Suddenly, there was a string of explosions between him and the advancing Libyans, stirring up the desert floor like an instant sandstorm. Without the protection of his fully charged armor, Patrick was knocked off his feet as he was pelted with supersonic-blasted sand and rock. Stunned, he lay on the desert floor, knots of pain dotting all around his body. Writhing in pain, he saw the dark profile of his dead brother lying beside him. Both McLanahans, killed in one day, on the same mission. Shit.

He heard a loud roar and felt, rather than saw, more sand being kicked up. The Libyans were closing in, this time with helicopters or armored vehicles, hunting down Wohl and Briggs. The mission was a success, but they might all be wiped out, Patrick thought wearily. Once captured, their bodies put on display along with the remnants of their armor, the Night Stalkers would be dead, the United States would be embarrassed again, and ...

“Patrick?” He willed his eyes to open and was surprised when they worked. He was looking directly at the alienlooking helmet worn by Hal Briggs. “You okay, man?”

“Am I shot?”

“You sure as shit got fragged pretty good by the Gators, but I don’t see any holes,” Briggs said. Patrick moved his arms and legs and found they all functioned, so he struggled to his feet. “Wendy sent in FlightHawk Two right in the nick of time, and she laid down a carpet of cluster bombs and mines right in front of about a hundred Libyan regulars. The armor protected you from the fragments. We’re safe right now, but we gotta move.” Briggs quickly got to work, snapping a fresh battery pack onto Patrick’s backpack. He looked down, examining the body lying in the sand. “You got Paul out. Good work. I’m so sorry, my friend. I’m gonna miss working with him. He’s a hero.” Patrick reached for the secure latches to his helmet, but Briggs stopped him. “Better not, man,” he said seriously. “FlightHawk One has detected radioactive and chemical agents in the area.” He motioned toward the Libyan soldiers lying dead in the aftermath of FlightHawk Two’s raid. “If the mines hadn’t got them, the radioactivity or nerve agents would have. That replacement battery pack should give you enough juice to hop out of here and be far enough away for the Pave Hammer to safely pick us up. We’d better go.”

Patrick nodded, thankful to be alive. The noise Patrick heard was not a Libyan helicopter or tank, but the CV-22 Pave Hammer, making a high-speed pass over the area to check for pursuit. He reached down to pick up his brother again, but Chris Wohl carefully, gently pushed him away, and picked up Paul’s body. Together the three commandos and their dead partner jetted eastbound into the desert.

They unearthed one of their prepositioned resupply caches a few minutes later. Fifteen minutes later they were far enough away so that radioactive and chemical weapon residue levels disappeared. Only then could the CV-22 land and extract them, first eastward into Egypt and then northwest out over the Mediterranean Sea.