too many to upset fragile Iraqi and American politics. Nolan's unit, Seal Team Bravo, was next on call, so they caught the operation.

      Better check the equipment, Chief. One last time, just to be sure.

      He looked around at Lieutenant McClellan and was careful to hide his feelings. This was business.

      Roger that. Will, make one more equipment check. He wondered if McClellan noticed the slight emphasis on the word 'more.'

      Will Bryce nodded and smiled. The big man would so what was necessary. He was always there, always reliable. A mountain of brute strength, combined with a fighting ability that was awesome. He also knew the check wasn't necessary, they all knew it, but no one complained. McClellan was jumping on his first live operation. Maybe they shouldn't be too hard on him for double-checking everything, just to be one hundred percent certain. If he wasn't such an ass.

      The men called him 'The General', after his wealthy and famous Civil War forbear. Apart from his bullying, they despised him for his arrogant assumption that his ancestry, wealth, and rank made him an authority on all things military. Then again, Nolan reminded himself, it was his job as Chief Petty Officer to smooth away such problems, and to keep the wheels oiled. Otherwise, men might die. Although it was only his job for the time being. Until McClellan got rid of him.

      He checked the Lieutenant's jump rig, turned one eighty degrees, and McClellan returned the favor. He was a descendant of the famous Civil War general, George Brinton McClellan, first commander of the famous Army of the Potomac. He was a good-looking man, dark haired, dark eyed, confident, and on the surface, a thoroughgoing professional.

      Underneath, he was a bullying hardass, a man who pushed the training schedules to try to make them that one-step better with pointless drills, as if they were no better than raw recruits. Except they were already superbly trained. They'd long ago ascended the peak of military fighting skills and preparedness, and had the scars and the combat records to prove it. Nolan knew when men had reached the peak, and there was only one way to go. It wasn't up.

      Five minutes.

      He nodded to the jumpmaster. Roger that.

      The servomotors whined as the rear ramp began to open. The jumpmaster took up station next to the ramp controls and clipped on his safety line. Fierce, arctic winds swirled inside the aircraft. They were enough to suck a man out into the dark night, should the aircraft suddenly veer off course or hit an air pocket and abruptly drop several hundred meters. Nolan took out his Sig Sauer P226 9mm automatic, slid out the clip, inspected it, slammed it back into the butt, and re-holstered the weapon. A familiar, comfortable routine, and inside the wide fuselage, men were performing similar rituals.

      Not all carried out an unnecessary weapons check. Lieutenant McClellan had taken a small book, like a New Testament, from a pocket in his camos. It looked like a bible, although Nolan had seen it up close on one occasion and knew it was a translation of a book of Japanese pornographic poetry. He shrugged inwardly, each man to his own. Some men prayed, men like Ryder. That was fine, too. They'd appreciate any help that came their way, whether from the Almighty or no. John-Wesley Ryder, on his third operation with Bravo, was murmuring a prayer. At the same time, he pulled a huge knife from his belt and started to honed the blade, making the edge even more razor-sharp than before.

      Ryder was an oddball, the product of an ultra-extreme religious upbringing. His personal beliefs were unusual, to put it mildly. One of them attached to the cleansing power of his gleaming blade. Ryder was an expert knife fighter, and when he snatched out that knife, someone was likely to be cleansed. Permanently. He sensed Nolan was watching him, glanced around, and stared. His lips continued to move as he prayed. Nolan nodded at him and he returned the gesture. John-Wesley disturbed him. Even through the goggles and oxygen mask, he could make out the weasel face, the sallow, sunken cheeks, and the burning eyes of a true religious fanatic.

      One of Ryder's advantages lay with his diminutive size. He was deceptively small, a thin, wiry five feet six inches. The lack of bulk tended to disarm his opponents, to give them the feeling that the guy in front of them would be a pushover, a seven stone weakling. Yet his body was whipcord tough, as if made of sprung steel.

      When he produced the knife, the argument ended quickly, usually with a corpse on the ground. Like a magician, the blade would appear in a seemingly empty hand, strike, and then disappear before his victim's body had hit the floor. Ryder was one moment an itinerant street preacher, the next a stone cold killer. Then he'd go back to quoting verses from the bible. Praise God and Jesus he was on their side.

      He was as different from McClellan as possible. Ryder believed in the Team, lived for the Team, and would give his life for them if the mission required it. No question.

      Although he's a loose cannon, no question, Nolan reflected. A paradox, on the one hand a bloodthirsty killer, and on the other, a damn good man and an extraordinary fighter. Someone you can rely on, unlike McClellan.

      Will Bryce approached, tapped him on the shoulder, and reported they were checked out and ready to go. Across the fuselage, McClellan grimaced because Bryce had ignored him to report to Nolan.

      Too bad!

      It was time the new Lieutenant learned to trust the big, black petty officer to make the right call every time. Will was vastly experienced, more than any other man in the Team. Indestructible, a shrewd tactician, and a tough fighting man.

      Like Nolan, he was also an unhappy man, although for different reasons. Nolan recalled the final briefing, when Will had made plain his misgivings about the Iraqis.

      * * *

      He stared at the Lieutenant. How come the Iraqis want us to do their dirty work, Boss?

      McClellan sighed theatrically. We've been through that, PO Bryce. He saw Rear-Admiral Drew Jacks watching him, his expression dour, and toned down his irritation.

      Bryce, the Iraqis have their own problems. One is they don't have experienced operators to conduct clandestine infil and exfil missions like we do. Al-Bukhari would see the Iraqis coming before they made it halfway to the target. In fact, their military is so infiltrated by Al Qaeda and ISIS, he'd would know about the operation before they even left their base. We can go in, take down the target and get out before they even know we're there. Any more questions?

      Will wasn't finished. If it's just a question of experience, why didn't they send some of their guys along with us? We're going in too shorthanded for this kind of operation, and it sounds like they need to acquire the skills.

      McClellan reddened, and looked at Jacks. Admiral, can you answer that one? It was obvious to all of them he didn't know.

      Jacks nodded. We asked them the same question, and they said they're busy with other operations. Truth is, I doubt they trust their own men. He grinned. Personally, I don't blame them.

      The Admiral clearly didn't like it any more than them. He held up his hand for silence. I don't like it any more than you do. But if the Iraqis aren't willing to clear up their own mess, I guess we have to do it for them. There's a lot at stake here for America, we wouldn't like to think we fought the Gulf War for nothing. If this bastard al-Bukhari and his ISIS pals continue to make gains the way they have recently, we'll be looking at fighting the Third Gulf War inside the next few years. It's imperative we don't allow that to happen.

      There're plenty of Muslims running around Iraq killings their own folks. What's so special about this particular guy? Brad asked.

      Brad Rose, the unit dandy. With his suntanned good looks, long, streaked, dark blonde hair, and blue eyes, he looked like a surfer, which in fact he was in his spare time. He also dressed like a surfer when he was off duty, breaking the hearts of the local female population when he left to go overseas. Despite the image, when Brad Rose walked through the gates of their home base at Coronado, he was all business.

      A fair question, Jacks acknowledged, The answer is charisma, and he has it in spades. His message appeals to people across the whole of the Sunni world, inside and outside of Iraq. He hates Shia Muslims, as much as he hates the West, and America in particular. He's a kind of Adolf Hitler incarnate, preaching a message of death to his enemies, men, women, and children. Trouble is, some of them are crazy enough to join him. If he convinces sufficient numbers of Sunnis to sign up, he'll become strong enough to take on and defeat the Iraqi military in open warfare. I'm afraid there's only one way to stop him. The permanent way.

      I reckon that's my way, Ryder said. His expression was the dreamy look they all knew well. The killing face.

      Jacks nodded at him. You may be right, Petty Officer Ryder. That knife of yours could come in useful. In fact, I'm sure it will.

      Ryder's voice was a low murmur. The Lord watches over the way of the righteous, but the wicked will perish.

      Al-Bukhari sure is wicked. Do you know what he does to American prisoners.

      Ryder's eyes blazed. I can do worse, Admiral. Believe me, a whole lot worse.

      Roger that. Men, you have the objective. Go kill the bastard.

      * * *

      Two minutes.

      They shuffled forward to the ramp. Outside, the black, tormented night raged, lashing the open ramp with icy winds that sliced through their insulated clothing through to the skin. There was low cloud in the sky, which was unusual over Iraq, and the lights of the ground were obscured. Nolan touched his buckles and snaps a last time, making a slight adjustment to the fit of the long sniper rifle strapped sideways across his chest. Vince Merano, the other unit sniper, an Italian American, came alongside him. When they located al-Bukhari, it was likely one of the snipers, Nolan or Merano, would be the man to take him out. They touched fists.

      Ten dollars says he's mine.

      Nolan grimaced. You jest, my friend. I don't want to take your money. Ask me when you've had some more practice.

      Vince chuckled. In your dreams, buddy.

      One minute.

      Commo check.

      They smiled. McClellan should have done that check ten minutes ago.

      Bravo Two, check, Nolan acknowledged.

      One by one, they called in. As the last man said 'check', the jumpmaster held up five fingers. Someone shouted, Let's go kick this bastard's door in.

      Hooyah! the men chorused.

      Five seconds, four, three, two, one.

      They walked forward, and suddenly there was no more ramp and they stepped into space. He looked around to assess his position, seeing a tumbling shape close to him, vivid green through the lenses of the NV goggles. Not close enough to be a collision threat. Automatically, he looked at his wrist-mounted computer and adjusted his body angle to hit the correct glide slope for their LZ.

      They'd chosen a wadi, a dried up river bed about three klicks outside of Mosul. They'd jumped ten klicks above the town and fifteen klicks to the northeast. It was a long free-fall drop, a HALO jump. It meant they'd have to deploy the 'chutes at two thousand meters for the long, shallow glide to the LZ. He'd done it too many times to count, and he went through the checks as if on autopilot.

      At three thousand meters, he was beneath the cloud, and the lights of Mosul appeared to the southwest. At two thousand meters, he toggled the 'chute, and the jerk as it deployed told him the canopy had opened and was slowing his progress. He glanced again at the tiny computer and made a slight correction to his course and glide angle. Five seconds later, he checked it again.

      On course, no sweat!

      Moments later, Nolan touched down, taking a couple of steps to keep his balance. He stowed the 'chute and began surveying the ground around him. Nearby, he could see McClellan untangling a shroud line from his leg, and then he lost patience and took out his combat knife to cut it away.

      Will landed on his feet, barely a meter away, like he was stepping off a bus. He looked over, saw the Lieutenant struggling, and grinned at Nolan.

      The Lieutenant looks like he could do with some help.

      He'll manage. He won't thank you for seeing him mess up.

      Will shrugged and unstrapped the M249 SAW, a 5.56mm light machine gun, and with quick, sure movements, loaded a 200 round box mag.

      I'll check out our perimeter, Chief.

      Roger that.

      Nolan watched Bryce walk to a sand dune a couple of meters high. It was enough to allow him to survey the approaches to the LZ. They were in a Muslim land, and 'friendly' was not a tag they'd attach to any Muslim. What was it they called a Muslim with a gun? A Muslim. So the old gag went. It wasn't funny if you were a veteran of Afghanistan, or even before, the Second Gulf War.

      Secure our position, Chief.

      He turned to McClellan. Already done, Boss. Will's covering the LZ with the SAW. The rest of the men are on the ground, no problems.

      The Lieutenant seemed lost for words. Uh, okay.

      He was silent, and Nolan helped him out. Maybe put a man on point before we head out, Boss?

      Yeah, I was about to give the order. Do it.

      Roger that. He looked around and found Vince close by, awaiting the order.

      Do it.

      Merano grinned and jogged away into the darkness, heading for the distant lights of Mosul. They waited until his voice came into their earpieces.

      This is Bravo Four. You're clear to move out.

      Copy that, McClellan replied, Chief, form them up.

      Sure. He pressed the transit button, Bravo Two for Bravo Three.

      Bravo Three receiving.

      We're leaving now.

      Roger that.

      Seconds later, Will joined them. McClellan took the lead, and Nolan followed with Bryce right behind. He turned and quietly ordered Ryder to take the back marker after McClellan failed to give the order, and they continued to march across the sand in a single line. The going was good, firm sand and a well-trodden trail that allowed them to make good progress. There was no need to use GPS. The lights of the town marked their direction.

      You think this guy's gonna be in there? Will murmured as they walked. He held the machine gun rifle-style, ready to open fire at a moment's notice.

      Why shouldn't he be in there?

      He shrugged. I dunno, it's just looks too easy. Look at that town. It's a big place, and yet there's nothing moving. No vehicles, no noise, no people, nothing. It's as if this camel jockey is waving a greeting to us. 'Hi, come and try to kill me.' It doesn't feel right. It could be a trap.

      Maybe. We'll need to be careful.

      Does 'The General' know that?

      He shook his head and didn't reply. They walked on at a fast pace, nearing the city, and they hit no problems or hold-ups. Eventually, Vince called from the front.

      This is Bravo Four. I'm at the edge of town, and there's nothing moving. It's kinda spooky. A couple of lights showing, otherwise it's almost in complete darkness. No sign of hostiles, no sign of anyone. No, wait. I see the target building ahead, on the northeast of the town. It's about five hundred meters from where I'm standing. Yeah, I see him now, there's a guy on the roof. It looks like he has an AK. You want me to take him out?

      Nolan was about to reply, but the Lieutenant got there first.

      That's a negative, Bravo Four. We don't want to alert them to our presence. Keep moving forward. With any luck, we'll get inside the target building without him seeing us and calling a warning to his pals. Remember, we have to make this a clean kill and get out fast.

      Nolan heard someone murmur, 'Yes, General', but he ignored it. 'Clean kill' and 'ISIS' didn't seem to be a good fit. McClellan led the way into the town, and they crept past silent houses, all of them in darkness with their shutters tight shut. A dog barked as they reached a crossroads, but Ryder gave a low whistle, ran forward, and dealt with the animal. A tasty piece of beef jerky held in one hand, combined with his uncanny ability to empathize with anything on four legs, made certain the canine went quiet. John Wesley, a dog lover, returned to the rear, and they smiled as the dog trotted after him. The SEAL was probably the first man to show the animal kindness in this land where murder was the norm and the currency was amassed in blood.

      A few minutes later, they halted in front of a small square.

      We're across the street from the target, McClellan whispered, Bryce, we'll go forward, and I want you to take down the front door. Follow me when I go inside. Chief, stay put right here and watch for squirters. Ryder stays with you, but I want the rest of the men inside.

      What about the shooter on the roof? Nolan reminded him.

      Oh, yeah, him. Take him out, as soon as Bryce hits the door.

      Copy that. And the rear of the building? Al-Bukhari could escape the back way if we're not careful.

      McClellan reddened. Dammit, do I have to think of everything? He glared at Art Winslow. Cover the rear of the house. Bryce, do it, kick the door in.

      Bryce stopped before he reached the door and tensed. The portal looked solid, probably made of oak, but it was no match for the huge SEAL. His boots pounded across the cobbled square, he almost flew over the stoop, and hit the thick timber on the run. Iraqi workmanship was no match for American muscle, and the door splintered and collapsed inward. Will fell flat on the floor, spread-eagled on top of the heap of busted timbers.

      Nolan had dropped back across the square to get a bead on the sniper on the roof. The target showed a ghostly green through the lens of the Leupold Vari-X Mil-dot riflescope. He flipped down the bipod mount and shrugged the stock into his shoulder. The shot had to count, first time. The instant Will began to run, he squeezed the trigger. A single shot pat out the barrel, and the only sound was a quiet 'thump', almost inaudible in the silence of the slumbering Iraqi town. The bullet tossed the sentry backward on the flat roof. Nolan's 7.62mm bullet had impacted the center of the head, and he knew the man was dead before he hit the concrete. He'd glimpsed the darker shade of green where the bullet struck. Dark green equaled blood.

      Scratch one terrorist.

      Let's go, McClellan shouted, already charging toward the door. He vaulted over Will, who was still stretched out on the floor, and the rest of the men followed. Right behind him were Winslow and Sellers. Like the Rumanian Nicolescu, they were eager replacements for those men who hadn't made it back from previous operations. The last man in was Zeke Murray, a Bravo veteran, their communications and demolitions wizard. When they disappeared inside, Nolan began to sweep the area for threats. He paused when he heard the sound of gunfire from inside the building. Unsuppressed weapons, which meant the enemy was fighting back.

      So much for the element of surprise!

      The Lieutenant's voice shouted in his earpiece, panicked, almost shrill. It's a trap, they're all over us!

      Nolan keyed his mic, Get out of there, fall back! Nicolescu, hold your position at the rear. Ryder, stay with me, we'll cover their withdrawal.

      He was already running when John-Henry caught up with him.

      What went wrong, Chief? he shouted. There was no longer any need for stealth.

      Christ knows. Find a window, and look inside for hostiles. If you see anything move, kill it. They're in deep trouble in there.

      Ryder acknowledged. He carried an FN SCAR CQC assault rifle fitted with an FN40 grenade launcher mounted on the lower rail. The rifle fired a hefty 7.62mm round through its short 13" barrel, making it perfect for Close Quarter Combat, CQC. The addition of 40mm grenades gave it a much heavier punch. Except when friendlies were in the vicinity.

      Hold off with the grenades until our guys are all out.

      Copy that.

      The shooting intensified, and a light machine gun opened up. It sounded like a Russian PK, the rough equivalent of their M249 SAW. The SEALs' assault rifles coughed in reply. Both men heard screams of pain.

      Who screamed? Ours or theirs?

      He spoke into his mic, This is Bravo Two, what's going on in there?

      There was silence for a few seconds, and then Vince replied, It's chaos in here. The bastards were waiting for us.

      Have we lost anyone?

      Not yet, a couple of wounds, but the vests saved us from the worst. Problem is, we can't get out. Bastards have set up a machine gun position next to the staircase, and they're hidden behind sandbags. They have the front of the house covered. We can't get out, and we can't go forward.

      Roger that. I'll try and deal with him.

      He turned to give the order to Ryder to pinpoint the gun so they could flank it from both sides, but he'd disappeared.

      Fuck!

      Where's McClellan?

      He tripped on a lump of timber when we ran in. He's lying on the floor. I think he's unconscious.

      Roger that. Any sign of the target, al-Bukhari?

      Negative.

      Fuck! This has all the makings of a first class screw-up.

      Copy that. Hold your positions. I'll figure out a way to get you all out of there.

      He heard two clicks in his earpiece. Vince sounded strained, and Nolan cursed McClellan for leading them into trouble. Don't take too long. I can hear more of them coming down the stairs to join in the fun.

      The town was starting to wake up. In the distance, he could hear shouts as men called to one another.

      Where’s Ryder? I have to take a chance, but I can't get them out on my own.

      Nicolescu, is anything going on back there?

      Negative.

      Okay, I want you to come back around the front. We have a situation here.

      Copy that.

      He looked up as he saw movement; a turbaned head had popped out of an upstairs window. The barrel of an assault rifle came next, searching for a target. He sighted and fired in a single, fluid movement. The man jerked as if hit with a bolt of electricity, flopped backward, caught his head on the low window, and fell forward. He landed on the cobbles a few meters from Nolan. Nicolescu appeared from the side of the house at the same time as the body hit the ground, gave it a casual glance, and ignored it.

      What gives?

      They're trapped inside. I'm going in to get them out, so stay here and watch for hostiles. The town's starting to wake up to the fact we're here, and they won't be happy when they know who we are. Every man who owns a weapon will turn up soon, and they'll be fighting mad. If you see anything move, shoot. We don't have any friends around here.

      Copy that.

      Nolan took a breath and dived through the doorway. Flashes sparked from the other side of the dark, cavernous space. It was one huge room, about twenty meters to a side and cluttered with heavy, thick oak furniture. He rolled behind an upturned table and found he wasn't alone.

      Welcome to our latest screw up, Vince murmured.

      We'll handle it. The priority is to take out that gun, and fast. Any sign of Ryder?

      Negative.

      They both ducked as a hail of bullets ripped chunks out of the oak sheltering them. Nolan considered their situation. They were ill equipped for fighting in an enclosed space. Both he and Vince were snipers, and their long, semi-auto sniper rifles were of little use inside the building. He looked at Vince.

      You carrying any grenades?

      Negative. This was supposed to be a fast in and out. Remember what 'The General' told us. ‘Go in light. Move fast. Take down the target and get out.’ Words of wisdom from our fearless leader.

      Part of the job of a Chief Petty Officer is to smooth out friction between officers and men. Automatically, Nolan replied, He couldn't have known.

      Vince didn't reply. They both knew he should have known, should have been more careful. The problem was, McClellan was the very image of a successful SEAL commander. Fit, tough, good looking, and equipped with a name that was a legend during the American Civil War. It wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't believed the myth, if he didn't believe he possessed the same skills as his illustrious forebear. The problem was, that's exactly what he did believe. The Pentagon loved him, naturally. He was the perfect poster boy for the military, a walking, talking recruitment drive.

      It was also nonsense, and the men of Team Bravo didn't buy the fiction. They operated on results; on the way a man conducted himself in the field. So far, they'd found the Lieutenant was a liability, a menace to his men. Men who only wanted to live to fight another day. Men who wanted to do their duty, finish the operation, and get home to their families when the bullets stopped flying.

      Another burst ripped across the room, and the furniture shook as the 7.62mm round impacted the heavy wood.

      Nolan checked his Sig. Cover me, Vince. Try and draw his fire. I'll hug the shadows and take him from the flank.

      It won't work. He's using night vision.

      You're shitting me? Night vision?

      Yep.

      Another problem to solve!

      He came to a quick decision. Okay, here's how it'll work. He handed Vince his SWS sniper rifle, I want plenty of gunfire, so take my weapon and use them both. Don't worry about hitting anything. He's hidden too deep behind cover. He knows there’s two of us back here, so when he sees the rifles firing, he'll assume we're both here and shoot back. The muzzle flashes will override his NV gear, so with any luck I can get to him before he sees me.

      That's one hell of a chance to take, Chief.

      There's no alternative. The town is full of insurgents, and they're waking up. If we stay here any longer, they'll come like bees to a honeypot. You ready?

      Say the word.

      Do it.

      Vince poked the barrels of both semi-auto rifles over the table and started to fire. The machine gun replied, and the room was ablaze with light from the muzzle flashes. Nolan shot out like a sprinter, racing to the wall nearest the door, and then he dropped to the floor and started crawling toward the enemy position. The barrel still spat bullets at Vince, who was keeping up a slow, steady rate of fire to hold the gunner's attention. Nolan could make out the dim shadows of the gunner and his loader, lit up by the muzzle flashes. They were only fifteen meters away, and he was closing.

      As long as they kept their goggles on, and Vince kept firing, he'd be invisible. He crawled nearer, twelve meters, ten, he was going to make it. Five meters, that would be near enough to flank the sandbagged position and get in a clear shot. The firing slackened, but in the darkness he could barely see to aim. Eight meters, he could almost see them. He could smell their sweat, rank and unpleasant. Another three meters, two meters.

      The shadow of the gunner abruptly moved, the machine gun ceased fire, and the room was plunged in darkness. He decided to risk it and crept forward another meter.

      Almost there!

      Then they fired again, and in the muzzle flash he realized they'd removed their NV goggles. Nolan was lit up like a Fourth of July parade. The loader shouted a curse and nudged the gunner. Both men turned to look at him, and then they began to traverse the gun, still firing, using the muzzle flashes to pinpoint him and vector the fire onto his position.

      In a split second, he knew he had to go right now. He catapulted to his feet and ran four steps until he had a clear target of one of the enemy. He aimed, fired a double tap, and saw the loader go down. The gunner stopped firing, everything was black again, and he froze. Vince fired again, and Nolan saw the gunner replacing his NV goggles. He dived to the floor, but it was the end. He knew the rest was history. He had no cover, no way forward or back, except into the muzzle of that gun. He hugged the ground and slithered forward, moving fast like a hungry rattler, in a last desperate attempt to reach the target. The gunner shouted, something, like 'Allahu Akbar!' It was all over. The man pulled the trigger, and he made one last despairing lunge for the gunner. The machine gun got off three rounds. Two thumped into Nolan's vest, and the other missed.

      Once more the muzzle flashes lit up the scene. This time he saw a dark shape leaping onto the gunner's back, like a black, salivating creature from hell. But this creature had a razor sharp knife in its hand. A knife that he buried in the back of the gunner's neck so that the long, savage blade emerged from the front of his throat.

      Ryder!

      Chief.

      There was no reply. He flipped his goggles over his eyes and saw Ryder staring back at him. The religious fanatic wore no goggles. It seemed he could see in the dim light.

      Thanks.

      Ryder nodded. He murmured, But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone.

      They were well accustomed to his passion for quoting the bible. Nolan smiled. I guess the good Lord wouldn't have liked ISIS any more than he liked murderers and whoremongers, John-Wesley.

      He stared back at him but made no reply.

      Yeah, okay, we need to pull back and get out of here. I guess you didn't come across any sign of al-Bukhari?

      No.

      Okay, no one saw him, so I guess this mission's a bust. All we can do now is get out of here real fast. Vince, you still back there?

      Yep.

      We need to go find Lieutenant McClellan, and we'll round up the rest of the men, give them the good news. We're pulling out. I'll call in the helo as soon as we're out of the town. He hit the mic button, This is Bravo Two. Everyone outside, we're leaving.

      A series of acknowledgments came back to him, and Bryce joined them with McClellan's still unconscious form over his shoulder. Zeke Murray, the comms specialist, was right behind him. Nolan pulled him to one side.

      As soon as you're outside, call in the helo for an immediate exfil, one klick to the north of the town gate.

      Copy that.

      * * *

      They skirted the growing crowd of Iraqis, slipping through back alleys and rancid, stinking passages to avoid them. ISIS fighters and sympathizers had hurriedly armed themselves and headed straight down the main street to reach the action. Somehow, they managed to avoid them as they left the town and jogged out into the desert.

      They were headed for the backup RV, a shallow wadi, a tiny bowl in the sand close to the town. They got halfway, but more of the hostiles possessed NV goggles and pinpointed their fleeing group before they were out of range. Nolan shouted at Vince to create a small blocking force, and he gave orders to two other men to find cover and engage the more enthusiastic of their pursuers.

      Merano kept up a steady rate of fire with his SWS sniper rifle, picking off targets the moment they showed in his precision Leupold Vari-X Mil-dot riflescope. Will Bryce had deployed the M249 and spurted constant short bursts to make them think twice. John Sellars and Carol Nicolescu used their HK 416 assault rifles to deadly effect, but the enemy was growing in strength and time was short. When they'd fought back the pursuit, Vince brought them back, and they linked up at the wadi.

      Nolan stared in the direction of Mosul, but it looked like they'd got clear. McClellan chose that moment to come round. He groaned and looked up at them.

      Where am I?

      Nolan explained their situation.

      Did we get him? Al-Bukhari?

      That's a negative, Lt. It looks as if ISIS knew we were coming. They ambushed us back there.

      His handsome face contorted in anger. Ambushed! How the hell did that happen? A traitor?

      Not in our unit, no way. Maybe someone in the Iraqi military got wind of it and tipped them off, who knows?

      Fuck it. We need to go back in there, find the bastard, and waste him.

      Which part of 'ambush' don't you understand, Lt?

      He kept his voice calm, It's too late for that. The helo is on the way to pick us up, so we'll be out of here in another couple of minutes.

      Zeke glanced across at him. They just called. The pilot said they're two klicks out.

      Copy that. Do they know it'll be a hot extraction?

      Oh, yeah, they know.

      Roger that. He looked at Bryce, who was waiting for orders. About a minute, Will, then we're leaving. Any sign of hostiles?

      Affirmative. There's movement all around us. They're trying to encircle our position. They'll want revenge after that nasty headache we gave them. They'll hit us with everything they have when they see we’re getting away. They don't want us to get out of here alive.

      As long as they don't have RPG missiles, we'll be okay, Nolan stated.

      The PO1 gave him a skeptical glance. Right. As long as they don't have RPGs.

      They looked up as they heard it nearing their position, an MH-60 Black Hawk configured for Special Operations. It was quiet compared to a normal Black Hawk, but it still made plenty of noise.

      Stand by, Nolan ordered, Sellars, you and Ryder stay with the Lieutenant. He'll need a hand. Will, give them a final burst as soon as the skids are down, then get aboard fast. He slammed a fresh clip into his rifle, Vince, you and me can hold them off at a distance. We'll stay here while they're loading.

      He stopped when the black shape appeared overhead, a dark shadow in the night sky. They heard the beat of the engine change as it started to descend. Suddenly, a flash of light seared out from the direction of the town.

      Missile, abort, abort! Zeke shouted into the mic, but the pilot had already seen it. He shot up suddenly, but it was too late. The range was too short, the time too short. A long tongue of flame closed in on the helo, nearer, nearer. The pilot jinked away, trying desperate last second maneuvers to avoid the missile, but the temperature of the hot exhausts was too inviting a target for the heat seeking head. It impacted, and the blast was followed by a devastating secondary explosion as the fuel tanks ignited. The Black Hawk started to descend, bright with smoke and burning fuel. Then it picked up speed, hammered into the ground, and exploded.

      The big night camouflaged helo was a mass of twisted aluminum and burning flesh. A bright, burning beacon was all that remained of the brave crew who'd risked all to bring the SEAL team to safety. A fiery warriors’ funeral pyre, and soon, there would be a visit to their relatives from a sympathetic, soft-voiced family liaison officer.

      The poor bastards, Nolan murmured to no one in particular.

      Amen to that, Zeke said, his voice hollow as he watched the pilot he'd been talking to seconds before, burn to a cinder in the wreckage.

      Brad Rose joined Nolan, and they ran forward to check, just in case there may be a chance to pull out any survivors. But they soon retreated, forced back by the heat of the flames.

      All dead? Will asked.

      They're finished, Nolan replied, Nothing we can do. The poor, brave bastards.

      We can complete what we came here to do.

      He looked around. McClellan was on his feet, glaring at the bonfire of the downed Black Hawk.

      I'm sorry, Lt, did I hear you right?

      You did, Chief. Now that the helo is destroyed, we can go back into the town, locate the target, and take him out. Unless you have anything better to do?

      Sonofabitch has gone crazy. Must have been that blow to the head.

      You mean like saving the lives of our men, Lieutenant?

      The officer flushed. We knew the risks when we took this job on.

      Yeah, reasonable risks. Look at that place! He pointed at the town. It was ablaze with light as the awakened inhabitants swarmed around, firing exultantly in the air after the downing of the Black Hawk. Half a klick away, a crowd of men had gathered, backlit by the burning helo. They were watching the SEALS and waiting. Preparing to finish what they'd started by bringing down the helo. Even from a distance, they could hear the shouts and jeers, the laughter and taunts.

      Fuckers are celebrating the deaths of those men, Art Winslow said, his voice reflecting his anger and astonishment. Art was new to Bravo, a twenty-four year old PO2, Jesus, I'd like to go back and shove it down their stinking throats.

      Settle down, all of you, Nolan warned, We're getting out of here. No one's going back.

      Chief, I said we're returning to the town to finish the job, McClellan exclaimed. His tone was savage, Are you planning to disobey my order?

      He stared at the spoiled Ivy League face and wondered how often anyone had said no to him.

      Probably never!

      Damn right I'm disobeying your stupid order. It makes no sense. You want to get men killed for nothing. Don't you understand al-Bukhari is long gone?

      So what do you suggest? he glowered.

      We need to get out of here. The ISIS fighters will expect us to make for Baghdad. We'll fool them by going somewhere else.

      At first, the Lieutenant didn't move. Nolan could almost see his mind working as he considered his options. He looked at the men, read the message in their faces, and knew he was beaten. Finally he gave in. Where?

      Tikrit.

      Someone muttered, Aw fuck.

      With good reason, Tikrit was the birthplace of Saddam Hussein al-Tikriti, and the center of the Sunni insurgency. Tikrit was ISIS Central.

      He looked uncertain. There's no alternative?

      No, we have to do the unexpected to have any chance of making it. In the town there's sure to be Iraqi government troops and police. They'll cover us while we work out a way to get out of this mess.

      Why not just call in another helo? he demanded, Or are you about to tell me the radio got damaged?

      For an answer, Nolan gestured at the still burning wreckage. The radio's fine. That's why we're not calling in another evac, Lt.

      McClellan grunted. I don't like it.

      It's not a question of liking it. Tikrit's a long hike, and we don't know what we'll find when we get there. First job is to get rid of those guys, he gestured to the fighters celebrating wildly out in the desert, We'll swing out further into the desert. Hopefully, we can shake them off.

      I don't want to hurry you, but they're already coming, Will interjected gently.

      Roger that. Move out.

      They fast jogged three klicks, circling around to the north of the town, and in the dark and the shadows of the deep desert, they lost their pursuers. Nolan ordered a change of direction, and they looped back toward the main North/South highway. Within a few minutes of cutting the road, a bus appeared in the distance, heading toward Mosul.

      Ryder volunteered to flag it down while the rest of them stayed out of sight. He used the simple expedient of holding out a fistful of dollar bills. The driver braked to a halt, his teeth bared in a broad smile; his mind probably thinking of the women he'd enjoy this coming night with so much money. An American soldier, lost in the middle of nowhere with no hope of a lift, a license to print money, and a gift from Allah.

      The driver halted next to Ryder, and the door hissed open.

      Where're you headed, buddy? Ryder smiled.

      The driver eyed the heap of dollars. Baghdad, Sir.

      Any chance of a ride?

      He shook his head, his expression mournful. I'm sorry, Sir, I'm not authorized to pick up strangers. I wish I could, but it's company policy, you understand.

      The smile faded. That's a shame. He started to tuck the dollar bills back into his pocket.

      However, it may be possible for the right price, the driver added quickly, I could... He glanced around, and his face took on an expression of terror as Bryce and Nolan swarmed out of the darkness. They followed Ryder onto the bus and crowded the driver.

      How about we lend you a hand? Ryder's smile returned, We can drive ourselves.

      But...but...

      Out!

      The driver stared at their weapons, at the round black holes of the barrels staring at him, John-Wesley's blade that had suddenly appeared as if by magic, and their grim faces. It was enough. He trembled as he climbed out of his seat. He looked astonished when Ryder gave him the money, accompanied by a friendly smile.

      Friend, something for you to think about along the way, 'Do not neglect to do good, and to share what you have, for such sacrifices are pleasing to God.' You got that?

      Excuse me?

      He lost patience. Get out of here before I cut your throat.

      The driver ran. The rest of them piled aboard the bus. Brad Rose took the wheel, started the engine, and pointed the vehicle in the direction of the desert. When they'd put enough distance between them and their pursuers, he turned back and onto the road heading south. They were on their way to Tikrit.

      Nolan went to find McClellan, who was lying across two of the seats.

      You okay, Lt, no problems from that bump on the head?

      He gave him a suspicious glance. You here to gloat, Chief?

      Not my style. But head injuries, you know, you have to be careful.

      I'll live.

      Sure. We'll get it looked at when we reach Tikrit. There's bound to be some kind of a hospital. I'll work out our next move when we get there. I guess it depends on what we find.

      McClellan looked at him. I'll work out our next move when we reach Tikrit. Last time I checked, I was in command.

      You're the boss, Lt, no sweat. But remember, I'm senior NCO in this outfit, and my job is to get the men back home alive. I damn well intend to make it happen.

      They glared at each other for few moments. Then McClellan shrugged and looked away, with a muttered, Whatever.

      * * *

      They reached Tikrit in the early hours of the morning. Dawn was streaking across the desert when they saw the cluster of dirty-white stone buildings appear on the horizon and draw nearer. It was a shithouse, squalid and decaying. The scars of the Second Gulf War were still in evidence. Bombed out buildings, shattered glass, shop fronts pillaged and looted. As they drove past one street, a wrecked T-72 tank lay quietly rusting, one track missing, and the main gun tilted at a crazy angle to the sky.

      Brad drove through the deserted streets, and he joined him at the front of the bus. We're looking for a local, someone who can direct us to the nearest cop station, Nolan explained.

      It'd better be someone who speaks English.

      He had a thought and called to McClellan. Lt, if you're up to it, you speak good Arabic, isn't that right?

      In a grave voice he replied, I'm fluent, yes. As if to say, 'doesn't every educated man speak Arabic?'"

      As soon as we see a local, you can ask them for directions. Assuming the local cops haven't been bought or taken over by ISIS.

      I doubt that, not the cops, McClellan shook his head, After all, we're all on the same side these days. We're talking about cops, not some ragged-ass bunch of insurgents.

      Is that right? Privately, he could hardly believe the guy could be that naive.

      You're not in Kansas now, Toto.

      You should tell those guys in Mosul about us being on the same side, Will Bryce muttered as

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