The road east of Algiers was a ribbon of dust and heat mirage, a straight line cut into ochre. Wind hissed over the flats, worrying at old tire tracks, lifting grit in thin veils that turned headlights into dull coins.
Hours before the first truck appeared, the ridge shimmered like hammered copper.
The men had been there since dawn, motionless beneath the sun, each heartbeat syncing to the faint click of quartz shifting under their elbows…"
A U.S. convoy moved at blackout pace: seven trucks, two half-tracks, a jeep, all canvas and stenciled numbers and sun-faded stars.
Men rode hunched, helmets low, rifles laid across their knees. It was a tired formation, running a tired route to a tired depot that smelled of fuel and boredom.
The first sound was not a gun but a tap, metal on rock, carried on the breeze from the low ridge that shadowed the road. The second sound was a breath being held across fifty throats.
