Apocalypse unleashed lb-4

by Mel Odom

  Despite the uninhibited display, Megan was paying only slight attention. Her mind had seized on the idea that the old woman had set forth.

  What they needed-what they all needed-was a sense of family. That was why so many teens had crashed at Megan’s house. They had nowhere else to go to get that sense of family. Otherwise they’d have gone there.

  It was a sobering realization, and it made her miss Goose even more fiercely.

  “Megan! Megan!” Dorthea Whitlow came around the corner and peered into the vending area. “I thought I saw you in here.”

  Panicked, Megan gave her full attention to Dorthea. The other woman was about her age, but she didn’t have a husband or children.

  “You’ve got to come.” Dorthea waved one hand.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s on television. The Syrians just crossed over the border. They’re headed into Harran now.”

  Megan recognized the name. That was where Goose was. She hurried after Dorthea as they hustled back to the nurses’ station.

  Oh, God, please don’t let anything happen to Goose.

  17

  United States 75th Army Rangers Outpost

  Harran

  Sanliurfa Province, Turkey

  Local Time 0727 Hours

  Heat shimmered across the drylands between Harran and the advancing line of Syrian armored. Fighter jets continued assaulting the city. Waves of cannonfire and rockets destroyed the beehive houses.

  Goose lugged an FIM-92 Stinger missile launcher to one of the forward buildings. A young private named Fernando Sanchez followed him and humped spare rockets for the weapon. Goose carried one in the launcher and two more across his back.

  The Harran outpost had ten launchers. Some of them were U.S. Army-issued. Others had been scavenged from the UN and Turkish equipment that was initially left behind at the border when everything had started weeks ago. Goose didn’t feel bad about appropriating the weapons or anything else they’d managed to scavenge. The Rangers were primarily the ones standing against the Syrian offensive. They needed the hardware.

  A Syrian jet flew overhead. The cannons opened fire and decimated a nearby machine-gun nest. Thankfully the Rangers manning it had time to break for cover before the missiles hit, but the. 50-cal machine gun became a superheated, twisted chunk of scrap. The sandbags ruptured and created a miniature sandstorm.

  “Falcon Leader.” Goose spoke into the headset as he readied the Stinger launcher. Falcon Leader was Lieutenant Swindoll’s call sign.

  “I read you, Falcon Three.”

  “Pull the soldiers from the machine-gun nests.”

  “Why? We need them there.”

  “They’re going to be casualties if you don’t. The hostiles have marked most of their twenties. They’re targeting them.”

  Another jet launched an attack. This time radio contact was immediate. “We’re hit! We’re hit! I need help! Somebody help me!”

  Goose’s heart went out to the injured soldier. Then he focused on his task. Get your part done. That’s all you can do. You do your part; everybody else’s part will get done too.

  “Get me ready,” Goose said as he pulled the launcher onto his shoulder.

  Sanchez slapped the BCU into place in the Stinger’s handguard. The battery coolant unit hissed as it shot argon gas and a chemical energy charge into the weapon. The Stinger’s targeting and acquisition systems came online. Without the BCU, the system wouldn’t work.

  With the Stinger locked and loaded, Goose trailed the fighter jet. The weapons system beeped to let him know the target had been acquired. His finger slid into place, and he fired.

  The Stinger missile was about five feet in length and weighed almost twenty-three pounds. When it left the launcher, powered by a small ejection motor, the recoil was noticeable. The load on Goose’s shoulder was immediately less; only the twelve and a half pounds of launcher rested there now.

  The missile headed skyward; then the solidfuel, two-stage motor kicked to life and accelerated it up to over Mach 2. The fighter jet had slowed to initiate its attack on the Ranger ground forces. As a result, it was almost a sitting duck for the Stinger.

  “Load me,” Goose ordered as he watched the missile intercept the Syrian jet’s left engine. Sanchez slapped another missile into place, using one of the four he carried instead of the two Goose had. If they became separated, Goose could still fire the launcher on his own, but not without ammunition.

  The Stinger detonated and turned the fighter jet into a fireball that shed pieces of broken aircraft like a dog shaking off water.

  “Ready.” Sanchez slapped the top of Goose’s helmet. Goose searched the sky for another target. Another jet, farther out, swooped in for the kill. A brief glance at the readout showed Goose the target was twenty thousand feet out. It was well within the 12,500-foot ceiling of the Stinger, but it needed to be another four thousand-plus feet closer.

  C’mon, Goose thought as he tracked the fighter jet and waited for the acquisition beep. He couldn’t help thinking that Rangers were in the enemy pilot’s sights and were about to die.

  The Stinger beeped, and the system showed a solid, steady signal.

  Goose fired. The missile streaked away and kicked in the solidfuel afterburners.

  “Load me.”

  In the sky, the Stinger closed on the fighter jet. Evidently the onboard systems warned the pilot he’d been targeted. He tried to take evasive action, breaking and rolling to the right. The missile passed through the space the jet had been; then the heat-seeking systems autocorrected the warhead’s trajectory and sent it back after the fighter jet. Less than a second later, the missile sped into the aircraft’s jet engine and detonated, tearing the wing off. The fuselage careened wildly out into the empty lands and exploded when it struck the ground.

  Sanchez slapped Goose’s helmet. “You’re loaded, Sarge. Good shooting.”

  “Thanks.” Goose didn’t take any glory in the kills. Soldiers were separated by necessity, but they were usually cut from the same cloth. Those men had families they wouldn’t be going home to tonight, but it was better that Goose’s men went home to theirs when a choice had to be made.

  He snugged the Stinger launcher into his shoulder and looked for another jet. When he spotted one, he started to sight in on it when he saw another Stinger missile lift from the ground in pursuit. The Syrian turned into a flaming midair mass and rained down over the other side of the city.

  “Falcon Leader,” someone called over the headset. “This is Falcon Two.”

  Goose listened intently. Falcon Two was Lieutenant Wolper. He was in charge of the front line.

  “Go, Two,” Swindoll replied.

  “We’ve got hostiles at the door.” Fullauto fire rattled around Wolper’s words, interspersed by the reports of the main guns of the approaching Syrian tanks.

  Fall back, Goose thought, urging Swindoll to make the call. Sell them real estate, but do it an inch at a time. You can’t hold it.

  “Pull back to the second line,” Swindoll ordered.

  Goose searched the sky for another fighter jet, but there didn’t appear to be any. Evidently the Stinger response had persuaded the Syrians that the cost in hardware was too high to continue. On the other hand, the tanks and APCs were now close enough to do considerable damage.

  “Falcon Three, this is Falcon Eleven.” The soldier’s voice sounded tense. Machine-gun fire chased his words.

  Goose’s mind spun. Falcon Eleven was Corporal Brett Rainier, also one of the Stinger crews. A map of the city unfurled in Goose’s head. Rainier was a hundred yards or so to the southwest.

  “Eleven, you’ve got Three.”

  “We’re under attack by hostiles, Sarge.” Panic clawed at Rainier’s words. “They came outta nowhere. They’ve got us pinned down.”

  “Understood. I’m on my way.” Goose turned and handed the Stinger to Sanchez. “Stay here. Kept this zone clear of jets. If you have to go, go. I’ll find you.”


  Sanchez nodded. “Good luck, Sarge.”

  “You stay frosty, son. A cool head will see you through this.” Goose slipped the two extra missiles from his back, took his M-4A1 into his hands, and ran for Rainier’s position, praying he wasn’t too late.

  Local Time 0731 Hours

  A burst of machine-gun fire sent Danielle diving to the ground near one of the mudbrick houses. She’d been listening to the sound of the big guns and the gunfire from the jets overhead. Hearing the sound at ground level was unnerving.

  Gary slid down beside her.

  Danielle looked at him, seeing the fear in his eyes and knowing she wore it in hers too. “Where did that come from?”

  Gary shook his head. “Don’t know. Close.”

  More machine-gun fire ripped into life just ahead of her. Danielle pressed against the mudbrick house and tried to imagine she was no bigger than another layer of dust. This time bullets chopped through the house and punched out fist-size holes.

  “Danielle, what’s going on there?” The voice came over the earpiece she wore that connected her to OneWorld NewsNet. “We’re getting a picture of the ground, but not much else.”

  Gary grimaced and lifted the camera to his shoulder.

  The voice belonged to Vincent Terrell, the late night New York anchor at OneWorld NewsNet. Nicolae Carpathia’s news program had been granted an emergency twenty-four-hour news channel in the United States market only weeks ago.

  OneWorld no longer had to depend on other channels to carry its feeds. It now owned a large share of the viewing market because it had reporters in the field in all the hotspots and because its communications satellites worked better than anyone else’s. The fact that Terrell was able to talk to Danielle in real time was proof of that.

  “I don’t know. I think we’re under attack.” Danielle slid back up the wall and got her nerves under control.

  “We’ve still got the advancing Syrian army in view. They’re some distance from Harran.”

  Fullauto roars sounded again.

  “Can you lock in on my position?” Danielle peered around the side of the house.

  “Give us a minute.” Terrell sounded incredibly calm.

  Of course he is. He’s not the one getting shot at. Danielle stared at the scars from bullets that tracked the house. It was scary how easily she identified the holes as ammunition damage. Way too much familiarity.

  Danielle looked back at Gary. “Are you good?”

  “Man, I don’t know if I’m ever going to be good again.”

  “Can you keep that camera going?”

  “Yes.”

  Focusing, Danielle eased out around the house and followed the sound of the weapons fire. Only a little farther ahead, she saw a man clad in Bedouin robes scale one of the flat-roofed houses and slip a rifle from his shoulder.

  Looking down at the house, Danielle spotted a U.S. Army helmet through the window. She caught a glimpse of a blood-smeared, frightened face. The Bedouin man’s intent was immediately interpretable.

  Before she knew what she was doing, Danielle shouted, “Look out! There’s someone on the roof!”

  The Bedouin man turned and brought his rifle to his shoulder. Other Bedouins beside the building stepped into view and brought up their weapons as well. Staring down the muzzles of the weapons, Danielle was convinced she was only a heartbeat away from death.

  Then someone hit her broadside and knocked her back and down. A shadow fell across her, blotting out the morning sun and creating an instant barrier between her and the Bedouins.

  Even in profile, with the buttstock of the M-4A1 blocking part of his face, Danielle recognized the soldier.

  Goose.

  18

  United States 75th Army Rangers Outpost

  Harran

  Sanliurfa Province, Turkey

  Local Time 0733 Hours

  Standing over Danielle Vinchenzo, Goose leveled the M-4A1 and fired by instinct. Instead of using the assault rifle, he pulled the trigger on the M-203 grenade launcher mounted under the rifle barrel. The 40mm grenade thumped from the launcher and struck in the middle of the Bedouins.

  Knowing he’d be fighting at close quarters around his own men, Goose had loaded a high-explosive round in the launcher’s chamber instead of an antipersonnel grenade. The area of effect would be reduced, and the likelihood of hurting a fellow soldier-if he used the weapon judiciously-was reduced. He felt certain the thick mudbrick walls would protect the Rangers inside the house.

  The HE round exploded and flung five Bedouins backward. The lead man who had taken the brunt of the detonation was dead, his chest and face almost obliterated.

  The Bedouin on the rooftop tried to keep his weapon on target. Rounds chewed into the mud bricks beside Goose. At least one of them ricocheted off his Kevlar vest and drove some of the wind from his lungs.

  Forcing himself to remain standing and alert, Goose pulled the M-4A1 toward the Bedouin and slid his finger over the carbine’s trigger. He stitched a three-round burst from the Bedouin’s right hip to his left shoulder. The man stood for just a moment, then toppled from the roof.

  By that time the Bedouins on the ground had semirecovered. They fumbled for their weapons and brought them up as Goose fired the M-4A1. The bullets chopped two of the Bedouins down, but two others escaped.

  “Falcon Eleven.” Goose had to force the words from his mouth as his lungs labored for air. The run and then the ricochet had left him short of breath.

  “I’m reading you, Sarge.”

  “You got two hostiles in your twenty. I’m right outside. How are you?”

  “Got a man down, Sarge. He’s leaking all over the place. I’ve been hit.”

  “Affirmative. You sit tight, and I’ll come get you out of there.” Goose looked back at Danielle.

  The reporter lay sprawled in the dirt, just now getting her breath back. Dirt covered one side of her face. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.

  “That was a brave thing you did, ma’am, but you need to stay back now. This is going to be bloody.”

  Danielle nodded.

  Staying low, the carbine held across his body, Goose sprinted across the open space. His knee ached but held together. The sounds of the battle and the approach of the Syrian heavy armor echoed all around him. The sun beat down on him unmercifully.

  Somewhere ahead of him, at least two hostiles were in motion, and the close-set houses were a rat’s warren.

  United States of America

  Fort Benning, Georgia

  Local Time 0034 Hours

  Aching inside, Megan watched the video footage of the battle in Harran. She hated how helpless she felt while Goose laid his life on the line.

  The picture was tagged with a slug line at the bottom: Live Feed from Special OneWorld NewsNet Correspondent Danielle Vinchenzo.

  On the television screen hanging from the ceiling in the break room, Goose went forward into the mass of bodies that had been scattered by his weapon. The camera followed his movement, and the swaying camera motion only added to the sick feeling churning Megan’s stomach.

  “You just hold on to yourself, girlfriend.” Evelyn threw her arms around Megan and held her fiercely. “That man of yours is savvy. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “I should be there.” Megan’s voice was hoarse. “I should be there. Not here. Those men over there, they don’t have anybody. With the situation being what it is, they’re not going to come home anytime soon. The Bible talks so much about the final battle being fought in the Middle East.” She shook her head and fought her tears. “That’s where they’re going to serve until this thing is finished.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Goose kept moving forward till he disappeared around the house.

  Danielle Vinchenzo, captured in the camera’s eye, waited a moment. Then she grabbed the cameraman’s sleeve and pulled him forward. From the erratic movement of the camera, it was easy to see that his compliance was anything but willin
g.

  “I do know that.” Megan tried to hold on to that last view of Goose. “Those men are going to be there. As long as they’re able to fight. The Holy Land is going to be the eye of the storm.”

  “Megan’s right,” one of the other women gathered in the break room said. “When the Antichrist comes-and he will-events are going to unfold over there that are going to bring about the end of days. It’s all in the Bible. All you have to do is read it.”

  “That doesn’t mean those men are going to be the ones stuck over there.” Evelyn remained stubborn.

  “They will be,” Megan said. “The Rangers are always put in the line of fire.” And she couldn’t imagine Goose stepping away from the duty he’d sworn to see through.

  “We should be there,” a young woman said. Tears ran down her cheeks as she watched the television.

  Megan looked at the woman, whose words echoed her own thoughts. They should be there. Those of them that still had family members in Turkey should be with them.

  Gunshots cracked through the television speakers. Megan jumped. Evelyn tightened her grip and offered soothing encouragement.

  I should be there, Megan thought and felt guilty that she hadn’t realized that before.

  United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post

  Sanliurfa, Turkey

  Local Time 0735 Hours

  Cal Remington watched the action on the television feed that had opened on one of the computers. Danielle Vinchenzo’s reports from ground zero couldn’t be ignored. The fact that she was, again, so close to Goose- like a bad penny, Remington couldn’t help thinking-displeased the captain. But the intel she was sending back about what was taking place in the city was valuable.

  Remington was torn as he watched Goose move carefully through the ancient city’s narrow streets. On one hand, it would have been easier if Goose were killed or medevaced out. The schism that was starting to pull the Rangers in two directions would heal. Or at least not be exacerbated.

  The problem was that Goose was also the one man Remington knew he could count on to get the job done when the chips were down.