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colonel’s dog tags were in the wreckage.”
    Eversoll took the identification tag in his gloved hand and stared at it, touching the last remains of his commander: Zachary A. Garrett; O-Pos; 227-54-0987; Methodist.
    “ His buddies called him ZAG,” Eversoll whispered more to himself than to Chizinski. He handed the piece of metal back to the lieutenant colonel. He stared into the sun and looked at the ground two hundred feet below them.
    He returned his gaze to the high mountain from which the helicopter had fallen. “What did the team up there see, anything?”
    “ Not a damn thing other than some blown up mannequins in burqas.” Chizinski was angry too. “They went up there after the Air Force bombed the hell out of the place, though, so you might say they disturbed the crime scene.”
    “ Damned AQ probably already snuck out the back door, don’t ya think?”
    “ Probably.”
    After a moment, Eversoll had a thought. He looked at Chizinski and then back up at the ridge. “Sir, you think we can do an op up there?”
    “ No need. Everything we’re looking for is down there.” Chizinski pointed into the gorge. Two rappel stations had been set up, nylon ropes tied around the winches of two Humvees. They actually had to climb down ropes to get to the crash site. “That’s the only op we’re going to be doing for the next few days.”
    Eversoll never removed his eyes from the top of the mountain towering over them like an impenetrable fortress.
    I don’t believe it , Eversoll thought to himself.
    Just then, a soldier clawed his way over the edge. He was a black sergeant whose face was streaked with mud. He scrambled over the lip of the cliff and went to one knee, then stood. Brushing himself off, he loosened the backpack he was carrying, then slipped it off his shoulders.
    Eversoll watched him as he carried the bag toward them and then pulled several baggies from the inside, laying them on the hood of the Humvee.
    “ Five more identification tags. No more bodies. That thing burned, exploded, and then burned again, it looks like. After that, everything washed downriver.”
    Sergeant Eversoll looked at the tags. He knew them all. Driscoll (married with a baby on the way); Burns (father owned a cattle ranch in Wyoming); Svitek (loved to write, even did some poetry); Jackson (his first roommate at Fort Bragg, just bought a house with his new wife).
    And Garrett . It was the other tag. Soldiers carried two, one on the long chain and one on the short chain.
    There was no doubt, Colonel Garrett was dead.
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER 5
    Spartanburg, SOUTH CAROLINA
     
    Saturday Evening (Eastern Time Zone)
     
    Saturday for Amanda was filled with the brisk handling of chores to set up the house for the party. Finally, with a chance to relax, she pulled on the lever of the keg.
    “ Whoo-hoo!” Amanda screamed, as foam sprayed everyone near her, mostly young high school males seeking her affection. “Another one bites the dust!” She sang the lyrics to the Queen song as if she’d been raised during that era thirty years ago. “Another one down and another one down, another one bites the dust, hey, hey!”
    Suddenly there were two football players wearing Hawaiian shirts doing the bump with her, but not to the lyrics she was singing. Rather, they were grinding to the heavy bass rap chatter of Snoop Dog filling her plush suburban home.
    “ Hey, guys,” Amanda said, teasing just a bit and then sliding from between them. She wore a see-through lace blouse over a light-green satin camisole that offset hip-hugger jeans. She was showing about six inches of midriff, which was enough to display the diamond bellybutton ring and a lean, narrow-hip figure honed by the best swimming coaches money could buy.
    “ Gus! The keg’s broken,” she called into the study. She opened the door and saw him intently focused on the computer.
    “ Broken?” Gus looked up with a smile on his face. “Is this your Southern way of asking for