Page 74 of Dead Fall

It was a twenty-four-hour field ration, which meant that it contained three meals, plus powdered beverages and snacks meant to get a combat soldier through a full day. It came in a hefty, waterproof green pouch that weighed about five pounds.

He found three smaller pouches inside—one for each meal—along with a pouch containing flameless ration heaters that allowed you to warm things up without exposing yourself to the enemy via an open flame.

His appetite, due to having pushed so much adrenaline through his system, wasn’t that big. He knew, though, that he needed to eat something and opened the smallest of the pouches, which was the breakfast meal.

Setting the main course aside, he pulled out two snacks—a small darkchocolate bar and a pack of dried apricots. They were exactly what he needed. He washed down his bites with water from a large plastic bottle, all the while keeping his eyes and ears on the trees. He was on his last piece of apricot when he saw his men appear.

They looked much different than their service photos. They were dirty and tired. They were also leaner than when they had signed up and joined the fight.

The war had taken its toll—even on them, volunteers who had willingly chosen to be here and who could walk away at any point and return to the safety of their respective countries and homes. Harvath couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t something extra the war took out of people like them.

Jacks, the thirty-eight-year-old ex–British Army Second Lieutenant who resembled a rugby player, was first, followed by Krueger, the very fit, thirty-four-year-old, no-longer-active U.S. Marine Corps Lance Corporal. Next was the far-too-skinny, twenty-seven-year-old ex–Canadian Army Corporal who went by the call sign Biscuit. Bringing up the rear was Hookah, the forty-two-year-old former U.S. Army Staff Sergeant with the big ears and the boxer’s nose.

All the men knew better than to salute him. Had an opportunistic Russian sniper been in range, it would have identified Harvath as an officer and made him an instant target.

“Good to meet you, Captain,” said Jacks as he flipped up his night-vision goggles, stepped forward, and shook hands with Harvath. He then quickly introduced the three other men.

“What’s this mission of yours?” Hookah asked. “Why are we getting pulled?”

“No one has told you anything?” Harvath replied.

“Zip. Zilch. Zero.”

“It’s a hostage rescue. American civilian. Female. Twenty-five years old. She was volunteering at an orphanage east of Kharkiv.”

“How long ago was she taken?” Krueger asked.

“Four days ago.”

“Do you know where she’s being held?”

“We do not.”

“With all due respect,” said Hookah, “I didn’t come here to do hostage rescue. I came here to kill Orcs.”

Orcs were a hideous, humanoid monster popularized in J. R. R. Tolkien’sThe Lord of the Ringsand a popular pejorative adopted by the Ukrainians for Russian soldiers.

“Do you know who has her?” Jacks asked, pivoting away from his colleague’s borderline insubordination.

“We believe it’s a unit from the Wagner Group. They call themselves the Ravens.”

Biscuit let out a low whistle. “That’s the Bags detachment.”

Harvath was unfamiliar with the term. “?‘Bags’?” he repeated.

“Yeah. Shitbags, douche bags, scumbags, and nut bags.”

“Rest assured that when we get done with them, the only bags that’ll be left are going to be body bags.”

“Ooh-rah,” Krueger replied, employing the Marines’ battle cry.

“How many of these Ravens are there?” Hookah asked, still not sold.

“Based on the reports I’ve seen,” Harvath replied, “anywhere from twenty to thirty.”

Jacks looked at Hookah and said, “That’s a lot of Orcs.”

“Where’s the rest of the team?” the man asked.

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