by Mel Odom
She put the other man out of her mind for the moment and focused on the CIA section chief.
“Excuse me,” Danielle said.
Cody didn’t move, but his gaze cut to the big mirror behind the bar. “Miss Vinchenzo.” His voice came out flat and uninviting.
An explosion sounded outside. Danielle grabbed the bar and prepared to hurl herself behind it. When she glanced back at Cody, the man grinned at her.
“Somewhat apprehensive, aren’t you?” he taunted. He tipped his drink and sipped casually. “You’ll never hear the one that gets you. Those missiles travel faster than the speed of sound.”
Danielle ignored the comment. “I’d like to talk to you.”
“As a reporter? Or as a woman?”
“A reporter.”
“Too bad.” Cody sipped his drink and set the glass on the bar. “I’m not currently interested in talking with the press.”
“You’re a CIA section chief.”
Some of the spirit went out of Cody’s smile, but he kept it in place. “Quite an imagination you have there.”
“It’s not my imagination.”
“If you air something like that, you’d better have proof to back it up.”
“When I air it,” Danielle said, “I’ll have proof.”
“Bully for you.” Cody drained his glass and gestured to the bartender to bring another. “Did you just come down here to share conspiracy theories, Miss Vinchenzo? Or did you have something you really wanted to get around to?”
Danielle slid onto the stool next to Cody. She looked at him in the mirror. The bartender approached and asked her if she wanted a drink; she politely refused.
“Marcus Allen,” Danielle stated. “Your guy that shot down the helicopter I was on?”
Cody didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know anyone named Marcus Allen, and I don’t know about any helicopter.”
“Allen is a mercenary. An ex-soldier. You’ve worked with him before.”
“I’d like to see you try to prove that.”
“I will.”
Cody frowned. “As amusing as this conversation is, and as grateful as I am to have a diversion while bombs are flying through the air around us, Miss Vinchenzo, I really don’t have the inclination to sit and listen to it.”
“Goose is still alive, and so is Icarus,” Danielle said. “Whatever you’re hiding is going to come out.”
“I,” Cody declared, “am not hiding a thing.” He drained his fresh drink and stood. Then he asked the bartender for a bottle and a glass. “I’m headed up to my room. If you want to continue this discussion, you’re welcome to come up. I can get another glass, and there’s a big whirlpool tub in the room.”
Danielle’s face burned.
“I didn’t think so,” Cody stated. He laughed, and the sound was thin and brittle. “A word to the wise,” he said quietly. “If a CIA section chief were trying to hide something like you suspect, I’d be really careful if I were you. Maybe he’d start thinking that Icarus and Sergeant Gander aren’t the only people who need killing, that maybe I’ve stuck my head up just a little too far and gotten noticed.” He turned and walked away.
Helplessly, feeling a little frightened despite her resolve not to be intimidated, Danielle watched him go.
United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 1623 Hours
Remington scanned the battlefield through the satellite feeds. The Syrian cavalry crept closer, braving the mud now that they’d knocked in the fortifications fronting the city. Inside, Remington cursed. His position was rapidly becoming untenable.
They were going to have to concede part of the city to the Syrians. The idea of doing that filled him with rage and helplessness.
He didn’t care for either feeling.
“Captain?” the corporal at the com called.
“Yes?”
“I’ve got a caller here who says he’s Nicolae Carpathia.”
“Is he?”
The corporal looked embarrassed. “I don’t know, sir, but he sounds sincere.”
“Sincere.”
“Yes, sir.” The corporal broke eye contact.
Remington took a deep breath and let it out. “Put him through.”
“Yes, sir.”
Remington flicked his headset over to receive the incoming call. There was a brief burst of static; then Nicolae Carpathia’s melodic baritone filled Remington’s ear.
“Captain Remington,” Carpathia greeted.
“Mr. SecretaryGeneral,” Remington said, “please forgive my tactlessness, but I’m somewhat pressed for time at the moment.”
“So I see.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. SecretaryGeneral?”
“Please, Cal. We are practically old friends, you and I. And I am hoping we get to know each other much better in the future. Call me Nicolae.”
“All right.” A vague feeling of well-being spread throughout Remington, but part of him insisted on remaining wary.
“And actually I was calling in regard to something I may be able to do for you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. That is what I was calling about. As secretarygeneral, I have been given unlimited control over troop movements and recruitment. The general consensus seems to be that I will know best what to do.”
In spite of the tension that filled Remington as he watched medical corpsmen carry three litters of wounded back to a Hummer, the captain smiled.
“The reason for my call is that I have directed several UN troop contingents to join you there,” Carpathia said.
“Troops?” Remington couldn’t believe he’d heard right.
“Yes. Reinforcements, actually.”
Remington felt certain he hadn’t heard correctly.
“I have asked some of the European countries to supplement the United Nations forces I have ordered to help you,” Carpathia went on. “They were unusually responsive in appropriating men and weapons. In fact, if you take a look at your radar, you should see some of the new arrivals now.”
“Sir,” one of the radar techs called excitedly, “UN forces have just informed us about troop ships they’ve got entering our airspace.”
“Did you confirm that?”
“I’m in the process, sir.”
“Those are my men,” Carpathia said. “Soon they will be yours. Since you know the terrain and the situation there in Sanliurfa better than anyone else, I have placed you in charge of them.”
Excitement flared through Remington. He’d seized control of the Rangers after his superior officers had disappeared or been killed in the opening confrontation with the Syrians, and he’d been dreading the time the U.S. Army flew someone in with more seniority.
“Do you see the airplanes?” Carpathia asked.
“I’m confirming them,” Remington said. As he watched, several dots separated from the plane above the city.
“I have given the fighter jets among them the freedom to engage Syrian aggressors in your airspace,” Carpathia said. “But you can request they follow your direction.”
“No,” Remington said, watching the radar screen and the satellite monitor. “We need some breathing room.”
“I thought you might.”
Several jets screamed by overhead, racing toward the Syrians instead of away from them.
As Remington watched, the satellite feeds strengthened and became more certain. The United Nations jets swooped into the area and slagged several of the Syrian tanks before they retreated. Gratification filled Remington as he watched the onslaught.
“I hope this will help you out there,” Carpathia said.
“It will. We’ll make the most of it.”
“I am glad. I would hate to lose you, Cal.”
The warmth and well-being spread throughout Remington, overcoming the trepidation.
Like wildfire, the command post staff discovered that the new forces belonged t
o the United Nations. Not only that, but the new arrivals systematically mopped the floor with the Syrian units staggered out across the muddy no-man’s-land in front of the city.
That knowledge quickly transmuted into a ragged cheer that echoed through the building.
Remington felt an immediate pang of jealousy as he watched the celebration. That should have been his. He should have been reveling in his glory. He should have solved their problems.
Given time and resources, I could have brought them a victory too, Remington thought.
“I see that everyone there has figured out what is going on,” Carpathia said.
“Yes,” Remington replied.
“I am convinced that you would have done well on your own, but I thought maybe quick action on my part might save a few lives.”
“It will.”
“Then I am pleased I was able to be of assistance. Your people are still in dire straits, and those lands-as well as the Middle East-are going to be hotly contested in the coming days.”
“They always have been.”
“And there will be no change in that,” Carpathia said. “That is why I want to start recruiting.”
“Recruiting?”
“Yes. To the army I am going to build. I want to make some positive changes in the world, and to do that, I need a force that will be able to respond quickly and decisively to threats. I need a win in Turkey, and I think you are just the man to give it to me. I had planned to ask you at a later time, but since the subject has come up…”
Remington found himself hanging on Carpathia’s every word.
“I would like you to be part of this new world force,” Carpathia said.
“I’ve already got a career with the army,” Remington said.
“I want you as a colonel. I am prepared to offer you a full commission whenever you are ready.”
Remington’s mind spun. If that happened, he’d be a very young colonel. He’d also, his thoughts assured him, be a very powerful colonel in a position to make a name and a career for himself in Turkey.
“I want young men in this endeavor,” Carpathia said as if reading his mind. “And I want them in positions of authority. In short, I want you.”
Remington stared at the smoldering battlefield visible on the computer screens. “Let me figure out what I’m doing here first, and I’ll be happy to talk with you about it sometime soon.”
“Good,” Carpathia responded. “We shall talk soon. In the meantime, see to your men.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Remington ended the connection and gazed out at the battlefield as it changed once again. He couldn’t help thinking about Carpathia’s offer.
Colonel Remington.
He liked the sound of that. And all he had to do was survive to claim it.
38
Outside Sanliurfa
Sanliurfa Province, Turkey
Local Time 1630 Hours
Goose knelt under a copse of young trees atop a hill that overlooked the big plain just outside Sanliurfa. The journey on foot back to the city had been arduous. The pain in his knee was constant now. But at last they had made it to the city. Now all they had to do was wait for their chance to get inside.
He tracked the action with his binoculars. Things had looked bad, but it seemed Cal Remington had turned the tables on the Syrians with a surprise aerial attack that had orphaned part of the invading army. Goose didn’t know where the additional planes had come from, but now if the Syrians wanted to press on, they had to do so with increased risk and over the bodies of their own people and the remains of their destroyed vehicles.
“What’s going on?” Chaplain Miller asked. It was hard to carry on a conversation with all the explosions and gunfire, but he leaned over Goose’s shoulder and spoke into his ear.
“We’re holding our own,” Goose replied. “Don’t know where the captain got the additional munitions, but he’s putting them to good use.”
Miller squinted. “Are those United Nations insignias on the new planes?”
“Maybe so. The Syrians seem as surprised as we are.”
Icarus hunkered down only a short distance away. Dried blood covered the side of his face and one ear. He frowned. “Aren’t you a little curious about where the help came from, Sergeant?”
“Not at this particular moment,” Goose replied. “I’m just glad they found their way here. Otherwise the city might have been overrun.”
“At some point,” Icarus said, “you should ask where the planes came from.”
“What are we going to do?” Miller asked.
Goose lowered his binoculars and put them away. “We’re going to lie low, sir. Dig in where we can, hope the Syrians don’t stumble across us, and wait for night to cover us over. Then we’re going to try to return to Sanliurfa. Without getting killed.”
All of that was easy to say. Accomplishing it was going to be a different matter entirely. Goose stretched his bad knee out and sat next to a tree behind a wall of brush. Rain soaked his clothing, and he felt miserable. He kept his rifle next to him.
He turned his face up into the rain and slowly drank to preserve the water he had in the LCE. Then he looked at the line of destruction Remington had wrought. Glancing at Icarus, Goose knew that getting back didn’t necessarily mean they would be safe.
Someone had sent those men to ambush them, and Goose didn’t think that was the only team assigned the task of killing Icarus. With the primary team out of play, a secondary team should have been put into the field.
It was what he would have done if the roles had been reversed.
He settled in and tried to find a new position for his knee but failed. He waited for the sun to set and wondered if he’d live to see the morning.
Southern District
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 1647 Hours
“Colonel Remington. Major Rebreanu at your service.” The man saluted smartly.
The title sounded like music in Remington’s ears as he gazed at the sharply dressed United Nations major standing in front of him. He didn’t bother to point out that he hadn’t yet accepted Carpathia’s offered commission.
“Major.” Remington returned the man’s salute.
“I’ve been instructed by SecretaryGeneral Carpathia to put myself and my men at your disposal.”
“Acknowledged, Major. Glad to have you.”
The man stood at rigid attention. He was medium height but broad shouldered. His uniform blouse stretched across his chest, and his muscles rolled beneath his skin. His square jaw thrust out prominently.
“At ease,” Remington said.
Rebreanu fell into parade rest and stood beside the jeep that had brought him to meet Remington. Three other soldiers stood with him. All of them wore the bright blue helmets of the United Nations Peacekeeping Forces.
“I’ll depend on you to keep me up-to-date with your staff, Major,” Remington said. “When I get more time, I’ll know them all.”
“Yes, sir. I’d be happy to help.”
Remington wondered if that was true. Getting ordered into a potentially highly lethal losing situation wasn’t something any soldier would wish for. He wouldn’t have wanted to be Rebreanu.
“We need to shore up the south end of the city,” Remington said. “Create some space between ourselves and the Syrians. I don’t want them inside the metro area if I can help it.”
“Yes, sir. Permission to speak freely, sir?”
That, Remington knew, was dangerous given that he didn’t know the man. But Remington nodded anyway.
“Holding the city in its entirety might be impossible.” Rebreanu’s words held only a hint of an accent.
“That’s not the kind of thinking I need out here,” Remington said. “If we give up any part of this city, we’re going to have to give it all up. So we’re not going to give the Syrians anything.”
Rebreanu nodded stiffly. “Yes, sir.”
Underneath the major’s calm words, though, Remington kn
ew that the man didn’t believe it could be done. “We’re going to make this happen,” Remington said.
“Yes, sir. The secretarygeneral said that you would be a man of conviction and that you’d have high expectations.”
“I do. Allowing the Syrians to entrench themselves in this city means they don’t have to depend on supply lines as much as they currently do. I’m not going to allow that. If they have supply lines, they’re exposed. We’re going to concentrate on holding our position and make them pay the cost for being in an indefensible posture.” Remington stared at the battlefield, across the smoking ruin of the Syrian armored and downed planes. “Put simply, we’re going to outbleed them.”
“Yes, sir.” Rebreanu frowned a little.
“I’m aware that this isn’t the kind of action your team is used to seeing,” Remington went on. “They’ll adjust. The same way we’ve adjusted.”
“That’s what the secretarygeneral said too, Colonel.”
Remington smiled. “He’s a smart man.”
“He has absolute faith in you, sir.”
“That just means he’s more intelligent than I realized.” Remington saluted. “Now let’s get out there and put a boot to some Syrian butts.”
Local Time 1743 Hours
“Incoming!”
Remington dropped down behind a barricade of sandbags and tucked his face into the crook of his elbow. A tank round struck a building behind him. A storm of cracked stone and mortar peppered his helmet and body armor. A few chunks ricocheted from exposed and unprotected flesh. He’d have bruises on his forearms, thighs, and calves later.
The explosion left Remington partially deafened. The hoarse yelling and screams of the wounded sounded like they were a million miles away from him. He straightened and peered over the sandbag wall.
“They’re massing,” Sergeant Whitaker said. Young but experienced, the sergeant held the line beside Remington.
“I see them.” Remington stared through his protective eye gear. On the other side of the bare ground, the Syrian army prepared to launch an offensive. “We should have mined that area.”
Remington had ordered his men to use the local earthmoving equipment to clear all trees and rock in a two-hundred-yard band on all sides of the city. That task still wasn’t finished, but all the areas along the thoroughfares had been plucked clean.
