by Mel Odom
“I don’t want nobody else in here.” The trembling sound in Leslie’s voice intensified. “If you’ve got somebody with you … if you do … ”
“I don’t have anyone with me,” Megan said into the ominous silence that followed. “I’m alone.”
“If someone comes with you, it’s gonna be bad.” Leslie’s words broke and grated.
God, Megan prayed as she continued on trembling legs and knees that felt like watery ligaments, watch over us. Give Leslie the strength and guide me as I try to find a way to free her from the fear she feels. I don’t want to be shot, and I don’t want her hurt.
Megan knew if Leslie fired on her, the MPs would rush the house in an effort to save her. Nothing would hold them back at that point. For the first time, she realized how much she had upped the stakes by choosing to pursue the face-to-face confrontation with Leslie. Megan looked around the house. She’ll be all right. We’ll be all right. She was raised by good parents. She just needs someone to talk to her and explain what’s going on.
Although small and modest like most of the other base houses, the Hollisters had made their home comfortable and cozy. The living room held solid, carefully chosen pieces of furniture—a wide couch and matching his and her chairs facing an entertainment center filled with electronics.
A collection of family pictures adorned the wall, showing the three Hollisters on vacations or at events. The images made Megan feel sad. Despite the challenges Leslie faced and those she had presented to her parents, Leslie had enjoyed a good life.
But that was over.
No, Megan told herself. Not over. Just changed. She remembered the church sermons she’d attended that talked about the glories that awaited believers in heaven. And the best is yet to come. She just had to find a way to convince Leslie of that.
The living room adjoined the dining room, carefully presented and clean. Pictures of fruit and farmhouses hung on the walls. Linda Hollister had enjoyed success as a homemaker. The woman’s mark showed in every room in the house.
Megan halted at the hallway off the living room. Bedrooms lay at either end behind closed doors. Television voices emanated from both rooms. More family pictures covered the hallway walls, showing generations of family in black and white as well as color. The family, both sides evidently, sported a long line of military men in uniform, on battlefields, and in front of tanks, ships, and planes.
“Leslie,” Megan called.
“My room’s to the right, Mrs. Gander.” Leslie’s voice sounded smaller and more scared.
“All right.” Megan followed the hallway to the door. She placed her hand on the knob, watching with bright interest as her hand shook. “Leslie.”
“Yes.”
“I’m outside the door.”
“It isn’t locked.”
“I’m coming in.”
“Okay.”
Please don’t shoot. Megan took a final deep breath and told herself that talking with Leslie Hollister in her room wasn’t that much different than talking to someone in her base office. Only it was.
She turned the knob and pushed the door open. Instinctively, she held her hands up and out at her sides and stood her ground, praying that her trembling knees wouldn’t give out.
Posters of half-naked rock-star singers and actors covered all four walls. Guys in Speedos with wildly dyed hair and body piercings and tattoos warred with guys in unbuttoned flannel shirts, tattered jeans, and cowboy hats. Leslie’s interests apparently leaned toward a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll.
Megan recognized fewer than half the faces on those posters, but the room possessed a familiar feel. During her teen years, she had covered her walls with posters of rock bands and Chippendale models. Her father had railed against them when he had found them, but her mother had campaigned for her right to self-expression. Teens struggled for individuality, and in doing so, tended to be like every other teen, never knowing they were so like their parents at the same age. Only the accessories were different.
A notebook computer lay open on a small student desk next to a compact vanity cluttered with cosmetics, brushes, and curling irons. Small stuffed animals adorned the desk and the vanity. Pictures—primarily Polaroids but sharing space with 35mm shots and what looked like computer printouts—ringed the mirror of the vanity like a border, tucked in under the corners of the frame holding the reflective surface secure.
A small entertainment unit held a TV, DVD player, and an orange-and-white boom box that looked like the head of a robotic insect. Silent images flickered across the television screen. Megan’s quick glance showed her that the news story covered the military action taking place in Turkey. The station ID, FOX News, occupied one corner, but the main slug showed that the footage currently showing came from OneWorld NewsNet.
The footage revealed that—except for explosions and tracer fire—it was dark in Turkey, but it was a day ahead in Fort Benning. Tomorrow had arrived there, and for a moment the idea that Megan was watching tomorrow’s events today again struck her as ludicrous.
The television held a hypnotic intensity for her. Joey had told her how he’d seen Goose on a live broadcast right after the action erupted along the Turkish-Syrian border. In the days that had passed, few indepth news shorts regarding the conflict hadn’t contained the striking image of Goose hauling the wounded marine from the downed helicopter right after the rescue attempt fell from the sky. It was an image that had caught the scattered attention of the world. At least, the part of the world that had fathers and sons in the military.
“Mrs. Gander.”
Guilt washed over Megan as she turned to face Leslie Hollister. Megan hadn’t forgotten the girl, but in that frozen moment with the television images, nothing else had mattered.
Leslie sat on the floor with her back against the wall near the foot of her unmade bed. Plates and bowls of barely touched food—potato chips, Twinkies, miniature chocolate bars, and microwave meals—shared the bed and floor space with clothing. Plastic bottles of juices, soft drinks, and sports supplements added to the mess. The lingering acrid bite of marijuana smoke hung in the air, mixing with the turgid stink of incense.
Judging from the rest of the house and the pictures of Leslie and her friends taken in the bedroom, the room usually didn’t look as disheveled. Leslie Hollister’s bedroom was as much a battlefield as Sanliurfa, Turkey.
Realizing that, and hoping that she could do something to alleviate the girl’s painful confusion, Megan stood facing the young teen. “Leslie.” Despite the automatic impulse, she didn’t ask how the girl was doing; they both already knew the answer to that.
Pale and bordering on anorexic, Leslie sat with her knees folded up nearly to her chin. Her long blonde hair, frizzy and uncombed, draped her blade-thin shoulders. She wore silver-gray capri pants and a teal sleeveless sweater. A tiny gold cross rested at her throat, shining against the sweater fabric. A silver toe ring glittered on her left foot.
Her face appeared as pasty as bread dough. The bloodshot blue eyes were washed out and almost colorless except for the red. Her mouth was so grim and thin it looked like a bloodless straight-razor slash.
The .45 semiautomatic pistol Leslie held cupped in both hands atop her knees made her look even smaller.
United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0438 Hours
Captain Cal Remington stood on top of the three-story building and surveyed the battlefield that had taken over the city he was supposed to defend. He choked back the rage and frustration that filled him. He swore inside his head, thinking dark and vile things, but never gave vent to any of the words over the radio link.
Command had given him a losing proposition. And now fate—and the blasted Syrians—seemed determined to add insult to injury. He didn’t let himself think of the men dying under his command out in the streets of Sanliurfa. He couldn’t. Thinking like that made every decision he made too personal, too hea
vy.
On making the decision to become an officer, he’d stepped away from personal involvement with the men under him. They were tools, just like the vehicles and weapons he put into the field. He trained himself to think like a strategist and realize that acceptable losses had to be made to attain an objective.
Or to hold on to one, he told himself bitterly. What he was going through now, though, wasn’t anywhere in the neighborhood of acceptable.
The holding assignment Command he currently headed up wasn’t one he’d have wished on anyone. He was in charge of cannon fodder, strictly a time-delay tactic, and he knew it. The losses galled him. He didn’t mind losing men to hang on to something or to reach a goal, but losing them just to run in place was too much.
Only the fact that Icarus and Section Chief Alexander Cody of the Central Intelligence Agency remained within the city as well offered him any solace. With them present, there was a chance Remington could salvage something from the godforsaken mission. The CIA agents searching for their wayward undercover man, missing since the action that possibly precipitated the Syrian attack against Turkey, worked to keep a low profile with all the international media people in place in the city. But they couldn’t stay off the Ranger captain’s radar once he’d identified them.
Remington had assigned teams to keep Cody and his men under surveillance. He’d also set up checkpoints around the city, identifying everyone who came and went to the best of his ability. The United Nations teams and Turkish army entrenched with them helped.
With all the traffic into and out of the city, Remington knew he couldn’t be certain he hadn’t missed the man, but Cody’s agents remained in place. Remington used their presence as a litmus test. If Cody and his team disappeared, then undoubtedly Icarus had disappeared as well.
But Cody was here now. So were his agents. It stood to reason that Icarus was also.
The Ranger captain wanted Icarus, wanted to know why Icarus had run from the agency after he’d sent a Ranger team in to rescue him, wanted the covert agent’s secrets and the power those secrets would bring. If Remington was doomed to ride out the onslaught massed outside Sanliurfa’s borders, he was determined to have something to show for his time. Icarus was a big prize. Remington was certain of that.
The deaths of two CIA agents in Sanliurfa the same night of the attack lent even more credence to that belief. Lieutenant Nick Perrin, the man Remington used for covert activities of his own—including the search for Icarus and the surveillance of Cody’s CIA team—believed that the agents had found Icarus and he’d killed them to effect his escape. If the Rangers still had access to the satellite network owned by OneWorld NewsNet, searching the city would have progressed more easily. They didn’t have that access, though.
Remington directed a few more curses at Nicolae Carpathia, the CEO of NewsNet and the man responsible for the decision to withdraw that satellite access. A leading businessman in his country, Carpathia had received the presidency of Romania on a silver platter when the president had stepped down and named Carpathia as his successor the day before the attack. The satellites on loan from OneWorld had given Remington an edge over the Syrians, who had lost their own access to the limited sources they had when the disappearances had occurred. The satellites would have continued giving the U.S. military the edge inside the city.
CIA Agent Cody had put Remington in contact with Carpathia. At first Carpathia had oozed generosity, saying he was interested in having a Western influence in the Middle East. Then Carpathia had developed an international social conscience less than seventy-two hours later. Remington still wasn’t certain of the reason for that. However the change of heart had come about, the timing roughly coincided with Carpathia’s receipt of an invitation to speak before the United Nations in New York City. President Fitzhugh had helped roll out the red carpet.
In the meantime, the 75th Ranger Regiment bled and died as sacrificial lambs.
Perspiration slid down Remington’s body under the heavy Kevlar and BDUs he wore. Dust and smoke caked his face and exposed skin. His mouth was parched and dry, and he thought he would never again taste anything but dirt.
But his mind worked. No matter what else went on around him, he considered the actions he had open to him. The Syrian army’s use of the American dead left behind from the border conflict had caught him by surprise and he felt embarrassed by that. Armies in the Middle East had used the bodies of fallen comrades against city defenders even back into biblical days.
Remington stared after the Syrian tanks and jeeps that rumbled deeper into Sanliurfa. He regretted the men that died under the onslaught of Syrian armor, his Rangers as well as the United Nations soldiers and the Turkish military. Dying here tonight meant that those men couldn’t die again later when he might need them even more. He was quickly running out of resources, and that fact was an increasing irritation to him.
An AH-1W Whiskey Cobra gunship cut the air over his head. Hovering low, the helicopter presented a fat target to the Syrians invading Sanliurfa as well as the troops stationed outside the city. Three other Cobras flew low over the city, cutting the area into quadrants. Bullets struck sparks as they ricocheted from the helicopter’s sides or punctured the metal and passed through. Enemy small-arms fire provided some danger, but the Syrians boasted .50-cal sniper rifles that were capable of punching through the light armor the helos carried.
“Phoenix Leader,” Remington said. “This is Control.”
“Go, Leader.” Goose sounded confident but a little agitated. There was no indication that the earlier break in communication would repeat.
Remington looked to the east where the Syrian armor had rolled through the barricade. All he saw was a roiling cloud of dust lit by tracer rounds and flames from the surrounding gutted buildings. “I’ve got the birds in the air awaiting your go.”
“Affirmative. Preparing to light up the lead target.”
Remington jogged to the building’s edge and peered down. Goose’s plan was desperate, but it had merit. The ability to think on his feet, to assess an unfavorable situation and find leverage within it was only one of the many reasons Remington had kept his friend close after completing Officer Candidate School and working his way up to captain’s bars.
“Nighthawk Leader, this is Control. Are you patched into the loop?” Remington glanced up at the nearest helicopter. He didn’t know if that was the gunship that held the Whiskey team leader. All the Cobra pilots were marines from USS Wasp.
Captain Falkirk, the ship’s captain, and Colonel Henry Donaldson, the commander of the marine contingent on board the seven-vessel 26th MEU(SOC) deployed in the Mediterranean Sea, had given generously of their men and equipment, but they had their own problems. With the rash of disappearances around the globe, the U.S. military had taken severe hits, leaving holes in the supply infrastructure as well as in front lines in all hot zones. Supplies came late or not at all, and Remington knew that the U.S. ships had become targets for terrorist organizations as well as for the Syrian navy.
“Nighthawk Leader reads you, Control.” The radio communications carried the tinny sound of static.
“Phoenix Leader is ready.” Remington checked the Syrian line to the south and saw that the armored division held steady.
“Roger that, Control. Light ‘em up, Phoenix, and we’ll take ‘em down.”
Remington silently hoped the marine pilot proved as able as he sounded confident. Glancing back toward the point the advancing rolling stock inside the city had reached, only blocks from the hospital, Remington said, “You’re greenlighted, Phoenix Leader.”
“Affirmative,” Goose replied. “Nighthawk, the bogeys are running double-stacked, standard two-by-two deployment. Don’t know if you’ll see that from up there.”
“Not a problem, Phoenix. We just appreciate getting to do some good in here.”
The Syrian armor also ran without using the main guns or the machine guns at the moment. Remington knew the teams were conserving ammo ro
unds, using the forty-ton behemoths to take out buildings, vehicles, and fighting positions. The enemy armor ran silent and deep through the sea of smoke and dust, invisible to the forward-looking infrared and thermal-imaging capabilities of the helos.
“Fire in the hole,” Goose announced.
Remington didn’t see the MPIM squad that Goose had assigned to the task of firing on the lead Syrian tanks, but he saw the halo of fire that ignited between buildings a few blocks over. The dusty haze made clear sight of the area impossible, but there was no mistaking the red ball of fire that leaped up from the MPIM’s target.
Goose had suggested using 40mm red phosphorus rounds to mark the locations of the armor for the aerial units. Red phosphorus was an incendiary, normally used for clearing trenches, bunkers, and buildings with the blazing explosion the grenade meted out. With the action shaping up to take place in the streets of Sanliurfa, the Rangers carrying M-79s, M-203s, and MPIM grenade launchers had taken to the field with the 40mm munitions.
The bright light of the phosphorus contained in the grenades would normally disable infrared devices and throw off thermographic imaging. With the dust and smoke hanging thick in the air, those systems were out of play. Now, however, the phosphorous grenades showed up brightly against the dingy shadows that filled the city.
A bright red bubble of light nestled in the street only two blocks from the hospital buildings.
Remington waited because there was nothing else he could do.
“Phoenix Leader,” the marine helo pilot called with a trace of enthusiasm, “stand clear of that hot zone. We see your target designation and we have the ball.”
“Affirmative, Nighthawk. We’re clear.”
As Remington watched, the Whiskey Cobra twisted in the air and dove, making a run above the street where the invasion had come from. Equipped with a three-barrel, rotary 20mm cannon mounted on the turret that the gunner operated with a chin mount, a pair of LAU-68 rocket-launcher pods on the inside of the stubby wings, and eight TOW missiles on the outside of the wings, the Whiskey Cobras were deadly aerial predators.