At thirty years of age, the sergeant was the oldest of the group by two years, and he knew each of his soldiers. He had been with them all the way through the recent tour of duty, well into its sixth month. So far, they had been lucky. Nobody had gotten much more than sunburn and scratches as they pulled routine patrol duty; endless and monotonous and dangerous. He was perfectly happy when night came over the mountains and one more day was done and could be crossed off the go-home calendar.

The squad was already in position up on the ridge. It overlooked an Afghan police security checkpoint about fifty meters away on the road below. The rough-looking cops had waved them into the prepared slots, and the leader, a young man, came up for a cigarette and to check on passwords. He wore a pakol, the traditional flat Afghan hat, over his black hair, and a mismatched camouflage uniform, with dusty sandals on his feet and an AK-47 slung over the right shoulder. Sergeant Abdul Aref was a tall man whose narrow face was dominated by a hooked nose. He spoke a little English, and his worried eyes indicated that he was just as glad as Anthony that the Americans had returned to the familiar position every night. That added firepower, so close to the guard post, had helped keep the peace.

It had been a tactical decision to use U.S. troops as reinforcements at checkpoints along the main roads in Afghanistan. The commanders had decided that pulling everyone back into large encampments was a mistake; it simply surrendered the night to the relentless enemy. The continuous presence at set positions, combined with the presence of Afghan security forces, spelled control of an area. Control meant security, and security provided the bridge to establish regular commerce so people could start living without fear again in this devastated country.

So Javon Anthony got his soldiers settled in for the night. The fighting holes were lined with sandbags, as were shallow revetments in which the Humvees could park nose-first.