The squad of soldiers sprawled, exhausted, by the side of the mountain trail. They had started humping before dawn, down in the foothills, each with seventy-plus pounds of gear. Now it was early afternoon, well up the trail, in cool, fragrant pine woods.

Finn sat with a pair of field glasses he had liberated three years ago from a quartermaster sergeant who had been caught selling gear on the black market. He carried them everywhere. For bird watching. He was scanning the cluster of low, dusty hills from where they had started. It would be warm down there now, ripe for thermals and eagles catching rides on them.

Sure enough, he spotted the familiar wing silhouette of an eagle, far below. It wasn't close enough to identify yet, but the upper surfaces of its wings and body were an earthen brown. It soared in a lazy, upward spiraling helix, and, as it eventually passed the soldiers, the eagle barely gave them a glance. Its underside was white, with delicate, black, dotted lines along the wings.

"Hey Sarge," Finn called out, "We've got an eagle. Don't recognize it, though. "

Sergeant Joe Benson had his own pair of field glasses.

"It's a Short-toed Eagle, Huddy," he remarked. "Not native. A migrant in these parts."

Finn nodded. The two of them enjoyed identifying birds. When they could. He watched until the bird was out of sight, then rested, his back against a boulder. They were waiting for orders now; who knew when they'd actually move further up the trail.

Benson stretched out next to Finn.

"Wake me when the lieutenant finally shows up," he told Finn and closed his eyes.

Finn was a about to close his eyes too, when he heard a noise further up the trail. They had sentries posted, so he wasn't worried. He shook Benson.

Three men came swiftly down the trail, Indian-file. They seemed oddly out of place. They were dressed in bulky black or khaki sweaters, lightweight olive combat trousers, with huge bulging pockets, and what appeared to be commercially-obtained mountain hiking boots. Their belts had fully-stuffed NATO camouflage ammo pouches, and each man bore a huge camouflaged backpack with what looked like possibly one-hundred pounds of gear. All three wore pakuls instead of helmets, and their lower faces were hidden by black-and-white checkered shemaghs, Afghan scarves. It made them look sinister, like Old West bank robbers. Slung in front of each man was a nasty-looking camouflaged C8 carbine.

They passed the Americans alongside the trail without speaking, giving only a curt nod as they went by. Benson gave them a respectful nod in return.

"Jesus, Sarge," a soldier named Hamm piped up, "Who the hell were those scary-looking fuckers?"

"Brit Special Forces," Benson replied, "SAS."

"What's with the outlaw scarves?" Finn asked.

"They never allow their faces to be photographed, and probably didn't want to run the risk of us having an embedded reporter or photographer along."

Finn felt uneasy.

"Why are they here? Kinda gives me the creeps."

Benson didn't answer.

XXXxxxxx

He was in a fog, flailing. Scared. Scared stiff. He couldn't breathe, feeling as if he was in a vise, seeing random, flickering images before his eyes. A moan came out of his mouth. Lips, her lips, he'd know them anywhere, were on his eyes, and he could breathe again. A hand, soft, her hand, he'd know it anywhere too, gently probed between his legs, and he fell back under the fog, only to scream because he couldn't see her, yet felt a wave of pleasure wrack his body at the moment he felt he was going to die alone.

"Finn." A voice, oh Lord, her voice. His heart was slowing down now, his throat feeling drier than a mummy's tongue. He blinked. Everything was blurry.

"Oh Finn, baby, please wake up." Squinting, Finn could see Rachel's worried face. The night lamp was on. He coughed, tried licking his lips. A glass of water magically appeared before him, and he slurped some down.

"Hi baby," he croaked, with a weak smile, "I'm sorry…"

Her hand stroked his forehead, and then he started to chuckle. Their bedroom door was slightly open, and Tom and Emily's worried faces were stacked in the opening, one exactly above the other, like in some cartoon.

"Don't be sorry," Rachel murmured, "But you kinda screamed and woke everybody up right when I was…" She winked at him, and he laughed.

"Well, guys," he said, looking at Tom and Emily, "I guess now you know all our kinky secrets."

His friends laughed nervously.

"Do you need anything?" Emily asked, still worried.

"It's okay. I think he'll be fine, now thanks." Rachel said, and Emily's face disappeared along with Tom's.

She gazed at him.

"How did I do, baby?"

"Perfectly, Rachel," Finn said, "But I was hoping to spare you this. Hopefully it won't happen often. "

She gently cleaned him up, saying, "I would do anything for you."

"I'm a lucky man. Thank you." He kissed her.

He was very sleepy now, and she took him in her arms.

"I love you, Finn," she whispered. When he was asleep, she reached over to her phone and texted Jane:

*Thank you for showing me how to take care of him.*

Rachel was already asleep when her phone received a reply:

*I knew you could do it. BTW—driving up to Wood Buffalo NP now. Wish us luck.*