The Golden Crystal Read Free Page A

him, but he was okay. 
    Standing, he took in the ensuing scene. The mortars have stopped, he thought. Or had he been shellshocked? Maybe he was momentarily deafened by the explosion. Raising his hand to his ear, he strained to hear the update coming through his radio. “Bryce — you guys okay? I saw the explosion.” It was Sergeant Rodriguez, from the eastern front. “I think the mortar team bailed; we’re not getting any cover fire anymore, and I think I can see about ten guys moving in to your location.” 
    Bryce listened to the message, and frowned. The mortar team bailed? And now there were ten men approaching? He looked off to the right, where Rodriguez would be stationed, and responded. “Yeah, I’m good. Strahan’s gone. We need to get the hell out of here, and quick.” 
    He didn’t wait for a response. Bryce’s mind flared once again as the adrenaline coursed through him, igniting his capacity for reason and deduction. His world slowed as he thought through the protocols; the by-the-book training he and his men had gone through for these instances, and he calculated the risks and probabilities of each chosen strategy. His ability to think and process under pressure were unmatched in his field, and his superiors had taken notice. Bryce was the whiz-kid of the Rangers, and his analytical and data-driven mind had gotten him several quick promotions during his short career in the military. 
    It was time to leave. Each option that Bryce ran through seemed to end in disaster, especially now that the mortar team had gone silent. The coordinates Strahan found were obliterated, as was most of his team. He called back in to Rodriguez to prepare for extraction, and then noticed again the small envelope on the sandy floor. Picking it up, he read the simple inscription on its front: 
    M.J.
    He tore open the top of the envelope, and let its contents slide out onto his hand. 
    A notebook. 
    Perfect, he thought. This has to be it. Bryce was about to open the book and see for himself what all the fuss was about, when a spattering of an AK-47 sounded behind him. He jumped forward, bounding through the three tents and out onto the dusty plain, heading east. Just over the rise, he could see Sergeant Art Rodriguez still firing intermittent bursts down onto the base camp. A scream wailed from behind Bryce as he was running, and he heard a curse in Arabic — or Kurdish, he wasn’t sure — as the man fell. 
    Clearing the outer edge of the camp, Bryce calculated the distance between him and Sergeant Rodriguez to be less than 100 yards; easy enough to make in a full-on sprint. By now, Rodriguez had seen his commanding officer break through the perimeter and was busy covering Bryce’s retreat. In the distance, Bryce thought he could even hear their extraction unit — a helicopter’s rotor wash flying in from the south. 
    As he closed the distance to Rodriguez, he heard a break in the soldier’s shooting and looked up. The younger man was busy reloading — and Bryce knew he was vulnerable. He hoped to reach the spot in a few more seconds, and together they might be able to hold off the Iraqis for the few minutes it would take for the chopper to reach them. 
    But as Rodriguez finished reloading, another shot rang out, and Rodriguez’ head jerked forward, ducking. Bryce frowned, and his pulse quickened. That wasn’t AK-47 fire, he thought. Another shot rang out, and Bryce saw the telltale twitch in Rodriguez’ body, like a jolting electrical shot. He’d been hit. 
    “No!” Bryce screamed out in vain as he climbed the last few steps of the shallow hill. He dove for Rodriguez’ gun, simultaneously checking the man’s vitals. Dead. 
    “Dammit!” He cursed, swiveling around again to continue firing at the fast-approaching Iraqis. As he turned, however, he caught a glimpse of the other approaching Iraqis — the ones coming up the hill from the east, behind Rodriguez’ position. 
    He was being crushed between