“Michelle Hunt.”
“It’s me,” a gravelly voice said.
The voice was one that needed no introduction. He had swept her off her feet when she was a young woman of twenty-one, freshly arrived from Minnesota, seeking a new life of fun and sun in 1980s Southern California. After an on-again, off-again relationship, necessitated both by his inability to be bound to a relationship, as well as his frequent absences for business, she had borne his son at age twenty-four. And though his name never appeared on the birth certificate—nor had Michelle and he actually lived together before or since—the pair had remained close. At least as close as the man allowed anyone ever to come.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’ve been okay.”
“Where are you?”
It was the standard question she asked him to break the ice. Over the years the answers had ranged from Osaka to Peru to Paris to Tahiti.
“Hang on,” the man said easily. He stared at a moving map on a forward wall near the cockpit of his jet. “Six hundred and eighty-seven miles from Honolulu on the way to Vancouver, British Columbia.”
“Going skiing?” she asked. The sport was something they had enjoyed together.
“Building a skyscraper,” he answered.
“You’re always up to something.”
“True,” he noted. “Michelle, I called because I heard our boy has been sent to Afghanistan,” he said quietly.
Michelle had been unaware—the deployment was still secret and Chris had not been able to disclose his destination when he’d been dispatched.
“Oh my,” she blurted, “that’s not good.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say.”
“How’d you find out?” Michelle asked. “I’m always amazed by your ability to ferret out information.”
“It’s not magic,” the man said. “I have so many senators and other politicians in my pocket I’ve had to buy larger pants.”
“Any word on how it’s going?”
“I guess the mission is proving harder than the president envisioned,” he said. “Chris is apparently leading a hunter-killer squad to locate the bad guys. Limited contact so far—but my sources claim it is cold and dirty work. If he doesn’t contact you for a while, don’t be surprised.”
“I’m afraid for him,” Michelle said slowly.
“Do you want me to put in a fix?” the man asked. “Have him pulled out and sent stateside?”
“I thought he made you agree never to do that.”
“He did,” the man admitted.
“Then don’t.”
“I’ll call you when I know more.”
“Are you going to be down this way soon?” Michelle asked.
“I’ll call you if I am,” the man said. “Now I’d better go—I’m starting to get static on the satellite line. Must be sunspots.”
“Pray our boy is safe,” she said.
“I might do more than that,” the man said as the call ended.
Michelle replaced the receiver in its cradle and sat back. Her ex-beau was not one to show worry or fear. Still, his concern for his son had been palpable and personal. She could only hope his worry was misplaced, and that Chris would come home soon.
Rising from the desk, she walked toward the artist. “Tell me you have something good,” she said easily.
“Outside in the van,” the artist said, “and I think you’ll like it.”
FOUR HOURS AFTER sunrise, one thousand feet higher up the ridge from the camp where they had spent the night, Hunt’s platoon met a determined enemy. The fire came from a series of caves just above and to the east. And it came all at once. Rifle fire, rocket-propelled grenades, mortars, handgun fire rained down. The enemy dynamited the mountain to create rock slides, pelting the ground below, and they had mined the ground where Hunt’s troops sought refuge.
The enemy’s goal was to wipe out Hunt’s team all at once—and they would come close.
Hunt had taken refuge behind a series of boulders. Bullets were ricocheting off the rocks to all sides, sending chips flying through the air and striking his men. There was nowhere to hide, no way to advance, and their retreat had been cut off by a rock slide.
“Radio,” Hunt shouted.
Half his team was twenty yards ahead, another quarter ahead and to the left. Luckily, his radio operator had stayed close to the lieutenant. The man edged toward Hunt on his back to protect the radio. For his effort he received a wound to his kneecap when a bullet grazed his raised knee as the man pushed himself closer. Hunt dragged him the rest of the way.
“Antencio,” Hunt shouted to a man a few feet away, “take care of Lassiter’s wound.”
Antencio scurried over and began cutting away the radio operator’s pants. He found the opening was not deep and began to wrap a bandage around the knee as Hunt flicked on the radio and adjusted the dial.
“You’re going to be okay, Lassiter,” he said to the radio operator. “I’m going to get us some help in here posthaste. Then we’ll have you medevaced.”
The fear in the soldiers’ faces was obvious. For most of them, as for Hunt, this was their first time in battle. As their leader, he needed to take control and form a plan.
“Control, Control, Advance Three,” Hunt yelled into the microphone, “need positive support, grid three zero one eight. Taking heavy fire.”
“Advance Three,” a voice said immediately, “report situation.”
“We’re pinned down,” Hunt said, “and they have the high ground. Situation critical.”
Hunt glanced up as he was talking. A dozen bearded men in flowing robes were starting down the hill. “Get some fire up there, men,” he screamed to the forward half of his team. A second later a volley of shots rang out.
“Advance Three, we have a Spectre two minutes out and inbound. Four whirlies—two carriers and two gunships—will be off the ground in three. It’ll take them another ten minutes to reach your site.”
Hunt could hear the whine of the massive propeller-driven gunship racing up the canyon miles below them. He peeked over the rock to see eight of the enemy still advancing down the hill. Raising himself, he shot off a rocket-propelled grenade. A whoosh then a thump as the charge flew through the air and ignited. He followed up with a volley of automatic weapon fire.
“Advance Three, acknowledge.”
“Advance Three, affirmative,” Hunt yelled into the microphone.
Where there had been eight there were now just four. They were only twenty yards from his forward team. Hunt swiveled his bayonet and locked it in place. The forward team seemed paralyzed. They were young, unseasoned and about to be overrun. A mortar landed close to the boulders and exploded. The area was showered with powdered rock and dust. From higher up the mountain another group of the enemy started down the hill. Hunt stood up and started firing. He sprinted the twenty yards ahead to his men and met the advancing enemy head-on.
Three’s a charm, and that’s how many Hunt shot dead in the gut. The last one he bayoneted, as his clip was empty. Taking his sidearm from his holster, he finished the man off, then slid to the ground, replaced his clip and rose and started firing again.
“Back it up, men,” he shouted, “behind the boulders.”
Two by two his men retreated to the relative safety of the boulders to the rear, while the men remaining kept fire on an advancing enemy. The enemy was high on distilled poppy, misplaced religious zeal and the narcotic khat leaves they were chewing. The slope was red with the blood of their fallen comrades but still they advanced.
“Advance Three,” the radio squawked.
Antencio reached for the radio. “This is Advance Three,” he said. “Our C.O. is away from the radio, this is Specialist 367.”
“We’ve located a B-52 at another target,” the voice said. “We’ve diverted her to assist.”
“Affirm—I’ll tell the lieutenant.”
But Antencio would never have a chance to relay the message.