The stories of those who were there, fighting, living, surviving.
Author note: I wrote two chapters for this story in collaboration with BaroqueNexus for the now-deleted story The Saddle Arabia Diaries. This is just my bare contribution, without context. The story was to be tales of ponies who fought it the war and civilians who had to endure it.
"The Night The Lights Went Out in Zakirabad"
Captain Spark
80th Bomb Wing
0034 hours
Near Zakirabad
I looked out the window but there was nothing to see, not even when I adjusted my glasses. The desert passing by only one hundred feet below our aircraft might as well have been miles away, lost under the clouded night skies. Good. Darkness was our friend.
The B-1B Lancer was arguably the best bomber in the world for minimum altitude strike missions, and there was no place I’d rather be than sitting at my defensive systems station in the back seat.
Lieutenant Colonel Dust was the pilot. His helmeted head rested on the seat in front of me. As unicorns, we were both in the Air Force’s minority. His deft touch on the controls and my training with electronics made us suited for the low-level penetration bomber role. Pegasi generally made up the fighter pilot corps, but the natural flying sense of our copilot, Major Winter, was a nice complement to Colonel Dust’s abilities. Beside me in the back was an earth pony mare named Captain Burster, the offensive systems operator. Because she was in charge of our ordnance we nicknamed her Boom-Boom, which could have been taken several ways but she didn’t seem to mind.
Our crew had trained together for quite a while. Even if we weren’t all good friends, which we were, the practice would have honed our group into an effective unit, a cohesive collection of ponies working together in sync. We’d rehearsed missions like this in the Neighvada desert, a place similar to Saddle Arabia. Tonight was the real deal.
I checked my systems panel. Off to the northeast was our set of targets, a SAM [surface-to-air missile] site and an electric substation. The missiles guarded the power grid for Zakirabad from ponies like us who wanted to take it out. The intel guys had told me that we were dealing with SA-5’s, a very long range system developed in the old Hooviet Union.
The Lancer was not a true stealth aircraft. It was a lot harder to see on radar than some things, but that would only help us so much. Our primary method of staying out of sight was flying in the dirt like Colonel Dust was doing.
In a way, a unicorn pilot was a lot less unconventional than the plane he commanded. The B-1B was massive, and could carry a 75,000 pound payload- almost a whole semi truck. Despite that, it looked like a scaled-up fighter, with wings that folded back at high speed to allow it to skim the ground at nearly Mach 1 with no trouble. The four afterburning engines had power to spare, and the trio of bomb bays could carry just about any mud-moving weapon the Air Force owned.
“Ninety miles to target,” reported Burster, her voice going out on the cockpit intercom.
“Still clear,” I replied, checking the threat board.
Our reports did not leave the airplane. Part of sneaking in was staying quiet. Everything about the mission had been planned ahead, and there was no need for the radio. If we stayed on the correct course and speed, our support would arrive right on time.
Bringing up the rear, miles behind us to the south, was a Navy EA-6B Prowler, a small, slow aircraft with next to no weapons. What made it valuable were the jamming pods hanging beneath the wings. In the face of enemy radar and communications, the Prowler could blast the area with a cloud of RF [radio frequency] noise to render electronics useless.
Bucking Navy. They were just going to hang out and work their little beep-boop computer thing. Meanwhile, we had to do the heavy lifting- literally. The Prowler couldn’t carry enough weapons needed for the mission.
Knocking out the SA-5 missiles was first priority for a reason. They had a very long range and very powerful warheads. We could sneak under the radar for a while, but the closer we got to the site, the more likely it was that we would be detected.
I checked threat board. Seventy miles out. The radar, over the horizon from us, was starting to tickle the upper surfaces of the bomber but not enough for a return just yet. “I suggest another drop in altitude to evade radar.”
“Gotcha.” Dust carefully, very carefully, applied a slight magical pressure to the control stick in front of him. The plane gave up another twenty feet of altitude, dropping us to a mere eighty. This was technically the autopilot’s job, but I trusted Dust more than a computer.
Funny, then, that my whole job was dealing with electronics. Maybe my dislike of enemy radars had inadvertently carried over to all electronics in general. You can’t blame me. My whole job was defeating detection and keeping the Lancer invisible.
I glanced at the time display, counting down. We had carefully planned the mission, down to the second. I watched the time continue. When a prearranged moment came, my screen flashed into a whiteout with a huge amount of static from the Prowler. If the jamming looked this bad to me, imagine what the missile operators must be seeing.
“Jamming’s on.”
Dust made a small noise to let me know he had heard. I wasn’t required to let him know, and he wasn’t required to respond, but both gestures were good for everypony’s confidence.
Still, the jamming wouldn’t protect us forever. When we got close enough to the radar, its signal would “burn through” the cloud of noise and pick us up anyway. Dust carefully altered course to spiral us towards the target, reducing our closing rate. This kept us hidden in the jamming longer and fooled the radar’s range calculators, so it thought we weren’t moving so fast.
The maneuver did make our course longer, however. Good thing one of our bomb bays had been fitted with a ten thousand gallon fuel tank. The plane had some pretty long legs to begin with, but this gave us quite a boost.
We spiraled in, staying low and patiently approaching the target. At thirty miles, it was time for our final attack run. The Lancer came around, its sharp nose slicing through the desert air directly towards the missiles.
My hooves shook slightly with nervousness as I hit the switches for our electronic countermeasures. The bomber carried a small jammer of its own, but at this point we were committed to the attack and whatever happened, happened. I tried to relax, adjusting my glasses again. There was one final touch to our defenses. I popped loose the ALE-50 Towed Decoy, a small target that trailed behind the plane and would hopefully attract a missile meant for us.
The mare beside me had her weapons ready to go. She checked the readouts and compared our location to the drop zone. I felt Dust pull back on the controls to get the bomber to mission altitude. It was at that moment my panel lit up with acquisition. They had locked us up with fire control radar.
Had a missile been launched right then, we would have been dead. There was a moment’s hesitation as if the radar operator could hardly believe his eyes. Then- launch.
I couldn’t see the missile site in the dark, but the satellite photos of the site that the intel guys had shown us before the mission depicted it as a six-pointed star like the old Hooviet doctrine. Each point on the star had a couple of missile launchers facing outwards. The radar, command center, and generators were at the middle of the star. Even if we didn’t manage to take out the missiles themselves, they would be useless without the other things.
The fiery rocket motor of the launched weapon went streaking by my window as the plane passed the missile’s minimum engagement distance. It hadn’t had time to arm, and disappeared harmlessly behind us. At the same instant, Boom-Boom shook loose two dozen Mark 82 Snakeye bombs. The Lancer jerked higher with the sudden drop in weight.
Each weapon packed five hundred pounds of high explosive and was fitted with tail fins that slowed it down, letting our low-flying airplane get away before the bombs exploded on the ground and damaged us.
The radar disappeared from the threat board under the onslaught of twelve thousand pounds of destruction. I touched Boom-Boom’s shoulder, wordlessly congratulating her on a job well done, but didn’t take my eyes off the board. The night wasn’t over yet.
Dust pulled back on the stick, lifting us away from the ground to where any surprise anti-aircraft gun emplacements couldn’t get us. Our next target was only a few minutes away, a substation that controlled critical infrastructure for Zakirabad. While it didn’t provide electricity to the whole city, it was an important target because eliminating it should cause a domino effect that took down the entire power grid. That was why we had to destroy a serious missile defense system to get to it. Speaking of, I cut loose the decoy. There were no more radar sites out there to take advantage of its distraction.
We did have to worry about Anti-Air Pegasi, but they had to have daylight to see us or be guided by a ground control station painting us with radar. This low, this fast, it wasn’t a problem. And once we turned tail for home, none of them would be able to catch up. The last time I checked, the only pegasus who could break Mach 1 was Rainbow Dash, and she was one of our pilots.
The substation was a worthy target even if it wasn’t as inherently dangerous as a missile site. A blackout in Zakirabad would give our troops a big advantage. We had planned for darkness. The enemy hadn’t. Not to mention the loss of all the electronics the Saddle Arabians normally took for granted.
The Prowler ended its jamming and turned away. The hard part of the mission was over. The Navy aircraft would get home before we did, but I consoled myself that at least I would be returning to a nice runway instead of a ship.
Over our next target, the rotary bomb racks installed in the belly of the Lancer spun to the correct position and unleashed a couple of special weapons. They were cluster bombs, loaded with reels of fine graphite wire. Over the target, the conductive filaments would spread out like a spiderweb and short-circuit the entire substation. It limited collateral damage and death of any civilians in the area, and destroyed electronics just as well as a bomb.
I glanced out the window. The glow of Zakirabad’s lights on the horizon were suddenly snuffed out as if the city had never existed. Mission complete, the bomber slowly banked into a turn, heading for home.
A warning tone sounded in my headset, alerting me to a new radar that had just turned on. I frantically checked my equipment, surprise and fear quickening my movements. The signal was fighter-based, and coming in on our tail. “We’ve got a big problem!”
I searched my memory for an aircraft that matched the radar return I was getting, deciding that we probably faced a Mirage F1. It was an older fighter, but that didn’t make it any less deadly. The Lancer was fast, but not fast enough to run. It certainly couldn’t outmaneuver the smaller plane.
That didn’t mean we were going down without a fight. Dust shoved the throttles forward and pointed the nose at the ground. We slipped through Mach 1 and kept accelerating. Forced to follow to get a good radar picture, the Mirage mimicked our path.
From what the blinking lights of the threat board were telling me, the fighter was getting close to missile range. I threw all the power I could into our meager jammer and fired a few rounds of decoy chaff and flares to confuse the Mirage’s sensors.
Did I say buck the Navy? I take it back. While the fighter’s radar wasn’t as powerful as the SA-5 site, the Prowler detected it and turned back to give us a helping hoof. The blanketing RF jamming effectively shut down any hopes the fighter pilot had of locking us up with a radar missile.
I knew that the Mirage could still track us by the glow from our afterburning exhaust. The fighter was able to carry heat-seeking missiles to home in on that, too. Less serious but still something to think about were the fighter’s machine guns. The jamming had bought some time, though. Our assailant would have to get a lot closer to use those other weapons.
With a practiced eye, Dust hauled back on the stick, pulling the Lancer out of its dive under as many g’s as the airframe could stand. We leveled out over the desert at fifty feet and Mach 2.
And then the Mirage disappeared. I blinked, hardly believing it. Cautiously, Dust pulled the throttles out of afterburner and we made a slow spiral up to altitude. I squinted through the window, making out a plume of flame in the night. Our pursuer had slammed into the desert sand.
“We got a maneuver kill!” I cheered on the open airwaves. “Nopony ever beats the ground!”
Under wartime flying rules, any way you could destroy an enemy aircraft was acceptable, including tricking them into crashing. This was one of the very few times that a bomber could claim credit for killing another airplane.
“Hang on there, Air Force,” came the voice of a Naval Flight Officer sitting in the back of the Prowler. “It was our jamming that confused his radar altimeter into thinking he wasn’t so close to the terrain. If anything, you got the assist.”
Buck the Navy.
"Meals on Wheels"
James “Big” Macintosh
Private First Class, 141st Infantry Brigade
1326 hours
Kanterhar Province, South Saddle Arabia
“It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no Wonderboooooolt. It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no fortunate cooooolt.”
Private Carney had an annoying habit of singing along with whatever we played on the radio. I remember he wouldn’t shut up no matter what we threw at him. No matter how many times Gunner, Ox, and Caballine told him to be quiet, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. It didn’t mind me so much, but it pissed the hell out of Ox, our fireteam leader. He actually volunteered to relieve Gunner of the machine gun nest on top of the Humvee we rode in. Eventually we shut the radio off and just rode in silence.
I couldn’t blame the kid. Carney was brand new and he’d already been deployed to Kanterhar, where fighting was fiercest. He was just trying to blow off steam. I found that I blew off steam best shooting bad ponies with my gun, which I named AJ. She was loyal, hard-working, and had a hell of a temper when it came to a fight. Just like a certain pony I knew.
Carney was brand new. You could call him a little overconfident. Ox made it clear a while back that he didn’t want to foalsit the new guy. He’d already gone through it once.
Well, in Ox’s eyes, I was still a B.N.P. [Bucking New Pony.] I’d seen enough combat to earn a promotion to PFC, but I still wasn’t used to this.
I don’t think I’ll ever really get used to it. I used to be a farm boy in Ponyville, and now I’m fighting a war. What for, you ask?
In truth, I really don’t know. I’m not really one to express my opinions. I just notice things, is all. Some might call me shy, but I don’t have any problem with putting a bullet in the head of a pony that’s trying to kill me.
Caballine liked me, and so did Gunner. Ox respected what I did and appreciated my efforts in Fire Team Four. As for Carney, things weren’t getting off to a good start. Especially when he kept singing without any music.
“Some colts are born, made t’ raise the sun, ooooh, and bring the moon down, too!”
“Oh for buck’s sake! Shut the buck up, Carmey, or I’ll throw you out!”
Finally, the kid stopped. “It’s Carney, sir.”
“What?”
“It’s Carney. C-A-R…”
“I can spell, Private!” Ox turned around to look at us, keeping his eyes on the new kid.
“Carney, huh? You get a lot of jokes about that?”
“What? Like I work for a carnival?”
“No, like your face is so bucking ugly that you belong in a freak show.”
Caballine stifled a laugh as she kept her eyes on the road, which was practically invisible due to the flying dust. I had to lean over and pretend to cough so that I wouldn’t double over. That was a pretty good insult, and I felt bad for the kid, don’t get me wrong, but I could only barely keep it contained.
“Well, I suppose that does make you an employee of the carnival, so you’re right, grunt!”
Carney didn’t speak for the rest of the trip.
We were on our way to a settlement called Bagriza. We’d been assigned a town sweep because Predators spotted terrorist activity, but as usual Command didn’t want civilian casualties. So they sent in the foot ponies.
It was something I had gotten used to. In truth, the army life is kind of dull. There’s a lot to do, but most of it is menial labor. You have to scrub the floors, clean your gun, accompany patrols, guard checkpoints, and other stuff like that. I got to see action, though, about two weeks ago in Guldeesh, just south of Nagram AFB, where I was stationed. That’s where I became Private First Class Big Macintosh (I don’t use my first name, not if I can help it.)
I’d done my share of town sweeps. Most of the time we came up with nothing, and ended up driving dozens of miles back to Nagram with nothing to show for it. Occasionally we’d find a gun or somepony left behind, but the RSA almost always managed to abandon the town before we got there.
But ARSA [Army of the Republic of Saddle Arabia] was the least of our problems. Now we had the Arabian Brotherhoof, a guerilla group that wanted both the RSA and the Equestrians out. We found more of them than we did government troops on our searches, and they tended to be more violent, more unpredictable. But worst of all was, you couldn’t tell them apart from the regular civvies, and we ended up arresting and searching nearly every damn pony we came across. You couldn’t trust anypony.
So I didn’t. Especially not after that day.
“Why so quiet, Mac?”
Caballine nudged me. I broke away from my thoughts and looked at her fiery eyes. She was a pretty mare, with her crimson mane cut short and her straw-colored coat peeking out from underneath her ACU. She could also find a needle in a haystack in under a minute, and use that same needle to disarm a bomb. She was a hardy little thing.
I just shrugged, and she smiled and playfully punched my arm. “C’mon, big guy. Bit for your thoughts?”
“I dunno,” I said. “Kinda hard t’think with all the bouncin’ and dust flyin’ up everywhere.”
“Damn right,” Ox replied. “I can barely see anything.” He brought his walkie-talkie up to his mouth. “Roller One, this is Roller Four, do you have visual on anything that ain’t sand, over?”
A few moments later: “Negative, Roller Three. We’re still ten miles out from objective. Sit tight. Over.”
“Copy, One. Out.”
“Ten miles?” Carney piped up. “That doesn’t seem too far.”
“It ain’t,” I said, looking out the window and seeing only clouds of sand. “I jogged ten miles every day back home.”
“Didn’t you live on a farm?”
“Eyup. Where’d you live, Carney?”
The new guy looked at me like I was about to insult him. “Manehattan. Bucklyn, specifically.”
We argued good-naturedly about the pros and cons of big city life. Carney thought I was a dumb hick, and I threatened to teach him a thing or two. Luckily, we didn’t have to endure much more bickering. The Humvees could make good time even on the terrible roads. It was a damned shame that we hadn’t yet received up-armor kits for extra protection, but at least the lower weight made the Humvees faster.
The town of Bagriza looked like many of the settlements in Saddle Arabia; sand-colored and primitive. Carney looked at me. “Remind you of home, Mac?”
I didn’t reply, my eyes scanning the buildings around us. I hoped Carney would shut his stupid mouth and do the same. The convoy was most vulnerable in the tight confines of a town.
Moving as fast as we were, IEDs [Improvised Explosive Devices] would probably not be an issue. The Arabian Brotherhoof were slippery bastards, but they couldn’t plant bombs if they didn’t know we were coming. That made it important for us to get in, do the job, and get out ASAP.
Speaking of IEDs, that’s what we were here for. Intel suggested there was a sort of factory were the Brotherhoof was building them. I didn’t really know who or what “intel” was, but sometimes they were right and sometimes not. We-or at least the more experienced of us-knew to take anything intel said with a grain of salt.
“Eyes on target,” called Ox from the turret. “See that three story building up there?”
I glanced forward, noting the structure he had pointed out before going back to scanning my area of responsibility. Everything about military order was divided into sections. Each member of the fireteam in the Humvee had an assigned task. Our Humvee was one of six in the convoy, which formed a small platoon of troops. Had it been necessary, we could have brought along more Humvees to bolster our ranks to a company or two. As it was, intel said resistance would be light and so only thirty of us went on the raid. This time, intel was wrong.
The radio squawked. “Roller convoy, approach target area and proceed as directed.”
Ox started giving orders. As fireteam leader, it was his job, but the rest of us knew them just in case. The plan called for the six Humvees to surround the target building before we went inside to take down the factory. To make that happen, we had to know the route to get there.
Caballine steered us in the right direction while consulting a map. Gunner helpfully held it beside her with magic. It was really more of a rough sketch made from overhead imagery, but good enough. The problem was not our route, but who we encountered on it.
A civilian ran out into the street ahead of our Humvee. The narrow corridor between buildings didn’t leave much room to maneuver, and Caballine jammed on the brakes to avoid running the pony over. From the turret, Ox shouted and waved a hoof, trying to direct him to get out of the way. None of us in Roller Four spoke the local language. The stallion was clearly trying to tell us something, but his point wasn’t coming across.
The hair on the back of my neck went up. Something wasn’t right here. The noncombatant locals might not hate us, but they didn’t go out of their way to warn us of danger. Whoever this pony was, we wouldn’t gain anything by trying to communicate with him. In fact, it would only delay us from the mission. Or...
“Armed stallion on the roof, two o’clock!” shouted Ox, swinging his turret. He didn’t have to tell Caballine to get moving. The pony in the street jumped out of the way as the Humvee shot forward. I gritted my teeth and pulled my rifle closer.
“What-” Carney started to say, but his voice was drowned by the sudden burst of M249 machine gun fire from the turret. Ox was taking no chances.
The Humvee swung around the next corner as Ox briefly stopped firing to radio the situation. By now, Carney was fully aware what was happening and he wasn’t pleased. “That raghead set us up! He pretended to be all innocent and then-”
This time it was me who cut him off. “Shut up! We all know what happened, an’ you talkin’ is not gonna help! Keep your mouth closed and your ears open.”
Ox didn’t say anything, but I thought he would be pleased that I took care of Carney. The radio began calling in more status reports. There was significant resistance at the target area. They might not have been waiting for us, but there sure were a lot of Brotherhood in the area looking for a fight and we were delivering it to them as fast as our wheels could go.
“Technical!” called Caballine, spotting a pickup truck with a machine gun in the bed. I heard Ox light it up, spotting tracers from the M249 riddling the truck with holes. We swept past the wreck, noting a couple of dead ponies. Carney stared wide-eyed at the blood.
We slid to a stop near the target building. “Macintosh, Gunner, Carney, cover the rear. Caballine, get us up the street to the command position.”
At Ox’s order, I opened the door and bailed out simultaneously with Gunner. Carney did the same, but a little more slowly. I took half a second to get my M16 shouldered, scanning the buildings around us. The rifle’s sling was wrapped over my back to hold the weapon secure and my right hoof rested on the trigger guard. As a unicorn, Gunner didn’t have that problem.
The Humvee proceeded up the street with Ox covering the front quadrant from the turret. The rest of us brought up the rear. Moving at the alert position with only three legs left for walking is not exactly easy on the muscles, but comfort comes second when your life is on the line. Despite his magic, Gunner was feeling something of the same thing. Unicorns can’t carry the load of armor and ammo on their body as well as an earth pony, which is why that race was less common in the army. Pegasi even less so.
We joined up with the rest of the convoy. There was a pony in every Humvee turret, and occasionally one of them would shoot at a bad guy. A group of dismounted soldiers covered behind the vehicles. The Lieutenant in charge of the convoy was there, coordinating with the fire team leaders before assaulting the building. “Team Four, you’re taking the south staircase.”
“Yes sir!” Ox turned to the rest of us and we headed off. Caballine had replaced him in the turret and would not be coming with. The military likes to pretend to be integrated and equal, but we’re actually sexist as hell. All of us would gladly go into combat on behalf of a mare.
Ox looked too preoccupied with commanding the rest of us to worry about a little thing like getting shot as we assaulted the stairs, and that was good. I don’t like my leaders looking more scared than I am. Gunner’s face looked grim but determined. Carney was a mess, but I was glad to see that he still gripped his rifle tightly.
The first floor had already been cleared, swept by M249 fire and grenades. A piece of pony lay next to the stairs and I ignored it.
We leapfrogged up the staircase, covering each other in turn just like we had been trained. That was the great thing about training. It was long, grueling, and unpleasant, but it taught you how to do things instinctively, without having to think about it. Pausing at the landing, Gunner yanked a flashbang grenade off his load-carrying harness and tossed it through the door. “Flash out!”
I closed my eyes and braced against the wall. The ear-shattering blast was over in an instant and we went through the doorway, spreading out to keep any burst of fire from hitting more than one of us.
Two ponies were down, looking dazed and stunned. “Carney, cover them!” ordered Ox. Gunner and I followed Ox through to the next room, meeting up with another fireteam. After declaring the floor secure, it was time to mount the stairs again. The two prisoners we’d taken were left with a support pony while Carney rejoined us.
“Flashes again,” ordered Ox. Gunner nodded and tossed two of the grenades out on the third floor. The two of them went left after the blast while Carney and I swept right. I saw one Brotherhoof member down and holding his ears. Further back, another stallion rolled out from behind cover, raising an AK-47.
I pulled the trigger three times, ensuring the pony would go down and stay there. His blood decorated the wall behind him. Still moving, I swept the muzzle of my rifle around the room, checking behind cover and pieces of equipment that took up the floor.
The next target to pop up was on Carney’s side of the room. It wasn’t my responsibility to cover that area, but I swung my rifle because I didn’t trust Carney. I was right not to. He hesitated, fumbling in surprise. I was an instant late in firing, and the raghead got off one shot before my bullets cut him down.
“Carney! Are you all right?”
I kept my eyes on the room, rifle still ready. I heard hard breathing and some pained moans. Seconds passed, and I tried my hardest not to abandon my vigil. Then Carney spoke.
“I’m okay. The-ouch-my armor stopped the bullet, but it hurts like hell.”
I let out a breath I’d been holding. The shock plates and kevlar might have been heavy, but it was worth its weight in gold. “Are you good?”
“Yeah.” I heard him get up, and he trotted over to me. “Sorry.”
I bet you are, I thought. “Come on.”
I had taken half a step forward when an armed stallion came through the next door. Carney was still slower than I, but at least this time he got a shot off. Good; he was learning. We advanced, stepping over the fallen body.
We reached the end of the building and declared it clear. Coming back, Carney and I met up with Ox and Gunner. They both saw the marred surface of his armor, but didn’t comment. It would have to be declared to the quartermaster who issued the gear, but not until we got back to base.
Back down at street level, we put up a perimeter to protect the rest of our guys as the demolitions ponies went in to organize the destruction of the factory. This was no time to relax, even though a shot hadn’t been fired in our direction for several minutes. I took a moment to glance at Carney’s face. There was a shallow cut on the side of his face from a fragment of bullet that had glanced off his armor, but more importantly I saw how his eyes had changed. He was serious. He now knew what it took to fight and stay alive. Even a lowly PFC like me could see it.
With the explosive charges placed, we got back in the Humvees and pulled back to watch the fireworks. Really, it wasn’t that impressive, just a little puff of smoke from the third floor. We couldn’t just take down the building, as the civilians might not like that too much.
Mission accomplished, we rolled out of town. Carney was still on edge. He didn’t even sing along when the radio played that old Hay Stevens song about Arabians. Something very important had happened to Carney’s attitude. If we were going to survive, if our convoy was going to fight like it should and repel any attackers who thought we were easy pickings, we needed ponies like him-the new him.
I thought a little about going back to base for some nice food and giving AJ a good cleaning. She deserved a little TLC after the day we’d had. I made a mental note to help Carney with his rifle. He’d earned it.
