“Thank you, Falcon.” Goose crawled out from under the RSOV. A gaping hole in his left pants leg showed deep, bloody scratches in the bruised flesh beneath. When he moved the knee, he felt twinges of pain, but they weren’t as bad or as deep as the aches in his strained shoulder. He didn’t believe either injury would require any kind of hospital treatment. If he had a couple hours of rest, he was certain he would be fine.
But he was also certain that a couple hours of rest wasn’t going to be possible for a long time. Thankfully, the artillery barrage launched by the Syrians slowed. Maybe those crews were preparing for an assault by the Harriers.
“Phoenix Leader,” Remington called over the headset, “can you confirm visual on the arriving relief teams? Wasp reads them five by five on the sat-scan.”
Goose scanned the sky, pulling his M-4A1 back into his arms, where the assault rifle felt most natural. “I’m looking, Base.”
Behind him, the Harriers opened fire across the border. “Phoenix, this is Blue Falcon Leader.”
“Go, Falcon,” Goose said.
“You’ve got a hostile unit moving on your twenty, Phoenix. We haven’t confirmed the numbers yet, but you’ve got rolling stock and cav as well as groundpounders coming under cover of all the haze. We’re going to discourage them as much as possible, but we’re not going to be able to stop them all.”
“Affirmative,” Goose replied. He clicked back into the general communications channel. “Bravo Platoon. Echo Platoon.”
“Go, Phoenix Leader. You’ve got Bravo Leader.” Bravo Leader was Lieutenant Matthew York, a not-quite-thirty graduate of OCS after a hitch in college and ROTC. He was still a little green to command after only brief combat exposure, but he was a good soldier.
“Phoenix, this is Echo Platoon Two.” Riley Bernhardt’s voice was grim and steady. Like Goose, he’d been in since high school and worked his way up to three stripes, second-in-command of Echo.
“Echo Two,” Goose said, “where is One?”
“One went down with the AA gun, Phoenix,” Bernhardt said. “I couldn’t stop him.”
Lieutenant Hector Dawson had been commander of Echo. Like York, Dawson had come up through OCS. But Dawson had turned out ambitious like a lot of young officers, certain his commanding skills and station in life had blessed him with luck and a certain amount of John Wayne movie hero invulnerability. A sergeant working with a new lieutenant, as Bernhardt had been, had his work cut out for him. Goose had been in that position, too, and had lost a young lieutenant in East Africa.
“All right, Two,” Goose said, knowing Remington was listening in and would hear everything he was saying, “you’re taking a field promotion and moving to command of Echo. Understood?”
“Affirmative, Phoenix.”
Goose knew the promotion would have a positive effect on Echo rifle company. Professional soldiers, even raw recruits, often valued a sergeant’s guidance more than an officer’s. A sergeant lived in the same air they did, wore the same dirt, and shared the same blood. Officers had to go a long way to prove that to the men they led, and most didn’t bother because they were busy trying to earn their next posting and battle their way up the military ladder of success.
“Bravo, Echo,” Goose said, “coordinate your efforts with the Turkish military. I want a pincer set up to close off the access route the Syrians are using for their advance.”
“Affirmative, Phoenix,” Bernhardt agreed.
“Understood, Phoenix,” York answered.
According to the information Goose had gotten from the lieutenants and sergeants in the field, those two rifle companies were more intact than Alpha or Charlie companies. He turned and found Bill at his side, stubbornly limping along to keep up.
“You should stay put before you tear that wound loose,” Goose said.
“I lay up, a lot of good Rangers are going to get killed. As long as I can stand, I can help.”
Goose looked at his friend, unable to stop thinking that none of them were going to be able to stand much longer if the reinforcements didn’t arrive soon.
“It’s gonna be all right, Sarge,” Bill said. “We’re on the side of the angels.”
“I wish I had your confidence, Bill.”
Bill shook his head. “It’s not confidence, Sarge.” He had to speak in a loud voice to carry over the sudden onslaught of 25mm cannonfire from the Harriers’ GAU-12 fuselage guns. The General Electric–made weapon sported a five-barrel rotary design that was nothing but lethal on the battlefield. Carrying three hundred rounds in the magazine pod slung under the fighter jet’s fuselage, a trained pilot could blast a swath of destruction in seconds. The advancing Syrian troops were in the process of seeing that firsthand. “I keep telling you, it’s belief.”
But it was hard to believe God cared about Rangers today. As soon as he had the thought, though, a wave of guilt rocketed through Goose. He shoved the feeling from his mind, clearing his focus as he scanned the skies.
“Phoenix Leader,” Remington called.
Bill threw out an arm. “There! There they are!”
Shading his eyes, still nearly choking on dust that somehow made it through the drying kerchief across his lower face, Goose spotted the specks in the sky. Six wasp-shaped AH-1W Whiskey Cobra helicopter gunships led the arriving aircraft.
“Base,” Goose called over the headset, “Phoenix has confirmation of Wasp’s wing. Pass on our appreciation to Wasp’s captain.”
“Affirmative, Phoenix,” Remington responded. Despite his attempt to have no change of tone in his voice, Goose still heard the relief in his friend’s words. “Get those Marines down in a safe place and let’s sort this out. Not one inch of that border is going to be given up on my watch.”
“Understood, sir. We’re going to take care of it for you.” Goose stood under the advancing line of Cobra attack helicopters. The Marine aircraft were similar to the AH-64A Apache gunships Goose was more familiar with. Their shadows hugged the ground and flashed over him. The sound of their passing hit him a short
