The repaired buildings had filled with the international reporters, enterprising Turkish merchants, and support personnel subsidized by the spending habits of the Turkish and American troops. When members of the U.N. relief crews and peacekeeping efforts had arrived, the overflow had been set up in tents. The tents ranged from cutting-edge technology to sheets of canvas put up with sticks. All of them offered shade from the unforgiving sun.
No one knew who had hung the sobriquet Glitter City on the place. But everyone knew the reference was to the Hollywood-style atmosphere of the place. Some news agencies had rolled out what were, in effect, microproduction companies that shot day-by-day footage of the military buildup on both sides of the border, managed day trips to local religious sites such as the Ulu Cami—the Grand Mosque of the Suljuk Turks—the brick beehive cities of Harran, and the Pool of Abraham, and interviewed anyone and everyone willing to talk to them.
During conversations with other Rangers who had visited Glitter City, Goose had learned that several newscasts now featured segments spotlighting the potential for disaster between Turkey and Syria. Several investigations had been made into the roots of the PKK and their effect on Turkey’s relations with its neighbors.
Other writers prepared books and took photographs, laying out chapters that were edited and readied for printing as soon as they were e-mailed to New York publishing houses. There were even a few releases being done about Turkey, the Turkish-Syrian conflict, terrorists, and historical events and places, pieces that would be aired on the Travel Channel, The History Channel, and on the Discovery Channel, then released straight to video.
War—or at least the threat of impending war—had become big business in media, politics, and economics. Politicians used those threats to shepherd legislation through Congress and to fund budget increases for military spending. The military needed the money—U.S. troops were deployed at every hot spot imaginable, going after everything from terrorists to the bankers who financed them to drug dealers to the country’s traditional enemies.
Not every politician was pushing for more and bigger weapons and more and bigger armies. Goose had heard of a United Nations representative from Romania named Nicolae Carpathia. Surprisingly, Carpathia was pushing for disarmament in his own country. At the time he’d heard that, Goose had never thought it would happen. Romania was part of Eastern Europe, left orphaned by the failed Soviet Communist government, and host to a series of bloodthirsty dictators who had only been driven from office by equally bloodthirsty military uprisings. Most military analysts had figured that the country would be awash in political unrest and military action for decades to come. Instead, Carpathia had begun to quiet Romania down, almost as if by magic.
“Incoming!” Bill yelled from the back of the RSOV.
Instinctively, Goose looked up and saw another SCUD plunge from the air like a blunt spear. Although the missiles lacked a lot in targeting systems, this one streaked almost into the smoke- and dustcovered heart of Glitter City.
The preexisting clouds of smoke and dust prevented Goose from seeing the actual impact. But a heartbeat later, a fairly new blue van erupted into the air, turning and whirling like a child’s toy. Flames wreathed the vehicle and then the gas tank blew, ripping open the vehicle’s side.
The van reached the apex of its arc and had started earthward again, disappearing into the smoke and dust before the sonic boom of the explosion reached Goose’s ears. A moment later, a wave of concussion rattled the RSOV’s windshield.
Merciful God, Goose prayed. Spare the innocent. Because if You don’t, they’re all going to die here today.
Bobby Tanaka glanced at Goose. Fear lit the young man’s eyes. He put his foot over the brake and slowed.
“Get in there, soldier,” Goose said.
“Gonna be suicide to go in there,” Tanaka said. But he grinned a little as he pressed his foot harder on the accelerator and drove the vehicle over the edge of the bowl. “Ah, well, I always did like a wild ride.” The RSOV juked and shuddered as the tires fought for traction on the hillside. They’d run out of road, roaring out over loose layers of sand and rock.
Goose sat in the shotgun seat with his left foot braced against the dash. He cradled the M-4A1 with both hands and kept the assault rifle canted up at the ready. Closer to ground zero now, he raked his gaze across the field of destruction the SCUDs had left in their wake.
Huge craters had opened up from the bomb blasts, turning the desert floor under the shifting sands into a lunar landscape. Stone buildings lay in tumbled wrecks or nearly covered by a deluge of debris that had slid free of hillsides. Flattened tents and flaming tents littered the area, and none had been spared. The concussions from the SCUDs had ripped the tent pegs from the ground and flung the tents around like used tissues. Cars and trucks and vans sat abandoned, blown over or apart, or wrapped in flames that sent spikes of twisting black smoke up through the dust cover.
People, dead and dying and badly broken, covered the ground. Other people hunkered in the false safety of the few remaining buildings or behind boulders on the ground and the hillsides. Several people shouted and cursed and cried out for help. Incredibly, some of the reporters were still working, standing in front of cameramen who had managed to hang on to functioning equipment.
A familiar sickness twisted greasily through Goose’s stomach. He’d been on battlefields, had scenes etched inside his skull that he knew would never leave him. Today was going to add to that library of carnage.
“Base,” Goose called over the headset.
Only white noise answered. Remington and his support staff were off-line.
Goose wasn’t surprised. Any staged attack against the American site would include strikes designed to take out the communications relays. It wouldn’t last, though. Cal Remington was nothing if not a man who planned
