Apocalypse Crucible

by Mel Odom

  Goose knew the Turkish military was still having problems with the Rangers running the joint op. The U.N. forces had their problems, too, but the United States Army still maintained the largest and most heavily equipped firepower and tech in the world. The general consensus was to let the U.S. try to get all of their soldiers home.

  The downside was that the U.S. was going to be blamed for every death that occurred in Sanliurfa, and the nation’s critics were going to have a field day. If a U.S. soldier fell, it would be because the U.S. military had poor planning. If a U.N. or Turkish soldier fell, the loss would be attributed to a lack of coordination or because the U.S. military was following personal interest. Every citizen who died would be because the U.S. chose to insert itself into every international confrontation that came along.

  The Whiskey Cobra gunship soared through the air, looking like a deadly dragonfly. But a dragonfly never came equipped with 20mm cannon, LAU-68 rocket pods, Hellfire antitank missiles, antipersonnel bombs, and a 30mm chain gun mounted underneath the carriage.

  Beside Goose, Corporal Robinson smiled and said, “Those attackers are definitely in a world of hurt. They just don’t know it yet.”

  Goose silently agreed. He shoved a fresh magazine home and glanced toward the burning building. Six warheads had slammed into the structure during the last minute and a half. The Rangers had succeeded in keeping some of their attackers pinned down. Teams were already approaching the buildings where the hostiles had taken up positions on the rooftops as well as inside the rooms.

  “This is Search Twenty-Two,” a young man called over the headset. He sounded slightly panicked. “This is Search Twenty-Two.”

  “Tango Fourteen Leader reads you, Search Twenty-Two,” Robinson responded.

  “My team is down. My corporal is down. We’ve got wounded, and we’re part of them now.”

  “Understood,” Robinson said, looking back over the bullet-riddled Hummer. “Tango Fourteen is coming to assist.”

  The marine aircraft maneuvered as if by magic, approaching at speed then hovering in place like a freeze frame on a DVD player. The 30mm chain gun opened up at once, hammering rounds across the rooftops and through stone walls, chewing holes through in rapid succession. The wicked and deadly fire made Swiss cheese of the buildings. The basso booming of the rounds detonating filled the air.

  “Tango Fourteen, this brief intermission has been brought to you courtesy of the United States Marine Corps,” the helicopter pilot said. “You’re now free to move around your war zone.”

  “Affirmative, Rattler,” Goose radioed back. “Thanks for the assist.”

  “Take care of your team, Phoenix Leader. We’re gonna fly standby till you get your op clean and green. We’ll control the horizontal and the vertical.”

  Goose ran toward the burning building, dividing the rescue team up into squads as he moved. The structure had three points of egress on the first floor. They used them all, swarming up the two stairwells at either end and going downstairs. The pile of debris still blocked the doors leading to the basement, where a dozen people had taken refuge.

  The rocket blasts had scattered and damaged the SAR team, and the time allowed by the attack had enabled the fire more time to feed. The oppressive heat filled the building and twisted the black smoke before the acrid clouds found their way out.

  Goose stayed low to the ground as he moved, but the position put increased strain on his bad knee. He willed himself to keep going in spite of the cold sweat that ran down his face and back.

  The com op called out the locations in the burning structure, adding to and changing the intel as the teams worked through the scene.

  Goose tripped over a dead body in the third-floor hall and sprawled. Close up, even though his eyes teared constantly, he saw that the corpse was one of the SAR team. A rocket blast had torn him nearly in half.

  Help those you can help, Goose reminded himself. You can’t do anything for this boy. He pushed his feelings into a nice, tight box, then set about stripping the SAR member’s oxygen tank from his body. The oxygen helped, as did the mask, although he couldn’t see any better than he had before.

  Only a few steps ahead, Goose found the door that the dead soldier had reported hearing voices and banging behind. A burning section of the ceiling lay in the hallway and blocked the open door with a wall of fire that splashed across the ceiling like an upside-down waterfall. “There’s an old woman in here,” a man called. “I can’t get her out, and I can’t move the blockage. I don’t have any tools. Every time I tried to shift it, more of the ceiling came down.”

  Goose removed his mask so he could be heard better, but regretted it at once as the acrid smoke burned his eyes, throat, and sinus passages. “It’s okay,” Goose said. “I’m going to get you out.” He turned his attention to the blockage and replaced the oxygen mask.

  Glancing back at the dead SAR soldier, Goose spotted the fireman’s axe halfway hidden under the body. He took the axe, positioned himself, and swung at the blockage as if he were back on his daddy’s small farm.

  The keen blade chopped into the ceiling section with sharp thunks that quivered up Goose’s arms. Embers swirled all around him, stinging his arms, his chest, and his ears where the mask didn’t cover them.

  In seconds, he’d chopped the longest boards in two; then he used the axe to lever the bulk of the debris from the door. Only a few small flames danced on the floor, clinging to the carpet and the wood below. He stomped them out as a figure approached him through the smoke.

  “Thanks for your help,” the guy said. “I think I could have jumped out the window and made it. I might have broken a leg or two, but I would have survived. I couldn’t leave the lady in this room. I knew she was an invalid so I came back for her, but I couldn’t get her—”

  Staring through the smoke, Goose stared in surprise at the man.

  Looking much the worse for wear in smoke-stained clothing, sporting first- and second-degree burns, Icarus stared back at Goose with equal surprise. “You,” Icarus said.

  “Me,” Goose agreed. “Fate seems to have a way of bringing us together.”

  “It’s not fate, Sergeant,” Icarus said, glancing over his shoulder at the open window. “I can explain—”

  Another rescue worker stepped into the hallway behind Goose, emerging from the smoke.

  Before Icarus could move, Goose powered a short right into the man’s jaw, rolling all his weight and muscle into the blow. Icarus flew backward and, like his chosen namesake, dropped to the earth. He didn’t move.

  Goose stepped into the room. An old woman lay on the floor where the air was cleanest. She stared up at him with rheumy eyes and coughed fitfully.

  The soldier stepped in behind Goose. He looked at the unconscious man on the floor, then at Goose. “You hit him,” the soldier accused. He looked wide-eyed and innocent behind the oxygen mask.

  Goose nodded. “He was panicking, Private.” He put steel in his voice, showing his rank by tone alone. “Had to quiet him down so we could get him out of here.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good,” Goose said. “See if you can help the lady. I’ll get this one.”

  The soldier stepped over to the old woman, talked to her briefly, then picked her up in his arms and carried her out of the room.

  Bending down, Goose pulled Icarus’s deadweight over his shoulder. His knee popped and pain swelled like a balloon inside the joint. He regretted his decision to knock Icarus out at once. Getting back down the stairs was going to hurt.

  But the guy wasn’t going to pull a vanishing act again. This time they were going to talk.

  20

  United States of America

  Fort Benning, Georgia

  Local Time 0856 Hours

  Megan sat in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair in the waiting room to Chaplain Augustus Trimble’s office. Trimble was the ranking chaplain at the base, handpicked by General Amos Braddock for the position.

  The
waiting room was neat and immaculate. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase of pamphlets and Bibles and books occupied one wall. The room was quiet and contained. The heavy wood desk looked like it had been carved from a giant redwood tree and was as imposing as a battleship.

  In the hallway, the din of the Joint Services Counseling Center remained constant. Men and women filled with desperate need or panic talked to personnel, pleading for help and understanding. The voices entered the room as a steady undercurrent of noise. All of those people sought help or hope in the face of the current dilemma.

  Joint Services saw to financial and medical needs of military personnel and their families, providing planning and counseling and correction when necessary. They also liaised with local-government and law-enforcement bodies in the event of criminal or civil litigation involving members of the post.

  But the chaplain’s office was there to attend to the post’s spiritual needs as well.

  Sitting there as she had been for some time, listening to the people talking to the overworked receptionists manning the in-take tables, Megan felt guilty and nervous. She felt guilty because she wasn’t working with the other counselors to take care of the teens left in their care. The nervousness came from the fact that she was about to approach Chaplain Trimble on a loaded issue. She had even more guilt because she felt nervous about even bringing the topic up. She didn’t have the right to question the man’s methods, his professionalism, or his faith.

  Yet she was prepared to do all of that.

  Jenny’s talk in the hospital last evening had weighed heavily on Megan’s mind the rest of the night. Despite the good news that Leslie Hollister was out of immediate danger and was, potentially, on her way to a full recovery, Megan hadn’t rested well. Though the Gander house was stacked with teens and she was currently sharing her bedroom with some of the girls, Megan felt the absence of her family.

  After lying awake for an hour after an imposed curfew, she’d gotten up and retreated to the patio and sat outside with the portable, battery-powered TV the family used on camping trips. She’d watched the news, learning little more about the situation in Sanliurfa, Turkey, where Goose was posted. In the end, her thoughts constantly whirling, she’d found the book about the end times that Jenny had read and talked about.

  Sipping the leftover chicken noodle soup to combat the early morning chill, Megan had started reading until she finally couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. She’d gotten three hours sleep, and she’d dreamed constantly that the teens she was watching over were lost to the darkness because they didn’t know what they were supposed to do now that the world had changed.

  When she’d finally sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes and awake at last, Megan had felt certain she knew what she was supposed to do.

  She’d called Joint Services in the hopes of talking to one of the chaplains. She’d been surprised when Chaplain Trimble’s personal assistant fielded the call and told her that Trimble himself would see her.

  Megan had taken the invitation as a good sign. Now, however, after being kept waiting for so long, she was beginning to wonder. Her cell phone rang and she answered it. “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Gander?” The voice at the other end of the connection belonged to a young lieutenant named Doug Benbow. Benbow was currently assigned as her legal representative regarding charges of dereliction of duty in the Gerry Fletcher matter.

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” Megan replied.

  “I thought we had a meeting this morning.”

  Another wave of guilt washed over Megan. “I’m sorry. We did have a meeting. I forgot.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Benbow said politely. “After the night you had last night, I can see how that would happen.”

  Megan felt uncomfortable. She wasn’t prone to forgetting things. Usually she was very organized. “I take it you heard about Leslie Hollister.”

  Benbow hesitated, then either felt that honesty was the best policy or that he was a weak liar even if he had good intentions. “Yes, ma’am. And I have to tell you, this isn’t going to help our situation.”

  The Boyd Fletcher situation, Megan thought. Boyd Fletcher was the father of Gerry Fletcher, the boy Megan had tried to save from falling from a rooftop the night of the disappearances. Boyd Fletcher had brought the charges forward to the provost marshal’s office, and Provost Marshal Frank Marion had filed the documentation against Megan.

  “Ma’am,” Benbow said, “we had discussed the hope of you maintaining a low profile. At least until we get the hearing out of the way.”

  “Yes, we did, Lieutenant.” Frustration chafed at Megan. “I hadn’t planned on Leslie Hollister ending up in the hospital last night either.” Benbow sighed. “Yes, ma’am. I know that. I’m sorry. That’s not how I meant that to come out.”

  Chaplain Trimble’s receptionist answered her phone, then looked up at Megan. She covered the mouthpiece. “The chaplain will see you now.”

  “Thank you,” Megan responded, covering her own mouthpiece.

  The receptionist was sixty if she was a day, matronly with an edgy professionalism and a no-nonsense approach to doing business. Since she’d stepped into the room, Megan hadn’t felt an ounce of warmth from the woman.

  “I’ve got to go, Lieutenant,” Megan said.

  “Mrs. Gander, we really need to talk. There are some things you need to know. There have been some … changes in how our situation is working out.” The lieutenant’s tone was ominous, and he clearly didn’t sound happy.

  A look of cold irritation filled the receptionist’s gaze. She tapped her pencil and glanced at her watch. “Mrs. Gander, Chaplain Trimble is a busy man. He had me reschedule his entire morning to work you in, and—in light of everything that’s going on at this post—” She made it clear that Megan should feel personally responsible for those problems as well—“I would think that you would show a little more consideration of the chaplain’s generosity.”

  “I’m at Joint Services,” Megan said. “I won’t be long. Meet me here and we can work out details for when we can talk again.”

  “What are you doing at Joint Services?”

  Megan knew she couldn’t tell Benbow what she was planning. “I’ve got a meeting with Chaplain Trimble. I’ve got to go now. He’s waiting.”

  “Trimble? He’s one of General Braddock’s favorite officers. They play golf together.” Benbow sounded worried. “Look, just find out why he called the meeting—”

  “I called the meeting,” Megan said.

  “Why?”

  Megan gathered her attaché case and stood, trying to ignore the withering stare the receptionist was giving her. “I’ve got to go.”

  “All right. Tell me later. For the moment I need you to keep your head. Low profile, Mrs. Gander. Just keep thinking, low profile.”

  Megan said good-bye and closed the phone. She approached the door bearing large lettering:

  MAJOR AUGUSTUS R. TRIMBLE CHAPLAIN UNITED STATES ARMY

  How do you tell a chaplain how to do his job? Megan asked herself nervously. Then she opened the door and went inside. Low profile. Just keep thinking low profile.

  United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post

  Sanliurfa, Turkey

  Local Time 1359 Hours

  As she watched the collapse of the burning building where First Sergeant Goose Gander had been fired upon by what turned out to be a group of PKK terrorists intent on carrying out their jihad against the Turks by way of killing American Rangers, Danielle’s mind raced.

  She’d already done a bit for the news, but the attack was almost miniscule in light of everything else that had happened in the city in the past few hours. Normally a bunch of people dying guaranteed airtime, but not this confrontation. After all, the PKK were only a handful of terrorists who had intended to take advantage of the confusion in the city to strike against their perceived enemies. With the past news stories, it would take an attack by the Syrian government to punch a hole in the news.

  Three Rangers
were dead and six more wounded. Efforts were still being made to count the civilian dead in the building, but no one expected to complete that because the fire had already rendered the building off-limits. By the time the flames were out, only a pile of smoldering rubble would be left.

  Most of the PKK terrorists were dead, killed by an attack helicopter that still beat the air overhead while holding in a defensive pattern. A few had fled, but the military searched for them now.

  Danielle had tried for an interview with Goose but hadn’t been able to penetrate the cordon established by the Rangers. She’d wanted a couple sound bites with First Sergeant Gander, just enough to keep the points up on the ratings. Several viewers identified with the sergeant, commenting on the degree of professionalism he’d shown through the battles as well as the personal loss he’d had in his five-year-old son.

  She’d seen Goose a few times. Primarily he seemed occupied with an unconscious man he’d carried out of the building and put in the back of a cargo truck that hauled supplies.

  That piqued Danielle’s interest because the other people who had been rescued from the building had been transported in medical vehicles displaying appropriate markings. In all the confusion, no one else seemed to notice that the man the first sergeant had carried out hadn’t gone with them.

  Maybe I’m just being paranoid, Danielle told herself. But then she spotted one of the CIA agents Captain Remington had confronted that morning. She didn’t know how long he’d been there. Or maybe I’m not being paranoid enough.

  The CIA agent lounged in the shade of a building and drank from a sports bottle. He wore khakis and a white shirt. His wraparound sunglasses masked his face. He blended in with the media people, but he wasn’t one of them.