Part One

A third of the way along, some two hundred and fifty yards or so, a small cloud of sand dented upward, grains of sand forming a half-helical arc in the heat. It was so hot that the tiny cloud appeared to waver, dancing like a miniature tornado.

Adam blinked. “Did you see that?” he asked. “Straight ahead!”

There was no reply, as a succession of tiny sand tornados began to form, each one a foot nearer to the convoy than its predecessor.

“Sniper!” The shout was loud, angry. “Two o’clock high!”

Adam whirled, yanking the heavy Browning machine gun around as fast as he could. “Where?” He couldn’t see anyone, but the shots were coming faster and faster. “Where the fuck is he?”

“High! He’s high!”

Adam looked up, searching for the tell-tale muzzle flash that would reveal the sniper’s position. He needed to see, needed to be sure, before he opened fire. There was too much risk otherwise -- risk of hurting civilians, risk of taking out kids. The orders were clear: identify your target before taking the shot.

“Davis!” Sergeant Moore shouted. “The tailor’s! The tailor’s!”

There he was! Crouched in the corner of the second story window over the tailor’s shop was a sniper -- no more than a kid, whip thin and wiry, with a rifle at his shoulder and another propped against the wall next to him.

Adam fired, the pressure on the trigger coming a scant-half second after Jerome Harris yelped, “Motherfucker! He got me!”

“No!” Adam cried. “No!” The M2 was firing non-stop, punctuating the side of the tailor’s building with high-speed death. “Not today! Not today!”

“Babe.” The voice was flat, firm. “Babe, stop it.”

It was Calvin. Calvin’s voice, unmistakable. Welcome.

Wrong. Wrong for Iraq. Calvin had never been overseas, never served time in the sand.

Adam blinked, blinked against the sudden darkness.

“Calvin?”

“I’m right here.” His lover was beside him, all warm skin and concern. “You were dreaming, babe.”

Continued in First Section