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metal bucket, piles of rags and cleaning supplies.
    â€œChucker!” sounded over his radio. “Move! Move!” Kos sounded worried. Time for the search was sharply limited.
    â€œOn my way.”
    â€œKos, this is Rattler.” That was Fernandez. “We’re in traffic control. Negative, negative. No hostiles.”
    â€œRoger that,” Kos said, still standing by the splintered door. “Extract. Two-IC, this is Kos. Terminal clear. Dry hump!”
    â€œCopy,” the squad leader, Lieutenant j.g. DeWitt, replied. “Move ’em out, Kos.”
    â€œOn our way.”

0245 hours (Zulu +3) Shuaba runway, Iraq
    â€œAlfa, Delta!” DeWitt’s voice called over the tactical frequency. “Clear! Dry hump!”
    Meaning they’d not found any guards inside the terminal complex. Cotter gave the scene another scan with his binoculars as worry tugged at his awareness. Had there only been ten Iraqis to begin with? To guard the UN Herky Bird and its treasure trove of stolen intelligence? Shit, there ought to be more, a lot more. Even if they hadn’t heard the death-silent assault by the SEALs, they ought to be reacting by now to the explosion in Zabeir. Where the hell were they?
    â€œYou see any movement out there?” he asked Brown.
    â€œNegative, Skipper. Nothin’ but our own people.”
    â€œStay on it. Gimme the sat comm, Professor.” Higgins handed him the radio. “Sky Trapper, Sky Trapper,” he called. “This is Blue Water.”
    â€œBlue Water, Sky Trapper” sounded over his headset a moment later. “Copy. Go ahead.”
    Sky Trapper was a Saudi Arabian AWACS aircraft manned, at least for tonight, by U.S. Air Force personnel. The airborne communications and radar early warning plane was orbiting over northern Saudi Arabia, serving as a command center for the far-flung assets of Operation Blue Sky.
    â€œSky Trapper, Blue Water. Cold Steel, authentication Charlie India two-three. We have the package intact, repeat, we have the package intact. We’re ready for delivery. Tell Cowboy and Shotgun to get their asses in gear!”
    â€œAh, roger that, Blue Water. Be advised that Shotgun should be over your position any time now. Cowboy is en route, ETA six minutes.”
    â€œCopy, Sky Trapper. We’ll be waiting. Blue Water out.”
    Handing the sat-comm handset back to Higgins, Cotter paused and listened, straining against the darkness. Yes . . . he could just hear it now, the faint and far-off whup-whup - whup of approaching helicopters.
    He changed channels on his Motorola, switching to a frequency that would link him to the entire SEAL platoon. “Blue and Gold, this is Papa One. Helos are inbound. Don’t shoot ’em down, they’re on our side. Two-IC?”
    â€œCopy, Papa One,” DeWitt replied. “Go ahead.”
    â€œStart bringing your people in, two at a time.”
    â€œRoger, Papa One, wilco.”
    â€œOut.”
    The plan was moving like clockwork now, each man with an assignment, each man with a place. Right now, Cotter’s place was at the Herky Bird with the rest of his unit. He touched Higgins’s shoulder. “I’m going in there. You two stay put until Cowboy One touches down, then hustle on in, okay?”
    â€œRight, L-T.”
    â€œMagic?”
    â€œYeah, Skipper?”
    â€œYou did good. Real nice shooting on those two tangos. Two for two.”
    Brown’s face split in a wide grin. “Hey, thanks, Skipper!”
    Cotter believed in giving praise where praise was due. He’d been concerned, naturally enough, about the cherries in the platoon—and Magic Brown had been one of them. The quartermaster first class had been in the Navy for ten years, but he’d only been a SEAL for one, and this was his first time in combat. No matter how hard a man trains, no matter how grueling his indoctrination, there is no way to tell how he will act the