Another HE round exploded against the low-slung cupola. The explosion ripped the Syrian soldiers from the tank, throwing them several yards away.
Goose blinked dusty sweat from his eyes. The grainy burn in his eyes told him he hadn’t gotten all of it. He aimed his weapon, peering through the open sights left under the mounted scope. He curled his finger over the trigger and squeezed.
The 40mm grenade hit the tank’s cupola and exploded. The T-55 shivered slightly. Then the left tread churned again, and the vehicle sped around in a semicircle before the driver realized he was dead in the water.
Goose watched the Syrian soldiers spreading along the skirmish line the Rangers had posted along the scattered wrecks lining the Syrian side of the border.
“Phoenix Three, Four, and Five,” Goose said as he fed the M-203 another HE round. Two grenades remained in the bandolier he carried. The squads responded, letting him know they’d had no casualties.
The sharp, distinct report of the Barrett .50-cal sniper rifle cut through the noise of the diesel engines and clanking treads. One of the Syrian soldiers dropped where he stood, as if knocked aside by a gigantic fist. Almost immediately, the .50-cal banged again and another man went down.
“Three, Four, and Five,” Goose called, “be advised that you have sweepers inside your perimeter. Take them down and hold the center.”
“Affirmative, Phoenix Leader.”
“Two,” Goose went on, “we march to the rear. Cut off any retreat.”
“On your go, Leader,” Ybarra replied. “We’re locked and loaded here.”
Goose scanned his squad. Carruthers, Jansen, and Cusack were all standing, though they looked like dust-covered wraiths in their BDUs.
The three Rangers all nodded.
“Carruthers,” Goose said, “you’ve got point. Jansen, you’re walking slack. We’re going to hump back to the rear and take out the T-72. They know we’re not going to turn our artillery loose on them with squads in the field here.”
“You got it, Sarge.” Henderson held his assault rifle at the ready. Goose opened the channel so all the squads could hear him. “One and Two are going to close the pincer. Three, Four, and Five, stand tall. Let’s make a statement here, get back some of what we gave up this morning.”
“Hoo-rah, Sarge!” Cusack yelled.
Goose rose to his feet from the crouch he’d taken cover in. “Go,” he commanded.
Carruthers loped into the lead.
Goose followed the point man. His boots thudded against the spray of loose dirt spread over the hard-packed earth. The motion jarred him, awakening all the aches and bruises he’d acquired since morning, but he denied the pain’s hold on him. He’d trained seventeen years for this moment, and he was exemplary at his craft.
While Carruthers negotiated the small maze of wrecked armored cav units and support vehicles that still held dead men sitting inside, two Syrian soldiers broke cover to the left. They were obviously fleeing the tanks where the Marine sniper was taking advantage of every target of opportunity. The big .50-cal rifle sounded like a basso drum rolling in the background.
“Down!” Carruthers yelled, going to cover.
Goose threw himself down and to the left. He shouldered his weapon by the time he hit the ground on his left side, recovered, and squeezed the M-4A1’s trigger in three-round bursts. The hail of 5.56mm bullets caught the Syrian soldiers and drove them backward. Their heavier 7.62mm rounds cut the air over Goose’s head.
“Up!” Goose commanded, surging to his feet and favoring his injured knee slightly.
His squad came up in unison. Cusack had a neat crease along his helmet where a round had deflected.
“Bucket saved your head,” Jansen said.
“Yeah.” Cusack reached up and adjusted his helmet. He looked a little pale.
Even after all the death the young Ranger had seen all morning, Goose knew death still became personal when it barely skated by. “Carruthers,” he said. “Let’s move.”
The Rangers raced to the rear of the fire zone and took up a position behind a collection of boulders. Goose and Cusack held to the center while Jansen and Carruthers flared out on either side and slightly ahead to cover their position.
The T-72 looked like a goliath amidst the other Syrian vehicles. Two of the three Jeeps stayed close to the large MBT. The third lay flipped over, fire only now starting to catch under the engine. One of the Jeep’s crew attempted to crawl away from the overturned four-byfour, then dropped abruptly. Goose understood the reason immediately when the .50-cal report rolled over his position.
“Two,” Goose called. “Are you in position?”
“We’re here, Leader.”
Snarling like a great metallic beast, the T-72 fired into the mass of destruction lining the border where the Ranger squads battled the Syrian soldiers. Fully loaded, the Soviet-made tank carried forty-five rounds for its main gun, two more than the T-55s. There were also thousands of rounds for the 7.62 and 12.7mm light machine guns. Up and moving, able to fire while in motion, the T-72 was a juggernaut of destruction.
The Syrian tank crew knew the capabilities of their machine, and they were out to make the most of them. Confident of the thicker, layered armor the T-72 carried instead of the lighter armor the T-55s had, the tank drove straight into the teeth of Phoenix Three, Four, and Five.
“Cusack,” Goose called.
“Yeah,” the young Ranger replied.
“One round into the T-72,” Goose said. “To get its attention.”
Cusack held his weapon steady and fired. The 40mm grenade covered the ground in a split second and detonated in a wash of flames and smoke against the left side of the turret. Cusack kicked the spent casing free and thumbed another round in as the tank fired while rolling forward. The 40mm warhead only left a smudge of soot across the back of the tank.
“No penetration,” Cusack said.
Less than a hundred feet away, the T-72 rumbled maniacally across the field of dead, collided with one of the disabled tanks left from the Ranger squads’ earlier attacks, and knocked the T-55
