Apocalypse Crucible

by Mel Odom

  Pain and confusion reeled over Delroy. He’d never truly gotten over either of those deaths and he’d known that long before tonight. But he was certain he had never felt those losses more strongly than he did right then.

  “How dare God take your father and then your son,” the creature said softly, barely audible above the steady rainfall. “How dare He do that when you have given Him so much of yourself.”

  For a moment, Delroy was mesmerized by the solemn conviction in the thing’s voice. Everything it said sounded so right and true. His mind felt thick; thinking past his pain and anger got hard.

  “God,” the thing continued in that soft, understanding cadence, “had no right to take them. He chose to break up your family. He even turned your wife against you so you ended up alone.”

  The last part jarred Delroy’s thoughts. Glenda hadn’t left him; he’d walked away from her, burying himself in his pain and his work, and insulating himself from all the confusing feelings he’d had over Terrence’s death.

  “She stayed there, content in her service to God and she left you all alone,” the thing whispered. “She didn’t feel any pain because her blindness made sense of their deaths. But you know better, don’t you? You know that God doesn’t care about you—or anyone. Worse yet, she wouldn’t allow you your grief either, constantly at you to ‘trust the Lord.’ I know she tried to talk you out of—”

  “No,” Delroy said, pulling back from the creature, suddenly aware that he had started leaning toward it.

  The creature smiled sadly, and without the lightning to slash away the human image, the expression looked warm and inviting. “It’s God’s fault, Preacher. You know it is. All of this is.”

  “People faultin’ God, Son,” Josiah had said on a number of occasions. “You ever notice how much trouble people get theirselves into when they start that? An’ as soon as they get theirselves well an’ truly into trouble up to their eyeballs, why they start gnashin’ their teeth an’ pulling their hair out an’ callin’ on God for help they accused Him of not givin’ in the first place.”

  Delroy staggered back from the creature, his father’s words ringing in his head. That day at the funeral home, he’d asked Josiah why God hadn’t found him a better daddy, the way God had found him a good daddy. Delroy had said that God should have known Josiah was going to be a preacher and would need a good daddy to raise him up right and treat him nice.

  “Maybe it wasn’t about a son havin’ a good daddy when I was born,” Josiah had answered with a slight smile. “Lookin’ back on things here at the end, I’m thinkin’ maybe the Lord knew what He was doin’ all along. Wasn’t a boy needin’ a good daddy when this was all said an’ done. Was a troubled an’ lost daddy what was needin’ a good son. You see, God made me strong enough an’ believe enough that I helped my daddy finish his life off right with death lookin’ him in the eye ever’ day. I helped my daddy find Jesus when he needed Him most. An’ I’m mighty pleased about that. Mighty pleased. Pastor Crook always told me the Lord would never give me more’n I could take care of when he helped me move into our church. Just never planned on what the Lord had to give me bein’ this much. No, sir, never planned on that at all. But that’s the way it is, Son: them surprises an’ curveballs an’ change-ups the Lord keeps throwin’ at you just to keep you good at your game.”

  “Dig, Preacher,” the creature coaxed. “Dig up this box and expose the lies your God has put before you. Set yourself free.”

  Glenda. Delroy kept his thoughts centered on his wife, remembering how strong her faith had been. It was the faith that she exhibited, the unshakeable certainty that everything was unfolding exactly as God had planned, that had ultimately torn them apart. She had accepted their son’s death; Delroy had not. He felt betrayed by her acceptance, then shamed because he could not find it within himself to forgive God while she trusted God’s hand in the matter.

  Delroy didn’t even know if she was still … here. She had a phone. He had the number. But he had never called before leaving Washington. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked to her. All he could recall was the continued pain and confusion and frustration that even long-distance contact had caused.

  Delroy backed up in his son’s grave. His thighs hit the back of the hole and he almost tripped. He turned, planting the shovel handle down to use as a support to step out of the hole.

  Before he could get clear, the creature moved with incredible speed to face him. “Where are you going?” it demanded. Angry sparks showed in the amber eyes as lightning blazed. Thunder underscored the question.

  “Out of here,” Delroy answered. He had to tilt his head up to look at the creature. Rain spattered across his face and into his eyes.

  “Dig.”

  “No, sir.” Delroy looked at the hole around him and shook his head. “I’m done here. This was a mistake. I was weak. I should never have come.” He shifted and tried to step past the creature. This close to the thing, Delroy smelled the sour stench that emanated from his opponent. He didn’t remember that from their first encounter.

  Moving explosively, the thing planted both hands in the center of Delroy’s chest and shoved. Delroy felt tiny claws bite into his chest, but he scarcely had time to notice them because he came up off his feet. He sailed backward, then landed off balance on his back in the watery mud at the bottom of the hole.

  The creature leaned in closely, bending at the waist and shoving an accusatory forefinger forward. “You’re going to dig, Preacher.”

  Delroy didn’t respond, but he heaved himself to his feet. The layer of mud that clung to him made him feel incredibly heavy. He gripped the shovel and swung it with all his strength, catching the thing in the ribs. The creature fell backward.

  Surprised by his success, Delroy hesitated a moment. Then he turned and stepped across the rock toward the other end of the grave. He lifted his foot, planted it into the soft earth, and shoved up, powering himself out of the hole. He swung his head around, trying desperately to get his bearings and find the cemetery entrance as he fled.

  “Preacher!” the thing roared. Then it filled the air with foul curses. Footsteps slapped against the wet graveyard grounds as it pursued him.

  11

  United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post

  Sanliurfa, Turkey

  Local Time 0524 Hours

  Captain Cal Remington surveyed the computer screens in the situation room hidden in a basement café deep in the heart of Sanliurfa. His team operated smoothly, efficiently using the limited capabilities they had access to.

  Infrared images of the city relayed from FLIR mounted on the marine helos scrolled across the screens. Other images came from Rangers in the field carrying digital cameras mounted under their assault rifles that connected to the modular computer/sat-com feed on their LCEs.

  All of the communications relays pumped through rooftopmounted dishes scattered throughout the city. The network wasn’t much compared to the speed and scope offered by satellite relays, but the system kept the command center from being deaf, dumb, and blind.

  White noise from the radios and clipped pieces of chatter filled the room.

  Buried deep in the ground, shored up by thick stone slabs, and having a manhole that led into the city’s sewer system for a quick escape or in the event the building was targeted by Syrian artillery and brought down, the room was a perfect place to run ops control from.

  The only thing the room didn’t have was air-conditioning. Fans pushed the air around but did little to cut the heat. Body odor mixed with the stink of overheated components. Cables, bundled together with OD green tape and held in place with tent stakes, crisscrossed the room. The generators used to run the operation occupied a room upstairs, but the steady vibration remained detectable even over the hum of the computers and the sharp barks of the radio communications.

  “Foxtrot Four has wounded,” a Ranger called over the channel.

  “Affirmative, Foxtrot Four,” one of the disp
atch officers responded immediately. He tapped keys on the computer in front of him.

  The screen blinked, closing out four windows that showed two aerial and two ground shots of the main areas that had gotten hit by Syrian troops. The next image was relayed in IR black and green, showing bodies strewn under a badly damaged building.

  “Who are the wounded?” the dispatch officer asked. His voice sounded strained, and the effort to keep himself calm showed frayed ends.

  “Nobody on Foxtrot. We’re looking at civ casualties.” The Ranger’s voice hesitated a little and lowered. “Got two kids in here, Dispatch. I think one of ‘em’s already dead.”

  A woman’s harsh screams and pleas for help in English, French, and Italian came over the channel.

  The dispatch officer punched another series of keys. A small window opened and revealed Foxtrot Four’s GPS location. Thankfully, he could access the global positioning satellites easily.

  Remington missed the quick and quantitative information offered by the usual network of spy satellites that special forces units used while on a mission. Still, as far as he could tell, the operation was limping along just as it was supposed to be.

  For cannon fodder and a distraction, the 75th Rangers maintained a lively game. Remington took pride in that, but the fact didn’t remove the sting of facing a losing situation.

  “Foxtrot Four, I’ve got your twenty locked,” the dispatch officer said. “Be advised that a medevac is en route.”

  “Roger that, Dispatch. We’re going to stand hard here. I’ve got a medic in my squad. Maybe we can help out till the evac arrives.”

  Remington almost stepped over and ordered the squad into motion. Staying with civilian casualties was a waste of time. He needed the city secure. Compassion at this point would only make things worse. Then he remembered that several reporters and news teams remained within the city. Getting reported on national television ordering troops away from civilians, especially if one of them was a journalist, would leave him seriously compromised. He held himself back, took a deep breath in through his nose, and let it out through his mouth.

  Holding Sanliurfa for the next few days wasn’t just a military operation. When he was done, if everything went his way, he figured he could become something of a media darling. Promotions and cushy careers followed media darlings.

  “We’re live,” another dispatch officer said.

  “Radio?” someone asked. “I’ve heard some radio reports broadcasted from inside the city.”

  “No. Television. OneWorld NewsNet.”

  Remington turned to face the computers that were dedicated to monitoring the media sources transmitting out of the city. FOX News and CNN managed to get sporadic stories out live, but most of what they could send were finished stories through burst transmissions.

  OneWorld NewsNet remained the consistent source the world turned to for news in the Middle Eastern theater. Of course, even then Remington didn’t know how large a share of the overall world audience OneWorld pulled. News from the rest of the world painted a picture of riots and fear. Cities had declared martial law and curfew, then discovered they didn’t have the emergency people to properly administer those conditions even after calling in the National Guard.

  The anchor on the OneWorld NewsNet station looked professional, edgy, and sharp. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed, serious, and intent—the kind of guy people sitting in their living rooms could trust. He sat in front of a Mercator map that displayed the globe in cutouts like orange sections. At first glance, though, the news logo had often struck Remington as a row of closed fangs.

  Remington worked the time difference in his head and realized the time was after 10 P.M. back in the States. Back there, it was still yesterday. At that time of night, though, the news teams brought out their big guns.

  “As you know,” the anchor said, “OneWorld continues our coverage of the outbreak of war in the Middle East with our reporter in the field, Danielle Vinchenzo.” He placed his hands together, a practiced effort at being solemn. “Danielle, are you with us?”

  “Yes, Addison, I am.” The audio transmission popped and stuttered a little, but definitely less than the efforts put out by the major American networks.

  “We’ve shown viewers at home that traumatic footage your team shot of the attack there at Sanliurfa,” Addison said. “As you might imagine, the station has been besieged with calls wanting to know more about the American soldiers over there.”

  As the anchor spoke, a window opened on-screen. Remington watched as footage rolled of a Syrian tank crashing through a building then firing its main gun. The explosion of the shot was muted, but the flash of the shell overpowered the low-level-light video pickup and turned the screen white for a second.

  The caption War in Turkey lit up the bottom of the screen, followed by the silhouette of a man in full battle gear carrying another man in his arms.

  “What is that?” Remington asked.

  “An icon,” one of the dispatch officers answered. “That’s Goose. They cut it out of the footage of the attack at the border. When the aircraft from Wasp dropped out of the sky. They’re starting to use it all the time now. Kind of identifies what we got going on over here.”

  Anger and frustration filled Remington. With that one rescue, with those few seconds of imagery, Goose seemed to have captured the world’s attention regarding the Syrian-Turkey conflict.

  And Danielle Vinchenzo seemed to have an obsession with the first sergeant. Even after Remington had given blanket orders to his troops that their contact with the media from this point on was to be limited, Vinchenzo had managed to keep Goose in the limelight.

  As Remington watched, Goose momentarily filled the screen, in hot pursuit of a Syrian tank. Then the screen cleared and the broadcast switched to a street scene with a Sanliurfa slug line. The silhouette of Goose blinked into place at the end of the slug.

  “As you could tell from the earlier footage,” Danielle Vinchenzo said, “American forces, their Turkish counterparts, and the U.N. contingent assigned on a peacekeeping mission in the area took a pounding. Squads continue to comb the wreckage for survivors as well as for enemy troops caught behind the lines when Sanliurfa’s defenders managed to break the Syrian attack and push their line back.”

  Sporadic gunfire chattered in the background. A few howitzer shells still took to the air from Mkchian’s artillery banks.

  “Has there been any indication of what losses the troops have suffered?” Addison asked.

  Remington mentally cursed the news anchor. The last thing he wanted the media to do was release stats on the op. Syrian army intelligence was probably up early this morning catching all the news broadcasts they could to gather information.

  Back in the Gulf wars, more so with the second than with the first, the media had worked with the military forces on the ground. The fall of Baghdad had been a carefully orchestrated event in some ways, both for the military and the media.

  “I don’t have any numbers for you yet,” Danielle answered, “but I hope to have them soon. From my impression, walking around just this small section of the city, the losses have been considerable.”

  The camera panned to take in the fallen buildings across the street. Flames clung stubbornly to two burned-out husks of cars.

  “I intend to talk with First Sergeant Samuel Gander at his earliest convenience,” Danielle said, “to see if I can get more concrete news.”

  Remington blew out an angry breath. He didn’t know why the woman wasn’t coming to him. He was captain in charge of the American forces occupying the city.

  The headset chirped in his ear. He seethed as he watched the news broadcast roll on. “Control,” he snapped.

  “This is BirdDog,” Perrin said.

  “You’d better have good news, mister,” Remington growled. “Tell me you found your target.”

  “No, sir,” Perrin said. “I can’t tell you that. But I did find out something else you might be interested in.”


  Remington waited.

  “Seems Phoenix Leader has arranged a tête-à-tête with the alphabet group.”

  The implications of Perrin’s statement spilled through Remington’s mind like a passenger-train pileup. “Why?”

  “Don’t know,” Perrin said. “What I’ve heard is that Phoenix Leader found one of the alphabet guys in the street near where he talked to the target. He took the guy into custody and is refusing to give him back to the alphabet section chief.”

  The ramifications shifted constantly as Remington pushed them around. The captain wanted to know what Goose had learned and what he had to say to Agent Cody.

  “Is there any sign of your target?” Remington asked.

  “No, sir.” Perrin paused. “The guy Phoenix Leader has in custody? He’s the same one I encountered earlier.”

  “When you saw Phoenix Leader talking to the target?”

  “Affirmative.”

  What are you doing, Goose? Remington wondered. Covering your tracks? Or making a deal with the devil?

  “Anything you want me to do, Control?” Perrin asked.

  “Negative. Keep them in sight.”

  “Phoenix Leader doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere. He’s camped out in the security office of the hospital.”

  “Don’t lose them if they try to leave,” Remington commanded, turning and heading for the door. “I’ll be there in five.”

  At the door, Remington took a final glance at the OneWorld NewsNet channel. Danielle Vinchenzo was still talking. The icon at the end of the slug line remained in place.

  And Cal Remington was figuring it was about time to do something with his first sergeant. If he couldn’t get Goose to play ball and keep him informed, then he was going to break him.

  Sunshine Hills Cemetery

  Outside Marbury, Alabama

  Local Time 2232 Hours

  Delroy ran, not daring to look back over his shoulder at the thing that chased him through the cemetery. God, help me. Keep that thing from me.

  The spongy ground absorbed the rapid impact of his frantic steps. Twice, the ground slid out from under him, causing him to stumble.