Hardin wiped his chin on his shoulder. “You’re making a big mistake.” Naked menace anchored the corporal’s words.
“Private Walker.”
“Yes, First Sergeant,” Walker replied immediately, reacting to the tone in Goose’s voice.
“Get that man out of my sight,” Goose ordered.
“Yes, First Sergeant.” Walker got on one side of Hardin, and the other Ranger mirrored him. Together, the two privates marched Hardin away.
Goose took another look at the contents of the pouch. He didn’t understand how Bill Townsend could be gone, other men could be dead, and someone like Corporal Dean Hardin could be up walking around. The fact didn’t make sense. He knew he’d never get the image of Hardin hanging over the dead Marine, picking his pockets clean like a carrion eater working the bones of roadkill. Before he knew the nausea was going to hit, Goose was doubled over and throwing up.
After the gut-wrenching attack passed, Goose didn’t know if the reaction was triggered by the inhalation of smoke, the stink of the blood and dead bodies, or the fact that he had pulled a weapon on a fellow Ranger. And been prepared to use it. The thought remained as sharp and as bitter as the sour taste in his mouth.
He stared up at the blue sky in an effort to center himself. Black smoke stained the clouds and made the air taste thick and acrid. The world had changed, and he somehow knew that things could never go back to the way they had been.
He said a quick prayer, not knowing what to ask for other than his family’s safety and the safety of the soldiers who faced death along the Turkish-Syrian border. He found his helmet on the ground, pulled it on his head, and got back to the job he knew and had devoted so much of his life to. Men were left to be saved, supplies salvaged, and plans laid.
And they still had no idea what shape the Syrians were in or if the mysterious vanishings had taken their toll among that army as well. For all they knew, without the satellite communications, the Syrian army was at full strength or had even been the cause of the disappearances.
United States 75th Rangers 3rd Battalion
Field Command Post
35 Klicks South of Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0844 Hours
Staring at the mild-mannered, blond young man on the notebook computer’s LCD screen, Cal Remington was surprised to see that Nicolae Carpathia, president of Romania as of yesterday, looked very ordinary. Carpathia was thirty-three years old, broadchested and photogenic in a pleasant sort of way rather than having movie-star good looks. He moved with compact, athletic grace but acted reserved and interested. While CIA Section Chief Alexander Cody had been arranging the sat-phone/video cam conference call, Remington had gone through intel files that were locked into his personal computer.
Carpathia’s name had been in the news a lot lately, especially as a diplomat promoting the increase of U.N. peacekeeping efforts, but Remington had never thought that Carpathia would be on a firstname basis with a CIA section chief.
The Romanian president stood behind his desk, in full view of the small video cam connected to the desktop computer monitor. The connection was good; pixelization only occasionally blurred the reception. Remington’s belief that Carpathia could deliver the necessary satellite communications grew by leaps and bounds.
“Good morning, Captain Remington,” Carpathia said in a smooth baritone.
“Mr. President,” Remington replied, touching his hand to his hat brim in a quick salute. He had intended to offer that courtesy from the start but was amazed at how easily the response came.
The field command post was a beehive of activity. The techs changed out hard drives of the Crays, using the backup parts that weren’t infected with the virus. Several of them kept an eye on Remington, still not quite sure of what was going on.
“Your people have quite a difficult road ahead of them,” Carpathia said. “Of course, whatever help I may be able to offer will be offered only too gladly.”
“Thank you for that, sir. I’m encouraged by your ability to communicate with me now.”
A slight smile tweaked the corners of Carpathia’s mouth, making him look even younger and very innocent. “Actually, I have a news team in place near your army, Captain Remington. This communication is relatively simple.”
“A news team?” Remington knew some of the media reporters who had been behind the front lines had gathered around the area where the Marine wing had gone down in flames.
“Yes. Would you like to see?”
“I’d like that very much.”
Carpathia walked to the computer and tapped the keyboard. “I am conversant with the computer, Captain Remington, but I struggle with the applications to a degree. Please bear with me.”
“Of course, sir.” Despite the near-panicked need within him to have access to the satellite reconnaissance Cody had promised, Remington felt a little relaxed. Carpathia’s obvious command of the situation was reassuring.
“Ah,” the Romanian president said, “here it is.” He tapped a key. The image on the notebook computer shrank to a two-inch by three-inch rectangle on the upper left corner of the screen. The rest of the monitor filled with video footage that had definitely been filmed at the crash site the LZ had turned into. Wounded Marines staggered from the vehicles. Later explosions knocked some of them from their feet. A fuel fire eruption from one of the helos’ tanks engulfed two Marines who carried a third man between them. All three soldiers blazed like scarecrows that had caught fire. They ran, but they didn’t get far, dropping into writhing pyres that were finally still.
“This is one of the stories that the news team is broadcasting,” Carpathia said.
“Is CNN getting this?” Remington asked.
“Yes. FOX News is getting the footage as well. Would you like to see the presentation on either of those channels?”
Either of those channels. Remington heard the offer and couldn’t believe it but somehow knew that Carpathia had managed to feed the news stations despite all the chaos that had ran rampant through
