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tortured metal, which contained the tortured, charred remains of their friends and colleagues.
     
    It was still too hot to get close, but they walked around the outside until, one by one, they saw a strange sight on the far side of the river. There were a dozen robed Arabs, their hands held high, walking toward the bridge. The Americans watched, amazed. One of them yelled, “Don’t do anything, guys! This is the oldest trick in the book. They’ve unloaded their weapons. They’re surrendering as unarmed civilians. They know we’re not allowed to touch them!”
     
    And this assessment was accurate. The jihadists knew the rules well. Rather than retreat into the desert and face an aerial bombardment from U.S. aircraft, they chose to deny what they had done and pose as a group of local Bedouins, going about their peaceful, lawful business, innocent of any form of attack on the forces of the United States of America.
     
    Mack Bedford looked back at the dying flames of the tanks, and tried to hold back his tears for Charlie O’Brien and the rest. He stared again at the bridge, and the anger welled up inside him— But these fucking towelheads crossing the river. . . . Jesus Christ! . . . They’ve just murdered my guys!
     
    The silence seemed to cast a mantle of unreality over this tiny corner of Iraq, a land of such unaccountable hatreds. There was no movement among the stone-faced SEALs as they watched the little group of wraithlike figures still walking toward the center of the bridge. Still with their hands held high.
     
    From here their sandals made no scuffing sound on the sand-swept flagstones of the bridge. It was as if the Americans were watching through a long-range slow-motion camera lens, watching the advance of this murderous little cabal that had caused lifelong heartbreak for these serving U.S. troops.
     
    But the Arabs kept coming, kept walking. Only the Foxtrot Platoon commander recognized them as the missile men he had watched through his binoculars across the river. And once more he raised the glasses and stared at the oncoming killers, unarmed now, but still with that unmistakable loathing etched on their faces.
     
    There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that these were the perpetrators of this shocking crime, committed in cold blood with four of the internationally banned Diamondhead missiles. And now there was a murmur of restlessness among the Special Forces as they watched the bizarre scene on the Euphrates Bridge.
     
    Team leaders, fearful of the rule-book consequences of attacking men who carried no weapons, were muttering softly. Steady, guys. . . . Take it easy. . . . Let ’em keep coming. . . .
     
    Now, as the twelve Arabs reached the center of the bridge, their footfalls could be heard in the hot, shimmering air. It was a flat, subdued, yet poisonous sound, and still they held their hands high. On the far bank, women and children were gathering to watch as the twelve men walked quietly toward the infidels of the U.S. Special Forces, their sworn enemy.
     
    Everyone on the western side of the river would remember the quiet. And every one of the Americans standing there would recall the sudden sharp metallic snap, as Lt. Cdr. Mackenzie Bedford rammed a new magazine into the breech of his M4 automatic rifle and began to run hard, straight at the bridge. These were not the “hours of the wolf.” Mack Bedford was the wolf, an all-American wolf, snarling, blood-thirsty, right out of the deep forests of the great state of Maine.
     
    Lt. Barry Mason reacted first. He swiveled around and set off in pursuit of the SEAL team commander. NOSSIR . . . NOSSIR . . . FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, STOP . . . DON’T SHOOT!
     
    Mack reached the bridge first, a full twenty yards in front of the lieutenant. There was a desperation in Barry’s voice as he yelled, “DON’T DO IT, SIR . . . FOR CHRISSAKES, DON’T DO IT!”
     
    He was racing across the ground now. But not fast enough. Mack Bedford’s gun spat