Free Reaping The Harvest (Harvest Trilogy, Book 3) by Michael R. Hicks Page A

had presented Jack with a sheet of paper. In three lines of stark military prose, the Army had recalled him to active duty, promoted him one grade from his former service rank of captain to major, and assigned him to Headquarters, United States Special Operations Command (USSOCOM).  
    A second sheet of paper contained an equally brief set of orders from his new command, directing him to get to Ramstein Air Base in Germany as quickly as possible, but giving him no clue as to why.
    The Norwegians were requested to provide a security element for Jack, and so he found himself escorted by Terje Halvorsen, Frode Stoltenberg (who brought along his cat, Lurva, in a collapsible crate), and two other soldiers of Forsvarets Spesialkommando ,Norwegian Special Forces, aboard a C-130 at Bodø.  
    Once at Ramstein, they picked up the twelve men of a U.S. Army Special Forces A Team of the 10 th Special Forces Group, led by Captain Jesus Alvarez.  
    “I’m Captain Alvarez, sir,” the wiry Hispanic officer said as he shook Jack’s proffered hand while his team quickly settled into their seats. The rear cargo ramp hadn’t yet closed before the C-130 was taxiing for takeoff. “Nice to meet you.”
    “Any idea what this mission’s about?” Jack asked as Alvarez strapped into the seat next to him. Opposite them sat Halvorsen and Stoltenberg, who were leaning forward, straining to hear what Alvarez had to say over the roar of the C-130’s engines.  
    Alvarez shook his head. “Not a clue, sir. We just got back from an op in Budapest, helping the Marines evacuate our embassy there.” He shook his head as the plane angled upward and leaped into the sky. “We barely had time to change into clean uniforms and check our gear before joining this party.”  
    Halvorsen and Stoltenberg shared a look. “You had no time for mission planning?” Stoltenberg asked. “We’re just going into this blind?”
    “Pretty much,” Alvarez admitted. “I don’t like it. It’s a piss-poor way to do things, but I couldn’t really argue with the three-star who gave me the orders. We’ve got no intel, no details on logistics or support, no objectives. All I know is that this bird is taking us to Incirlik, Turkey where we’ll be catching a different ride. Past that, they didn’t tell us shit.”  
    Jack rubbed his eyes. His headache had just grown worse. “Christ.”
    “Here, sir,” Alvarez said, dragging over a big olive drab flight bag he’d brought aboard with him. “We were told you didn’t have a go-bag, so we brought some gear for you.”
    Opening the bag, Jack found a helmet with night vision goggles attached, an M4A1 assault rifle with an under-barrel 40mm grenade launcher, body armor, and a combat vest loaded with magazines for the rifle and grenades for the launcher, a pair of white phosphorus grenades and another pair of high explosive frags, and a personal radio. At the very bottom was a set of fatigues. Jack pulled out the other gear and set it on the seat beside him, leaving the uniform in the bag.  
    “The ammo for the M4 is a mix of standard and incendiary,” Alvarez said. “The 40mm grenades are all high explosive.”  
    Jack checked that the weapon was empty and safe, then set it aside before he pulled on the vest over the Norwegian uniform he was wearing.  
    “I was told you might need this, too.” Alvarez leaned over and attached a rank tab with a copper-colored oak leaf to Jack’s vest. “Now the snipers will take you out first instead of me.”
    Stoltenberg guffawed at the joke.
    “Sir, if you don’t mind telling us,” one of Alvarez’s men asked, raising his voice so that the other men could hear, “you’ve seen action before, right? This isn’t your first field op, is it?”
    The others turned to look at Jack with keen interest.
    “I’ve got two holes in my chest from AK-47 rounds, courtesy of the Taliban.” Jack put his right thumb and forefinger to his chest, marking where the bullets had hit