“Guys!’ he shouted. “America thanks you for your service on our behalf. We know you men are the best of the best. The mission today is smash and grab. We want to bag one or two of the leaders of this militia. If the foot soldiers lay down, that’s fine. We let ’em live. If they want to fight, we give them a fight. No one stops us, no one challenges us. But we want the leaders alive and intact.”

“What you gonna do with them, Yank?”

Luke shrugged. “We’re gonna talk to them. Firmly.”

The young guys laughed at that.

“Incoming,” the pilot said. “Prepare for evasive action.”

Incoming? That was quick.

“Uh-oh,” Luke said. “The game’s starting.”

The men took seats and strapped themselves in as the chopper banked hard right and gained altitude. A few seconds later, a rocket whooshed by.

Then the heavy guns opened up.

Luke could hear it, though he couldn’t yet see it—the metallic clank of automatic cannon fire coming from the ground up ahead.

Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh.

“Stone!” Ed said in his ear. “How do they know we’re coming?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t tell them.”

Luke went up and poked his head into the cockpit.

“What are you guys seeing up here?”

“Ahead and to the right,” one of the pilots said. “Vehicles moving across open desert, mostly fast-moving pickups, maybe modified SUVs. Heavy weaponry in truck beds. Ahead and to the left, the same. I count at least a dozen vehicles. I see at least one lorry or heavy truck, maybe a mobile rocket launcher. They’ve dispersed to make it harder on us. But they’re coming out to fight.”

“Kill them,” Luke said. “Fire when ready. Take the rocket launcher first. Tell the other choppers.”

The helicopters raced across desert, four stories up. Luke poked his head out the bay door to the right. Ahead, to their right, trucks moved across open terrain. Luke could hear the rattle of their guns.

He looked at the folded-up door gun, an M134 Minigun. It had six rotating barrels powered by an electric motor. And it had a high rate of fire, usually thousands of rounds per minute without cooking off. He had barely glanced at it before. He wasn’t expecting to need it. A long belt of 7.62 millimeter rounds hung from it.

He looked at the nearest SAS guy. The tag sewn into the man’s jumpsuit said GILMOUR.

“You, Gilmour. You know how to work that gun?”

The guy looked at it. He looked back at Luke. “Naturally.”

“Get to it. You’re my door gunner. We’re in a fight. Let’s go. Rip it up.”

The guy unclipped and went to the gun. Luke went to the other side. A pickup truck was running straight at them, broadside to the chopper, the cargo door wide open. A man was in the truck bed, working the heavy gun.