“Spare me the specifics,” said the colonel. “You check this with the A-10 pilots?”

“It was not my preferred option,” said Wong. “Although the A-10As are equipped to fire Mavericks, without the addition of a LANTIRN targeting system…”

“Can it be done?”

“Of course, but…”

“Well make it happen,” said the colonel. His tone suddenly changed, becoming almost charming.

Almost.

“But before you do, tell me something— you parachuted into North Korea with that Gregory Team, didn’t you?”

Wong shuddered at the memory. He hadn’t been able to find anything to eat but fish the whole two weeks in country.

“Yes, sir.”

“As a matter of fact, you have a class D skydiver’s license and a jumpmaster’s ticket, don’t you?”

“I have done some skydiving, yes, sir.”

“Oh, that’s more than some,” said the colonel. “That’s more than most of my men. You’re current?”

“I believe I am.”

“You’re too modest Wong.” The colonel shook his head, as if that were something he had never expected to hear himself say. “That Korean jump was a tandem jump, as a matter of fact, wasn’t it?

“As it happened.”

“I like you, Wong. I really do. I want you to find Sergeant Hillup after you brief the pilots. I have another mission for you. Not quite as exciting as Afghanistan or Korea, I’ll bet, let alone your Vietnam foray last year, but it ought to raise your bp.”

“With all due respect…”

“This is right up your alley, Wong. Turns out you’re the only person in my command qualified for a tandem jump that I can actually spare to make one. We lost our last mechanic on a static-line solo jump because he didn’t know how to steer and hit the ground too hard. I can’t take any more chances. We need someone who can do a tandem jump and set her down gently.”

“Her who?” managed Wong.

“Sergeant Rosen.” The colonel grinned. “You’re going to deliver her to Fort Apache.”

Dixon rolled over, waiting for the Iraqis to appear. Instead, the truck screeched around in a circle and headed back in the direction it had come. He couldn’t tell whether it had left the soldiers, and for the moment didn’t care. Scrambling to his feet, he proceeded as quickly and as quietly he could up the craggy slope.

The back of the hill could not be seen from the roadway or most of the quarry, but once he turned the corner to reach the spot where Winston was hidden, he would be totally exposed for nearly ten yards. He hesitated, spotting something that looked like the top of a vehicle near the entrance to the bunker. Finally, unable to wait any longer, he just went for it, crouching low and using the MP-5 for balance. He reached the rocks and slid in, just barely missing the prone body of the gravely wounded sergeant as he rolled onto his knees. He craned his neck up to catch a glimpse of the enemy below. He saw the turret of a tank at the head of the path, swinging around into position to guard the access to the cave.

Then he felt the cold barrel of a gun at his neck.

“About fucking time you got back,” rasped Winston beneath him.

The sergeant could move his arms, but little else. He swore it was just because of the cold. His legs ached as badly as the rest of his body; Dixon figured that was a good sign.

“I was worried you guys just left me,” Winston told him. “I heard the trucks but couldn’t see what the fuck was going on.”

“I didn’t leave you,” said Dixon. “I had to get Leteri.”

“Where the hell is that weasel?”

Dixon explained what had happened. Then, he crawled back to survey the Iraqi position from the rocks, exposed but just barely.

As Turk had suspected, the Iraqis had positioned the mines to enhance preplanned defensive positions. Dixon could see part of a tank — he guessed T-72— on Sugar Mountain’s driveway. It was about fifty yards away on a diagonal. To see more than just the gun and top of turret, Dixon had to stand and expose himself fully, which he naturally didn’t want to do.

He had a better view of a second tank at the far end of the quarry near the highway, even though it was two hundred yards or so away. Four or five Iraqi soldiers milled around behind it; he assumed that the group included the commander, since men kept approaching and then leaving.

He hadn’t seen any antiair defenses. Thirty seconds worth of Hog action and these bastards would be toast.

But he wasn’t in an A-10. He might just as well fantasize about being on a beach with supermodel Christie Brinkley.

If the commandos came back for them, could they take out the tanks? If the Hogs flew cover for them, they could. It’d be a piece of cake.

Except for him and Winston, who’d be right in the middle of the action.

Winston would be. Dixon could still get away. Once he was off the ledge, he could probably get back around the hill. If he trekked west a ways, he could probably find a spot to cross the road to Leteri without being seen.

But that meant leaving the sergeant, and that was unacceptable, especially now.

Dixon sized up the Iraqi defense. How much of it was blocked from his view? Half? A quarter? Was there another tank or three more? Mobile SAMs? Self-propelled triple-A?

His fingers were wrapped so tightly around the MP-5 that he had to pry them free with his other hand, then try to shake them back to flexibility. The fear of being spotted kept pumping adrenaline through his body, but he was tired as hell and ached everywhere. He couldn’t have eaten if he tried, but he was thirsty, and though he told himself it was better to ration sips of water he found his eyes constantly wandering to the canteen at his belt. Finally he couldn’t stand it and slid back into the shelter next to Winston to get a drink.

The sergeant’s arm twitched, jerking the pistol to the side.

“Sergeant? You okay?”

The trooper didn’t answer. His eyes had closed again. Dixon leaned down; for a moment he thought Winston had died but then he heard the sergeant’s chest rattle with fluid as he breathed. He reached over to his forehead, gently placing the back of his hand against it to see if he had a fever. He didn’t seem to, though Dixon’s fingers were so numb he might not be able to tell. He rubbed them together and then edged himself hard against the rocks, trying to find a semi-comfortable spot where he could remain hidden but see some of the Iraqi soldiers below.

A half-hour later, the lieutenant heard the distant whine of an approaching jet. Several planes had passed far overhead during the last two hours, but he knew right away this one was different— it was low and it was coming right toward them. The sound increased exponentially, then, even as the ground started to shake, the jet was overhead and gone, fleeing so quickly that Dixon got no more than a glimpse of its shadow. He guessed that it was a recon plane, most likely a British Tornado tasked for BDA or bomb damage assessment on Sugar Mountain.

The Iraqis behind the far tank threw themselves on the ground. They got up chattering, but they didn’t seem to be congratulating themselves on their good fortune. The commander pointed and shouted, and Dixon saw two of the men run to the parked truck beyond the tank at the edge of the highway. They took something out and began climbing up the side of the mountain toward the bomb crater.