Pushing himself up, Goose reached forward and caught Hardin’s foot, tripping the man and sending him sprawling again. Hardin still managed to grab his M-4A1 and roll over onto his back, trying desperately to pull the barrel in line.
Already moving forward, knowing his life was measured in a fraction of the scant time between frantic heartbeats, Goose grabbed the assault rifle’s barrel in his right hand and deflected the sudden stream of 5.56mm rounds that spewed forth. The string of reports echoed over the landscape and voices barked out, demanding to know what was going on.
Still holding the heated barrel, knowing the metal could sear his flesh if he held on too long, Goose fell on top of Hardin and hammered at the man with his left hand. He punched the corporal in the face three times, feeling the solid impacts of flesh against flesh. Hardin yowled in pain, then released the assault rifle so he could better block Goose’s brutal attack.
Part of Goose knew that he was out of control. A sergeant wasn’t supposed to fight with a man of lesser rank, was never supposed to lay hands on a man of lesser rank in anger. He should have pointed his weapon at Hardin and ordered the man to put his own weapons down, then placed Hardin under arrest.
But catching Hardin looting the dead had been too much. Those Marines had given their lives in an effort to come to the 75th Regiment’s aid. Watching Hardin steal from them, stripping away the Rangers’ dignity, had pushed Goose over the line between civilian and savage that existed within every battle-seasoned soldier.
Goose’s breath drew harsh and ragged, burning and drying the back of his throat. Despite his punishing assault, Hardin got his hands up to block, then fired the Y between his left thumb and forefinger into Goose’s throat. For a moment, Goose thought Hardin had shattered his larynx. He choked, couldn’t get his breath, and sagged back. Hardin lifted a foot and kicked him in the face.
Overpowered by the kick, Goose rolled backwards, managing to turn the effort into an ugly shoulder roll that was still good enough to bring him to his feet. Hardin was on his feet as well, already in midkick. Goose kept his hands in close, feeling his opponent rain blow after blow into him. His arms kept the punches and kicks from his face, and the Kevlar vest prevented most of the damage to his midsection.
Without warning, Hardin turned, evidently giving up on the idea of chopping Goose down. When the corporal shifted, Goose snaked his left hand out, caught the man by the right shoulder, and spun him around. He stepped forward and drove his right fist in a short, tight arc, twisting his hips to get all his weight behind the blow.
The punch caught Hardin in the middle of his face and lifted him off his feet. Before the corporal could steady himself, Goose raked the M9/Model 92F pistol from his hip holster, cupped his left hand under his right in a modified Weaver stance, and aimed at Hardin’s head.
“Don’t,” Goose said in a cold voice. He somehow managed to keep himself from shaking with anger or from exhaustion. He was in no-man’s-land as far as the mission went, somewhere deep in the Twilight Zone because of the way Bill and all the other missing soldiers had disappeared, and in uncharted territory in dealing with his command. Never before had he ever drawn a weapon on a teammate with the full intention of killing the man if he didn’t listen.
Hardin’s eyes blinked and Goose could see the calculations flickering in the man’s mind.
“You’re a dead man if you do,” Goose promised. “I swear to God, Hardin, I’ll put a round through your head and drop you like a rock.”
Cursing, Hardin lay back on the ground and kept his arms outstretched.
Two Rangers from Lieutenant Wake’s Charlie Company rounded the downed CH-46E. Both men had their assault rifles tucked muzzle down toward the ground and butt plates resting against the upper right shoulders, ready to open fire and ride the recoil up any target that presented itself.
Goose stood with effort. Blood coated his mouth, and he spat a blob of it onto the dry land.
“Sarge?” Private First Class Darrell Walker stared at Goose. He was twenty years old and new to the Rangers. He’d been recruited only a few weeks out of regular army boot camp for his computer skills.
“Arrest this man, Private,” Goose commanded. “I want him held under separate guard back at the triage.”
Walker hesitated, as did the other Ranger.
Goose put steel in his voice. “That was an order, Private.” Command came when there wasn’t time or resources for explanations, and Goose didn’t want to talk about the situation till after he’d conferred with Cal Remington.
“All right, Sarge.” Walker crossed to Hardin and offered to help the man to his feet.
Hardin shook the offer off and stood with overstated ease. “I don’t know why you attacked me, Sergeant Gander,” he stated.
Goose looked at him. “Yeah, you do.”
“Whatever you think you saw,” Hardin said, “that wasn’t what was going on.”
“Private Walker,” Goose said.
“Sarge?” Walker bound Hardin’s hands behind him with a pair of disposable cuffs. Ranger scout teams carried them in case they had to take prisoners while working point.
“Corporal Hardin has a pouch around his neck. I want it.”
Hardin struggled, but the effort was only token resistance. Goose kept his pistol trained on the man while Walker cut the pouch free, then tossed over the bag.
Goose caught the pouch, leathered his sidearm, and examined the contents. A sheaf of money nearly two inches thick sat inside. There were also rings and bracelets and watches. Dizziness from his injuries, the heat, and everything he’d been through for the past two hours swept over him like a tidal wave.
“I saw what I saw,” Goose
