by Mel Odom
“Holster that sidearm, Colonel Donaldson,” Falkirk ordered. “Operations aboard my ship are going to go by my orders.”
With obvious reluctance, Donaldson holstered his weapon. Beads of perspiration covered his pale face. “This man is spouting nonsense, Captain Falkirk. And he’s inciting unrest and demoralizing the crew.”
Delroy glanced at Falkirk.
The captain was in his early thirties, one of the youngest men to have been appointed to that rank, and the youngest to command Wasp. He had a slender build but carried an air of readiness and moved with the fluid grace of a trained athlete. His eyes and hair were dark, complementing the easygoing nature he maintained unless he was irritated or on task.
“Sergeant,” Donaldson went on, “take the chaplain into custody and escort him down to the brig.”
“Belay that order,” Falkirk commanded before the sergeant could get under way. Four Navy security men filed into the hallway, flanking their commander.
“Captain,” Donaldson objected.
“My ship, Colonel,” Falkirk replied, “and she’ll run the way I have her run.” He paused. “Are we clear?”
Donaldson clearly didn’t like the idea, but he said, “Yes.”
Falkirk’s eyes flashed. “My ready room, gentlemen. Now.”
United States of America
Fort Benning, Georgia
Local Time 2:41 A.M.
“Mrs. Gander?”
Megan lifted her head from her arms, startled to find that she had gone to sleep. She’d been sitting uncomfortably at the small conference table in the interview room at MP headquarters and trying very quietly not to go out of her mind with worry. She automatically checked the time, afraid that she had slept past dawn and that Chris would be waking up in the emergency child-care services. When she saw the time, she relaxed a little and prayed that Joey had picked up Chris and they were both now at home.
The MPs had taken her cell phone from her when they’d taken her into custody. She didn’t know if Joey had gotten to his younger brother, and she didn’t know if Joey was aware that she’d been taken by the MPs. The MPs hadn’t called her forced detention an arrest, only that she had been detained for questioning.
The man who stood on the other side of the table was dressed in a fresh Army uniform and wore a lieutenant’s bars. He was blond and pale, much too serious for his age, which Megan didn’t put much over his mid-twenties. He carried an imitation leather briefcase.
“I’m Megan Gander,” Megan said. “Who are you?”
“Lieutenant Doug Benbow, ma’am.” He offered his hand.
Megan took his hand and shook briefly. “Are you an MP, Lieutenant Benbow?”
“No, ma’am. I’m with the military justice system. I’ve been assigned to be your legal representative.”
“My attorney?” Megan struggled against the fatigue that filled her mind. “Why would I need an attorney?”
“We can talk about that.” Benbow touched the back of the chair across the table from her. “May I sit?”
“Of course.” Megan leaned back in her chair and tried to gather her errant thoughts. She was fatigued. Her thoughts swam like fat koi in a deep pond, not quite reaching the surface.
Benbow sat, placing his briefcase on the table, then flipping it open. He took out a tape recorder. “Would you mind if I record our conversation?”
“Why are you recording our conversation?”
The question caused the young lieutenant to hesitate. “I’ll be taking notes, of course, but I much prefer to work from a recording. That way I get every word, and I don’t miss the nuances a person may use as he or she explains himself or herself.” He took out a lined yellow legal pad.
Fear crept in on Megan and the chill in the room seemed like it deepened by the second. “I don’t understand.”
Benbow clicked the tape recorder on. “I just need to go over tonight’s events, Mrs. Gander.”
“I’ve already told the MPs what happened. This doesn’t make any sense.”
Reaching into an inside jacket pocket, Benbow took out a mechanical pencil and clicked the plunger to expose the lead. “I need to know about the boy, Mrs. Gander.”
“Gerry?”
Benbow flipped through pages of notes. His eyes scanned the material rapidly. “Gerry Fletcher. Yes, that’s right, Mrs. Gander. You were his counselor?”
Were? Icy jaws seemed to clamp on to Megan’s thoughts. “I am Gerry’s counselor.” Those were clothes I saw at the bottom of that building. Empty clothes. Gerry fell, but he didn’t hit. Thank You, God, he didn’t hit.
“How long were you—have you been—Gerry Fletcher’s counselor?”
“About a year.” Megan thought furiously, trying to catch up with whatever the young lieutenant was doing.
“Fourteen months?” Benbow’s pencil hung expectantly over a clean sheet in the legal pad.
“I’d have to check my notes if you want a definite answer.” Megan didn’t know why she couldn’t remember.
“I have checked your records regarding Gerry,” Benbow said. “You’ve been seeing him for fourteen months.”
“You’ve seen my records regarding Gerry’s case?”
Benbow sat up straighter, if that was possible, and regarded her. “I haven’t looked through the boy’s file, Mrs. Gander. Only your appointments. I found that you first saw Gerry on December 27 two years ago.”
The first meeting had been after Christmas. Megan remembered that clearly now. “That sounds right.”
“And Gerry has been in your care since that time?”
“Yes.”
Benbow scribbled notes and nodded in satisfaction. “During your visits with Gerry, you also came into contact with Private Boyd Fletcher.”
Megan nodded.
“Please respond verbally, Mrs. Gander. I may ask that the tapes be admitted in court as evidence.”
“Court?” Megan couldn’t believe what the lieutenant was saying. “Who’s talking about court?”
“The provost marshal’s office,” Benbow answered.
“Frank Marion is talking about taking me to court?” Unable to sit any longer, Megan stood. Her chair screeched as it shot back. As soon as she stood, she felt light-headed. The scratches along her arm that Gerry had left during his panic before he had slipped from her hand stung.
“I’ve not spoken with Provost Marshal Marion yet,” Benbow replied. “I hope to speak with him in the morning regarding the other extenuating circumstances that have occurred here on base tonight. I don’t know how you can be held accountable for Gerry Fletcher’s disappearance.”
“I’m not.”
Benbow nodded politely. “Yes, ma’am. That’s why I’m here: to help prove that you were not responsible for what happened to Gerry Fletcher.”
“What has happened to him?”
“We don’t know, ma’am. The MPs have scoured that building and they’ve found no sign of the boy.”
“He disappeared.” Megan forced the words out. “I had him. Then he fell. He just … just never hit the ground.”
Benbow pushed out his breath easily. “You’re sure you had the boy, Mrs. Gander?”
Megan faced the lieutenant and folded her arms. “Of course I’m sure.”
“And he was hanging over the building?”
“Yes.”
“It’s just that—” Benbow hesitated—“I know that things up on that rooftop had to have been confusing. You got called out of bed in the middle of the night after a hectic day, already worried about one of your children who hadn’t yet come home, and learned that your husband is engaged in action along the Turkish border before you got up on that rooftop with Gerry.”
“What are you trying to say?” Megan demanded.
“I’m trying to suggest that perhaps you weren’t at your best, Mrs. Gander. That’s all.”
“That maybe I wasn’t holding that boy? That I imagined all of that?”
Benbow hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. “
Yes, ma’am. Without wanting to be offensive in any way, I guess that’s what I’m trying to suggest.”
“Lieutenant, this is crazy. A waste of your time and mine. There were at least a dozen people who saw Gerry disappear. The MPs had spotlights on Gerry and me. Haven’t you talked to them?”
“As a matter of fact, Mrs. Gander, I have talked to most of them. Every man I’ve talked to has told me that he wasn’t sure if you had the boy or not. No one got a good look.”
“That’s impossible.”
“As I said, Mrs. Gander, I know things had to be happening very fast and were probably intensely confusing up on that rooftop.”
Megan forced herself to be calm when all she wanted to do was scream. Everything that had gone on tonight, from Joey not showing up at home, to Goose being involved in unexpected action, to the whole situation with Gerry Fletcher, had been overload on her already strained emotions. “And if I didn’t have Gerry, what was I holding? What fell from that building?”
“The boy’s clothing.” Benbow sat quietly. His pencil sat poised over the legal pad. “I’ve verified that the clothing found at the base of that residence building was the same clothing the boy wore when he entered the hospital.”
“They’re saying I dropped Gerry’s clothes over the side of the building?”
Benbow nodded.
Frustration and fright filled Megan. Before she could stop the emotions, some of them boiled over. “Speak up, Lieutenant. The tape recorder only records verbal responses.”
“Yes,” Benbow said. His tone was totally neutral and he appeared to take no offense. “That’s what they’re saying.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know.”
Tears filled Megan’s eyes. “I want out of here. Do you hear me?”
The lieutenant frowned uncomfortably.
“I’ve been here for nearly an hour,” Megan said. “Up until the last fifteen minutes, I’ve been asked over and over where Gerry Fletcher is.
I’ve been asked straight out, and I’ve had MPs who thought they were very clever try to get me to admit I know where Gerry is.”
“Mrs. Gander—”
Megan hurried on, cutting the lieutenant off. “I want to get my baby out of child care, and I want to go home so I can pray for my husband and those Rangers over there in Turkey. I want to know my oldest son is all right. I am a good mother and I’m a good wife, and that’s what I should be doing. And despite whatever stories you’ve been listening to and however you may feel, I am a good counselor.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “I did my best to save Gerry Fletcher’s life tonight, and I don’t know what happened to him.”
Benbow was quiet for a moment. “They’re not going to let you leave right now, Mrs. Gander.”
“Why?”
“Because the provost marshal’s office is considering bringing charges against you.”
“For what?” Megan’s voice tightened into a hoarse whisper.
“For the kidnapping of Gerry Fletcher.”
25
Turkish-Syrian Border
40 Klicks South of Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0947 Hours
A flash of movement caught Goose’s eye. He drew back down to the shelter of the overturned Syrian T-72 main battle tank that had remained remarkably intact after the fusillade leveled by the arriving Marine Harriers and Apaches. A scattering of vehicles, Syrian corpses, and ashes of tents and other flammable materials littered the ground around them.
“Phoenix Leader confirms a hostile,” Goose warned over the headset. He brought the butt of the M-4A1 up over his right shoulder, maintaining a tight profile that would allow him to move quickly and sweep the assault rifle up if he needed to, while at the same time remaining a compact target. He peered around the edge of the tank, feeling the hot metal of the tread pressing against his cheek.
Tense seconds ticked by as quiet reigned along the skirmish line that had taken shape on the border. Off in the distance to the north, Goose could hear only a few scattered truck noises, jet engine roars, and the occasional whap-whap of helicopter rotors. More noise came from the south as the tanks, APCs, and Jeeps the Syrian army had held in reserve started jockeying for the inexorable push that would come to invade Turkey proper.
Once the armored cav started rolling northbound, Goose knew the Syrians couldn’t be held back. The Turkish army, the U.N. peacekeeping forces, and the Rangers had taken huge casualties and lost irreplaceable materials. The Syrian army had taken some incredible losses as well, but the reserve force they’d had outnumbered anything the Turkish defenders had left to give.
There was no way to know what the Syrian military command had intended to do with the army encamped along the border before launching the SCUDs. Remington had stated, during his last discussion with Goose, that he believed the Syrian army would have been pulled back, making it look like they had backed down from the Turks. Then, while the unsuspecting Turkish army was congratulating itself, the SCUDs would have launched and taken out the first line of defense. The Syrians’ cav units would have rolled over whatever remained of the defenders.
Intercepting the CIA spy had changed all of that somehow, and Syria had gambled everything on the power of a sweeping first strike. And maybe they had gambled on the disappearances within the border troops as well. However, Remington had mentioned that the disappearances might not be linked to the fighting in Syria, although he hadn’t elaborated on that. With long years of friendship and service between them, Goose knew when not to press an issue with his captain.
Exposed on the east side of the T-72, the sun baked down into Goose, and it felt like the heat was leaching the moisture from his bones. Perspiration soaked his uniform and made the dirt that had stuck to his skin beneath his clothing even more uncomfortable. His eyelids felt like they dragged across his eyes in slow motion as he used his peripheral vision to search for the movement he’d caught from the corner of his eye. The heated air seemed too thin and too raw to breathe.
The overturned and burned-out vehicles along the skirmish line formed a deadly maze for the Rangers Goose had led into action. Soot marked the ground in blast patches and made it look like the earth itself had been bruised. Fire and smoke still clung to some of the vehicles and craters. The crackle of the small flames was the only sound coming from close by him.
Movement caught Goose’s eye again, drawing him around.
“Goose!” Cusack yelled in warning. The young Ranger brought his weapon up.
But Goose was already in motion as the Syrian soldier thrust his Chinese-made AK-47 forward. Goose turned toward Cusack, whose concern for Goose had left him exposed, fisted the Ranger’s uniform in his hand and dropped a shoulder into Cusack’s midsection to get him moving.
Bullets traced a white-hot trail along the tank, spinning wildly from the armor. Gunfire and ricochets ripped through the quiet stillness that had filled the area.
Goose shoved Dewey back nearly twenty feet before the Ranger’s feet got caught and he fell backward. By that time they were out of range of the Syrian’s rifle. Goose’s injured knee felt tight under him but held well enough as he pivoted and sprinted back toward the burned-out hulk of a cargo truck.
“Phoenix Base,” Goose called as he moved. “This is Phoenix Leader.”
“Go, Phoenix Leader. You have Phoenix Base.” Remington had assigned a mission control officer to watch over the Phoenix team by satellite while they were in hostile territory.
“Verify hostiles, Base,” Goose said. “I need your eyes.”
“Affirmative, Phoenix Leader. Base is taking a look-see.” Maintaining close surveillance on the skirmish line was a drain on the satcom systems while they tried to monitor the two countries and search for other Syrian troop movements across the border. Remington was doing double duty all the way around by pumping information out to Wasp and to the Pentagon. Phoenix Base had been standing by, ready to go close in.
Putting his back to the cargo t
ruck, Goose listened for the Syrians. When he heard no running feet, he dropped into a crouch and peered under the truck from his position beside the slagged remains of the rear tire.
Two Syrian soldiers were prone beside an eight-wheeled BTR-60 armored personnel carrier. Blistered paint bubbled up all around the APC, and the eight tires were withered pools of burnt rubber. With its boat-shaped hull and sloped sides, the BTR-60 was a good swimmer, though that wouldn’t do it much good in the desert around them. The vehicle’s standard armament consisted of the coaxial 14.5mm KPV and 7.62mm PKT machine guns on the right side. The BTR-60 was by no means cutting-edge equipment, but it was a workhorse on the battlefield.
Goose fired on the fly, aiming for the closest Syrian soldier. A line of 5.56mm rounds from Goose’s weapon chewed through the ground even as Syrian fire knocked hunks of rubber from the tire Goose was hunkered behind. Goose’s bullets struck the lead man, who jerked with the impacts then lay still.
The surviving Syrian soldier’s bullets cut through the air by Goose’s head and kicked dirt up into his face. The clear goggles he wore kept the grit from his eyes. The kerchief he wore to filter the acrid smoke covered the lower half of his face.
“Phoenix Leader, Base confirms two hostiles in your immediate twenty,” the mission controller said urgently.
“One is down,” Goose said.
“Understood. One hostile down. I’m pinging them now, Leader. Your men have engaged thirty-seven Syrian foot soldiers. I’m also reading vehicles that are in motion to your location. I’ve got ten—no, Phoenix Leader, make that twelve vehicles. They were playing possum, Leader, or they moved up into position during the time we were without sat-relay. Copy?”
“Phoenix Leader copies, Base.” Goose checked up the line, making sure all his squad leaders had received the information. Armored cav loose in the Ranger scout forces would be like loosing a lion in a henhouse.
With the vehicle losses the Turkish, U.N., and Ranger forces had already suffered, Goose hadn’t wanted to risk losing any more. Even one of the smaller Jeeps or 4x4 transport vehicles would have been hard-pressed to slip through the carnage along the border. And every vehicle they lost on the scouting mission was one less vehicle to help carry the wounded back to Sanliurfa that night.
