Every agent, editor and workshop cautions against backstory to open a novel, but I needed to understand how Uly Grant got where he was - so I have placed the prologue written for Gulf Winds - and not included in the manuscript here to share with you:

 Prologue

 to  Gulf Winds
by
John M. Taylor, Jr.

This had been a good day–so far. No one Grant knew had died.

Lieutenant Ulysses Grant dropped to a crouch when a bullet splattered against the pock-marked mud wall separating the school yard from the desert, followed by the distant crack of rifle fire. Sniper. He glanced to his right. An oven-hot wind churned the Iraqi grit across the sky, into his ears, clogging his nostrils, peppering his goggles. Vicente Madero had his back to the wall scanning the desolate countryside. To his left Gunner Snyder trained her machinegun over the Iraqi desert. Nothing moved across the dun landscape except swirling dust clouds, sand devils dancing toward the Sinjar Mountains shimmering in the distance. Grant pulled off his goggles and looked around for Jefferson, the Infantry platoon leader who had called for their interrogation team.

“Hold here, Vince. I’ll see what’s going on.” Grant trotted into the courtyard and slid to a stop beside a pair of dust-covered soldiers sprawled behind a pile of crumbled mud and rock. Grant eased his rifle into a gap and peered out into the desert. “What’s up, Jeff?” Grant asked the lanky man searching the desert in front of them.

Lieutenant Jefferson grinned over at Grant. “Same old shit, Uly.” Jefferson put a pair of battered binoculars back to his eyes and scanned the rock-strewn terrain between them and the low mountains. “Team of insurgents, seven counted. We had the turkeys pinned in the school until a sniper out there…”

Sand blasted Grant’s cheek as bullets snapped over his shoulder. The rock in front of his face shattered, the report from somewhere behind him. Grant twisted around, searching for the shooter.

Automatic fire ripped though the air on the far side of the wall, reaching out into the desert. Snyder and her M-249 Squad Automatic Weapon. A shotgun boomed twice behind him, a loud reminder that Vicente was close behind.

“Son of…” Jefferson’s words were lost in a second exchange, M16’s and AK’s roared back and forth, bullets cracking and snapping through the air. Sand erupted in a line of impacts stitched across the sand, heading toward them.

“Quit thinking. Shoot first,” screamed Moreno.

A movement in  the shadows of the building, the flash of half-hidden eyes a blur as Grant fired a three round burst from his rifle. He rolled to his feet and ran in a crouch to his left, angling to get a clear view around the corner.

Two men, one behind the other, the closest in dark desert shirt and pants, head wrapped in a gutra, the traditional desert head covering so favored by the insurgents, sprinted down the narrow alley. Grant fired, low, and the closest fell against the wall, his AK dropping to the sand.

The second turned in swirl of desert robes and shoved the wounded man toward Grant. Bullets cracked around Grant’s head as the man fired, then turned and ran, shielded by the wounded insurgent, shooting wildly back over his shoulder. Grant flopped to his belly as a hammer blow smacked against his Kevlar helmet. He shook his head and fired as the runner cleared the wounded man. Plaster flew from the wall over the man’s head, high; he missed. Before Grant could fire again the runner swung his AK around. Beside him a shotgun boomed and the runner dropped, still. Grant lay on the hard crusted sand for a moment, breathing the dust and smells of fired rounds and sweat, twisting his head around on stiff neck muscles.

“Uly. You okay?”  Madero appeared on one knee beside him, feeding buckshot into his Remington shotgun from a pouch. Soldiers from Jefferson’s platoon sprinted past them and down the alley; one stopped beside the wounded insurgent.

“Good to go, Vince.” Grant felt like he had been tumbled in a dryer with a pound of sweaty sand, gear all twisted and jammed with grit.

Madero grinned and motioned toward the two men down. “Got us a bird, maybe a double. Just like duck shooting out on the Chassahowitzka Refuge, hiding from the game warden.

“Any of our folks hurt?” Grant got to his knees.

“I’ll go check.” Madero trotted out the wall toward the Humvees.

Grant climbed to his feet, twisted a loose kneepad back to the front and shrugged his shoulders until his tactical vest felt straight again. He took off his helmet and shook the grit out. As he suspected, the camo cover had a tear where one of the zings had turned into a zonk. A medic had Jefferson down on his face, scissors working on the seat of his pants. “God dammit, God dammit,” Jefferson kept repeating.

Grant squatted down beside the prone lieutenant and looked over at the medic with raised eyebrows, questioning. The medic just grinned back at him, shook his head. “Jeff, you hurting, buddy?” Grant asked Jackson.

“Son of a bitch shot me in the butt.”

The medic couldn’t hold it any longer and finally started laughing.

“Shut up, God dammit.” Jefferson muttered.

The medic plastered a gauze pad on Jefferson’s butt cheek, covered it with an extra strip of adhesive, then used several strips to pull Jefferson’s pants closed. “There you go, sir. A nick, but enough for a Purple Heart. Boy, I can’t wait to write this one up.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jefferson slowly climbed to his feet, a grimace on his face turning to a scowl when he saw Grant’s grin.

“Jeff, you know, I saw an ad for butt armor in a magazine the other day. I should have told you about it.”

Jefferson twisted, peering over his shoulder at his rear end, finally shook his head and laughed with Uly. “You guys had your fun?” He spread his legs and looked down at his crotch. “Inches lower, and my love life would have been a fond memory. Think of all the women who would miss out.” His smile disappeared as he nodded toward the building where Wilson and one of Jefferson’s soldiers lifted the wounded insurgent on to a litter and carried him inside. “He alive? Hope you can get something out of him. We got a big convoy coming through this afternoon, and we need to clear the route.”

“Jeff, no kidding, you really okay?” Grant asked as Wilson and Madero trotted up.

“Good to go, Uly. Let me check on my guys.” Jefferson turned and limped toward the back of the building.

 “Vince. The team okay? You checked everybody, regular drill, ready to go again?”

“All of our guys are okay. Allen here’s already telling lies; crap about taking coup.” Madero grinned as he watched Jefferson limp away, the tape patch already loose and flapping, showing flashes of brown skin, tape and gauze patches though the slit pants. “Dios! That was too damn close.” He turned back to Grant. “Sure. They’re good to go. Snyder got to try out her new SAW. Said it works like a charm. Girl just loves that gun. Everybody’s square, L. T.” Madero motioned toward Grant’s rifle. “Don’t forget to check your magazine.”

 Grant popped the magazine from his rifle and cleared the round from the chamber, then slapped in a full magazine from his vest. He thumbed the loose round into the partially fired magazine, and stowed it in his vest. “Jefferson’s boys got everything under control?”

“Caca pasa. Rest of the ragheads must have slipped out the back. The two you brought down are the only ones left. Jefferson’s boys are sweeping the area, but I don’t expect them to come up with anything.”

“All right, then. Let’s go to work. If these guys have an ambush waiting somewhere along the road, we got no time to waste on being sweet. When we start with the wounded one; me good, you bad, O. K.?”

Moreno put on his Pancho Villa scowl and led the way inside.

Grant pushed his M16A2 around so the rifle hung across his back and helped the infantry platoon medic lift the wounded insurgent, a teenager with a wisp of a mustache, on to a rough wooden table. The kid grimaced when the medic started cutting the bloody pants leg away from a nasty-looking leg wound. Grant eased the folded gutra under the kid’s head, hand under his neck where Grant could feel the kid’s pulse racing in time with the vein pulsing across his temple. “Take it easy,” he told the kid. “Doc, here, will take care of your leg. You Saudi? Syrian? Speak English?” Grant asked, brushing a persistent fly away from the kid’s face. Fumes wafted between them as the medic swabbed around the wound with a disinfectant wipe, the ubiquitous odors of a field surgeon at work.

The kid’s eyes flicked back and forth across Grant and down at the medic. He shook his head, cheeks sucked in as he tried not to show his pain. “I am no Arab. I am Nokhchi. My brother live one time in America. He teach me English.” The kid winced as the medic tied off the bandage and began pumping up an inflatable splint. He let his head lay back, irises growing large as the muscles in his neck relaxed against Grant’s fingers.

Grant watched the eyes, grey in the dusty haze floating through the room. “Hey, man, you probably speak English good as I do. I’m just a cracker and my buddy here’s a greaser.” Grant winked at the kid and grinned at Sergeant Madero standing on the other side of the table, once the door to the building. The kid stared at them, apparently not understanding the slang. His pulse slowed under Grant’s fingers as Madero handed him a cigarette. “So what’s a Nokhchi?” Grant asked.

 “The Russians call us Chechen.” The kid accepted the cigarette from Madero and took a long drag, his eyes now flicking back and forth from Grant to the stocky sergeant.

“So you got tired of fighting the Russians and decided to come down and help your buddy Saddam just because he’s Sunni like you?” Moreno asked, the long tips of his mustache framing a set of crooked teeth. The Chechen’s eyes opened wide as Madero took a step forward and racked back the slide on the twelve gauge shotgun he slid around from behind his back. The medic looked up, alarm clear in his eyes, not sure what the interrogation team had in mind.

Grant shook his head at the boy and pushed Moreno back. “Boy, you got sold a bill of goods. You like killing children? Help plant that bomb here at the school?”

 “No, no. I come to fight infidels. Jihad for Islam.” The vein throbbed across Mohammad’s temple, faster again.

“Jihad for Islam, as taught by the word of Allah, written by Mohammad. Very noble of you. Gives you a leg up on going to Heaven over all those who stay home in Chechen, right.”

The kid nodded, a tiny look of pride beginning to show. Grant wondered how to work this best. Pride always falls hard.

“What is your name, kid?” Grant asked.

“My father named me Mohammad.”

Grant pointed around the blood splattered room. “And now you’re in Iraq, killing innocent Islamic children. Where do you think Allah is going to put you when He decides who stays in Hell and who goes on to Heaven?” He pulled a book from the pouch Velcroed to his tactical vest and waved it at the kid. “My Koran says you are going to burn in hell if you kill innocent children. Now, my Koran is in English, so I know some of the Prophet’s words might be translated wrong, but aren’t you going to be one of those lost souls who end up forever in Hell?”

Mohammad just shook his head, his brown eyes big, glistening. Why? Grant wondered, probing for a way through the maze of misinformation indoctrinated into this kid by those who claimed to speak for a higher being. Physical pain, moral anguish? Only Allah knows.

Grant picked up the flaccid remains of a scuffed and blood stained soccer ball from the floor and held it up to Mohammad, a terrible contrast to the exquisitely tooled leather covered holy book in his other hand. “Who killed the child who played with this ball? You? Do you have the child’s blood on your hands?”

“No, no. It was a mistake. I did not kill the children. Not I.” The cigarette glowed as Mohammad waved it back and forth in front of his chest. “I was only told to watch for Americans coming to the school, not to bomb.”

Grant slammed the deflated ball to the ground and held the Koran over Mohammad’s face. “Allah’s words as given to us by the Prophet said those who kill innocents must pay accordingly. Did you study that Sura? The one about women?” He slid the Koran back in the pouch and smoothed the flap shut. “Those who kill believers by mistake must repay the family. Those who kill believers on purpose will burn in Hell.” He tapped the pouch. “So it is spoken in the Koran, Allah’s words as told to the Prophet.” He took a step back and looked across at Madero. “Sergeant. Were these children and their teacher believers?”

Madero nodded. “We found a desecrated Koran in the teacher’s clothes. Ripped to pieces by this man’s bomb. The teacher was no doubt a true believer, the children innocents.” His voice rose from a whisper to a growl. He shifted the shotgun so the muzzle pointed directly toward Mohammad’s face.

Grant replaced his smile with a stern look. “Then you, Mohammad, shall burn in Hell, if Allah knows you killed the teacher and the children.” He nodded toward Madero and his shotgun. “It may be our duty to send you on the way so you may be judged quickly.”

Both hands waved at Grant, the cigarette dropped to smolder on Mohammad’s chest. “No, no, please believe what I say. I was only to watch for Americans to come. Other make bomb.”

“If you want me to believe your word, I will have to find this other man and ask him if he killed the children and their teacher. Where is this man now, the one who left you to die when he and the others ran?”

When Mohammad didn’t answer, Madero dragged him from the table and propped him against the blood-splattered school wall, holding him against the wall with one massive fist and slamming the bloody ball against Mohammad’s chest with the other.

Time for the ace, the ultimate humiliation for most Islamic men. “Snyder,” Grant called out. A woman appeared in the doorway, long hair glowing in the backlight of the sun reflected from the hard-packed courtyard. “Miss Snyder. Perhaps it is time to turn this child killer over to you.”

The medic started to speak, but stopped when Grant turned his stare on him.

Snyder stepped in front of Mohammad, her long blond hair flowing down over her broad shoulders, arms crossed across her chest. “Yawm jami, Mohammad. I believe you might live today, if you have truth in your heart; Inshallah.” She paused. “But, if you lie…” she shook her head, hair swirling, “… then; Mashallah.” She stepped closer, bent down to look directly in Mohammad’s eyes, and pointed toward Grant. “He is not your judge.” She shook her head again and pointed at herself. “I am not your judge. Your father taught you properly, so you must know Allah, blessed be his name, is the only one to judge what is true in your heart, what you must do to honor your mother, may Allah bless her for the pain you bring her.” Snyder’s voice was almost a whisper. “Why have the others left you to suffer for their sins? Who are these sinners who kill the innocents, the believers? Where are they now?”

 Mohammad stared at Snyder, then at Grant and Madero, and pointed out the door. “Mustapha, our leader, the Saudi who make explosion, said to meet at a villa two kilometers that way, on the track toward Mosul.” His words came out in a rush.

“How many men desecrated this place?” Snyder asked.

“Mustapha and…” He paused, face screwed up, then held up three fingers.

“Three others?”

“Yes, as Allah is my witness.”

“Your mother will rest in peace…” She paused, leaned closer, her freckled nose almost touching his. “…if you have told the truth, Inshallah.” Snyder stepped back and Grant took her place.

Grant tapped his chest, his finger thumping the ceramic plate in the center of his tactical vest. “This woman speaks the truth. Allah knows what is in all our hearts, mine and yours, Mohammad. I believe you. If Allah does, perhaps you will get to speak with the virgins in Heaven.” He nodded to Snyder. “Thank you, Miss Snyder. Pass the report on to Wilson and tell him to call it in, ask for instructions.”

Snyder nodded, turned and strode out the doorframe, tucking her hair back up under her Kevlar helmet.

Grant, with Madero close on his heels, left the medic helping Mohammad back on the table and walked outside where Jefferson waited.

“Got what we needed, Jeff. We’re going to head out on the road, see if we can screw up their ambush. Thanks for calling us in. Boy’s name is Mohammad…”

Jefferson waved the rest off, his teeth shiny ivory in a dark background. “I heard, Uly. Next time, we’ll try to get to you sooner. I love to watch you and Snyder, and Pancho, here, work your magic. And thanks for covering my back out there. Could have got more than my butt shot.”

Grant laughed with Jefferson. “Whatever it takes, bud.”

Jefferson nodded his agreement. “Take care out there.”

“Watch your butt,” Grant called out to the departing platoon leader, then pulled a cigar from another of the many pouches attached to his vest. After he lit it, he had to hold his finger over a break in the wrapper leaf to get it to draw, another casualty of the engagement.

“Inshallah, Mashallah? What the hell was that all about, Uly?” Madero asked as they hurried out to the vehicles.

“Inshallah—if God wills; Mashalla—whatever God wills; the basis of all Moslem conversation. Snyder’s getting her act down pat. I especially liked the mother touch.” Grant grinned. Life was good. “Where did all the blood come from, Vicente?”

Madero shrugged. “Goat, I expect. Hide and guts splattered around the room. The Iraqi guys with Jefferson said everyone got out before the explosion.”

Grant chuckled.

“And when did you become an Imam?” asked Madero, “All that sermonizing in there, next thing you’ll want your own minaret and loud speaker.”

“Just a little evening reading, not those Swedish magazines you guys circulate. Didn’t say a single blasphemy about the Koran. Our only deceit was the little play acting about the school. You know, as well as I, around here deceit’s just part of everyday life, survival.”

The kid had survived, too. Grant wondered if Mohammad was good at deceit; if his information had any validity.

Madero took a long drink from a bottle of water, echoing Grant’s thoughts. “The assembly point Mohammad told us about. What do you think? Reliable?”

Grant let a long stream of cigar smoke envelop the fly buzzing around his face. “I think so. I could see it in his eyes. He’s ready to let the Arabs have at it on their on. Wilson calling the report in?”

Before Madero could answer, Specialist Allen Wilson trotted over from one of the Humvees now parked in the walled courtyard.

“Uly; Ops says they can’t reach the convoy; for us to leave the Chechen kid with Lieutenant Jefferson and see if we can help out on the road.”

Grant looked over at Madero, eyebrows raised. “Well. Ain’t that great.” He slid his rifle around to the ready in its sling and patted the M9 Beretta 9mm pistol slung low on his thigh. “Let’s go, boys. Actionable intelligence to exploit. Terrorists to terrorize.”

“Besa mi culo. Are you going to get me in a bunch of shit, again, Uly? I’m not so anxious for the five of us to get in a tangle out here in the middle of nowhere. Remember, you got to look out for Flash if anything happens to me.”

“I’ve been looking out for you for years; now just get in the damn Humvee and don’t worry about Flash.” Grant trotted toward their Humvee and made a circling motion with his hand to the rest of the intelligence team. Wilson joined Snyder and Specialist Franks in a second Humvee and Snyder flashed her thumbs up to Grant from atop her Humvee.

“Let’s go,” Grant yelled back to Wilson. Swinging his rifle around to point outboard, Grant climbed in the passenger seat and flipped on the radio and GPS. Slowly, to keep the dust down for Jefferson’s troops guarding the entrance, Madero drove them out of the courtyard, the other Humvee close behind. Grant turned when a shrill whistle pierced the rumble of the Humvee.

Snyder waved from behind her pedestal mounted SAW on the top of the trailing Humvee with a grin, blowing kisses to the infantry squad pulling security around the school. “Tell your boss he has a cute butt,” she yelled. They responded with one finger salutes and friendly cat-calls.

Outside the walls Grant sat back and scanned the dusty countryside around them, eyes sharp for anything out or the ordinary. The two Humvees churned through the dust and up the narrow road. Like there was anything ordinary about Iraq.

Three miles of a barely discernable track across open terrain, most of it sand and rock with an occasional wandering goat cropping the sparse grass, and Grant waved Madero to a halt behind a line of palm trees and low vegetation marking a water bed. As Grant slid from his seat, Wilson and Franks spilled from the second Humvee and jogged over for orders, leaving Snyder on top, scanning their surroundings.

Grant pointed toward a mud structure, the top barely visible over the berm. “House overlooks the highway, about fifty meters on the other side of the house. The ragheads will be focused on the road, but, if they are any good, they saw us coming so approach with caution.” He waved Wilson toward collection of crumbled walls at the end of the row of trees. “Allen, you and Snyder set behind the walls so you can cover us.” Allen Wilson trotted back to his Humvee and moved it to the edge of the wall where Snyder’s machine gun could cover the cluster of buildings. Grant waved in approval and turned to the third soldier. “Franks, take the left flank and I’ll take the right, straight to the house. Go far enough around that you can see if anyone bolts from the rear. Let’s send Mister Madero up the center with his big, bad shotgun. Start out to the right of Snyder’s line of fire. Don’t want to get between her and a target. She looks like she’s hot today.” Grant watched his team disperse. They had been together in Iraq most of a year, were good people, looked out after each other. Got the job done.

He popped the magazine out of his M16A2 and slapped it against his thigh, squaring the rounds in the magazine, and slammed the magazine back in. “One up the spout, guys,” he reminded Madero and Franks, and watched them check their weapons as he chambered a fresh round. Satisfied, he led the way in a trot across the open ground, scanning the building ahead.

Twenty meters to go, Grant held out his hand, palm down, and Madero and Franks both dropped to the ground. Grant sprinted across to the house as they covered him. He stopped, listening with his back to the wall. Nothing but flies buzzing around his eyes and the smell of human excrement in his nose.

He waved them forward, and Madero and Franks rushed across the open ground, slamming against the wall on the other side of the door.

In front of them Snyder’s machine gun fired a quick burst past the corner of the building. Franks sprinted to the corner and dropped flat, edging around the wall on his elbows.

A voice cried out from inside, followed by the snap and rattle of AK fire through the doorway.

Grant ignored the hot desert sun burning the back of his neck and focused on Sergeant Madero, poised on the far side of the door frame. Madero, sweat running in filthy rivulets down his temples, held out a frag grenade, eyebrows raised in question. Grant looked over at Specialist Franks crouched in a ditch, overwatching the far side of the house and the desert beyond. Franks nodded that he understood, and Grant whispered, “Do it.”

Madero pulled the safety pin, opened his hand and let the butterfly handle snap open.

Grant’s heart raced as Madero paused for one second, two, lips moving with a silent count, then, with a flick of his wrist, flipped the grenade through the doorway and into the front room. One more count and the wall behind Grant’s back rocked with a thunderous explosion.

Grant spun around the doorway into the room. The hot air boiled with dust and black smoke. His M4 carbine butt high on his shoulder, Grant slid along the inside wall. A tongue of flame stabbed through the thick dust, followed by a shadow charging through a doorway leading to the back room. Madero’s shotgun boomed, drowning out the snap of Grant’s carbine. A robed man tumbled to the floor. His AK clattered and spun across to Grant’s feet.

Grant left the twisted body to Madero and rushed the back room. As he stepped through the doorway a second man rose from behind an overturned bed frame. Grant fired, rewarded by a piercing scream.

The insurgent leaped toward an empty window frame.

Grant snapped off a second burst.

Mud clods and dirt spattered from the window sill as the man dove through the window.

Grant ran to the window.

Outside the man climbed to his feet and turned to face Grant, a black box in his hand, the look of the dead on his face. The red dot in Grant’s sight danced across the man’s chest when a deafening concussion slammed Grant back across the room and ripped the air from his lungs.

Clumps of mud rained down on his helmet as he struggled back to his feet. His ears rang as he ran his tongue around his mouth, trying to work up enough spit to clear the sandy grit from his mouth. He jumped to the side as a whole section of wall collapsed inward. “Christ!” he muttered, hoping his team was clear of the blast. Carbine pressed back on his shoulder, he edged around the remaining wall.

A bundle of bloody rags lay across a low stone wall. No, not a pile of rags, but what was left of a man. A dismembered hand clutched the black box, wires trailing off toward the nearby highway marked by a roiling plume of dust and smoke rising overhead.

High above, a speck soared over the cloud, either a hawk down from the mountains or a buzzard drawn by another dead body.

Grant huffed dust from his nose and was finally able to spit a gritty mud ball to the floor. “Everybody O.K.?” he yelled, his voice hollow in his ears.

“Clear,” Specialist Franks called out. “Highway out there is one big friggin’ hole.”

Grant looked across the barren landscape, narrowing his eyes to confirm what he saw–a faint line of disturbed dirt leading from the back window toward the road. A detonator wire ended at the black box and hand. He suddenly realized he was dizzy, almost hyperventilated. He wiped the grimy sweat from his eyes and slowed his breathing. Where was the third man the Chechen had declared? Grant turned in a full circle. Nothing left in here but the smells of dry desert dust and the acrid odor of blood and gunfire.

 “Clear in here,” he yelled back at Madero. “Franks. Give a quick sweep around the outside. Carefully. We’re missing one. Vince?” Madero didn’t answer. Grant ran back into the front room to find Madero on his knees, fingering a hole in the center of his tactical vest.

Madero grimaced, waved him away and took a deep breath. “Damned bullet caught me smack in the middle of the ceramic plate.”

“Sure you’re O. K.?” Grant looked around the room where the dust had finally settled. Two men lay dead on the floor, their blood pooled and black under their bodies. More blood spattered the wall. And the dust…

The damned gritty nose burning dust that clung to everything in this Godforsaken place.

“Vince?”

“Yeah, Uly. Just had the stupid knocked out of me.” Madero took a deep breath, hand on his chest, and shook his head. “Grenade must have caught this guy.” He motioned toward the third bomber in a heap by the bookcase. Madero heaved himself up off the floor and walked over to the overturned bookcase. Papers lay scattered under the shelves. He flipped it upright. “Well, mira aquí. Maybe something right here.”

“Good find. Pack up anything that looks promising. We’ll take back to base where Snyder can go over it.” Grant walked through the now silent house. A crude wooden bed frame, the tumbled wall, no cabinets, no where to hide anything of interest. A corner of blue paper caught his eye, protruding from a niche uncovered when the wall had collapsed. Grant gently nudged the paper with the carbine’s barrel and a small notebook plopped to the floor. Grant stood there, frozen, acutely aware that teasers like the notebook could be triggers for a detonator wired to a 155mm artillery round, especially for a bomb team waiting to blow up a convoy.

He held his breath, blinked away the sweat that ran down his temples and into the corners of his eyes. No explosion, no dangling wires leading to another bomb. He took a deep breath and grinned, savoring the adrenaline rush. An interrogation mission had turned into an ambush, the ambush into a firefight. Today had been a real combat patrol. This was what he had signed up for, not just interrogating scared kids.

He picked up the notebook and walked back into the front room, thumbing through the pages. “Vicente, I just decided. I’m going to get me a transfer so I can stay over another tour.”

Madero looked at Grant; the corner of his mouth twisted in a wry grin. “You gone nuts, Uly?”

Grant squatted, laying his carbine across his thighs and opened the notebook. “Nope. I’m just getting the hang of really living.” Arabic script filled the first page, followed by what appeared to be columns of English language abbreviations and numbers. Gibberish. He stuffed the notebook into one of the pouches on his vest. “Look at us, man. These ragheads can’t kill us.”

 “Right. Invincible.” Madero gathered the scattered documents and stashed them in a canvas satchel, then went through the dead man’s robes.

 “You find anything really good? Gold, jewels, like in the movies?” Grant asked.

Madero shook his head. “Hollywood ain’t around to help. I doubt we’ll find anything really interesting in this batch.” He motioned toward the dead man sprawled on the floor. “At least he and his buddies won’t be blowing up the supply guys.”

Grant followed Madero outside and across to the cluster of palm trees screening their Humvee. Grant walked around their Humvee and searched the sand and rocks stretching between them and Syria. The only thing moving was the dust from the approaching convoy climbing into the hazy sky. The desert was empty as far as he could see, no more bombers, at least in sight. Franks climbed into the Humvee and called in their situation report over the radio.

Madero took a deep breath, fingering the hole in his vest, and waved the rest of the team waiting in the second Humvee forward. “You got a good bunch here, Uly.”

Grant nodded. “Don’t forget to get a replacement plate when we get back. I can’t lose you, buddy.” He had known Vicente his entire life, they had joined the National Guard together. Franks would make sergeant in a month or two, have his own squad. Gunner, Specialist Snyder, was a deadeye with her machinegun and could read every word of the Koran in Arabic. A well honed team. Now, if he could only get rid of Wilson, life would be perfect.

The second Humvee rolled over from its overwatch position and rocked to a halt, dust billowing around them. Gunner tucked her long hair under her helmet and gave him a thumbs up from behind her machine gun while Wilson just grinned at him from behind the steering wheel. Grant silently shook his head. His piece of shit cousin had waited out the firefight, like usual, as far away from the shooting as he could get.

Franks waved the radio microphone to get Grant’s attention. “Major Talbot says pack it up and come on home,” he yelled out.

Grant nodded in acknowledgement, watched the tanker convoy slow and detour around the crater. “Vicente, load up. Time to get out of here before dark catches up with us.”

 After the convoy had passed and the dust settled, Madero wrestled the Humvee back up on the sand-covered asphalt, detoured around the gaping hole left by the improvised explosive device and turned back toward their forward operating base. Grant lit a cigar as the adrenaline drained away, and blew the heavy smoke out into the oppressive heat, trying to stay alert as the buzz wore off. He focused on his side of the road, looking for any sign of any more IEDs buried along the roadside.

Strange. He never imagined he would enjoy going to combat. He had expected to miss the lush Florida swamps and the sparkling waters of the Gulf of Mexico. But those had been just wonderfully boring days out on the water, none of the excitement of combat in Iraq. He spat out a bit of tobacco and grit, eyes sweeping over the desolate expanse between them and the distant mountains to the north. Even the circling bird had flown away. Ahead of them a Bedouin in his traditional white thobe robe and gutra headdress prodded a small herd of goats toward a patch of sparse grass lining the roadside ditch.

A long day. He forced his eyes and mind to focus back on the harsh Iraqi desert, the dark sliver of roadway, the car ahead.

“Uly!” Madero suddenly roared.

Grant snapped his head to the front.

On their side of the road an old Renault careened directly toward them, the wide-eyed driver hunched over the wheel. Automatic fire ripped overhead.

“Son of a…” Grant lurched in the seat as Madero swerved toward the ditch.

Tracers from Snyder’s machinegun snapped through the air, chewed through the Renault’s windshield and obliterated the driver’s face.

Grant kicked at his door and tried to get his carbine untangled from all the other gear bouncing around his legs as he watched the Renault lift up on two wheels and roll across the road, filling their windshield. He grabbed the radio mount and braced as they skidded at an angle toward the side of the road and the scampering goats. The Humvee jolted to a stop, half perched over the edge of the ditch.

In front of them the old Renault rocked on its side, inches from the Humvee’s hood.

Grant pounded the door with his shoulder, then kicked it again. The instant his heel connected with the side panel, the Renault vanished. All around him the air roiled into a terrible mix of brilliant colors, followed immediately by a horrific explosion, knocking his helmet down over his eyes, battering him from all directions.

He gasped, his face in the dirt. Grant spat and pushed his helmet up off his eyes. He lay face-down on the ground. How the hell did he get here, sprawled in a ditch, a swath of Kevlar from the Humvee roof spread over his back along with bits of debris and chunks of windshield? The tactical radio and the GPS lay on the ground beside him, torn from their mounts.

He rolled clear of the wreckage and clawed his way up the side of the Humvee with his arms, no feeling in his legs. Madero lay sprawled across the driver’s seat, covered with a mangled mess of blood and blackened vehicle parts and charred documents. He stared up at Grant, blinked, silently screaming for help. Grant yelled back, but nothing came out, nothing he could hear. Flames flickered up from the floor boards around Madero, singeing the hair from Grant’s arms as he tugged at Madero, silent tracers flying past. He yanked again, but Madero was hung in the wreckage. Grant’s sleeves burst into flame. They needed help. Now.

Where was Wilson? On the far side of the roadway, Snyder stood behind her machine gun, teeth bared, helmet askew, soundless gunfire pouring out in short spurts as she continued to fire into the mangled wreckage that had once been the Renault. Wilson flopped out of Snyder’s Humvee, blood streaming down his face, waving at Grant with one hand as he slowly raised his rifle with the other. Wilson’s mouth moved, but Grant couldn’t hear a word, couldn’t hear the gunfire, couldn’t hear himself think. He tried to stand, assess what had happened, take charge, get them out of this mess, take care of Vicente like he had since they were kids, clear the bees buzzing between his ears. The Humvee windshield shattered as he tried to focus. Something slammed into his helmet as he turned to look back across the road.

Grant forced his head around to see Wilson crouched beside the second Humvee, rifle pointed directly at Grant, a big grin on his face.

Why didn’t Wilson come over to help?

The rifle jerked as Wilson fired. A bullet pounded against the ceramic plate in the back pouch of Grant’s tactical vest, slamming his gut against the Humvee. Before he could gather his breath, a searing pain sliced under his vest and across his kidney. Grant pulled his Beretta and forced himself to turn around despite the pain. Now he saw what Wilson was trying to tell him. The goat herder was running toward him, an AK at his shoulder.

Grant fired his Beretta. Once. Twice. The goat herder stumbled, went down. Heat from the flames swept around Grant’s face. The acrid smell of burning rubber and plastic stung his eyes. Fighting against the wave of pain that swept over him, Grant tried to keep the pistol pointed at the herder, but the next 9mm round only kicked up more dust as the man struggled to his knees, yanking on the AK’s charging handle. The AK came up and a red rose, edged with sparkles of flame, spouted from the muzzle.

A line of tracers arced over Grant’s shoulder and the gutra flew from the man’s head, followed by a white skull cap. Another burst of tracers flung the man back toward the desert, AK smashed into splinters. Grant twisted back to see Snyder still in the Humvee, firing into the desert. Wilson stood in the middle of the road, rifle by his side.

A faint sound reached his ears, screaming. His head filled with the sour smell of burning diesel fuel and rubber. And flesh. He looked down at his arms. The world suddenly turned black.

He woke to a soothing vibration and disturbing smells. Disinfectant, alcohol, odors he didn’t want to identify. He forced his eyes open to see the bottom of a bunk overhead. Back on his old boat, he thought for a moment, until the smiling woman in an olive drab flight suit leaned over, so close he had to blink to focus on her tired eyes.

“Hi, Lieutenant. Welcome home.”

This wasn’t where Grant wanted to be.

****