The assault craft, christened the Vendetta, was a black blur cutting across the Aegean. The twin engines screamed, a high, constant pitch that vibrated through the steel deck and into the marrow of my bones. I sat in the co-pilot seat, my rifle secured, the spray shield protecting me from the cold, violent mist. The scent of salt and burning fuel was the perfume of war.

Rocco, my older brother by twelve minutes, stood at the helm, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed on the distant, dark mass of ...