Free Joint Forces by Catherine Mann

a steady beat across the desert floor in time with everyone's huffing breaths exhaling more grit-filled curses. Each man's favorite cussword chanted, powered feet faster. His own favorite of the moment spilled free—just like when baby Chris had parroted it back at him from his high chair, Rena behind their son, her hand clamped over her mouth to subdue laughter.
    Her face, her smile, even her voice so incredible, exotic, different from the monochromatic world he'd grown up in.
    Eyes sparkling, she'd brought more of that light of hers to their tiny apartment filled with babies and plants. She'd subdued her smile then into a parental reprimand and skirted around to the front of the high chair to tell their son, "Truck. Your daddy said tr-uck."
    Well, he sure as hell was truck, truck, truck on his way as far as he could get across this desert.
    God, how long had they been running? Years? Minutes? He didn't dare spare the energy for a look over the shoulder.
    Spike slowed as they neared a clump of brush, a slight swell of dune. Damn pathetic coverage.
    The OSI agent stopped, braced his hands on his knees while the others drew up, halted as well.
    "Don't think," Spike said between panting exhales, "it's going to get any better than this, guys."
    Scorch, as senior-ranking crew member, could disagree. But Spike's counterintelligence experience, his days deeply undercover during his CIA stint prior to joining the Air Force as a civilian employee of the OSI, offered weight to his opinion.
    And the set of his face told them well this seasoned agent thought their odds sucked no matter where they hid their asses. But that wouldn't stop them from trying to buy time for the good guys to get as close as possible.
    J.T. dropped to his knees on the desert floor along with the others, scooping out sand, fashioning a trench behind brush. He dropped flat on his belly beside his crewmates. Sweat soaked his flight suit, caking sand to his skin.
    Silence.
    His heart tried to slow to a regular beat, exertion complete. Adrenaline kept him revved. How long would they wait?
    "Damn," Spike whispered. "I'd kill for a ghillie suit right now." Camouflage made of strips of either desert-colored fabric or jungle hues, the ghillie suit was nearly undetectable to the eye.
    Instead, they lay with only the scant cammo of desert tan flight suits, better than their regular green, at least. The Rubistan government, American troops and local warlords would all have picked up their landing. Who would arrive first?
    The answer came quickly, rumbling from the hazy horizon. Clouds of sand puffed a toxic premonition before the vehicles cleared into sight.
    Vehicles. Not an aircraft. Not Americans.
    He swallowed more gritty air. Okay. Rubistan's military? Police? Or local warlord rebels?
    The sand swirl parted to reveal … a caravan of crappy jeeps, trucks, RVs. Nothing organized about their approach to indicate military training. Damn.
    J.T. slipped his emergency beacon off his survival vest, dug a hole in the sand. Tossed it inside.
    Pitched brush over it. If they were taken, at least rescue troops would have some point of reference and tracks to follow.
    "Keep your head down," Spike instructed. "Don't move. Don't even look at them. With some luck they'll drive right by us."
    Bo whispered out of the side of his mouth, "Unless they have dogs."
    "Zip it, sunshine," Scorch interjected. "We can do without the gloom and doom."
    The drone of engines increased with the cloud of sand spitting behind the vehicles, drawing closer, eating up the miles, becoming clearer as they broke through the rippling heat waves. A half-dozen vehicles, as best he could tell by sneaking peeks through peripheral vision. He couldn't risk looking at them directly, but God, it felt as if they were right on top of them. Still driving though.
    J.T. quit breathing. His heart slammed his ribs until it seemed ready to explode out his ears.
    The vehicles jerked to a stop, one after the other. The