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through his binoculars toward the fortification.
    McKade shot the distance with his sniper scope.
    “Three hundred and fifty yards.”
    Tremayne turned to Dallas O’Halloran, an Air Force combat controller who’d been on the mission and had come with them. Geniuses when it came to coordinating weapon-laden aircraft, because the selection process was nearly as daunting as it was to become a SEAL, CCTs fit in well with both SEALs and Delta Forces on the ground.
    “Well?” he asked.
    “I could call in and see if we could get us an F-15E Strike Eagle,” O’Halloran said. “But I gotta warn you, Chief, it’s awful close. If one of those five-hundred pounders hits the wrong coordinates, we could end up nothing but boots and mangled guns.”
    Everyone was looking at Tremayne, obviously waiting for an answer.
    “Damn,” he said, as another round of gunfire split a tree behind them. “We sure as hell can’t stay here. On the other hand, having my ticket punched by friendly fire isn’t exactly my favorite way to spend a snow day.”
    He rubbed his chin.
    Everyone waited.
    SEALs were known for their ability to improvise. And Zachariah Tremayne was one of the best Shane had ever worked with.
    “What we need is a Reaper,” he decided.
    The upgraded version of the pilotless Predator was the military’s hottest new toy. Able to fly three times as fast as its predecessor, it was also capable of carrying eight times more weaponry. Including HELLFIRE missiles.
    “I’ll see what I can do,” O’Halloran said.
    He dug into his rucksack and pulled out a radio with a whip-thin antenna, which he’d already explained he’d learned about from a female sailor he’d met while on shore leave in the Green Zone. Unlike many military radios, it allowed him to talk to anyone in the joint services, whatever the frequency.
    After making the connection, he handed the radio to Tremayne, who explained their current condition and their coordinates. His expression, while he listened to command, gave nothing away.
    “Yessir,” he finally said. “Roger and out, sir.”
    He handed the radio back to the CCT.
    “Well?” McKade asked.
    “It’s on its way.”
    Rousing cheers drew another round of attack from the bad guys. This time the grenade landed closer, but exploded in a puff of snow.
    Within minutes, the propeller-driven unmanned drone came flying over the mountain peaks. Every eye in the group was on it as it fluttered into position, using the target coordinates Tremayne had given command.
    The first missile hit ten yards from the stone bunker, causing a wild round of fire into the sky from the enemy, who didn’t seem all that happy about the change in tactics.
    McKade re-marked the target, adjusting for the wind speed; Tremayne called it in.
    The Reaper circled back. Fired again, this time blasting the bunker.
    Once.
    Twice.
    A third time.
    A cloud of snow filled the air as another small avalanche came roaring down from what had once been the bunker, just missing the copse of trees.
    Then the mountain went still as everyone waited to see if the tactic had worked.
    “Fire a few rounds at them,” Tremayne instructed the Rangers, who were more than happy to take a break from dragging the SKEDs.
    They shot off their M16s.
    Then waited.
    Again, nothing.
    There were more “hooahs” from the Rangers, who were definitely feeling their oats.
    Although their luck had momentarily changed, as they continued their trek up the mountainside, Shane, who’d seen things get a lot worse before they got better, wasn’t prepared to celebrate yet.
    The sun, which had caused several of the guys to toss aside their body armor earlier, disappeared behind black anvil-shaped clouds, causing the temperature to plummet. The sweat that had soaked their clothing froze to ice.
    Despite the blankets, the same thing was happening to Shane, but instead of sweat, it was the blood from his leg freezing and stiffening his pants.
    Now he couldn’t just not feel