by Mel Odom
“Corporal,” Goose replied, studying the burn, “are you sure you’re up to this?”
Timmons met Goose’s look with one of his own. “Yes, First Sergeant. We’ve just had a tough night of it. Don’t let the look fool you.
We look ragged but we’re not running ragged. We’re still up and we’re still able.” He glanced at the building. “What have you got for us?”
“Late detonation of a tank or a mortar round,” Robinson answered. “Went off less than five minutes ago. I called as soon as we confirmed the fire. I held my men back because most of them aren’t trained in that kind of SAR.”
Goose knew Robinson had done the right thing under the circumstances. Search and rescue was a specialized field. That was especially true in a building in the middle of an active war zone.
“That delay didn’t cause all that damage,” Timmons responded.
“Negative,” Robinson responded. “That building was hit several times during the initial attack this morning.”
“Been a long time since then.”
“I know. The man we’re in contact with said that he and his family live there. They stayed in the basement during the attack and didn’t come back up until they thought it was safe.”
“Safe?” Timmons said in disbelief.
“They were getting out and had just finished packing when the round went off about five minutes ago. They know other people were killed. They listened to some of them die.”
“And they didn’t notice an artillery round sitting there waiting to go off?” Timmons shook his head.
“Civilians,” Robinson explained. “These people weren’t trained for what’s happened to them in the last few days. Or for what’s going to happen to them next.”
Goose felt antsy and ready to get on with it, but he knew Timmons needed the answers to the questions he was asking. He was also aware that the families might only have minutes left before fire or smoke inhalation took them. Or before another unexploded shell went off. Staying active helped him keep his mind off the rift growing between Cal Remington and himself, and off the loss of Chris.
“If there was one round in there,” Timmons said, “there might be more.”
For a moment Goose thought the man might be looking for a way to deny the rescue.
“But if it wasn’t dangerous,” Timmons said with a painful grin, “everybody’d want to work SAR.” He took an oxygen tank and mask from one of his crew and pulled them on with practiced skill, then told them the frequency his team would operate on while inside the burning structure. “We can’t save the building, First Sergeant. We’re all but out of water. But we’ll get those people out of there.”
“Good luck,” Goose said.
The fire-rescue corporal gave Goose a thumbs-up and headed into the building carrying a fire axe.
The experts were in charge here now. All Goose could do was wait. Not wanting to think about the fiery paths the men trod inside the burning wreck or the family they might not reach in time, Goose looked for some quick distraction.
He tuned his headset to the general frequency and listened to the reports pouring into Command. Ranger recon teams worked to update the city’s damage and losses sector by sector, combining their resources with those of the Turkish and U.N. forces.
The death toll and property loss were staggering. Reporters covered a lot of the action, but even the violence that had once again swept over Sanliurfa was eclipsed by the globalwide disappearances.
One of the newest stories getting a lot of play on the news was about a United Nations address by Romanian President Nicolae Carpathia. He was the same man who had cut off U.S. military access to his communications satellite while keeping OneWorld NewsNet in place in the city.
Goose had dismissed the stories. Carpathia was a politician; he was just seizing headlines the way politicians did to carry out their own agenda. All that remained was to see what his agenda was.
Although several of the reporters seemed to think the U.N. address was a big deal due to the present circumstances around the world, Goose had listened politely when it was mentioned, then gotten on with his recon details. Whatever Carpathia was doing, it couldn’t touch him. He still didn’t even know if he was getting out of his present assignment alive.
Or with a career intact.
Goose told himself that he was overreacting to the confrontation with Remington. But at the same time, subconsciously, he knew he was afraid that the captain was going to step over a line. Cal Remington wasn’t a man who graciously lost an argument or a battle. Whatever steps the captain took against the CIA, if there were repercussions, they would definitely spill over onto his first sergeant.
Clicking back into the rescue frequency, Goose listened as Timmons and his team relayed what they encountered. Robinson’s com gave them information he was able to get from the trapped family. They were on the fourth floor in the southeast corner.
“Lotta glad-to-see-yas, Search Twenty-Two,” the com operator said. “Guy also tells me there may be people in the basement who didn’t get clear.”
“We’ll check it out,” Robinson said in a steady, confident voice. “Get me directions to the basement.”
Goose shifted his weight in an attempt to ease some of the throbbing in his knee. He took his canteen from his hip and drank. In the heat, a soldier was supposed to drink whenever he could, as long as water rations were good, to remain hydrated. Those were standing orders. “Com,” one of Timmons’s SAR men radioed back, “affirmative on the basement-door find. Got a heap of debris blocking the way.”
“Six, this is One,” Timmons said over the com. “Did you get the fire contained in that area?”
“Affirmative, One. We’ve got the fire here contained, but it’s still raining down on us.” The man’s voice sounded strained and alien through the oxygen mask.
“We passed up the ignition point on the second floor, Six,” Robinson replied. “You guys are under the hot spot. Keep an eye on the roof. It could all come down on you.”
Goose watched the building burn and hated the useless feeling he had simply standing here. He needed to be helping, to be doing something to bring life out of death. He couldn’t remember how many dead bodies he’d looked at so far, but he knew he’d never forget their faces. A number of teens, citizens of the city as well as sons and daughters of vacationers, had been among the dead. Thank God there were no children.
And that one small realization, that the children had been spared this massacre, rocked Goose. God loved children. Bill Townsend had always told him that. After Chris had been born, news about kids getting killed or hurt had hit Goose differently, on a more personal level. When one of the soldiers in his unit had lost a son to cancer, Goose had struggled to accept the death. In his mind, that could have been Chris. Children weren’t supposed to die, but they did. The world was filled with monsters, accidents, and diseases.
And he had brought a child into that war zone.
When Goose had turned overprotective, Megan asked Bill what she should do. Bill had interceded and talked to Goose about God then. Goose had listened, tried to understand that children who died were admitted to heaven unconditionally.
The thought of losing Chris had gradually waned. Hearing Bill’s convictions helped Goose, as his advice and counsel always had. Goose missed his friend now. Everything that was going on would have been a little easier, a little more understandable, if Bill hadn’t … left.
That one word stirred up anger in Goose that he really didn’t want, need, or mean. Bill had left. Whether or not he intended to, whether or not he had been given a choice, he’d left.
“Tango Fourteen Leader, this is Nine,” a man’s excited voice called over the headset.
“You’ve got Tango Fourteen Leader,” Robinson said, automatically turning to where he had posted his squad member.
“I got movement up on the rooftops,” the soldier said. “To the west, across from the target building.”
Immediately,
Goose turned to the west, raising his hand to shade his eyes from the sun. He spotted a man rising from the rooftop and fitting a long tube to his shoulder.
Recognizing the RPG-7 rocket launcher from years of experience with them, Goose shouted, “Get down! That’s a hostile!”
A puff of smoke jetted from the back of the RPG-7. Less than a heartbeat later, the missile struck the building and the payload exploded. By that time, another figure popped up on another rooftop and fired another rocket.
Feeling helpless, knowing the combined might of the Rangers, marines, U.N. forces, and Turkish army hadn’t been able to keep out small but determined detachments of enemies, Goose watched as the second rocket struck the target. Further weakened, the building sagged and started collapsing in on itself.
OneWorld NewsNet Mobile Platform
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 1329 Hours
Danielle worked standing up, getting her thoughts down on a yellow legal pad. When things got too crazy or she got too tired to think straight, she worked with paper and a pencil.
Cezar rummaged through the refrigerator and complained about the lack of choices. “You know,” he said, finally selecting frozen pizza and moving toward the microwave, “there are restaurants open. Good restaurants with good food.”
There were, Danielle knew. She’d done interviews with some of the people who had stayed behind to run their businesses. The few who had stayed told her that if they left their businesses, the family would lose everything. It was better, they said, to stay and believe in the Turkish army and their friends, the Americans, and to pray that they could turn the Syrian war machines back as they had been doing.
“Those restaurants,” Gorca said from the corner, where he worked on one of the stalk microphones Danielle used when she needed both hands free, “are run by madmen.”
“The hopefuls,” Cezar argued. “They know the city will be held.”
From everything she’d seen, Danielle didn’t believe that for a minute. Sanliurfa was doomed to become a way station on the Syrian army’s march into the country. It wasn’t going to be a scenic one, though.
“Would you really want to eat anything a madman has prepared?” Gorca challenged. He was irritable because Cezar had slept and he hadn’t been able to. Gorca had bemoaned that fact while watching the younger man sleep earlier, and Danielle had echoed the sentiments. Cezar’s ability to sleep and forget about the war bordered on the inhuman.
“Now—” Cezar held up the microwaved pizza, slipping it from hand to hand to combat the heat—“I am eating this cardboard confection, you know. I tell you, frozen pizza—now that is a madman’s creation. They should be made fresh, piled high with—”
“Miss Vinchenzo,” Bogasieru called from the bank of monitors.
Shifting, grateful for the distraction because listening to Cezar and Gorca argue over anything—which they did frequently, especially over Star Trek episodes—tended to give her headaches, Danielle joined Bogasieru.
“You asked me to keep you apprised of any news concerning First Sergeant Gander,” Bogasieru said.
Since the first sergeant is pretty much the anchor I’m doing these stories around, yeah. But Danielle didn’t say that. She peered at the monitors. At present, OneWorld NewsNet was recycling pieces that had been edited down for brevity. She wasn’t supposed to go live again for a couple hours, when Remington had condescended to give the media a brief interview.
“Where is he?” she asked.
Bogasieru pointed to one of the screens on the lower right. “Here.”
As Danielle watched, she spotted the first sergeant kneeling beside a Hummer and bringing his assault rifle to his shoulder. In front of him, an explosion struck a burning building, igniting a dust cloud and sending large chunks of debris flying. The building buckled, caving in like a fighter past his prime who’d taken one punch too many.
“Where is that?” Danielle asked.
Bogasieru didn’t answer, just tapped on his keyboard. The monitor beside the one showing the attack suddenly opened on a gridded map of the city.
“We have been tracing the actions of the other media groups in the city,” Bogasieru said, “using the satellite array. I’ll know the location in just a moment.”
Yellow horizontal and vertical lines started coming together on the monitor. The gridded map of Sanliurfa magnified as the double sets of lines closed.
Danielle’s sat-phone rang. Thinking it was Stolojan calling to make sure she was on the story, she scooped the phone from her hip and said, “I’m on it.”
“Hello?”
The feminine voice startled Danielle, but she watched the action on the screen as the Rangers went into action. First Sergeant Gander returned fire from cover of the Hummer.
“Who is this?” Danielle asked.
“My name is Simona. I am sister to Lizuca.”
From the distraught tone in the young woman’s voice, Danielle knew something was wrong.
“Forgive my call,” Simona said. “I got your number from my mother, yes? She could no make the phone call. Not after what happened to Lizuca.”
A chill ghosted through Danielle. “What happened to Lizuca?”
The young woman’s voice broke and she cried. When she spoke, her voice got higher and higher till it was squeaking at the end. “Poor Lizuca. My poor sister. She is murder!”
The announcement froze Danielle’s brain. She thought she couldn’t have heard what she’d just heard. “What happened?” Simona cried for a time.
Danielle watched the attack on the monitor, her attention torn and the need to do something almost overwhelming.
“Lizuca,” Simona said in a halting voice, “she is go to café, yes? To get computer information for you as she say. While she there, a man, he come up to her.” She cried softly, and Danielle heard the keening of an older woman in the background. “This man, he say her name; then he shoot her.”
Stunned, Danielle didn’t know what to say. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“I must go now,” Simona said. “We have many things to do to prepare for my sister funeral, yes?”
A thousand questions hammered at Danielle’s brain. “What happened to the man who shot Lizuca?”
“He get away. He have gun. No one stop him.”
“Was he identified?”
Lizuca’s mother called out. The only thing Danielle recognized was Simona’s name.
Simona answered rapidly in her native language. “I must go, Miss Vinchenzo, yes?” Simona said. “My mother, she needs me.”
“Of course,” Danielle said. “Did they identify the man who shot Lizuca?”
“No. That man, he get away. No catch. No identify. No find. The police, they still looking. I must go take care of my mother.”
“If there’s anything I can do,” Danielle offered.
“Pray for us,” Simona suggested.
The phone clicked dead in Danielle’s ear.
Bogasieru looked up at her. “I have the location.” He handed her a computer printout with directions to the building where the Rangers were under attack.
Danielle took yellow, lined paper, then wrote Lizuca Carutasu’s name on a section of it. She gave the paper to Bogasieru.
“This woman was just murdered in Bucharest at a café,” Danielle said. “I want you to find out as much information about the shooting as you can.”
Bogasieru frowned at the piece of paper. “Bucharest is not part of our assignment, Miss Vinchenzo.”
Danielle held on to her anger and pain as she shrugged into her gear. She looked at the man. “Find. Out.”
Bogasieru held her gaze for only a moment. Then he dropped his eyes. “Of course.” He swiveled back to the computers.
Looking at Cezar and Gorca, who had already grabbed their gear and didn’t look happy as they stared at the monitor over Bogasieru’s shoulder, Danielle said, “Let’s roll.”
“I’m driving,” Cezar said.
“No,” Gorca said
with quiet but firm authority. “I will drive.”
By the time they got outside to the Jeep carrying OneWorld NewsNet identification plastered all over it and flying from a twentyfoot whip antenna, Danielle had already slid behind the steering wheel. Cezar hurried around to the passenger side while Gorca hoisted himself onto the rear deck with deep resignation.
Danielle reached under the seat for the keys and turned the engine over. As she drove, she tried to sort through her thoughts and her guilt. It wasn’t working.
What was that unidentified CIA section chief hiding that called for the murder of a young woman in Bucharest? What did OneWorld NewsNet have in its corporate files that the CIA agent would be willing to kill over?
She didn’t know, but she was determined to find out. Whatever the information was, Lizuca Carutasu had gotten killed because she’d tried to find out who the CIA man was.
And Danielle knew she had put the young woman in harm’s way. Licuza’s death was her fault.
United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 1335 Hours
“Air support,” Goose called over the headset as he stripped an empty magazine from his M-4A1 and shoved a fresh one home. “This is Phoenix Leader. Do you copy?”
“Affirmative, Phoenix Leader,” the crisp voice responded. “We are en route to your twenty.”
Shoving himself back up behind the Hummer, Goose pulled his assault rifle to his shoulder and took aim at one of the three buildings their attackers held. He pulled the trigger, spacing three-round bursts across the rooftop, chewing through the thirty-round magazine in seconds.
So far, they hadn’t identified their attackers. They wore street clothes and burnooses, but so did a lot of Sanliurfa’s citizens and some of the city’s visitors. But they came equipped with rocket launchers and assault rifles.
During the morning, at other spots throughout the city, the military forces had been attacked by Syrian soldiers caught behind the lines as well as PKK members and other terrorists who had elected to serve whatever convictions drove them. As paranoid as the soldiers defending the city were, the strategy was probably to get the armies firing at shadows. With the division of Turkish, American, and European soldiers, a few cases of friendly fire because of itchy trigger fingers could go a long way to breaking up the partnership they’d been forced to undertake.