5 August 2019, Iraqi desert.
Doug rushed into McGee's quarters, an A4 envelope clutched under his arm.
Curt had poured himself an ice-cold drink from his own stash, ready for a break.
"Good news, Sir," he said. "Operation Gazelle has just lifted from the runway. The Gazelle will land in six hours."
The crease between Curt's eyes melted and relaxed the mouth.
"A letter has come for you."
"Thanks, Doug, it's splendid news."
"Yes, Sir."
"How is Gazelle?"
"She has a severe fever, Sir, and…" unsure about the next piece of information he swallowed first. "She is covered with bruises and dehydrated."
Curt frowned; a flash of concern washed over him before he clamped it in the bud. "Alert the medics," he ordered.
"Yes, Sir," relieved. "Will that be all, Sir?"
"You may go, Doug." Curt'
