"Sergeant Newland. Take your squad and give us room to operate. We'll take it from here."
The civilians were arrogant enough to be CIA, but Ivy Newland didn't think they were. She also couldn't follow their orders. She couldn't see any enemy combatants, but in Iraq, that didn't mean a thing--the only time you saw them was after they started shooting.
"Sorry, sir. This is not a secured area."
Not secured was putting it mildly. The ruins of the mosque still smoldered from last night's bombing raid. The Air Force had done a great job transforming it from a city block of downtown Mosul from a beautiful medieval building to a haven for snipers. A haze of dust and smoke from where wood continued to smolder hours after the mosque had burned out reduced visibility and made the always hot, dry air stick in her throat.
Infrared was useless in Mosul's hundred-and-twenty-degree heat, so Ivy used her telescopic sights, continually sweeping the area for any movement.
They'd already rooted one sniper out of the remains of the bombed mosque and Ivy would be real surprised if he was the only insurgent handy. They tended to run in packs.
The civilian gave her an impatient snarl, his pale face flushing an angry red. "Sergeant, we're undertaking a sensitive mission. You and your men are not need-to-know, and you have been ordered to support us, not baby-sit us."
She ducked reflexively as a clatter of automatic rifle fire sounded off to her right. The sound no longer panicked her, but she still felt as if a fist tightened in her gut every time she heard it--what if they got another of the kids in her National Guard unit?
Mosul was supposed to have been pacified months before, firmly in government hands. Like so much else in this war, if anyone had bothered telling the locals, the message had gotten lost in translation. Of course, no matter how pacified the place might be, a bunch of Americans digging in the newly bombed ruins of one of the city's biggest and oldest mosques were pure chum.
Ivy squeezed off a quick burst in response to the insurgent's AK-47, made sure her boys were safe, then she joined the rest of the team in taking cover. The civilians weren't as quick, though. Maybe they thought their black business suits provided more protection than infantry armor.
Bad thinking.
Her burst didn't have the desired effect of making the insurgents keep their heads down. A rifle shot banged from behind her. Its bullet spun one of the civilians around, dropping him to the ground. Hellfire. She hadn't liked the guy but he was an American.
She swiped sweat from her face. "Williams," her voice sounded hoarse, even to her. "Take five men and root out that sniper. Anderson, take James, Lennox, and Slocum and secure the area. Move."
She tossed her radio to 'Mr. Smith,' the civilian in charge of their operation, and dragged the injured 'Mr. Jones' out of the fire zone.
"Is he badly injured?" Smith didn't look like he cared much. His voice was about as cold as a snake and his gray eyes showed nothing but contempt for his partner.
She gestured for him to take cover behind the low mound that was all that remained of one of the mosque's once fabled mosaic-works. "It's bad. Call in a Medevac."
"It's imperative that we continue this search, regardless of the risk. Jones can take care of himself."
Ivy didn't know whom she'd pissed off to be given this assignment, but she swore she'd find out. And when she did, payback was going to be sweet.
"Mr. Jones isn't going to be doing any more searching today." She kept pressure on his wound but Jones bled in gushes. That couldn't be good news.
Keeping one hand on his wound, she sliced through Jones's impractical black suit and the starched white shirt underneath it and discovered about what she'd suspected. The bullet had ripped a hole out of his arm big enough to swallow her entire fist. Jones might live, but she doubted even the best surgeon would save that arm.
Every American soldier in Iraq carries emergency first aid equipment. Like many others, Ivy had been given practical experience. Luckily for Jones, blood no longer bothered her--much. Ivy yanked her largest sterile bandage out of its wrapping and pressed it hard against Jones's upper arm, then gave him a shot of morphine.
The civilian moaned and thrashed but he wasn't strong enough to get away.
"Take it easy, Jones. Helicopter should be on its way."
"I'll pray for him," Smith offered.
"Oh, yeah. That'll help."
"Of course." Smith missed her sarcasm.
)
When the True Cross is discovered beneath a bombed Iraqi mosque, a countdown to the ultimate Crusade begins. Can Sgt. Ivy Newland control the power of the Cross, or will the Foundation bring about the end-times? Assisted by Capt. Zack Herrera, a mysterious priestess, and growing powers, Ivy flees the CIA, the Foundation, and Iraqi insurgents across Iraq, Turkey, Greece, and Italy.
