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wondering, who’s leading our merry band off to war?”
    McMillian answered with a look of amusement. “I’m surprised you hadn’t put it together, Cal, seeing as how you’ve been the one bugging the president about…how did you put it? Getting his hippie ass up and doing something ?”
    There were chuckles from the Aussies and Italians. Cal shrugged. “He asked my opinion, General.” It was the truth. Cal had heard enough of the hemming and hawing. Something had to be done about ISIS.
    McMillan looked to the others. “In case you hadn’t figured it out, gentlemen, Cal Stokes will once and always be a United States Marine. Hard to get us knuckle draggers to keep our mouths shut, isn’t it, Cal?”
    Cal had grinned. “Yes, sir.”
    “Let me make it official. Cal will lead the American contingent and will be the de facto leader of this merry band of warriors, as Cal so eloquently put it. Anything you need goes through him.”
    Cal could tell by the looks on their faces that the others weren’t happy with the decision. These men were leaders, their countenance said as much. The only people they were used to taking orders from were their own governments.
    “Are there any other questions, gentlemen?” MacMillan asked.
    There were none. Everyone was digesting the news, most leery of the new alliance. It was natural. Cal knew how he would’ve felt had he been in their shoes, but he wasn’t. None of the others could deny that the United States had the best chance of turning the tide. It might take time, but Cal knew he’d prove to them the decision was based on merit, something any good warrior understood. The best man for the job.
     
    Cal swallowed his last sip of scotch as he walked into the house. He needed sleep. My ass is dragging . He had no idea when he’d get another chance to get a full night’s rest.
     

Chapter 7
    Mosul, Iraq
    1:28am, August 12 th
     
    He crept along swiftly, his movement marked only by the slightest sound. A muted shuffle or gravely crunch the only things left in his wake. Imperceptible to all but the keenest of ears.
    There was gunfire in the distance, the repeated staccato of automatic weapons. The invaders. Extremist devils.
    Hasan put the thought out of his mind. There would be time to think later. This was a night of mourning. No, not mourning. A celebration of life.
    The outskirts of the city were the most dangerous. Less cover. More patrols. He had to be careful. A prayer escaped his lips as he moved. Lord, guide me …
    It was a small unmarked cemetery. No tombstones. Only the close knit community knew about the sacred spot. It was ringed by boulders in sort of a half moon. Holy ground. The others were waiting, respectfully silent.
    “Welcome, my son,” said the priest, a short man who looked to be in his sixties, his beard pearl white in the soft glow of the moon. Hasan had known Father Paulos since his conversion to Christianity. It was the kind priest who’d baptized Hasan under the proud gaze of his brother.
    “Thank you, Father,” said Hasan, gladly accepting the loving embrace from the church leader.
    “Come. All is prepared.”
    Hasan followed the priest, nodding to the others, four priests and a handful of fellow Christians. There was the youthful Father Yousef, who liked to play soccer in his flowing robes, often besting the neighborhood children with the glee of a toddler. Then there was old Hasem, the one-legged proprietor of a spice shop in the market. He’d lost his family long ago, another purge. He knew loss and looked upon Hasan with knowing eyes.
    They’d already dug the holes and placed the wrapped bodies of his brother and nephews on a bed of lush green grass. Hasan could smell the fresh scent of the newly cut bedding. It reminded him of the days spent swimming and sunbathing with his family on the banks of the Tigris. Good days. Blessed days.
    The others moved closer, hands settling on Hasan’s shoulders and arms. A young boy’s hand wrapped in