Apocalypse Crucible (13 page)

In the meantime, the 75th Ranger Regiment bled and died as sacrificial lambs.

Perspiration slid down Remington’s body under the heavy Kevlar and BDUs he wore. Dust and smoke caked his face and exposed skin. His mouth was parched and dry, and he thought he would never again taste anything but dirt.

But his mind worked. No matter what else went on around him, he considered the actions he had open to him. The Syrian army’s use of the American dead left behind from the border conflict had caught him by surprise and he felt embarrassed by that. Armies in the Middle East had used the bodies of fallen comrades against city defenders even back into biblical days.

Remington stared after the Syrian tanks and jeeps that rumbled deeper into Sanliurfa. He regretted the men that died under the onslaught of Syrian armor, his Rangers as well as the United Nations soldiers and the Turkish military. Dying here tonight meant that those men couldn’t die again later when he might need them even more. He was quickly running out of resources, and that fact was an increasing irritation to him.

An AH-1W Whiskey Cobra gunship cut the air over his head. Hovering low, the helicopter presented a fat target to the Syrians invading Sanliurfa as well as the troops stationed outside the city. Three other Cobras flew low over the city, cutting the area into quadrants. Bullets struck sparks as they ricocheted from the helicopter’s sides or punctured the metal and passed through. Enemy small-arms fire provided some danger, but the Syrians boasted .50-cal sniper rifles that were capable of punching through the light armor the helos carried.

“Phoenix Leader,” Remington said. “This is Control.”

“Go, Leader.” Goose sounded confident but a little agitated. There was no indication that the earlier break in communication would repeat.

Remington looked to the east where the Syrian armor had rolled through the barricade. All he saw was a roiling cloud of dust lit by tracer rounds and flames from the surrounding gutted buildings. “I’ve got the birds in the air awaiting your go.”

“Affirmative. Preparing to light up the lead target.”

Remington jogged to the building’s edge and peered down. Goose’s plan was desperate, but it had merit. The ability to think on his feet, to assess an unfavorable situation and find leverage within it was only one of the many reasons Remington had kept his friend close after completing Officer Candidate School and working his way up to captain’s bars.

“Nighthawk Leader, this is Control. Are you patched into the loop?” Remington glanced up at the nearest helicopter. He didn’t know if that was the gunship that held the Whiskey team leader. All the Cobra pilots were marines from USS
Wasp.

Captain Falkirk, the ship’s captain, and Colonel Henry Donaldson, the commander of the marine contingent on board the sevenvessel 26th MEU(SOC) deployed in the Mediterranean Sea, had given generously of their men and equipment, but they had their own problems. With the rash of disappearances around the globe, the U.S. military had taken severe hits, leaving holes in the supply infrastructure as well as in front lines in all hot zones. Supplies came late or not at all, and Remington knew that the U.S. ships had become targets for terrorist organizations as well as for the Syrian navy.

“Nighthawk Leader reads you, Control.” The radio communications carried the tinny sound of static.

“Phoenix Leader is ready.” Remington checked the Syrian line to the south and saw that the armored division held steady.

“Roger that, Control. Light ‘em up, Phoenix, and we’ll take ‘em down.”

Remington silently hoped the marine pilot proved as able as he sounded confident. Glancing back toward the point the advancing rolling stock inside the city had reached, only blocks from the hospital, Remington said, “You’re greenlighted, Phoenix Leader.”

“Affirmative,” Goose replied. “Nighthawk, the bogeys are running double-stacked, standard two-by-two deployment. Don’t know if you’ll see that from up there.”

“Not a problem, Phoenix. We just appreciate getting to do some good in here.”

The Syrian armor also ran without using the main guns or the machine guns at the moment. Remington knew the teams were conserving ammo rounds, using the forty-ton behemoths to take out buildings, vehicles, and fighting positions. The enemy armor ran silent and deep through the sea of smoke and dust, invisible to the forward-looking infrared and thermal-imaging capabilities of the helos.

“Fire in the hole,” Goose announced.

Remington didn’t see the MPIM squad that Goose had assigned to the task of firing on the lead Syrian tanks, but he saw the halo of fire that ignited between buildings a few blocks over. The dusty haze made clear sight of the area impossible, but there was no mistaking the red ball of fire that leaped up from the MPIM’s target.

Goose had suggested using 40mm red phosphorus rounds to mark the locations of the armor for the aerial units. Red phosphorus was an incendiary, normally used for clearing trenches, bunkers, and buildings with the blazing explosion the grenade meted out. With the action shaping up to take place in the streets of Sanliurfa, the Rangers carrying M-79s, M-203s, and MPIM grenade launchers had taken to the field with the 40mm munitions.

The bright light of the phosphorus contained in the grenades would normally disable infrared devices and throw off thermographic imaging. With the dust and smoke hanging thick in the air, those systems were out of play. Now, however, the phosphorous grenades showed up brightly against the dingy shadows that filled the city.

A bright red bubble of light nestled in the street only two blocks from the hospital buildings.

Remington waited because there was nothing else he could do.

“Phoenix Leader,” the marine helo pilot called with a trace of enthusiasm, “stand clear of that hot zone. We see your target designation and we have the ball.”

“Affirmative, Nighthawk. We’re clear.”

As Remington watched, the Whiskey Cobra twisted in the air and dove, making a run above the street where the invasion had come from. Equipped with a three-barrel, rotary 20mm cannon mounted on the turret that the gunner operated with a chin mount, a pair of LAU-68 rocket-launcher pods on the inside of the stubby wings, and eight TOW missiles on the outside of the wings, the Whiskey Cobras were deadly aerial predators.

But only if they acquired their targets.

Goose’s plan was simple. The 40mm phosphorus rounds did some damage to the Syrian tanks as the burning chemical clung to the tanks, but primarily Goose intended to use the phosphorus to mark the tanks.

As Remington watched, three flaming hulks closed in on the hospital.

“Nighthawk Leader to Nighthawk Two, I have the point tank. Close down the retreat.”

“Will do,” the second helo pilot replied over the headset.

The helicopter decreased speed and tilted down to bring its weapons to bear. In the next instant, the marine pilot unloaded his turret gun and fired rockets into the fiery tank. Explosions ripped across the street. Not all of them hit the tank, but enough did.

Slammed again and again by the 20mm cannon and the 2.75-inch antitank rockets, the Syrian tank crumpled and died. Before the other vehicles had a chance to scatter, the second Whiskey Cobra ripped into their flank and put down the rear vehicle.

“
Hoo-ah!
” a Ranger yelled over the headset.

Despite the desperate straits his team was still in, Remington couldn’t help smiling. Goose had come through again. The first sergeant wasn’t a master tactician—more of a paint-by-numbers soldier in planning—but he was at his best when his back was up against the wall. He was the most dependable man Remington had.

“All right, Rangers,” Remington said. “Isolate your targets and coordinate the strikes with the marine wing. We’ll see if we can hold the line against the rest of the rabble waiting outside the gate.”

“Affirmative, Control,” the marine helo pilot replied. “We’ll get other birds in the air now that we know we can be effective. Let’s turn this thing around.”

Remington gave orders to the various units scattered around the city, then turned his attention to the specialty squad he’d assigned to mark the forward line of the Syrian cav waiting out in the darkness. Captain Mkchian of the Turkish military had managed to bring some heavy artillery pieces into the city that Remington hoped might yet provide a nasty surprise for the Syrians.

Remington’s headset chirped for attention while the second set of helos swooped down to attack another group of Syrian rolling stock.

He switched over to the other channel, prepared to sound irritated if it wasn’t important.

“Control, this is BirdDog.” Birddog was Lieutenant Nick Perrin, the man Remington had put in charge of keeping tabs on the CIA agents.

“I’m listening, BirdDog.” Remington waited impatiently, knowing there were a hundred things he needed to do.

“Spotted our guy, Cap’n.”

“Who?”

“The primary. Couldn’t get to him in time to stop him. Had to waylay a member of the competition.”

Stifling curses, Remington asked, “Do you still have the primary in sight?” The primary was Icarus, not one of the CIA agents.

“Negative. The primary had a vehicle. My squad and I are on foot. But I’m pretty sure I know where he’s headed.”

“Where?”

“The hospital. He was carrying wounded. Men from Phoenix Leader’s squads.”

Goose?
Remington couldn’t believe it. Goose knew Remington wanted Icarus for questioning. Goose was under orders after their face-to-face in the bar two days ago to bring the man in no matter what.

“Phoenix Leader saw the primary?” Remington asked, still believing that there was some other explanation.

“Affirmative, Control. They talked while they loaded wounded. There’s no way Phoenix Leader didn’t know who he was talking to.”

Anger swelled up over Remington like a tidal wave, rising high above him then crashing down. He didn’t know why Goose had betrayed him, but he was going to find out.

7

United States of America
Fort Benning, Georgia
Local Time 2143 Hours

“I came alone,” Megan pointed out to Leslie Hollister as she stood across the bedroom from the girl. The audience of male rock stars and actors kept silent watch. “Just like you asked.”

Leslie nodded. The pistol shifted in her hands with the slight motion. Megan’s breath caught in her throat, and she resisted the instinctive impulse to retreat into the hallway.
Just go easy,
she admonished herself.
Talking to kids is always the same. Doesn’t matter if they don’t like something about themselves or if they are holding weapons.
Even though Megan knew what she was telling herself was true, she also knew that a teen who had a weight problem or an esteem issue generally wasn’t equipped to take the counselor’s head off with one shot.

The realization was sobering.

Leslie blinked back tears. Her hands twitched uncontrollably. “Mrs. Gander … ” She tried to talk further, but her voice deserted her.

Megan waited quietly and tried to show confidence. There was nothing she couldn’t handle. Leslie Hollister had to feel that. Every time Megan worked at counseling a child, she had to make that child feel that way. Usually that appearance started because she honestly believed she could handle the situation. She’d never had to work so fiercely to generate that feeling within herself.

“Mrs. Gander,” Leslie tried again. “I just don’t … don’t understand.”

“I know,” Megan said softly.

Leslie yanked a hand back and covered her mouth in an effort to control herself. “My mom … three days ago, my mom … ”

Megan forced herself to wait. “I’m right here, Leslie. Take your time.”

Leslie’s hand holding the pistol shook violently. The .45 slid from her knee and fell. She yanked the big weapon back up, narrowly avoiding contact with the floor.

Releasing a pent-up breath, Megan asked, “Leslie, would you mind putting the pistol down while we talk?”

Suspicious paranoia darkened the girl’s face. She pulled the pistol closer to her chest. “Why?”

“Because having it here makes me nervous.” Megan carefully chose not to call the weapon what it was anymore. Referring to it with a bland pronoun robbed the pistol of some of its importance. It became an object, not an invincible force.
Not something that can’t be overcome if we work on it together.

“It makes me feel safe,” Leslie declared. She tightened her grip on the pistol butt. Rebellious defiance shone in her bloodshot eyes.

“Why?” Megan asked.

“Because as long as I have it, I have a choice.”

“A choice about what?”

Leslie scrunched her eyes closed. Tears leaked down her sallow cheeks. “About whether I keep dreaming or I wake up.”

Megan pointed to the floor. She ignored the bed; too much clutter rested there that might fall and prove a disastrous distraction. “Can I sit?”

Leslie hesitated then nodded. “Yeah. Sure. Okay. I mean, this is my dream.” A weak smile played across her lips but never touched the hurt in her eyes. “But I gotta tell you, Mrs. Gander, never in a million years would I have figured you’d ever be sitting in my bedroom.”