The Kiowas were in formation, one behind the other. They were slowing down and coming into hover above the garage. Less than 50 yards away, on a nearby building roof top, a man stood up and brought an RPG to his shoulder. From my vantage there was no noise, but the rocket propelled grenade left a trail of smoke that swiftly found the rear chopper. The explosion separated the tail boom from the rest and it rapidly pitched forward and spun clockwise as it came down. The main rotors sliced through the lead chopper and in an instant I saw one body fall from the seat, neatly cut in two. Both choppers fell to the ground in a single burning mass of black smoke.

An Apache gunship opened fire and the man with the RPG disappeared in a series of rapid explosions from the 20 mm cannon fire.

“Fuck Fuck Fuck,” shouted Rodgers.

“Who is going to do the assault now?” I asked.

Rodgers looked at Clarke, and got a brief nod in reply. Clarke reached behind his seat and retrieved two M4 rifles.

“You’re shitting me,” I said.