Captain Franks sits in the right front seat of the armored Humvee, his dark face clamped into a scowl, his finger tracing invisible lines on the map sprawled over his legs. “Where are we?” he asks.

“Shit sir, I thought you knew.” Henry reaches under the radio shelf and pulls out a rag, smears the gathered condensation across his window. The windshield wipers sweep nosily from side to side, grinding to keep the glass clear. The driving rain is turning colder, a thin layer of ice glistens on the black and green hood. “What’s the GPS say?”

Franks looks up at the tan Plugger mounted next to his window, pushes some buttons. Every inch of the truck has been pressed into service. Two Singar radios with speakers, one mobile tactical phone, one Plugger, six ammo boxes, one black garbage bag filled with colorful stuff animals, six gun racks, one spotlight, four ruck sacks, one blue rotating police light, two rifles, three pistols, one machine gun, one automatic grenade launcher, one box of MREs, four body bags, one white garbage bag filled with mismatched shoes and small soggy jackets for freezing children, two soldiers, one officer, and one Albanian/Serbian interpreter. “It’s looking for satellites,” Franks growls. “Fucking piece of shit. Just go up to the end of this road and turn around. Can you turn around up there?”