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  “Mortar team, open fire.” His own men also opened fire on the eight scattered tents and mobile buildings.

  Bryce’s order signaled the beginning of the attack. While the mortar unit had been laying covering and distracting fire from the north, the real fireworks were just beginning. Bryce had timed their attack with the mortar team, stationed less than a mile away, and now the infantry unit there was using all three of their mortars in tandem, launching explosive rounds on the camp once every other second.

  The effect was chaotic — the twenty or thirty Iraqi men hunkered down in the tents and buildings snapped into action. They ran in every direction, some chopped down immediately by Ranger fire, and others hit by falling mortar rounds. The few that weren’t hit ran for the tunnels and bunkers surrounding the base.

  Bryce shouted orders as the team closed in. “Strahan, with me! O’Neil, Andreeson, keep punching through that line! Don’t let them get to the 50-cal!”

  He popped two shots into the nearest Iraqi, a man running for his life unfortunately in the direction of Captain Reynolds’ gun barrel. The next two Iraqis almost made it to the sandbagged outcropping just to the west of the base, where a 50-caliber machine gun turret had been set up. Bryce missed the first man, but Strahan clipped his leg just before he reached the half-circle of sandbags. The second man dove for cover behind his fallen comrade, just as a mortar round blasted into the ground and turned the whole area into a crater.

  Taking advantage of the moment, Bryce sprinted for the main circle of tents at the center of the camp. Strahan followed close behind, while the other three American soldiers continued their pummeling of the Iraqi camp. Bryce hoped to get in and out in less than two minutes — an eternity in the midst of battle.

  As he entered the nearest tent, his in-ear radio squawked to life. “Captain! O’Neil’s down!” The voice was Martin Andreeson’s, a man who’d been part of Bryce’s team for only a few months. “We’re under heavy fire from our six, sir! These bastards came out of nowhere!”

  From their six? Bryce’s mind went into overdrive. How was that possible? Thermal scans showed no movement outside the 500-yard perimeter surrounding the base. Further, ground-penetrating radar confirmed that the Iraqi troops were mostly above-ground, and not in the small tunnel system that ran throughout the area.

  But they were under fire from the west, behind O’Neil and Andreeson’s position. “I’m guessing about five, maybe six men, sir,” Andreeson continued, and Bryce could hear the sound of gunfire in between the soldier’s words. “Heavy firepower, and they seem to know our exact locations. I’m trying to hold them back, but it’s — “

  The voice in Byrce’s ear died, replaced by an eerie silence. Shit.

  Two of his men were down, and he still hadn’t located either objective. Thankfully, moments like this were Bryce’s forte, and the reason he was in charge of the small Ranger unit. His mind ran through the different scenarios while he continued searching the tents. Why hadn’t the scans picked up the enemy forces to the west? Even with the river, they’d have seen their advance, and would have warned me.

  Bryce came to a small tent, almost dead-center of the camp. Strahan picked off two straggling Republican Guardsmen who were fumbling with their weapons, and then entered the tent behind Captain Reynolds. Out of the corner of his eye, Bryce saw an oddly placed satchel on top of a filing cabinet in the corner. “Bryce, what’s up? We’ve got two guys down, and they were hit from behind. Who the hell was doing recon for us?”

  “Yeah, I know. Just help me find the package and we can get out of here.” He motioned to the other tent, and Strahan nodded and walked over. Bryce waited for Strahan to leave the tent, and he grabbed at the satchel. Rifling through the contents — nothing but paper and maps — he threw the bag aside.

  And then, on top of the cabinet, underneath where the bag had been placed, Bryce saw it. Unassuming, it was a simple brown envelope. It was too small to hold letter-sized paper, but it’s thickness implied that it was meant for weightier items; souvenirs and such. It was sealed and wrapped in packing tape for additional security, and fastened with a brad. Bryce snatched it and ripped open the top.

  From the adjacent tent, Strahan yelled out. His voice, echoed by the radio, startled Bryce. “Boss, I got it — two sheets, double-sided. This has to be it!” He opened the flap connecting their tents, and Bryce saw him waving the documents in the air. Coordinates ran down the left side of the page, itemized and ordered in some unknown way.

  “Great — let’s go.” Bryce had dropped the envelope onto the mess of papers and boxes strewn about, and he waited for Strahan to leave first. As the tall man stooped to exit the tent, he turned around and flashed a grin.

  “And you thought this shit was gonna take two minutes! Ha!” He chuckled a bit, and reached around his back for his rifle. Through the open tent flap, Bryce could see a shadowy figure approaching.

  “Corporal! Get down!” Bryce yelled. Joseph Strahan jerked away from the tent opening, but it was too late. An Iraqi soldier appeared in the doorway, and one hand reached out for Strahan’s head, while the other disappeared behind the American’s back. Strahan let out a pained whimper, and Bryce could see a flash of a knife’s blade, followed by a splatter of blood. He pulled up his weapon and aimed toward the two men, hoping to find a shot.

  Finally, a break in the struggle allowed Bryce to fire a short burst from his assault rifle. The Iraqi man tumbled forward, pushing Strahan down with him. “Shit! Joseph, you all right?” he called out.

  But as soon as Bryce saw his partner’s open wound, he knew the man was doomed. The knife had cut deep, catching him just beneath the ribs and pushing upward, through his lung. He was bleeding out, and there was no way he was going to live. His eyes flicked to Bryce for a long second, then closed as he coughed a mix of blood and bile. He reached to his side, struggling with something at his belt. Bryce started to walk toward him to offer aid, but within seconds the man was gone.

  It was then that Bryce noticed two things: first, the group of three Iraqi soldiers running toward the tent, where they’d just seen their comrade fall. Second, he saw the metal object Strahan had wriggled free from his belt just before he’d died.

  The pin of a grenade.

  Bryce reacted instinctively. He jumped backwards, trying to put as much distance between himself and the downed soldier, and then covered his head. The grenade blew, just as the Iraqis had neared the tent. The blast tore into them, throwing their bodies back and out onto the open desert ground. Bryce felt the wind rushing overhead, pushing the shockwave and fiery air along with it. A few chunks of debris and smaller bits of rock rained down around him, but he was okay.

  Standing, he took in the ensuing scene. The mortars have stopped, he thought. Or had he been shellshocked? Maybe he was momentarily deafened by the explosion. Raising his hand to his ear, he strained to hear the update coming through his radio. “Bryce — you guys okay? I saw the explosion.” It was Sergeant Rodriguez, from the eastern front. “I think the mortar team bailed; we’re not getting any cover fire anymore, and I think I can see about ten guys moving in to your location.”

  Bryce listened to the message, and frowned. The mortar team bailed? And now there were ten men approaching? He looked off to the right, where Rodriguez would be stationed, and responded. “Yeah, I’m good. Strahan’s gone. We need to get the hell out of here, and quick.”

  He didn’t wait for a response. Bryce’s mind flared once again as the adrenaline coursed through him, igniting his capacity for reason and deduction. His world slowed as he thought through the protocols; the by-the-book training he and his men had gone through for these instances, and he calculated the risks and probabilities of each chosen strategy. His ability to think and process under pressure were unmatched in his field, and his superiors had taken notice. Bryce was the whiz-kid of the Rangers, and his analytical and data-driven mind had gotten him several quick promotions during his short career in the military.

 
It was time to leave. Each option that Bryce ran through seemed to end in disaster, especially now that the mortar team had gone silent. The coordinates Strahan found were obliterated, as was most of his team. He called back in to Rodriguez to prepare for extraction, and then noticed again the small envelope on the sandy floor. Picking it up, he read the simple inscription on its front:

  M.J.

  He tore open the top of the envelope, and let its contents slide out onto his hand.

  A notebook.

  Perfect, he thought. This has to be it. Bryce was about to open the book and see for himself what all the fuss was about, when a spattering of an AK-47 sounded behind him. He jumped forward, bounding through the three tents and out onto the dusty plain, heading east. Just over the rise, he could see Sergeant Art Rodriguez still firing intermittent bursts down onto the base camp. A scream wailed from behind Bryce as he was running, and he heard a curse in Arabic — or Kurdish, he wasn’t sure — as the man fell.

  Clearing the outer edge of the camp, Bryce calculated the distance between him and Sergeant Rodriguez to be less than 100 yards; easy enough to make in a full-on sprint. By now, Rodriguez had seen his commanding officer break through the perimeter and was busy covering Bryce’s retreat. In the distance, Bryce thought he could even hear their extraction unit — a helicopter’s rotor wash flying in from the south.

  As he closed the distance to Rodriguez, he heard a break in the soldier’s shooting and looked up. The younger man was busy reloading — and Bryce knew he was vulnerable. He hoped to reach the spot in a few more seconds, and together they might be able to hold off the Iraqis for the few minutes it would take for the chopper to reach them.

  But as Rodriguez finished reloading, another shot rang out, and Rodriguez’ head jerked forward, ducking. Bryce frowned, and his pulse quickened. That wasn’t AK-47 fire, he thought. Another shot rang out, and Bryce saw the telltale twitch in Rodriguez’ body, like a jolting electrical shot. He’d been hit.

  “No!” Bryce screamed out in vain as he climbed the last few steps of the shallow hill. He dove for Rodriguez’ gun, simultaneously checking the man’s vitals. Dead.

  “Dammit!” He cursed, swiveling around again to continue firing at the fast-approaching Iraqis. As he turned, however, he caught a glimpse of the other approaching Iraqis — the ones coming up the hill from the east, behind Rodriguez’ position.

  He was being crushed between two oncoming forces, and he was the only American soldier left. At least five men were coming up from the west, and now he saw the silhouettes of three more. One carried a sniper rifle and was no doubt the one who’d killed Rodriguez.

  Shit. This was going to end very painfully. Bryce readied himself, and lowered his torso to the ground. He fired three bursts at the men coming from the direction of the camp, and two of the men fell. Turning, he aimed for the three coming from the east.

  They were aiming back at him.

  A muzzle flash flared outward from the gun held by the man on the left. A split second passed, and Bryce felt the round pierce his shoulder. He screamed, and dropped completely to the ground. Blood trickled down his forearm, and he loosened the grip on his gun.

  A second flash twinkled in Bryce’s eyes, this time from the sniper. He heard the round whiz by, just over his head.

  I’m going to die here, he thought. He tried lifting his rifle to his eye, but the pain from his shoulder wound was too great. Then his knee lit up in a fiery wash of pain. Too weak to scream, he let out a low wail as he buried his face sideways into the sand, calmed by the gentle warmth of the Iraqi desert ground.

  His left hand reached up to his shirt pocket, and he shifted a little, slowly, trying to grab at the small notebook he’d stolen from the camp.

  If I’m going out like this, I’m going to at least figure out why, he thought.

  He brought the book up to his head. Straining to open his eyes, he let the cover fall open and glanced down at the first page.

  Nothing.

  It was completely blank.

  What? No! Had he grabbed the wrong book? He flipped through another ten pages, all blank.

  All empty.

  He wanted to scream. Had he been set up? Why would this notebook — this blank notebook — be the subject of so much scrutiny, so much bloodshed?

  And why was it addressed to someone named M.J.?

  He moved his hand down, closer to his chest, and pushed the book under his body. He’d wanted to throw it, but he didn’t have the strength. If it was an object that was never supposed to be in enemy hands, he intended to make it that much more difficult for them to find.

  One last shot rang out as the men started up the hill. One more time Bryce felt the piercing burn of metal, punching through flesh. This time, his left arm took the brunt of the shot, though the bullet had only strafed. He thought about home; about his mom.

  Mom. He wasn’t going to be able to get to her now.

  To save her.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and let the sand blow over him, willing the desert to swallow him.

  CHAPTER 2

  10:22 PM - WHITE ROCK, New Mexico, USA

  The gust of wind hit Jake in the face and jolted him upright in his seat. Had he fallen asleep? He quickly squeezed his eyes open and shut a few times, working out the grogginess. Rolling up the window of his 2008 Ford Focus, he set his gaze on the dark, winding road in front of him. After making this hour-long trip from Santa Fe to the laboratory twice a week for the past two years, he knew the mountainous highway pass could be treacherous, especially at night. The Albuquerque and Santa Fe news stations routinely reported accidents along this section of Highway 4 — and accidents that usually involved casualties.

  As the road ahead straightened out, Jake stole a glance toward the phone in his lap. Had he really been out of it enough to miss a call? With one hand on the wheel, he thumbed through his messages and tapped the number of the missed call.

  “Jake? Where are you?”

  “Hey honey — I must have missed your call. Sorry about that. What’s up?” He knew even before he said it exactly what was “up.” Feigning ignorance was an attempt to distract her; let her calm down.

  It didn’t work. The initial concern in Ally’s voice disappeared in a heartbeat.

  “You need to get over here, now,” she said. “It’s been a week, and we still haven’t worked through this! Are you going to keep running away from our problems even after the baby comes?”

  Jake’s mind raced through the excuses he had planned over and again in his head during the last few days. Maybe they weren’t supposed to be together right now — not with his new job. Her post-graduate studies had made things more difficult as well, and they rarely spent time together. Maybe they were too stubborn; maybe he just needed some alone time, maybe…

  “Jake.” Her voice in his ear woke him out of his thoughts.

  “I know — I’m on my way now; I just need some time to process everything — ”

  “You’ve had enough time to process this, Jake! Your work keeps getting in the way, or you’re not ready to talk, or you have some other reason to push this off! The fact of the matter is this baby is coming, and neither of us can do anything about it.”

  He knew the story — it was his fault to begin with. Hearing her retell it, he couldn’t help but relive the past three weeks.

  The project at work. Knowing she wouldn’t understand, but longing to tell her everything and hope she would trust him.

  News of his father’s death last month.

  Traveling to Arizona for the memorial with Ally nearly eight months pregnant.

  The argument over something so small, so stupid really.

  The fight that grew and grew during the trip, leading to their temporary separation — Ally to her parents’ place in Durango, and Jake staying home in Albuquerque to continue working while they sorted things out.

  It amazed Jake how quickly they went from best friends to bitter opponents — over something so insignifi
cant. He knew how it would end. She’d apologize for being irrational, and he’d promise to stop being so stubborn. They would laugh a little and kiss, and then go back to the way it had always been since they’d met in college at Boulder, arguing over lab assignments and helping each other out on midterms.

  His reverie slowly faded, and he smiled at the fact she hadn’t yet stopped talking — now she was rehashing how her mother had tried to talk her out of marrying him. Man, they’d been through a lot together — and it had only been seven years. They’d laughed, cried, fought, and otherwise experienced the full range of human emotions together, and now he thought about how much he cared for her.

  As Ally talked, the road climbed into a steep left turn around a mountainside, with a sheer cliff on the right. Jake compensated for the incline by pushing down harder on the gas, and began to veer left into the turn.

  “Jake, are you listening to me? I love you — we just need to talk, and I don’t want to do it over the phone. How much longer will — ” her voice cut off mid-sentence just as a heavy SNAP sounded around him. It was like the air in the car had been immediately and violently sucked out — the resulting pressure change in the car even caused his ears to pop.

  What the hell? He checked his phone — dead. As he fumbled for the power button, however, he realized it wasn’t just the phone. Everything around him had gone completely dark.

  The dashboard wasn’t lit, the radio had died, the red LED on his phone’s charger had vanished; even the solitary streetlights every few hundred yards had gone out. Jake was suddenly plunged into an enveloping blackness.

  But the car was still moving, now cresting the hill and accelerating downward. Jake pressed on the brake, but the pedal slid easily to the floor. He tried the ignition and the power steering as well, but got nothing. It was as if the car — and everything around him electronic or mechanical — had just shut off at once. He tried to stay calm, to focus on slowing the car, but gravity was against him. His palms started to sweat as he tried to picture the edge of the road — the slight shoulder with a rocky gorge beyond. Jake had driven this pass plenty of times — from home to the lab and back — but without headlights, he couldn’t see a thing.