“We’ve got five of our guys down, with at least one probably out-that’s unacceptable. Let’s make ’ em pay.” Riley locked eyes with each member of his team and tried to draw from them the same courage he was attempting to instill. “Dawkins, don’t wait for me to hit that security post with you! Ready… go, go, go!!”

Skeeter Dawkins was a good old boy from Mississippi. Fiercely loyal to Riley, there were several times when he had to be pulled off of fellow team members who he thought had disrespected their lieutenant. He was big, strong, fast, and knew only two words when under fire: Yes and sir.

Dawkins ran out ahead and was already in position by the time Riley got there and dropped next to him with a grunt of pain. Sixty meters out, Riley could see between forty and fifty well-armed enemy militia members prepping for another attack. “I’m guessing they’re not done with us yet, Skeet.”

“Yes, sir.” It sounded more like Yeah, zir.

“Looks like they’ll be feinting inside while rolling a flank around left. Must be boring being so predictable.”

“Yes, sir.”

The two men lay silently for a minute, watching the preparations of their enemies. Riley turned to look at the empty sky behind them. “Sure would like to see that air support come in right about now.”

“Mmm.”

“Skeet, anyone ever tell you that you ain’t much of a conversationalist?” It was hard not to slip into a Mississippi drawl when talking with Skeeter.

Skeeter grinned. “Yes, sir.”

The random actions of the enemy force suddenly coalesced into an organized forward movement.

“Looks like the Afghani welcome wagon’s rolling again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Skeeter Dawkins, you gonna let any of those boys through here?”

Skeeter turned to Riley. He looked genuinely hurt at his lieutenant’s attempt to force an expansion of his vocabulary.

Riley laughed. Nothing like feigned confidence to hide what you’re really feeling. “Don’t you worry, airman. Just make sure you give them a gen-u-ine Mississippi welcome.”

Skeeter smiled. “Yes, sir!”

Riley could hear the muffled sound of the Humvee starting up as he and Skeeter readied their M4s. Red dots from each of their M68 Close Combat Optics landed nose level on the first two attackers. Their fingers hugged the triggers.

The sudden whine of two Apache helicopters halted Riley’s counterattack. The 30 mm cannons mounted on either side of the choppers strafed the enemy force. The ensuing carnage was hard to watch. One life after another was snuffed out in rapid succession.

When the last bad guy stopped moving, the Apaches turned and headed back to where they’d come from. Skeeter pulled Riley to his feet and helped him down the hill. Pain crashed through Riley’s hip, and his left leg buckled. Kim Li rushed over and slipped himself under Riley’s other arm.

“Well, Pach, it was a good plan,” Li laughed. “Guess I’ll have to take my target practice elsewhere.”

Riley knew it was just Li’s adrenaline talking, but he still had a hard time not laying into him. Too much blood had been spilled and too many screams filled the night air to be joking about killing just now.

Back at the harbor site, an MH-53 Pave Low was just dropping in to evacuate the team. Riley was eased onto a stretcher and carried the rest of the way. As he was lifted onto the helicopter with the two dead and five injured, football was the furthest thing from his mind.

Friday, December 19

Parker, Colorado

Riley Covington’s hand shot out, clicking the alarm to Off just before the numbers shifted to 5:30 a.m. This was a game Riley played against the clock every morning, trying to wake up as close as he could to his alarm time without having to hear the obnoxious chirp. He was pretty good at it too. His days at the United States Air Force Academy had ingrained in him a sense of time that most people would find borderline compulsive.

He tossed his down comforter off and slowly swung his body out of bed, feeling the cold hardwood floor under his feet. The firmness of his mattress could be manually adjusted, and for the two days after each game, his bumps and bruises forced him to put the setting at “way soft.”

Moving to the window, he pulled the drapes back, and instantly the room filled with white light. The sun wasn’t up yet, but the reflection of the moon on the fresh snow made Riley squint. Why would anyone want to live anywhere else? he mused. He had always loved the Colorado winter-the frost on the windows, the muted sounds caused by a blanket of snow, the feel of a cold house in the morning while you’re still warm under the blankets.

Feeling invigorated, he padded into the kitchen, flicked on Fox News, and began to assemble the ingredients for his daily breakfast shake-a simple concoction of protein powder, soy milk, whey, and frozen berries. As the blender whirred to life, Riley read the crawl at the bottom of the television screen.

Homicide bomber in Netanya, Israel, kills four and wounds seventeen.

Riley’s anger flashed. This was the fifth bombing in the past two weeks. What was the matter with these people? Didn’t they care whom they killed? Didn’t they know that these women and children had nothing to do with their war?

As he stewed on this, his mind drifted back to a conversation he’d had with Tim Clayton, the senior pastor of Parker Hills Community Church, his home church when he could attend.

“I’m sick and tired of hearing people say we need to have compassion for these murderers and understand their belief system,” Riley had said the day a Palestinian bomber had killed fourteen people on a bus in Haifa.

“No one can make you love anyone, Riley,” Pastor Tim countered. “But keep in mind that these people are caught up in one of the greatest lies ever perpetrated on mankind-the lie that it is worth killing others for your beliefs. These people need our prayers, they need our pity, and they need the power of our nation to try to stop them before they throw their lives away like this.”

“I’m with you on your last point,” Riley responded. “They need to feel a serious U.S. smackdown. But, Tim, you haven’t seen what I’ve seen. You haven’t seen your buddies lying in pieces in front of you. You haven’t seen the children mangled by the screws and ball bearings from some terrorist wacko’s bomb. I’m sorry, but pity’s something I really have a hard time with right now.”

“I understand,” Tim had said gently. “Maybe because I haven’t seen it, I can keep more of an objective viewpoint. I just know that the moment after these men-and women now-detonate their bombs, they’ve got a huge surprise waiting for them.”

Riley’s brain knew Tim was right. Convincing his heart was a different matter. I gotta mull this over a different time. I’ve got work to do.

He chugged the purple liquid right out of the blender-no use dirtying a glass-then moved back through the bedroom and into the bathroom, where he cranked the shower to full blast. Fifteen minutes steaming up the glass stall would work out the kinks in his body and leave him ready to start another day.

Riley felt great, especially for fourteen weeks into a PFL season as a starting linebacker. He had always taken care of himself physically-even as a cadet at the Academy-and it paid off this late in the season. While other guys’ bodies were starting to break down, he was still at the top of his game. He knew that he was living an American dream-a dream that could disappear with one good hit or one wrong step-so he did everything he could to make the best of it.

After his role in Operation Enduring Freedom, Riley had been unsure what would be next for him. He could have had a very promising career as an officer in AFSOC. He knew how to lead men and was able to garner their respect through his example. Besides that, the military was in his blood. His father had been a navy man in Vietnam, and his grandfather had flown an F- 86 in Korea, chalking up seven MiGs to his credit. Riley’s choice to try for the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs rather than the Naval Academy in Annapolis had led to all sorts of good-natured ribbing of his dad by his grandpa. Holidays with the family had never been the same again.