It was warm for November, at least by the standards of most of the men who had just arrived at Camp Kilmer, New Jersey, for the pending Trans-Atlantic voyage.
I slammed on the brakes, sending Scott forward. He didn’t curse. He was reaching for his M4 as he looked up.
I just nodded my head. Thirty yards in front of us, we could see the little flags in the ground, red and white, in neat rows, some rows completed, some not. Some entirely white, others a combination of red and white. It was part of the extensive United Nations mine-clearing effort in Afghanistan; I had driven us into an old Russian minefield and we were fully in it.