The two Jeeps reached the other end of the town and came back around. The machine gunners raked the hillside where Phoenix Team was hunkered down, letting the Rangers know they had the range and the firepower to get the job done.
“Two.” Goose rose, sucking his breath in to charge his lungs with oxygen. Adrenaline fired through him, temporarily erasing all fatigue and fear.
“Two copies,” Bill said.
“You’ve got the 203,” Goose said. The M-203 fired fin-stabilized 40mm grenades with a variety of purposes.
“Affirmative.”
“If I give you a target, can you hit it?”
“Leader, don’t—”
Taking his M-4A1 firmly in both hands after swapping out magazines, Goose sucked in another breath, then pushed it all out. “Load up with an HE round. No fragmentation. Let’s cut the risk of friendly fire.”
“Goose,” Bill protested. “This isn’t—”
The two Jeeps rumbled closer. The lead Jeep headed for Goose’s position, obviously confident of engaging him.
“I’ve got no choice, Two,” Goose said. “They’re on top of me. You’re in an exposed position. One of us has to be at risk, and if you’re taken down, we lose the 203’s punch.”
“All right, Goose.” Bill didn’t sound relaxed.
“Now.” Goose broke cover in a rush, running toward the opposite side of the street. He drummed his combat boots hard against the sand, knowing that if he were back on base, in sneakers or in baseball cleats, he could make better time. Combat boots were prized by soldiers for endurance and protection, not for being fleet.
The machine gunner of the lead vehicle opened fire at once. A brutal line of 7.62mm bullets cracked the wall where Goose had been hiding, then chopped through the sand after him as the Syrian soldier compensated for his motion.
The rattle of machine gun fire filled Goose’s head. He knew the Syrian soldier almost had him in his sights, felt certain he heard the harsh whisper of the steel-jacketed rounds cutting the air just behind him. His heart slammed against his rib cage like an enraged beast seeking escape. He thought of Megan and Joey and Chris, and he thought about God and Jesus, the way his father had talked of them in the Sunday school classes he’d taught back in Waycross when Goose was growing up.
The Lord is my shepherd, Goose thought. I shall not—
In the next instant, Bill’s aim with his M-203 proved dead on target. The 40mm HE grenade slammed into the front of the Syrian Jeep. Hammered by the high-explosive grenade, the Jeep’s hood buckled and the three Syrian soldiers seated in the vehicle blew out into the road. One of the Jeep’s tires exploded, turning into a whirlwind of shredded rubber. Continuing to roll, the vehicle turned hard to the right and crashed into a pile of debris.
“Two is down!” Tanaka yelled. “Repeat, Two is hit!”
Only then realizing that the remaining Jeep’s machine gunner had been firing at the Rangers staggered along the hillside and that Bill must have taken a round while he’d exposed himself to fire the grenade launcher, Goose saw that he’d exhausted his own options.
A line of 7.62mm rounds chopped into the sand before him, cutting off further escape.
Goose spun, digging his boots in, turning sideways to present his left profile and—God willing—a smaller target. He brought the M-4A1 up, aiming by instinct and years of training rather than seeking the sights. The instant he stroked the trigger, he knew he’d missed. He didn’t get another chance.
A pair of 7.62mm rounds thudded into his chest and stomach, driving him down and backward.
“Leader is down!” Tanaka yelled. His voice came loud and rushed over the headset.
At the same time, the sniper’s voice sounded like it was coming from a million miles away to Goose. He was dimly aware of crashing into the sand, but he hung on to his assault rifle. He’d been shot before. He’d been knifed and blown up. He knew he had no time for panic. Even temporary panic killed good Rangers dead.
Less than forty feet away now, the remaining Syrian Jeep drove straight for Goose. The driver obviously intended to run him over, finishing what the machine gunner’s rounds might have only started. Thankfully, but only just, the driver’s impulsive action also kept the rear deck machine gunner from firing another burst into Goose.
Unable to breathe, not certain if the bullets had penetrated flesh or had been stopped by his body armor, Goose pushed past the pain and forced himself to move. His whole chest felt numb. He threw his right leg left and rolled a full 360 degrees.
“Goose!” Tanaka called. “Goose!”
Do your job, Ranger, Goose thought.
Sand covered his face as he came over on his back with the Jeep over him, its undercarriage only inches above his face. The clearance was about the same as the Ranger four-wheel-drive vehicles had. He felt the heat of the Jeep’s exhaust against his left cheek for a second, then bright sunlight stabbed into his eyes as it passed him by.
Knowing the machine gunner would probably turn to pick him off, that he would never get to his feet before the man could kill him, Goose threw his left hand up and caught the Jeep’s rear bumper. He curled his fingers around the bumper’s edge, hoped the edge wouldn’t cut into his flesh too badly, and grunted in pain as his arm nearly jumped from his shoulder socket.
He trailed behind the Jeep, too close for the machine gunner on the rear deck to tilt his weapon down. Dragged by the Jeep across the rough landscape at thirty miles an hour or more, Goose skidded and went airborne like a sled hitting fresh powder, skipping the uneven terrain.
The Syrian soldier manning the machine gun peered over the back. A surprised look creased his features.
Holding on to the M-4A1, Goose lifted the assault rifle and squeezed the trigger at pointblank range. The 5.56mm round
