Just then Soto saw something that didn’t fit: A column of soldiers marching east. Not soldiers, prisoners! American prisoners.

  “Look at that General,” Soto said. “They’re marching our people east… Should we try to pick them up?”

  Kelly’s eyes lit up. “Holy shit! A pilot with a pair of balls! Put down well beyond them. We’ll back the Humvees off and go after the prisoners. Once we neutralize the guards, come get us.”

  The general’s staff consisted of twelve people, most of whom were middle-aged senior officers. Could they fight? Soto was about to find out.

  The Chinook passed over the column of POWs, some of whom waved. Others were limping along or being carried on makeshift stretchers. Guards fired at the helicopter.

  “Hold your fire,” Soto ordered. “The last thing we want to do is hit some of the prisoners.”

  “This looks good,” Kelly said. “Put her down.”

  Dust flew as the Double Deuce landed in a storm of its own making.

  Kelly’s staff were ready by then, as was Alvarez, who put the ramp down. The first Humvee backed off, followed by the second, which was a boxy com truck.

  Kelly hurried to board the lead vehicle which spewed gravel and roared away. The com truck followed at a more sedate pace.

  “What if the bastards capture General Kelly?” Jones inquired.

  Soto hadn’t thought of that. Or the fact that such a disaster would be her fault since the rescue was her idea.

  The Chinook broke contact with the ground as Soto pulled up on the collective. She could see Kelly’s vehicles up ahead, bearing down on the column of prisoners, and skidding to a halt. “Pick your targets carefully,” Soto ordered. “Don’t fire unless you’re certain.”

  The guards were putting up a fight. One went down quickly followed by another. A third opened fire on the prisoners. “Kill him!” Soto instructed. “Kill all of the guards.”

  By hovering directly above the column and moving west Soto delivered target after target to her gunners. And by that time some of the POWs had armed themselves with AKs and were taking part in the battle. It was over in a matter of minutes. But they were still in deep shit. “Vehicles inbound from the east and the west!” Jones announced.

  “Damn it,” Soto said, as she brought the Chinook down. “You have it. I’m going aft.”

  That was a no-no given the circumstances. Pilots were supposed to stay in the cockpit and let the crew chief sort things out. But Soto knew Alvarez would be outgunned and was determined to have her say.

  “I have it,” Jones said, as Soto left the cockpit. The ramp was down, thanks to Alvarez, and Kelly’s people were preparing to load the Humvees.

  It was extremely noisy, forcing Soto to shout. “Destroy the vehicles! There isn’t enough room for them… Plus we don’t have time to load them. Tangos are inbound from the east and west. That’s an order.”

  Kelly materialized out of the swirling dust. “Who are you to order my staff around?”

  “I’m the pilot of this aircraft,” Soto exclaimed. “And what I say goes.”

  Their eyes were locked as Kelly considered her words. Then he grinned. “You’re right Captain. My bad. Let’s get these soldiers aboard.”

  Soto hurried back to the cockpit knowing that her crew would take care of the wounded soldiers. “Get us out of here, Ziggy… Fast.”

  Soto keyed the intercom. Then she turned to Alvarez. “Get busy with your grenade launcher, Chief… Destroy those vehicles. Start with the com truck.”

  The M79 was racked above the aft ramp control handle. Alvarez took the weapon down and fired from the ramp. Two members of Kelly’s staff flanked her with ARs.

  Jones had the engines at maximum power. And, as the Double Deuce accelerated away from the burning Humvees, Alvarez continued to fire her M79.

  “Okay,” Soto said, as enemy vehicles flooded into the area. “Haul ass!”

  Jones looked her way. “It won’t go any faster, boss.”

  Soto held her breath as Jones flew the Double Deuce north, passed over a hill, and dropped a hundred feet to hide the Chinook’s heat signature. Then it was a simple matter of speeding over the desert until the hajis were no longer in range.

  Kelly sat in the observer’s seat. “Nice job Captain, and if anyone asks me, I’ll tell them you really are a Wizard. Now, let’s get the wounded to an aid station.”

  ***

  Superbase Tabqa

  Aboo Osman rolled out of bed knowing that he was going to die and looking forward to it. Because, according to Muhammad, “The smallest reward for the people of Heaven is an abode where there are eighty thousand servants and seventy-two houri, over which stands a dome decorated with pearls, aquamarine, and ruby, as wide as the distance from al-Jabiyyah to San.”

  Even if the scholars were wrong, and Osman received only a fraction of that bounty, it would be vastly superior to his hand-to-mouth life in Mud Town, the mind killing job in the DEFAC, and the hopelessness he felt.

  There was one bright spot in Osman’s life however, and that was camaraderie he shared with his fellow mujahideen (those engaged in jihad), eleven of whom would join him in the attack.

  Up to that point Osman and his brothers had been acting as spies, writing reports and sending them out via courier. Where did they go? Who read them? Were they valued? He would never know.

  But now that the Syrian government, Hamas, and Hezbollah had launched a joint attack on the Alliance, orders had arrived. Orders instructing all members of Osman’s cell to attack the airfield’s com center.

  The orders didn’t say why because the answer was obvious. Superbase Tabqa was home to Alliance’s regional command center, and would play a critical role in responding to the unified attack. But only if the center could communicate with units in the field.

  Osman smiled as he started to dress. The necessary weapons and explosives had been smuggled into the base piece-by-piece over the last three months. Enough explosives to destroy the com center three times over.

  Osman saw no reason to shower, or to eat breakfast, but it was important to shave. The Kafirs were automatically suspicious of anyone with a beard. So, like his comrades, Osman was clean shaven.

  Osman viewed the world in a different way as he walked to the gate. Rather than a slum, Mud Town was a source of delightful smells, playful children, and wise elders.

  The air was heavy with the tang of woodsmoke, the tinkle of pop music leaked out through a window, and his senses were fully awake. It was a wonderful moment, and one he would savor in Jannah.

  The gate consisted of two passageways. One for vehicles, and one for pedestrians.

  It was necessary to wait in line to get through the pedestrian gate. And, as Osman eyed the people ahead, he spotted Haadi. That was a good thing.

  The widely spaced line moved slowly. Which was typical. The Kaffirs had every reason to be careful. And they were for the most part. There were scanners to pass through, plus blast traps and bomb sniffing dogs. But, at the end of the day the Kaffirs were human. Evil, but human.

  That meant some of them came to recognize the civilian workers and remembered their names. And that’s why Corporal Martin said, “Good morning, Aboo… I’ll see you at the DFAC.”

  Osman nodded and smiled. No, wajh qadhar (shit face), you won’t, he thought. Because I’ll be dead by lunchtime.

  After entering the base Osman made his way through a maze of streets to Building 42, the maintenance center where Haadi and Said began each day.

  Haadi was waiting inside the side door. He opened it. “Come in. Said is here. We’re waiting for the others. Make your way to the west side of the garage. That’s where we will prepare.”

  Osman had to circle a dump truck in order to follow Haadi’s instructions. And that’s when he saw the body. The European contract worker was lying face down with a pickaxe embedded in his back.

  And there were more bodies. A man with a garotte wound around his neck, eyes bulging, lay next to a worker who’d been killed with a fire axe.

  Objective one, check.

  A radio was tuned to the Tabqa’s station. “Good morning, Tabqa!” a woman said enthusiastically. “And welcome to Radio Free Syria!”

  Osman turned it off.

  ***

  Once Shammas was captured, and shipped off to the United States, the pop-up company was disbanded—and Bone returned to Tabqa. His reward was a pat on the back and two days off. All he had to do was muster with his unit each morning.

  Based on the content of the morning briefing it sounded as if things were getting worse rather than better.

  It seemed that a colonel named Duncan had fucked up, allowed the hajis to attack him from the rear, and been relieved of duty by Machine Gun Kelly. So, the beat went on. And Bone knew he’d be back in the shit soon.

  In the meantime, he had plans to check in with his lawyer stateside, track Polat down and have a couple of drinks at the club. Or, maybe he should tackle the list in reverse order.

  That’s what Bone was thinking when sirens began to bleat, and a male voice came over the base-wide PA system. “Condition Red. I repeat, Condition Red. This base is under attack! Military personnel will report to their units, and civilian personnel will enter the shelters.”

  Bone was about to turn back when a pickup truck screeched to a stop beside him. A lieutenant was at the wheel. “Grab a weapon out of the back, Sergeant… The bastards are inside the wire. We don’t have time to muster. Get out there and kill some hajis.”

  Bone jumped up into the truck, surveyed the weapons available, and chose a M2020 Enhanced Sniper Rifle, plus a canvas bag loaded with extra magazines.

  Though not a sniper, Bone was a marksman, and figured the long gun was a good choice for a sergeant without a squad.

  He jumped to the ground, heard tires squeal, and pulled a quick three-sixty. The sounds of battle were all around him. He could hear automatic fire, explosions, and the steady stream of blah blah from the PA system. The base water tank caught his eye. The tank was something like five stories up off the ground, and equipped with a circular walkway.

  That was the good news. The bad news was that there wasn’t any cover. But, if all went well, the enemy wouldn’t spot him. The sounds of fighting increased as Bone ran.

  The rifle was equipped with a sling, thank God, because there was no way he could go up the blue ladder, and hold onto the weapon at the same time.

  Bone removed four magazines from the bag, stuffed them into various pockets, and started to climb. Bone’s breath was coming in short gasps by the time he arrived on the walkaround. His legs felt as if they were made of lead, and his hands were shaking as he readied the rifle.

  It was chambered for .300 Winchester, equipped with a 24-inch barrel, and fitted with a five-round, detachable magazine. A quick check confirmed that the magazine was full up.

  But that wasn’t all. The highly adjustable weapon boasted a sound suppressor and muzzle brake designed to reduce recoil. What Bone’s dad would have called, “All the fixings.”

  The shakes started to fade as Bone sat down, rested the weapon on a rail, and began to scan for targets. There were plenty to choose from. And the Leupold Mark 4 6.5-20x50mm ER/T scope brought them in close.

  Binoculars would have been nice—for a good look at the overall situation—but Bone could still get a general idea by panning back and forth. From what he could see, at least a hundred enemy fighters were inside the wire. And, unlike what Bone expected, they had a plan.

  The headquarters CONEX, the diesel-powered generators, and the control tower were all under attack. And that was when Bone noticed the dump truck.

  ***

  Haadi was supposed to drive the truck, but Haadi had been killed. So, Osman was at the wheel. The plan was simple. Deliver the explosive charge to the Communications Center by crashing into the concrete structure and penetrating the lobby. Then all Osman had to do was press the remote, and BOOM, he’d find himself in heaven.

  Osman was still marveling at the size and audacity of the plan. Now he realized that his cell was one of many, each unaware of the others’ existence, until the moment when all of them took action simultaneously. It was a wonderful thing! It was…

  And that was the moment when the .300 Winchester bullet shattered the window next to Osman and drilled a hole through his head.

  ***

  Bone was almost certain that the man behind the wheel of the dump truck was a tango. A man determined to destroy the Com Center. But what if he was wrong?

  Bone held his breath as the truck careened into a parked car and ground to a halt. Then a bright orange explosion destroyed most of the truck. A dead man’s switch? Or a post mortem finger contraction? Bone was satisfied either way. Tango down.

  But the overall situation could only be described as bad. Now, with a moment to survey his situation, Bone realized that planes had been taking off so quickly, that the sound of their engines was a nearly continuous roar.

  Not so the helicopters. Two uglies were up, and using their considerable firepower to support base personnel. That was good.

  But, because so many of Tabqa’s personnel were elsewhere fighting, there were hundreds instead of thousands of Allied soldiers and airmen on base.

  Was that luck? Or part of a plan? Bone felt sure it was the latter. His mind processed that even as his eyes searched the streets below looking for the right kind of target. Bone wanted to kill leaders if he could, but they were difficult to identify. All of the attackers wore similar clothing.

  But leaders act like leaders. They point. They direct. And they move from person to person. Bone spotted one such individual among the group firing on the military police station. A tall man wearing a black and white keffiyeh (head scarf).

  Bone waited for the man to pause, took the left to right breeze into account, and squeezed the trigger. The slug was four inches low and tore through the attacker’s throat. Blood sprayed the person he’d been talking to. He was clutching his neck when he keeled over.

  Is the sight out of whack? Bone wondered. Bring it up next time.

  The next target was standing in a shadow, holding a sat phone up to his right ear. What the fuck? Who was he talking to? Someone up the chain of command? That seemed like a good guess.

  Bone put the crosshairs over the man’s chest this time, figuring that if the bullet hit lower, it would still put the bastard down. He squeezed, felt the recoil, and saw the target jerk.

  A red stain blossomed on the target’s white tunic, and he collapsed. Right in the breadbasket, Bone thought. I’ll shoot high from now on.

  A man with a satchel was kneeling next to a wounded haji. A medic? Yup.

  Bone had a soft spot for medics, but couldn’t let this one run around reviving enemy fighters. He fired, saw the medic fall on top of his patient, and felt a pang of regret.

  That was when an RPG hit the water tank and exploded. Water gushed out to splash on the bone-dry ground below. Was the grenade directed at him?

  Hell yes, Bone decided, as bullets pinged the tank. I need to amscray.

  After slinging the rifle Bone hurried to the blue ladder. By braking with his hands, and placing his boots outside the side rails, Bone slid down. Bullets splattered the tank above him as he descended. Bone’s worst fear was that instead of firing at where he’d been, some bright lad would aim at where he was going, and give Yolanda something to celebrate.

  But it didn’t happen. Bone lost control and fell the last six feet. That knocked the wind out of his lungs. Gotta get up… Gotta run… Move, shoot, communicate.

  Bullets kicked up geysers of dirt as Bone rolled over, performed a pushup, and took off. He didn’t have a plan, just a desperate need to find cover. And the best possibility was the metal dumpster directly ahead. Was the steel thick enough to shield him?

  Bone hoped so as he ran straight at the garbage container, made the necessary jump, and fell inside. Bullets clanged as they hit the north side of the dumpster and failed to penetrate. Bone gave thanks as he sought to catch his breath. Now what? Could he exit over the south side of the container? And sprint to the police station? There was only one way to find out.

  Bone mounted a pile of construction debris, vaulted over the side, and began to run. His back was exposed and he expected a bullet to strike him at any moment.

  But the MPs, and other personnel holed up in the bunker-style structure, saw him coming and opened fire. Bone wanted to zigzag, but decided not to, fearing that one of the MPs might hit him.

  The clatter of gunfire was nearly deafening as Bone neared the station and took a dive. Hands took hold of his uniform and dragged him in. “Hey, Sarge… Are you okay?”

  Bone rolled onto his side. And there, looking down at him, was a dyed-in-the-wool Bonehead. “Don’t just stand there Levy, give me a hand.”

  Levy pulled him up. “Glad you made it, Sarge. This is a good spot.”

  “For what?”

  “Some Hogs are inbound,” Levy told him. “Our strongpoints are supposed to pop orange smoke… And God help anyone who doesn’t have any. They’d better dig deep. It’s gonna be brutal.”

  Levy’s words proved to be prophetic. The A-10 pilots did everything they could to avoid hitting friendlies, but their orders were clear: “Sanitize Tabqa, no matter the cost.”

  Four Hogs made two passes each. Explosions shook the ground, cannon shells swept the streets, and scores of invaders fell. Those lucky enough to survive fled for the fences. And that’s where the Apache gunships were waiting.

  Enemy fighters died running, died trying to pass through the holes in the fence, and died running toward Mud Town. The attempt to take and occupy Tabqa Superbase had failed.

  ***

  Fan al Wastani, Syria

  The fighting was getting closer and closer to Dr. Casey Milo’s Forward Surgical Team. What had previously been little more than a steady rumble was different now. Milo could hear the sharp crack of shells exploding nearby, mixed with the chatter of automatic weapons.