He started to plead. But Sweet remembered the face of another young man, the crew chief of the downed helo, and the sudden, terrible way he had died. A second gunshot sounded, closing those dark eyes forever.

* * *

Sweet took the dead sergeant’s AK, spare ammo, and pack before scurrying off into the chaos stirred up by the waning American air strike. He dashed across the road, threading his way between the burning vehicles. The Warthog had moved on by now, its onboard ammunition likely spent. This left the Iraqis milling about like confused children, many still firing blindly into the rain-swept sky. None seemed to notice Sweet as he headed across the fields bordering the highway, the sporadic crackle of their guns following him every step of the way.

CHAPTER 8

The outskirts of Basra, Iraq

(1605 hours – Saturday, 2 February 1991)

Hours of hard walking brought David Sweet to the main road into Basra. Signposts in both English and Arabic showed him the way. The Shatt al-Arab Waterway, paralleling the major highway into town, was visible only as a winding black ribbon to the north. He knew he was perilously close to Iraq’s principal seaport, with its massive military garrison and attendant anti-aircraft defenses.

The presence of so many enemy troops made Sweet nervous. Recon marines normally preferred to operate under the cover of darkness, and avoided built-up areas like the plague. But the hasty nature of his escape had forced his hand. He needed to put as many kilometers as possible between himself and his erstwhile captors, thus necessitating this journey in broad daylight.

The thought of enemy patrols had barely slithered across his mind, snake-slick, when the sound of approaching diesels came to him through the rain. Sweet went to ground as dim vehicle headlights appeared on the road to his right.