But the pilot didn't seem to care about that. "Come on, Captain, keep up that fire!"

Mitchell obliged, sewing a jagged seam in the hill, his HUD and the AIM-1 putting him on those red diamonds that quickly turned white as his hailstorm of fire left behind walls of flying dirt and snow and death.

As he and the other gunner maintained fire, Ramirez and Brown worked on Saenz and the wounded guy, though they were probably using hand signals since the racket inside the helicopter made voice communication impossible.

Reminding himself of all the good people who had been lost in Waziristan, Mitchell kept the minigun on target, drawing more lines through hordes of fighters before the Black Hawk rolled right and descended over the hill, on a course due east for the border.

He released his white-knuckled grip on the gun and slumped in his seat. Every muscle ached. He could sleep for a year.

A hand came down on his shoulder. It was Ramirez, who pointed to the wounded gunner, then to Saenz, and flashed a thumbs-up; both guys would make it.

Mitchell nodded and, as Ramirez returned to his seat, directed his attention to Rutang, still barely recognizable beneath his swollen face. The medic had been through several lifetimes' worth of combat, and Mitchell had been proud of his comeback after his battle with depression and stress. He'd gotten off the propranolol and was managing to be a good father. Mandy had had that second baby, a boy, who Rutang had said definitely resembled the FedEx guy.

As Mitchell sat there, growing numb from the cold and exhaustion, he wondered what would happen to his friend. Could Rutang bounce back yet again?

The Black Hawk set down on a small, deiced pad on the outskirts of Bagram Airbase in Kabul, Afghanistan. Mitchell asked Diaz if she would stick with Rutang, and they, along with Saenz, Vick, and the door gunner, were transferred to HMMWVs and driven off to the army field hospital. Mitchell took Brown and Ramirez with him to be debriefed by Major Susan Grey and the company commander, Lieutenant Colonel Harold "Buzz" Gordon.

They met inside a drafty, dimly lit Quonset hut used to store aircraft parts and loaned out to the Ghosts by the air force. Grey, bundled up and red-nosed, welcomed them with an uncharacteristically warm smile and led them over to a cluster of desks cast in the burnt orange glow of portable heaters positioned on the floor.

Lieutenant Colonel Gordon was leaning back in a chair, a notebook computer balanced on his lap. He squinted in thought and spoke softly into a boom mike with attached earpiece. He was speaking with the man himself, General Joshua Keating, whose gritty voice crackled all the way back from the United States Special Operations Command (USSOCOM) in Tampa, Florida, and was loud enough for even Mitchell to overhear. Gordon was polite to the general, who was gunning to become commander of all of USSOCOM, but near the end of the conversation, his tone turned a little dark as he said, "Your patience is appreciated, sir."

Mitchell liked Gordon, whose white crew cut was trimmed weekly because being squared away was, in his words, the way God intended him to be. Mitchell appreciated Gordon's old-school tactics and belief that people made the difference. Technology only enhanced their skills.

There were some in the Special Forces community who were beginning to argue that putting boots on the ground had become too risky, too damaging, and too wasteful.

Gordon would refer to them by certain body parts and brush off their further assertions like lint from his sleeve. He was fifty-four years old and liked to say, "I was too old for this crap twenty years ago. You can imagine how much I'm enjoying it now."

The colonel said his good-byes, then suddenly bolted from his seat and shook each of their hands, saying, "Gentlemen, excellent work out there. Excellent. Please, have a seat."

"Sir, if you don't mind, I'll stand," said Mitchell as Brown and Ramirez flumped into chairs.

Gordon frowned. "I know, Scott, you're pissed about those insurgents at the pickup zone."

Mitchell shrugged. "I assumed they were on a rat line, holing up in the caves."

"We're still working on that, but you're probably right. We didn't pick them up until you were already at the zone. More air support would've turned it into a fiasco."

"What about the recovery mission? Still on?"

The colonel winced. "It's been delayed until those insurgents are out of there. On top of that, we got another front moving through. Wind speeds are too high. We'll need to wait till that passes--at least eighteen, maybe twenty hours."

"I'd like to be on that team."

"I know you would, but that maniac Wolde in Ethiopia has got his eyes set on Eritrea, and I suspect higher will want you there. I already want you there."

"Guess we're sleeping on the plane--again."

"Captain, we appreciate you helping field-test the new Cross-Com," said Major Grey. "We'll need your evals ASAP, though I hear we're still three to four years out before full implementation."

"That's a shame, because that's a damned fine system and a great piece of equipment."

"Yes, it is--for many reasons. Now, Captain, I do have a question. I was playing back your HUD recordings, and I noticed you corrected the sergeants when they were evacuating agents Vick and Saenz."

"That was our fault," Ramirez blurted out. "The medic was the most seriously wounded. We should have evaced him first."

Grey barely turned toward Ramirez, who was already swallowing and lowering his head. "Sorry, Major. Just thought you should know."

"I already know."

"Uh, to answer your question, Major, yes, I did correct them," said Mitchell.

"Why?"

Mitchell thought a moment. He could answer carefully, or he could get it all off his chest. "Let's back up a moment. I fought to be assigned to this mission. It was no secret that one of my best friends was out there. You knew I'd bring him home, and to be honest, I was going to make sure he got on that chopper--first. He was the most seriously wounded, and I didn't see a problem with that."

"Even though agents Vick and Saenz might have intelligence that is far more helpful than anything Sergeant McDaniel might have gathered? They've been operating along the border for a long time--much longer than your . . . friend."

"That's speculation. Those spooks might have nothing. And even if they have--"

"Once they've been treated, they'll be questioned."

"Yes, but they'll only give you so much. We all salute the same flag, but don't forget their paycheck--and bonuses--come from Langley."

Lieutenant Colonel Gordon sighed in disgust. "Major Grey, to be quite frank, I don't give a rat's ass what order the captain used for his evac plan. In my book, that's trivial. Point is, they all got out. End of story. And to be honest, I would've done the same damned thing."

"Thank you, sir." Mitchell narrowed his gaze on Grey and thought a curse.

Grey quirked a brow. "I just find it curious."

Outside the hut, on their way back to the field hospital, Mitchell stopped and turned to Ramirez and Brown. "You guys think I made a mistake?"

"Absolutely not," said Ramirez. "And don't let Howitzer get to you, sir. She was born pissed off."

"What about you, Marcus? You don't look so sure."

"I don't think it was a mistake, but . . ."

"But . . ."

"You know they're breathing down our necks, watching everything we do. If you show any bias at all, they know about it. That's all I'm saying. We've always been clear where we stand with you, sir."