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of tension in his gut. What assignment had she drawn? She’d be flying. She was too good a pilot not to draw one of the tougher strike assignments. Lord, please, keep her safe during tonight’s flight. He hated the sense of worry, hated worse the lack of information.
    Bruce hoisted the heavy medical bag off the improvised table built from plywood resting across two sawhorses. The odds were good he would be flying tonight.
    He exited the tent carrying the gear and walked across the field to the flight line. Eight weeks ago sheep had been grazing in this plateau. The Twenty-third Special Tactics Squadron out of Hurlbert Field, Florida, had made it home.
    Bruce hadn’t seen much of Turkey proper. The PJs had flown over on a commercial flight to Istanbul, then shuttled down to the Incirlik Air Base and been flown out to this forward operating location within days of coming in-country.
    The coalition pilots in the area—British and American—were counting on him. They could be aggressive in the air because the PJs guaranteed if a pilot got in trouble, they would get him out.
    Inside his uniform, dog tags clicked. Bruce wore his own plus three others. He’d pulled a helicopter crew out of danger two weeks ago when a training mission through the tight passes of northern Turkey had ended in near tragedy. The rescue had cost the crew the price of their dog tags, a tradition that went back more PJ generations than he had been alive.
    Before this deployment was over he’d likely be wearing more.
    Bruce stored his gear in the first of the Pave Low III helicopters on the flight line, the black menacing machine one of the reasons he could deliver on that rescue promise. Life in the PJs was all about preparation. If they went out tonight, they would be ready to hit hard.
    It was 1410 local time. It would be 0200 before he got clearance to stand down. Bruce thought about it and decided he had time for a late lunch and a nap before the evening watch began.
    “Striker.”
    He turned to see Wolf coming toward him from the mess tent. The Bear Cubs had shown up three weeks ago. Navy SEAL Joe “Bear” Baker and his team were operating throughout this region, and Bear had assigned the Cubs to handle the briefings.
    “Got a minute?”
    “Sure.”
    Wolf offered one of the sandwiches he held and Bruce took it with a quiet thanks. It was another of Tom’s infamous peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Striker had long ago figured out it was his premission ritual. “Any word on tonight?” Bruce asked.
    “They’ve moved us up to standby.”
    What the SEALs would be doing tonight if they got a go-ahead Bruce wasn’t fully briefed on yet; that would happen after there was a green light. But he knew one fact: On the map the Iraqi-Syrian border was a bright red line. The SEALs would be crossing it.
    “Did you get through to Jill?” Bruce asked. Wolf had been down at Incirlik early this morning where there were phones available. Communication from here was restricted to mail.
    “I got her answering machine. I wanted to strangle the cord.”
    “I thought she said four o’clock her time.”
    “She did. I don’t know if that means she got my last letter and doesn’t want to speak with me or if something happened.”
    “And it’s going to be a couple days before you get a chance to call again.”
    “Exactly.”
    “I pity you.”
    “You’re supposed to sympathize and offer to help.”
    Bruce laughed. “I’m letting my sister date a Navy guy. Don’t push your luck.” He knew all about the dilemmas of missed phone calls and the uncertainty about mail. He’d worked to get just the right tone for his first letter to Grace written since he had deployed, and he still hadn’t heard back from her. Had she received the letter? It was tough, the silence, tougher than just about anything he might hear back as a reaction.
    “Ready for tonight?”
    Wolf, worried? Bruce narrowed his eyes as he searched his friend’s face, then smiled as he