Now that the Crays were up and running at peak performance, Remington had the files archived off-site where he had access to them for reviewing through the notebook computer. He scanned the FOX and CNN feeds coming through, as well as the OneWorld NewsNet footage.
FOX and CNN covered most of the domestic scene in the United States, including the disaster areas that had been declared in all the major cities. Chicago had been hit hard, and Los Angeles had experienced looting, fires, and riots the likes of which even that city had never seen. D.C., New York, Atlanta all had their own share of troubles. The list went on.
The footage rolled, showing wrecked cars, burning buildings, downed planes shattered across airfields and cities. One catastrophe followed another. Martial law had been declared in several metropolitan areas, but the understaffing of the police, fire, and National Guard units that had experienced even larger percentages of disappearances than the population at large had made it almost impossible to enforce.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come,” Remington said.
“Sir,” Corporal Waller, one of the computer techs, said, “there’s something on OneWorld NewsNet that you might want to see.”
“What is it, Corporal?” Remington let the irritation he felt at being interrupted sound in his voice.
Waller hesitated.
“You’re burning daylight, mister,” Remington warned.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It’s just kind of hard to explain. The OneWorld reporter, she’s with the 75th, Captain.”
That wasn’t news. The presence of the news teams in the area, with the acknowledgement that they couldn’t fault the military in any way, had been one of the concessions Remington had granted to Nicolae Carpathia’s liaison. Evidently Carpathia was planning to address the United Nations when he made an upcoming trip to the United States. The new Romanian president wanted to use some of the footage of the military engagement along the Turkish-Syrian border to make whatever case he was going to present.
“I knew those people were in the area,” Remington said. “As you might recall, I authorized their presence.”
“Yes, sir. I know that, sir. But the story they’re covering. That’s what I thought you might be interested in.”
“What is it?” Remington prepared himself to royally chew out his intelligence teams. If he had to learn of an enemy incursion into the protected territories through a news service, heads were going to roll.
“It’s the 75th, sir. They’re—” the corporal paused.
“Spit it out, soldier.” Uncertainty, one of the feelings that Remington most hated in the world, nibbled at the edges of his confidence. The planned retreat from the border was scheduled on a precarious timetable. He wouldn’t allow anything to circumvent that schedule.
“Well, Captain, there’s a man baptizing soldiers out there.”
At first, Remington was certain he hadn’t heard right. He couldn’t possibly have heard right. “What man?”
“I don’t know, sir. One of ours.”
“Dismissed, Corporal.”
“Yes, sir.” The corporal left with alacrity.
Remington closed the windows and opened a live streaming feed from OneWorld. The screen cleared, showing a beautiful brunette standing in front of a slow-moving stream. He recognized her from earlier transmissions that had basically introduced her to the viewing audience and recapped the situation along the border.
“This is Danielle Vinchenzo of OneWorld NewsNet,” the young woman said. “We’re only a few miles—or klicks, as the soldiers of the United States Army Rangers would say—from the border separating Turkey from Syria. Nearly nine hours have passed since the devastating launch of the SCUD missiles that piled up casualties here at ground zero along the border and several targets deeper into Turkey. The soldiers here—the Rangers, the United Nations peacekeeping effort, and the Turkish army—know they are in for the battle of their lives.”
Glancing past the woman, using the zoom function on the video program, Remington focused on the stream in the background. The cameraman almost had the shot in the frame. He couldn’t recognize the man doing the baptisms, but his actions were plain enough. Remington saw one line that was on the east side of the stream, judging by the sun’s position, made up of soldiers from all three units stationed along the border, as well as civilians. They stood quietly and patiently, and they appeared to be singing.
“Events have gone rather badly for the 75th Rangers,” Danielle said, “as they have for every soldier stationed along the contested border. The death count from this morning’s attack is still not finalized. Nor have the lists been compiled of those who have simply vanished as has happened around so much of the planet.”
Remington clicked the touch pad, bringing the image back to normal.
“But here in the heart of the darkness between these two ancient enemies,” the reporter went on, “a man seems driven to snatch hope from the jaws of despair.”
The video suddenly cut away and brought up stock footage. Remington immediately recognized the replay of Goose carrying the wounded Marine from one of the downed Sea Knight helicopters.
“So many of you are familiar with the horrible accident that knocked Marine reinforcements from the air only two hours after the blistering attack launched by the Syrian military. Many of you first came in contact with this man then.”
The image zoomed in tight on Goose’s face, showing the bloodand the sand-encrusted kerchief over his lower face, and the haunted blue eyes. The scar along his right cheekbone stood out bloodred against sunburned flesh.
Remington had seen the footage several times. Goose was clearly being molded into a hero by the media. But not Goose’s captain. The OneWorld reporter hadn’t sought him out for an interview. The fact chafed him. Goose hated media attention, yet here he was becoming a poster child for the Syrian engagement.
“This is First Sergeant Samuel Adams ‘Goose’ Gander,” Danielle said, “of the United States Army’s 75th Rangers. He helped organize the rescue of Glitter City, the television and media center north of the border, after the initial SCUD launch, then arrived back at
