The Devil's Pitchfork

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Derek Stillwater and Richard Coffee crouched on a desert ridge, peering across the expanse of sand toward an Iraqi ammunition depot. Dressed in biological containment suits that were camouflaged for night work with black face paint and tight black gloves, they watched the target site through night vision goggles. They hated the suits. They were clumsy, bulky and hot. Sweat soaked their skin and rolled down their backs and sides. Both men were thankful they didn’t have to wear the gas masks unless all hell broke loose. They were both Special Forces. Above them the desert night was overcast, cloud cover at a maximum, no stars or moon visible. A Special Forces kind of night.

Coffee went about setting up a laser targeting system. Somewhere overhead flew an F-117A Stealth fighter. Once the ammunition depot was targeted and Stillwater gave an OK, the fighter would take out the depot, leaving a massive gaping hole in the Iraqi supply line.

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