“Not captain,” Goose stated as patiently as he could. “Sergeant.”
The reporter opened his mouth to speak again.
“Phoenix Leader,” the helo pilot called out. A note of concern was in the young man’s voice.
“Go, Leapfrog.” Goose turned in the helo’s direction. The Black Hawk shot through the air then heeled up like a falcon turning into a stiff breeze.
“Leader, we have problems. These bogeys look a whole lot like Syrian troops. I see—”
“Rocket!” another man at the helo end of the communication yelled. “Get us out of—”
In the distance, the Black Hawk exploded into an orange and black fireball that stood out against the smudged blue sky. The aircraft lost altitude at once, dropping like a wounded duck. Before the UH-60 disappeared from sight over the ridgeline, another explosion detonated aboard the aircraft, blowing the helo into flaming pieces.
Holding his M-4A1 in both hands, Goose ran for the ridgeline, the sound of the explosions reaching him only heartbeats later. In the next instant, the first Jeep that the helo pilot must have seen shot over the ridgeline, airborne for several feet before plunging back down. Two others followed the first, with scarcely a heartbeat of time between them.
Nearly to the remains of the building at the outermost west end of Glitter City, Goose recognized the camo pattern of the Syrian troops that manned the three Jeeps. “Phoenix Team, fall back!” he yelled.
The gunner on the rear deck of the lead Jeep saw Goose and opened fire with the 7.62mm machine gun mounted on the vehicle’s roll bar. Steel-jacketed rounds slapped the sand at Goose’s feet, chased him as he changed directions, then cracked rock from the leaning wall that had survived the fire and the bomb that had destroyed the building.
Goose leaped forward, threw his right hand out, and came up in a forward roll. Taking cover behind the leaning wall, he hefted the M-4A1 in both hands and stepped around the corner, snugging the assault rifle into his shoulder.
12
United States of America
Fort Benning, Georgia
Local Time 12:55 A.M.
“Private Fletcher!” Helen Cordell called down the length of the hospital corridor. “You will come back here now!”
“Not without my son! You can’t keep him from me! You people shouldn’t have had him here without my permission anyway!”
Megan heard the vehemence and anger in the man’s words. Unconsciously, she started to draw up, preparing to defend herself.
“The MPs are on their way,” Helen warned.
“Fine,” Boyd Fletcher roared. “They’ll be here when I bring charges against you and the doctor for treating my son without my consent.”
Gerry got out of the bed before Megan could stop him. She was a step behind the boy as he ran out into the hallway. He froze, like a deer in headlights, and stared down the corridor.
Megan put her hands on the eleven-year-old boy’s shoulders, feeling the tremors of fear shiver through him.
Boyd Fletcher saw his son immediately. He was a big man, blocky and solid, a handful of inches over six feet. Short black hair with a pronounced widow’s peak formed a skullcap over his broad head. Hazel eyes as flat and cold as a pit viper’s sat on either side of a nose that had had been broken repeatedly in the past. He wore fatigues. Light glinted against his dog tags.
“Private Fletcher, I am ordering you to stand down this instant!” Helen stood at the other end of the corridor. Two nurses and a doctor stood with her. None of them made an effort to stop Fletcher.
From the slightly unsteady way Fletcher was walking, Megan felt certain the man had been drinking. Whatever limited control the man had on his emotions when he was sober would have been partially lifted by the alcohol. Keeping her hands on Gerry’s shoulders to hold him in place, she stepped in front of the boy and pushed him behind her.
“Private Fletcher,” Megan said sternly.
Obscenities littered the hallway as Fletcher kept coming.
The language didn’t bother Megan. She didn’t approve of it, but on an army base she’d developed a certain familiarity with it. And her work with teens had been occasionally rife with it. Of course, it wasn’t a universal problem. Many soldiers, including Goose, never cursed. Or at least never cursed around her.
“Private Fletcher,” Megan tried again. She kept Gerry behind her, making it apparent that he would have to go through her to get to her son.
“Get out of my way,” Fletcher ordered as he closed on them. “What has he been telling you?”
Megan knew the man wasn’t going to stop.
“Whatever it was,” Fletcher declared, “it doesn’t matter. He’s a little liar anyway. You can’t believe a word he says. I told you that when you first started seeing him.”
Gerry tore free of Megan’s restraining hand and darted forward. “Dad! Stop! Please, stop!”
Stepping forward again, Megan once more placed herself in front of the boy.
“Mrs. Gander, don’t!” Gerry pleaded. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing when he gets like this! Please!”
Before Megan could think of anything to say, the two uniformed Rangers from the security desk arrived at a full run. Helen yelled to them and pointed at Boyd Fletcher, loosing them like hounds on a fox. Their footsteps, closing at a drumming double beat, alerted Fletcher that he wasn’t the only big guy in the hallway.
The bleary-eyed private turned around, snarling curses.
“Soldier,” Corporal Grady barked in a loud voice, “stand down now or we’ll stand you down.”
Fletcher grinned drunkenly. “My lucky day, boys. Unless I’m seeing double, I’m getting a two-for-one tonight if you decide to open the ball on this one. You pups had better back off if you know what’s good for you.”
Grady and Malone hesitated.
“I came here to get my son,” Fletcher said. “He’s mine. Nobody can keep him from me. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s not supposed to be talking. I’m taking
