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Jabal ad Dhibban, Anbar Province

Camille and Beach Dog hovered over the village in the Little Bird and watched the Rubicon Russian-built Mi-8 helos come in low over the field near their downed aircraft, but they didn't stop. One landed at the side of the village and the other continued on. Camille shook her head. “Un-fucking believable. Rubicon's going after Hunter before helping their own guys. It really is a war. What do you think? Have you ever taken on two birds at once?”

“You have to waste them now while they're on the ground and vulnerable. Our guns have a longer range, but Hawks can take a beating Little Birds can't,” Beach Dog said as he scanned the skies.

Camille radioed her base at Camp Tornado Point and her ops center at Camp Raven in Baghdad to see what was taking them so long and learned that something big had happened a half hour ago near the Syrian border and the Marines were asking for everything Black Management had. Her operations officers were scrambling to redeploy equipment from Mosul and Tikrit so they wouldn't be left shorthanded. She couldn't believe that she owned a small army, but when she actually needed it, it was stretched too thin to give her the resources she requested. It was little comfort to know that Rubicon was probably in the same position and couldn't afford to send many additional helicopters to their private skirmish.

 

Rubicon troops piled out of the first helicopter while the second one moved into position on the far side of the village. Camille leaned over and read the altimeter—3200 feet. “Let's show them we're serious. You up for a high angle strafing run?” Camille wanted to swoop down fast with the machine guns blazing and blast her own line in the sand, daring Rubicon to cross it.

“The Beach Dog's always game.” He checked the gun switches, then looked down to study the terrain.

“Then let's add some pep to their step. I don't want to hurt anyone right now. You see any Iraqis in the way, abort.”

“Unless you've done a lot of these, I'd feel more comfortable working the gun, ma'am.”

“All yours, Dog.”

“Got your leash on nice and tight?” Beach Dog tugged on Camille's restraints. “Initiating firing pass. Hang on, we're surfing air!” The words had hardly left Beach Dog's mouth when the nose of the Little Bird suddenly dipped.

Camille gasped as the helo dropped. The angle of attack was so steep, the four-point safety harness was all that held her back from crashing through the windshield and the bubble window of the Little Bird didn't help steady her nerves—it gave her an unobstructed panorama of the approaching red earth. They were a good thousand feet away from the second Mi-8 helo, still gaining speed when Beach Dog fired a burst and started leveling off. A line of dust and sand puffed into the air, fifty feet away from the Rubicon helo. Beach Dog kept firing, drawing a line almost up to the wheels of the Rubicon Hawk.

“Yeah, baby!” Beach Dog shouted as he broke away from the target with evasive turns that tossed Camille back and forth in her seat.

“Now get us the hell away from here. I want out of range of their guns. As far as I know, Rubicon's helos are outfitted with old M60s, but we're starting to go back to Mod Deuces on ours, so keep over two clicks between us at all times just in case they've also switched over to the older, longer range runs.” She turned away from Beach Dog, gazed down at the village and whispered to herself, “Hang in there, Hunter. We'll get you as soon as we can.”

Jabal ad Dhibban, Anbar Province

The old lady was tiny even for a withered Arab grandmother and she barely came up to Hunter's chest. Black covered her from head to toe. Hunter helped her yank an oriental carpet off an antique brass chest with intricate geometric forms engraved into it, a treasure chest from
A Thousand and One Nights.
Under other circumstances he would've enjoyed taking a good look at it.

Praying out loud for mercy, her frail upper body rocked back and forth as she lifted stacks of clothes from the chest. It was taking her forever, but Hunter didn't have the heart to push the petrified woman any harder.

Then he heard the familiar whoosh of large transport helicopters. Stella was bringing in reinforcements. He couldn't believe it. She had to be bringing in troops for a block by block search and he knew he had to get out of the area before they sealed it off.

“Come on! Hurry it up!”

The woman prayed louder and her arms began to shake. She lifted up a light gray Muslim woman's overcoat. He took it and shook it out. It was several sizes too large for the old lady, but many times too small for him. Originally, he had just been looking to make his head and shoulders blend in while they searched from the air, but if they were doing a ground search, he doubted he could pass, not with his facial fuzz.

Without warning, the rapid pop of machine gun spray came from the street. The woman and children fell to the floor in a cacophony of screams while a helicopter shrieked low overhead, a Fury swooping down from the heavens in relentless pursuit. At the moment it was easy to picture Stella with wreathes of snakes on her head.

Hell hath no fury like a Stella scorned
.

The Green Zone, Baghdad

With all of its plasma flat panel monitors, satellite uplinks and people running around with wireless headsets and microphones, the Baghdad Rubicon Solutions command center reminded Joe Chronister more of a high-tech television studio than the ops centers he'd known back at Langley. Private companies sure had the money for all the latest toys and he could definitely understand why so many operators went over to places like Rubicon.

The CIA veteran's cover as a Rubicon oil exec made it plausible that he would be seen in the headquarters of the company's military branch, but he still didn't like being there. Rubicon's upper management was aware that he worked for the Agency and they had arranged for his cover. And Ashland, as his liaison to the local component of S
HANGRI-LA,
also knew, but he didn't want anyone else getting suspicious.

Chronister had to straighten out Larry Ashland before the eager beaver created a mess he wasn't sure they could mop up. He didn't slow down as he passed the desk of Ashland's new assistant. Ashland was on the phone, talking on one of those fancy wireless headsets. Chronister shut the door and motioned for him to hang up. He had the kind of boyish face and self-righteous smirk that made Chronister want to take a swing at him. He'd give him three more seconds and if he didn't stop the conversation, he'd personally rip the silly headpiece off his head.

“What the hell were you thinking, ordering your men to knock off Hunter Stone?” Chronister leaned on Ashland's smoked glass desktop, intentionally smearing it with handprints. “I had it all set up so that Camille Black would take care of him for us. If Rubicon does it, she'll be on our ass forever. Trust me. I've known this woman for years. She's powerful, connected and she doesn't forget.”

“We can't let him get back to Zulu.”

“And that's why you ordered Rubicon to shoot down his Black Hawk a few seconds before he got into Camille's crosshairs? You dumb ass.” Chronister could hear his Brooklyn accent get stronger as he raised his voice. “The whole goddamn mess would've been over with right then and there. Zulu would've chalked the whole thing up to a lover's spat and Camille would've blamed Stone for Rubicon poaching her job sites. Now we've got a bona fide goat fuck on our hands. Zulu's going to find out Rubicon's either killed or is trying to kill one of their boys and eventually, they're going to trace it back to me. And linking it to me is as good as fingering the Agency. And if that happens, we are really fucked. The Pentagon's been looking for an excuse to put us out of business and they'll be all over S
HANGRI-LA
, you dumb-fuck.”

Chronister could feel his chest tightening as he continued, “And Camille Black, she's a fucking barracuda. You can't just send her flowers and say ‘whoops, I'm sorry.' You started a war with the lady and she owns one of the best militaries around.” Chronister pointed to the door. “And why isn't your ass out there monitoring the action in real-time?”

“If will be as soon as we end this pleasant conversation.” Ashland smiled wide enough to show off his perfect set of teeth, just begging for some emergency dentistry at Chronister's hand. “Stone could've talked to Black. We had to make sure he didn't.”

“Hello? She was about to shoot him out of the air, you dickhead. And I hear she spent all last night fucking his brains out.” God, he loved Camille. That woman had balls. Big hairy balls.

“Is she insane?” Ashland squinted and shook his head in his pretty boy version of does-not-compute.

“You're going to find out if you don't get your ass in there right now and stop a war. First you better make sure word goes down the pipeline not to hurt Stone. I want to have a heart-to-heart with the guy, find out exactly how much Zulu knows about the project and if he told anything to Black. I'm sick of relying on you fuck-ups and it's time I find out for myself.”

“It may be too late.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“We have troops on the ground searching for him. They have orders to neutralize on sight.”

“Let's get this straight,” Chronister said as he thrust his finger at Ashland as if it were firing off a missile. He hated his guts so much, Chronister was starting to think his feelings were making him cut the asshole too much slack and chalk up everything to incompetence. He had assumed Ashland's aggressive actions to try to take out Stone were because the guy was a prick, but maybe there was something else to him. He would have to keep an eye on him more closely to make sure he didn't have another agenda. Chronister continued, “I want to know exactly what Stone and the Pentagon know about my involvement with S
HANGRI-LA
. You better bring him to me alive. Whatever happens to Stone—for whatever reason—is going to happen to you, but much slower. That's a promise you can take to the bank.”

Jabal ad Dhibban, Anbar Province

Hunter shoved his arms in the women's overcoat, ripping the seams along the way. The old woman glared at him. After a deep breath, he sucked in his chest, pulled the light gray jilbab closed and managed to button the top. His pant legs were rolled up as high as he could get them, but they still showed under what should have been a floor-length garment. He didn't need a mirror to know his disguise looked like crap.

Rummaging through the brass chest, he found a couple swaths of cloth. He stuffed scraps of cloth into a bundle while the kids watched in fear from the bedroom doorway. Even though it made him feel sick to take away one of their few toys, he picked the partially deflated balloon up off the floor and worked it into his bundle, rounding out the front. He tied it up, then using the longer piece of material he fastened it low around his midsection in a sort of cummerbund. Soldiers didn't tend to stare at pregnant ladies; they usually looked away pretty quickly. He was counting on it.

He slipped back into the overcoat and tied the scarf over his head, wishing he had shaved off the moustache and beard when he'd had the chance. Arab women did often seem to have a bit of a five o'clock shadow, but his was really pushing it. He hunched down, bowed his head and waved at the terrified family as he stepped out the doorway.

Anbar Province

Camille's Little Bird intercepted the Black Management Hawks a few kilometers before Ramadi. Camille ordered the lead Black Hawk to set down in a field there, so she could swap places and equipment with her Chief Operations Officer, Manuel “Iggy” Ignatius. Camille knew her proper place was in the Little Bird, directing both air and ground battles, but this was too personal and her passions too dangerous. She was putting Iggy in charge of the skirmish and herself in the middle of it. Iggy was an alum of Delta Force, Gray Fox and CIA Special Activities Division and she could think of no better hands to place herself in, even though one of those hands was made from carbon composites, a prosthetic hand, courtesy of the Taliban.

The Little Bird landed in a field with patches of green, thanks to irrigation waters from the nearby Euphrates. The crop had been harvested and she guessed from the withered vines that it had been some kind of melons. The lead Black Hawk touched down twenty meters away while the other continued on to the village. She squinted her eyes and breathed through her T-shirt, trying in vain to protect herself from the swirling dust and sand as she jumped down from the Little Bird and ran over to the Hawk.

A little less than halfway there, she passed Iggy. He was the only operator she had ever known who wore shorts into battle. He claimed long pants restricted movement in his prosthetic leg, but she suspected he also did it to remind the troops in case they hadn't noticed his prosthetic arm. She grabbed his new arm as they passed and wished him luck.

The rear crew door of the Black Hawk had been removed for combat. Camille climbed inside. Metallica was blaring “Enter Sandman” over the intercom, thanks to a jury-rigged iPod. She caught the pilot's gaze, glanced at a speaker and slid her finger across her throat, then pointed her index finger straight up and moved it in circles. He nodded, cut the music and the bird lifted into the air. Someone reached out to help steady her while she held on to whatever her hand could find.

Ten operators and their full combat gear were crunched into the troop space. Several of them were the same ones she had ridden with a couple nights ago in the Cougar, including G
ENGHIS
. She recognized the distant, hardened looks on their faces, warriors headed into battle. This time no one was smiling and joking around like they did when they went after insurgents. Tangos were a ragtag bunch, poorly trained, barely equipped, but Rubicon had equipment which more or less equaled theirs and its soldiers were schooled by the very same American units. And they were Americans.

Camille plugged her headset into the intercom. “You all heard the sitrep, so you know what's going on.” The ride smoothed out and she squatted on the floor in the middle of her troops. “Rubicon shot down one of our Hawks with our man inside. The guy we've been searching for, Hunter Stone, is one of us. He infiltrated Rubicon to find out why they were beating us to job sites and whatever he found out, they want to kill him for it.” Camille pleased herself with her ability to lie on the fly. The CIA had taught her well. She really didn't like deceiving her troops, but the truth was far more complicated and far less motivational. “I know it has something to do with Rubicon selling arms caches to the
muj.
Stone survived the crash and he's on the ground running for his life. Rubicon brought two Mi-8s filled with operators ordered to hunt him down and they have a good ten minute head start. They shot our bird down and they lit me up. You're authorized to use lethal force against Rubicon. We're at war, gentlemen. Hunter Stone is counting on us. Let's go get him.”

“You really going in with us?” G
ENGHIS
said. A pinch of tobacco bulged in his cheek.

“Hunter Stone is one of us and I leave no man behind. Now where's my gear and the clothes you're supposed to have for me? I can't go into combat in a T-shirt and shorts. And someone tell the pilot to turn Metallica back on.”

Suddenly she was very aware that she wasn't wearing underwear. From the way the guys were looking at her breasts, they had noticed, too. Someone handed her a pair of desert camouflage pants. She unbuckled her belt and shouted above the music. “Everyone close your eyes—that's an order.”

Everyone complied, except Genghis. He sat there leering at her.

No man was going to intimidate Camille Black. Struggling to keep her balance as the helicopter maneuvered, she pulled off her shorts and paused for a moment. She stood naked from the waist down, glaring at him.

G
ENGHIS
spoke. “I thought you'd be sitting pretty in the Little Bird, ordering us around like your own toy soldiers.” He squinted his eyes and nodded his head, pausing a few seconds before he spoke. “Your daddy would be proud. His little princess has balls.”