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S.A.S.

S.A.S.

SASR. Captain Jack McCormack crouched near the open side door, one hand on the frame, the other on the sling of his SIG MCX. Through the haloed glow of the NVGs, the dunes rolled beneath them like the backs of sleeping leviathans. He ran the checklist without looking: suppressor threaded; secondary Glock seated; encrypted comms paired; drone uplinked; beacon off; IR strobe taped. Everything ready. Everything familiar. Everything that had ever mattered to him fit inside the silhouette of his kit.
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