by Mel Odom
Valerica froze the DVD image. “This man,” she said. “We want to find out who he is.”
After a closer look at the screen, Danielle looked Valerica in the eye and said, “I know who he is.”
“Do you?” Valerica smiled.
“Yes. That’s Sergeant Samuel Adams Gander of the 75th Rangers.” Danielle could still remember how the man’s voice had rung out strong and clear as he’d dealt with the slaughter at Glitter City.
“Dear girl,” Valerica enthused, “how simply marvelous.” She squeezed Danielle’s hand. The woman’s flesh felt cold as alabaster. “See? Your employment by OneWorld Communications is a thing that had to come to pass.”
Danielle looked from the image to the woman. “But why him? He’s a sergeant. A non-com. Why not an officer? The commanding officer of the man’s unit is a captain. I know him, too. Cal Remington.”
“You do keep up with things, don’t you?” Valerica smiled. “Captain Remington will probably march right to prominence as this story develops, but for now, the powers that be want to focus on Sergeant Gander there. He’s in the middle of the action, you know. Lots of drama and danger. Very photogenic—all that flame and fury. We want to know who he is and what his story is.”
“He could be dead,” Danielle pointed out. “When we pulled out, he was already up to his neck in trouble and heading away to find worse. The Rangers were involved in a mission across the border only a few hours ago.”
“Perhaps the war has taken him. But perhaps not. In any event, your first assignment—should you decide to accept our offer of employment—will be to discover the whereabouts of Sergeant Gander. Dead or alive. We’d like to get his story.”
“I’ll have to go to the front?”
“Do you have any objections?”
“Reservations, yes. Feelings of panic, yes.” Danielle took a deep breath, held it, then let it out. “But no objections. That’s where the story is.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“Do you have a camera team available to send with me? My crew and equipment got trashed.”
“The camera team is already in place there,” Valerica said. “You’ll be joining them as soon as—”
“After lunch?” Danielle asked hopefully. Excitement and trepidation mixed within her. “I can be ready then.”
“Of course you can, dear girl. Of course you can.” Valerica patted Danielle’s hand. The gesture was that of a much older woman, almost Edwardian in fact, but judging by her appearance, Danielle knew the woman couldn’t be that old.
The waiter brought the plates of mutton on a bed of spiced rice, and Danielle was surprised to find she had an appetite. She launched herself into the meal with gusto, her mind already whirling with how she wanted to work the stories. She didn’t even think about the potential threat to her life. She believed the answer to the mysterious disappearances lay along that besieged and battered border. If the answer was there, she’d find it. The answer had to be there. It was the biggest flash point in the world right now. Nothing else had happened around the globe that might trigger such an event.
At least, nothing else that she was aware of.
Of course, here in Turkey, coverage of the rest of the world’s news had been spotty, concerned mostly with the disappearances of so many people and all the confusion that had come about because of those missing persons.
It was a mystery, and Danielle loved nothing better than a good mystery—except a good mystery with great ratings potential. Which this story had.
As she ate, Valerica kept talking up the corporation and the new heights of photojournalism they would ascend to together. Danielle couldn’t help noticing that the meat on the woman’s kebab was still pink, almost ready to bleed.
“Are you sure that’s done?” Danielle asked, pointing to the kebab.
“To perfection, dear girl,” the woman assured her. “I don’t like meat that’s been overcooked. I prefer a cut that is still simmering in its own juices, as fresh as though I had sliced it off the living animal myself.”
28
Turkish-Syrian Border
40 Klicks South of Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 1517 Hours
Three squads of Turkish F-4E fighter-bombers from the air base in Ankara roared through the blue sky in tight groups of seven and flew south into Syria. The Turk Hava Kuvvetleri, the Turkish Air Force, carried the familiar bull’s-eye of two red rings and one white ring that identified them. The fin flashes bore a white crescent moon with a star at the lower point on a field of bright red.
Goose shaded his eyes with a hand and said a prayer for the pilots.
“Those are brave men, Sergeant,” Captain Tariq Mkchian said in a sober voice.
“I know, Captain,” Goose replied. “Some of them probably won’t be coming back.”
“Still,” the Turkish captain said, “they fly and they go. Just as you and your men stand and fight this day. None of us, it seems, were cut out to break and run.”
“Not until we get set for it,” Goose agreed.
Mkchian stared down at the line the U.N. forces, the Turkish army, and the 75th Rangers had created behind the perimeter of bombed and broken Syrian vehicles that had been casualties of the SCUD launches. The Turkish captain was a wiry man who stood about five and a half feet tall. Soaking wet, he might have weighed 140 pounds, but he had the carriage of a lion, the mark of a leader of men. Gray marked his dark hair and neatly trimmed mustache. During the cease-fire that had lasted since the earlier engagement, the captain had put on a freshly pressed uniform. He carried his M-16 in the crook of his left arm like a man who had been born with a weapon in his hands.
Farther down the small promontory, three Turkish soldiers who served as the captain’s aides stood awaiting orders. All three of them were incredibly young.
Too young to die, Goose couldn’t help thinking. But he knew that fact didn’t stop death from happening. A number of young soldiers had died or disappeared today, and more probably would join them before the dawn of the next day. That knowledge left a congealed lump of dread in Goose’s stomach, and he could only ask God for the strength to get through it.
The sonic booms of the passing jets faded from Goose’s ears. His injured knee had swollen further. Thankfully, the screaming pain had died down to a dulled throb, something he could hold at bay thanks to fatigue and analgesics. His clothing remained soaked and gritty despite the dry heat that baked the broken land around him. At least the smoke and dust haze had mostly cleared out. He could take a deep breath without the kerchief on his face and not launch into a coughing fit.
“Our air force will try to keep flights up at irregular intervals until after sundown,” Mkchian said. “But if our losses grow to be too great, they will stop sending those pilots.”
Goose nodded. He couldn’t blame the Turkish military. The F-4Es were their primary offensive and defensive weapons. Every insertion the Turk Hava Kuvvetleri made into Syria that resulted in a lost unit was going to take the Turkish government months—maybe years—to replace. Both planes and pilots were scarce resources, and finding new ones would be difficult indeed.
Valuable resources were being gambled to try to save the embattled Turkish military as well as the U.N. peacekeeping forces and the Rangers. But the Syrian troops were firmly entrenched in the positions twenty klicks behind the border. They’d had all their luck with the ground war, though. Every time the Syrians had tried to send an aerial attack, the remnants of the Marine wing, the Harriers and the Apache gunships, had shot them down. Since then, though, two more of the Harriers and one of the Apaches had been knocked from the sky. Luckily, only one of the pilots had been killed. A few of the Syrian bombs and one of the falling aircraft had resulted in more casualties among the Turkish and U.N. peacekeeping forces. The Rangers, it seemed at the time, had already paid their blood price for survival.
“We’ll make the best of it till that happens, Captain,” Goose promised.
“I fear your
men are pushing themselves too hard,” Mkchian said. Goose surveyed the activity before them. Rangers still led the way on the salvage operations going on among the wreckage left from the SCUD attacks. His men had been busy, scrounging salvageable weapons, ammunition, and foodstuffs. They’d gathered everything useful, from spare tires that hadn’t been damaged or weren’t too badly damaged to the fuel in Syrian Jeeps, tanks, APCs, and helicopters that could be pumped from the gas tanks into fifty-five-gallon drums to tents, cots, and other gear.
The plan was to pull back to Sanliurfa, regroup, and watch to see if the Syrian forces kept pushing once they made it across the border. After they reached Sanliurfa, the three armies would further retreat to Diyarbakir to figure out how they were going to hold the Syrians from the rest of the country. The thinking was that if the Turkish army stationed at the border, complemented by the U.N. peacekeeping teams and the 75th Rangers, reached Diyarbakir, they could pose enough of a threat of attacking any army that marched on Ankara that the Syrians might not even make the attempt.
The trick lay in getting from their present predicament to Sanliurfa, and from there to Diyarbakir. It wasn’t going to be easy.
“Those men are Rangers,” Goose said. “When it comes to pushing, they only know one way to get the job done.”
“Still, they are doing so much work, and it will be for naught by this time tomorrow.”
“If this little ruse holds till this time tomorrow, Captain,” Goose said, “I’ll be a happy man.” And we’ll all be in Sanliurfa. Then he thought about Bill Townsend, who had vanished, and the other men who had died and gone missing, and he knew that not all of them would be in Sanliurfa. The Rangers would have to leave their dead as well, and that thought pained him because he knew from past experience that the Syrian troops would savage the bodies and use them as psychological weapons.
Along the southern perimeter of the destruction on the other side of the border, the Ranger squads filled sandbags and dug fighting holes. They used Jeeps and the RSOVs to pull wrecked vehicles closer together to form barriers. Long scars showed in the crater-filled earth where wrecks had already been towed.
The media groups had gathered along the no-man’s-land that marked the border. Some of them had returned from Sanliurfa with more crew and more equipment. Goose found it hard to believe that the reporters were brave enough—or foolish enough, as some Rangers had openly stated—to risk their lives just to get a story plenty of other people were already getting.
“I could have my men help you,” Mkchian offered.
“I appreciate that, Captain,” Goose said, “but those men down there are used to working together. They’re up against the clock, and they’re having to look over their shoulders during that work. It’s working right now. Besides the occasional language barrier issues with working with your guys, too many men trying to do everything is going to get someone hurt. So let’s leave it. For the time being.”
Mkchian nodded. “That was what your Captain Remington relayed to me.”
“Captain Remington is a fine officer,” Goose said. “He knows what he’s talking about.”
“Have you served with him long, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you trust him?”
“With my life, sir,” Goose answered without hesitation. “And with the lives of my men. If it ever came down to it, I believe Captain Remington would die for the men of his command.”
The Turkish captain eyed Goose in open speculation. “Not many soldiers would say that about their commanding officers.”
“No, sir,” Goose agreed. “Probably not.”
“You are a lucky man.” Mkchian offered his hand. “I’ll leave you to your work then, Sergeant. Thank you for your time.”
“Yes, sir.” Goose shook the man’s hand, then saluted smartly.
Captain Mkchian walked away, already fielding calls from his troops over his headset.
Goose spent several minutes communicating with the men he had out in the field. So far, everything was progressing smoothly. In addition to creating the impression that the Rangers intended to dig in, the squads were also setting up booby traps within the wrecked vehicles creating the barrier. They’d left some nice surprises, including several remote-controlled munitions that would be set off when the Syrians attempted to breech the border. All of those traps and RC attacks were built around ammo that had been salvaged from the Syrian camp that couldn’t be taken with the retreat. Later, after the sun went down, his men would put in even more booby traps on the Turkish side of the border with just enough room for the Syrian military to start feeling safe again after running afoul of the first wave.
All those efforts would buy time, not stop the enemy. But time’s all we need, Goose told himself.
He stayed on the move, not daring to give in to the temptation to lie down or even sit and rest because he was afraid his injured leg would stiffen up on him. He’d gotten a wraparound brace from the medkits to help hold his knee together, and the additional support did provide some relief.
Plus, as first sergeant of the 75th, Goose knew he had no choice but to behave as though he were superhuman. A leader had to lead if he was going to be followed; he couldn’t just command. General George S. Patton had put it best when he’d said, “We herd sheep, we drive cattle, we lead people. Lead me, follow me, or get out of my way.” Goose tried to live by those words. If his troops saw him start to fall apart, they might not be able to believe in themselves.
He knew that Bill Townsend would have taken umbrage with him over that last thought. Faith wasn’t something based on a person or even an idea. It wasn’t something that could be weighed or measured. Setting an example was only coaxing others to trust in someone else, someone they could measure themselves against.
Learning to trust others didn’t teach a man to look outside himself for the faith in God he needed. For a moment, Goose felt guilty, like he was letting the memory of his friend down, but at the same time he knew that Bill would have forgiven him. That was what Bill was all about. Faith. And leading people in his own way.
I’ll get there, Bill. I promise you. I’ll get there.
Goose took off his helmet for a moment, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and ran his hand through his sweat-slick hair. The cooling breeze felt wonderful. He wished he could leave the heavy Kevlar-covered helmet off, but he knew that if he did, his troops would follow suit. Every soldier hated the helmets, but the headgear saved lives, and the soldiers knew that, too.
The cannonade of the bombs unleashed by the F-4E fighterbombers rolled back over the border. The sound came from twenty klicks farther south, and Goose knew there was a time discrepancy between when the bombs were dropped and when the sound reached him.
“Phoenix Leader, this is Quartermaster.” The call came over the headset, mixed in with the constant barrage of communications that flowed from the Ranger squads as they went about their assigned tasks.
“Leader hears you, Quartermaster. Go to Tach Two.”
Quartermaster was Julian Rodriguiz, a veteran sergeant with Echo Company. He’d grown up an air force brat and lived on bases all around the world, but when the time had come for him to choose his own vocation, he’d gone army. Besides being a good soldier, a master tactician with small units, and a good cook able to do miracles with things found in the field, he’d also been gifted with a near-photographic memory. Placing him in charge of the salvage operations supply list had been a no-brainer.
Goose switched the headset over to the secondary channel. “Quartermaster?”
“Here, Leader.” Julian hesitated. “We’ve got a situation.”
Goose’s mind immediately flew to the possibility of small troop incursions by the Syrians. They’d fought off a few such attempts already, and Goose knew there would be more.
“What’s the problem?” Goose asked.
“The water supply.” Rodriguiz sounded a little tense and unsure of himself, mannerisms Goose had seldom seen from t
he man even in the thick of battle.
Water was a main consideration to a soldier in an arid climate like Turkey. The dry heat leached the moisture from a man’s body, and dehydration was one of the greatest opponents of a fighting man in the desert.
One of the smaller tributaries to the Tigris River flowed south of here, southeast from Diyarbakir north and east of Sanliurfa. Feeding it was a seasonal stream nearly a klick to the east. During the storm season that bridged Turkey’s headlong rush from rainy winter to dry summer, with only a brief gasp sandwiched in between for spring, several small streams were born, then quickly withered away. Water was, had been, and always would be a source of contention between Middle Eastern countries. But right now, it was spring and the stream was still running.
During the initial SCUD launch, most of the Rangers’ water supplies, as well as those of the Turkish army and the U.N. peacekeeping forces, had been wiped out. All three commanders had sent teams to the stream to replenish their supplies.
“What’s wrong with the water supply?” Goose asked. The Rangers had purification tablets to make certain the water was potable, although at the rate they were being forced to use them they wouldn’t last long. But the possibility remained that someone farther upstream could foul the water.
“Not the water supply, Leader,” Rodriguiz said. “It’s Baker.” He paused. “They’re telling me he’s gone crazy.”
United States of America
Fort Benning, Georgia
Local Time 7:20 A.M.
In the nightmare, Megan was once more atop the residential building. She felt the hard edges of the rooftop cutting into her chest and stomach. Gerry Fletcher again hung at the end of her arm, and his weight was tearing her shoulder apart while slowly dragging her over the side of the building.
Gerry jerked and fought. He slipped from her grip, no longer held by her fist but only by her fingers now. The blood from the long scratches down her arm flowed across their clasped hands. The skin started to slide, to glide, and she knew she was going to lose him. He screamed at her, pleaded with her to hold on, to not let go, to not let him fall.