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to Iraq.

 
     
    TWO
     
    The arrival of a helicopter at Camp Blue Diamond—formerly the An-Ramadi
Northern Palace, where Saddam Hussein’s half-brother had once lived, and
presently headquarters of US Marine Corps 1 st Division—was a common
enough occurrence that Jack Sigler rarely took note. Something about this one
was different, though. The deep bass thump of the rotors beating the air above
the Euphrates River, as the bird made its final approach, resonated through his
body like an alarm and fanned an ember of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. He
poked at the food heaped on his tray—two hamburgers, a mini-pizza and an
unopened bag of Cool Ranch Doritos—but his appetite had disappeared.
    Daniel Parker, seated across the table from
him, instantly picked up on Sigler’s discomfort. The team’s only
African-American operator, Parker had a round, youthful face that was incapable
of concealing his emotional state. “Someone just walk across your grave, Jack?”
    “I just remembered something I need to take
care of.” He stood, and in a single deft motion, scooped up the tray, dumped
its contents into a nearby trash can and flung it like a Frisbee onto the tray
rack. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
    Parker stood as well. “Well that’s a
coincidence. I just remembered that I need to take care of something, too.”
    “Yeah? What’s that?”
    “You tell me.”
    Sigler regarded his teammate and friend with
a wan smile, an expression that seemed completely alien on his rough, unshaven
face. With his shaggy hair and hard expression, Sigler had been often told he
resembled Hugh Jackman, or more precisely, that actor’s film portrayal of the
comic book superhero Wolverine; Wolverine didn’t smile.
    Before Sigler could answer, the Motorola
Talkabout radio clipped to his belt crackled to life. “Jack, it’s Kevin. I need you at the TOC.”
    Parker’s eyebrows went up. “Damn, Jack. Spidey-sense, much?”
    “I’m wondering that myself,” Sigler muttered.
The ominous feeling that had started with the approach of the helicopter was
blossoming into something like paranoia. He keyed the transmit button on the
radio. “Be there in five.”
    It took him only three minutes to walk
briskly from the dining facility in the main palace building, to FOB McCoy, the
smaller, walled-off compound where Cipher element had set up shop. Above the
always-locked metal door was a crudely painted sign that read ‘Animal House,’
presumably a reference to the college fraternity in the classic John Belushi
movie of the same name: Delta Tau Chi—Delta House. The sign had appeared one
night, a few weeks after they’d arrived in country—most likely some jarhead
acting on a dare—but Kevin Rainer, Cipher element’s commander, had left it
there. Although their unit designation was supposed to be classified, why
bother denying what everyone at Camp Blue Diamond already knew; Cipher element
was part of the 1 st Special Forces Operational Detachment-D, the US
Army’s elite counter-terrorism interdiction unit, better known simply as Delta .
    Sigler went directly to the tactical
operations center (TOC)—known informally as The
Lair —which served a dual purpose as both communications hub and conference
room. Rainer was seated at the end of the long rectangular table, along with
Doug Pettit and two other people—an athletically built, brown-haired man, and a
woman—in civilian clothes. The man was Scott Klein, a CIA officer who had been
working closely with Cipher element to disrupt communications between the
different local insurgent groups, but it took Sigler a moment to recognize him;
he was having trouble tearing his gaze away from the woman.
    She was, in a word, stunning.
    She was seated, but Sigler guessed that she
was about the same height as Klein; the Company man was about 5’ 10”. Her
blousy top mostly concealed her figure, but her arms, where they emerged from
her rolled up sleeves, were slender and toned. It