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Sergeant Charlie Wiggins raced his M-ATV across the Syrian desert. Two soldiers cruising all day along the DCZ border was not the kind of sexy deployment he’d been imagining when he’d signed up for the Minnesota Army National Guard.
Every day at 1600 hours, drive the fifty klicks with his border partner out to the edge of the DCZ. Then spend eight hours running back and forth along his hundred-kilometer section of the zone’s perimeter. He’d run it so many times that he knew every damn pothole and dust mound intimately—an M-ATV was made to be tough, not comfortable.
The Russians—dressed as Syrians, of course—had run a parallel course so many times that there was another worn track a hundred meters to the north. He had no interest in crossing the line and the Russians didn’t dare becau
