“O God, do not deprive us of the reward and do not cause us to go astray after this.

  “O God, forgive him and have mercy on him, keep him safe and sound and forgive him, honor his rest and ease his entrance; wash him with water and snow and hail, and cleanse him of sin as a white garment is cleansed of dirt.

  “O God, give him a home better than his home and a family better than his family.

  “O God, admit him to Paradise and protect him from the torment of the grave and the torment of Hell-fire; make his grave spacious and fill it with light.”

  “You’re going somewhere alright,” Yusef allowed. “But it isn’t heaven.”

  “No,” Wali said. “Wait …”

  Yusef squeezed the trigger. The pistol produced a soft clacking sound. One bullet in the head and one in the chest. Wali toppled over. “Thank you, Allah,” Yusef said. “My work here is finished.”

  After inserting a fresh magazine in the pistol, Yusef made his way to the back of the tent where he drew a knife. The razor-sharp blade made a soft ripping sound as it sliced through the thick fabric.

  A quick peek confirmed that the way was clear. Yusef stepped through the slit, and returned the knife to its sheath. Then, pistol in hand, he vanished into the night. Nigeria was a long way off, but he would get there.

  ***

  Between the tanks, the Strykers and the A-10s the Afghan pursuit had been stopped in its tracks. And according to the Raptor pilot, call sign Dixie Chick, what remained of the once impressive Afghan brigade was hunkered down licking its wounds. That left Strike Force 3 free to complete the journey to the Zahedan air base, where the C-17s would be waiting.

  Finn was seated inside SWEET LIBERTY’S cargo bay, eating a candy bar, when the call came in. “It’s Colonel Selton,” the radio operator said, as she offered the handset.

  Finn took a moment to wash a mouthful of chocolate bar down with a swig of warm water before accepting the device. “This is Alpha-Six actual. Over.”

  “Congratulations,” Selton said. “All of the reports agree … You kicked their asses good! There’s been a hiccup though … A problem you’ll need to deal with before we can take the battalion out. Over.”

  Finn felt a sense of anger. Each fight led to another fight. Strike Team 3 had been pushed to its limit. When would the torture end? He struggled to modulate his voice. “And what hiccup is that? Over.”

  “A company of Iranian regulars reoccupied the airbase,” Selton said. “And you’ll need to chase them off. Over.”

  Finn felt a sense of despair followed by resentment. Why had Selton, and the rest of the chair sitters, allowed that to happen? The words wanted to gush out of his mouth but Finn managed to control them. “I don’t think that’s realistic, sir. The unit has suffered twenty-five percent casualties since the Brits joined us. We’re tired, and we’re running low on everything, especially fuel and ammo. My men and women are in no condition to tackle a company of Iranian regulars.”

  A long moment of silence followed. And when Selton spoke his voice was tight with barely controlled emotion. “And if I order you to attack the airbase?”

  Finn’s mind was racing. He would refuse if he had to, and face the court martial that was sure to follow. But maybe there was a way to avoid conflict. A map was open on the seat next to him. He picked it up. “I think there’s another option, sir … As I understand it, we were going to use C-17s for the exfil, because Chinooks don’t have the range required to get here and make the return trip.

  “But according to my map, it looks like the village of Shahrak Maskuni-ye Gavater is only four hundred miles from here, and it’s on the Gulf of Oman. So, if we shed the heavies, and make a run for it, you could pull us out using carrier launched helos—or boats. It makes no difference to me.”

  Selton remained silent for a moment. “Alright, I’ll run it up the flag pole and see who salutes. In the meantime, Strike Team 3 will head for Zahedan. That’s an order. Out. Click.”

  Finn allowed himself some time to think before getting on the radio. “This is Six. All vehicles will remain on our present course, but reduce speed to ten miles per hour. Direct reports will meet on the command freq. Out.”

  Once Captain Owens, Captain Howard, Captain al-Awan, Lieutenant Emery, Doctor Parcel, Lieutenant Pinnick, and Lieutenant Scott had joined, Finn briefed them on his call, and the recommendation he’d made. He was careful to do so without casting aspersions on Colonel Selton.

  Most, if not all, of the officers on the call could read between the lines however, and that was reflected in some of their comments. “I hope the brass agrees to the plan,” Owens said. “I think it’s a winner.”

  “I concur,” Howard added. “We’re in no shape to tackle a fully defended airbase.”

  “Roger that,” Scott said. “But you’re going to leave my tanks behind? Is that wise?”

  “Yes, we are,” Finn replied, “and the Bradleys too. They’re too slow. The whole idea is to roll down to the Gulf so quickly that the Iranians won’t have time to establish heavy duty roadblocks. That means a minimum of fifty miles per hour sustained. Fifty-five would be ideal.”

  “So, we’re going to give the Afghan army some MBTs and Bradleys?” Scott demanded.

  “No,” Finn answered. “We’ll call on the A-10s to destroy them.”

  All of the officers knew that wouldn’t take long, and would be a hell of a lot better than leaving the machines behind.

  “We’ll strip the unit down to Strykers, the gun trucks we liberated from the Afghans, and our transport vehicles. No fuelers though … We’ll pump them empty, and leave them for the warthogs.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Finn’s radio operator said. “I have Colonel Selton on the brigade frequency.”

  “Colonel Selton is calling,” Finn said. “More when I have it. Out.”

  Then, on a signal from the radio operator, Finn spoke into the handset. “This is Major Finn.”

  “Your suggestion was approved,” Selton said stiffly. “How much time do you need? Over.”

  Finn was ready. “One hour of prep, plus ten hours on the road. Over.”

  “You could do the trip in nine. Over.”

  “Ten gives me some pad,” Finn said. “In case we run into trouble. Over.”

  “All right,” Selton said. “Ten it is. Don’t be late. Over.”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  “And Sean …”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Good luck. Out.” Click.

  Finn considered that. “Good luck.” They were going to need it.

  Finn ordered the convoy to stop and lagger up. The Reaper was going to function as their early warning system. The A-10s were five out if needed. Owens was in charge of security. Work began. All of the soldiers were bone tired. But the prospect of being on a navy ship in twelve hours was enough to energize them.

  Scott worked with Pinnick to herd the tanks and Bradleys onto a patch of desert where they would be easy meat for the Warthogs. Company Sergeant Major McKenzie was put in charge of allocating soldiers to the Strykers and Heavy Expanded Mobility Tactical Trucks (HEMTTs).

  The troop trucks were open in back, covered with a water repellent “skin,” and capable of carrying twenty soldiers—plus an arsenal of weapons and two days of food and water. Because, as McKenzie put it, “Ye canae be ower careful.”

  The med truck was already set up to transport critically wounded soldiers, Doctor Parcel, and her medics. And the seventh HEMTT was carrying the bombs, with Doctor Okada riding shotgun.

  Meanwhile supply officer Emery was in charge of fueling the vehicles that were going to make the journey, loading them with ordinance, and mounting LMGs on both sides of the troop transports—for what Finn called “crowd control.”

  Finn spent his time moving from place to place urging the soldiers to hurry, nit picking when he thought something was important, and doing what he could to maintain morale. “Hey Downey, you look like a cave man. I’ll be surprised if the swabbies let you on board.”

  “Jeez, Perkins … A Yankees hat? That’s against regs. The Red Sox are going to take the series.”

  “Okay, Sabato … I know you’re in love with LUCILLE, but all good things must end. Kiss her turret and walk away. Don’t drag the relationship out.”

  And so it went. Unfortunately, the process took an hour and a half rather than an hour. Time the unit would have to make up on the road. On the other hand, Finn told himself. If we’re half an hour late arriving at the beach, what will they do? Leave the bombs for the Iranians to recover? I don’t think so.

  After a radio check, and a final headcount, Strike Team 3 was ready to depart. “Alpha-Two, this is Six actual. Call the hogs. Tell them to use bombs. Let’s conserve our ammo. There’s no telling what we’re going to run into. Out.”

  “Roger that,” Pinnick replied. “Out.”

  Finn spoke to the vehicle commander over the intercom. “We’re ready. Hit it.”

  Finn felt the press of hot desert air against his face as SWEET LIBERTY jerked into motion. He looked at his watch. It was just after 1300 hours. Assuming that all went well, his battalion would be aboard a carrier by 0100.

  Finn was standing in an open hatch as usual. It would have been difficult to consult a map due to the turbulence generated by the slipstream. But he didn’t need to. Not really. Because the route was emblazoned on his hippocampus.

  Instead of heading due west, and trying to access the main north-south highway near the airbase, the column was going to take a short cut across the dagger shaped section of Pakistani territory that was pointed at Iran. There were some towns to circumvent. But most of the area was uninhabited.

  Then they would cross the border into Iran, and turn south onto the main highway. Rather than try to pass through the city of Iranshahr, where the convoy was likely to encounter resistance, the vics would use a secondary road to circle around it.

  After that they would continue south, pass through the town of Polan, and head for the village of Gavater where Allied forces would be waiting. That prospect served to lift Finn’s spirits as he turned to look back.

  Two Strykers were following SWEET LIBERTY. Then came the big HEMTTs and the rearguard, which consisted of the WHEELER DEALER and EIGHTBALL. Because of the dust the HEMTTs threw up, the vics had been forced to fall back for the sake of visibility. And that was when the A-10s attacked.

  Engines roared as they swooped in, dropped their gravity bombs, and began to pull up. The explosions came in quick succession, each marked by a red flower, and a resounding BOOM.

  A tank cost what? Something like nine mil? Never mind the Bradleys, which were worth three million each. But Finn felt no regrets. The truth was that, useful though they had been, it felt good to be rid of the lumbering giants as the convoy cut across the parched land. Hills shimmered in the distance. And the Gulf of Oman was waiting four hundred miles to the south.

  ***

  Mirjaveh Ladiz, Iran

  Major Farhad Kabiri was standing at the top of a minaret, binoculars raised, staring into Pakistan. There was nothing to see other than desert. Not yet anyway, although Russian intelligence claimed that an Allied convoy was headed his way, carrying the bombs stolen from the Natanz nuclear research facility. How was such a thing possible? What a fuck up. Somebody was going to pay.

  Kabiri lowered the glasses and took a moment to look around. The town of Mirjaveh was a shithole. That was his considered opinion. Of course, Kabiri had been raised in Tehran, and was accustomed to big city conveniences.

  Mirjaveh had a population of about thirteen thousand people and, had it not been for the nearby border crossing, would have turned to dust and blown away.

  Nonetheless, wars were often fought in shitholes, so why should Kabiri expect anything else? Still, the fact that he and his border guards had orders to recover a clutch of nuclear bombs was unusual to say the least.

  “Don’t attack transport trucks, because one of them is carrying the bombs,” his commanding officer had cautioned. “Go for the fighting vehicles. If you destroy those, the bombs will fall into your lap like figs from a tree.”

  That’s what the fat bastard said. And he should know, since he’d consumed far more than his share of figs, and rarely left his Tehran office.

  The position from atop the minaret provided Kabiri with an excellent view of the town and the trap that was waiting for the infidels. We’ll be outnumbered, Kabiri thought. And outgunned. But we’ll have the advantages of surprise and height.

  A dirt road led out of the desert, through the border crossing, and into town. The infidels would blow through the largely symbolic gate and enter Mirjaveh Ladiz from the east.

  At that point the American vehicles would pass between a number of two-story buildings. Toophan anti-tank missile teams were positioned on each roof, along with half a dozen RPG-27 grenade launchers. In accordance with the fat bastard’s orders, fire would be directed at the first and last fighting vehicles. Because if we stop them, the column will be trapped, Kabiri mused. With no room to turn around. Then we’ll use our machine guns and assault rifles to finish the job.

  And if I fail? Kabiri asked himself. The fat bastard will blame me for the loss of the bombs. So rather than wait for that to happen I will cross into Pakistan. I’d prefer to live with Sunnis than rot in prison. Vashti and the children will join me there.

  “Here they come,” First Sergeant Soltani said.

  Kabiri turned to the east and raised his binoculars. A distant plume of dust was visible. A sure sign that the enemy was coming his way. “Notify the troops,” Kabiri ordered. “May Allah be with us.”

  ***

  “Alpha-Six, this is Black-Jack,” the latest Raptor pilot said. “Be advised that fifteen to twenty tangos are waiting for you in Mirjaveh Ladiz. They’re on rooftops above both sides of the main drag. Over.”

  Finn felt a sinking sensation. Not about the ambush so much as the fact that Iranians knew they were coming. The “how” wasn’t that important, but HUMINT (human intelligence) was a possibility, as was satellite surveillance by the Russians. “That sucks,” Finn replied. “Can we go around? Over.”

  “Yes, but it would take some additional time,” Black-Jack responded. “And what if they’re trying to maneuver you into a second ambush? Over.”

  It was apparent that like most drone pilots, Black-Jack had seen a thing or two. “Okay,” Finn replied. “We’ll go straight through. Hit the north and south sides of the street with Hellfires just before we enter. That should take the edge off. We’ll handle the rest. Out.”

  After passing the word to the convoy Finn added: “Be ready for fire from above. Shoot anything that moves. And don’t stop. If a vehicle stalls, push it out of the way. The rearguard will pick up survivors. Over.”

  As SWEET LIBERTY continued to speed across flat ground the town of Mirjaveh Ladiz took on added shape and substance. The most obvious features were the minaret, the cellphone tower to the north of that, and clusters of palm trees.

  Dozens of tracks appeared from all directions and converged into a rutted road that led toward the sunbaked border crossing. Its location was marked by a flimsy barrier, spindly radio mast, and a single palm. “Incoming,” the truck commander said laconically. “Take evasive, and fire.”

  Finn’s headset provided some ear protection, which was a good thing, since the Stryker’s 30mm Bushmaster was banging away next to him. Geysers of dirt shot up all around the customs station as the wire guided Toophan veered off course and flew out into the desert.

  A pintle mounted .50 caliber machine gun was positioned just forward of the hatch, and Finn saw an opportunity to make himself useful. He pulled the charging handle, took aim, and fired. SWEET LIBERTY was a lot closer by then, and Finn could see the big slugs tear into the waist high wall of sandbags, knocking a soldier down.

  Wood shattered and a piece whirred past Finn’s head as the Stryker’s front guard broke through the drop arm that was supposed to keep hostile vehicles out of Iran.

  The city had taken on more definition by then, and Finn had the impression of one-, two-, and three-story buildings, few of which had any character. That was when he noticed that the street ahead was empty of parked cars.

  Black-Jack chose that moment to fire two Hellfire missiles. One hit the two-story structure ahead and on the right. The other struck a single-story building on the left. Both impacts produced flashes of light and overlapping claps of thunder.

  Toylike bodies tumbled through the air, fire belched up out of the two-story building, and automatic fire converged on the lead Strykers. Finn heard bullets snap past and ping the hull as he fired a long burst at the second-floor windows on the right.

  The Stryker shook but continued to roll as it took a large caliber round from somewhere. SWEET LIBERTY was doing at least forty miles per hour, so there was no need to pan the machine gun left and right.

  The other vics were firing too. And, as Finn chanced a look over his shoulder, he realized that the Iranians weren’t firing on the HEMTTs. The reason for that was obvious. They knew one or more of the trucks was loaded with nuclear bombs.

  The reverse wasn’t true however. The LMGs mounted on the transports were burping bullets and punching holes through doors, walls and windows.

  The rearguard entered the ambush zone with one vic firing left and the other right. A rocket propelled grenade exploded next to the EIGHTBALL but failed to stop it. Then the WHEELER DEALER cleared the zone and the entire convoy was through.

  Finn released the M2 to use his radio. “Black-Jack, this is Alpha-Six. Nice work! Thank you. Out.” Finn received a double click by way of a reply.

  Finn requested a report from each vic, and was pleased to learn that, with the exception of some minor wounds, the unit was in good shape. But for how long? The Iranians knew about the convoy, and could easily deduce where it was headed.

  And, if that wasn’t enough, clouds were moving in from the south. Rain, Finn thought. After all the heat Iran is going to rain on us. What will that do to the roads, and to our timeline? The answer was obvious.