“Yeah, I’ll see y’all in the morning.” Blake gave me a little wink as he stood up and put an arm around Alice Tran’s shoulders. As they walked away into the night, I shook my head and shared a knowing glance with my father.

Shortly thereafter, an aging warrant officer stopped by our camp. In his right hand, he held a large metal clipboard. “Name’s Grohl,” he said, not bothering with military formalities. “I was wondering if you folks might be willing to help out with a few things around camp tonight.”

We shared a round of looks, then Dad said, “What did you have in mind?”

He looked at the clipboard. “We’re short a few people for the patrols, the supply folks could use a few extra hands doing inventory, and … let’s see …” He flipped couple of pages before pointing at Mike. “I understand you were a sniper in the Marines. That correct?”

Mike nodded. “Trained at Quantico.”

“Heard that’s a tough one.”

“It is.”

“Mind taking a shift on overwatch tonight? It’d only be for three hours.”

“Which post?”

Grohl pointed at a telescoping tower rising up from the back of a HEMTT. “Northwest. Shift starts at 2200 hours.”

Mike glanced at his watch. “That gives me forty-five minutes to get ready. Yeah, I’ll help you out.”

“Much appreciated.”

Sophia raised a hand. “I might be able to help your supply people.”

“You have any experience managing inventory?”

“I do, actually. I was an assistant manager at a pharmacy before all this happened. Can’t imagine it’s all that different.”

Grohl wrote something on his clipboard. “Fair enough. Gotta head that way myself here in a minute, so I’ll walk you to ‘em. What about you two,” he wiggled a finger between Dad and me. “Think you can take one of the patrols? I know you’ve had a long day, but even just a couple of hours would be a big help.”

“What do you think?” Dad said, shifting his attention to me. “Ten to midnight be okay?”

I shrugged. “Works for me.”

Grohl made another notation. “Excellent. Come see me at the command tent fifteen minutes prior and I’ll show you where to go.”

“Will do,” Dad replied.

Grohl then glanced at Lauren, eyes flicking up and down, taking in her general state, and said, “Well that should about do it. I really appreciate it, folks.” He turned to Sophia. “If you’ll follow me, ma’am?”

“Sure thing.” She gave me a quick peck on the cheek as she got up. “See you later tonight.”

“Be careful,” I said. “Keep your gun handy.”

She patted the Smith and Wesson on her hip. “I’ll be fine. Worry about yourself.”

“Thanks again,” Grohl said as he turned to leave.

“Glad to be of service,” Dad replied, and watched the two of them walk away.

“Are you going to be okay here by yourself until we get back?” I asked Lauren.

She nodded slowly, eyes never leaving the fire. “I’ll be fine.”

“Come on, son,” my father patted me on the shoulder as he stood up. “Let’s get this mess cleaned up and get ready for watch.”

I cast one last worried look at Lauren and said, “Yeah, sure.”

*****

According to the satellite feed on Grohl’s ruggedized tablet, the area of Oklahoma we were in was a massive, near-perfect grid of interconnected farm land. Many of the squares on the grid were filled with perfect geometric circles that touched the gridlines, but left curving triangles of excess land at the corners. They looked like round pegs in square holes. When I asked Grohl what the circles were, he explained they were from pivot irrigation systems—machines that run on electricity, roll on massive wheels, and spread water from a central point in the field.

Our camp was located in one such field, much larger than the square inch or so it represented on the tablet. The problem Grohl and his troops faced was they had a large area of terrain to keep watch over and not enough people to cover it all while still allowing everyone to get at least a few hours’ sleep.

“I need you to set up here in this area on the southern end of the perimeter,” Grohl said, “patrol between these two points here and here. It’s a lot of ground to cover, so you’ll have to stay sharp.”

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Dad said.

“Do you need radios?”

“Got our own.”

“You good on weapons and ammo?”

Dad patted his rifle and spare magazines. “Good to go.”

“We only have enough NVGs to issue you one set. As for suppressors, let me see here ...” He began to thumb through an inventory log.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dad interrupted. “We have our own.”

“NVGs or suppressors?”

“Both.”

Grohl raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Yep. I used to work for a company called Black Wolf Tactical. Ever heard of it?”

“It rings a bell. One of those outfits like the Gunsite Academy in Arizona, right?”

“Along the same lines, yeah.”

Grohl scratched at his day’s growth of stubble. “Well that explains a lot. You need anything else from me?”

“Nope,” Dad said. “I believe we’re all set.”

“Very well. Stay sharp out there fellas.”

“Will do.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

As my father and I approached the break between two Bradleys that served as a gate, the glare of floodlights illuminating the interior of the camp grew dim. I reached a hand back to the pouch where I normally kept my NVGs and found it empty.

“Ah, son of a bitch.”

Dad stopped a few steps ahead of me, looked back, and said, “What?”

I thought for a moment before remembering unpacking my NVGs a few hours ago to swap out the batteries. I had been inside the camper at the time, sitting at the table, and must have forgotten to put them back in the pouch. Stupid.

“I think I left my NVGs back at camp.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Afraid not. They’re probably on the kitchen table.”

He made an exasperated noise. “Well go back and get them, and hurry. We’re going to be late for watch.”

“Wait here, I’ll be right back.” I shoved my rifle in my father’s hands so it would not slow me down, broke into a fast jog, and beelined for the other side of camp. We had parked our camping trailer on the north side of the circle away from the people from the RV encampment and the soldiers’ tents. It was out of the way, relatively quiet, and aside from Warrant Officer Grohl, no one had bothered us.

After crossing the encampment, I arrived at our site and expected to see Lauren sitting in front of the fire. But her chair was empty. Stopping, I cast a quick glance around to see if she was nearby.

“Lauren?” I called. No answer.

Then I heard noise from the camper, a rattle and a squeak. The big metal box shifted on its axles. I tried the door and found it locked.

“Lauren?” I called again, louder this time. There was a thump from inside the camper, but nothing else. A cold feeling suffused my face, and I felt my heart begin to beat faster in my chest. There was no way Lauren would lock herself in unless she was using the toilet, and even if that were the case, she would answer when I called.

One of the items I usually kept lashed to my pack was a flat pry bar about the length of my forearm. It worked great for a variety of purposes, not the least of which was prying open windows of abandoned houses. Before leaving for watch, I had removed it and left it beside my chair, figuring I would be more comfortable without the extra weight. Picking it up from where it lay, I jammed it into the thin slot between the door and frame and hauled on it with everything I had.

For a couple of seconds, the latch resisted, the pry bar bending a few inches backward. I called up every ounce of strength I had, teeth gritted, blood suffusing my face, muscles standing out like cords under my skin, until finally the door came open with a metallic pop. Drawing my pistol, I dropped the pry bar, stepped through the door, and led the way with my weapon.