by Mel Odom
“Fine,” Joey said, breathing rapidly. “I figured my mom would come get him before I could get here.” See? Everything’s fine. Chris is fine. Mom is fine.
But the woman’s look told Joey everything wasn’t fine. “What’s wrong?”
“Your mom didn’t come get your brother,” the woman said.
“What do you mean?”
“The children that were left here … they aren’t here anymore.”
Panic slammed into Joey. “Then where are they?”
Before the woman could answer, the MP dropped a hand on Joey’s shoulder and spun him into the nearest wall. Joey ducked his head back in time to keep his face from smacking the cinder block. The impact knocked some of the breath from his lungs. In the next instant, the MP had levered Joey’s right arm so far up between his shoulder blades that Joey felt certain his arm was going to pop out of its socket.
“I’ve got ID,” Joey said, his voice rising to a high pitch because of the excruciating pain. “It’s in my shirt pocket. I’m military. I’ve got a right to be here. I’m here to pick up my little brother.”
The MP leaned into Joey from behind, pinning him up against the wall. “We’re not letting people into the building. We’ve got this area sealed up.”
“Why?” Joey demanded.
Jenny came running up, only a couple strides in front of the MP chasing her.
“Orders,” the soldier snapped. “Ma’am, you stay right there, and I mean now.”
Looking confused and ticked off, Jenny froze. The other MP arrived and ordered her to turn and face the wall, then put a hand against her back to hold her in place.
“What’s going on?” Joey demanded. “You’ve got no right to do this.”
“I’ve got every right,” the MP retorted. “This base has been put on emergency alert. General’s orders.”
“I just came here to get my brother,” Joey said. “I want to see my brother.”
“What’s your brother’s name?” the matronly woman asked.
“Gander,” Joey replied. “Chris Gander. I’m his older brother, Joey. My mom had to have told you people I would be here after him.”
“She did. Corporal, could I see his ID?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the corporal said. He took Joey’s ID from his shirt pocket and passed it over.
The woman examined the documents. “Corporal, I’d appreciate it if you’d let this young man go.”
“Ma’am, this kid just broke through our cordon and I can’t just—”
“This kid,” the woman said in a stern voice, “is a kid. Maybe you need to keep that in mind. He’s already gotten through your cordon. I suggest that taking him into custody now isn’t going to remove the fact that the cordon was broken, or square things with your sergeant. Now is it?”
The MP was slow in answering. “No, ma’am.”
“And his father is First Sergeant Goose Gander,” the woman said. “Maybe you haven’t heard of Goose, but I can guarantee that he won’t enjoy hearing that his son was manhandled by one of his fellow Rangers while he was off in Turkey fighting for his life.”
The MP’s reply was grudging. “Probably not, ma’am.”
“Then let him go. I’ll vouch for him.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The reluctance in the corporal’s voice was evident, but he stepped back from Joey and released him.
“When I get through talking to him,” the woman said, “I’ll send him back out to you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Joey moved back from the wall.
“Is this young lady with you?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” Joey answered.
“Is she part of the family?”
Under other circumstances, the question would have embarrassed Joey. All he could think about was Chris. Missing. The word hung in his screaming mind like a malignant growth.
“No,” Joey answered. “Not family.”
“I’m a friend of Joey’s,” Jenny answered.
The woman looked at the two MPs. “Then I’ll need her to stay here as well.”
The two MPs touched their hat brims and left. Joey figured they would give him some flack for making their jobs hard, but they didn’t. They almost looked sorry for him.
Joey turned to the woman. “Where is my brother? Where is Chris?”
The woman reached out and took his hands. “He’s gone, Joey. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but he’s gone.” Fresh tears spilled down her face. Her voice turned into a forced whisper as she continued speaking. “They’re—they’re all gone.”
Joey shook his head desperately. “You’re not making any sense. My mother called me. She said she left Chris here. With you people. Did she come get him?”
“No.” The woman’s voice was hoarse. “I pray to God that she had. That all the parents had. But they didn’t.”
“Then where is my brother?” Joey was almost yelling. Jenny put a hand on his arm and stood close at his side. Joey made himself calm down; he wasn’t calm, but he wasn’t yelling, even though he wanted to.
The woman’s voice wouldn’t come. Finally, she took Joey by the hand and led him into a nearby room. The room was filled with beds. A box of preschool toys sat against one wall.
As he entered the room, Joey noticed the empty children’s clothing that had been left in each bed. He remembered the woman in the minivan who had lost her daughter. A rush of pain and confusion spilled over inside him, rising with horrifying certainty. The most horrible sight Joey had ever seen waited in the bed the woman guided him to.
There, in the middle of the bedding, Chris’s favorite PJs were spread out. The little jammies looked exactly like the other stacks of clothing on the beds and in the cribs. Six or seven grief-stricken parents and family members stood inside the room.
“No!” The cry tore loose from Joey’s throat. Before he knew it, his legs went out from under him and he dropped to his knees. “No!”
The Mediterranean Sea
USS Wasp
Local Time 0851 Hours
So many people missing.
The reality of the situation thundered through Delroy Harte’s mind as he entered names on the report he was preparing for Captain Mark Falkirk. He entered name after name, finding time and again a familiar name. And the letter remained to be written for Chief Mellencamp. The knowledge lay like an iron anvil in his thoughts.
USS Wasp was, in effect, a ghost ship. Nearly a third of her crew had inexplicably vanished. Only empty uniforms and personal items were left behind by the people who had been on board a half an hour ago. With the absence of the Marine wing and groundpounders, Wasp seemed to echo hollowly, as if her heart and guts had been ripped from her. The reports from the other ships came through in much the same vein.
CNN and FOX News carried video footage and commentary from a small group of Romanian reporters that had been behind the lines at the Turkish-Syrian border. However, the wisps of information and glimpses of what that area had become were maddening. Not enough information was being received to know what was truly going on over there, and more than enough was being seen to let every crewperson aboard Wasp know that the relief effort had failed, becoming a disaster that further weakened the positions of the Rangers, the U.N. peacekeeping teams, and the Turkish army.
“Chaplain Harte.”
Surprised, Delroy glanced up and found a young ensign standing in the doorway to his office. The Navy chaplain recognized the young man but hadn’t had many dealings with him. Most of the usual staff assigned to him had turned up among the missing. Given what he was beginning to suspect, he found that oddly reassuring and traumatic at the same time. The men who had served with him had been true believers in God, and their faith had been strong.
Stronger than mine, Delroy thought. And for the first time in a long time, he wished that Glenda were there with him. His wife always seemed to be the rock in their relationship. When he fought with his doubts and his fears, when he questioned his own faith in God—wh
en the time came to bury Terry—she had stood resolute at his side and seen that things were taken care of.
Her ability to deal with everything through God’s grace or her own patience had finally made him see what a drain he was on her. When his pain over his son’s death wouldn’t go away, when he saw how his own inability to deal with the grief resonated within his wife, he had left Charlotte. He had used her like a crutch, demanding that she make sense of something that made no sense at all. He hadn’t been able to deal with his own weakness and his guilt over it.
“Yes, Ensign,” Delroy said.
The ensign held up a box. “This was left down in the medical department.”
Delroy looked at the box without comprehension.
“Chief Mellencamp’s personal property. Dr. Thomas asked me to bring this box to you.”
Delroy stood and took the box. During the confusion of the disappearances, he had forgotten about the chief’s personal effects. He had intended them to be shipped back with the letter he had yet to write.
“Thank you, Ensign.” Delroy hefted the box, surprised to find that so little remained of a man. But Terrence’s personal possessions, shipped back after his death, had been few as well. And after Josiah Harte’s death, not counting the house and the car and bank accounts and life insurance, not much had remained of his father either.
Just the memories, Delroy told himself. He only had to close his eyes to see his father pounding the pulpit in front of the congregation, or to take Terrence’s hand when he’d taught his son fishing. Just close your eyes and they’re right there. But when you open them. God, when you open them.
“Is there anything else I can do, Chaplain Harte?” the ensign asked. “Coffee, maybe? You look like you could use it.”
Delroy placed the box on the corner of his desk. Chief Mellencamp’s Bible lay on top of the small pile of family pictures, jewelry, and knickknacks the chief had picked up around the world that Delroy had felt his family would want.
“Coffee would be most welcome,” Delroy answered.
“I’ll get you some.”
Taking the Bible from the box, Delroy studied the simulated leather and gilt lettering. “A moment before you go, Ensign.”
“All right.”
The weight of the Bible rested comfortably in Delroy’s big hands. How long had it been since he had held a copy of God’s Word and felt the familiar mixture of euphoria and fear? Delroy still had his father’s Bible and the Bible he had given Terrence the day he had taken his oath and become a soldier. Over the years, the Navy chaplain had read from them both, seeking solace and remembrance and understanding of all the terrible things that had happened.
Turning, Delroy faced the young ensign. “How strong is your faith, son?”
“My faith?” The ensign appeared uncomfortable. “In the captain? I have to admit, I’ve never seen anything—”
“In God,” Delroy interrupted. “How strong is your faith in God, Ensign?”
“It’s good.” The ensign glanced longingly at the door over his shoulder.
“Does the question make you uncomfortable?”
The ensign nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t like talking about stuff like that, Chaplain.”
“But you took an oath, Ensign,” Delroy said. “‘I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.’ U.S. Code, Section 502.” He breathed in, remembering his own swearing-in ceremony, remembering Terry’s.
“Why do you think the phrase, ‘So help me God,’ is in there?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. I guess it always has been.”
Delroy nodded to himself. “You can go, ensign.” He glanced down at Chief Mellencamp’s Bible in his two big hands.
“Chaplain Delroy.”
“Yes, Ensign.”
The man hesitated and looked uncertain. “Did I do something wrong, Chaplain? I didn’t mean to offend.”
Delroy looked up, feeling bad and embarrassed. With everything else going on, the loss of lives along the Turkish-Syrian border and the unexplained disappearances of so many military personnel, it was incredible to see that a crewman could still be concerned with leaving just the right impression on an officer.
“No, Ensign, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Delroy replied. “This is just a trying time. I only asked because I struggle with my own faith now and again, and it’s good to hear others talk about theirs.” He held up Mellencamp’s Bible. “That was one of the reasons the chief and I enjoyed each other’s company so much.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you check on the other lists?” Sweeper teams still moved within Wasp. Most of the missing had already been confirmed, but Captain Falkirk had wanted a thorough ship’s search before those names were officially designated MIA.
“Of course, Chaplain.” The ensign excused himself and left.
Delroy returned to his chair behind the desk. He sat with Chief Mellencamp’s Bible in his lap for a time, thinking back on their friendship and all the confusing questions that raced through his thoughts. Then he noticed the paper sticking out of the Bible.
Opening the book, Delroy found several sheets of legal pad paper folded up in Revelation. The chief’s Bible had been well used. Mellencamp’s neat, precise handwriting covered the generous margins, and the pages were marked with a rainbow of highlighter colors. The chief had his own code for the information he highlighted, but he used it only for proof of his own steel-trap memory.
As chief petty officer, Mellencamp had carried long lists of men, supplies, and necessary tasks in his head. Delroy had protested, in fun between two good friends, that the chief was extraordinarily equipped and his own arguments should be given the benefit of a handicap. But Mellencamp had loved God’s Word—the Old Testament and the New—and could quote passages from several books, as well as psalms.
The fact that the chief had been preparing information based on Revelation was no surprise. Lately, every conversation Delroy had entered into with Mellencamp had turned in that direction. The chief had been convinced that these were the end times, that the Rapture—when God would come and call his church home from the earth—was very near.
Delroy’s eyes were drawn to the words his friend had scrawled upon the paper.
We will be called home to heaven. No warning bell. No chance to say good-byes. One moment in this world, the next, standing in God’s perfection.
And what of the people left behind?
Hypnotized by the question Mellencamp had written across the page, Delroy followed the chief’s thinking and found himself flipping through the pages of Revelation. In minutes, he was digging out books from the neat, compact shelves behind him. Fear and horror and hope all began to dawn in his heart.
The end of the world: It was real and it had come. Navy Chaplain Delroy Harte became more convinced of that with each passing minute, and his thoughts became consumed with the carnage, the lies, and the treachery that were in store for those left behind.
22
United States 75th Rangers 3rd Battalion
Field Command Post
35 Klicks South of Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0922 Hours
“How bad is it, Goose?” Captain Cal Remington paced the interior of the command post, scanning the computer monitors that revealed the graveyard of helicopters where the LZ had once been. He spoke over the private frequency chipped into his first sergeant’s headset, keeping his voice pitched low enough that no one around him could overhear.
“It’s bad, sir,” Goose said. “About as bad as it could be.” The first sergeant listed the details in a verbal code Remington and he had worked out years ago
when Remington had taken command of the company.
Anyone listening would have been lost in the gobbledygook of baseball players, stats, records, and play references. After spending so many years together and being used to each other’s ways, the Ranger captain translated the code in his head immediately without writing anything down.
After the mysterious disappearances and the casualties along the border during the first wave of the Syrian attack, the Ranger companies were down to roughly a third of their original strength. The U.N. peacekeeping forces were in similar shape. The Marine wing detached from USS Wasp was all but decimated from vanishings and the aerial crashes that had littered the dead across the harsh mountainous ground.
The Syrians, though, remained at almost the same strength they’d had prior to the missile launch. Repeated viewings of the footage Nicolae Carpathia’s satellites had captured revealed only a few vanishings from among their ranks. Still, the events of the day had evidently been enough to check the Syrian advance. Enemy troops—Remington felt he could safely consider the Syrians that—continued to reorganize after the disappearances. It wouldn’t be long, the Ranger captain knew, before they discovered the extent of the attrition his troops had suffered. And when they did …
“Goose,” Remington said, only then realizing that silence had stretched between his first sergeant and himself.
“I’m here, sir.” Goose’s voice sounded flat.
Remington knew the loss of men was getting to Goose. The first sergeant had never taken the deaths of men under his command well. During battle, during the fine-tuning of a tactical op, Goose never let the regret and self-recriminations touch him, but during the fallow times between, Goose struggled with those losses. Marriage and fatherhood had been good for him, binding the wounds and keeping his heart strong. But at the same time, the family that kept Goose together had also created a new weight for the first sergeant to carry into the field.
“We’re not going to be able to hold that position.”
“I know that, sir. I apologize, sir.”
“Knock off the sir, Goose. We’ve been friends a lot longer than I’ve had these bars.”
