Drew pushed through the flap on the sprawling tent, a two-pack stretch of canvas holding tables with computers and the comm radio. A far sight different from the music-filled hangar of the night before.
His men were out in the desert readying for live-fire exercises, a practice run of taking the compound's airfield including everything but the jump.
While he orchestrated from the cushy-assed tented command center. In the rear with the gear, listening to radio calls being manned by the RTO— Radio Telephone Operator.
Hell, he'd worked his ass off to get to this point in his career. Damned silly to want to be out there in the field instead of sitting in here with an oversize sand-tray model of the battlefield.
Of course he would be in the field when they took the compound. His command center then would be nothing more than the radio and a smaller mobile comm set up in the middle of the battle.
Still, part of him itched for the time when he humped through the field for days on end, when a hot meal meant an MRE warmed on the engine block of a Humvee. Just thinking about it gelled that sense of unity, family, in him again. He embraced the feeling of pride at being a part of a hardcore, elite unit. Conditions sucked, and anyone who couldn't handle it wasn't man enough.
Drew settled in a chair behind his intelligence computer. Their practice maneuvers involved a fairly straightforward battle tactic. Once the hostages were secured by the SEALs, the support platoon would fire into the objective to get the enemies' heads up. The heavier armed attack platoon would launch a sneak approach from the other side. A flare would alert the support platoon at the correct time for a lift and shift—lift fire up and shift away so as not to shoot into the attack platoon.
They should have been launching the real deal tomorrow night, if not for the weather forecast of sandstorms. Now they would have to wait an extra day. At least they had confirmation that the three hostages were alive. Sydney Hyatt was alive.
Yasmine's half sister.
Damn, but he still couldn't believe he'd kissed Yasmine. Really couldn't wrap his head around the fact he wanted to do it again and was starting not to care how things looked.
Well, hell. Didn't he want a return to his old days when it was all about the hoo-uh? The tough choices. Easy was for the weak.
Maybe he would check up on her after they returned to the States. See how things played out on neutral ground. Take it slow since she was more innocent than he ever recalled being.
Dating? He popped a LifeSaver into his mouth.
No way could he envision himself with flowers and candy in hand on her doorstep. But he could see himself taking her to his favorite restaurant, sitting on the deck, wind in her hair and smile on her face enticing him to shake some sand off his boots.
None of which would happen if he didn't get his mind on his job here. He shut down emotional crap and focused on the operation at hand.
Time passed in the tunnel-vision focus on his mission, the familiar sounds of radio calls and orders mixing with the pop of gunfire in the distance.
Support troops full-out. Flare. Lift and shift.
"Cease fire!" the radio crackled. "Cease fire! Cease fire!"
The tunnel vision broadened. Adrenaline and dread splashed like light exploding into his vision. Both training and instincts already predicted the next words that would bark over the radio.
"Friendly fire."
Quiet echoed through the waves, that cavern of silence during the realization of a no-going-back moment.
Drew shot to his feet and took over the radio controls. "Alpha, stat-rep to my locale ASAP."
"Will-co." Will comply.
He waited for the status report while platoon sergeants ran out to take accountability of their men. Then for the information to trickle back up the chain—company to battalion, to brigade and finally to the regiment.
"One down. Medic on the way."
Drew's thumb slid off the button. "Shit." One breath later, he ordered, "Expect me in five."
Hauling ass out of the tent and into the pitch dark toward the closest Humvee, he shouted the order to enter the field. With each slamming yard during the mile toward the glow of too many headlights and flashlights, he told himself the injury would be no more than a bullet to the leg. As if he could command it so.
The Humvee jerked to a halt. The minute his feet hit the ground, he heard it. A moan. Gurgle. The unmistakable sound of blood in the lungs.
Not a simple shot to the leg.
He knew he spoke and others answered, was certain he said the right things because training always overrode in a crisis. The very reason they trained so hard. Just as intellectually he knew how the hell this happened. Training accidents occurred because training hard also kept them from losing more in battle.