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the CO seem less afraid than irritated.  "Well, that stinks," said the look, "I was supposed to see a movie tonight."  No fear, no desperation, just a severe professionalism was at work in the CO that made even the impossible fight seem not only possible, but ridiculously probable. 
    "All right, kiddies," he barked.  "Let’s keep it pro.  One bullet, one body.  Just remember to keep one bullet in reserve."
    None of them asked what for.  Green Berets were worth more to enemy troops than their weight in plastique, carrying with them classified information about a plethora of different activities. 
    They wouldn’t fall into enemy hands. 
    Not alive.
    The next hour passed as a hell of death and fire.  The Green Berets’ exfil spot was a part of the canal that was a bit more rounded than the rest, providing a distinct landmark for the exfil chopper that would never come.  John and his unit each took a position around the perimeter of the ring, pointing their weapons over the lip of the canal, picking off Iraqi soldiers and Bedouins one at a time.
    None of the men in the unit fell, but John knew they would have to.  Sooner or later, they were dead.  The only questions were when and how.
    He was down to twenty rounds in his gun.  Two of the others had stopped firing, obeying Vogel’s order to keep one bullet in reserve.  They had already made peace and waited quietly for the silence of the end.
    John fired again, and again, and soon had but four bullets left.
    Three.
    Another shot, and he was down to two, and the enemy kept coming, an unending torrent of men, willing to die for a chance to kill.
    John drew a bead on what would be his last target before himself, but did not pull the trigger.  A dull thudding noise rolled through the air in deep, thrumming waves.  It was subliminal at first, felt more than heard: a presence that grew heavier in the hot, dry air until the sound could be made out and identified.
    John knew they weren’t out of it yet, but he joined the others in cheering as two choppers crested a low bank, heading toward them.  The exfiltration unit had come.
    The Pave Low, as intricate a piece of machinery as ever invented, hove into view first, its fiberglass rudders spinning almost silently.  It was the eyes, the brain of their salvation, a great swollen giant packed full of computers and information systems.  It paused in its forward movement, allowing the MH-60 Black Hawk that followed it to move forward.  The Black Hawk was the gunship, the muscle behind the mind, and seemed to fly more heavily than the Pave Low, weighted down as it was with guns and weaponry, heavily laden with death.
    The Iraqi soldiers who still surrounded the Berets’ position screamed in anger and turned their guns on the two choppers.  The Black Hawk’s response came from its side-mounted Vulcan Cannon, which could fire six thousand rounds a minute.  The gun spat what appeared to be liquid flame, dropping twenty of the enemy in an instant.  The rest dove for cover as the Black Hawk descended a few feet.  It touched down with the Pave Low scant yards from the Berets, and they quickly scrambled toward the choppers, half of them heading for each.
    John got in the Pave Low.  There wasn’t much room in the redesigned Jolly Green Giant ‘copter, so he pressed himself against the computer banks that allowed the vessel to land within inches of a predetermined spot and within seconds of a target time.  There was no room for weaponry, for the chopper’s function was not to destroy, but to find and, in this case, to deliver.
    Besides, it didn’t need firepower with the Black Hawk escorting.
    John looked out the side hatch as the Pave Low began to rise, seeing Vogel and Camp being helped into the already-ascending Black Hawk.  The crewman who helped them in that other chopper glanced at John, and for a moment time froze.
    The Bedouins, the Iraqis, the fight, all fled John’s mind as he saw a shock of gray running