by Mel Odom
“Nothing to say, Chaplain?” Cranston asked.
“No, sir.” The answer was dragged from Delroy only by years of training and discipline.
“Then I suggest we call an end to this,” Cranston suggested. “With a downed plane in Poland and the Russians hysterical over it, I think we’ve got more pressing business to attend to.”
“Chaplain?” Marsden looked hopeful.
“Aye, sir?”
“Was there anything else you wanted to say?”
Delroy hesitated. He searched his mind for the fire he’d felt back on the Wasp. But he couldn’t think of a single thing. “No, sir.”
Marsden seemed to sag in his chair. “You’re dismissed, Chaplain Harte.”
“Thank you, General.” Wearily, Delroy stood, put his hat on, saluted, and turned on his heel. He walked toward the door in total, agonizing defeat.
Turkish-Syrian Border
40 Klicks South of Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0153 Hours
Goose stood in the darkness at the front of the Hummer. Clouds and dust obscured the stars, and he gave silent thanks for that. If there were any Syrian scouts around that the Ranger perimeter teams hadn’t been able to find, the darkness would help cover the fact that the first wave of the retreat was going to start in minutes. Most of the wounded had been loaded an hour ago.
Below in the stream, the final wave of men was finishing up with the chaplains and Corporal Joseph Baker, who had not once stepped from the stream. The big man had at times taken brief respites from the baptisms, during which he had conferred with people he had pulled from the water.
The men held torches they’d made from materials salvaged from supplies that were going to be left behind. The torches flickered in the slow, soft breeze that had turned cold as soon as the sun had gone down. The land was giving up its heat now, and Goose knew from experience that a chill would fill the harsh terrain before morning.
Goose had set himself up on perimeter watch. Movement on patrol helped him work through the anxiety that crashed through him as he wondered how the night’s preparations for the evac were going.
Remington’s assigning him to the baptism hadn’t interfered with carrying out the retreat. Goose knew the Ranger captain had known that when he’d made the assignation. A good first sergeant made his position redundant because he’d trained the men to know what had to be done already and the captain knew everything had already been considered.
Also, Goose had monitored the activities of the different units and squads he’d set up through the headset. His headset was chipped for all the different frequencies in use. He also knew that Remington deliberately hadn’t completely cut him out of the loop.
As he walked, Goose kept his eyes moving like he was on point. In the darkness, his peripheral vision was best. He carried the M-4A1 in both hands. At least the cortisone shot Mkchian had been generous enough to give him had kicked in and calmed the damaged knee. The joint still felt puffy and a little leaden but moved well enough, and he felt only occasional twinges of pain.
Other Rangers stood guard as well. Some of them had gotten baptized. Goose could see that their uniforms were still damp, and the men stood huddled in blankets to block the chill wind. On the eastern ridgeline, Turkish soldiers put into by position by Captain Mkchian stood guard as well.
A hundred yards from the Hummer, Goose spotted the hulk of a RSOV. Remington. He knew Remington wouldn’t allow anyone else to take one of the vehicles this close to the retreat window. As he got closer to the RSOV, he saw that Remington had come alone.
“Hello, Goose,” Remington said, sitting in the seat with both arms wrapped around the steering wheel. His voice was neutral.
“Captain,” Goose replied.
“Is this circus about finished?”
Goose looked over his shoulder. Fewer than a dozen torches still burned where Baker and the chaplains spoke to the latest group of men that had been baptized. Pockets of men strode back up the hillsides. One man threw his torch into the stream. The water extinguished the flames at once.
“Yes, sir,” Goose said. “I told them they had to be done by two. They finished up about ten minutes ago. They’re clearing out now.”
Remington sucked air through his teeth. It was one of the few unconscious mannerisms he had, and this one denoted extreme irritation. “You realize we’re living out a Chinese curse.”
“Sir?”
“Knock off the ‘sir,’ Goose,” Remington said. “This is just you and me.”
Goose stilled the immediate “yes, sir” that almost escaped him. Despite Remington’s words, Goose knew they would never share the equality they’d had as enlisted men together. Not unless something changed. Goose knew he wasn’t going up to officer, and Remington would never willingly leave.
“A Chinese curse?” Goose prompted.
“To live in interesting times,” Remington answered. Goose nodded.
“Of course, some of the men who have been baptized out here have come back talking about these being the end times,” Remington said. “I guess Baker and the chaplains are pumping them up about that.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Goose said.
“You mean you haven’t been down for a dip?” Remington seemed surprised.
“No,” Goose answered. He’d been baptized when he was thirteen, with Pastor Moody on one side and his dad on the other. He could still remember coming out of the water of the baptismal pool and seeing the tears in his father’s eyes. Not usually demonstrative in public, Wes Gander had pulled his son to him tightly and hugged Goose so hard he hadn’t been able to breathe.
“I don’t like this, Goose.”
Goose remained quiet.
“I’ve seen men get religion on the battlefield before.” Remington spat the word as if religion was a disease. “A guy sees his buddy get hit next to him. Sees a mortar dig a crater only a few feet away. Gets left out pinned down on a busted op too long. That will change a man’s perspective.” He paused. “They say there are no atheists in foxholes.”
“I’ve never seen one,” Goose replied.
“A guy who isn’t sure God is going to get him out of a jam is a guy who’s sure God is ignoring him or punishing him,” Remington said. “Then he feels like he’s jinxed. The guy who figures God is going to save him forgets about trying to save himself. The guy who figures God is out to get him thinks the next bullet has his name on it.” He paused. “Either situation makes for a bad soldier and an even worse Ranger.”
“Over a third of this unit disappeared yesterday morning, Captain,” Goose said. “Nearly that many more people were killed during the SCUD launch. These men can’t undergo something like that and walk away unchanged.”
“So they decide to get baptized, give their souls to God.”
“Entrust their souls to God,” Goose corrected.
“Semantics.”
No, sir, it’s not, Goose thought. But he knew the captain wouldn’t understand.
Remington nodded at a group of Rangers passing by them only a few feet away. “Now that they’re walking out of here, I’ve got to wonder if they’re thinking they’re bulletproof or that they’ve paid up all their dues for a one-way trip to heaven.”
“You’d have to ask them.”
“I don’t want either of those reactions from them,” Remington said. “Give me a man who’s afraid of dying and wants to make sure the other guy dies first. That’s a good Ranger.”
Goose disagreed but didn’t say so. A good Ranger was a man who got a dirty and dangerous job done as efficiently as he could to save the lives of loved ones and innocents.
“That’s why I freed Dean Hardin,” Remington said.
Anger flared through Goose. “Captain, that man is a thief, and he tried to kill me.”
Remington shook his head and looked away. “That’s not how he tells it, Goose. Hardin says you came up on him from behind and surprised him. He had a knife in his hand and he accidentally nearly gutted
you. He says he was keyed up from the helicopters crashing and raining down all around you.”
“And you believe him?”
“You can’t walk up behind a man on a battlefield without giving him some kind of warning, Goose.” Remington looked at him then. Accusation showed in his eyes.
“Hardin was stealing from a dead Marine, Captain,” Goose said.
“Hardin says he was salvaging resources.”
Goose couldn’t believe it. “Money from a dead man?”
“Money is one of the best resources a scavenger can find,” Remington said. “It converts to any size and works almost anywhere.”
“Sir,” Goose protested, “those men were our reinforcements. Most of them were little more than kids.”
Remington swore. “Goose, listen to me. I know for a fact that you’re an organ donor, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, how do you figure on giving someone a heart or a lung without being dead? A kidney or an eye you can maybe spare because you’ve got a pair. But let’s face it: as a donor you’re worth more if you’re dead.”
Goose didn’t say anything because he knew where the captain was headed with his logic.
“Those dead men that Hardin took money from were donors,” Remington said.
“Was that how Hardin put it, sir?” Goose asked.
“That’s how I’m putting it now, Sergeant,” Remington said. “And that’s how I’m putting it in my report.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I wanted you to know why I countermanded your orders to hold Hardin. I also talked him out of pressing charges against you for striking him. He’ll be with me during the evac.”
“Yes, sir.” But Goose knew that wasn’t the only reason Remington was telling him about Hardin. Hardin was also a man to hold grudges. There was talk, never proven, of a man Hardin had gotten crossways with and ended up killing. When Goose had turned up the scuttlebutt, he’d gone to Remington. Remington had said that men like Hardin, guys who were natural-born predators and survivors, always gathered stories around them. Some of them, the captain had said, were even started by the predators themselves.
“We’ll be in Sanliurfa tomorrow morning,” Remington said. “We’re going to assess the situation and see if we can hold the city, but that will only be a diversion to allow refortification of Diyarbakir.”
Goose had figured that would be the case. With the Rangers at Diyarbakir, they’d be able to attack from behind any invading Syrian troops that got deeply into the country and marched on Ankara. For the time they were there, Sanliurfa would also act as a frontier fort where they could arrange hit-and-get missions to disable Syrian cav and missile units.
“You remember the CIA agent you rescued yesterday morning?” Remington asked.
“Yes. Icarus.”
“I’ve had men in Sanliurfa—”
“Perrin?” Goose knew all about Perrin.
Remington nodded. “—and they haven’t found this agent.”
“Maybe he was one of the ones who disappeared.” Goose had heard about losses in nearby areas as well.
“Possibly,” Remington nodded. “In the meantime, I find it interesting that the CIA is in the area looking for a rogue agent at a time when something as unexplained as the disappearances take place.”
Goose considered that. He hadn’t thought about the CIA being somehow involved with the disappearances.
“When you get to Sanliurfa, take a look around. See if this guy turns up.”
“I will, sir.”
Remington pulled his shirtsleeve back and checked his watch on the inside of his wrist. “Get back to camp, Sergeant. When this thing goes down, I want you where I can use you most.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Goose.” Remington fixed him with a hard, flat stare. “This doesn’t happen again. Not between us. Not in my command. Ever.”
“Yes, sir,” Goose said. And he hoped it wouldn’t because Remington was his friend, but also because he knew the captain wouldn’t allow him to step across that line of command again without severe penalties.
Remington’s head whipped away.
Knowing the captain was listening to his headset, Goose quickly went through the channels, flipping over to the main command channel.
“—confirms SCUD launch,” a man’s high-strung voice announced. “We are under attack! ETA seventy seconds, Captain!”
Goose switched over to the main com channel the Rangers would be using. All the confusion brought on by Remington’s actions disappeared in the space of a single heartbeat.
“This is Phoenix Leader,” Goose said as he sprinted for the Hummer. He dropped into the seat behind the steering wheel. “The Syrians have launched SCUDs! Dig in! Dig in!” He keyed the starter button and felt the engine shiver to life.
Remington was already in motion, flooring the RSOV so the tires threw out rooster tails of dirt. He would be in touch with the captains of the U.N. troops and the Turkish army, making certain they all had the same information.
Goose shoved the Hummer’s transmission into gear and followed. He checked his watch and found that the first evac carrying the wounded was already a few minutes underway. His heart turned cold as he realized those units would be drastically exposed along the roads.
United States of America
The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.
Local Time 7:03 P.M.
Nausea wormed through Delroy’s guts as he walked from General Marsden’s office. His legs quivered and black spots spun in his vision. Perspiration tracked down his face.
People hurried by him, carrying notes and meals. And probably a lot of bad news that was only going to get worse, if the downed fighter in Poland was any indication.
Loosening his tie, Delroy tried to take a deep breath and couldn’t. God, why did You send me all this way to fail? He couldn’t understand it. How was I supposed to change General Cranston’s mind? You’re supposed to touch people’s hearts. You’re supposed to make them change. Not me. God, help me. I can barely keep my own faith together. You know that. You see me as I really am.
“Are you okay, Chaplain Harte?”
Delroy glanced over at the lance corporal who had been assigned to walk him out of the building. “I don’t know.”
“There’s a bathroom here, sir.” The lance corporal pointed to the side of the hallway. “Would you like to stop?”
Delroy spotted the men’s room plaque. When it was first designed after World War II, the Pentagon had been designed with men in mind, not women. As a result, the number of men’s rooms still far outnumbered those of women.
“You had a long flight, sir,” the lance corporal said, “and I know being in that room facing General Cranston like that wasn’t easy.”
“The general’s a hard man,” Delroy said.
“Yes, sir. But he’s a driven man. If you can get him on your side, he’ll go to the wall with you.”
“I didn’t quite make that happen, did I?”
“No, sir.” The lance corporal hesitated. “But I’ll tell you something, Chaplain, I believe you’re right. I believe the world has been Raptured.”
“You do?”
“Yes, sir.” The young man looked earnest and grim. “My grandmother raised me, chaplain, and she brought me up in the church. If it hadn’t been for the church and Pastor Keith, I’d never have made it out of high school. I never would have become a Marine. God works in everyone’s lives. It’s just that a lot of people don’t acknowledge him. Including me, sometimes. But my doubts vanished when I saw what happened.”
“Lance Corporal, I wish you had stars on your shoulders.” Delroy tried to make a joke of it, but the Marine’s forthrightness about his belief made the pain of his failure hurt even more.
“I wish that General Cranston hadn’t been the man you needed to win over, sir.”
“Thank you for that. And I think I’ll take you up on that kind offer. It’s been a long, long day for me.”
&
nbsp; “Yes, sir. I’ll be out here if you need me, sir.” The Marine posted up beside the door. “So you can take a few minutes to yourself if you need them, sir.”
Delroy clapped the young Marine on the shoulder. A regular officer might not be able to get away with that, but as chaplain he could. Even that small gesture, offered out of fellowship and friendship, reminded him how separated he was from the military, how far he was from Cranston’s world.
Inside the men’s room, Delroy walked to the nearest sink. The door closed behind him and the outside noises went away. The exhaust fan in the center of the room rattled gently.
The bathroom had a dark tiled floor and white walls. Six beige stalls stood at the far end of the room on the other side of a similar number of urinals. The pine disinfectant smell of the room was so sharp it hurt Delroy’s sinuses and burned his eyes.
He stood at the sink and looked at his image. His tie hung at halfmast, and his features appeared ashen. God, forgive me. I have failed You so badly.
“And where do you go to when you think you’re failing, boy?”
Delroy heard his father’s voice, a call from his past. That had been one of the things Josiah Harte had asked his eldest son several times as he’d been growing up. As a young boy, Delroy had been a fighter. Being black in Alabama back in those years hadn’t been easy. Schoolyard battles had resulted in more than a few white parents showing up at his father’s church.
That was what Josiah Harte had always asked when Delroy had come home battered and beaten or battered and victorious. Battered had always figured in there somewhere.
If a man fails, Josiah Harte used to say in his occasional sermons when he touched on the subject, he has nowhere else in the world he can go but to the Lord God Almighty. The choir would break out in song, a gospel arrangement of “Where Could I Go?”
Delroy shrugged out of his jacket and looked up at the ceiling—and beyond it. “You gotta help me, Lord, because I know I can’t help myself. I’ve gone the distance You asked me to, but I’ve come up short here.” He hung his jacket on the paper towel holder. “I don’t know what else You want me to do. You’re gonna have to show me what You want me to do now.”