He got up and went to find out what was going on.

The man who had killed McGowan was the machine-gunner posted to the southwest pillbox. He had abandoned his post in a panic. But his confrontation with McGowan had steeled him, and now the coward was a warrior, a bold lion who threw himself against the side of the trench and began shooting at his enemies.

He killed two before he had to stop and reload. Danny, crouching by the fence line, saw the muzzle flashes and guessed what was happening.

As soon as the gun stopped flashing, he rose and ran to the trench, jumping down and racing forward.

His lungs pressed against his chest. But unlike yesterday, there was no doubt in his mind, no second-guessing. A single thought filled his mind: He had to take out the person shooting, or most of the prisoners would die.

The Sudanese soldier, meanwhile, had slapped a fresh magazine into his gun and rose to fire again. He was so intent on the shadows in the minefield that he never saw Danny coming around the tight corner a few yards away.

Danny fired a single burst from his SCAR. The bullets sliced through the soldier’s neck, making neat holes on the way in and craters on the way out. The soldier died without knowing what hit him.

Worried there might be someone in the pillbox, Danny continued along the trench. He nearly tripped over McGowan’s body. He sidestepped him, kept going.

When he reached the machine-gun post, he pumped a grenade through the opening and ducked.

The explosion sounded like a can of beans popping in a fire.

There was no one in the pillbox. He pulled the bullets from the gun, threw it over on its mount, and began running back.

It was only then that the fear he’d felt the night before returned. This time the emotion focused on McGowan—it was a fear, a knowledge really, that his man was dead.

Danny had lost men in combat before. Not many, but enough to know that it was both necessary and inevitably sorrowful. He dropped down near the young man, still hoping that he had survived. But the wounds were obvious, and even the downpour couldn’t wash away all the blood that had spurted from the dead man’s skull.

Danny felt sick to his stomach. He held his breath a moment, then stooped down and pulled McGowan up onto his back.

He seemed much lighter than he had just a few minutes earlier, when Danny had carried him through the minefield.

FLASH BLEW UP THE TRUCK AS SOON AS THE PASSENGER started to get out with his gun. Then he shot out the floodlights on the post above the compound and ran up along the fence to the prisoner pen, aiming to get an angle on the barracks door. By the time he reached it, however, the barracks were empty. All the soldiers had gone to the east side of the camp, where the battle seemed to be concentrated.

He crouched on one knee, hoping they wouldn’t come back, ready if they did.

Flash had been in several firefights, first in Iraq, then in Afghanistan. As different as they all were, as different as each one was from this, one thing tied them all together—the sharp pain at the top of his skull, right behind his left eye. A doctor—not in the Army, he worried about being kicked out if he mentioned it—had told him that the pains were related to stress, and either to quit what he was doing or not worry about them. Flash opted for the latter.

“Whiplash team, check in,” said Danny. “Boston?”

“We can keep this up all day.”

“Nuri?”

“Ditto.”

“Flash?”

“I blew the truck. I have the barracks covered. May be empty.”

“Hera?”

“I’m taking heavy fire.”

“Did Tarid get out?”

“He’s a few feet away. We won’t make it out unless you get this gun off of us.”

“Flash, can you help her?” asked Danny.

“On my way.”

“Hera, as soon as you can, get out of there.”

“No kidding.”

Starting along the fence, Flash realized that Danny hadn’t checked in with McGowan. Not a good sign, he thought.

THE LAST FLARE BURNED OUT, LEAVING THE CAMP BATHED in the dull red shadow of a burning fire in the administration building.

Hera looked east, toward the gas tanks. The soldiers pinning them down were near the tanks, scattered behind the cement mounts for cover. A few fired indiscriminately, but the others were more disciplined, firing only when they had a target. The combination made it impossible to move without being shot.

Some of the prisoners were crawling slowly toward the rear of the pen, hoping to escape, but most of them were lying nearby, wounded or too paralyzed with fear to move.

The fiercest gunfire was coming from her right. A pair of soldiers were huddled below one of the gas tanks, taking turns firing into the pen. At first they’d had plenty of targets exposed and framed by the light. As the flare died, however, it became more difficult to aim. Afraid of return fire and confused by the steady rain, they resorted to holding their guns over their heads and firing short bursts, unaimed.

Hera nudged her way around two prone bodies to the corner of the pen, trying to get an angle on the men. She saw one rise at the edge of the cement pier that held the gas tank. She waited for him to straighten, then fired a single shot, hitting him in the temple.

The soldier spiraled back against his companion. Hera waited for the other man to turn and fire back, giving her a target. But his friend’s death had paralyzed him, and he stayed low, out of sight.

Hera grew tired of waiting. She started for the fence, planning to cut through and then flank the whole line of them behind the piers. But before she got very far, someone began firing in her direction. She froze as bullets cascaded overhead.

The slugs chewed everything up in front of her, including the body of one of the prisoners. She started backing away. Then a tremendous explosion scooped her up and tossed her toward the rear of the pen.

Flash had blown up one of the gas tanks.

DANNY CARRIED MCGOWAN’S LIMP BODY TO THE RAMP AT the end of the trench. He put him down as gently as he could, tipping his shoulder forward and going to a knee to keep the dead man from flopping down. He winced as McGowan’s head thumped against the dirt.

“I’ll be back. I promise,” Danny told him.

He turned and ran to the perimeter fence, not even ducking, though bullets were flying everywhere. Another emotion had overcome fear, or suppressed it: recklessness.

It was a strange combination, to be scared of dying yet not caring at the same time.

Danny felt the force of the exploding gas tank even from where he stood. He dropped down to his knees.

“Hera, where are we?” he barked over the radio.

There was no answer. Danny ran toward the pen. God, I’ve lost another, he thought.

“Hera?” he repeated. “Hera.”

“I’m still in the pen. Still pinned down. One of the gas tanks just blew, but they turned the machine gun around on the southeast corner.”

Danny was at the fence of the prisoner area. The machine gun was at the corner of the perimeter, ahead to his right. He’d be under direct fire if he approached.

“Boston, where are you?” he said.

“Same old, same old,” said Boston. “South of the road.”

“That machine gun on the southern end in front of you—can you get some grenades in it?”

“Already trying, boss.”

“All right. Get their attention. I’ll get them from back here.”

“Working on it.”

The roof of the post was thick and sharply angled, designed to deflect grenades and absorb what didn’t bounce off. But its defenses were oriented outward, and Danny reasoned if he could get close enough, he could get his own grenade into it.

The problem was getting close enough to get a shot without getting killed. Having gone to the trouble of reorienting his machine gun so he could fire into the compound, the gunner wasn’t skimping on bullets.