If possible, Goose was going to let the Marines care for their own dead and select an officer able to collect the dog tags. But if that wasn’t possible and the Turkish, U.N. peacekeeping, and American forces were routed from the border, Goose wanted an accurate record of those lost and missing. He’d ordered his men to record the information as well, and the men working the triage were taking down names of the missing from the injured who were able to give them.
Given the number of empty uniforms being reported, Goose didn’t expect to find them all. The number of missing was staggering. Nearly one man in three was gone, leaving only his uniform and gear behind.
Goose worked his way forward to the cockpit. When he looked inside, he saw that both pilots were dead, victims of the shrapnel that had broken through the Plexiglas. Judging from the deep slashes in the cockpit, two or more rotor blades from another helicopter had cut into the area.
Turning from the dead men, Goose headed for the side cargo door. The headset was filled with constant chatter, squads talking over each other, somehow managing to pause and listen and swap the information each needed to get through. Through the myriad voices, some of which he recognized as men from his own companies, Goose missed Bill Townsend’s voice with agonizing awareness.
Before he stepped outside the helo, Goose spotted Dean Hardin twenty feet away. Hardin was crouched over the broken body of a Marine who had evidently tumbled from one of the helos during a midair collision. At first, Goose thought the corporal was only making certain the man was beyond help.
Hardin squatted with his assault rifle across his thighs. His head moved like the heads of squirrels back in Waycross did when they sensed a predator was in the area. That instinctive wariness on Hardin’s part froze Goose in place, triggering the hunter’s skills his father had drilled into him from the time he was eight.
Working quickly, Hardin went through the dead man’s pockets. The corporal scattered personal items from the Marine’s belongings like chaff. Money quickly found its way into a cloth bag tied around Hardin’s neck and tucked into his shirt. Other things quickly followed as Hardin went through familiar motions.
A murderous, cold rage filled Goose. The emotion was an alien thing, something he had never felt before, even in the middle of a firefight. Before he knew it, he was out the cargo door and striding across the missile-blasted ground. His boots scattered aircraft pieces. He didn’t know what he was going to say to the Ranger corporal, but by the time he realized that, it was too late.
Hardin heard Goose’s approach. He pushed himself up, unsheathing a knife from his boot in a liquid flash of metal.
Goose didn’t believe the corporal knew whom he was turning to face, only that someone had seen him stealing from the dead. Getting caught while robbing a fellow soldier, especially a dead one who had given his life for his country and his fellow soldiers, could put a man behind bars in Leavenworth for the rest of his life.
Hardin turned with the knife in his fist and every intention of fighting for his life.
Only Goose’s reflexes, honed from years of battles and training, saved his life. He lifted the M-4A1 to block the knife, heard the heavy blade slam into the underside of the rifle’s barrel, and felt the vibration of the blow jar along his arms. If he hadn’t blocked the wicked knife slash, he felt certain that Hardin would have cut his throat.
Hardin spun away, flipping the knife expertly to his left hand in a motion so quick that most people wouldn’t have noticed. His eyes blazed with wolfish intensity and hunger. Then he feinted with his right hand and swept the blade toward Goose in an effort to disembowel him. No remorse showed on the corporal’s hard face. Fear tightened his sweat-slick features.
Moving quickly, Goose evaded the knife blow but felt the keen edge sheer through his uniform blouse below the combat vest. The cruel kiss of the knife blade licked fire across his belly but didn’t let him know how badly he’d been injured. He stepped back, creating space, remembering even as Hardin launched a boot at his face that the man was also skilled in martial arts.
Hardin’s boot caught Goose along his jaw with explosive force that snapped his head around, filled his mouth with blood, and dropped him to his knees dazed. He lost the assault rifle and didn’t have time to look for the weapon before Hardin slashed at him again.
Goose fell back out of the way, only inches from death, and swung his right leg around to kick Hardin’s feet from under him. The corporal landed face-first on the ground, growled foul curses, and tried to push himself up.
Forcing himself to move, Goose caught Hardin’s right wrist in his own right hand, then grabbed a fistful of the corporal’s hair in his left. He threw his weight on top of Hardin’s head, banging the man’s face into the ground. The knife came loose and Goose knocked the blade way, watching it skitter under the helicopter he’d stepped from. Goose wasn’t formally trained in martial arts as Hardin was, but he was no stranger to physical confrontations. Back in Waycross, he’d been an all-star wrestler in high school. Once a fight progressed to the ground, as most did, he was in his element. He started running his opponent’s body, looking for a hold that would allow him to incapacitate the man.
Hardin’s left elbow came back unexpectedly and caught Goose in the face. More blood gushed from his nose,
