"Roger that," Kos said, still standing by the splintered door. "Extract. Two-IC, this is Kos. Terminal clear. Dry hump!"

"Copy," the squad leader, Lieutenant j.g. DeWitt, replied. "Move 'em out, Kos."

"On our way."

0245 hours (Zulu +3)

Shuaba runway, Iraq

"Alfa, Delta!" DeWitt's voice called over the tactical frequency. "Clear! Dry hump!"

Meaning they'd not found any guards inside the terminal complex. Cotter gave the scene another scan with his binoculars as worry tugged at his awareness. Had there only been ten Iraqis to begin with? To guard the UN Herky Bird and its treasure trove of stolen intelligence? Shit, there ought to be more, a lot more. Even if they hadn't heard the death-silent assault by the SEALS, they ought to be reacting by now to the explosion in Zabeir. Where the hell were they?

"You see any movement out there?" he asked Brown.

"Negative, Skipper. Nothin' but our own people."

"Stay on it. Gimme the sat comm, Professor."

Higgins handed him the radio. "Sky Trapper, Sky Trapper," he called. "This is Blue Water."

"Blue Water, Sky Trapper" sounded over his headset a moment later. "Copy. Go ahead."

Sky Trapper was a Saudi Arabian AWACS aircraft manned, at least for tonight, by U.S. Air Force personnel. The airborne communications and radar early warning plane was orbiting over northern Saudi Arabia, serving as a command center for the far-flung assets of Operation Blue Sky.

"Sky Trapper, Blue Water. Cold Steel, authentication Charlie India two-three. We have the package intact, repeat, we have the package intact. We're ready for delivery. Tell Cowboy and Shotgun to get their asses in gear!"

"Ah, roger that, Blue Water. Be advised that Shotgun should be over your position any time now. Cowboy is en route, ETA six minutes."

"Copy, Sky Trapper. We'll be waiting. Blue Water out."

Handing the sat-comm handset back to Higgins, Cotter paused and listened, straining against the darkness. Yes... he could just hear it now, the faint and far-off whup-whup-whup of approaching helicopters.

He changed channels on his Motorola, switching to a frequency that would link him to the entire SEAL platoon. "Blue and Gold, this is Papa One. Helos are inbound. Don't shoot 'em down, they're on our Two-IC?"

"Copy, Papa One," DeWitt replied. "Go ahead."

"Start bringing your people in, two at a time."

"Roger, Papa One, wilco."

"Out."

The plan was moving like clockwork now, each man with an assignment, each man with a place. Right now, Cotter's place was at the Herky Bird with the rest of his unit. He touched Higgins's shoulder. "I'm going in there. You two stay put until Cowboy One touches down, then hustle on in, okay?"

"Right, L-T."

"Magic?"

"Yeah, Skipper?"

"You did good. Real nice shooting on those two tangos. Two for two."

Brown's face split in a wide grin. "Hey, thanks, Skipper!"

Cotter believed in giving praise where praise was due. He'd been concerned, naturally enough, about the cherries in the platoon — and Magic Brown had been one of them. The quartermaster first class had been in the Navy for ten years, but he'd only been a SEAL for one, and this was his first time in combat. No matter how hard a man trains, no matter how grueling his indoctrination, there is no way to tell how he will act the first time he has to actually kill another human being. Brown had come through his baptism of fire and blood splendidly.

Rising, Cotter left the shelter of the low ridge and trotted toward the C-130. In the distance, the glare from the exploded SAM bunker had dwindled to a sullen flicker, and the aircraft was almost lost in the darkness. Damn. Where were the rest of the Iraqis, partying in town? Fleeing toward al-Basra? Getting ready to spring their trap? Cotter didn't like this situation one damned bit.

0245 hours (Zulu +3)

Shuaba control tower, Iraq

The rumbling boom of the explosion had brought him wide awake in an instant. While his partner Ibrahim had stood guard on the walkway outside, Sergeant Riad Jasim had been catching a brief nap in a duty room inside the control tower; but now fire stained the sky, Ibrahim was dead, and strange, black-garbed men were swarming among the shadows beneath the UN aircraft.

Terrified, Jasim had hidden inside a second-floor storeroom as someone banged up the control tower steps outside. He cringed as they slammed open the door to the storeroom, but he was hidden behind a pile of empty boxes and — praise be to Allah! — the intruders had no time for a thorough search.

When they left, he sagged back against the concrete block wall, trembling with relief.

Jasim spoke no English, but he had a good ear. He'd heard the language spoken before, during the heroic Mother of All Battles when his supreme commander, the glorious Saddam, had halted the enemy invaders at the gates of Iraq with the mere threat of his terrible weapons. "Terminal clear! Dry hump!" was English, Jasim was sure of it, even if the words themselves were gibberish. The Americans were here, attempting to liberate their spy plane!

When the heavy-booted intruders had left, Jasim had slipped out of the storeroom and up the steps to the glassed-in control tower. There, flat on his belly, heart pounding, he edged toward the glass door leading out onto the circular walkway that encircled the tower. He'd left his AKM assault rifle outside, with Ibrahim.

He was no hero. He'd been a simple farmer from al-Kut until the army had drafted him, but he believed in Saddam Hussein as the soul and savior of the Iraqi people, and he knew that Paradise awaited him if he died fighting the infidel Americans.

Slipping through the open door, he crawled onto the walkway. Ibrahim lay across his path, eyes open and staring, blood soaking the front of his uniform.

"My friend," Jasim told the corpse. "I will avenge you!"

But the brave words could not stop the trembling weakness he felt within. Somehow, he forced himself to go on. Retrieving his rifle and chambering a round, he inched himself closer to the edge of the walkway.

0248 hours (Zulu +3)

Shuaba Airport, Iraq

By the time Lieutenant Cotter reached the C-130, the platoon was already deploying in a loose perimeter about the aircraft. Two Gold Platoon men, Fernandez and Holt, were already setting out four strobe beacons in a Y-shaped pattern, the top of the Y marking a safe LZ for a helicopter, the tail indicating the wind direction. MacKenzie met Cotter at the perimeter. The big master chief had slung his H&K and broken out his machine gun. Crouching there on the tarmac with that big gun in his hands and a belt of 7.62mm ammo draped over his shoulder, the Texan looked a bit like a black-faced, black-fatigued Rambo.

Except that Rambo never would have stood a chance against these night-clad killers. They moved with an efficient deadliness Hollywood could never portray and which movie-going audiences would find frankly unbelievable. Cotter felt a swelling, glowing pride for his men as he entered the perimeter. They were the best, absolutely and without qualification.

"Platoon, this is Blue Five!" Ellsworth's voice snapped over the radio. "I've got movement. Two... maybe three hostiles. Bearing one-seven-five, range one-one-zero meters. Near the big hangars."

Side by side, Cotter and MacKenzie dropped prone, scanning the southern end of the airfield with their NVGs.

"Don't see 'em, Skipper. You?"

"Negative." Cotter replied. He thumbed his Motorola. "Boomer! This is Papa One! Toss 'em a package, will you? Let's see if they'll party."

"Sure thing, Skipper. On the way!"

There was a hollow-sounding thunk nearby, and the 40mm grenade from Garcia's M203 arced into the shadows, then exploded with a flash and a savage roar. The thin sheet metal of the hangar buckled and tore, and one uniformed body flopped out onto the tarmac in a bloody sprawl. From the other side of the hangar, an assault rifle opened up with the characteristic flat cracking of an AKM, the muzzle flash flickering and stabbing against the shadows.