The team’s military intelligence asset, First Lieutenant Peña, retrieved and studied the laminated map that hung from a snap ring on his pack. In his fascinating mind, Peña carried all their mission details. He had an olive-green bandanna tied close around his head but kept his curly black hair uncovered, and his heavy black beard was shaved close to his face. “There’s a village two klicks east. Near the river. They have an American doctor, Cynthia Myers, in residence.”

Rick pressed his lips together. He knew all about the American doctor. At least, he knew all about her father. “Any other options?”

“Drop packs,” Peña said. “Four-man carry to the exfil LZ. Bounding overwatch. Rotate out every five to ten mikes.”

Rick considered how long it would take for them to carry Ozzy through the jungle. Even after dropping their heavy packs and rotating in shifts, they would move too slowly. “It would take too long.”

“Have them move up the exfil time or relocate the LZ. This is a PR, after all,” Sanders said. Personnel recovery missions merited an elevated priority over routine combat operations and could require a more accessible landing zone.

“No-go on that one, Daddy,” Fisher said. “Limited resources. Politically sensitive area and such. Azimuth 26 is the best we got.”

Rick glanced at the blood-soaked bandage and nodded. Making his hand into a blade, he gestured toward the tree line. “Village it is. Maguire, Colada—fashion a stretcher. Trout, tell HQ to save their fuel for now. Pie, go collect some visibility on the AO until we’re ready.” He turned to Sanders. “You’re on point with me, Drum. First leg.”

“Check,” Sanders said.

“Go get yourself a little recon while we partake of this incredible good fortune.”

“Medals, Cap,” Ozzy interjected, his tone dry. “Thanks of a grateful nation, for sure.”

“You concentrate on stopping yourself from bleeding so much, Doc. I will take this time to plan our exfil, secure in the knowledge that this mission will doubtless earn us all legendary chest candy and fruit salad.”

His team snickered. They did not do their jobs for recognition. Green Berets had a reputation as the “quiet professionals” for a reason.

Using a nylon-poncho liner and some cut-down saplings, they fashioned a makeshift stretcher and carefully lifted Ozzy onto it. Sanders returned with a nod, indicating a clear path.

“Trout, toss your rig and Doc’s pack on there too,” Rick said. “You and Jerry Maguire make like Sherpas for Doc Oz. Pie, take overwatch for the first klick. Drumstick and I got point out of the gate.” He focused on the tall Black man with the thick black beard and shaved head slicing an apple with his razor-sharp K-BAR knife. With the name Daniel Swanson, everyone called him Pot Pie. “Pie, when we arrive, stand to. You and Colada establish a home base close to the village. Bring silence to bear if the situation screams for it.”