Apocalypse Crucible (15 page)

“Powers,” Leslie repeated.

“Yes. I’m sure that you can.”

Leslie frowned. “You think?”

Megan shrugged. “Why else pull me into your dream?”

“If I was looking for someone to fix everything, why didn’t I dream my mom into this? She’s the one that should be here. Not you.”

“Because this is a nightmare, not a dream.” Megan knew that she spoke the truth. If God had indeed raptured His church as she believed, the world remained a nightmare for those left behind. “C’mon. Get up.”

Leslie dragged herself from the floor. Her attention suddenly shifted to the flickering amber lights chasing themselves across the rain-spattered window. She leaned into the glass. The pistol rested on the sill between stuffed animals placed in a row.

God,
Megan thought as her heart lurched inside her chest,
please don’t let any of those young men out there panic.
As tense as the situation was, she was afraid that one of the MPs might misread the situation and shoot Leslie Hollister through the window.

United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0448 Hours

“Ready, Sergeant!”

Goose provided cover fire against the advancing line of Syrian infantry that flanked the T-72 tank rumbling down the street only a block from the hospital. Keeping the M-4A1’s muzzle belt high on his targets, he swept the Syrians with sustained three-round bursts.

The nine other Rangers he’d gathered in his squad did the same, fanning out across the alley they’d taken refuge in. They had to stay bunched in order to keep from getting scattered when the marine helos vectored in on the enemy vehicles, and to provide a safer fire zone.

The Syrians went to ground, spreading across the street and taking advantage of cover offered by rubble and burning vehicles. Other Syrian soldiers followed close behind the T-72 to prevent close engagement with the city’s defenders.

“Private,” Goose snapped, feeling the assault rifle cycle dry. He stepped back to cover and shucked the empty magazine, changing it over for the full one taped to the first.

Private Al Goodwin stared at Goose through a mask of haze and blood. He looked impossibly young, but the MPIM he carried canted up across his chest lent him authority.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Goodwin responded.

“Hit it.” Goose flattened against the wall as Goodwin stepped forward and leveled the MPIM.

“Fire in the hole!” Goodwin yelled. Almost immediately, the MPIM chugged in his hands and a flash roiled through its snout.

The 40mm grenade sailed across the fifty-foot distance. Fighting in the streets kept the combatants close. By rights, the Rangers’ skirmish line was ten feet inside the blast radius of the grenade, but the wall protected them.

Goose slitted his eyes and locked them forward. A heartbeat later, before Goodwin had much of a chance to even step back, the phosphorus round exploded, throwing out harsh red light over the immediate vicinity. The heat of the blast swirled over Goose as debris slammed against the wall.

“Private,” Goose prompted.

“Yeah, Sergeant,” Goodwin confirmed, nodding enthusiastically. “I got him. Dead center. There’s a lake of red phosphorus burning on that tank’s hide. He’s marked. He can run, but he can’t hide.” He was wired on adrenaline, his words coming in a torrent, but he maintained control.

“Good job, soldier.” Goose watched as the incandescent red glare of the burning phosphorus staggered across the alley’s mouth. The light revealed the whirling clouds of dust and smoke that filled the air. He didn’t look around the corner because he didn’t want to lose his night vision.

Sporadic small-arms fire from the Syrian infantry chopped into the alley walls, chipping stone and mortar loose and striking sparks. Tracers burned lines of sight back to the shooters. The tank’s engine growled as the driver changed gears. Goose didn’t know how much contact the Syrian armored units had with each other, but they had to know that the rolling stock that had invaded the city were getting systematically hunted down and killed. Only a handful of them remained, and soldiers were stalking them now.

“Nighthawk,” Goose called over the headset.

“Nighthawk here.” The marine’s reply came strong and confident.

“We’ve lit up the cake.”

“Affirmative, Phoenix. Nighthawk’s coming in to blow out the candle. Get clear.”

Overhead, a pair of Whiskey Cobras leaned into the thin dry wind and came around on an approach path only a short distance above the rooftops.

“We’re already gone.” Goose threw his free hand into the air and waved the nine men he’d organized into a squad back into the alley.

The Rangers moved in concert, falling into the point-and-wings formation automatically. They ran by the light of the city that burned around them.

Long and narrow, the alley offered little protection or options for cover. When the tank crashed through the wall of the building behind them, locked down, and swiveled the turret around, Goose knew they were in trouble. Pools of red-flamed phosphorus fire burned and wavered on top of the T-72.

“Down, Phoenix,” the marine pilot commanded curtly. “We’re cutting this one close.”

Goose shouted, ordering his group to ground just as the lead Whiskey Cobra tilted in midair and came about. He dove for the cobbled alley floor just as the 120mm main gun roared behind them. The shell wobbled through the air only a few feet above their heads, then slapped into a curving wall less than thirty feet in front of them. Broken rock and mortar spanked the ground all around the Rangers.

A fist-sized chunk of stone landed on Goose’s back. He saw the stone roll away but realized he hadn’t heard the impact over the buzzsaw roar of the 2.75-inch rockets from the Whiskey Cobra’s wing pods. He pushed his head up and looked back.

The Syrian tank sat shivering, riddled with damage and flames and no longer in motion. Drops of burning red phosphorus still clung to the tank, but a lot of them stood out against the dark alley walls and on the cratered ground ahead of it. The tank sat inert, no longer a threat, thrust through the building wall the driver had taken out in pursuit of the enemy vehicle. Canted sideways amid the rubble, it resembled a ship that had run aground on a reef.

“Up,” Goose commanded. “Now.” He pushed himself up, setting the example. “Move out.”

Gathering their feet beneath them, the Rangers moved out down the alley.

“Oracle,” Goose said, jogging with his troops and trying fiercely to ignore the rat’s teeth gnawing at his knee at every impact against the uneven ground.

“Go, Phoenix Leader. Oracle reads you five by five.”

The thunder of the Whiskey Cobras swept by overhead, already en route to their next target.

“I’m hunting,” Goose said.

“Negative. All enemy tanks have target groups assigned. The marine wing is working the takedowns.”

Goose felt a moment of relief. He switched channels on the headset. “Control, this is Phoenix Leader.”

“I hear you, Leader.”

Goose immediately recognized the unaccustomed cold neutrality in Remington’s voice. In nearly twenty years of friendship and service, Goose had heard that tone directed at him less than a handful of times. His relationship with the captain, even when they’d been enlisted men and sergeants together, had contained confrontational situations but always with mutual respect. Questions filled Goose’s mind, but he shelved them. Whatever the problem was, he and Remington were too professional to let it interfere with the present op.

“We’ve taken down our last target,” Goose said. “Awaiting orders.”

“Fill in the gaps, Leader. I want this city secure while we shove their front line back and earn a little grudging respect from the Syrians.”

Getting dismissed so casually with no real agenda set was unusual as well. Remington always kept Goose at the forefront of any action. Goose knew Remington was aggravated, but he didn’t know why. However, the fact that the captain was able to feel aggravation during the current situation was a positive note in one respect: it meant the captain was fairly certain they were going to survive.

In the next instant, the heavy artillery Captain Mkchian had managed to bring into the city opened up with drumming full-throated roars. Still in the alley, Goose couldn’t see the immediate effects of the heavy long guns, but he got the impression the damage was substantial when other Rangers started cheering over the headset.

Goose flipped over to the fire-control channel on the headset and listened to the confirmed hits among the second wave of Syrian armor. Mortars and howitzers screamed into the night, launching from behind the front line and carrying to the enemy troops a mile away. Marine sniper squads deployed after the first few minutes of the attack had set up nests in the broken terrain outside the city and used the big Barrett .50-cal sniper rifles to pick off Syrian artillery teams.

Judging from the amount of damage the embattled Rangers, marines, U.N. Peacekeepers, and Turkish army were reporting, Goose felt certain the tide of the battle had turned. Knocking out the Syrian armor gave all the fire teams the room they needed to breathe. When it came to sheer tactics and number crunching, no one beat Remington. Goose took a small amount of pride in that because the captain wasn’t just his commanding officer but his friend.

“Man down! Man down!” someone ahead yelled.

The Rangers went to ground immediately, dropping into squatting defensive positions with their assault rifles at the ready.

Sweat ran down Goose’s face. Squatting on his injured knee was pure agony. The cortisone shot he’d received only a few days ago wasn’t standing up to the demands he was putting on the joint. He peered through the M-4A1’s open sights and waited.

The point man, Charlie Jointer, crept like a crab to the body lying at the corner of the alley opening onto the street. He prodded the inert man with a boot, keeping his rifle directed at the man’s center mass.

Flickering flames provided enough light for Goose to see that the man was dressed in civilian clothes—khaki pants and a lightweight shirt. He also wore a light jacket even in the heat.

“He’s alive,” Jointer called back. “But he ain’t one of ours. Maybe American or European.”

“Okay,” Goose said. “Everybody up and moving.”

The Rangers rose as one and advanced. Explosions rang out around them, but there was no sign of the enemy.

Reaching the man, Goose studied his features. He didn’t know him, but he knew the look of him. Scruffy and unkempt to a degree, the man looked like any number of people—residents as well as travelers trapped by the sudden attack and stranded in the city—who holed up with the military awaiting rescue.

“Kinda weird,” Jointer said to Goose. “Guy like this being out here all alone.” He looked down the street as if looking for more bodies.

“His friends could have left him,” Hershel Barnett offered. Big and solid and usually solitary, he wasn’t noted for optimism.

Breathing shallowly against the aching pain in his knee, Goose knelt. He kept his assault rifle canted up in the ready position and searched the body with his free hand.

The man wore a shoulder holster under his left arm and a paddle holster at the small of his back. Both holsters were empty. Dark bruises covered his face and a split along his right cheek needed stitches.

“Looks like somebody pistol-whipped him,” Barnett said. He’d grown up in the wildcatter oil fields near Houston, Texas, and knew a lot more about violence than the army had ever taught him. Goose had known the man at a glance. They shared small-town roots and similar backgrounds.

“In the middle of an attack?” Jointer shook his head. “Doesn’t make any sense.”

Goose ran his finger inside the man’s mouth, popping the jaws open to make certain there was no obstruction. He held his rifle between his knees and used his pen flashlight briefly. There was no obstruction and the dental work was definitely American. Europeans still used a lot of gold instead of the porcelain American dentists used. He took his finger from the man’s mouth.

“Trust me,” Barnett said, “somebody took the time to pistol-whip him like that, they had a reason.” He shrugged. “Would have been simpler to kill him ‘cause this guy ain’t gonna let something like this go. He knows who’s responsible, he’s gonna go after them.”