Nearly half of those who had survived the attack were wounded. Most of the injuries were serious and would require hospitalization. Sanliurfa, the closest city with medical care, lay thirty klicks to the north and east. If a medical convoy took care, they could make the trip in twenty to forty minutes, but they were already twenty-four minutes into the ninety-minute window of opportunity they had to escape the next wave of SCUDs.
And that was only assuming the Syrians had fired everything they had loaded in the first attack. Goose wished again that the communications were back on line. They hadn’t received any reinforcements to help handle casualties, and that—along with the constant rolling barrage of artillery—led him to believe that fighting along the border was hot and heavy. The need inside him to be back out there on the front lines with his men was almost overwhelming.
“Over here,” someone yelled. “I’m trapped.”
Goose swiveled, tracking the voice. A coughing fit followed, breaking up the repeated cry. The haze of dust continued to eddy around the area. Goose was beginning to doubt that the dust would ever settle entirely.
Eight people had joined Goose’s five-man team. Thirteen was an inauspicious number, and he couldn’t help thinking that most people thought the number had become unlucky as a result of Jesus’ last supper with the apostles. Judas Iscariot had been the thirteenth man at the table, and Judas had betrayed Jesus for thirty pieces of silver. The number bothered Goose a little. He didn’t consider himself overly superstitious, but that number of able-bodied men seemed to stay the same and never grow.
Further irritation came when some of the cameramen and reporters refused to help aid the wounded and search through the dead, choosing instead to shoot footage of the bombed town. Some of them claimed to be concerned about the possibility of AIDS, while others simply couldn’t deal with the reality of sorting through corpses for survivors. Goose wanted to order the men to work, but he knew his likelihood of success in getting them to help was remote.
By now, Goose carried a crowbar in addition to the M-4A1 slung over his shoulder. His knuckles and palms were torn and bleeding, barked raw from handling broken rock, jagged metal, and shattered glass.
“Here,” Bill called, crouching beside a tumble of rock that had once been a building.
Goose joined his friend, listening to a reporter’s voice breaking in the background as the man tried to relate what had just happened to a cameraman. Shifting his LCE, Goose slid his M-4A1 from his shoulder and handed the weapon to Steve Dockery, a battle-seasoned corporal. Taking a moment to survey the pile of debris, Goose hefted his crowbar.
“Gonna have to be careful,” Bill advised. He hooked a finger into his kerchief, brought it down past his chin, and shook off the mud that clung to the material. His face, protected by the kerchief, looked clean and white against the dirt that covered his goggles and the rest of his face. “We move this wrong, the whole thing’s gonna come down.”
Goose nodded in agreement. He turned to his group. “Dockery, Cusack, stand guard. Evaristo, you’re with Bill and me. The rest of you people form a line. We’re going to shift the small stuff, then try to pull this wall section back without toppling it.”
The eight civilian volunteers, two of them women, formed a line. During the last few frantic minutes of rescue operations, they had learned the drill.
Bill took point on the salvage, having the steadiest and surest hands, the quickest eye, and an unshakable faith that they were going to be able to rescue the people who were left. He selected rocks from the jumbled stone and started passing them back, uncovering the wall section that had fallen precariously into the V-shaped corner of the building that remained.
Sand had rushed down the hillside in a wave, running over the back of the building and flooding the interior through the windows. The sand had become a threat to the person inside, but it was probably the only thing that allowed the man to survive.
Bill handed rocks back like a machine, able to make his selection from the myriad of stones before him, seize it, heft it, and pass it to Goose.
Standing almost knee-deep in the loose sand, Goose grabbed the chunk of rock. His hands burned and ached with the effort. Muscles cramped in his back. Sand and small debris had managed to get inside his BDU and under the Kevlar vest. Anchored by the constant stream of perspiration that covered him, the sand and grit chafed at him. He pushed himself past the discomfort, thinking of the people they had yet to save and the ones who would be lost if they didn’t hurry.
The next person in the rock removal line was a woman in her late twenties. She was a brunette with dark eyes, dressed in torn khakis and a light purple blouse. Her hair was cropped short, ending at about the nape of her neck. She was slender, and the way she handled herself told Goose that she kept in shape.
She took the chunk of rock from Goose’s hands. Pain and fear registered in her eyes as she looked at his face. The rough use had torn skin from her hands and forearms. Bloody patches held clots of sand that Goose knew had to be uncomfortable. But she kept at the work, swinging around and passing the rock to the next person in line.
Goose took the next rock Bill handed him. He handed it to the woman.
“Danielle,” she said as she took the rock. She turned to pass the stone on, then turned back to Goose. “My name.”
“Oh.” Goose handed her the current rock, swiveled, and reached for the
