Mist covered Will’s visor. It came more from his breath than the outside. Still, it bothered him. He liked being able to see.

At the moment, though, it wasn’t a necessity. Auro-neuro processing chips deep in his ear canal, combined with a low-frequency resonator in his jaw, created a level of sonar perception so highly-detailed, it was eerie. Not even bats had it that good.

Of course, technological marvels came standard with an assignment to the 417th Drop Squad.

At present, Will had a fairly simple objective: chopper duty. Essentially, he stayed in the 3-ton “bird,” waiting for the team to return. Helping him was a pair of floating cameras and the biggest gun he could find onboard.

All he could think of, despite extensive training and more pressing priorities, was Christmas, only 13 minutes and 14 seconds away. Then, it was off to Manitowac, Rebecca and the kids, and Grandma English’s house on the hill, where a pile of red satin boxes lay under a fir tree, waiting…

“…TACT! CONTACT! CONTACT! HIT’EM AND RUN!” The vox had suddenly come to life, and Will could hear gunfire over it. Then, he heard them closer.

Firing madly into the darkness, he screamed. All that answered him was a seven-foot rocket. Pirouetting through the air in a mist of his own blood, he happened to see the time on his misty visor-12:01, DEC 25.

And all he saw were red satin boxes…

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