“They’re stopping,” Mitchell said.
Goose glanced back up and saw that the advancing line of military armor had indeed stopped. “Spotter teams,” he called over the headset.
When the spotter teams acknowledged, Goose said, “Eyes on the skies. In case this is a feint for another aerial attack.”
The spotter/sniper teams affirmed the order.
“Phoenix Leader.”
Goose recognized Remington’s voice at once. “Go, Control. You have Leader.”
“Tach Two, Leader.”
“Affirmative, Control. Oracle, this is Phoenix Leader.”
Oracle was the com designation for Second Lieutenant Dan Knoffler, who was next in line for command of the company after Goose. Knoffler was currently sequestered in another part of the city, ready to take over at a moment’s notice if Remington and Goose were both injured or knocked out of the com loop.
Knoffler also managed the constant flow of vehicles drafted into medical service to transport civilian and military wounded to Ankara. Planes and helicopters were used only in cases of extreme emergency.
“Go, Phoenix Leader,” Knoffler radioed back. He was in his midtwenties, innocent in a lot of ways, but a dedicated warrior all the same. He’d missed the latest Iraqi war, and this action in Turkey was the first actual combat he’d seen. If he lived through the coming firefights, Goose knew the young lieutenant would grow into a command. “You’re monitoring?” Goose asked.
“Affirmative. Oracle has the sit-rep.”
“Oracle has the ball,” Goose said, letting Knoffler know he was going to be overseeing the city defenses for the time being.
“Affirmative. Oracle has the ball.”
Goose switched channels. He stared across the harsh terrain at the line of vehicles hunched like predatory beasts in the distance. “I’m here, Captain.” He stepped away from Mitchell so even his side of the conversation would remain private.
“I’m looking at Syrian heavy cavalry, Goose,” Remington said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me why.”
“Don’t know, sir.”
Remington was silent for a moment. “C’mon, Goose; you and I have been around the block a time or two. We’ve tramped through some wars in our time. What does your gut tell you?”
“The Syrians didn’t show up just to remind us they’re out there.”
“They could have,” Remington said. For years—while they’d been privates together, then corporals, and later, sergeants—they had always played the devil’s advocate for each other. If one of them came up with an exercise or a combat plan, the other did his level best to tear it to shreds, looking for weaknesses. They’d always been a good team.
We just don’t always agree on things, Goose reminded himself. Corporal Dean Hardin was a good case in point. Goose put that sore point away.
“No, sir,” Goose said. “I don’t think that’s the answer.”
“Then what?”
Goose looked at the line of vehicles in the distance. Even though he didn’t know for sure where Remington was, he felt certain the man was watching the Syrian cav with the same anticipation he was. “They’re here to make a statement, sir.”
“Being out there on the horizon isn’t enough?”
“No, sir,” Goose answered, “not hardly. After that attack last night, they should have been content to leave us alone for a while. The local people we’re trading with, sir, we know they’re trading with the Syrians, too. Those traders give the Syrians information just as they give us information.”
That was why traders were met at the gates and not allowed to run unsupervised throughout the city. Trading for supplies was acceptable, but allowing them access to information about the city’s defenses to sell to the Syrians was out of the question. Even so, Sanliurfa was huge. Policing the whole area while managing ongoing rescue and salvage operations was impossible.
“Think maybe we should put a bird in the air, Goose?” Remington asked.
The support aircraft from the marine wing that had arrived from the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit—Special Operations Capable MEU(SOC) out in the Mediterranean Sea had AH-1W Cobra attack helicopters in their ranks. The Whiskey Cobra was a piece of serious hardware. After seeing the marines and the Cobras in action, Goose had a healthy respect for the pilots and their machines.
“We’d be risking the helo,” Goose said. “And the pilot and gunner.”
“Every military action is an investment of risk,” Remington countered. “Whether you advance, fall back, or wait, you’re at risk.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, if they’re a ticking clock, everything in me wants to spring the trap.”
“Yes, sir,” Goose replied. “One thing my daddy always taught me about hunting in the swamps down in Waycross, Georgia, Captain: A patient hunter makes fewer mistakes than a man breaking brush just because he’s a little antsy.”
“Do you think I’m antsy, First Sergeant?” Remington’s tone was abrupt. Despite the friendship and the working relationship they had, Goose knew there was also a certain friction between them.
Goose had chosen not to follow Remington into OCS despite Remington’s best arguments in favor of the move. Having served his country for seventeen years as a noncommissioned officer—a noncom—Goose remained happy to finish out his twenty as the same. A commission meant dealing more with paper and less with people. Goose preferred the people.
“No, sir,” Goose answered. “I feel the same way. It’s hard to pass up a snake hole without cutting a branch and shoving it down that hole to find out if the snake is home. But the way we’re set up here, sir? We’re prepared to skin the snake if it was to come to us. We are not prepared to go after it.”
After a brief hesitation, Remington said, “Maybe we’re not ready now, but we will be.”
“Yes, sir.” An uncomfortable silence passed for a few minutes. Goose stood on the rooftop with his binocs to his eyes. The gentle wind out of the south brought the thin scent of possible rain and a constant barrage of dust. Nearly
