“Maybe,” Soto said doubtfully. “And maybe not. I’ll call it in.”

  The conversation with Central was brief. The relief force had come under attack, and though delayed, was still coming their way. There was no mention of sending more planes.

  No further mortar rounds fell. Because they’d been destroyed? That’s the way it looked.

  But the exchanges of small arms fire continued, with Clay circling the perimeter, voicing the same mantra over and over. “Conserve ammo, conserve ammo, and—oh yeah—conserve ammo.”

  The sergeant had returned when Soto heard a whisper from her radio. “Wizard? Are you there, hon? Over.”

  “I’m here,” Soto confirmed. “You’re alive. Thank God.”

  “Yeah,” Boots agreed. “I survived the drop and managed to hide the chute, but I have a problem.”

  “Which is?”

  “My right ankle is sprained or broken. I can’t walk, but I’m crawling your way. Don’t amscray without me. Promise?”

  “I promise,” Soto said. “Where are you? Relative to our position? Over.”

  “East,” Boots replied. “But don’t send anyone after me. There’re too many tangos. Over.”

  “I read you,” Soto said. “Stay in touch. We’ll monitor this channel. Over.”

  Soto heard a double click followed by silence. She turned to Clay. “I’m going after her. I think my copilot will want to go too. But I need an additional body. A man preferably. We might have to carry her back.”

  Clay eyed her. “No offense, ma’am, but what makes you think you can find her? It’s pitch black out there.”

  “My copilot and I have night vision gear (NVG),” Soto answered.

  “Okay,” Clay replied. “In the meantime, what are we supposed to do for leadership?”

  “You’re it,” Soto answered. “You know that. So, please find a volunteer.”

  “You’re a better infantry officer than a pilot has a right to be,” Clay commented. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

  It took fifteen minutes to assemble and equip the mini rescue party. The team consisted of Lee, a burly medic named Dix, and Soto.

  The men had two pistols, each enabling them to fire one-handed if necessary. Soto was carrying her sidearm plus the M4. She led the way, with Dix in the two slot, and Lee bringing up the rear. He was in charge of their six.

  Soto could see clearly but her surroundings had a greenish hue. Her radio was ready. “Boots, this is Wizard. There are three of us. We’re coming your way. Over.”

  The A-10 pilot was whispering. “I told you not to send anyone. Over.”

  “Oh yeah,” Soto replied. “I forgot. Sorry. Do you have night vision? Give me a landmark… Something to home in on. Over.”

  “There’s an old truck directly in front of me. A flatbed, like a farmer might use. That’s the good news. The bad news is that a haji is standing on it. Over.”

  “Got it… Keep crawling, but don’t get too close to him. Over.”

  Soto heard two clicks and continued east. She heard voices two minutes later, knelt, and signaled the others to do likewise.

  Three tangos crossed her path moments later headed north. They were chatting in a language Soto didn’t recognize. It was sloppy, very sloppy, but that wasn’t surprising.

  Once the enemy soldiers were gone Soto waved the others forward. A section of stone wall blocked the way. Soto climbed over it. Another fifty feet of progress put her on a rise. And there, about a hundred yards away, was the truck. And sure enough, a tango was standing on it.

  Soto had two choices. She could get close, climb up onto the truck, and try to kill the asshole with her knife. That might work if she was a green beret. But she wasn’t, and almost certain to fail.

  That left choice number two. Get as close as possible, shoot the bastard, and send the others forward to find Boots. In the meantime, she would take the lookout’s place, and trust that a single shot wouldn’t be enough for the enemy to home in on.

  Then the three of them would hustle the A-10 pilot back to the crash site and relative safety. Perfect it was not. But after a whispered conference Dix summed the situation up. “It beats the hell out of doing nothing. Let’s go for it.”

  It seemed safe to assume that the lookout didn’t have night vision goggles. But the terrorist could have a day-night scope on his rifle, which would explain why he was holding the weapon up to his eye, as he scanned the surroundings.

  That meant the Americans had to belly crawl forward to the outcropping of rock which Soto had chosen as her firing bench. Then it was time to place the M4 in front of her, snuggle up to the weapon, and fix the man in her crosshairs. A headshot, Soto decided. So, he can’t use his radio.

  She was dimly aware of gunfire to the west. A sure sign that the bad guys were still trying to break through the perimeter. Soto thumbed her radio. “Boots… Do you read me? Over.”

  “Five-by-five. Over.”

  “We’re west of the truck. I’m going to smoke the guy who is standing on it. My two-man posse will come looking for you. Don’t shoot them. Over.”

  “Roger that, over.”

  Soto took a deep breath, held it, and began to squeeze the trigger. She heard the report, felt the recoil, and prepared to fire again. There was no need. The tango collapsed.

  “Go, go, go!” Soto whispered. The men took off. Lee led the way.

  Soto was up and running too. Eager to get up on the truck where other lookouts, assuming there were some, would be able to see a figure standing there.

  After scrambling up onto the truck Soto paused to listen. And, as far as she could tell, the solitary shot hadn’t been enough to raise an alarm.

  Time seemed to slow as Soto waited for Lee to report in. But it was Boots who spoke first. “You’re directly in front of me,” she whispered. “Keep coming. Over.”

  Lee responded with two clicks of his mike. Then there was silence except for the haunting cry of an Arabian wolf in the distance. The sound sent a shiver down Soto’s spine. Predators were hunting, and prey were hiding. Such was the world that Soto lived in.

  “Wizard,” Lee said. “Don’t shoot. We’re a hundred feet east of you. Over.”

  Soto jumped to the ground and saw them appear. A diminutive figure flanked by two larger bodies. Boots was hopping along with help from the men. Progress was understandably slow. And there wasn’t a damned thing anyone could do about it.

  With Soto leading the way the foursome made their way west. A flare lit the sky, the tempo of firing increased, and Soto feared the worst. What if she and her companions arrived only to discover that the crash site was in enemy hands?

  Soto considered a call to Clay, remembered that the noncom didn’t have a radio, and bit her lower lip. Helicopter pilot. What the hell was she thinking? Meteorology. Army weather girl. That would have been a great MOS. But no, she wanted to fly. Just like her dad.

  Soto saw movement to her right, knelt, and signaled the others to do likewise. The enemy patrol consisted of six men walking single file. Soto was reminded of officer training. “One grenade’ll get you all!” That’s what the instructors liked to yell.

  But Soto didn’t have a grenade. All she could do was pray that the tangos didn’t spot the group of Americans.

  As with so many prayers, Soto’s went unanswered. A haji yelled something and fired. The bullet kicked up sand next to Soto and she fired in return. Her slug knocked the man over as the other tangos brought their weapons to bear.

  But Lee and Dix had dropped Boots by then and were firing their pistols. The fusillade was poorly aimed, and half the bullets missed their targets, but the rest hit flesh and bone. Two men fell, two fired in return, and a third ran.

  Soto felt something nip her left shoulder, switched to the three round burst mode, and fired. The M4 produced very little recoil. As her slugs took a haji down, the other man jerked, as Lee and Dix emptied their backup pistols.

  Soto turned. “Was anyone hit? No? Then let’s haul ass.”

  “Specifically, my ass,” Boots added. “Come on boys, get me to the Tabqa air base, and I’ll buy the drinks.”

  “Enough said,” Lee responded. “Come on, Dix… Let’s move.”

  The next thirty minutes were anything but easy for Boots and the two men. There were gullies to traverse, rocks to avoid, and the continuing threat of being intercepted by hostile forces.

  But as the sounds of fighting diminished Soto had reason to be hopeful and fearful at the same time. Had the attackers been beaten off? And disappeared into the night? Or were they inside the American perimeter looting bodies?

  Finally, when the foursome was about a thousand yards from the crash site, Soto ordered the others to take a break. “I’m going to get closer. And, if it looks like it’s safe to do so, I’ll make contact. Otherwise, I will return here.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Lee allowed. “I’d rather be shot by the enemy.”

  On that note Soto made her way west, pausing every few yards to look and listen. And that paid off when a male voice said, “Help me carry this shit… It’s heavy.”

  Soto felt a surge of excitement. “Attention inside the perimeter! This is Captain Soto. Four of us are coming in. Do you read me?”

  “There was a pause followed by the now familiar sound of Master Sergeant Clay’s parade ground voice. “Listen up! Friendlies approaching from the east. Weapons tight!”

  Soto used her radio to call Lee and give the all clear. Clay came out to meet her. “Welcome back, ma’am. We heard shots fired in your direction, and feared the worst. Did you find her?”

  “We did,” Soto replied. “She has what may be a broken ankle, but she’s gutsy as hell, and hopped all the way. Give me a sitrep.”

  “The reaction force arrived and kicked ass. A first lieutenant is in command. We were about to send a patrol out to find you.”

  “Thanks,” Soto said. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “The plan is to pack up and get the hell out of here,” Clay said with a grin.

  “Works for me,” Soto replied. “Where are we headed?”

  “Tabqa airbase.”

  “That’s where I hang my helmet,” Soto told him. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  It took thirty minutes to load people and gear aboard a motley collection of fighting vehicles which included two American MRAPs, a German DURO transport, a French Griffon VBMR, and the war weary Humvee that led the way.

  Soto managed to find a spot to sleep in the Griffon. The M4 was wrapped in her arms and her head was resting on her escape and evade bag. It was lumpy but that didn’t prevent Soto from falling asleep. She remained that way for most of the long, three-and-a-half-hour trip.

  Then a loud voice woke her up. “We’re about to arrive at Superbase Tabqa. Our convoy will be required to stop outside the wire, where we will deass the truck and line up for a security check. Please have your ID Card and or transfer papers out, ready for inspection. Welcome to Tabqa.”

  The ensuing process was a pain in the butt, but necessary, and Soto spent the time shooting the shit with Boots. The A-10 pilot was from Alabama, and looking forward to some time off before returning to duty.

  That was when Soto noticed the cowboy boot on the pilot’s left foot and pointed at it. “Aha! Your callsign. How do you get away with it?”

  Boots batted her eyes. “That depends on who’s asking. Men are easy.”

  “But now you’ll have to wear standard issue.”

  Boots laughed. “Don’t be silly. I have backups.”

  Once the security check was complete the airbase swallowed the convoy whole. Soto had been stationed at Tabqa for three months by then, and knew some of its history. The Syrian airbase had been held by the Islamic State (ISIS) for a period of time, before losing a hard-fought battle to the Syrian Democratic forces or SDF, an alliance of Kurdish and Arab Militias backed by the U.S.

  Then U.S. special forces took over and used Tabqa to support a variety of initiatives in the region. As WWIII started and Iran pushed into Iraq, millions of dollars’ worth of equipment and defenses had been poured into the so-called “superbase,” which soon became a home away from home for thousands of U.S. and Allied troops.

  The Allies ate pizzas, hot dogs and hamburgers at American fast-food restaurants and bought electronics, T-shirts and groceries from a huge exchange. Then, when called upon to do so, they ventured forth to fight an ever-changing lineup of terrorist organizations and Iranian militias. The emotional whiplash was difficult to cope with, but beat the alternative, which was life at a Forward Operating Base (FOB).

  The sun had broken company with the eastern horizon by the time Soto and her former passengers were admitted to Tabqa and deposited outside the base’s security center.

  After checking to make sure that the dead were being handled properly, and that the wounded soldiers were receiving care, Soto said goodbye to Boots.

  The A-10 pilot was loaded onto a medical Humvee bound for the base hospital. She waved. “Remember! I’m buying.”

  That left Soto and Lee to hitch a ride to the patch of bone-dry ground assigned to Charlie Company, which was part of the 1-167th General Support Aviation Battalion (GSAB). On a good day Charlie Company boasted 20 UH-60 Back Hawk utility transport helicopters, and 12 CH-47D Chinooks.

  Soto heard the percussive sound typical of Chinooks and looked up as a so-called “fat cow” came in for a landing.

  The D’s shared the same airframe with previous models but had more powerful engines. A Chinook’s triple-hook cargo system could carry up to 26,000 pounds of cargo externally, including a 40-foot cargo container, like the one dangling below the incoming bird.

  “That’s Cooper,” Lee shouted, as the container landed. “He has a nice touch.”

  The company area included two dedicated helipads, eight CHUs (Containerized Housing Units) for people to sleep in, and a ninth for the headquarters company’s use.

  It was generally referred to as the “Bermuda Triangle” because of the way reports, requisitions, and inventories went in and never came out.

  Soto and Lee passed in front of his hootch, agreed to meet at the DFAC (dee-fack) (Dining Facility) later, and agreed that they were lucky to be alive.

  Soto arrived at her quarters to find a note taped to the door. It was short and not especially sweet. “Captain Soto will report to Major Albro immediately upon her return.”

  Who the fuck is Major Albro? Soto wondered.

  She sighed, unlocked the door to her “slot,” and stayed long enough to shed her M4 and E-bag. Then it was time to visit the communal restrooms located at the center of the area, and trudge over to the headquarters trailer, where Albro was likely to be.

  After pulling the door open Soto stepped into what felt like an icebox. The army had generators. BIG ones. So, there was no need to get sweaty. Not inside the wire.

  Corporal Hayes was flying the front desk. “Good to see you ma’am; I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Thanks Hayes. Who is Major Albro? And why does he or she want to see me?”

  “Major Albro is our new company commander,” Hayes replied. “As of yesterday.”

  “What happened to Zensky?”

  “They sent him to an outfit in Saudi Arabia.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s above my paygrade,” Hayes responded. “But I heard he’s getting some sort of a bump.”

  “Okay, thanks. Is Major Albro in?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll let him know you’re here. There’s coffee on the table, along with some doughnuts.”

  Soto was drinking tepid coffee, and halfway through a chocolate covered doughnut, when Hayes sent her in. She took three steps forward, came to attention, and saluted. “Captain Marie Soto reporting as ordered, sir.”

  Albro was seated behind an army-issue field desk. He wore his hair high and tight, his eyes were like chips of obsidian, and his mustache was so thin it could have been penciled on. The salute resembled a wave. “At ease, Captain. I’m glad that you and your copilot returned safely. That said, your helicopter was destroyed.”

  “Yes, sir,” Soto responded. “We were shot down.”

  Albro was toying with a pen. “Yes, let’s discuss that. I’m sure you’re aware of the fact that a Chinook can fly at 18,000 feet. But, according to what air traffic control told me, you were flying at a very low altitude. So low that the enemy was able to fire down on you. Why was that?”

  Soto’s eyes were fixed on a point above Albro’s head. “We had orders to stay low so that Iranian radars, located three hundred miles to the east, couldn’t detect us. Sir.”

  Albro tapped the desktop with his pen. “That’s the way of it, isn’t it Captain? There’s always a good reason why the helicopters assigned to you crash. Two dead stick landings according to your file.”

  “Three now, sir.”

  “Don’t be a smart ass,” Albro said thinly. “I won’t tolerate it! And it’s unbecoming. Do you read me?”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  “Work with me, and I’ll work with you, Captain. For the good of the company and the battalion. Have a complete after-action report on my desk by 1300 hours. Dismissed.”

  It was hot outside. A Blackhawk clattered over Soto’s head as jets roared down the adjacent runway and shot into the sky. That’s where freedom was. And that’s where Soto wanted to be.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Superbase Tabqa, Syria

  It was 0127. Engines roared as a pair of fighters took off. Master Sergeant Felix Bone barely noticed. He was standing in front of his hooch, his pack resting on the ground, as he waited for the duty truck to arrive. That’s when the latest mission would begin.

  Bone felt numb. Not excited. Not frightened. Just numb.

  He was forty-seven years old and had been in the army for twenty-nine years. During that time Bone served in Iraq twice, fought in Afghanistan three times, and been part of raids in a long list of ugly places. All he knew was war.