The plan was to retire once he had thirty. But then World War III came along, and Bone received a notice informing him that his enlistment had been extended “…Until the end of the war, or for as long as the army requires your services.”

  Not that it mattered, because Bone was up to his ass in debt, and couldn’t afford to retire. Or serve stateside, because he’d lose his combat pay if he did.

  The pile of unpaid debt was partly his fault. The speedboat was a mistake. He used it what? Three times a year? And was paying three hundred bucks a month for it.

  But his wife Yolanda deserved most of the blame. She refused to work in order to homeschool the kids. All three of whom required food, clothes, cell phones, lessons and allowances.

  So, as Bone stood in the cold waiting for the truck to arrive, he was thinking about money instead of the mission. That was a rookie mistake. Focus, Bone told himself. Money won’t matter if you’re dead.

  Headlights appeared and swung around to pin him in their glare. The M939 truck’s diesel engine roared as the 5-ton came to a halt. It’s showtime, Bone thought. Strap it on.

  “It” was the master sergeant persona that Bone had developed over the years. Gruff, fearless, profane and competent. Like in the movies. Why? Because it worked, that’s why.

  Bone threw his pack up to Corporal Levy, one of the so-called “Boneheads” who were members of the noncom’s private posse, and covered his six. ‘How’s it hanging, Corp?” Bone inquired, as he climbed up into the back of the truck.

  “Long and strong, Sarge. Here’s your coffee. A Grande, two sugars, no cream.”

  “Thanks, Levy… You’re okay for a Yankees fan. Move over Sergeant Olson… I thought you were sick.”

  “Naw, genital herpes don’t count as being sick,” the other noncom replied.

  “That’ll teach you to hump air force wrench turners,” Private Hiro commented primly. “What the hell did you expect?”

  The banter between the Boneheads elicited chuckles from the other members of the team, all of whom were Army Rangers, and happy to have some entertainment.

  The truck took a series of turns before stopping in front of a trailer in officer country. Lieutenant Pete Sully climbed over the tailgate. He was an experienced leader, for which Bone was thankful. Newbies, even Ranger newbies, could be dangerous.

  Sully took a look around. “Really, Sergeant Bone… Is this group of miscreants the best you could do?”

  Bone shrugged. “They’re gnarly, sir. But they’re Rangers.”

  Olson said, “Hooah!” And the rest of the men replied in kind: “HOOAH!”

  The whole thing had a ritualistic feel, with each member of the team knowing what to expect, and how to respond. There’s comfort in that, Bone mused. And they need it. No, we need it. Because this fucking war is grinding me down.

  A Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter was waiting on Pad 4, rotor blades turning, as the team arrived. Sully led the team to the side door where the bird’s crew chief stood ready to welcome the Rangers aboard.

  All of them knew the drill. The Rangers took seats, settled in, and ran last minute checks on their weapons and gear. Each man had a radio, headset, and boom mike.

  Roughly five minutes passed before the Black Hawk took off and Sully began the inflight briefing. The team had heard it the day before. But Sully believed in the old axiom: “Tell ‘em what you’re going to tell ‘em, tell ‘em, and tell ‘em what you told ‘em.” Bone agreed.

  “Okay,” Sully said. “Here’s the skinny. We’re headed for a village called Sarha. It’s located about seventy-five miles southeast of Tabqa, which means this will be a short flight.

  “According to the latest Intel, Sarha is home to about six hundred people—the power is out—and has been for a long time. The population is neither hostile nor friendly. They can best be described as survivors who have been able to coexist with a variety of terrorist groups over the last ten years. Al-Qaeda is the latest.

  “Our job is to snatch an al-Qaeda commander, and failing that, to smoke the bastard. We aren’t sure how many fighters he has, but estimates run from twenty to fifty. I’m hoping for twenty.

  “As you know, this bird is noisy as hell. So, we’re going to land two miles outside of town, and hoof it. Our night vision gear will be critical. Please don’t be the idiot who falls into a dry wash and breaks an ankle. If you do, we’ll leave you there, and pick you up during the exfil. Are there any questions?”

  “Yes,” a private named Perez said. “Is it too late to join the Coast Guard?” That produced chuckles all around.

  “Okay,” Sully said. “Let’s keep it simple. In, grab, and go. Then back to base for a nap. Nothing to it.”

  That too was part of the script. The kind of optimistic bullshit that leaders always offered at the beginning of a mission. Bone knew that, because when he was in command, he did the same thing.

  And, every once in a while, the rosy predictions came true. I hope this is one of those times, Bone thought.

  Since Sarha was only 75 miles from Tabqa airfield, and the Black Hawk could do more than 180 miles per hour, their travel time would be a mere 25 minutes, give or take.

  Thanks to their skill, and night vision gear, the pilots put the twelve-thousand-pound helo down with a gentle thump. “Have a nice stroll,” the pilot said over the intercom. “And be sure to give an hour’s warning for the exfil.”

  The Rangers understood. The bird would be vulnerable if it remained on the ground, and would run out of fuel if it remained aloft. So, the crew would return to Tabqa and a hot breakfast. “Have some bacon for me,” Sully replied. “Crispy please.”

  “Done,” the pilot said. “See ya later.”

  The Rangers hit the ground, hurried to exit the landing zone, and waited for the bird to take off. Engines roared, rotor blades clattered, and the Hawk was gone.

  “This is Red-Dog-Six,” Sully said. “I’ll take the point with Three. Maintain visual contact with the man in front of you, but don’t bunch up. Red-Dog-Nine will be eyes on.”

  Bone was Red-Dog-Nine. And, as second in command, it was his job to walk drag, so that both halves of the team would have leadership if the column were cut in two.

  Bone had responsibility for monitoring the team’s six as well, a process that involved pausing to look and listen, before hurrying to catch up.

  Sometimes, on good days, a patrol like theirs would have an MQ-9 Reaper circling overhead. But the demand for Predators was high, which forced Central to ration the drones, depending on the priorities at the time.

  “All right,” Sully said. “Keep your head on a swivel, and let me know if you spot something of interest. Oh yeah, and I’m told that venomous Palestine vipers are active at night. Don’t step on one. And if you do, don’t scream. Noise travels in the desert.”

  “Or, put another way,” Levy said. “Die quietly.”

  “Cut the crap,” Bone said sternly. “Come see me when this is over.”

  Levy was a certified Bonehead, but that didn’t give him the right to mouth off, and Bone would find a shit detail that had the corporal’s name on it. The patrol headed south.

  ***

  Sarha, Syria

  It was a luxurious house by local standards in that it had three bedrooms, separate dining rooms for men and women, and a Honda generator powerful enough to support a small refrigerator and some lights.

  One of the bulbs threw a circle of buttery light down onto the table in front of al-Qaeda Commander Amer Atwi. A laptop was positioned in front of him, and on it was the outline of what Atwi hoped would become an agreement between al-Qaeda and the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS).

  The opportunity was huge. Both al-Qaeda and ISIS had lost their leaders during the last month. One had been killed by an Allied “Flying Ginsu” drone, which was equipped with deployable blades, and the other dropped dead of a heart attack.

  The result was a momentary vacuum which Atwi hoped to take advantage of. The essence of his plan was to engineer a merger between al-Qaeda and ISIS, thus creating a new terrorist organization with the power required to accomplish what neither organization had been able to achieve alone.

  And there was a great deal to recommend the idea. Both al-Qaeda and ISIS were Sunni. Both hoped to establish a conservative Sharia-based government which would govern the entire Muslim world.

  But there were differences too. ISIS leaders had criticized al-Qaeda for its lack of a coherent purpose which, in their view, was to take and hold territory. Because nothing less than that would signal legitimacy to the western world.

  Meanwhile al-Qaeda argued that the best path forward was to punish the enemy the way the United States had been punished on 9/11. Then, having weakened the Kafirs (disbelievers), strategic goals could be accomplished.

  But surely those differences could be resolved. Or, so it seemed to Atwi and a man named Hatem Chalibi, the ISIS commander with whom Atwi had been communicating via the worldwide Hawala. (An informal transfer system used for financial transactions.)

  Besides moving money, Hawala had gradually morphed into a secure communications network, and was frequently used for nefarious purposes.

  Atwi’s thoughts were interrupted as a middle-aged woman entered the room, bearing a tray loaded with a tea service and Syrian pastries. She was the owner’s wife, and justifiably proud of her baking skills. “For you and your friend,” she said. “You must eat to stay strong.”

  Atwi thanked her and glanced at his watch. Ten minutes. And then, if things went well, the effort to unify ISIS and al-Qaeda would begin.

  ***

  North of Sarha, Syria

  “Tangos at twelve o’clock,” Sully whispered. “Down.”

  Bone turned his back to the team and took a knee. There was nothing to see but desert. How many fighters were there? Where were they based? And which group of assholes did they belong to? Questions chasing answers.

  One thing was for sure however… A firefight would be disastrous even if the Rangers won. For one thing, the people in Sarha might hear the gunfire. And even a couple of casualties would severely weaken the team and force Sully to scrub the mission.

  The officer was counting. His voice was little more than a whisper. “One, two, three, four, five, six in all—traveling east to west. Hold your positions.”

  The patrol had passed the Rangers by then. But Sully continued to wait. And, sure enough, another haji walked past. A tail-end Charlie on the lookout for anyone who might dash across the patrol’s path after it passed. The L-T knew his shit, that was for sure.

  “Clear,” Sully said. “Let’s go.”

  Bone followed the man in front of him. The patrol veered left and right as Sully led the Rangers between rock formations, and clumps of raetam—a flowering shrub found in many parts of the Middle East.

  Then, after a quarter mile or so, Bone heard something completely unexpected. And that was the rush of flowing water. “Hold up,” Sully whispered. “The dry gulch north of town is full of water. Standby.”

  Bone assumed the water was the result of a flash flood, born many miles away, and traveling downhill. To cross or not cross? That was the decision Sully had to make.

  The wait seemed to last forever, but was actually less than five minutes long. “Okay,” Sully said. “Bigfoot is taking a line across, and will anchor it on the other side. Put your Speedos on. Over.”

  “Bigfoot” was Corporal Murphy’s nickname, and stemmed from his boot size. The Ranger was six-two, weighed two-ten, and if anyone could wade through raging flood waters, Murphy could.

  Bone couldn’t see much at first. But, as the column jerked forward, the situation became clear. Most of the team was on the far side of the watercourse by then, one man was halfway across, and two were waiting their turn. Bone stepped up to join them.

  “Ignore the crossing,” Bone told them. “Maintain situational awareness. This would be the perfect moment for the enemy to open fire on us.”

  Both soldiers turned their backs to the flood waters and made a show out of scanning the darkness. They’re thinking about what a jerk I am, Bone mused. That goes with the job.

  As the last man to cross, it was Bone’s job to untie the rope from a rock before entering the thigh high water. It was unexpectedly cold. And after one end of the rope was freed, the current sought to push Bone downstream, making a straight crossing impossible.

  But with a team of three Rangers pulling him in hand-over-hand, Bone made good progress, although a momentary stumble threatened to trip him up.

  It would be a nightmare to try and exfil through the water while under fire, Bone thought, as he stepped on dry land. The bird will have to pick us up somewhere between the water and town. And it’s likely to take fire. Shit, shit, shit.

  “Good Bigfoot,” Sully said, as if to a tame beast. “Form up, and let’s get this show on the road.”

  ***

  Sarha, Syria

  The meeting between Amer Atwi, and ISIS Commander Hatem Chalibi, had been underway for twenty minutes. Atwi had done most of the talking. Something Chalibi welcomed. “So,” Atwi concluded, “the time is right for us to engineer a merger.”

  Chalibi took a sip of hot tea. “I think your proposal has merit. I have some questions however.”

  Atwi nodded politely. “Of course. Please tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “Well,” Chalibi replied, “senior though we are, we don’t have enough clout to implement such a merger.”

  “True,” Atwi conceded. “But we have access to those who have the necessary authority. Our job will be to champion the concept, and engineer the necessary consensus.”

  Chalibi nodded. “Yes, one step at a time. That’s the way to go at it. What if we’re successful? Who will lead the new organization? A person from al-Qaeda? Or someone from ISIS?”

  Atwi produced a grimace. “That is the highest hurdle. For my part, I would be happy to accept a leader from your organization. That said, I fear that many of my peers will be unwilling to accept direction from anyone other than a member of al-Qaeda. The trick will be to find a man respected by both groups but beholden to neither.”

  Chalibi chuckled. “That will be difficult my friend… But things that come easily are often worthless. Let’s create a list of potential candidates.”

  ***

  The northern outskirts of Sarha, Syria

  It was pitch black, and since only a few residents had the money necessary to own a generator, lights were few and far between. But thanks to their night vision gear, the Rangers could see the one-story mudbrick houses and vehicles parked here and there quite clearly.

  They could also see the armed fighters who were standing on flat roofs, lurking in doorways, and patrolling the streets. Bone figured there were roughly two dozen of them.

  That number dropped steadily as the Rangers went to work with their recently issued Sig Sauer XM5 assault rifles. Each of which had a suppressor.

  The tangos standing on the roofs were the first to die, followed by the lurkers, and those patrolling the streets. Was that all of them? Hell no… Not in Bone’s opinion.

  They were very close to the house where the meeting was taking place by that time, and about to make the final push, when a huge dog shot out of the shadows and attacked Sully.

  The officer went down without firing a shot. Bigfoot shot the animal in the head, but it was too late. Sully’s jugular had been severed, and he was bleeding out.

  “The L-T is down and out,” Bigfoot said. “I have his tag.”

  Bone swore. “The house is directly ahead. Follow me!’’

  A parachute flare went off, and lit the street while it drifted downwards. The surviving tangos began to fire at the Rangers and each other. That was because the al-Qaeda fighters didn’t trust their ISIS counterparts and vice versa.

  Bone expected a stray round to strike him between the shoulder blades as he ran a zigzag course toward the house. It was critical to reach the structure, snatch the target, and get the team off the street. Everything depended on it. A bullet snapped past his right ear. I’m too old for this shit, Bone thought, and forced himself to run faster.

  ***

  Chalabi heard gunfire as his radio burped static. He picked it up. “Yes?”

  “Kafirs have entered the village, Qayid (Commander). And they are headed your way. We are taking fire from others as well… We think they are al-Qaeda.”

  “Kill them,” Chalibi snapped as he drew his pistol. The weapon was pointed at Atwi. “I was sent to learn the details of your stupid plan,” Chalibi told Atwi. “You will find unity in sama (heaven).” Then he pulled the trigger.

  A hole appeared at the center of Atwi’s forehead, his head snapped back, and he fell sideways to the floor. Chalibi came to his feet as something heavy hit the front door. The woman appeared. “This way,” she said. “Follow the stairs to the roof.”

  “I won’t forget,” Chalibi promised, as he headed for the stairs. They led up past the second floor and onto the flat roof. A three-way firefight was underway. Chalibi heard a loud boom as an RPG went off.

  It was important to stay low, which Chalibi did, as he hurried across the roof. A neighboring house stood only a few feet away, and the roof was lower, giving the ISIS commander an opportunity to jump the gap.

  Chalibi hit hard, rolled, and came up with his pistol in hand. There was no need.

  A quick check revealed that the house shared a wall with a small goat shed. It was an easy jump down to the slanted roof, and from there to the ground. Then, after crossing the back yard, Chalibi took shelter in the ruins of a Christian church. “I’m in the Kafir church,” Chalibi told his men. “Join me here. We will fight.”