Holding his M-4A1 assault rifle in his right hand, his finger resting on the trigger guard and not on the trigger, as his father had trained him even before he’d first put on the uniform of a United States fighting man seventeen years ago, Goose trotted down the barricade line.
His left knee ached as he moved. He’d sustained the original injury years ago in a war with Iraq. The military doctors had put everything back together as best they could, declaring him fit for duty. Then, only three days ago, he’d reinjured his knee, just before the Syrian army’s unprovoked attack against the Turkish army forced 3rd Battalion’s 75th to retreat from the Turkish-Syrian border. During that engagement, in what Goose believed to be a completely unrelated happening, a large percentage of the world’s population had disappeared without explanation.
During the last two days in Sanliurfa, he and his men had gleaned from the sporadic news coverage that the world at large was as confused about the disappearances as his troops had been when it happened. Goose, of course, had developed his own theories about what had happened. But, according to the media, several possible explanations were being advanced for the mysterious disappearances that left empty clothing in piles where men and women and children had been.
Children.
The thought of all the missing children brought a sharp pang to Goose’s heart. His five-year-old son, Christopher, had been one of the children who had disappeared without a trace. So far, although the facts hadn’t been confirmed, it seemed that every young child on the face of the planet had vanished.
Goose hadn’t been able to say good-bye to Chris. He hadn’t even known until many hours later that he had lost his young son. He could only trust that Chris was in good hands—is in God’s hands, he desperately reminded himself—because he struggled to believe the boy was in those hands. Everything had happened so suddenly.
“Eagle One,” Goose called over the headset. “This is Phoenix Leader.”
“Go, Leader. You have Eagle One.” The reply was crisp and confident. Eagle One was Terry Mitchell, a career man with ten years service under his belt and one of the best spotter/snipers Goose had ever worked with.
“Where away, Eagle One?”
“South-southwest.”
Goose reached the end of the barricade section that sealed off the street. The barricade stretched twenty blocks, backed by everything the Rangers could cobble together for defense. Heavy cavalry in the form of M1 Abrams tanks and Bradley M2 and M3 armored personnel carriers backed the barricaded sections in strategic locations. Supporting the tanks and APCs, scattered jeeps, Humvees, and Ranger Special Operations Vehicles (RSOVs) operated as couriers for ammo and stood ready to offer quick transportation for wounded. Several of their vehicles had been lost during the Syrian border attack, and his men had appropriated anything that was running for their defense of the city.
“What do you see?” Goose started up the metal fire escape that zigzagged up the outside of the three-story apartment building that stood as the cornerstone of the barricade.
“A line of vehicles. Tanks, APCs.”
“ID?”
“Confirmed, Leader. Syrian. They’re flying colors and proud of them.”
“Any sign of aerial support?”
“Negative, Leader.”
Goose pounded up the fire escape. Despite the cortisone shots he’d been given for the pain and inflammation, he felt the weakness in his knee. The pain had dulled to bearable, but his movements felt mushy and a little uncertain. So far the limb had held beneath him. He forced himself to go on, reaching the second-floor landing and hauling himself around to continue up. “How many vehicles?”
“Thirty or forty. Maybe more. Hard to say with all the dust they’re stirring up. Daybreak’s an hour away. Probably get a better look then.”
Unless they’re in the middle of us by that time, Goose couldn’t help thinking. Despite the coolness that usually came with the fading sun in the evenings, perspiration beaded on his forehead and ran down into his eyes. He knew he was running a slight fever from the inflammation in his knee. The fever, like the pain, was familiar. He often felt it when he was pushing himself too far, too fast.
But that was the pace that dealing with the Syrians required. During the last two days, the Syrian army and air force had harried them mercilessly, probing and exploring the strength of the U.S. forces’ hold on the city. The battalion’s primary assignment from the Joint Chiefs was to hold the line against the Syrians in Sanliurfa while the cities of Ankara and Diyarbakir resupplied and got reinforcements.
Goose switched the headset to another frequency. As first sergeant, his personal com unit came with auxiliary channels that he used to communicate with other divisions of the Ranger companies. “Control, this is Phoenix Leader.”
“Go, Leader,” Captain Cal Remington’s smooth voice answered immediately. If he’d just been shaken from slumber, his words showed no trace of it.
“We’ve got movement.” Goose was currently the second-ranking officer among the companies since the first lieutenant had been killed in the border clash. Remington had chosen not to fill that post and kept Goose in his present position of sovereign command after him. Goose had more years experience as a soldier than any other man in the unit—most of those years with Remington, first as a costaff sergeant and later as first sergeant after Remington completed Officer Candidate School.
“That’s what I heard. I’m on my way there. Be with you in two.”
“Yes, sir,” Goose replied. Only slightly winded from running full tilt up three flights of switchback stairs in full
