by Mel Odom
Now she wasn’t even being given that illusion.
Megan wiped her face with her shirttail. She didn’t look at Benbow. “You haven’t mentioned whether General Braddock’s people are offering a deal.”
Benbow didn’t say anything.
“Are they?” Megan looked at the young lieutenant.
Obviously torn, Benbow hesitated. “I was approached. Off the record. This morning after the provost marshal’s office received the reports on Leslie Hollister.”
“What does Leslie Hollister have to do with Gerry Fletcher?”
“The provost marshal plans to tie the two together to strengthen the case against you.” Benbow spoke quietly. “They’re going to use what happened last night to Leslie Hollister against you, Megan.”
Megan was stunned speechless.
“The reports—and I haven’t seen them yet—indicate that you persuaded the Hollister girl that she was just dreaming, that the whole sequence of events she was going through—including the disappearance of her mother—was a figment of her imagination.”
“I was trying to get her to relax. If I could have gotten her to lie down, she would have gone to sleep. She was out on her feet. Instead—instead—” Megan heard the sharp report of the gunshot echoing in her memory, then saw all the blood and smelled the cordite of the expended round.
Benbow nodded. “The provost marshal’s office isn’t choosing to see things that way.”
Megan found her voice with difficulty. “And neither is General Braddock.”
“No. He’s not.”
“How are they going to present what happened?”
Shifting uncomfortably in the seat, Benbow said, “Worst-case scenario? They’re going to say that you tried to convince Leslie Hollister to commit suicide.”
“That’s insane.” Megan couldn’t believe it. “Why would I do something like that?”
Benbow hesitated only a moment. “The provost marshal’s office is prepared to make the case that you did that because you’re suicidal yourself.”
“That’s not true.”
“They’re going to say that you tried to get Leslie Hollister to commit suicide so you could box yourself in with your own self-destruction. That you wanted to get your own personal life so tense that you could see only suicide as an option. You didn’t want to give yourself an out.”
“They think I want to kill myself?”
Benbow looked at her earnestly. “Megan, I know you. I know that you’re going through a tough time, but I know—in my heart—that you’re not suicidal. I don’t think they really believe that either, but they’re going to use it. If the provost marshal’s office at least makes a case that will question not only your ability to do your job but also your mental state, they can better separate themselves from any kind of civil repercussions.”
“What motive would I possibly have for killing myself?”
Benbow pursed his lips and exhaled. “They’re going to say that it’s because of the loss of your son. They’re prepared to say that you’ve been stressed for some time—which accounts for the ill-advised decision to keep Gerry Fletcher from his parents. They’re going to say that losing your son pushed you over the edge.”
Anger burned through Megan. “They’re going to—going to use Chris—” She couldn’t go on. When she did, her voice was coarse, as if it had been sandblasted. “They’re going to use my little boy like that?” Her voice grew steadily tighter, ending up as a squeak. “They can’t do that!”
“I’m sorry, Megan. But you need to know what you’re going to face. If we go to court.”
“If we go to court?”
“You have a choice.”
“What choice?”
“The deal from the provost marshal’s office.”
Megan waited, swallowing hard. Her mind whirled. Thoughts chased themselves, and none of them made any sense. She was crying again, despite the fact that she’d thought herself drained of tears. Everything Benbow was saying was so … so … unbelievable. None of this could be real. God, please don’t let this be real.
“They want you to admit culpability in the Gerry Fletcher matter,” Benbow said. “Say that you were willful in dereliction of duty. Because of the personal agenda you have against Boyd Fletcher.”
“I was trying to save Gerry.”
“No one has to save Gerry now,” Benbow stated gently. “He’s gone, Megan. Wherever he is, he’s no longer part of this.”
“But they’re going to use my baby against me. And he’s not—he’s not here either.”
“Megan, I’m sorry. But, yes, they’re prepared to do exactly that.”
Megan forced herself to think, forced herself to breathe, and maybe she even forced herself to live in that moment. “What happens if I agree to that?”
“The provost marshal’s office recommends leniency. The down-side is that you’ll be left completely exposed to Boyd Fletcher’s civil suit.”
Megan whispered, “Goose and I could lose everything we’ve worked for.”
“Probably. If Boyd Fletcher wants to pursue the civil suit.”
“He will.”
“I think so too.” Benbow let out a breath. “I’ve never met a more vindictive man.”
“You’ve met Boyd Fletcher?”
Benbow nodded. “I wanted to see if I could reason with him. That didn’t happen.”
“Goose and I will lose everything, but the army will be clear.” Megan’s tears dried as the anger inside her turned cold and burned away the feelings of helplessness.
“That’s what General Braddock is hoping.”
“That’s insane.”
“It’s the best shot they have of walking away from this thing.”
The anger grew stronger, pushing aside the frustration and helpless feeling. Is that how it’s going to be, God? I’m supposed to help myself because You don’t care? She was angry with God and Goose and Joey and Benbow, mad at everyone who was supposed to be here to help her but was somehow MIA.
“What do I get out of this?” Megan asked.
The question caught Benbow off guard. He hesitated. “They’ll drop the charges.”
“Only because I admitted guilt for those charges. There’s nothing in that for me.”
“They’ll agree not to come after you, Megan. They won’t press criminal charges. You won’t take the risk of losing your counselor’s license.”
“I don’t think anyone would be inclined to hire me after I admitted guilt in something like this. It’s not the kind of thing you want on a résumé.”
“I don’t know.”
“I wouldn’t hire me,” Megan said.
“You also won’t be looking at any jail time.”
“Jail time?” That surprised Megan for a moment. No one had mentioned jail time.
“This is the military,” Benbow said. “There is the possibility that you would have to serve out a sentence. Probably no more than a few months, but more time could be involved.”
“Because I didn’t tell Gerry Fletcher’s parents that he was in the ER that night?”
“No. I was told that if they had to prosecute you for the Fletcher case, they’ll come after you for Leslie Hollister on a follow-up investigation. They may even press charges for second-degree attempted murder.”
Megan felt trapped. No matter which way she turned, things only got worse. “What would you do?”
“Megan, I’m not facing a trial here.”
Taking another breath, somehow getting calmer by the heartbeat, Megan said, “If I decide to fight them, will you represent me to the best of your ability?”
“If you decide to do that, it’s not going to be easy.”
“That wasn’t the question, Lieutenant.” Megan made her voice hard. “Your career is going to be at risk in this too. I know that. I want to know if you’ll stick with me. And how far you’re willing to go.”
Benbow looked clear eyed and competent, like the kind of guy who would take a bullet for a frie
nd. Like the kind of soldier Goose would be proud of. “Yes, ma’am,” he declared. “I’ll stick with you. Every inch of the way.”
“Fine. Then you take a message to the provost marshal’s office and General Braddock for me. Tell them if they’re going to hang me out to dry, use my baby against me, and put me through hell so they can protect themselves, tell them that I’m going to take them with me.”
“I really don’t think we should respond in such an inflammatory manner.”
“Do you have a nice way of putting it?”
Benbow shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
“Then you tell them. Just like I told you. I don’t want them to get the mistaken idea they can change my mind.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Megan gathered her purse and her portfolio. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got a job and I’ve got kids depending on me. If you need anything else, let me know. I’ll make time for you. If these people want a fight, they’re going to get one.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Megan let herself out of the truck and turned her steps toward the counseling center. Okay, God, if You’re not going to stand up and be counted, I’ll do it myself. And if You think You can break me, then do it. I’ve got to fight to survive. And maybe I have to fight even You. I don’t know. You haven’t given me many options here. But I’m not going to give up. Do You hear me? I’m not just going to lie down and die. That’s not in me. I hope You understand that. If not, I guess that’s just one more reason You’ve abandoned me.
3
United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0549 Hours
Riding in the passenger seat of the Ranger Special Operations Vehicle, Captain Cal Remington stared out at the city he’d been ordered to hold no matter what the cost, while the U.S. Rangers, the U.N. forces, and the Turkish army shored up the next line of defense against the coming Syrian invasion. The fact that these combined troops had survived this long was nothing less than amazing. The only good thing about it, Remington told himself, is that amazing looks good on a military résumé.
But he hated the idea that he’d been assigned to a mission he had no hope of winning. Losing wasn’t an option in Remington’s personal or professional plans. He didn’t compromise, either. In his opinion, compromise was the first step toward acknowledging an upcoming loss. Accepting the inevitability of a loss was intolerable and unacceptable to him. He believed that there was always a way out if a soldier looked for it. There was always a way to win.
Although dawn was just a pale smear of pink and gold against the indigo sky to the east, Sanliurfa was awake. As far as Cal Remington could tell, the city never slept anymore. Occasionally it passed out for fitful rest or unconsciousness that passed for sleep, but mostly the city lay awake and fearful in the night. No one relaxed.
During the day, all the people in the city had to work constantly just to maintain some crumbling level of survival. At least during the day they didn’t have to worry about turning on lights that could be seen and used as targets by the Syrian military. Also, if Syrian aircraft chose to stage another air strike, the air force in Sanliurfa could scramble in time to meet them, driving up the Syrian cost of such a venture. Their SCUD missile use had dropped after Allied forces had deployed Patriot antimissile systems along the front lines. The Patriots weren’t exactly the highest of high-tech systems these days—but then neither were the SCUDs. And when Syrian artillery squads got close enough to launch, they were also close enough to the battle lines to become targets.
For the last fifteen and a half hours, Sanliurfa’s defenders had kept the Syrian aggressors and their terrorist allies, who were looking to rack up trophy kills fast, at a stalemate.
Remington wanted to change that, wanted to take the fight back to the Syrians and keep them off guard. He figured such an attack would buy them more time. He’d already put all the key people into play that he needed to make the necessary changes. However, the plan he had in mind would require sacrifices.
Cal Remington didn’t mind sacrifices. At least he didn’t mind them up to a point. He’d sacrificed others now and again to further his own ambitions and for the good of the units he’d commanded. Therefore, he could understand the orders he was presently under, but he also counted himself clever enough to survive those orders.
He knew First Sergeant Gander wouldn’t deal with the compromises that would have to be made. Goose was the most uncompromising man Remington had ever met. That was both Goose’s greatest strength and his worst weakness.
When Goose had a viable plan of action laid out before him, there was not a better soldier in the field. But when things went ugly and sacrifices had to be made, Goose hesitated before making those choices. Only after fighting against all odds, fighting until he finally realized he was going to lose even more if he didn’t back away, only then would Goose make the necessary sacrifices and get out.
That was why Goose would never have made it through OCS. Or, if he had gotten through Officer Candidate School, Remington felt certain Goose would have never risen through the ranks.
Goose was hard as nails, but when it came to his men, he was soft. Too soft.
The RSOV slowed to allow an earthmover to trundle across the street ahead. All the heavy construction equipment in the city had been rounded up, and operators for all of the machines had been selected from the ranks of all three military contingents. As soon as the all-clear echoed over the radio links fifteen and a half hours ago, work had begun to clear the bombed, congested streets so the supply runs could be made and fall-back positions within the city could be reinforced.
“Talon. This is Smoke.” Corporal Dean Hardin’s voice carried clearly over the encrypted channel of Remington’s headset.
“Go, Smoke,” Remington replied.
“Just wanted you to know we’re in position, sir.”
“Affirmative. I’m en route. Hold our interviewee in place.”
“Understood, sir. But this guy, he’s getting antsy.”
“If you have to put a pistol to his head, get it done.”
Hardin’s reply was instant and crisp. “Will do.”
“Outstanding,” Remington said. He knew his irritation sounded in his voice.
The earthmover cleared the street. The private put the RSOV back into gear and sped around the big machine. The earthmover lowered the box blade and scooped up a pile of broken rock and mortar from the street. The thunder of the engine and the crash and crunch of the broken rock bombarded Remington’s hearing as they passed.
The parks and garden areas of downtown Sanliurfa mostly looked like someone had torched Eden. Several areas still smoldered, covered in piles of debris where the construction teams had dumped broken chunks of buildings and burned-out vehicles. In other places, surplus tents stood out under trees. Remington knew vast numbers of Sanliurfa’s people were living in the streets in makeshift homes like these. It seemed they thought that the Syrians would rather target buildings than open areas with their missiles and aircraft attacks, though how they could believe that with all the smoking evidence to the contrary, Remington didn’t know.
Only a few blocks farther on, Remington spotted the huge tent area where Corporal Joseph Baker kept his makeshift church running 24/7. Acidic anger burned through the Ranger captain’s stomach as he realized the church had grown even larger since the last time he’d seen it.
When the Rangers had first arrived in Sanliurfa, the stories about the freak earthquake that had broken the Syrian pursuit of the Allied retreating border troops just as they were about to overwhelm them had captured the immediate attention of the media and the locals, not to mention a good percentage of the Allied troops. Remington still didn’t know what had triggered Corporal Baker’s decision to lead the troops trapped there in saying the Twenty-third Psalm. But he had. And in that moment, after the earthquake wiped out the first of the Syrian armor, Corporal Baker had become a man of mythic proporti
ons in far too many people’s minds.
The talk in Sanliurfa was that Corporal Joseph Baker had God’s ear.
Remington didn’t like it. Not one bit.
Even before the retreat from the border had begun, Baker had baptized soldiers from all three armies as well as media personnel, Turkish citizens, and nomadic traders. He’d been out there in that stinking river for hours. Remington still caught occasional video bites of the event on the news channels.
The baptisms had continued even after their arrival in Sanliurfa, as more soldiers came forward to give themselves to God, followed by a goodly chunk of the city’s civilian populace, who heard of the man of God who could lead them to salvation, even in a war zone. Baker and the men who believed in him—some of them military chaplains!—had dragged under the makeshift church tent a metal tank that held enough water to dunk a man deep enough to baptize him.
Remington thought the whole process was nothing more than religious mumbo jumbo. As far as he was concerned, baptism was simply a get-out-of-jail-free card for losers convinced they were about to die.
The Ranger captain had never been baptized. Nor had he ever wanted to be baptized. He didn’t believe in God. He believed in himself.
So far, he’d managed his life so that believing in God hadn’t been necessary. Anything Remington wanted, he went out and got for himself. So far, nothing he had ever wanted had been completely out of his reach or his ability to change his circumstances so that whatever he wanted became available. The instant he started believing in something outside of himself, some higher power, Remington knew his life would be over. What point was there in believing in God in a world where man made the rules? He figured he might as well believe in luck. And he did. In his own luck.
As the RSOV passed the tent, now offering supplies, light medical treatment, and care to wounded soldiers as well as to any civilians who needed help, Remington got a glimpse inside. Soldiers wearing Ranger uniforms, marine uniforms, U.N. uniforms, and Turkish army uniforms knelt together on the ground with their heads bowed and their weapons within easy reach. Civilians knelt beside them.
