Even his tan and brown desert camouflage uniform did not do anything to stop the blistering sun blazing over his head. Though hot and uncomfortable, he didn’t move a muscle as he scanned the riverbank through state of the art range finding binoculars. Tents and various jeeps and trucks dotted the sand under camouflage nets. He studied the largest tent. One whole side remained open. Several shabbily uniformed men sat around a large rectangular table. “Check the west side. Look like a couple of missiles to you?” Via radio, Neal’s voice interrupted Damien’s steady scrutiny. Damien shifted the binoculars to the other end of the encampment and swore softly. Two elongated shapes, pointed at one end, lay lengthwise on flat trailers raised to forty-five degree angles. They pointed west. “Copy that,” Damien said quietly into the almost invisible radio beneath the Islamic headpiece he wore. “Tell that spook to get his fucking pictures ASAP. I want to get out of here.” A single click of confirmation told him Neal understood.
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