THERE WERE FOUR OF them, two soldiers and two sailors, all special warfare operators, members of the elite army Green Berets and the Navy’s SEALs. They all wore beards, and their hair was longer than officially allowed. Their uniforms were not standard issue. They hunkered behind the wall of a bombed-out mosque. One was dead and the remaining three were desperate.

“Homecoming, this is Prom Night, request immediate ex-fil,” one whispered into the handset of an AN/PRC-126 field radio. He rattled off a set of coordinates, then said, “Require urgent ex-fil. LZ hot.”

As if confirming the status of the landing zone, a burst of gunfire pommeled the mosque wall just above his head. His remaining two teammates returned the fire. Their muzzle flashes lit up the night like flashing neon lights.

The radio handset squelched, and a voice said, “Prom Night, your date is on the way. Put on a light so the two chaperones know where you are. Over.”

“Roger that,” the operator said. “Advise them the bad boys are to the northwest.”

The radio man, who was also the mission’s leader, removed a small, battery-operated MS-2000M strobe light from his pocket, switched it on, and tossed it into the center of the roofless mosque. The infrared light it emitted was invisible except with the use of night-vision goggles.

“On their way in,” he yelled to his comrades. His voice drew another burst of enemy fire, which the three of them returned.

“Hope so,” said one of the three. “I’m getting low on ammo.”

“Ammo count!” called the leader.

“One full mag,” said the same man. He removed the magazine from his weapon and eyed it, then tossed it to the grown. “Not enough in this one to piss with.”

“One and a half mags,” called the other.

The leader removed the magazine from his rifle. Three quarters full. He then patted his magazine pouches. One more mag left.

Each magazine held thirty rounds. The team leader did the math in his head. About seventy-five rounds left between them.

Then he glanced at the dead man, the one called Stevens. Helluva break, Stevens. You find all that shit and come up with a plan to make us all rich. Now you’re dead before you could even get started.

The leader picked up Steven’s rifle and removed the magazine. It was nearly empty, and he tossed it away. The dead man had one full mag left in a pouch. About a hundred rounds. Sure hope our “date” gets here on time.

The night air filled with thunder as two helicopter gunships zoomed overhead, their mini-guns spitting flame like dragon’s breath. Screams of men being torn apart by the maelstrom of bullets sprang from the darkness beyond the mosque walls. Behind the two “chaperones” came their “date,” a Blackhawk helicopter, its rotor blades whipping up a small sand storm as it settled to the ground.

“Time to go!” the leader shouted.

He slung his rifle, then pulled the limp body of the dead Green Beret over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and followed one of the two remaining operators toward the helicopter while the other maintained a rear guard. Scattered shots zipped past them as they ran, but the suppressive fire from the two gunships and the door gunners on the Blackhawk prevented any accuracy in the enemy fire. They reached the chopper, tossed the corpse aboard, then leapt in themselves. The Blackhawk jumped into the air, turned, and sped away.

 The leader glanced at his two surviving men. They grinned back at him, and he gave them a thumbs up. He looked again at the dead man, then scratched his scar-pocked cheek reflectively.

Well, a three-way split just means more for the rest of us.