with a handful of knuckles.
“Who is it?” one of the guards demanded.
“Sergeant Gander.”
The hole the men had drilled into the door darkened as someone stuck his eye to it. “Back away from the door.”
Angrily Goose took two steps down the stairs.
“What do you want?” the guard asked.
“I need to talk to Lieutenant Swindoll.”
“Can’t let you out, Sarge. It’ll be best if you go on back down and have a seat. Where’s the chaplain?”
“He’s fine.”
“You need to let him see Lieutenant Swindoll,” Miller said from behind Goose.
“No can do. I’m under Captain Remington’s direct orders.”
“Then get the lieutenant here.” Goose used his command voice.
The guard banged against the door with the butt of his assault rifle. Goose identified the heavy thump immediately.
“You don’t give any orders here, Sarge. Not anymore. Now you back away from the door. Chaplain, your visit’s over. You’re coming out of the hole.”
Goose retreated down the steps. Miller had to go first because there wasn’t room to step past. Back in the cellar, they traded places, and Miller went up.
“I’ll get Lieutenant Swindoll,” Miller promised Goose.
Goose nodded. The lantern swung as another puff of dust dropped to the floor.
“You’d better make it quick,” Goose growled.
“I will.” Miller hurried up the steps.
Bright sunlight stabbed into Goose’s eyes when the door opened. Then Miller passed through, and the darkness returned.
Goose sat on the steps and watched the lantern as it danced again.
12
Downtown Sanliurfa
Sanliurfa Province, Turkey
Local Time 0605 Hours
SCUDs and missiles had destroyed many of the downtown buildings. Bombing runs by Syrian planes and the attack on the city only weeks before accounted for other damage. Remington had put Rangers on cleanup detail to make sure the streets were clear enough to navigate in case they had to. They’d been aided and abetted by the United Nations teams that had survived the attack along the border and had regrouped in Sanliurfa. Eventually citizens had joined in.
For the most part, the cleanup detail had amounted only to shoving debris to one side of the street or the other. They didn’t have time to haul the remains of the broken buildings away, and there was no real place to dump everything that had been destroyed.
Earthmovers roared and snorted like mechanical beasts all around the city as they labored to continue clearing streets. With the Syrian army and air force mostly intact, Remington had had no choice except to figure out fallback positions within the city. If they were pursued from Sanliurfa, they were going to be targets while they raced to the next city.
A moment later, Remington reached the street he wanted. It took some scouting to find streets because he was having all the signage torn down as well. In case an invading Syrian ground effort reached them and had maps, directions would be harder to figure out without neatly labeled streets and thoroughfares.
He stopped at the intersection and spotted the restaurant he was looking for. It was open. Bright flags- Turkish, United States, British, Canadian, French, and Russian-flew above the open-air cafe.
The fact that the restaurant was open didn’t surprise Remington. War zones brought capitalists swarming like flies to honey. Everywhere he’d served, there had always been a thriving black market and local entrepreneurs willing to risk their necks to make a profit.
He turned onto the street and took a space out front next to a station wagon loaded down with chicken crates. Evidently not everyone had finished leaving. There were still a few rats deserting the ship.
Felix Magureanu’s midnight blue Mercedes sat nearby. Though a patina of dust covered the city, the luxury car looked freshly scrubbed. The personalized license plate on the back read, DEALZ.
Local Time 0609 Hours
The restaurant’s interior was clean and well lit. The power was out; electricity throughout Sanliurfa was generally absent, except in key locations like the hospital and the mess area, where food perishables were kept refrigerated. But there were plenty of candles. The burning wax filled the air with a sweet, heavy scent.
“Welcome,” a young woman greeted. She wore black slacks and a white dress shirt. “Will you be dining with us today?”
“I’m looking for a friend.”
“You are Captain Remington?”
“Let me guess,” Remington said irritably. “The uniform gave it away.”
“I am sorry, but I see many uniforms. They all look the same to me. It’s hard to tell American soldiers from British and the others.”
“I’m Remington.”
The hostess smiled. “Good. Your friend was wondering how long he would be kept waiting. This way, please.”
Remington followed the woman across the restaurant’s floor space. Only a handful of patrons sat at the tables. A ragtag family that matched the station wagon sat near the front windows, obviously concerned about their chickens. A handful of soldiers, all of them wearing blue berets of the United Nations, occupied other tables.
A moment later, the hostess showed Remington to a private dining room in the back.
She knocked on the door.
“Come in,” a booming voice called from within.
The hostess slid the door open and ushered Remington inside. The wood paneling and tables were old and dark, looking black as ink in the uncertain shadows created by the wavering candlelight. “Would you like anything to drink?” she asked.
“Coffee,” Remington said.
“Of course.” The hostess left.
“Good morning, Captain.” Felix Magureanu sat in front of a superthin computer. He waved Remington to the chair on the other side of the square table. Candles stood at attention in an elegant centerpiece.
Remington removed his hat, set it on the table, and took a seat.
The long fingers of one of Felix’s hands trailed through his red goatee. His head was shaved and pale as milk, matching the rest of his complexion. He looked like a man who’d never been out in the sun. As always, wraparound sunglasses with ruby lenses hid his eyes. His black suit was Italian and tailored to his lean, hard physique. A gold Rolex gleamed on one wrist. Rings adorned his fingers.
“You’re late,” Felix said.
Irritation gnawed at Remington. Although he’d learned to work with Felix, he hadn’t learned to care for him. The man was too arrogant to be likeable. Remington kept his expression neutral. “You asked for this meeting, not me.”
“True.” Felix leaned forward and accessed the Internet on his laptop. A small satellite unit sat near the computer on the table. “I wanted to talk to you about Sergeant Gander.”
Remington waited just a beat, making sure he had Felix’s full attention. “Sergeant Gander isn’t any of your concern.”
Felix frowned like a disappointed child. “In that regard, Captain, I’m afraid we disagree. I feel that the
