“Yes, sir.”
“And, Goose.” Remington fixed him with a hard, flat stare. “This doesn’t happen again. Not between us. Not in my command. Ever.”
“Yes, sir,” Goose said. And he hoped it wouldn’t because Remington was his friend, but also because he knew the captain wouldn’t allow him to step across that line of command again without severe penalties.
Remington’s head whipped away.
Knowing the captain was listening to his headset, Goose quickly went through the channels, flipping over to the main command channel.
“—confirms SCUD launch,” a man’s high-strung voice announced. “We are under attack! ETA seventy seconds, Captain!”
Goose switched over to the main com channel the Rangers would be using. All the confusion brought on by Remington’s actions disappeared in the space of a single heartbeat.
“This is Phoenix Leader,” Goose said as he sprinted for the Hummer. He dropped into the seat behind the steering wheel. “The Syrians have launched SCUDs! Dig in! Dig in!” He keyed the starter button and felt the engine shiver to life.
Remington was already in motion, flooring the RSOV so the tires threw out rooster tails of dirt. He would be in touch with the captains of the U.N. troops and the Turkish army, making certain they all had the same information.
Goose shoved the Hummer’s transmission into gear and followed. He checked his watch and found that the first evac carrying the wounded was already a few minutes underway. His heart turned cold as he realized those units would be drastically exposed along the roads.
United States of America
The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.
Local Time 7:03 P.M.
Nausea wormed through Delroy’s guts as he walked from General Marsden’s office. His legs quivered and black spots spun in his vision. Perspiration tracked down his face.
People hurried by him, carrying notes and meals. And probably a lot of bad news that was only going to get worse, if the downed fighter in Poland was any indication.
Loosening his tie, Delroy tried to take a deep breath and couldn’t. God, why did You send me all this way to fail? He couldn’t understand it. How was I supposed to change General Cranston’s mind? You’re supposed to touch people’s hearts. You’re supposed to make them change. Not me. God, help me. I can barely keep my own faith together. You know that. You see me as I really am.
“Are you okay, Chaplain Harte?”
Delroy glanced over at the lance corporal who had been assigned to walk him out of the building. “I don’t know.”
“There’s a bathroom here, sir.” The lance corporal pointed to the side of the hallway. “Would you like to stop?”
Delroy spotted the men’s room plaque. When it was first designed after World War II, the Pentagon had been designed with men in mind, not women. As a result, the number of men’s rooms still far outnumbered those of women.
“You had a long flight, sir,” the lance corporal said, “and I know being in that room facing General Cranston like that wasn’t easy.”
“The general’s a hard man,” Delroy said.
“Yes, sir. But he’s a driven man. If you can get him on your side, he’ll go to the wall with you.”
“I didn’t quite make that happen, did I?”
“No, sir.” The lance corporal hesitated. “But I’ll tell you something, Chaplain, I believe you’re right. I believe the world has been Raptured.”
“You do?”
“Yes, sir.” The young man looked earnest and grim. “My grandmother raised me, chaplain, and she brought me up in the church. If it hadn’t been for the church and Pastor Keith, I’d never have made it out of high school. I never would have become a Marine. God works in everyone’s lives. It’s just that a lot of people don’t acknowledge him. Including me, sometimes. But my doubts vanished when I saw what happened.”
“Lance Corporal, I wish you had stars on your shoulders.” Delroy tried to make a joke of it, but the Marine’s forthrightness about his belief made the pain of his failure hurt even more.
“I wish that General Cranston hadn’t been the man you needed to win over, sir.”
“Thank you for that. And I think I’ll take you up on that kind offer. It’s been a long, long day for me.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be out here if you need me, sir.” The Marine posted up beside the door. “So you can take a few minutes to yourself if you need them, sir.”
Delroy clapped the young Marine on the shoulder. A regular officer might not be able to get away with that, but as chaplain he could. Even that small gesture, offered out of fellowship and friendship, reminded him how separated he was from the military, how far he was from Cranston’s world.
Inside the men’s room, Delroy walked to the nearest sink. The door closed behind him and the outside noises went away. The exhaust fan in the center of the room rattled gently.
The bathroom had a dark tiled floor and white walls. Six beige stalls stood at the far end of the room on the other side of a similar number of urinals. The pine disinfectant smell of the room was so sharp it hurt Delroy’s sinuses and burned his eyes.
He stood at the sink and looked at his image. His tie hung at halfmast, and his features appeared ashen. God, forgive me. I have failed You so badly.
“And where do you go to when you think you’re failing, boy?”
Delroy heard his father’s voice, a call from his past. That had been one of the things Josiah Harte had asked his eldest son several times as he’d been growing up. As a young boy, Delroy had been a fighter. Being black in Alabama back in those years hadn’t been easy. Schoolyard battles had resulted in more than a few white parents showing up at his father’s church.
That was what Josiah Harte had always asked when Delroy had come home battered and beaten or battered and victorious. Battered had always figured in there somewhere.
If a man fails, Josiah Harte used to say in his occasional sermons when he touched
