by Mel Odom
A moment later, Tonya’s voice took on a note of hysteria. “He’s not here, Mrs. Gander. He’s not here. His bed is empty. Where did you say he was?”
“He was here at the base hospital,” Megan replied as calmly as she could. If Gerry hadn’t run home, where had he gone? He didn’t have good friends at school, there were no other families or kids that Gerry talked about. Boyd Fletcher hadn’t let his son get close to anyone else. Except for the base-assigned youth counselor who wasn’t quite able to do her job well enough to save him.
“Where is Gerry now?” Tonya demanded.
“I don’t know, Tonya,” Megan admitted. “But we’re going to find him.”
“How could you lose my baby?” Tonya was sobbing now, the draining noise broken intermittently by hiccups.
“We didn’t lose him,” Megan said patiently. “He checked himself in for emergency care. He was treated, and he’s fine. A couple bumps and bruises.”
“He fell,” Tonya said quickly. “He fell again. You know how clumsy he is, Mrs. Gander. He’s always falling.”
“We’ll talk about that later.”
“I’ve got to get off the phone,” Tonya said. “I’ve got to call Boyd.”
“Boyd’s here,” Megan said. She was conscious of the attention she was getting from the three young men in the muscle car.
One of them got out of the vehicle. The slim young black man wore gray sweat pants and a red muscle shirt that showed off tattoos on his deltoids. Megan couldn’t be sure because of the uncertain light, but the tattoos looked like West Coast gang symbols, dark blue ink barely standing out against the ebony.
“Boyd’s there?” Tonya’s tone indicated that made no sense to her. “What is he doing there?”
“He came looking for Gerry.”
“He knew Gerry was in the hospital?”
“I don’t know how he knew Gerry was here,” Megan replied. She filed the question away because it was a good one, and one that she wanted the answer to herself. “Boyd assaulted two of the security men at the hospital. He’s been arrested.”
“That … that’s crazy!”
“Tonya,” Megan said. “I need you to listen to me.” She spoke like she was talking to a child, like she was explaining to Chris why he couldn’t watch some of the violent cartoons on the networks. “Can you listen to me, Tonya?”
“Sure. Sure, I guess. Did you have Boyd arrested?”
“No,” Megan answered.
“Because you don’t know what he can be like when he gets upset.”
Megan thought about the damage she’d seen done to Gerry, how Boyd Fletcher had fought the two young Rangers. She figured she could guess how Boyd Fletcher was. “You don’t have to worry about your husband for a while, Tonya. He’s been taken to lockup. I’m going to need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“About what happened to Gerry tonight.”
“Nothing happened to Gerry. He fell. I told you he fell.”
“Then why didn’t you bring him to the hospital?”
“He wasn’t hurt bad.”
“He came to the hospital,” Megan pointed out. God, please help me here. Thank You for letting me know Joey is okay, but there’s still Goose out there, and Gerry is lost. Please help me deal with this the right way.
“He was just overreacting,” Tonya said defensively. “He knows how you like to baby him. He’s probably just acting out to get your attention.”
“Then he beat himself up severely to get my attention.” Megan didn’t mean to drop that on the woman, but she was beyond self-restraint and control. Where would an eleven-year-old boy run after seeing his father, the man—no, the thing—he most feared in the world, get hauled down by two Rangers? Gerry was still at a young age. He wouldn’t believe that the two Rangers would be able to stop his father. He’d believe that Boyd Fletcher was like one of the monsters in the teen movies, the ones that just will not stop, cannot be killed. That was the kind of thing Gerry believed he was dealing with.
“No,” Tonya said in a choked voice. “That’s not true.”
Megan took a deep breath. “I know it’s not true, Tonya. I know what happened to Gerry. Now I need to know where he is.”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Gander. I really don’t know.” Tonya started sobbing again. “Help me. I don’t know what to do.”
“It’s okay.” Megan hated the guilt that she felt. While dealing with Gerry and his problems, it was easy to lose sight of the fact that there were two victims in the Fletcher household. “I’ll tell you what you can do, Tonya.”
“What?”
“Check the house,” Megan instructed. “Maybe Gerry came back but he’s not in his room. Maybe he’s hiding there somewhere. Some secret place he has. Check outside the house. With everything that happened here tonight, he might be too scared to come in.”
“He wouldn’t be afraid of coming into his own house.”
“He was pretty scared tonight, Tonya. I don’t know for sure, but I think Boyd had been drinking.”
“Maybe I should come down there and try to bail Boyd out.”
“After what he did tonight,” Megan said, “they’re not going to let him out for a while. Trust me. You’ll do more good there.”
“Okay.” Tonya sounded completely defeated.
“If you find Gerry,” Megan told her, “call me immediately.” She waited till Tonya found a pen and paper, then gave her the cell phone number. “If I find Gerry first, I’ll call you.” She punched the cell phone’s End button.
The young black man stood nearby, giving the easy appearance of waiting patiently.
Megan looked at him, then turned and started to walk back to the hospital building.
“Ma’am,” the young man called.
Calmly, Megan turned, punching 911 into the phone and slipping her thumb over the Talk button. If things went badly, she was a thumb twitch away from immediate help—theoretically. “Yes.”
The young man crossed his arms over his chest and made no attempt to come closer. “I don’t mean to alarm you, ma’am. Got a good friend inside about to have his first baby. I’m Private Trevor Newman. I’m with the 75th.”
“Private,” Megan said, “my husband is Sergeant Gander.”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s what I thought. I know Goose. I shoot hoops with him and Joey now and again at the gym. I’ve seen you there a couple times. You and your baby.”
Those times hadn’t been very often of late. “How can I help you, Private?”
“Actually, I thought it might be me was able to help you, ma’am. Didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help hearing you talk about a little boy you’re looking for.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“Yes, ma’am. I believe so.” Newman nodded toward the nearest on-base apartment complex. “He went up there.”
Megan looked at the squat, four-story building. Several of the lights were still on in the apartments. She guessed that several of the military guys still on base were watching the Lakers game as Gerry had been trying to do or were screening movies.
“He went to one of those apartments?” Megan asked. She sorted through the names of the people Gerry had mentioned but knew of none of them that were in the immediate area.
“No, ma’am,” Newman said. “I mean, he went up there. There’s fire escapes on that building, ma’am. That boy hauled himself up one of them to the rooftop.”
Megan stared at the building. For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine why Gerry would do such a thing. “Are you certain?” she asked the young private.
“Yes, ma’am. I do a lot of recon work for my unit. I see what I see, and I’m telling you what I saw.” Newman turned. “Hey, Pete.”
“Yeah.” A slim Hispanic man stepped away from the muscle car.
“Use that spotlight on your Jeep, bro. Light up the roof of the res building over there.” Newman pointed.
“You’re going to make a lot of people very unhappy,” P
ete warned, but he crossed to the Jeep Wrangler decked out for off-road driving that occupied the slot next to the muscle car.
“Gotta check something out,” Newman said. “Mrs. Gander here is looking for a kid. I saw him go up on that building.”
“I didn’t see anything, man.”
“That’s why they got you lugging that M-60, grunt,” Newman replied with a grin, “and why I run point or wing.”
“Anybody comes to me with a beef over the light,” Pete promised, “I’m sending them to you.” He flipped on the spotlight.
Megan shielded her eyes, blinking against the sudden pain, then followed the white tunnel the beam cut through the night. At first, she believed the young soldiers were only earning themselves a world of trouble that would lead to a severe dressing-down by the base commander, maybe a few visits from other Rangers, and possibly even demerits entered in their files.
Then her doubts disappeared, becoming an arctic cold spear that pierced her heart when she saw Gerry Fletcher standing at the edge of the building’s roof four stories above the ground.
14
Turkey
30 Klicks South of Sanliurfa
Local Time 0759 Hours
The explosions that had ripped the UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter from the sky had scattered the machine over two hundred yards of desert sand. Flames still clung to some of the bigger pieces, and turgid black smoke curled up from them.
Goose was amazed that anyone had survived the destruction and the tumble from the sky, let alone four of the crew. He stood in the passenger seat of the other RSOV as Tanaka parked the vehicle fifty feet away from the one Hardin and the two Rangers with him had used to get to the site. Tanaka pointed their RSOV in the other direction, giving the Ranger teams overlapping fields of fire as well as a perimeter.
“Phoenix Leader,” Remington called over the headset.
Goose assigned men to perimeter watch. Cusack stayed in the RSOV to finish tending Bill Townsend, who had taken a round through his upper thigh. Luckily, the 7.62mm bullet had cored through the outside of the leg. The wound was debilitating, but the steel-jacketed round had missed both the thighbone and the femoral artery. Contact with the bone would have broken the leg, and slicing through the femoral artery might have caused Bill to bleed out and die before they could get the flow stopped. Either way, he had been lucky.
Or had God watching over him, Goose amended, feeling certain that was more reason than the other.
“Go, Base,” Goose said as he stepped out of the RSOV and dropped to the sand. “Leader reads you five by five.”
“How bad is it?” Remington asked.
“The helo is gone, sir.” Goose surveyed the bulk of the wreck. Fire wreathed the Black Hawk, burning off the excess fuel. Whatever equipment remained aboard that might be salvageable wasn’t going to be approachable for some time. “We’ve got four survivors. All of them are wounded.”
“What about your squad?”
“Mostly intact, Base. One walking wounded.”
“Your vehicles?”
“We’re in motion, sir.” Goose surveyed the wounded men.
The chaplain wore an identifying armband that guaranteed recognition but not safety from enemy fire. He was in his late forties, his dark hair peppered with gray. Hard lines made his face look haggard. Quietly, he held one wounded man’s hand and spoke in a low, confident voice.
Hardin stood beside the chaplain, out of the line of sight of the wounded man. With an impassive expression, Hardin locked eyes with Goose and slowly shook his head.
“There’s something you should know, Sergeant,” Remington said.
“What, sir?”
“The reporter that was talking to you, Hardesty, was sending out a live transmission at the time the helo went down and your squad was attacked. The television stations carried that transmission in real time. No delay.”
Goose took in the statement, automatically logging the ramifications. If Megan or Joey was awake, and if they knew that war along the Turkish border had broken out, they might have seen the footage on television. He felt guilty that his wife and son might be sitting home worrying about him.
“I’m sending a message through channels,” Remington said. “Fort Benning will send a dispatch to Megan to let her know you’re all right.”
For the moment, Goose thought. He was enough of a realist to know that Remington might be sending a message that might not be true twenty minutes from now. “Thank you for that, sir.”
“We’re fighting wars in unusual times,” Remington said. “Battle has never been a televised event before. Yet that’s where we’re finding ourselves. I didn’t want you distracted from your mission.”
Goose checked his watch. “I’ve still got a window on the arriving aircraft, sir.”
“Yes, you do. Can you get there?”
“Yes, sir. We’ll be carrying wounded. I’d like a medical team to meet me if possible. I’ve got one man here who’s touch and go.”
“Affirmative, Leader. I’ll pass the request along, but I can make no promises. Those people are busy. We’ve got wounded and casualties scattered all along the border.”
“But we’re holding.”
“Yes, Sergeant. Those men at the front are Rangers. Our Rangers. They’ll stand. And once those Marines arrive and we get the air support we’re expecting, Syria is going to be sorry she opened the ball on this one.”
Goose cleared the channel and switched back to the squad frequency. The sat-relay vids weren’t up yet, but he thanked God the com channels held up through the emergency rerouting.
“Hardin,” Goose called.
“Yeah, Sarge.”
“Let’s get loaded up. Take the two wounded. We’ll handle the chaplain and his charge.”
“We’re on it.” Hardin trotted back to the RSOV he commanded and got his four-man team to transfer two of the wounded helo crewmen to the vehicle.
Goose surveyed the burning remains of the helicopter. Occasionally the flames shifted and he could see the bodies of the two pilots still strapped into their seats. Both dead men were burned beyond recognition.
“Sergeant.”
Turning at the sound of the soft voice behind him, Goose faced the chaplain. “Chaplain,” Goose said.
“O’Dell,” the chaplain said. “Timothy O’Dell.” He spoke with a New York accent and offered his hand.
“First Sergeant Samuel Gander.” Goose took the man’s hand, finding the grip solid and reassuring.
O’Dell nodded. “I know who you are, Sergeant. We were briefed before we jumped from the border.”
“We’re pressed for time here, Chaplain.”
“I know, but I wanted to talk to you about Private Digby over there.” O’Dell paused, looking back at the young man lying unconscious on the OD field blanket that was pockmarked with ember charring. “If we try to transport him across the desert, I’m afraid he’s not going to make it. Shrapnel from one of the shattered helicopter rotors pierced his right lung. It’s pretty much filled with blood. There are other injuries, but that one is the most serious.”
“The only other option is to leave him here,” Goose said. He kept emotion from the decision, though he knew if anything happened to the young soldier he would feel guilty later. Command came equipped with harsh decisions.
“I could stay with him,” O’Dell offered.
Goose looked into the man’s eyes. “I can’t guarantee a medevac, Chaplain. I can’t even guarantee there will be one when we get to the other end of this jump.”
“God will provide, Sergeant. He always does.”
For a moment, Goose was almost swayed by the chaplain’s quiet words. They carried the same certain conviction that Bill’s counsel often had. But the stark desert surrounding them weighed heavily on him.
“I can’t let you do that,” Goose said. “If I leave you out here, we could lose you both.”
“Sergeant, I’m willing—”
Goose cut the man off firmly but
politely, having to talk a little louder because the fresh assault of artillery fire thundering to the south. “Chaplain, I appreciate that, but it’s not going to happen. I don’t want to lose anyone, but I’m not going to risk two.”
The chaplain looked like he wanted to argue, then he stood respectfully. “All right, Sergeant. We’ll do it your way. I’ll pray for success for us all.”
Goose nodded a thank-you and turned from the man, focusing on the mission, concentrating on the need to get to the front where he could perhaps start saving lives instead of losing them. He walked to the wounded man’s side, listening uncomfortably to the wheeze and rasp of the young soldier’s breathing as his chest labored. Blood streaked the wounded man’s face and his left eye was swollen shut.
Calling Cusack, Evaristo, and the chaplain over while Tanaka manned the RSOV, Goose gripped the edge of the bloodstained field blanket under the wounded man. On the count of three, they lifted the young soldier from the ground. He groaned in pain but didn’t wake.
Goose felt like yelling with the wounded man. The exertion pulled at his strained shoulder and brought back the sensation of the iron band around his chest, cutting his breath short. Together, they carried the injured man to the back of the RSOV.
Bill reached out and helped guide the soldier onto the rear deck area. Cusack had cut away Bill’s left pant leg to get to the wound. Heavy gauze bandaged the leg.
“Don’t bust that dressing loose,” Cusack warned. “We had a hard time pulling everything together.”
Bill’s face blanched white and a sick sweat poured from his skin. Gingerly, he returned to a sitting position. “I like being a soldier,” he said with a grin that was only a shadow of the usual effort. “I don’t even mind getting shot at. It’s part of the service. But this getting shot, you know, I have a real problem with that.”
The moment of levity, even as out of place as it was, lightened the mood. The young soldier lying on the RSOV’s rear deck even woke long enough to gasp, “Tell me about it.”
