heaviest areas of vegetation; each had used electrician’s tape to secure any loose pieces of metal that might give away their position. No one expected the enemy to send out patrols, but the elite soldiers comprising Operational Detachment Alpha 304 were not about to take the risk.
With the exposed section of the slope less than 50 meters away, the thunderous report of a long-range rifle could be heard through the trees, rapidly followed by two more shots.
“Six, Gold One! Vehicle is neutralized, I say again, vehicle is neutralized!”
“Let’s go!” Kealey called out. The troops were already running, suddenly breaking through into open ground. A thought was calling for his attention, but he couldn’t quite grab it…something about the direction of those shots…
Halfway down the hill, Ryan realized there was no one in the car, and that it had braked to a halt in the middle of the road, unscathed. The windshield was intact. Automatically he called out, “Cover!” The members of his team immediately hit the ground in the prone position except for Bryant, who was slow in getting down. Kealey watched in disbelief as a ragged exit wound appeared in the young soldier’s back, immediately followed by the echo of a rifle shot across the valley. The man did not make a sound, only taking two more faltering steps before crumpling to a heap on the ground.
The four surviving soldiers were pouring lead into the car on the road below. Ryan could make out two armed men crouching behind the vehicle and a third lying still by their side, streams of his blood mingling with the dust of the road. Peering through the telescopic sight mounted to his M4A1, Ryan fired a 3-round burst into the head of the primary target. Adjusting his aim, he could see that one of his men had already taken care of the other terrorist. Kealey was suddenly aware that Staff Sergeant Mitchell was not moving, and then saw the halo of blood around his head, the heavy M249 machine gun inches from his lifeless fingertips.
“Blue Two, what the hell is going on up there?” Kealey shouted into his radio. There was no response. “Blue Two, report!”
Silence.
“What the fuck is going on, sir?” yelled Sergeant Alvarez.
“Gold One, sit rep!” There was still no answer. Ryan had to struggle to keep his voice from shaking. The fear was thumping in his chest; he felt it and hated himself for it, but his men were completely exposed on the side of the slope, and he didn’t have time to think about what had gone wrong. The decision came quickly.
“Thomas, Watson! When we open up, move back to the treeline as fast as you can! Alvarez, fire on March’s location!” he screamed.
A look of shock and confusion crossed the sergeant’s face. “Sir, we can’t—”
“Do it!” was the vicious response. “Now!”
Intermittent streams of fire erupted from the barrel of Alvarez’s M16A2. Kealey fired in the same direction, although he couldn’t spot the sniper, whose ghillie suit allowed him to blend easily into the surrounding vegetation. He cursed the diminished range caused by the shorter barrel of his weapon, which would have been ideal for the close-quarter combat initially anticipated.
He called out to Alvarez: “Loading!”
Rapidly changing out his magazine, Kealey’s eyes never left the ridge where his snipers were positioned. He guessed that the line of earth was 400 meters away, a difficult shot even under the best of circumstances, almost impossible with the standard iron sights. He saw a flash of light followed by the roar of the rifle, and out of the corner of his eye caught the awful sight of Alvarez’s head breaking apart. That first fatal shot was followed by four more. It took all of Kealey’s self-control not to flinch away as he pressed his cheek against the warm metal of his assault rifle. The heat shield encasing the barrel was perfectly balanced in his left hand as he eased back on the trigger, firing until the bolt locked back on an empty magazine.
A few minutes passed without any movement on the ridge.
“Thomas! Watson!” he called out.
There was no answer. A sick feeling clenched his gut as he realized that he was probably the only man alive on the hill. Easing his head slowly around, he could see the lifeless bodies of the other two sergeants in his detachment. His detachment. As the commander, he was responsible for the lives of these men. Was it right that he should be the only one to survive? Suddenly not caring, he got to his feet, a lone figure standing tall on the side of the hill, long shadows cast behind him by the fading sun. Feeling a sudden impact, Ryan looked down at the small hole in his chest, the sight almost blocking out the terrible sound of the rifle in his ears.
He fell to the ground, for some reason absorbed by the hissing of the radio inches from his outstretched hand. Presently he was aware of a man standing on top of the ridge, the image blurred by pain. Through the red haze creeping into the edge of his vision, Ryan thought he could make out the lightweight Parker-Hale M85 rifle held loosely in the crook of the man’s right arm. The same weapon that, for the past eight months, had been lovingly attended to and cared for by one man, and one man only. The incredibly still figure of Sergeant First Class Jason March continued to blur as the pain intensified, and Kealey found he could no longer breathe.
He couldn’t breathe…
Ryan Kealey awoke without a sound, pieces of information slowly entering into his mind, each a revelation more startling than the one before.
The thin sheets were clinging to his sweat-soaked torso. As the shaking slowly left his body, Ryan was suddenly aware that Katie was whispering quietly in his ear, her arms wrapped around him protectively from behind, silken fingers gliding over the raised scar on his chest.
“Baby, are you okay? God, you were shouting so loud…” There was a noticeable tremble to her voice. “Your dreams…They’re getting worse.”
He didn’t respond, preferring to think of nothing for as long as possible. He just wanted to take comfort from the proximity of her body. Maybe she understood, as she fell silent while his ragged breathing slowly subsided.
Thoughts swirled around him in the dark, intruding when he could no longer hold them at bay. Jason March had murdered men that were like brothers to him. If the regular army fostered lifelong friendships, the relationships built within the Special Forces community were like family ties, carrying no more or less importance than actual blood relations. Now the man he had hoped was dead had returned from the other side of the world to commit even more vicious crimes.
Kealey thought that he was uniquely equipped to kill March. He felt that he owed it to the men who lost their lives on that hilltop far away from home. Where it would end, he wasn’t sure. Ryan only knew that he would be there to make sure it did.
CHAPTER 7
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“I’m due at the White House in two hours, John. I can’t go up there empty-handed. What do you think we’re looking at here?”
Jonathan Harper glanced up at Robert Andrews, the recently appointed director of the Central Intelligence Agency. It was a difficult question to answer; the combined efforts of the CIA and the FBI had yielded very little new information in the past week. Phone calls had been made, favors called in. The interagency cooperation that was supposed to have come into effect following 9/11 had never really materialized, despite the recent development of the Terrorist Threat Integration Center located just a few short miles away. Harper had been one of the few to recognize beforehand that this would
