He took a deep breath and exhaled, then climbed into the truck, set his waters in the four cup holders around the cab, and turned the ignition.
The engine rumbled to life, and he set his sights on the winding dirt road leading down the mountain. His mind raced with plans, things he would say and do when he got back to base.
He hoped Bo was there. He wanted to see the disbelief on the man's face when he saw the ghost of Dak walk into the garrison and inform the commanding officer that he'd been stabbed in the back by his own team.
Soon, Dak would set things right.
Fourteen
Hamrin
The Toyota Tacoma slowed to a stop. The tires crunched on the loose rocks on the dirt road. Clouds of dust rolled out from behind the back tires. The wind grabbed the dust and swirled it around carrying it upward toward the mountains before it vanished in the air as each particle separated from the others.
Dak stared through the dingy windshield. He’d been forced to use the windshield wipers to clear away the layers of dust that built up on the glass. That act had spent what little wiper fluid remained in the reservoir, leaving him to dry wipe the windshield most of the trip back from the mountain.
He stared at the base in the distance and realized the danger of approaching a military installation in an unknown vehicle, a vehicle that was the transportation of choice by many terrorist groups worldwide.
No, driving up to the gate would be a bad idea. Even if he tied a white flag to the end of his gun barrel and held it out the window, he’d probably be shot dead by the time he was fifty yards from the gate—maybe a hundred if one of the snipers was on the job.
He’d have to approach on foot and leave the weapon in the truck.
Dak was approximately three hundred yards from the eastern gate of the base. Hardly a hike through the Appalachian Trail. He could do it without breaking a sweat.
He took one of the two remaining bottles of water out of a cupholder and stepped out of the truck. His boots hit the ground with a thud and sent small clouds of dust out behind the heels.
A gust of wind hit him and he pulled his scarf up over his mouth and nose to keep the flying debris from getting in.
Dak saw a glint of sunlight off of something glass on one of the watchtowers and knew that someone was looking his way. He didn’t care that they spotted him. He was on their side.
He started toward the garrison on foot, trudging through the dirt and sand, shoulders stiff and head held high. He didn’t expect a hero’s welcome. There wouldn’t be hundreds of his fellow soldiers gathered around outside the barracks, slow clapping as he entered through the eastern gate.
Dak didn’t care. He wanted a shower, a soft bed and pillow, and a good meal. The water he discovered in the camp had taken care of his thirst and put his hydration levels back to optimal, but his stomach grumbled from hunger. Looking at his watch, he realized it had nearly been eighteen hours since his last meal before the assault on the terrorist camp.
Halfway to the gate, he saw movement.
The gates swung open and two Humvees rumbled out, speeding his way. The tires kicked up huge swells of dust that rolled chaotically into the sky.
Dak frowned. “Why are they driving so fast?”
He figured it was because they realized it was him, one of the missing men from the mission. But why were there gunners manning the .50-cals on top of the trucks?
The answer came to him in a way he never expected. The huge barrel ignited with flames. In an instant, the surrounding desert floor exploded in rapid bursts as it consumed the massive rounds being fired from the weapon.
Dak flinched, then covered his ears and head as hot metal rained down all around him. He dropped to his knees and curled into a ball. That didn’t stop shards of exploding rock from splashing against his skin and cutting his neck and hands in several places.
Then, as quickly as the onslaught began, it ended. Silence poured over him once more. Dak winced against the dust flying all around him until it blew away in the breeze. When it did, he found himself staring into the barrel of the .50-cal; the gunner glaring back at him through wrap-around Oakleys.
The trucks sat motionless for a long moment. Dak dared to try standing, but the gunner shouted an order at him to stay on the ground. “Don’t move until we tell you to.”
“What are you guys doing?” Dak shouted back over the rumble of the Humvees’ engines. “I’m on your side. I’m an American. You guys know me.” He recognized the gunner as Private First Class Jonathan Haskins. “Johnny. You know who I am. What is this all about?”
One of the doors in the second Humvee slammed shut and a gray-haired man with a desert camouflage cap and matching fatigues stepped around the lead truck. Two armed soldiers escorted him, one on either side.
“Sir?” Dak said, still tempted to rise, but not stupid enough to do so. “What is going on?”
He looked into the colonel’s gray eyes, pleading for answers.
“First Seargent Dak Harper, I am placing you under arrest.”
“What?” The world spun around Dak in an instant. The mountains in the distance dipped at an angle and the earth at his feet followed. He felt bile rising in his gut. What was going on? Under arrest? Why?
“Sir, I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I think you understand plenty. We were told what happened during the operation, how you sided with the terrorists, turned your back on
