PART 2
The mess hall door slammed open.
Lieutenant Bradley Walsh walked in like the desert had been built for his entrance.
Thirty-two.
Handsome.
Perfect fade.
Expensive confidence.
Behind him came Chief Petty Officer Thomas Hayes, built like a refrigerator with a scar through his eyebrow.
Hayes dropped his tray in front of me.
“Morning, lunch lady,” he said. “Try not to murder the bacon. We’ve got a long walk.”
I scooped eggs onto his tray.
“Watch your footing on the shale,” I said. “Wind’s picking up from the north.”
His hand paused.
Walsh looked up.
“Did the cook just brief the weather?”
A few men laughed.
I smiled.
“Coffee’s hot. Ego refills are self-serve.”
That got quieter.
Walsh stepped closer.
“You got a name, sweetheart?”
“Callahan.”
“First name?”
“Not on the menu.”
Hayes almost laughed.
Walsh leaned on the counter.
“Keep being cute. Maybe when we get back, I’ll let you take a selfie with the real operators.”
I looked at the strap on his rifle.
“Your sling is frayed near the swivel.”
His grin flickered.
“You inspecting my gear now?”
“No,” I said. “I’m trying not to mop you off the floor later.”
Nobody laughed that time.
At 0600, Operation Desert Hammer rolled out.
Four hundred men.
SEALs, Rangers, medics, EOD, drone teams, CIA paramilitary, and enough armored steel to make a defense contractor smile.
Their target was Tariq Al-Hassan.
The Engineer.
His bunker sat inside Shorer Gorge.
May you like
The locals called it Devil’s Anvil.
They were not being dramatic.
