The camera shot tightened up on a lone Army Ranger sergeant carrying a wounded Marine from a burning helicopter.
Valerica froze the DVD image. “This man,” she said. “We want to find out who he is.”
After a closer look at the screen, Danielle looked Valerica in the eye and said, “I know who he is.”
“Do you?” Valerica smiled.
“Yes. That’s Sergeant Samuel Adams Gander of the 75th Rangers.” Danielle could still remember how the man’s voice had rung out strong and clear as he’d dealt with the slaughter at Glitter City.
“Dear girl,” Valerica enthused, “how simply marvelous.” She squeezed Danielle’s hand. The woman’s flesh felt cold as alabaster. “See? Your employment by OneWorld Communications is a thing that had to come to pass.”
Danielle looked from the image to the woman. “But why him? He’s a sergeant. A non-com. Why not an officer? The commanding officer of the man’s unit is a captain. I know him, too. Cal Remington.”
“You do keep up with things, don’t you?” Valerica smiled. “Captain Remington will probably march right to prominence as this story develops, but for now, the powers that be want to focus on Sergeant Gander there. He’s in the middle of the action, you know. Lots of drama and danger. Very photogenic—all that flame and fury. We want to know who he is and what his story is.”
“He could be dead,” Danielle pointed out. “When we pulled out, he was already up to his neck in trouble and heading away to find worse. The Rangers were involved in a mission across the border only a few hours ago.”
“Perhaps the war has taken him. But perhaps not. In any event, your first assignment—should you decide to accept our offer of employment—will be to discover the whereabouts of Sergeant Gander. Dead or alive. We’d like to get his story.”
“I’ll have to go to the front?”
“Do you have any objections?”
“Reservations, yes. Feelings of panic, yes.” Danielle took a deep breath, held it, then let it out. “But no objections. That’s where the story is.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“Do you have a camera team available to send with me? My crew and equipment got trashed.”
“The camera team is already in place there,” Valerica said. “You’ll be joining them as soon as—”
“After lunch?” Danielle asked hopefully. Excitement and trepidation mixed within her. “I can be ready then.”
“Of course you can, dear girl. Of course you can.” Valerica patted Danielle’s hand. The gesture was that of a much older woman, almost Edwardian in fact, but judging by her appearance, Danielle knew the woman couldn’t be that old.
The waiter brought the plates of mutton on a bed of spiced rice, and Danielle was surprised to find she had an appetite. She launched herself into the meal with gusto, her mind already whirling with how she wanted to work the stories. She didn’t even think about the potential threat to her life. She believed the answer to the mysterious disappearances lay along that besieged and battered border. If the answer was there, she’d find it. The answer had to be there. It was the biggest flash point in the world right now. Nothing else had happened around the globe that might trigger such an event.
At least, nothing else that she was aware of.
Of course, here in Turkey, coverage of the rest of the world’s news had been spotty, concerned mostly with the disappearances of so many people and all the confusion that had come about because of those missing persons.
It was a mystery, and Danielle loved nothing better than a good mystery—except a good mystery with great ratings potential. Which this story had.
As she ate, Valerica kept talking up the corporation and the new heights of photojournalism they would ascend to together. Danielle couldn’t help noticing that the meat on the woman’s kebab was still pink, almost ready to bleed.
“Are you sure that’s done?” Danielle asked, pointing to the kebab.
“To perfection, dear girl,” the woman assured her. “I don’t like meat that’s been overcooked. I prefer a cut that is still simmering in its own juices, as fresh as though I had sliced it off the living animal myself.”
28
Turkish-Syrian Border
40 Klicks South of Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 1517 Hours
Three squads of Turkish F-4E fighter-bombers from the air base in Ankara roared through the blue sky in tight groups of seven and flew south into Syria. The Turk Hava Kuvvetleri, the Turkish Air Force, carried the familiar bull’s-eye of two red rings and one white ring that identified them. The fin flashes bore a white crescent moon with a star at the lower point on a field of bright red.
Goose shaded his eyes with a hand and said a prayer for the pilots.
“Those are brave men, Sergeant,” Captain Tariq Mkchian said in a sober voice.
“I know, Captain,” Goose replied. “Some of them probably won’t be coming back.”
“Still,” the Turkish captain said, “they fly and they go. Just as you and your men stand and fight this day. None of us, it seems, were cut out to break and run.”
“Not until we get set for it,” Goose agreed.
Mkchian stared down at the line the U.N. forces, the Turkish army, and the 75th Rangers had created behind the perimeter of bombed and broken Syrian vehicles that had been casualties of the SCUD launches. The Turkish captain was a wiry man who stood about five and a half feet tall. Soaking wet, he might have weighed 140 pounds, but he had the carriage of a lion, the mark of a leader of men. Gray marked his dark hair and neatly trimmed mustache. During the cease-fire that had lasted since the earlier engagement, the captain had put on a freshly pressed uniform. He carried his M-16 in the crook of his left arm like a man who had been born with a weapon in his hands.
Farther down the small promontory, three Turkish soldiers who served as the captain’s aides stood
