by Mel Odom
The childish logic brought a smile to Megan’s lips, but at the same time the statement made abundantly clear the fact that the children on base were inadequately prepared for what had happened.
“Maybe you should try going to sleep,” Megan suggested.
Leslie stared at her from under drooping eyelids. “What?”
Megan gestured to the bed. “Try sleeping. Maybe you’ll wake up as soon as your head hits the pillow.”
After a brief hesitation, Leslie said, “That just sounds wrong.”
“It’s worth trying.” Megan gestured. “Turning your room into a disaster area and having Tori over didn’t seem to do the trick.”
Leslie frowned. “No.” She paused. “There was an MP in my room. I think I remember dreaming that.”
“Yes.”
“He took Tori.” She held up the pistol. “I made him stay away from me. He didn’t like it, but I made him.”
Megan nodded.
A frown knitted Leslie’s brow. “Is Tori in trouble?”
“Are you going to dream her into trouble?” Megan didn’t want to deal with the reality of the situation. She had no idea how the base officials would handle what happened here in the Hollister home tonight.
“No. Tori was just trying to get me to calm down. Before she came over, I was seriously freaking.”
Megan silently gazed at the bullet hole in the wall behind Leslie and doubted that things had drastically improved with Tori’s arrival. Megan stood and offered her hand, but didn’t try to encroach on Leslie’s space.
“Let’s get you to bed,” Megan suggested.
Looking at the bed doubtfully, Leslie asked, “What if it doesn’t work?”
“It will.”
“How do you know?”
Megan felt suddenly inspired. “Because you can dream me the power to put you to sleep.” She’d had those empowering conversations with Chris when he’d had night terrors, coaching him on how to train his subconscious mind to deal with his fears and worries. Working with Chris was easy, though. Her son had loved superheroes. She’d encouraged him to dream himself up superpowers. And to know that God loves him, she reminded herself.
“Powers,” Leslie repeated.
“Yes. I’m sure that you can.”
Leslie frowned. “You think?”
Megan shrugged. “Why else pull me into your dream?”
“If I was looking for someone to fix everything, why didn’t I dream my mom into this? She’s the one that should be here. Not you.”
“Because this is a nightmare, not a dream.” Megan knew that she spoke the truth. If God had indeed raptured His church as she believed, the world remained a nightmare for those left behind. “C’mon. Get up.”
Leslie dragged herself from the floor. Her attention suddenly shifted to the flickering amber lights chasing themselves across the rain-spattered window. She leaned into the glass. The pistol rested on the sill between stuffed animals placed in a row.
God, Megan thought as her heart lurched inside her chest, please don’t let any of those young men out there panic. As tense as the situation was, she was afraid that one of the MPs might misread the situation and shoot Leslie Hollister through the window.
United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0448 Hours
“Ready, Sergeant!”
Goose provided cover fire against the advancing line of Syrian infantry that flanked the T-72 tank rumbling down the street only a block from the hospital. Keeping the M-4A1’s muzzle belt high on his targets, he swept the Syrians with sustained three-round bursts.
The nine other Rangers he’d gathered in his squad did the same, fanning out across the alley they’d taken refuge in. They had to stay bunched in order to keep from getting scattered when the marine helos vectored in on the enemy vehicles, and to provide a safer fire zone.
The Syrians went to ground, spreading across the street and taking advantage of cover offered by rubble and burning vehicles. Other Syrian soldiers followed close behind the T-72 to prevent close engagement with the city’s defenders.
“Private,” Goose snapped, feeling the assault rifle cycle dry. He stepped back to cover and shucked the empty magazine, changing it over for the full one taped to the first.
Private Al Goodwin stared at Goose through a mask of haze and blood. He looked impossibly young, but the MPIM he carried canted up across his chest lent him authority.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Goodwin responded.
“Hit it.” Goose flattened against the wall as Goodwin stepped forward and leveled the MPIM.
“Fire in the hole!” Goodwin yelled. Almost immediately, the MPIM chugged in his hands and a flash roiled through its snout.
The 40mm grenade sailed across the fifty-foot distance. Fighting in the streets kept the combatants close. By rights, the Rangers’ skirmish line was ten feet inside the blast radius of the grenade, but the wall protected them.
Goose slitted his eyes and locked them forward. A heartbeat later, before Goodwin had much of a chance to even step back, the phosphorus round exploded, throwing out harsh red light over the immediate vicinity. The heat of the blast swirled over Goose as debris slammed against the wall.
“Private,” Goose prompted.
“Yeah, Sergeant,” Goodwin confirmed, nodding enthusiastically. “I got him. Dead center. There’s a lake of red phosphorus burning on that tank’s hide. He’s marked. He can run, but he can’t hide.” He was wired on adrenaline, his words coming in a torrent, but he maintained control.
“Good job, soldier.” Goose watched as the incandescent red glare of the burning phosphorus staggered across the alley’s mouth. The light revealed the whirling clouds of dust and smoke that filled the air. He didn’t look around the corner because he didn’t want to lose his night vision.
Sporadic small-arms fire from the Syrian infantry chopped into the alley walls, chipping stone and mortar loose and striking sparks. Tracers burned lines of sight back to the shooters. The tank’s engine growled as the driver changed gears. Goose didn’t know how much contact the Syrian armored units had with each other, but they had to know that the rolling stock that had invaded the city were getting systematically hunted down and killed. Only a handful of them remained, and soldiers were stalking them now.
“Nighthawk,” Goose called over the headset.
“Nighthawk here.” The marine’s reply came strong and confident.
“We’ve lit up the cake.”
“Affirmative, Phoenix. Nighthawk’s coming in to blow out the candle. Get clear.”
Overhead, a pair of Whiskey Cobras leaned into the thin dry wind and came around on an approach path only a short distance above the rooftops.
“We’re already gone.” Goose threw his free hand into the air and waved the nine men he’d organized into a squad back into the alley.
The Rangers moved in concert, falling into the point-and-wings formation automatically. They ran by the light of the city that burned around them.
Long and narrow, the alley offered little protection or options for cover. When the tank crashed through the wall of the building behind them, locked down, and swiveled the turret around, Goose knew they were in trouble. Pools of red-flamed phosphorus fire burned and wavered on top of the T-72.
“Down, Phoenix,” the marine pilot commanded curtly. “We’re cutting this one close.”
Goose shouted, ordering his group to ground just as the lead Whiskey Cobra tilted in midair and came about. He dove for the cobbled alley floor just as the 120mm main gun roared behind them. The shell wobbled through the air only a few feet above their heads, then slapped into a curving wall less than thirty feet in front of them. Broken rock and mortar spanked the ground all around the Rangers.
A fist-sized chunk of stone landed on Goose’s back. He saw the stone roll away but realized he hadn’t heard the impact over the buzzsaw roar of the 2.75-inch rockets from the Whiskey Cobra’s wing pods. He pus
hed his head up and looked back.
The Syrian tank sat shivering, riddled with damage and flames and no longer in motion. Drops of burning red phosphorus still clung to the tank, but a lot of them stood out against the dark alley walls and on the cratered ground ahead of it. The tank sat inert, no longer a threat, thrust through the building wall the driver had taken out in pursuit of the enemy vehicle. Canted sideways amid the rubble, it resembled a ship that had run aground on a reef.
“Up,” Goose commanded. “Now.” He pushed himself up, setting the example. “Move out.”
Gathering their feet beneath them, the Rangers moved out down the alley.
“Oracle,” Goose said, jogging with his troops and trying fiercely to ignore the rat’s teeth gnawing at his knee at every impact against the uneven ground.
“Go, Phoenix Leader. Oracle reads you five by five.”
The thunder of the Whiskey Cobras swept by overhead, already en route to their next target.
“I’m hunting,” Goose said.
“Negative. All enemy tanks have target groups assigned. The marine wing is working the takedowns.”
Goose felt a moment of relief. He switched channels on the headset. “Control, this is Phoenix Leader.”
“I hear you, Leader.”
Goose immediately recognized the unaccustomed cold neutrality in Remington’s voice. In nearly twenty years of friendship and service, Goose had heard that tone directed at him less than a handful of times. His relationship with the captain, even when they’d been enlisted men and sergeants together, had contained confrontational situations but always with mutual respect. Questions filled Goose’s mind, but he shelved them. Whatever the problem was, he and Remington were too professional to let it interfere with the present op.
“We’ve taken down our last target,” Goose said. “Awaiting orders.”
“Fill in the gaps, Leader. I want this city secure while we shove their front line back and earn a little grudging respect from the Syrians.”
Getting dismissed so casually with no real agenda set was unusual as well. Remington always kept Goose at the forefront of any action. Goose knew Remington was aggravated, but he didn’t know why. However, the fact that the captain was able to feel aggravation during the current situation was a positive note in one respect: it meant the captain was fairly certain they were going to survive.
In the next instant, the heavy artillery Captain Mkchian had managed to bring into the city opened up with drumming full-throated roars. Still in the alley, Goose couldn’t see the immediate effects of the heavy long guns, but he got the impression the damage was substantial when other Rangers started cheering over the headset.
Goose flipped over to the fire-control channel on the headset and listened to the confirmed hits among the second wave of Syrian armor. Mortars and howitzers screamed into the night, launching from behind the front line and carrying to the enemy troops a mile away. Marine sniper squads deployed after the first few minutes of the attack had set up nests in the broken terrain outside the city and used the big Barrett .50-cal sniper rifles to pick off Syrian artillery teams.
Judging from the amount of damage the embattled Rangers, marines, U.N. Peacekeepers, and Turkish army were reporting, Goose felt certain the tide of the battle had turned. Knocking out the Syrian armor gave all the fire teams the room they needed to breathe. When it came to sheer tactics and number crunching, no one beat Remington. Goose took a small amount of pride in that because the captain wasn’t just his commanding officer but his friend.
“Man down! Man down!” someone ahead yelled.
The Rangers went to ground immediately, dropping into squatting defensive positions with their assault rifles at the ready.
Sweat ran down Goose’s face. Squatting on his injured knee was pure agony. The cortisone shot he’d received only a few days ago wasn’t standing up to the demands he was putting on the joint. He peered through the M-4A1’s open sights and waited.
The point man, Charlie Jointer, crept like a crab to the body lying at the corner of the alley opening onto the street. He prodded the inert man with a boot, keeping his rifle directed at the man’s center mass.
Flickering flames provided enough light for Goose to see that the man was dressed in civilian clothes—khaki pants and a lightweight shirt. He also wore a light jacket even in the heat.
“He’s alive,” Jointer called back. “But he ain’t one of ours. Maybe American or European.”
“Okay,” Goose said. “Everybody up and moving.”
The Rangers rose as one and advanced. Explosions rang out around them, but there was no sign of the enemy.
Reaching the man, Goose studied his features. He didn’t know him, but he knew the look of him. Scruffy and unkempt to a degree, the man looked like any number of people—residents as well as travelers trapped by the sudden attack and stranded in the city—who holed up with the military awaiting rescue.
“Kinda weird,” Jointer said to Goose. “Guy like this being out here all alone.” He looked down the street as if looking for more bodies.
“His friends could have left him,” Hershel Barnett offered. Big and solid and usually solitary, he wasn’t noted for optimism.
Breathing shallowly against the aching pain in his knee, Goose knelt. He kept his assault rifle canted up in the ready position and searched the body with his free hand.
The man wore a shoulder holster under his left arm and a paddle holster at the small of his back. Both holsters were empty. Dark bruises covered his face and a split along his right cheek needed stitches.
“Looks like somebody pistol-whipped him,” Barnett said. He’d grown up in the wildcatter oil fields near Houston, Texas, and knew a lot more about violence than the army had ever taught him. Goose had known the man at a glance. They shared small-town roots and similar backgrounds.
“In the middle of an attack?” Jointer shook his head. “Doesn’t make any sense.”
Goose ran his finger inside the man’s mouth, popping the jaws open to make certain there was no obstruction. He held his rifle between his knees and used his pen flashlight briefly. There was no obstruction and the dental work was definitely American. Europeans still used a lot of gold instead of the porcelain American dentists used. He took his finger from the man’s mouth.
“Trust me,” Barnett said, “somebody took the time to pistol-whip him like that, they had a reason.” He shrugged. “Would have been simpler to kill him ‘cause this guy ain’t gonna let something like this go. He knows who’s responsible, he’s gonna go after them.”
Goose pushed himself to his feet. A bad feeling came over him because he was fairly certain the man was one of the CIA agents looking for Icarus in Sanliurfa. Goose knew Icarus was desperate enough to kill to save himself. Whatever secrets he held were big and dangerous to more than just himself, or else the CIA wouldn’t have searched for him so thoroughly and Icarus wouldn’t have taken such pains to hide.
But the beating looked fresh. Whoever had administered it had gotten bloody.
Goose tried to remember if Icarus had looked bloody but couldn’t. Still, Icarus had driven; he wouldn’t have stopped to beat a man on foot he could easily escape from.
Then someone else had administered the beating. With growing discomfort, Goose figured he knew who was behind that coldblooded act. Remington was searching for Icarus, and he had assigned some of the company hardcases to look for the man. This attack breached the grudgingly granted no-man’s-land between the CIA and Remington regarding the Icarus matter.
“Get him up,” Goose growled. “Let’s get him to the hospital. The defensive perimeter there could use some shoring up.” Reports flashed constantly over the headset, relaying information about incoming wounded and continued flurries of attacks by Syrian infantry trapped inside the city.
If Icarus was true to his word, the man was waiting there. But it didn’t mean he was going to tell Goose everything—or anything. Icarus would tell only whatever suited him.
This time, Goose was determined not to let Icarus get away. Whether he answered questions or not, Icarus was no longer going to be a player.
United States of America
Fort Benning, Georgia
Local Time 2148 Hours
“Leslie, why don’t you come away from that window?” Megan suggested. She stood still, knowing if she closed on the girl that she could upset the delicate balance they’d maintained over the past several minutes. But she was also afraid one of the overzealous or overwrought MPs outside might chose that moment to neutralize the potentially explosive situation inside the Hollister home.
“The MPs are still here?” Leslie lifted her left hand, the gun-free one, and shaded her eyes against the pulsing amber lights that came from outside.
“Yes.” Megan resisted the immediate impulse to go to the girl and pull her from the window.
“This is really weird.” Leslie turned from the window, lurching a little unsteadily. The pistol hung heavily at her side. “I’ve never dreamed in this much detail before.” She looked at Megan with rising panic in her eyes. “What if I’m not dreaming? What if I was in a traffic accident? What if I’m in a coma, on life support in the hospital or something like that? Maybe that’s why I can’t wake up! Maybe that’s why I’m dreaming so vividly!”
“Leslie.” Megan struggled to make her voice reasonable. “You’re not in a coma. There’s been no accident.”
“You’d say that, though,” Leslie accused, growing increasingly hysterical.
“Why would I say that?”
“Because.” Leslie sounded petulant and frantic. “Because maybe you’re the thing that’s trying to keep me in here.”
“What thing?”
“The sedation.” Leslie waved, obviously pulling at straws. She shifted her weight from foot to foot restlessly.
Panic swelled within Megan, but she knew she was siphoning off most of the emotion from the girl.
