***

  “It was terrible!” the woman wailed. “They forced their way into my home, ordered me to make tea, and were sitting at my table when the shooting started. That’s when one of the men shot the other man! That’s him lying on the floor.”

  Bone took a moment to compare the dead man’s countenance to the photo on his phone. “That’s Atwi all right,” Bone said. “Get a DNA sample, Levy… And search the house for Intel. Where’s Olson?”

  “On the roof, Sarge… That’s where you sent him.”

  “Okay, good. He’ll keep a lid on this shit. What are you waiting for? Move!”

  Bone switched frequencies and thumbed his radio. “Centurion, this is Red-Dog-Nine, currently in command of Operation Zebra. Over.”

  “Roger that,” a female voice replied evenly. “Over.”

  “Have you got my twenty? We’re holed up in a house, and taking heavy fire. We need two uglies (Apache gunships) followed by a dust-off. Over.”

  “Hold one, over.”

  Machine gun fire raked the front of the house, causing the woman to scream, and Bone to go prone. “Red-Dog, this is Centurion,” a male voice said. “We can spare one ugly. But, since there’s only one fight, that’s good enough. Right? Over.”

  “Very funny,” Bone replied. “What’s the ugly’s ETA? Over.”

  “Four-five minutes. Sorry. Over.”

  Forty-five minutes was a fucking eternity. Bone sighed. “Thanks. Over.”

  There was a lot of house to defend. But, thanks to Sergeant Olson, the surviving team members were well positioned to keep the tangos at bay.

  While making the rounds Bone learned that a Ranger named Carson had been killed, and a man named Tanaka was seriously wounded. We’re bleeding out, Bone thought. This is going to be close.

  And it was a close thing. But, thanks to the intramural competition between al-Qaeda and ISIS, neither organization was willing to let the other “win” by successfully overrunning the house.

  So, each time one of the two groups was ready to attack, the other intervened, thereby taking pressure off the Americans.

  Finally, after seesawing back and forth, the ISIS fighters got the upper hand, and were about to finish the fight, when the AH-64 Apache attack helicopter arrived. “Red-Dog-Nine, this is Banjo with guns, rockets, and missiles. Light some flares. We’re incoming from the east. Over.”

  “This is Red-Dog actual,” Bone replied, as a Ranger lit a flare. “Roger that, and welcome to the party. Watch out for RPGs. The tangos are all around us. Over.”

  “Were all around you,” Banjo responded, as his copilot/gunner fired a salvo of Hydra 70 rockets from the ugly’s hardpoints. Bright red explosions marched through the village, sparing only the house the Rangers had taken refuge in, and those adjacent to it.

  RPGs streaked upwards. And the “dumb” weapons were a real threat because, unlike SAMs (surface-to-air missiles), RPGs couldn’t be drawn off target by flares or chaff.

  But it required a great deal of courage and skill to standup, aim a launcher at the sky, and hit a moving target. Fortunately, Banjo was able to finish his run untouched, turn, and start another run.

  By that time Olson’s sharpshooters had accounted for two of the RPG gunners, thus reducing the antiaircraft fire by half.

  And, as Banjo fired the chain gun mounted between the aircraft’s landing gear, 30mm shells probed the fiery wreckage left in the wake of the first attack.

  “They’re running like rabbits,” Banjo observed. “I’ll stay on station until the Crashhawk arrives. Over.”

  Bone knew that Blackhawk helicopters were often referred to as “Crashhawks” due to their tendency to crash for no particular reason. A real morale builder for the men on the ground. “Roger that,” Bone replied. “Tango Mike (many thanks). Over.”

  Banjo was correct insofar as Bone could tell. The hajis had left.

  So, with three Rangers to help him, Bone went out to find Lieutenant Sully and Private Carson. Their bodies lay where they’d fallen. With the care and respect due to fallen comrades, each body was loaded onto a blanket, and carried to the roof of the dwelling the Rangers had fought so hard to defend.

  The Blackhawk arrived fifteen minutes later. The pilot followed the orange smoke in and landed on the roof. The trip to Tabqa was delightfully uneventful.

  Once on the ground the Rangers were separated, put through individual debriefings, and released. “You did a good job,” the captain in charge of Bone’s hotwash told him. “I’m sorry about Lieutenant Sully. We all are. The Doc tells me that Tanaka will make it.”

  Bone was hungry and went to the DFAC the way he was, which was to say dirty and smelly. That sort of behavior was frowned on by some. But none of the people present had the stripes or the balls to approach the grim looking master sergeant and chew him out.

  After eating his fill Bone made his way back to the company area, paused to shed his filthy uniform, and made his way to the showers. Then, back in his slot, it was time to check email. There were lots of them, but Bone read Yolanda’s first:

  “Hi Hon,

  I hope things are going well over there.

  The kids are fine, your mom says, ‘Hi,’ and the weather is sunny.

  I do have some bad news tho—I missed three payments on the boat. We have to eat you know… And the bank took it back.

  Later, when things improve, we’ll buy another one.

  Love, Yo.”

  Bone felt a sense of despair. “Later, when things improve…” When would that be? And why hadn’t she told him about the missed payments? So, he wouldn’t worry? Or because the news would piss him off?

  Bone closed the lid. Should he call her? No. That would lead to a fight.

  He went to bed. Sleep came quickly. But so did the dreams. And all of them were bad.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Superbase Tabqa, Syria

  After three days of sleeping in, replying to interrogatories about the crash, and doing laundry, Soto was summoned to company headquarters for a meeting with Major Albro.

  The meeting was scheduled for 0800. Albro arrived at 0823. Soto stood, and Albro said, “As you were. Sorry I’m late. The colonel’s staff meeting ran long. Please join me in my office.”

  Soto could tell that something was up, but what?

  Once inside the office Albro indicated a chair. “Take a load off. I have some news for you. Two CH-47Fs arrived.”

  Though not the latest models, the 47Fs were newer than the D lost in the crash, and Soto would welcome the additional horsepower, avionics and reduced maintenance.

  It was as if Albro could read her mind. He smiled thinly. “Nope, no 47F for you!

  “‘Dead Stick Soto.’ That’s what the other pilots call you. And it would be nice to keep the new birds airworthy for a while. So, I’m going to give you another 47D. And a new assignment to go with it.”

  An enormous map of Syria occupied most of one wall, and Albro went over to point at a yellow pushpin. “This is FOB (Forward Operating Base) Smiley. You’re going to ferry food, ammo, and personnel in—and take casualties out.

  “That will consume most of your time and energy. But I’m going to send odd jobs your way every now and then too, so you don’t get bored.”

  The statement seemed to demand a response so Soto nodded. “That sounds like fun, sir. Thanks.”

  Albro frowned. “Was that sarcasm, Captain?”

  “No, sir,” Soto lied. “I like to fly that’s all.”

  Albro clearly had doubts, but wasn’t willing to challenge her. “Good. Dismissed.”

  Soto found Jonny Lee where she expected to find him, which was lifting weights. He completed an overhead press and let the barbell fall to the mat. “Hey, Marie… What’s up?”

  “We have a new ride. Well, not a new ride, but a new old ride. And they have us down for a mission at 1400.”

  “Awesome. I’ll gear up and meet you at the bird. Where is it?”

  “In Revetment 7. Her tail number is 98-02022. They call her the ‘Double Deuce.’ Find Alvarez if you can.”

  “I’m on it,” Lee replied. “We’ll meet you there.”

  A Black Hawk clattered overhead as Soto made her way to the row of revetments where the company’s helicopters were parked. Those on base anyway, since most were out on missions, leaving only the machines slotted for night trips—or awaiting repairs.

  The protective walls consisted of neatly stacked HESCO bastions, which were made of wire mesh, equipped with fabric liners, and filled with whatever was handy. Dirt and rocks in this case.

  The HESCOs wouldn’t protect the helos from mortar rounds, bombs, or missiles. But they were proof against small arms fire and adjacent explosions. And that was a lot better than nothing. When Soto arrived at slot seven, she stopped to look before circling the aircraft.

  To the untrained eye the Double Deuce would look like every other Chinook 47D. But Soto saw things others wouldn’t notice: The fact that the port engine was newer than the starboard engine for example. Patches where bullets had penetrated the hull. And a section of new paint on the fuel tank fairing.

  Soto had an almost sensual love of aircraft. She ran a hand across the faded likeness of two playing cards painted on the nose, paused to eyeball a dent, and spent a minute examining each set of landing gear.

  The ship had flaws. But that was to be expected. The rear ramp was down. Soto followed it up and into the Chinook’s cargo bay. It was empty at the moment. But it wouldn’t be long before forklifts arrived towing trailers loaded with food, ammo, and anything else the FOB requested. Then the long narrow space would be loaded with up to 26,000 pounds of cargo.

  Three machine guns were mounted aft of the cockpit. One at the crew door on the starboard side, one window-mounted weapon on the port side, and a third near the cargo ramp. Gunners, Soto thought. Alvarez will take care of that.

  From there Soto entered the cockpit. Stale sweat was the overriding smell, with hints of window cleaner, stale food, flatulence, oil, hydraulic fluid, and fuel.

  The combination of odors was not only something Soto had come to like, but served as an olfactory record of what sort of missions the aircraft had flown lately. Which, judging from the lingering smell, had something to do with diesel engines.

  Both of the pilot seats were not only worn, but dirty and saggy. The left seat, where the aircraft commander normally sat, was pushed way back—suggesting that the most recent occupant was a tall man. Soto sat down and went to work adjusting it to her five-foot, seven-inch frame.

  Occasionally aircraft commanders would sit in the right seat while flying alone, because helicopters were less stable than airplanes, and helo pilots liked to keep a firm grip on the all-important cyclic stick, which was clutched in his or her right hand.

  That kept the pilot’s left hand free to manipulate the thrust lever, which controlled the blades’ pitch angle, and to flip switches or turn knobs on the center console.

  “So, whaddya think?” Lee inquired as he dropped into the righthand seat.

  “I like her,” Soto replied. “But that could change. Did you find Alvarez?”

  “Yup. She was getting her hair cut.”

  “Did you ask about gunners?”

  “That’s affirmative. Al’s going to find out if we can keep the people already assigned.”

  “That would be good,” Soto commented. “Okay, enough screwing around. Let’s check everything we can. Logs, the whole nine yards.”

  There wasn’t enough time for a rivet-by-rivet examination of the fuselage and landing gear, but the pilots did the best they could, and passed a list of minor fixes on to Alvarez.

  Meanwhile loading got underway, and Alvarez was everywhere, poking and prodding to make sure that the overall load was balanced and that the cargo would come off the Double Deuce in what the crew chief considered to be the correct sequence. And God help anyone who tried to shirk, scam, or bully her.

  Thanks to Alvarez the final crate went aboard at 1330, giving Soto and Lee plenty of time to run through the preflight checks, check clearances, and talk to the tower. The Double Deuce lifted off the tarmac at 1402.

  The first task was to make the journey from Revetment 7 to Helipad 2. And that was no small task for an aircraft that was nearly 100 feet long and 60 feet wide—with the blades turning. When Soto pulled up on the thrust lever, and pushed forward on the cyclic, the Chinook began to move. As she ground taxied to Helipad 2, Soto could feel the way the helicopter was loaded, and adjust her expectations accordingly.

  Then after receiving a takeoff clearance from the tower, Soto brought the Chinook to a hover, checked the power level for each engine, confirmed that they were identical and tipped the nose down.

  Using her left hand, Soto increased thrust, but not by much. The combination sent the Double Deuce skimming over the tarmac and into forward flight.

  Then Soto went about the critical task of departing from a base with two very active runways. A jet flashed past the Chinook on the right and was gone in seconds leaving a trail of black smoke. Soto expected the resulting turbulence and made the necessary adjustments.

  The Double Deuce cleared the airport less than a minute later and turned onto the course that would take them to FOB Smiley. “Smiley,” Lee said. “Why ‘Smiley?’”

  “Lieutenant Smiley was killed during the first attack on the base,” Soto replied. “From what I heard at HQ, the place is a real bullet magnet. Let’s hope that the hajis are taking the day off.”

  FOB Smiley was located one hundred and thirty-five miles to the southeast, which meant it would take the Double Deuce roughly an hour to get there without pushing it.

  It wasn’t long before the Chinook was flying at 8,000 feet, an altitude above the reach of shoulder fired missiles, and well out of range of the Iranian Khordad 15 air defense systems located in central Iraq.

  Soto knew Lee was eager to fly the Chinook, even if there wasn’t much to do. So, she surrendered the controls to him, waited for the obligatory “I have it,” and pretended to take a nap. Except the fake nap turned into a real nap. And lasted until Lee woke her.

  “We’re ten minutes out, Marie… I can see the base in the distance.”

  Soto opened her eyes and sat up straight. Lee was correct. FOB Smiley was located at the foot of a rock pinnacle too pointy for more than a couple of people to stand on. A supersized American flag flew from it and clearly served as a brightly colored “fuck you” for all the tangos in the hood.

  And, as Soto accepted control, she could see the HESCO containers that defined the rectangular perimeter. Each corner of the compound was marked by a sandbagged observation tower. The single ECP (Entry Control Point) was protected by blast mitigation structures, and weapons emplacements. All of which was SOP.

  What wasn’t SOP, and was a reason for both pilots to laugh, was the huge smiley face located inside the wire. It had two boulders for eyes, plus a curved row of large rocks to represent a mouth, all painted bright white. A nice way to welcome incoming helicopters and ground support planes.

  Judging from the smoke produced by a trash fire, the wind was blowing from the west. Something Soto would take into account as she landed.

  Lee was on the horn with a guy who identified himself as Bravo-One-Two, and invited the pilots to “Come on down.”

  It was a routine landing. The Double Deuce threw a black shadow onto the LZ, and dust swirled, as the ground came up to meet them. There was a solid thump when the gear touched down.

  Then it was time to run all of the checklist procedures before releasing her harness, putting her helmet aside, and following Lee through the right side door to deass the aircraft. If their job was over for the moment, Alvarez was just getting started, as a forklift prepared to climb the ramp.

  A captain and an E-6 were standing about fifty feet away. The officer waved them over.

  “Welcome to FOB Smiley! I’m Captain Hickok, aka Bravo-One-Two. And this is Sergeant Wilkins. She’s in charge of logistics.”

  Soto introduced herself as they shook hands. “And this is Lieutenant Lee. So, if you don’t mind my asking, what the hell are you doing out here?”

  Hickok produced a boyish grin. “That’s a good question. We ask it all the time. The official answer is to control the road that leads east to Iraq, which is a joke, because it would take a full battalion to do that.

  “The second reason for our presence is to search for and recover downed pilots. And we’re pretty good at that. Three for three so far.

  “And, we suspect that the third mission is to give the tangos something to attack, so they leave other targets alone. They don’t say that, mind you… But that’s what we suspect.”

  Soto was surprised by the extent of Hickok’s honesty. “How are you going to make major if you tell the truth all the time?”

  Hickok laughed. “We don’t worry about promotions out here. Our goal is to stay alive. And you guys are a key part of that. Water, ammo, fuel and food. That’s what keeps us going. So, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Soto replied, as fuel flowed from a bladder on the Double Deuce to one on the ground.

  Orders were shouted as the forklift completed another trip. Wilkins was holding a stopwatch. “We’re running twenty seconds late, sir. I’m going to have a word with the crew once this evolution is over.”

  Soto turned to Hickok. He nodded. “We time each turnaround. Our goal is to unload your bird in fifteen minutes. Who knows? Getting you in and out quickly could make an important difference someday.”

  Soto was impressed and grateful. It would be bad enough to land under fire, and sure death to stay for long, so the fifteen-minute limit could save lives. Hers among them.

  The trip back to Superbase Tabqa was delightfully uneventful. And Soto was looking forward to taking the day off, as she descended to a hover, and scooted over the tarmac to Revetment 7. A fueler arrived a few minutes later. That was SOP to ensure that all aircraft were mission ready.