"Everything is under control, Mr. Arkin," he said. "If you'll go back with the others and..."

Arkin hefted the briefcase. "I've got important intel here, fella, and it's got to get out right away. I can't wait for the rest of that shit to be loaded on the helicopters."

"You'll go out with the others on the second helo, Mr. Arkin. You'll go faster if you help your friends load number one."

"No! I can't wait! I want..."

Cotter reached out and closed his left hand on the front of Arkin's collar, pulling him up on his toes and bringing his face to within inches of his own. "I don't give a fuck what you want, mister! Get your ass back with the others, and I mean now!"

He released the man with a shove that nearly sent him sprawling. Arkin gaped at Cotter, looked as though he was about to say something more, then apparently thought better of it, shrugged, and turned away.

0250 hours (Zulu +3)

Shuaba control tower, Iraq

From his vantage point fifteen meters above the ground, Sergeant Jasim could see the bustle of activity on the runway below. The two Land Rovers were approaching the big helicopter transport, which was squatting now on the runway with its rotors still turning. The UN spies with their blue armbands were trotting along behind their vehicles, as the black-suited commandos in their weird, bug-faced masks stood at the ready, their weapons probing the encircling night. Could they see him? Apparently not. At least they were not shooting at him, but appeared to be simply standing guard, watchful and deadly.

Jasim would get only one good burst from his rifle. He knew and accepted that. But at which target? There were so many.

Visibility was poor with the airport's lights shot out, but there was enough illumination from the burning hangars to reveal two men off to one side of the UN aircraft, obviously engaged in a heated conference. One was dressed like the other commandos in black, anonymous. The other, in light-colored civilian slacks and jacket and a blue armband, was an easy target, and the briefcase he was holding suggested that he might be a man of some importance.

The circling helicopter gunships were farther away now, searching for Jasim's comrades in the surrounding hills. Breathing a final prayer to Allah, Riad Jasim aimed his AKM carefully, taking his time to align the sights as he'd been taught, hold his breath, and slowly squeeze the trigger.

0250 hours (Zulu +3)

Shuaba Airport, Iraq

Cotter watched the Agency spook stalk back toward the line of UN people still emerging from the Hercules. The self-important little bastard would probably file a report back at Langley, contending that he'd not received the necessary cooperation from the SEAL platoon tasked with extracting him.

Screw him. Cotter had gone rounds with the Agency's Christians before, and the exchange had never been pleasant.

He caught the wink of a full-auto muzzle flash in the corner of his eye, felt rather than heard the savage snap of bullets cleaving the air inches above his head. Arkin was ten feet away, his back to the SEAL lieutenant, completely unaware that they were being shot at. Without thinking, Cotter launched himself forward, tackling the CIA man from behind just as the unseen gunner corrected his aim. Arkin oofed as he went down hard beneath the SEAL and the briefcase skittered loose across the tarmac.

Something slammed into Cotter's side, then his right arm, then his back, the impacts painless but savagely hard, like hammer blows. For a dazed moment, he didn't know where he was. Why was he on his back, on the ground?..

0250 hours (Zulu +3)

Shuaba Airport, Iraq

Roselli had seen the Lieutenant knock the UN guy flat, then seen Cotter plucked from the man's back by an unseen hand and rolled off onto the tarmac. He'd not heard the gunshots above the roar of the helicopter, but he could tell from the way the Lieutenant had been thrown that they'd come from high up and that way, from the top of the terminal building tower.

He cut loose with a long burst from his MP5, screaming "Cover! Cover! Sniper on the tower!" as loud as he could. Other SEALs reacted in the same instant. MacKenzie sent a stream of green tracers slashing through the terminal's windows, and then Garcia's M203 spoke, slamming a 40mm grenade into the tower walkway, where it detonated with a flash and a bang and a sparkling shower of steel fragments and broken glass. Bodies... no, pieces of bodies spun lazily through the air, accompanied by an avalanche of shattered bricks and concrete.

Roselli was beside the Lieutenant in a second, crouching over him. "L-T! L-T! Can you hear me?" Oh, God, his blacks were sticky with blood. Shit, shit, shit! Where was all the damned blood coming from? The Skipper was wearing a Kevlar bullet-proof combat vest, of course, but it looked like he'd taken a round in the right shoulder. That was okay... sure. A ticket home and his arm in a sling, but he'd be up and back in full working mode in a few weeks, just like in the fucking movies.

"Outa my way, Chief!" Doc Ellsworth was there, shoving him aside. Roselli didn't want to leave. "Damn it, Chief, out of the way! I've got him!"

Turning, Roselli stared up at the control tower. The large, slanted windows had been blown out, and one side looked as though a giant had taken a hungry bite out of it. "Two-IC!" he yelled over the tactical channel. "This is Roselli!"

"DeWitt here," he heard. "Go ahead."

"The L-T's down! Damn it, I thought you said that fuckin' tower was fuckin' clear!"

"Okay, Razor. Chill out." He heard a click as DeWitt changed channels. "Platoon, this is Two-IC. The Lieutenant's down. I've got command. Acknowledge!"

"I hear you," MacKenzie's voice replied. "Blue copies."

"Acknowledged, Lieutenant," Chief Kosciuszko's voice added. "Gold copies!"

The man Cotter had knocked down was sitting up nearby, cradling his arm and rocking back and forth. "I'm hit! I'm hit! God, I'm hit!"

Roselli crouched beside him. It looked like a round had punched through the guy's safari jacket sleeve, bloodying his arm. A graze, nothing more. "You'll live," he said bluntly. "Hold still." He popped open one of his pouches, pulled out a roll of gauze, and quickly wrapped the man's arm.

"My attache case. Where's my attache case?"

Roselli retrieved it. "Here. Now get the fuck back with the rest of your people."

"But..."

"Move it, you numb-nuts dumb-ass son of a bitch!"

The UN man blinked at him in shock, then scrambled away, clutching his briefcase to his chest. Roselli turned back to Ellsworth.

"How's the L-T, Doc? Just a shoulder, right?"

"Shut up, Razor." Something in his voice, the intensity of his expression as he lifted Cotter's arm and probed his side with bloody fingers, told Roselli that it was more than a flesh wound. He could see the blood welling up beneath the Lieutenant's bullet-proof vest, coming through the vest's armhole just beneath his arm. Ellsworth started packing the space with whole rolls of gauze.

Cotter's head rolled to one side. "Doc..."

"You lay still, Skipper. You took a round in the side."

"Can't... feel m' legs."

"Shit." Ellsworth looked at Roselli. "Damn it, Razor, make yourself useful! Get me a Stokes from the helo!"

"Right, Doc."

The UN people had finished off-loading the cardboard boxes from the two Land Rovers onto the first Sea Stallion, then pulled back as the pilot fed power to the rotors and lifted from the tarmac with shrill thunder. Seconds later, the number-two Sea Stallion touched down in the beacon-lit spot evacuated by the first. As the crew chief lowered the rear ramp, Roselli ran up and jumped aboard. "We got a man down!" he yelled. "Gimme a Stokes!"