would come in the morning.
Or to prepare for the attacks they would launch themselves.
Things were going to continue to be bloody. Goose knew that and tried not to think of the lives yet to be sacrificed.
At 2308 hours, the laser range finder registered an incoming message.
In position. Have your six. Remington.
Goose took a deep breath and pushed himself up into a squatting position. His left knee screamed in pain. It had swelled so badly he had trouble getting it to fold properly under him.
“Get up,” Goose said. He readied his M-4A1.
Miller prayed aloud as he got to his feet.
Icarus stood without comment. His face was solemn, streaked with mud.
“We go slow,” Goose said, “until we have a reason not to.”
“Is there going to be some kind of signal?” Miller asked.
“When the bullets start flying, if you live long enough to see them or hear them,” Icarus said, “that’ll be your signal.”
Goose didn’t think he could have put the situation any more succinctly. “All right, let’s go.” He led the way, staying with the brush line as much as he could, not taking a direct path toward the city.
The enemy-all of them-would be watching for that.
Local Time 2310 Hours
Remington waited in the territory where he knew Goose was headed. Satellite recon had picked up Goose and the other two men coming through the trees on the southwest side of the city. There wasn’t much cover there, but it was enough. The Syrian scout forces kept trying to encroach from the southeast, where the trees were thicker. Snipers kept those efforts thinned out.
In a prone position, Remington lay with a sniper rifle resting on a bipod and took aim 517 yards away. He was good with the weapon, better than many of the men in his unit. And there wasn’t anyone he trusted more to make the shots he needed to make.
He swept the crosshairs across Goose, thought momentarily how easy it would be to erase that threat, then struck the thought from his mind. He could still use Goose.
Instead, Remington tracked the two men who crept up on Goose’s position. The captain slid his finger over the trigger and let out half a breath. Then he squeezed.
Local Time 2310 Hours
A warning tingle ran through Goose and let him know he was in someone’s sights. The warning was more instinct than physical, one of those skills that tended to vanish as men got more civilized about their killing. But he’d honed it on dozens of battlefields and trusted it completely.
Someone was ahead of them in the darkness, lying in wait in the scrub brush. And he had his sights on the three of them.
“Down!” Goose whispered hoarsely, twisting and reaching for the chaplain behind him. He caught Miller’s Kevlar vest and yanked him down just as someone ahead fired. The muzzle flashes were almost invisible in the darkness, letting Goose know the shooter was using a flash hider, and the sound was barely audible, signaling the use of a silencer. The bullet smacked against the Kevlar covering Goose’s back. If the armor hadn’t been there, the round would have cored through his heart.
Icarus cursed as he took cover behind a tree.
Goose placed his free hand on the back of Miller’s helmet and forced the man’s face into the mud. The chaplain’s first response was to try to look up, but Goose held him down. Goose lay still and held his assault weapon in one hand. He kept his head pressed against the earth and scanned the skyline.
In the next moment, a body pitched out of the darkness. A second passed, and another ambusher sprawled to the ground only a few feet away from the first. Goose didn’t know who the sniper was that had saved them, but he was grateful to be watched over.
Then the sound of both shots echoed over the immediate area.
Syrian soldiers yelled to each other not far away. Someone swung a spotlight in Goose’s direction. The light missed him by inches, but already Syrian troops massed to investigate.
“Time to go.” Goose grabbed Miller’s harness and yanked him to his feet. “Stay up with me. You slow down, we’re both going to die.” He ran, keeping his rifle forward.
He checked the first body he came to, wanting to make sure he wasn’t leaving a wounded enemy behind. He didn’t recognize what was left of the man’s face, but he knew he wasn’t Syrian. The battledress was black, and there were no markings. Goose took the extra magazines and moved on to the second man, all too aware of the Syrian troops dogging their trail.
The second man had been shot through the throat and lay drowning in his own blood. He tried to raise a pistol when Goose came up on him. Goose knocked the pistol away and it flew from the dying man’s hand. The man gasped once; then his gaze dulled.
Miller whispered something unintelligible behind him, but Goose ignored the chaplain.
The Syrian voices continued, and the spotlight pierced the night, swinging closer and closer. The bright yellow beam splashed across Goose once, and then gunfire erupted.
Almost immediately the yellow light winked out as the sniper scored again. Goose stayed focused on the intervening distance between him and the city. If they could close the gap, get inside the city, they’d be safe. His knee felt like it was shredding, coming completely apart. Everything the surgeons had done to it in the past was coming undone.
He pushed himself through the pain and kept running. He dragged Miller after him, and that put an even greater strain on his knee.
Bullets thudded into the ground around him. Icarus cursed as he ran. Miller prayed, reciting the Twenty-third Psalm in a jerky voice.
A trio of Syrian soldiers formed out of the darkness, stepping into Goose’s vision like ghosts out of the night. They swung their weapons toward Goose.
Aiming the M-4A1 one-handed while he dragged Miller with the other, Goose started a line of bullets at the knees of the man on the left and brought the rifle in a line across the men as he fired on fullauto. The first two men crumpled, but the assault weapon cycled dry before he could shoot the third.
Goose yelled inarticulately, anything to scare the man facing him. He never broke stride, not even with the trembling rattling through his knee. The joint felt spongy and loose, and he feared it was going to fail under him.
He lowered a shoulder and ran headlong into the man. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Miller joined them in the mud.
Then everything was madness. Goose scrambled for his life, unable to get to his pistol because the Syrian soldier grappled him and rolled him onto that hip. Abandoning the pistol, Goose went for his knife. He ripped the blade free, rolled his opponent over, held the man flat with his own body weight, and drove the knife home between the man’s third and fourth ribs.
Miller lay nearby, watching in stunned horror. “God help us.”
“You start out by helping yourself,” Goose said. “God takes over from there.”
Bullets tore at the earth. Icarus had dropped to a knee nearby and fired controlled three-round bursts at targets. A nearby Syrian tank lurched into motion. The turret spun around.
“C’mon.” Goose pulled Miller to his feet. “You stay here, that tank will mash what’s left of you into the mud.”
Miller started running.
With his knee throbbing painfully, it was all Goose could do to stay up.
“Goose!”
Remington’s voice came out of the darkness. Immediately Goose steered straight for it. His body hurt from exertion, and he was operating purely on autopilot, but his trust in Remington was there. In times like this, that had been one thing he’d always been able to count on.
But a small fear quavered through him, causing him to wonder if he was running into a bullet this time.
The tank got off a round that exploded several yards away. The concussion nearly knocked Goose from his
