"—What exactly do you want from me?"
"—The question is straightforward, Captain. Was there any hesitation, any doubt, or any misreading of the battlespace on their part?"
"—None. My team performed by the numbers. Every man moved fast, hit hard, and stayed in the fight."
"—You sound like you have something to add, Captain."
"—This wasn't on us. Nobody on the ground fucked up. The leak came from Langley or whatever black site your people run. We were burned before we left the wire. Someone talked. We can't let that stand."
"—That development was… unanticipated, Captain. I'm not cleared to discuss it."
"—That's a negative. Try again."
(page turn)
"—One last question. Is it possible you've conflated the exact sequence in which they were killed?"
"—I told you the timeline down to the second. Grid, time on target, full roster. I can still see the blood type stamped on every dog tag. I will never forget a single name from Gray Horse."
The pipe bridge thrummed under their boots—two men wide, no cover, open flanks. The element stayed staggered, rifles up, scanning 360.
"Gray-2, five hundred meters clear. Good to bound."
"Roger, Gray-1. Stay frosty."
Locally. Cold air stacked over the northern Persian Gulf; a slick of spilled crude held the heat down, birthing a low, oily fog.
Beneath a ceiling of bruised cloud, the running silhouettes cut across the black-gloss water like a file of ants on a razor wire, carving a thin red line across the steel flanks of the twin jack-ups squatting in the bay.
The moon, still refusing to set, hung low in the west, dragging the tide in its wake.
Captain John Hastings breathed through his nose as he jogged the catwalk, Mk 18 in the low ready, eyes caging the dark ahead.
"Gray One-Two, this is Eagle One. Starting my recon pass. Need eyes on the deck."
"Eagle One, Gray-1. Lead element thirty seconds out from Beta platform. Nothing spotted."
Nothing but the slap of oil-black swells, the rattle of kit, the metallic tattoo of boots on grating, and now the growing thump-whump-whump of rotors as the armed bird slid in low over the water.
"Eagle One, Gray-2. All Gray Horse elements on the objective. Setting the defense."
Voice slightly garbled in the wind. Inside the helo, the door gunner—OD flight suit, ballistic goggles—yanked the sliding door, wrapped both hands around the spade grips of the MG 338. Chnk-chk. Bolt slammed home.
"Copy Gray-2. Holding station, watching north."
The Black Hawk's shadow swept the narrow bridge and the poisoned water beneath. Rotor wash whipped the surface into a crumpled sheet of tar paper.
"Gray-1, you are cleared hot across the gap."
Hastings keyed off, dropped behind a dead forklift, Mk 18 up, pieing the corner.
Three operators stacked high-low against a wall of Conex boxes, muzzles tracking the upper decks.
Needle-fine rain slanted in, beading on rifles, fogging optics, running cold under cuffs.
"Copy. Moving to you."
Waves slammed pilings. Rotors screamed.
Slings snapped like pennants; packs hammered spines. Men yanked straps viciously tight.
"Gray-1, Eagle One door. Got movement on the water. Multiple strobes."
Cockpit bathed in green. Crew punched radar gain, sweeping.
"TOC, Eagle One. Multiple small craft, fast boats, high-speed evasive inbound, fifteen nautical and closing hard. No response to radio challenge. Positive ID on crew-served weapons and RPG tubes. Request weapons free!"
"Say again—urgent—upgrade ROE across the board!"
The call hit like a flashbang. Hastings and his two assaulters spun, rifles on the tire fenders, tracking the white mist bank.
"Eagle One, you are weapons free. Engage, repeat, engage."
Helo nosed over hard.
Two AGM-179 JAGMs dropped off the rails, motors igniting with a flash. Twin orange lances streaked low, rotor wash whipping the operators' uniforms.
"Gray-1, move move move!"
"RPG!"
The bird broke hard, flares bursting in yellow blossoms. Pilot hauled collective.
The warhead chased the decoys, detonated early; shrapnel clawed the tail rotor, spewing black smoke.
"Gray One-Two is hit! Tail rotor ineffective, tail rotor ineffective!"
Crew fought the pedals, hydraulics howling, trying to keep her from spinning.
Door gunner opened up—MG 338 hosing tracer across the water in glowing red whips.
"Gray-2, fire at will, cover the bridge!"
Hastings stole one look at the three men still sprinting the failing catwalk, then ripped controlled pairs seaward with the others.
"Another RPG!"
Second rocket flew true. Cockpit glass blew inward; fireball swallowed the nose.
Secondary detonation cooked off the tanks. Main rotor sheared, cartwheeled like a broken saw blade, slicing the bridge as the fuselage rolled.
Sparks exploded into the cyclone.
The catwalk screamed, buckled, fell away.
"Jump, goddamn it!"
Hastings sprinted to the collapsing edge.
The white-bearded team leader launched the gap, rolled, reached back for the designated marksman—crack. A 12.7 sliced through his shoulder as he grabbed her wrist.
She caught the concrete lip; Hastings seized her plate carrier, dragged her over the edge.
Below her boots the severed span dropped into the black, trailing sparks.
The old operator hauled the DM upright.
"Where's Django?"
He had to scream over the snapping storm.
"Sir, Django's KIA! Leg blown off by shrapnel!"
Blood already soaked the team leader's left sleeve to the elbow.
"John—Django's down!"
Hastings' jaw clenched, eyes red-rimmed, muzzle never leaving the sights.
"He… he handed me this…"
The DM, face chalk-white, opened a shaking hand. A Claymore clacker lay in her palm. She tried to stand, folded into the team leader's arm. Blood pulsed from beneath her plate.
"Tourniquet! Now!"
The old operator pressed the wound, roared at Hastings.
Hastings spun, using his back as a shield, reaching for the med pouch.
But the team leader slowly lifted his hand from the hole, stared at Hastings, shook his head. Tears had carved clean channels through the soot on his face.
"She's gone."
He let her settle, picked up the clacker, stood.
Hastings closed her eyes with two trembling fingers while bullets snapped overhead.
"All Gray Horse elements—keep the fire going! Pour it on!"
He rose into the maelstrom, advanced through flying debris and tracer to the edge, dropped to a knee, flipped to full-auto and started walking bursts into the boats.
Through smoke and burning cordite he saw them clear now: five or six black RHIBs in line abreast, frog-masked mercenaries in dry suits.
One stood amid the bounce, flipped open a long case, shouldered an RPG-29 loaded with tandem HE.
Water streamed off his rebreather lens as he leveled the tube at the thin, desperate string of muzzle flashes on the burning platform.
Steadied.
Squeezed.