As she finished, other briefing officers came forward with their maps and timetables. The lights started to dim. “If you see al-Masri, kill him. The best bet is that he will haul ass once the attack starts, and we will be waiting. You absolutely must remember that this is friendly territory and be sure not to have civilian casualties. If you screw up and shoot at us, even by mistake, he will shoot back, and I guarantee that you don’t want that to happen. Be very careful when you pull the trigger. Know your targets. That’s it. Good luck and good hunting. Captain Barnes will continue your brief.” She spun on her heel and disappeared out the door with the masked man.

Once they were in the Humvee and driving to the helicopter pad beside the ten-thousand-foot runway, Kyle Swanson rolled up the mask, changing it into a watch cap. His face itched. “Damn, Sybelle, you are a woman of few words.” He changed his voice to imitate her grim briefing cadence. “‘Shoot at us and he will shoot back!’ Way to inspire confidence in the troops.”

They both laughed. “I had to get their attention. We don’t want any mistakes out there.”

“I knew about half the guys in that room,” Swanson said. “Worked with some of them. It’s always strange not letting friends know who you really are.” In special ops, he had a million aliases but no real name at all because he was officially dead.

The Turkish night was crisp and starlit, with a slice of a coasting moon. A giant Air Force cargo plane roared overhead on its landing approach, hauling more material from the States into Incirlik, a major supply dump that fed the war in Iraq. Adana, a modern city of a million people, was less than ten miles away, and the Mediterranean washed onto beaches within easy access. For special operations types, it was a good location. You could get a decent hamburger and a cold beer, jump on a bird and fly off on a quick combat mission, and be back in time for a hot shower and a movie.