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were only eight targets in the safety brief: the High-Value Individual, the Secondary, and six security guards. What madness drove you to attack my sandwich?”
    Quinn stifled a laugh. “I guess I overthought the test. I wanted to show you that I was covering all the bases”—he shrugged—“and I wanted to give Guns a chance to show off his skills. I had no idea that the room was . . . er . . . occupied.”
    Petrovsky clasped his hands together, lowered his eyes to the floor, and let out a long exhale. “All right, kid, you win,” he said, raising his head and looking Quinn in the eye. I can’t fail you for killing my sandwich. Both of your shots were spot-on, even if one of them almost killed me for real. The rest of the attack was textbook perfect. Go and tell your team that they passed.”
    Quinn cocked his head to one side. “
We
passed?”
    â€œYes, all of you. Your training is now complete. Graduation is at zero nine hundred on Thursday. And heaven help you if I see your face before then. Or ever after. Now get out of here.”

CHAPTER 11
    â€œF irst there!” shouted Haugen, sloshing beer onto the table as he raised his glass.
    â€œThat others may live!” responded Quinn in unison with the others. He had stopped counting how many times they’d shouted the motto, and a few beers back he’d stopped wondering when the manager of the Hog’s Breath Saloon would politely ask them to leave.
    â€œMission Qual is done, little PJ!” yelled Haugen, reaching across and slapping Quinn on the shoulder, sloshing more beer onto the table in the process.
    â€œStop spilling your beer, Guns,” ordered Quinn. “That’s alcohol abuse!” He watched the foamy golden liquid swirl around the bases of the empty beer bottles in front of him. There were only two, along with a pair of shot glasses. Only four drinks? He was buzzing way too much for only four drinks. Then he remembered that the hot waitress in the blue-jean miniskirt had been steadily removing bottles and glasses from the table, replacing them with full ones. There was no telling how much booze he’d had. He smoothed out his short brown hair. Where did that hot waitress go, anyway?
    Quinn knew he’d had too much to drink. But hey, they were celebrating. You only completed the entire Special Tactics Pararescue syllabus once in your lifetime. More than two years of training: survival, parachuting, combat diving, paramedic certification, and a host of other schools, all culminating in tonight’s airfield seizure exercise in the Florida Everglades. In two days, he would graduate from Mission Qual and receive the coveted maroon beret, the mark of a full-fledged Special Tactics pararescueman.
    Haugen and the others would get berets as well, but theirs would be scarlet. They were combat controllers: special ops fighters with the skills to take down an enemy airfield and the expertise to build it back up into a functioning friendly base. In this Mission Qual class, Quinn was the only pararescueman, known in the Special Forces community as a PJ, but the two training pipelines merged at many points. He and Haugen had shared a lot of painful weeks together over the last two years.
    â€œYou’re not keepin’ up, PJ,” said Haugen, pouring more beer into Quinn’s half-full glass. He didn’t seem to care that he was pouring Guinness and Quinn was drinking pilsner. “That was some shot you took at Petrovsky.”
    â€œHe had it coming,” said Quinn with a wicked grin. “He’s treated me like a second-class citizen ever since we got to Mission Qual.”
    â€œHe made you team lead for the final exam,” offered one of the others.
    â€œHe thought he was setting me up to fail,” replied Quinn. “I don’t think he believes PJs should be part of this phase.” He raised a finger and imitated a politician giving a