Even if Kelo had been fully alert he wouldn’t have seen the Apache as it jockeyed into a firing position. With the aid of a light scout, the Apache slithered through a dry streambed until the observer in the scout, watching both the lone Bradley and the attack helicopter, determined that the Apache was where it should be. With a crisp, “Okay, you’ve got him,” the scout handed the target off and eased down to watch.

Slowly the pilot brought his Apache up and clear of the river bank. The gunner had switched from his helmet mounted sight to the heads down sight that sat between his knees. With a methodical precision forged during hours of training and repeated battle drills, he scanned the area before him. When his sight reticule was superimposed on Kelo’s Bradley, he flipping the safety of his 30mm cannon to the off position. Pausing, he keyed the radio. “Mike 34, this is Mike 33. Set and ready,” he announced.

In his helmet, the voice of the gunner in his sister gun ship came back. “Roger that, 33. I’ll be with you in a second.”

That, of course, was a figure of speech. It took the Apache with the call sign Mike 34 almost a minute before he was in place and, like Mike 33, ready to engage. In the meantime the gunner in Mike 33 watched his prey. Bumping up the sight’s magnification, the gunner wondered if the lone figure squirming about in the Bradley turret had any idea what was about to happen to him.

“Mike 33, This is 34. Set and read. Let’s rock and roll.”

Oddly, Private Anthony Kelo was alerted to the fact that his recon section was under attack when he saw the gun flashes and stream of tracers directed against the other Bradley three kilometers away from his. The initial burst of 30mm HE and armor piercing rounds that flailed the ground next to his track almost went unnoticed. It took him several seconds to realize that he was more than a spectator to the opening shots of a ground invasion of Idaho. He, like his companion across the way, were now participants.

The sting of debris and shrapnel kicked up by the volley that barely missed his left track was the first hint of the mortal danger Kelo was suddenly faced with. Instinctively he turned and looked around. He was facing the rear of the track, still trying desperately to sort out what was going on when he saw a shower of bright burning orbs with long, sharp tails coming right at him. Though he opened his mouth to scream, no sound came out. Whether it was an instinctive reaction or simply the buckling of his knees, Kelo sank down into the illusionary safety of the Bradley’s cramped interior.

Even before his butt hit the turret floor the other members of the scout vehicle were awake and shouting. “Jesus, Anthony! What the hell is going on out there?”