Since that mistake, Remington had made it a point to research Captain Tariq Mkchian’s file more thoroughly. He’d been surprised to learn that the Turkish captain was a Christian. In a country that was overwhelmingly Muslim, the odds were heavily against such an occurrence.
But that was how things were with Goose. He’d always been lucky, always in the right place at the right time. He’d always gotten to know the right people.
Remington knew for a fact that Goose had been recruited for OCS. Goose had turned it down, and Remington knew why. As an officer, Goose would end up dealing with paper more than he dealt with people.
Remington knew the names of every man in his company, but Goose knew each man. The first sergeant knew them through families, kids, sports, training, or church.
Remington had never wanted that kind of familiarity with the people he commanded. Familiarity bred contempt. Familiarity forced an officer to think of the unit he was about to sacrifice as human beings instead of numbers that got crunched in the final equation.
The notebook computer screen blinked for his attention. A popup menu floated up and let him know he had an incoming call.
Remington pulled on the headset and tapped the Open button. He made sure the button cam attached to the notebook monitor pointed at him. The picture at the other end wouldn’t be good because the light level inside the tent was low. The light inside couldn’t be seen from the outside at all because of the thick tarp.
When the screen cleared, Remington found he was looking at Captain Mark Falkirk. The connection was provided through a satphone managed by the Romanian communications company.
“Captain,” Remington greeted.
“I take it you’re at the front,” Falkirk said.
“Yes.”
“Intel has marked movement among the Syrian troops.”
The message had come in eighteen minutes ago. Remington wasn’t surprised that Wasp wasn’t quite up to speed in the sit-rep along the border. With her manpower cut drastically, Wasp been hard-pressed to get set up for the arrival of the Marine Harriers and Sea Cobra helicopter gunships. There were also more Sea Knights providing transportation for Marine troops into the area.
“We got our care package thirty-two minutes ago,” Falkirk said. “We’ll be sending it along in twenty minutes.”
Remington nodded. If the new Marine Wing departed Wasp in twenty minutes, they would arrive at the border at 0330 hours, thirty minutes ahead of the scheduled final retreat from the border.
“That’s good to hear,” Remington said.
“We’ve just got to hope that everybody’s timetable matches up.”
“The Syrians are more than likely just getting set up for the morning,” Remington said. “And we may have more to fear from the Russians. We’re still at DEFCON 2, and that care package you’re sending is big enough to attract attention.” Or to trigger an attack all by itself, the Ranger captain knew. But they had no choice. Without the reinforcements, they wouldn’t stand a chance of holding out against the Syrians when they decided to invade Turkey.
And that invasion was definitely coming. All that remained to be seen was how far into Turkey they came before they were stopped. It was possible that the combined forces of Rangers, Turkish army, and U.N. troops wouldn’t be able to hold Sanliurfa. They also wouldn’t be able to make Diyarbakir City before being overtaken. A number of the mountain roads were out from the SCUDs that morning.
Yesterday, Remington told himself harshly. Keep it straight.
One of the other sat-phones he had beeped for attention.
“I have a call coming in,” Remington said.
“I’ll hold,” Falkirk said. “I want to go over the backup LZs we’re building in.”
“I’ll be right back.” Remington tapped the mute function on the computer, then answered the sat-phone.
“Captain?” a man said.
“Go, Spotter,” Remington said.
Spotter was Nick Perrin, a young lieutenant skilled in urban undercover ops. Perrin was the kind of guy who could walk into a neighborhood, scope out the streets, and let his commanding officer know where potential targets were without ever being noticed.
When CIA Section Chief Alexander Cody had left the command post three hours ago, Remington already had Perrin and his team of hardcases en route to Sanliurfa. Cody had maintained an interest in the missing undercover CIA agent Goose and his team had rescued from the PKK terrorists yesterday morning before the SCUD attack.
“We found the Soupman easy,” Perrin said. Soupman was their tag for the CIA chief. “Followed him without him knowing. Just like you wanted, sir. He went to an address, a hotel here in the city, stayed inside for a couple minutes, then left.”
“Where is he?”
“We’ve still got him in sight, sir.”
“What about the address?”
“That’s where it gets interesting.”
“I’m listening,” Remington said.
Perrin paused a moment, and Remington knew the man was smoking. That was bad news. Perrin only smoked when he got tense.
“I went into the hotel, sir. Took a look around on the QT. There were two bodies in there.”
“Who were they?”
“Don’t know. We took digital pictures. Either they weren’t carrying any ID, or whoever killed them took it when he or she or they left.”
“You don’t know anything about that room?”
“I didn’t want to press outside our operating parameters on the mission, sir,” Perrin said. “Asking questions, drawing attention to ourselves, those were definitely out.”
Remington’s mind raced. Alexander Cody had come out of nowhere with an agent who may have been responsible for triggering the Syrian attack. The Ranger captain wanted to know more about the man.
“Find out who was in the room, Spotter,” Remington ordered.
“Yes, sir. How far do you want me to push it?”
Remington thought about that. Cody had an in with Nicolae Carpathia, who had just recently been elected president of his country, a man who was fabulously wealthy, and who looked to be on the fast track to becoming a player in world politics if his announced upcoming visit to the United Nations was any indication. Cody was also operating a
