“You are a lucky man.” Mkchian offered his hand. “I’ll leave you to your work then, Sergeant. Thank you for your time.”
“Yes, sir.” Goose shook the man’s hand, then saluted smartly.
Captain Mkchian walked away, already fielding calls from his troops over his headset.
Goose spent several minutes communicating with the men he had out in the field. So far, everything was progressing smoothly. In addition to creating the impression that the Rangers intended to dig in, the squads were also setting up booby traps within the wrecked vehicles creating the barrier. They’d left some nice surprises, including several remote-controlled munitions that would be set off when the Syrians attempted to breech the border. All of those traps and RC attacks were built around ammo that had been salvaged from the Syrian camp that couldn’t be taken with the retreat. Later, after the sun went down, his men would put in even more booby traps on the Turkish side of the border with just enough room for the Syrian military to start feeling safe again after running afoul of the first wave.
All those efforts would buy time, not stop the enemy. But time’s all we need, Goose told himself.
He stayed on the move, not daring to give in to the temptation to lie down or even sit and rest because he was afraid his injured leg would stiffen up on him. He’d gotten a wraparound brace from the medkits to help hold his knee together, and the additional support did provide some relief.
Plus, as first sergeant of the 75th, Goose knew he had no choice but to behave as though he were superhuman. A leader had to lead if he was going to be followed; he couldn’t just command. General George S. Patton had put it best when he’d said, “We herd sheep, we drive cattle, we lead people. Lead me, follow me, or get out of my way.” Goose tried to live by those words. If his troops saw him start to fall apart, they might not be able to believe in themselves.
He knew that Bill Townsend would have taken umbrage with him over that last thought. Faith wasn’t something based on a person or even an idea. It wasn’t something that could be weighed or measured. Setting an example was only coaxing others to trust in someone else, someone they could measure themselves against.
Learning to trust others didn’t teach a man to look outside himself for the faith in God he needed. For a moment, Goose felt guilty, like he was letting the memory of his friend down, but at the same time he knew that Bill would have forgiven him. That was what Bill was all about. Faith. And leading people in his own way.
I’ll get there, Bill. I promise you. I’ll get there.
Goose took off his helmet for a moment, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and ran his hand through his sweat-slick hair. The cooling breeze felt wonderful. He wished he could leave the heavy Kevlar-covered helmet off, but he knew that if he did, his troops would follow suit. Every soldier hated the helmets, but the headgear saved lives, and the soldiers knew that, too.
The cannonade of the bombs unleashed by the F-4E fighterbombers rolled back over the border. The sound came from twenty klicks farther south, and Goose knew there was a time discrepancy between when the bombs were dropped and when the sound reached him.
“Phoenix Leader, this is Quartermaster.” The call came over the headset, mixed in with the constant barrage of communications that flowed from the Ranger squads as they went about their assigned tasks.
“Leader hears you, Quartermaster. Go to Tach Two.”
Quartermaster was Julian Rodriguiz, a veteran sergeant with Echo Company. He’d grown up an air force brat and lived on bases all around the world, but when the time had come for him to choose his own vocation, he’d gone army. Besides being a good soldier, a master tactician with small units, and a good cook able to do miracles with things found in the field, he’d also been gifted with a near-photographic memory. Placing him in charge of the salvage operations supply list had been a no-brainer.
Goose switched the headset over to the secondary channel. “Quartermaster?”
“Here, Leader.” Julian hesitated. “We’ve got a situation.”
Goose’s mind immediately flew to the possibility of small troop incursions by the Syrians. They’d fought off a few such attempts already, and Goose knew there would be more.
“What’s the problem?” Goose asked.
“The water supply.” Rodriguiz sounded a little tense and unsure of himself, mannerisms Goose had seldom seen from the man even in the thick of battle.
Water was a main consideration to a soldier in an arid climate like Turkey. The dry heat leached the moisture from a man’s body, and dehydration was one of the greatest opponents of a fighting man in the desert.
One of the smaller tributaries to the Tigris River flowed south of here, southeast from Diyarbakir north and east of Sanliurfa. Feeding it was a seasonal stream nearly a klick to the east. During the storm season that bridged Turkey’s headlong rush from rainy winter to dry summer, with only a brief gasp sandwiched in between for spring, several small streams were born, then quickly withered away. Water was, had been, and always would be a source of contention between Middle Eastern countries. But right now, it was spring and the stream was still running.
During the initial SCUD launch, most of the Rangers’ water supplies, as well as those of the Turkish army and the U.N. peacekeeping forces, had been wiped out. All three commanders had sent teams to the stream to replenish their supplies.
“What’s wrong with the water supply?” Goose asked. The Rangers had purification tablets to make certain the water was potable, although at the rate they were being forced to use them they wouldn’t last long. But the possibility remained that someone farther upstream could foul the water.
“Not the water supply, Leader,” Rodriguiz said. “It’s Baker.” He
