“Then why do you do it?”
“What? Gossip?”
“Yes.”
“Girlfriend, life wouldn’t be worth living without those juicy little morsels every now and again. I live for gossip.” Evelyn grinned. “And anyway, I’m just kidding about that. I had a long talk with my preacher. Him and God have got things sorted out, and I think he helped me sort them out as well. I know I’m feeling a whole lot better about life these days.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“You know, that’s exactly how it feels, too.” Evelyn adjusted her glasses. “But I was serious about having somebody for yourself.”
“Goose is over in Turkey.”
“I know. And they ain’t no telling when he’s coming home.” Evelyn shook her head. “It’s just sad is all.”
“What’s sad?”
“That the two of you can’t be together. Especially right now, when you need each other the most.” Evelyn drank more of the grape soda, then bought a package of peanuts from another vending machine. She opened the peanuts and poured them into the bottle. Purple fizz bubbled up.
Megan watched, almost fearful the concoction might explode. It was something she knew would have delighted Chris.
Evelyn swirled the peanuts in the grape soda. “I probably shouldn’t do this. Those peanuts play heck with my dentures.” She took a swig, crunched peanuts, then hooked a finger in her mouth to adjust her teeth.
Despite the uninhibited display, Megan was paying only slight attention. Her mind had seized on the idea that the old woman had set forth.
What they needed-what they all needed-was a sense of family. That was why so many teens had crashed at Megan’s house. They had nowhere else to go to get that sense of family. Otherwise they’d have gone there.
It was a sobering realization, and it made her miss Goose even more fiercely.
“Megan! Megan!” Dorthea Whitlow came around the corner and peered into the vending area. “I thought I saw you in here.”
Panicked, Megan gave her full attention to Dorthea. The other woman was about her age, but she didn’t have a husband or children.
“You’ve got to come.” Dorthea waved one hand.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s on television. The Syrians just crossed over the border. They’re headed into Harran now.”
Megan recognized the name. That was where Goose was. She hurried after Dorthea as they hustled back to the nurses’ station.
Oh, God, please don’t let anything happen to Goose.
17
United States 75th Army Rangers Outpost
Harran
Sanliurfa Province, Turkey
Local Time 0727 Hours
Heat shimmered across the drylands between Harran and the advancing line of Syrian armored. Fighter jets continued assaulting the city. Waves of cannonfire and rockets destroyed the beehive houses.
Goose lugged an FIM-92 Stinger missile launcher to one of the forward buildings. A young private named Fernando Sanchez followed him and humped spare rockets for the weapon. Goose carried one in the launcher and two more across his back.
The Harran outpost had ten launchers. Some of them were U.S. Army-issued. Others had been scavenged from the UN and Turkish equipment that was initially left behind at the border when everything had started weeks ago. Goose didn’t feel bad about appropriating the weapons or anything else they’d managed to scavenge. The Rangers were primarily the ones standing against the Syrian offensive. They needed the hardware.
A Syrian jet flew overhead. The cannons opened fire and decimated a nearby machine-gun nest. Thankfully the Rangers manning it had time to break for cover before the missiles hit, but the. 50-cal machine gun became a superheated, twisted chunk of scrap. The sandbags ruptured and created a miniature sandstorm.
“Falcon Leader.” Goose spoke into the headset as he readied the Stinger launcher. Falcon Leader was Lieutenant Swindoll’s call sign.
“I read you, Falcon Three.”
“Pull the soldiers from the machine-gun nests.”
“Why? We need them there.”
“They’re going to be casualties if you don’t. The hostiles have marked most of their twenties. They’re targeting them.”
Another jet launched an attack. This time radio contact was immediate. “We’re hit! We’re hit! I need help! Somebody help me!”
Goose’s heart went out to the injured soldier. Then he focused on his task. Get your part done. That’s all you can do. You do your part; everybody else’s part will get done too.
“Get me ready,” Goose said as he pulled the launcher onto his shoulder.
Sanchez slapped the BCU into place in the Stinger’s handguard. The battery coolant unit hissed as it shot argon gas and a chemical energy charge into the weapon. The Stinger’s targeting and acquisition systems came online. Without the BCU, the system wouldn’t work.
With the Stinger locked and loaded, Goose trailed the fighter jet. The weapons system beeped to let him know the target had been acquired. His finger slid into place, and he fired.
The Stinger missile was about five feet in length and weighed almost twenty-three pounds. When it left the launcher, powered by a small ejection motor, the recoil was noticeable. The load on Goose’s shoulder was immediately less; only the twelve and a half pounds of launcher rested there now.
The missile headed skyward; then the solidfuel, two-stage motor kicked to life and accelerated it up to over Mach 2. The fighter jet had slowed to initiate its attack on the Ranger ground forces. As a result, it was almost a sitting duck for the Stinger.
“Load me,” Goose ordered as he watched the missile intercept the Syrian jet’s left engine. Sanchez slapped another missile into place, using one of the four he carried instead of the two Goose had. If they became separated, Goose could still fire the launcher on his own, but not without ammunition.
The Stinger detonated and turned the fighter jet into a fireball that shed pieces of broken aircraft like a dog shaking off water.
“Ready.” Sanchez slapped the top of Goose’s helmet. Goose searched the sky for another target. Another jet, farther out, swooped in for the kill. A brief glance at the readout showed Goose the target was twenty thousand feet out. It was well within the 12,500-foot ceiling of the Stinger, but it needed to be another four thousand-plus feet closer.
C’mon, Goose thought as he tracked the fighter jet and waited for the acquisition beep. He couldn’t help thinking that Rangers were in the enemy pilot’s sights and were about to die.
The Stinger beeped, and the system showed a solid, steady signal.
Goose fired. The missile streaked away and kicked in the solidfuel afterburners.
“Load me.”
In the sky, the Stinger closed on the fighter jet. Evidently the onboard systems warned the pilot he’d been targeted. He tried to take evasive action, breaking and rolling to the right. The missile passed through the space the jet had been; then the heat-seeking systems autocorrected the warhead’s trajectory and sent it back after the fighter jet. Less than a second later, the missile sped into the aircraft’s jet engine and detonated, tearing the wing off. The fuselage careened wildly out into the empty lands and exploded when it struck the ground.
Sanchez slapped Goose’s helmet. “You’re loaded, Sarge. Good shooting.”
