Goose slipped the rocket into place and lifted the RPG-7 to his shoulder. He took aim at the back of the turret through the fuel tanks, curled his finger over the trigger as the turret started to turn, and fired.
The whoosh of the rocket ended almost immediately as the warhead slammed through the fuel tanks and into the back of the turret. As the Afghanistan mujahedeen had discovered when fighting the Russians, the most vulnerable part of the T-72 was the back of the turret. And exterior fuel tanks just made it that much more vulnerable.
The explosion, coupled with the added punch of the nearly full fuel tanks, blew the turret from the tank. The resulting heat wave washed back over Goose, and his world dwindled to one flash-fried instant.
Then the tank rolled to a halt and exploded again as the ammo stored aboard went off. A roiling mass of fiery clouds, looking like a pillar of fire, streaked from the tank toward the heavens.
Wearily, not believing that he was still alive but thanking God for His mercy, Goose pushed himself to his feet. He peered around at the battlefield. “Base, this is Phoenix Leader.”
“Go, Leader. You have Base.”
“Do we own this battlefield, Base?”
Cal Remington’s voice came over the headset. “You own the battlefield, Phoenix Leader. Good work down there. Establish your perimeter and set up your salvaging operations.”
“Understood, Base. Leader out.” Goose surveyed the harsh terrain. All they had to do was put up an appearance, keep the Syrian army buffaloed, and survive long enough to retreat during the night.
But night seemed a lifetime away.
27
The Mediterranean Sea
USS Wasp
Local Time 1017 Hours
Heat shimmered from Wasp’s flight deck as Delroy Harte trudged toward the waiting CH-53E Sea Stallion with travel kit in hand. Frustration and anger nearly shackled his mind, blinding him and making him slow to respond to the greetings of the crewmen that he passed.
Despite the horror that had happened along the Turkish-Syrian border, despite the number of personnel that had gone inexplicably missing from the ship and the entire ARG, the ship’s crew still had jobs to do. A second wave of aircraft and Marines—cobbled together from Sigonella Naval Air Station in Sicily and MCB Camp Butler in Okinawa—was due onboard Wasp in a matter of hours. The ship had to be made ready to receive the new aircraft and troops that would rally to make the next attempt to reinforce the U.S., U.N., and Turkish troops along the border.
The wind from the waiting helo whipped across Delroy with humid intensity that left him perspiring under his jacket. He knew he should feel uncomfortable, and maybe he did, but at the moment, he didn’t care.
He also noticed that several of the Marines stared at him with suspicious curiosity and more than a little hostility. Well, Colonel Donaldson, you certainly get your word around quick. He held his head high and tried to appear more certain of himself than he was. God, why did You lead me this far, make me believe in You, and then let me fail at this? I know that you have raptured the church, taken your faithful with you, and I know you left me behind because I have broken the relationship I have had with You. Is this my punishment then, God, for doubting You?
The insecure feelings came rolling back in, almost thick enough and heavy enough to smother Delroy. As he walked, he carried his father’s Bible in his free hand, and he thought about the way Josiah Harte had pounded the pulpit on Sunday mornings, how his father had journeyed to the homes of the sick, and ministered to them until they got better or—as in some cases—how he had helped them let go of the mortal world and not be afraid.
When Delroy was nine, his grandfather had passed. A more bitter, angry, and harsh man had never walked the earth. Delroy had never seen two men less likely to be father and son, or a man more willing to turn his son aside and treasure other children who had turned out to be as godless and violent as he himself was.
During his childhood, Delroy could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen his grandfather. Every time Josiah had taken his family to visit his parents, Jonah Harte had gone away on fishing trips and drinking binges.
Grandmother Harte had tried to fool her husband sometimes by not telling him when Josiah and his family were coming to visit, but there had always been clues: apple pies, extra cookies for the children. So Jonah would load up his tackle box, throw a six-pack of beer in the passenger seat, and be gone for a few days.
In the end, though, Jonah Harte had succumbed to cancer that had broken even his wild fierceness, had melted the unforgiving coldness from his heart. His other children, three sons and two daughters, had wanted Josiah to stay away, but Josiah hadn’t. Despite their curses and anger, Josiah had ministered to his father. He knew those curses were directed at him because he could accept his father’s death. And because he could offer his father the certainty that if he accepted Jesus Christ as his Savior, he would go on to a better place.
For nearly two weeks, Josiah had stayed with his father, and Delroy had helped. In the South—at least in those days—people died at home in their own beds surrounded by family, not in hospitals with only strangers in attendance. Jonah Harte had died a shipwreck of a man in twisted, sweat-soaked sheets.
But Josiah had never given up on his father or lost his faith in the Lord. That bedroom in the tiny old house had been filled with gospel, with songs sung a cappella, and Delroy had never heard his father’s voice sound stronger or the songs sound sweeter. Josiah had talked of God’s love, of His sacrifice
