Apocalypse Crucible (10 page)

Goose shoved away from the building. “Control, this is Phoenix Leader.”

“Go, Leader. Control reads you five by five.” Remington’s voice was calm and cool.

“Lead armor is down, Control. Can you confirm the number of incoming bogeys?” Goose stared through the M-4A1’s open sights as he covered the Tango squad.

“Negative, Leader. I’ve got spotters up and active, but the smoke and dust are messing with the thermographic and IR.”

The thermographic scanners read heat signatures. The infrared binoculars multiplied the available light and reduced vision to a sharply defined world of greens and blacks. Both of those enhanced-vision systems suffered when particles hung in the air. The smoke and dust generated by the explosions and the arriving vehicles guaranteed problems.

Two Syrian APCs and another tank sped along the street. The vehicles jerked and bounced as they crunched through broken debris. Two jeeps maneuvered among them, taking shelter between the larger armored vehicles.

The overturned tank’s rear hatch opened and a Syrian soldier dropped through. The man landed on his head and one shoulder, rolled, and came up with an AK-47 assault rifle in his hands. Before he got a round off, two Rangers stitched him with controlled tribursts that knocked him backward.

Tank crews came with a complement of four. Two were down. One of the Rangers barked commands for the survivors to come out with their hands up. One of the men appeared in the open loader hatch, then shoved a rifle out.

Goose knew Syrian Command would have told their men that they could expect no mercy from the Americans and United Nations soldiers after their brutal attack against Turkey. From the centurieslong struggle between the two neighboring countries, the Syrians already knew they could expect no mercy from the Turks.

Lieutenant Wake gave the order to fire. Bullets riddled the Syrian. The dead man dropped in a loose-limbed sprawl. An instant later, a sphere bounced from inside the tank.

Recognizing the threat, Goose yelled, “Grenade!”

The Ranger squad turned and broke away from the tank. The men took two strides and threw themselves to the ground, staying within the three-count. A fragmentation grenade carried a probable kill zone of fifteen meters, but most of that cleared the immediate area primarily of standing targets.

The grenade exploded. Steel shot smacked against the wall where Goose stood, cracking stone and ripping up a layer of dust and broken mortar.

“I’m hit! I’m hit!” a young Ranger yelled. Two other voices joined the first.

Goose started around the corner of the building; then he saw that the lead Syrian tank had locked down and brought its main gun to bear.

“Incoming!” someone yelled.

Taking cover again, Goose watched helplessly as the enemy fired. The last surviving member of the Syrian tank crew tried to scramble out of the vehicle during the confusion, never knowing the other one had fired. The 120mm round slammed against the overturned tank, rolling it onto the Syrian soldier who had just clambered out. The blast hammered rolling thunder between the bombed-out buildings.

The forty-ton vehicle skidded a dozen feet before it came to a stop. Long tears showed in the street where stones had ripped free.

Goose rushed forward. The Syrian tank at the other end of the street lurched into motion again. Reactive armor exploded in bright yellow and white bursts all along its back and sides, proof that the war machine drew heavy fire from defenders’ guns. But even the .50-cal rounds failed to penetrate the thick hide of the snarling metal beast. The APCs and the jeeps remained in the tank’s wake, letting the bigger, more protected vehicle run blocker for the attack.

A Ranger in the grenade’s blast area struggled to get to his feet. Blood stained his legs. The shrapnel had struck him.

Holding his M-4A1 in his right hand, Goose ran over and caught the Ranger’s BDUs in one hand and helped yank him to his feet. As the man stood briefly, Goose saw that the soldier would never make the distance under his own power. Goose squatted and threw a shoulder into the young soldier’s waist, buckling the Ranger in half. With the soldier over his shoulder, Goose forced himself to stand. His injured knee trembled at the exertion, and for a moment he thought the joint might not be strong enough for the load.

God help me. I won’t leave this boy out here to die.
A quick glance at the Ranger’s bloodied and dusty face showed that he wasn’t much older than Joey, Goose’s seventeen-year-old stepson.

Despite the sharp twinges of pain that felt like rat’s teeth gnawing at his knee, Goose stood with his burden. He turned, ran back for the protection of the alley, and eased the wounded soldier onto the ground. Lieutenant Wake, blood glistening at his waist, grabbed another wounded Ranger by his LCE and dragged the man to cover. Shrapnel had hit the young soldier in the face and head, leaving bloody wounds. He was dazed, almost out on his feet.

“Oracle,” Goose called over the headset. “This is Leader.”

“Go, Leader. You have Oracle.”

“I need a medevac on my twenty. I’ve got wounded.”

“Affirmative, Leader. I’ve got your twenty. Medevac as soon as we’re able.”

“How long?” Goose sucked in deep breaths as the tank rumbled in their direction.

There was no immediate response. “As soon as they’re able, Leader.” The radio com operator paused, and for a moment the trained distance in the man’s voice evaporated. “We’re taking heavy casualties. We’ve got soldiers down everywhere.”

Goose glanced around the corner and watched as the Syrian armored cav rolled into Sanliurfa. The Rangers were supposed to hold the city until they were relieved of duty. Now it didn’t look like they would hold their positions through the night.

Brake drums from a vehicle shrilled behind Goose. Paranoid, knowing that Remington’s spotters couldn’t tell how far the enemy had penetrated into the city, Goose wheeled around and brought his assault rifle up.

The pickup was nearly twenty years old, an American model Goose remembered seeing back in Waycross, Georgia. A man slid out of the door from behind the steering wheel.

A crimson flare torched the sky and brought out the urban battlefield in sharp relief. It also lit up the young driver’s bruised and battered features. He was in his early twenties and looked Middle Eastern.

In spite of the man’s days’-old injuries that had left faded bruises and scabs around his mouth and eyes and on his cheeks, Goose recognized him at once.
Icarus.
After only a moment’s hesitation, Goose muted the mouthpiece pickup on the helmet headset. Remington had declared an interest in Icarus, and Goose knew the captain would have sent Dean Hardin or others after the agent even in the heat of battle.

The man raised his eyebrows a little, obviously surprised by Goose’s choice to cut off contact with his commanding officer.

If he’d known everything about Icarus, Goose might not have cut out communications. But so far Icarus seemed content to contact him. Until Goose knew for certain what the man was up to, he was willing to delay telling Remington’s knowledge of the agent’s activities to preserve that tenuous relationship.

“Icarus,” Goose acknowledged in a voice too low to be heard by Wake or other members of Tango squad.

Icarus grinned ruefully. “Sergeant,” he said. He held his empty hands carefully away from his body.

Goose’s finger rested on the outside rim of the M-4A1’s trigger guard.

Icarus shrugged and glanced down at the stained and ripped United Nations uniform he wore. “With everything going on, I have to admit, I’m surprised you knew me. Still, I had to take the chance. Couldn’t leave you out here. I knew you wouldn’t leave your men behind.”

Goose said nothing, his mind reeling from the implications of the man’s appearance. Icarus remained an unknown in the mysterious events leading up to Syria’s unexpected attack on Turkey. Captain Remington had taken an assignment from CIA Section Chief Alexander Cody to rescue an operative who had fallen into the ungenerous hands of the PKK, a local terrorist organization.

Abdullah Ocalan first organized the Kurdistan Workers’ Party in 1974 for the purpose of creating an independent Kurdish state from land within Turkey, Iran, and Iraq. Of late, the group primarily targeted Turkey, seeking to destabilize the government through bloody attacks.

According to information Cody gave Remington, the terrorist cell Icarus had infiltrated was responsible for a failed assassination attempt on Israeli statesman Chaim Rosenzweig’s life. After discovering the traitor in their midst, the terrorist organization had transported Icarus toward Syria. Goose’s mission to rescue the young agent had triggered the frantic satellite phone call that had precipitated Syria’s no-holds-barred attack on Turkey.

Since the Rangers had pulled back into Sanliurfa, CIA agents had searched for Icarus. Remington said the young agent had possibly gone rogue. Corporal Dean Hardin, one of Remington’s go-to men for dirty operations, had taken point on the search for Icarus inside the city.

Only two days ago, while Goose was still reeling from Megan’s news that Chris was among the children who had disappeared, Icarus had met Goose in a bar. While there, Icarus had revealed that two of the CIA agents had caught up to him and he had killed them both while escaping. Icarus also told Goose that everything that had happened—his capture and the rescue attempt—was part of a carefully designed plan. The agent had spoken of the seven years of lies and subterfuge and unspeakable horror that remained ahead for the world.

Goose hadn’t known what Icarus was talking about then, but after attending Corporal Joseph Baker’s services in the tent church these past two days, he was finally beginning to catch on. It appeared to Goose that they might all be caught up in something that had impacted the whole world, something that had been predicted in the Bible. Baker called those seven years the Tribulation. Icarus hadn’t called them by any name at all.

“What are you doing here?” Goose demanded.

Icarus glanced at the wounded Ranger at Goose’s feet. “At the moment, I’m attempting a rescue. A medevac chopper won’t get here in time to save these men. You can’t drag your wounded after you and expect to hold a defensive line.” His eyes held the sergeant’s. “Then I want to talk to you. It’s time.” Icarus shook his head and looked doubtful. “It may already be too late.”

“You’ve got one thing right. I’ve got to hold this line.” Goose listened to the sounds of battle drawing closer.

“Then we talk. After this.”

Goose wanted to shake his head. Icarus was demonstrating an unfounded optimism regarding the current situation. As far as Goose could see, there were no guarantees that “after” was going to happen for him. Icarus was living on borrowed time, too.

“The CIA is still looking for you,” Goose pointed out. “I’ve seen Cody.”

“I know. And your captain’s men are looking for me.” Icarus dropped his hands to his sides. “Do what you will then. It’s up to you. Help me save your men, Sergeant, or shoot me.” He started forward.

Goose aimed at the center of the young agent’s chest for a long, measured beat. Trapped in the war-torn city with enemies just outside the gates, Goose didn’t know whom to trust. But under the open uniform jacket Icarus wore, it didn’t look like he had on a Kevlar vest.

Unless the agent was superhuman, a bullet through his heart would kill him.

Fear showed in the young man’s eyes, but so did his determination. Goose lowered the assault rifle and called over his shoulder. “Tango One.”

“I got your back,” Wake said calmly.

“Stand down,” Goose said. “He’s here to help with the wounded.” He bent and took hold of the Ranger he’d dragged to safety. With Icarus’s help, they muscled the wounded young soldier into the back of the pickup.

Wake’s Tango squad gave up four more men. One was already dead, and another didn’t look like he would survive the trip to the hospital. But Goose refused to abandon any of the men. That retreat from the border when they’d left so many dead behind still hurt his warrior’s spirit.

Icarus clambered back into the pickup. “Want a ride, Sergeant?”

A 120mm round impacted against a building on the other side of the street. The structure swayed for a moment, then crashed down in a loose tumble of rock. A few of the stones slammed against the pickup and narrowly missed Goose and the surviving Rangers.

“No,” Goose said. “I’ve got to finish this up.”

Icarus nodded. “I’ll get these men to the hospital.” He put the pickup in gear. “Come check on them. I’ll wait for you there. But only for a short time.”

“Understood.” Goose slapped the pickup’s top. “Get moving.”

Hesitation flickered across Icarus’s features. “Sergeant … ”

“I’ll be there,” Goose said.

“Do that,” Icarus said. “We have to talk. There’s a lot you need to know. The enemy isn’t just the Syrians.”

“I’m beginning to suspect that. But right now—” .50-cal machinegun fire ripped across the front of the alley—“they’re my biggest problem.” Goose and the Rangers dove for cover. Turning his head toward the pickup, Goose shouted, “Move!”

Tires shrieked as Icarus threw the vehicle into reverse, laying rubber on the road as he raced back along the alley. Garbage cans scattered in his wake. He swung wide at the other end and spun out. Then he jammed the transmission into a forward gear and sped from sight.