“All right, Fire Control,” Goose said. “We’re done here. Retreat.”
He turned and stayed low, running across the broken ground. The twenty Rangers of the fire control unit ran for the waiting vehicles a quarter mile distant as the Syrian cav opened fire again. The tanks and APCs fired blindly, though, lobbing shells into the ridgeline where they believed their tormentors were, and put very few over the top.
We’re going to make it, Goose thought. He was covered with grit and perspiration. The pain in his knee was more fierce now, but it held together. His breath burned the back of his throat dry.
Twenty-one men piled into three RSOVs, leaving the other Jeeps and Hummers behind. The fact that those vehicles weren’t going anywhere offered mute testimony that several soldiers who had held the line at the ridge weren’t going to make it to Sanliurfa.
Private John Brady from backwoods North Carolina took the wheel of the RSOV and aimed them at the reflectors that had been set up to mark the road. He was a seasoned driver, a good wheelman, and claimed to come from a long line of moonshine runners and NASCAR racers. Goose didn’t know if the claim was true, but the man knew how to handle a vehicle.
The three RSOVs sped toward the winding mountain road.
Goose sat in the passenger seat and tried to find a comfortable position for his injured knee.
“They’re coming, Sarge,” Corporal Travis Madden called from the back of the RSOV. He was one of the best electronics-on-the-run guys the Rangers had ever turned out.
Twisting in his seat, Goose peered back at the ridgeline and saw the first of the tanks, APCs, and Jeeps pull into view. There was no hesitation; the Syrians came on at full speed now, a rolling onslaught of armor and firepower.
They’re not going to stop, Goose thought. They are not going to stop. In the darkness, with only indirect moonlight and starlight illuminating the night, the Syrian cav took on the appearance of monsters, merciless juggernauts on the trail of weakened prey.
There was no certainty that they would be able to hold Sanliurfa without the reinforcements from Wasp.
“Marathon One,” Remington called.
“One reads you, Leader.”
“Are you underway?”
“Closing ground,” Goose assured him. He held his M-4A1 butt to the floor next to his seat and held his shoulder strap with his other hand. The RSOV jumped, jerked, and bounced as it flew across the terrain.
The road turned narrow as the grade inclined, and it twisted like a broken-backed snake. Loose rock made the going more treacherous, and Goose felt even the RSOV’s four-wheel-drive struggle to keep traction.
“Sarge!”
Whipping his head around in the seat, Goose looked at Madden.
The corporal was pointing behind them. “We lost Sullivan.”
Only a short distance behind them, Goose watched as the rear RSOV tumbled down the steep mountainside. The drop had to have been a hundred feet, with nothing but broken rock at the bottom. The vehicle rolled twice, then came to a stop wedged precariously against a rocky outcrop.
“Stop the vehicle,” Goose ordered.
Brady slammed on the brakes.
“Back up,” Goose said.
Brady rammed the transmission into reverse and backed down the steep grade. The Syrian cav units could still be seen in the distance, making good time now.
“One, this is Leader.”
“Go, Leader,” Goose responded. “You have One.”
“My intel team tells me you’ve halted.”
“They should have also told you that we lost one of our vehicles over the side.”
“Leave it, Goose. You’ve got no margin there to effect a rescue. Those hostiles are going to be on you in minutes.”
Goose peered through the darkness. He fully expected that Remington was right, figuring that the men had been thrown clear of the RSOV. Then he saw one of the men moving, still belted into his seat.
“At least one of them is alive, Leader,” Goose said.
“Get clear, Goose.”
Brady braked the RSOV adjacent to the vehicle.
“I can’t, Leader. I’ve left enough men behind on this mission. I can’t leave any more.”
“You’re going to die there with them.”
Goose didn’t reply, giving orders to get the other Rangers moving. They took ropes from the RSOV’s equipment compartments and tied onto the rear. Wrapping the rope around his waist, Goose rappelled face-forward the way the Australian special forces did, moving the fifty feet down to the wedged vehicle in three long steps.
He landed on the steep rock face just above the vehicle. Rocks skittered beneath his feet, almost causing him to fall.
“Hold up, Sarge,” one of the Rangers said. “Don’t touch the RSOV or we’ll fall.”
Taking out his mini-Maglite, Goose surveyed the vehicle and saw that it actually swayed a few inches on the rocky outcrop. Even more incredible, Corporal Joseph Baker had clambered out and was using his own strength to keep the balance. He was dug into the mountainside like Atlas from Greek mythology, taking enough of the weight of the RSOV to keep it balanced.
From the pain-filled look on the big man’s face, Goose knew the balance was a fleeting thing. No one aboard the RSOV dared move.
“I need more rope,” Goose called up. He tied himself in place and caught the rope that was thrown down to him. “Secure the other end to the RSOV up there.” He stepped to the rear of the RSOV where most of the weight displacement was. “Hold on, Baker.”
“I’m holding, Sarge. God’s with me. I’m not going to let them fall.” The big man’s face was a map of agony, but there was a quiet kind of strength there, too. No fear, but a confidence that Goose couldn’t believe.
As he worked to tie the other lines to the wedged RSOV, Goose heard the growling thunder of the approaching Syrian cav. In less than a
