by Mel Odom
“What do you visualize doing?”
Megan shook her head. Terrell’s questions might as well have been scripted.
“I want to change the United Nations into another entity, one that I propose calling the Global Community. I think that name better communicates what we can expect of the world we live in these days. With the access we have to the Internet and wireless devices, and with news media scattered around the world—”
“Especially OneWorld NewsNet,” Terrell interjected during Carpathia’s pause. “We can’t forget the tireless work that goes on behind the scenes here.”
“No,” Carpathia agreed. “We cannot. I am very proud of the work that the news agency does. I only wish I could claim credit for it, because you people have certainly racked up a lot of awards.”
“Thank you.” Terrell beamed. “Danielle Vinchenzo is surely going to be up for an award for her work in Turkey.”
“If she is not,” Carpathia said, “then there is no justice in the world.” He paused just a moment, then went on. “I will be in touch with you more as my plans for the Global Community solidify. But for the moment, let me say that I am very proud of those men— United Nations soldiers as well as Fort Benning’s own Rangers—who are assisting Turkish troops in trying to keep the peace in Turkey. From what I have seen today, that is a very hard thing to do.”
On the screen in Harran, Goose retrieved his weapon and stood. He spoke, but his voice had been muted.
“One thing I would like to tell the families of those Rangers serving in Turkey,” Carpathia continued, “is that I have taken steps that should see big changes occurring there. Turkey is an important linchpin between East and West, and that division needs to be maintained until I can deal with it.”
“You sound very confident that you’ll be able to handle everything over there,” Terrell said.
“I am.” Carpathia smiled a little. “I think, given the strangeness that has taken place recently, that most people are more ready to listen to reason than at any other time in history. Nothing on this grand of a scale has ever before occurred, and I doubt that it ever will again.”
Some of the listeners vocally hoped that the disappearances wouldn’t happen again.
They’re not going to, Megan thought. Those of you who didn’t vanish the first time are going to be stuck here for the next seven years.
But Carpathia’s words had reawakened the fear of the unknown in the listeners. None of the people left behind wanted to face the unknown again.
“They are ready to listen,” Carpathia said. “And in a little while, I will be ready to begin negotiations in those places. Like Turkey.”
Terrell smiled. “Very good, SecretaryGeneral Carpathia.”
“Nicolae, please.” Carpathia grinned affably.
On the television screen, Goose walked toward the camera, which turned and panned on him as he walked through the door.
Without warning, the wall suddenly caved in. A tank tread plunged through, sloughing debris. The cameraman dived for cover, and the camera angle slid around in all directions.
United States 75th Army Rangers Outpost
Harran
Sanliurfa Province, Turkey
Local Time 0741 Hours
The roar and clank of heavy armor filled Danielle’s ears as she ran down the street from the house where Goose worked on the wounded soldiers. She hadn’t been able to stay there even though she knew her departure would drive Goose crazy. Her skills included first aid, and she was certain—even without looking underneath the Kevlar vest as Goose had—that the young Ranger was well past needing first aid.
He needed a doctor. Goose carrying the man through town on his back wasn’t an option. If Goose had to try, Danielle had no doubt that he would do exactly that. But she’d noticed Goose limping as well. He wasn’t exactly in tip-top condition either.
Give me a car, Danielle thought desperately. A pickup. Please. Something. And quickly. She kept running.
Not many cars sat idle in Harran. Given the town’s poor economic conditions, very few people in the area owned vehicles.
But less than a block farther on, Danielle spotted a forty-year-old Russian delivery van with peeling black paint. The vehicle was definitely on its last legs. Arabic script covered the sides.
When she peered inside, Danielle saw that the ignition was empty. However, there were plenty of wires sticking out beneath the dash. She gripped the door and yanked it open. The old hinges screeched as the door moved. She climbed into the driver’s seat and ran a hand under the seat to make certain the keys hadn’t been tossed underneath.
Then she noticed that two of the wires near the steering wheel were stripped and hanging down. She grabbed them and touched them together. The truck’s engine tried to catch, the vehicle surging forward and shuddering because the clutch was left out.
Encouraged, Danielle pulled herself inside the cab and gazed through the cracked windshield. A rumbling, grinding noise came closer, sounding like approaching thunder. For a moment, she sat paralyzed by the sound, dreading what it portended.
Farther up the street, a mechanical assault vehicle plunged through a small house with a tremendous crash. Pieces of the house clung to the APC as it surged out into the street. Instead of wheels, the vehicle had tank treads that clanked menacingly and chewed through the pavement. It was so low and so broad that Danielle at first thought it was a tank; then she saw that it had no main gun. The Syrian camouflage design, light green and dark green, stood out clearly on the vehicle’s dust-covered hide.
Danielle cursed.
“Danielle,” Terrell said over the headset she still wore that linked her to OneWorld NewsNet, “can you tell us what’s going on? We’re still monitoring you. The cameraman seems to be nowhere near you.”
Gary wouldn’t want to be here right now, Danielle thought as she tried to break out of the paralysis.
A forward hatch opened on the tracked vehicle, and a man popped up like a gopher out of a hole. For a moment the comparison was hilarious, but it didn’t stay amusing for long. The Syrian soldier grabbed hold of a machine gun and spun it in her direction. He started firing too early, though, and the rounds chopped across the street in front of Danielle’s borrowed vehicle and smashed against the building beside her.
Danielle held the two wires beneath the steering column together. Sparks leaped. Heat singed her fingertips, but she held on stubbornly as the engine struggled to catch. For one sickening moment, she thought that maybe the delivery van had been left behind because it was broken down. She pumped the accelerator.
Don’t flood it, she told herself. Flood it, and you’re dead.
The machine gunner spun his weapon toward her again. Bay doors opened behind the forward hatch and revealed nearly a dozen Syrian soldiers.
Then, with a less-than-inspiring rattle of metal, the engine found a life of its own. Danielle shoved the transmission into reverse, revved the engine, and prayed that it wouldn’t stall.
“Danielle,” Terrell tried again.
Ignoring the call, Danielle peered into the cracked side mirror to see where she was going. That was a lot easier than staring back at the Syrian APC. The roar of the machine gun filled the open cab of the van. Bullets tore through the passenger side of the windshield and pieces of glass fell across the seat.
Danielle yelped in fear and took evasive action. The van’s rear bumper scraped a wooden cart that had been left in the street and reduced the cart to splintery pieces. The van bumped and jostled as it rolled over them. The transmission whined loudly.
Daring a forward glance, Danielle saw the line of machine-gun bullets tracking back toward the van. Desperately she spun the wheel and cut away just before the machine-gun fire vectored in on her. Pulling the wheel sharply, she tried to back into an alley. Unfortunately she wasn’t as talented or lucky as she’d hoped. The rear bumper collided with the corner of the building and the van came to a sudden stop.
Hammered by the collision
, Danielle ricocheted off the seat and the steering wheel with bruising force. She changed gears and tried to go forward, then realized the van’s engine had died. Still unable to catch her breath, driven purely by survival instinct, she reached for the wires and held them together again.
Machine-gun rounds thudded against the van’s side and passed through without slowing. The sound echoed deafeningly within the van.
Don’t hit the tires, Danielle thought desperately. Please, God, don’t let them hit the tires. Or me.
The engine caught again, easier this time. She shoved the gearshift into first, floored the accelerator, and let out the clutch. The van shot across the street just ahead of a hail of .50-caliber rounds that would have destroyed the vehicle and her.
22
United States 75th Army Rangers Outpost
Harran
Sanliurfa Province, Turkey
Local Time 0745 Hours
Panic filled Danielle when she realized she didn’t know where she was. In the confusion, she’d lost her orientation. All the houses and buildings along the street looked the same.
Think. You just came this way.
The side mirror showed that the Syrian military vehicle was trailing her. Machine-gun fire sounded behind her. A few bullets punctured the rear of the van and passed through the front windshield.
Danielle cut the wheel to plunge down an alley. The left side of the van scraped against the building. The impact ripped the side mirror off. Bolts bounced off the window. Fighting the wheel, she barely regained control before she crashed into the building on the other side.
The alley was a lot narrower than she’d thought it was. Only inches separated her from the sides as she rumbled toward the street at the other end. The Syrian vehicle was too wide to get through. She took hope in that.
In the next moment, the Syrian APC paused at the entrance of the alley.
Danielle hunkered lower in the seat, expecting the machine gun to open fire again. Instead, the gunner dropped back inside the vehicle. The rear bay doors closed as well. Then the APC surged forward. The tank treads chewed into the sides of the building like a harvester taking down wheat.
“No!” Danielle said in disbelief.
The Syrian war machine was actually gaining on her now. Behind it, buildings toppled into ruin. The APC suddenly transcended in Danielle’s mind to a thing crafted by her worst nightmares. She wasn’t going to be able to escape. The Syrians chasing her were unstoppable.
She reached the next street and cut hard left. The van skidded out of control, the bald tires struggling to find traction. She slewed sideways. A moment later, the Syrian vehicle powered through the final few feet of the alley and cut after her.
Just as she was preparing to abandon hope of getting away, much less of reaching Goose, Gary, and the wounded Rangers, Danielle spotted the house where she’d left them. Goose emerged from the door and looked in her direction.
Danielle knew he couldn’t have been expecting the sight that greeted him, but Goose never flinched. Or hesitated. Smoothly, like he had all day, he reached into his BDUs. After he’d inserted something into his weapon, he pulled the rifle to his shoulder.
Realizing that the sergeant wasn’t going to run, Danielle felt immediately guilty. Instead of helping the Rangers, she’d doomed them.
Local Time 0747 Hours
Goose took careful aim at the Syrian vehicle’s right tread. He recognized it as a Russian-made BTR-50. It was the only model that was tracked. All the other BTRs were wheeled. Tracks had been discontinued because they presented vulnerabilities similar to tanks, but the BTR-50s lacked the firepower tanks packed that kept soldiers back.
Danielle roared by in the van.
The forward hatch flipped open, and a Syrian soldier took hold of the machine gun. Fifty-caliber rounds filled the air around Goose like fat bumblebees. He heard them pass him only inches away.
Calmly, Goose slid his finger over the M-203’s trigger and launched the HE round at the APC’s right tread. The grenade flew thirty yards and impacted against the tread only inches above the street, almost exactly where he’d hoped it would hit. Trapped between the treads and the street, the HE round’s blast was even more concentrated.
The right tread came apart and started slapping the APC’s side in a deafening cacophony. Out of control, the left tread still digging into the street and powering the fourteen-ton vehicle forward, the APC came around in a tight circle. Then the tread lost traction, and the APC slid across the street.
By the time the tread grabbed hold again, the APC had come around 270 degrees and was now pointed at the house where the cameraman, Rainier, and Johnson lay. Goose watched helplessly as the APC surged forward a short distance and slammed into the house. The tracks ground through the side of the house, then started slipping on the debris.
Goose pulled the M-4A1 to his shoulder and took aim at the APC’s gunner as the man tried to bring the machine gun to bear. Goose fired four quick three-round bursts, ensuring that the man was down, then reached into his kit for an incendiary grenade. He pulled the pin, popped the spoon, and heaved the grenade toward the back bay doors as they started to open.
The grenade bounced against one of the doors, and for a moment Goose felt certain he’d missed the bay. Then the grenade dropped into the transport area.
Grimly, Goose concentrated on feeding an antipersonnel grenade into the M-203’s breech. He didn’t like using the incendiary grenades against soldiers. They burned at four thousand degrees and guaranteed instant death for the lucky ones and debilitating burns for anyone who survived the initial blast.
But he thought about the Harran citizens who had undoubtedly lost their lives in the morning’s attack. And he thought about Robert Johnson, who might not live to see noon. He turned off his compassion and closed the grenade launcher’s breech.
The incendiary grenade exploded as Syrian soldiers lined the transport area and prepared to open fire on Goose. Sheets of white-hot flame enveloped them. The ones who weren’t killed outright screamed in pain and terror. Two of them managed to clamber over the APC’s side and drop to the ground. Flames wreathed their bodies.
Steeling himself, Goose took deliberate aim and shot them, putting them out of their misery. God forgive me. He watched as the APC burned until he was satisfied no one remained alive on board. The stench of cooked human flesh filled the air.
Danielle pulled the van to a stop behind the APC. She remained well away from the curling flames. Getting out, she started forward, then stopped at the burned bodies of the two men Goose had shot. Her eyes fell on Goose and were filled with stunned disbelief.
Goose didn’t try to defend his actions. He was locked tightly into survival mode.
“You got the van, ma’am,” he said.
After a brief hesitation, Danielle nodded.
“It’s still running?”
“Y-yes.”
“You done good, ma’am. That was an awfully brave thing to do.”
“I brought these people down on top of you.”
“No, ma’am.” Goose walked back toward the house, peering through the ruined wall and seeing that Rainier, Johnson, and the cameraman hadn’t been injured by the flying debris. “They come here all on their own. They’re responsible for how they ended up.”
“I could have gotten you killed.”
“Ma’am, you brought a vehicle to transport our wounded.” Goose deliberately used the plural pronoun to point out their shared responsibility for the injured Rangers. “Nobody else here had the time to look for something. You done good.”
Inside the house, Goose finished tearing the door from its hinges. He laid it beside Johnson.
“You still with me, Private?”
“Yes, First Sergeant.”
“Good man. We’re going to take a little trip now. You ready for this?”
Johnson grimaced a little, then nodded as best he was able. “Yes, First Sergeant.”
“Ma’am, I’m going to
need your help.”
Danielle came closer but was obviously uneasy about all the blood.
“Just hold on to his head. Keep him from getting banged around too much.”
“All right.” Danielle put her hands on either side of Johnson’s head.
“Ma’am, like this.” Goose interlaced his bloody hands, interlocking his fingers. “Make a cradle for his head. I’m going to be taking most of his weight, but I don’t want him to get hurt any more while we’re doing this.”
Danielle made a cradle.
Irritated, Goose noticed that the cameraman was still shooting. “Son, you could put that camera down long enough to give us a hand.”
“Gary,” Danielle said, “keep shooting.” She looked at Goose. “I can do this.”
Goose knew he didn’t have time to argue. He knelt down and slid his arms under Johnson’s lanky form. The pain in his knee throbbed to renewed life, feeling as though a shark’s jaws had closed on it and were grinding away. His breath caught at the back of his throat and for a moment he felt like he was going to black out.
You hold it together, Sergeant. You got to get these people out of here.
“Brett,” Goose said to Rainier.
“Yes, First Sergeant.”
“You’re lookout, son. Keep your eyes peeled.”
“Yes, First Sergeant.”
“Goose.” Remington’s voice sounded in Goose’s ear.
“Falcon Three reads you, Base.” Goose lifted Johnson’s body as carefully as he could, then maneuvered the wounded Ranger onto the door. He laid him gently on the wooden surface.
“You’ve got to get out of there,” Remington said. “The helos have almost all lifted.”
“Tell them to hold one,” Goose said. “I got a seriously injured man with me. He needs a medic right now.”
“I will, but I can’t hold it for long.”
“We’ll be there. Just buy me some time.”
Danielle stripped out of her Kevlar vest and outer shirt, leaving only a blue sleeveless shirt. She folded her blouse and put it under Johnson’s head.
