9
Turkey
30 Klicks South of Sanliurfa
Local Time 0725 Hours
As the tide of sand shifted around him, hands—Goose didn’t know how many—pulled at his feet and worked up his legs. He slid out from under the collapsed wall section as the sand rushed in to fill the empty space. But he kept his grip on the trapped man. Rough stone rasped and cut into Goose’s shoulders and the back of his head. His arm felt wrenched from its socket as he drew the trapped man from the sand, but he hung on.
As soon as the man came free of the sand, Goose shot out from under the wall. He managed to wrap his free arm behind the man’s head in an embrace to strengthen his hold. Someone grabbed his belt and the speed of the rescue attempt increased again.
Bright sunlight ripped into Goose’s eyes as he emerged. Bill reached for the rescued man. In the same instant, the wall section collapsed with a whumf that spat out a roiling mass of dust. The group of rescuers turned away from it.
“It’s okay, Sarge,” Bill said, dropping to the ground beside Goose. “I’ve got him. I’ve got him. He’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”
Goose released his grip on the man and rolled over. The coughing fit he’d been holding back erupted, and for a moment he thought he was going to cough up a lung. His head felt near to bursting. Then, just as he thought he’d never draw another breath, enough of the dust cleared from his lungs that he could suck in a gasp of relatively fresh air.
Weak and shaking but recovering quickly, Goose forced himself to his feet.
“Are you all right, Sergeant Gander?” Danielle Vinchenzo stood at his side. Blood streaked one side of her face, leaking from her temple to her chin.
“Yes, ma’am,” Goose answered, then went through another coughing fit.
She offered him a canteen of water.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Are you always this polite?” she asked. “You nearly got crushed under that slab.”
Goose felt a little flustered. The question had come from left field and wasn’t connected to anything that had been going on. He uncapped the canteen and filled his mouth. Rinsing the dust from his mouth, he spat the water out. Then he took a drink. He glanced around at the bombed-out city.
“Sorry, Sergeant,” Danielle said with a wry grin that looked totally out of place on her bloody face. “A reporter’s professional curiosity, I’m afraid. I always try to understand the people and the stories I cover. And maybe I’m a little irritated that anyone can be that cool under pressure.”
“I’m from Waycross, Georgia, ma’am,” Goose said. “My daddy raised me to be respectful, and the military has kept it that way. As far as being cool under pressure, it’s just an act.” He smiled back at her.
“Golden Globe all the way, Sergeant.”
“If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I’ve still got to see to getting these people—and you—out of here.” Goose turned from the reporter with a polite nod, then joined Bill at the side of the man they’d rescued.
The man looked to be in his late forties. The yellow dust clung to him, as thick as the confectioners’ sugar on a powdered donut, graying out his pinched features. He was bald and had firm features, the face of a man that an audience would trust as he delivered the nightly news. His lightweight gray suit was ripped and torn. His eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. From the crooked angle of his left foot, Goose knew the man’s leg or hip had been broken. Maybe both.
Goose thought he recognized the man from one of the television networks, either American or European, but he couldn’t be sure.
Bill tilted the man’s head back and poured water into his mouth from a canteen. “Easy there, mister. You’ll want to spit that out. If you swallow that mouthful without getting clear of all that sand, you’ll just be sick.”
The man rinsed his mouth and spat, getting most of the water on himself because he lacked the strength to spit far enough to clear his body. He pushed away Bill’s offer of the canteen again and croaked, “Teresa’s still down there.”
“Teresa?” Bill asked.
The man nodded. “She’s my producer. We took shelter when the missiles struck. She was standing right beside me when the building collapsed and started to fill with sand.”
Sorrowfully, Bill shook his head. “We didn’t find her.”
The man clutched at Bill’s uniform. “You’ve got to go back. You’ve got to find her. She was there. The sand pulled her away from me.”
“Sir,” Goose said, “we can’t.”
The man looked at Goose. Fire danced in his eyes. “Sergeant, that woman may be down there dying.”
Goose spoke patiently. “If she was down there, sir, then there’s nothing we can do for her. She’s in God’s hands.” He said the words, but he didn’t really believe them. And he hated the fact that the woman’s survival had been taken out of his hands before he had even known she had been at risk. It wasn’t fair.
Exhaustion and shock overcame the man. He fell back and sobbed helplessly, putting a hand over his face.
“Sarge.” Cusack trotted over with a section of canvas tent he’d cut.
The Rangers had salvaged pieces from the tents and used them to drag wounded over to the decades-old deuce-and-a-half that had escaped the wholesale destruction that had swept through the rest of the town. Flames had blistered the vehicle’s camo paint and left a layer of black soot over it, but it was still serviceable. An enterprising Turkish man had ended up with the ex-military vehicle and had hired it out to the media to transport equipment back and forth from the airport. The roads to Glitter City were few, and only called roads in polite company.
Dockery gave Goose his assault rifle back, then helped Dewey organize the litter bearers to carry the man they’d rescued to the big truck. Together, the two Rangers hauled the injured man
