by Mel Odom
“She just is!” Tori drew her hands back and wrapped her arms around herself. “Aren’t you confused? I mean, you lost your little boy and everything! You can’t just ignore that!”
Bright hot pain lanced through Megan. She almost turned away from the accusation in the girl’s eyes. Instead, Megan mustered the strength to push the pain aside. For right now, Chris is out of reach. Concentrate on those you can save. Right now, these girls need you.
Megan hunkered down beside the Jeep, letting Tori have the high ground. Teens were used to adults leaning over them, browbeating them.
“You’ve been smoking tonight,” Megan said. She kept her tone flat and deliberately neutral.
“It’s incense.” Tori’s eyes wouldn’t meet Megan’s. “That’s all. Just incense. Leslie was burning incense.”
“That’s not incense.” Rain drummed against Megan’s shoulders, but the slicker she wore kept her from getting drenched. Her hair, though, was a different story. She felt it plastered against her head. “You were smoking.”
Tori looked like she was going to argue more, but she gave up the fight and cried like a child. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
MPs had caught Tori with drug paraphernalia before. Megan knew from counseling sessions that the girl occasionally experimented with drugs.
“Was Leslie smoking, too?” Megan asked.
Tori cried and buried her face in her hands. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out.
“Tori, you’ve got to talk with me. I need to know what you and Leslie were doing.”
“I don’t want to be in trouble,” Tori cried hoarsely.
Megan cupped the girl’s face in her hand. “And I don’t want Leslie to hurt herself. Do you?”
Pain racked Tori’s face.
“Tori, help me! Leslie’s in that house with her father’s pistol. She’s threatened to shoot herself.”
“I know.” Tori took in a deep, shuddering breath. “I know. She told me she was going to shoot herself. She said she was going to shoot me, too. That’s when the MP came in and got me.”
Megan bridled the fear that thrummed inside her. Leslie Hollister was borderline depressive. She had great parents, but her problem was chemical, not environmental. Using drugs—something that Leslie had never done before, to Megan’s knowledge—could only complicate the existing problems.
“I can smell pot in your hair,” Megan said
Tori shook her head. “I don’t want to be in trouble, Mrs. Gander. I swear I don’t want to be in trouble. I wasn’t going to do it, wasn’t going to smoke anymore, but things have been so screwed up I just couldn’t keep calm. I’ve been going to pieces on the inside. When I saw that Leslie was spazzing about everything, I thought maybe it would calm us down.”
“Is pot all you were doing?”
Tori didn’t answer.
Megan kept her voice gentle. “I have to know, Tori. If something goes wrong here tonight, the hospital is going to have to know. If Leslie’s had something besides weed, I need to know so I can tell them.”
Tears fell from the girl’s eyes. She shook and quivered. “My dad is going to kill me. He is so going to kill me.”
“Your dad isn’t going to kill you,” Megan said. “That’s just fear talking.” She knew Tori didn’t believe her at the moment, but the girl had been through similar situations with her parents in the past. “You’re out of there. You’re safe.” Megan paused. “But Leslie isn’t. Help me get her out of that house and somewhere that I can take care of her.”
Tori glanced at the house with teary eyes and real fear.
Megan tenderly brushed the girl’s hair from her face. God, they’re all so young. How can You expect any of them to be ready to go through this? “Tori.”
Dazed, the girl looked at her.
“Help me,” Megan repeated.
“We smoked some pot,” Tori reluctantly admitted. “I brought some whiskey. And there was other stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Downers mostly. I thought they would mellow her out. Help her get a grip.”
Except when you’re a naturally depressive person, Megan thought, they send you right through the floor. She kept her eyes on Tori, stroking the girl’s hair. “How bad is it? I have to know before I go in there.”
“I thought she was going to do it, Mrs. Gander,” Tori choked out. “I thought I was dead. I’ve never seen her like that.”
“Why does she want to shoot herself?” Megan asked. “She thinks she’s dreaming.” Tori’s voice came out hushed and dead. “She thinks her dad’s at war and her mom has disappeared because she’s trapped in a nightmare. She thinks if she kills herself in the dream, she’ll wake up and everything will be all right.”
A gunshot blasted through the night.
Turning her head, instinctively tracking the sound, Megan knew the report had come from within the Hollister home.
5
United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0432 Hours
A gust of hot, acrid wind hammered Goose as the satchel charge exploded on the enemy tank behind him. Flames jetted harsh and bright, and for a moment he worried that he was close enough to the blast that he might catch fire. The battle roars and thunder around him evaporated, as if someone had turned the sound off. Then he realized that the detonation of the explosive had deafened him again.
Off balance, lost in the sudden war of light and dark, he hit the stone street and landed awkwardly on his left side. The impact drove the air from his lungs. Instinctively, he rolled facedown and wrapped his hands over his head, making certain his helmet remained in place as debris rained around him.
Glancing over his shoulder when the worst of the onslaught was over, Goose watched in stunned fascination as the multiton Syrian tank came up from the right side, slowly flipping like a turtle caught out on a highway. The explosion left a gaping crater in the street, and Goose knew the charge must have rotated under the tank tread at the time of detonation. Sheared and no longer a continuous belt, the loose roll of heavy links spewed forward, spilling across the battle-scarred street.
With grudging reluctance, aided by the fact that the tank’s left-side track hadn’t quit driving, the tank turned over onto its side. The left tread continued to spin, chewing through the street, spraying broken rock over Goose. The tank revolved, turning crossways.
Goose’s hearing returned in a liquid rush that popped both ears. Someone yelled for his attention over the headset.
“Phoenix Leader! Phoenix Leader!”
Goose tried to speak then found he wasn’t breathing. The impact had emptied his lungs. He forced himself up, slid his rifle around to his hands, and inhaled. Heated, sulfurous dust coated the inside of his dry mouth. His ribs protested the action even as his lungs tried to find some small measure of relief.
“Leader,” Goose gasped. “Leader … is standing.” He took another breath, this one coming easier. Pain blazed along his ribs but he didn’t think any were broken. “I need your soldier with the MPIM.”
The tank rocked as the left tread continued to spin. Goose knew the armored vehicle had a chance of landing right side up as much as upside down. Right side up, the tank would remain in the fight.
“Leader, this is Tango Nine,” a soldier called over the headset. “I’ve got an MPIM, and I’ve got target acquisition.”
The Multi-Purpose Infantry Munition system was issued to the army and the marines in 2002, replacing the AT-4 and M-72 Light Anti-tank Weapon. The AT-4s and the LAWs served as disposable, one-use-only weapons against armored vehicles and heavily fortified emplacements.
“Tango Nine,” Goose said as he sprinted toward a nearby building, “you have your target. Neutralize the armor.” He reached the corner of the building, put his back to the wall, and hunkered down with the M-4A1 cradled across his knees and one hand on his helmet.
“Bird’s away!” Tango Nine warned.
&nb
sp; From the corner of his eye, Goose marked the MPIM gunner’s position from the weapon’s ignition flare that briefly lit the Ranger dressed in full battle gear. From his position, Tango Nine had direct line of sight to the Syrian tank’s guts.
Farther down the street toward the barricades, three other armored vehicles roared through the clouds of dust and layers of smoke. Muzzle flashes from the surrounding buildings marked the defenders’ positions and drew enemy fire. Fifty-cal machine guns strafed the buildings and chewed holes in the walls.
The MPIM rocket slammed against the Syrian tank’s undercarriage. The explosion unleashed a host of flames that enveloped the vehicle. Chunks of metal broke loose, flying into the air and streaking into the buildings and the street. The other tread didn’t survive the new assault, coming apart at once and flapping with horrendous bonging noises. Propelled by the blast, the tank overturned, rocking to a halt upside down.
“Tango One,” Goose called, shoving himself back into a standing position.
“Go, Leader. You’ve got Tango One,” Lieutenant Wake replied.
“Secure that vehicle,” Goose ordered.
Wake snapped orders to his unit, deploying men instantly. A half dozen Rangers abandoned their positions and rushed forward to surround the tank. They carried their rifles loose and ready, tight against their chests and muzzles down so they could swing the weapons in any direction.
“If they don’t have any more fight in them,” Goose instructed, “I want prisoners, Tango One.” His weak knees trembled slightly under his weight and he didn’t trust his legs. He wasn’t sure if he could move, much less run. He locked into the side of the building to provide cover fire for the approaching troops.
“Affirmative, Leader.”
Wake led the team himself. He was compact and broad-shouldered.
Goose shoved away from the building. “Control, this is Phoenix Leader.”
“Go, Leader. Control reads you five by five.” Remington’s voice was calm and cool.
“Lead armor is down, Control. Can you confirm the number of incoming bogeys?” Goose stared through the M-4A1’s open sights as he covered the Tango squad.
“Negative, Leader. I’ve got spotters up and active, but the smoke and dust are messing with the thermographic and IR.”
The thermographic scanners read heat signatures. The infrared binoculars multiplied the available light and reduced vision to a sharply defined world of greens and blacks. Both of those enhanced-vision systems suffered when particles hung in the air. The smoke and dust generated by the explosions and the arriving vehicles guaranteed problems.
Two Syrian APCs and another tank sped along the street. The vehicles jerked and bounced as they crunched through broken debris. Two jeeps maneuvered among them, taking shelter between the larger armored vehicles.
The overturned tank’s rear hatch opened and a Syrian soldier dropped through. The man landed on his head and one shoulder, rolled, and came up with an AK-47 assault rifle in his hands. Before he got a round off, two Rangers stitched him with controlled tribursts that knocked him backward.
Tank crews came with a complement of four. Two were down. One of the Rangers barked commands for the survivors to come out with their hands up. One of the men appeared in the open loader hatch, then shoved a rifle out.
Goose knew Syrian Command would have told their men that they could expect no mercy from the Americans and United Nations soldiers after their brutal attack against Turkey. From the centurieslong struggle between the two neighboring countries, the Syrians already knew they could expect no mercy from the Turks.
Lieutenant Wake gave the order to fire. Bullets riddled the Syrian. The dead man dropped in a loose-limbed sprawl. An instant later, a sphere bounced from inside the tank.
Recognizing the threat, Goose yelled, “Grenade!”
The Ranger squad turned and broke away from the tank. The men took two strides and threw themselves to the ground, staying within the three-count. A fragmentation grenade carried a probable kill zone of fifteen meters, but most of that cleared the immediate area primarily of standing targets.
The grenade exploded. Steel shot smacked against the wall where Goose stood, cracking stone and ripping up a layer of dust and broken mortar.
“I’m hit! I’m hit!” a young Ranger yelled. Two other voices joined the first.
Goose started around the corner of the building; then he saw that the lead Syrian tank had locked down and brought its main gun to bear.
“Incoming!” someone yelled.
Taking cover again, Goose watched helplessly as the enemy fired. The last surviving member of the Syrian tank crew tried to scramble out of the vehicle during the confusion, never knowing the other one had fired. The 120mm round slammed against the overturned tank, rolling it onto the Syrian soldier who had just clambered out. The blast hammered rolling thunder between the bombed-out buildings.
The forty-ton vehicle skidded a dozen feet before it came to a stop. Long tears showed in the street where stones had ripped free.
Goose rushed forward. The Syrian tank at the other end of the street lurched into motion again. Reactive armor exploded in bright yellow and white bursts all along its back and sides, proof that the war machine drew heavy fire from defenders’ guns. But even the .50-cal rounds failed to penetrate the thick hide of the snarling metal beast. The APCs and the jeeps remained in the tank’s wake, letting the bigger, more protected vehicle run blocker for the attack.
A Ranger in the grenade’s blast area struggled to get to his feet. Blood stained his legs. The shrapnel had struck him.
Holding his M-4A1 in his right hand, Goose ran over and caught the Ranger’s BDUs in one hand and helped yank him to his feet. As the man stood briefly, Goose saw that the soldier would never make the distance under his own power. Goose squatted and threw a shoulder into the young soldier’s waist, buckling the Ranger in half. With the soldier over his shoulder, Goose forced himself to stand. His injured knee trembled at the exertion, and for a moment he thought the joint might not be strong enough for the load.
God help me. I won’t leave this boy out here to die. A quick glance at the Ranger’s bloodied and dusty face showed that he wasn’t much older than Joey, Goose’s seventeen-year-old stepson.
Despite the sharp twinges of pain that felt like rat’s teeth gnawing at his knee, Goose stood with his burden. He turned, ran back for the protection of the alley, and eased the wounded soldier onto the ground. Lieutenant Wake, blood glistening at his waist, grabbed another wounded Ranger by his LCE and dragged the man to cover. Shrapnel had hit the young soldier in the face and head, leaving bloody wounds. He was dazed, almost out on his feet.
“Oracle,” Goose called over the headset. “This is Leader.”
“Go, Leader. You have Oracle.”
“I need a medevac on my twenty. I’ve got wounded.”
“Affirmative, Leader. I’ve got your twenty. Medevac as soon as we’re able.”
“How long?” Goose sucked in deep breaths as the tank rumbled in their direction.
There was no immediate response. “As soon as they’re able, Leader.” The radio com operator paused, and for a moment the trained distance in the man’s voice evaporated. “We’re taking heavy casualties. We’ve got soldiers down everywhere.”
Goose glanced around the corner and watched as the Syrian armored cav rolled into Sanliurfa. The Rangers were supposed to hold the city until they were relieved of duty. Now it didn’t look like they would hold their positions through the night.
Brake drums from a vehicle shrilled behind Goose. Paranoid, knowing that Remington’s spotters couldn’t tell how far the enemy had penetrated into the city, Goose wheeled around and brought his assault rifle up.
The pickup was nearly twenty years old, an American model Goose remembered seeing back in Waycross, Georgia. A man slid out of the door from behind the steering wheel.
A crimson flare torched the sky and brought out the urban battlefield in sharp relief.
It also lit up the young driver’s bruised and battered features. He was in his early twenties and looked Middle Eastern.
In spite of the man’s days’-old injuries that had left faded bruises and scabs around his mouth and eyes and on his cheeks, Goose recognized him at once. Icarus. After only a moment’s hesitation, Goose muted the mouthpiece pickup on the helmet headset. Remington had declared an interest in Icarus, and Goose knew the captain would have sent Dean Hardin or others after the agent even in the heat of battle.
The man raised his eyebrows a little, obviously surprised by Goose’s choice to cut off contact with his commanding officer.
If he’d known everything about Icarus, Goose might not have cut out communications. But so far Icarus seemed content to contact him. Until Goose knew for certain what the man was up to, he was willing to delay telling Remington’s knowledge of the agent’s activities to preserve that tenuous relationship.
“Icarus,” Goose acknowledged in a voice too low to be heard by Wake or other members of Tango squad.
Icarus grinned ruefully. “Sergeant,” he said. He held his empty hands carefully away from his body.
Goose’s finger rested on the outside rim of the M-4A1’s trigger guard.
Icarus shrugged and glanced down at the stained and ripped United Nations uniform he wore. “With everything going on, I have to admit, I’m surprised you knew me. Still, I had to take the chance. Couldn’t leave you out here. I knew you wouldn’t leave your men behind.”
Goose said nothing, his mind reeling from the implications of the man’s appearance. Icarus remained an unknown in the mysterious events leading up to Syria’s unexpected attack on Turkey. Captain Remington had taken an assignment from CIA Section Chief Alexander Cody to rescue an operative who had fallen into the ungenerous hands of the PKK, a local terrorist organization.
Abdullah Ocalan first organized the Kurdistan Workers’ Party in 1974 for the purpose of creating an independent Kurdish state from land within Turkey, Iran, and Iraq. Of late, the group primarily targeted Turkey, seeking to destabilize the government through bloody attacks.
