“They’ve already invested heavily,” the sergeant said. “I don’t think they’ll back off now.”
“Neither do I.” Remington scanned the command post, taking in the monitors. “Captain Mark Falkirk is organizing a bare-bones support team aboard Wasp. They’re going to evac the wounded from Sanliurfa when the transport reaches the city, and they’re going to provide air cav to put down any potential Syrian air force units.”
“Tell Captain Falkirk that the 75th appreciates the help,” Goose said.
“I already have.” Remington could tell that Goose had more on his mind. “What are you thinking?”
Without hesitation, Goose said, “I want to stage the evac in two waves. The wounded and the materials go first. The trucks are slower than the RSOVs and APCs we’ve got. They can leave at 0200 but we won’t leave until 0400. We’ll cover their retreat.”
“That two-hour gap is dangerous, Sergeant.”
“Understood, sir,” Goose replied. “But the convoy carrying the wounded could break down. If it does, I don’t know that I could get the Ranger rifle companies to abandon those men.”
Remington knew that Goose was right. And even if he would be successful in ordering fighting men back to leave wounded comrades in the arms of their enemies, the Ranger captain knew that Goose wouldn’t be able to leave. After everything those men had experienced today, leaving men behind wasn’t going to fit into their acceptable parameters.
“It’s forty klicks to Sanliurfa,” Goose went on. “If the convoy makes good time, they can reach the city in an hour. That will give them an hour to load the wounded and get the city defenses reinforced before we leave our posts.”
“Done,” Remington said. “But with you leaving that late, you’re going to be hard-pressed to outrun the dawn. Once the sun is up, the Syrians will be better able to see you.”
“I know that, sir,” Goose said. “I’ll talk to the company commanders, but I’m sure they’ll agree that the two-stage wave is more doable for them than a mass retreat.”
“Carry on, Goose. Let me know what I can do to help you.”
“A prayer, sir,” Goose said quietly. “Now and then when you have the time, a prayer.”
Remington broke the com connection. He had his own preparations to attend to. The command post personnel, including the satellite crew, would pull back after dark. Carpathia already had another crew waiting in Sanliurfa to keep the communications open so there would be no loss of intel.
“Captain Remington.” One of the corporals manning the computer terminals waved for the captain’s attention. “I’ve got an encrypted personal message from the Pentagon here, sir.”
Irritated, Remington approached the computer. He took his PDA from his pocket and set it in the dock attached to the PC. The machine flashed for a moment as the message was uploaded.
Remington figured the communiqué would be a slap on the wrist for accepting Carpathia’s help. That had to be coming. He queued the PDA and read the message, verifying the pass codes that identified the message as legitimate.
In terse sentences, the Joint Chiefs of Staff at the Pentagon had advised him that the military was currently moving to DEFCON 3, the defensive condition defined as Increase in force readiness above normal readiness.
The news let Remington know that the theater of action had grown much larger than Turkey, had now, in fact, stretched across the globe. For the Pentagon to declare DEFCON 3, the United States had to fear attack. The only candidates to garner that kind of attention were China and Russia.
Had either of those countries attacked? Were they, not the Syrians, responsible for the mysterious vanishings?
23
United States of America
Cheyenne Mountain Operations Center, Colorado Springs
Local Time 2429 Hours
“Is this your first time at DEFCON 3?”
The bizarre question chipped through Jim Manners’ focus. The technical sergeant wasn’t sure if that was the first time the question had been asked or if it was only the first time he’d heard it. He glanced to his right and found Tamara Coleman seated at the console next to him.
Tamara was part of Delta Crew. Her black skin cooled with the green glow of the monitor broadcasting a night-vision display before her. She was in her late twenties and had made technical sergeant three months before Jim had. When he’d first come to the Cheyenne Mountains Operations Center, she’d trained him at his post.
She was chatty and competent and attractive. During the training period, he’d discovered she tried out for the Olympics in the hundred-meter dash and the mile and had nearly snared a position on the American team a few times. Running was one of her passions, and she made it a point to work out in Colorado’s high altitudes, hoping to qualify for the American team during the next competition.
“Yeah,” Jim answered. “At least, it’s my first DEFCON 3 on shift here.” He frowned at the monitors. “It’s one thing to know we’re at DEFCON 3, but it’s another to watch it taking place.”
“Just be cool,” Tamara advised. Her uniform blouse and pants were neatly pressed, her name badge precisely set, and her hair cropped short and styled. She tailored her own clothes and they showed her skill. Almost offhandedly, she shifted between the spy satellites she had access to, using a combination of trackball and keyboard to log information that would be later reviewed by the analysts who had been brought on to sort and distill the huge amounts of intel they were bringing in.
“I am.” Jim turned his attention back to his screens. He monitored the various airfields around the world that he was responsible for. “Did you—did you know any of them?”
“Them?” Tamara glanced at him. “Someone who disappeared, you mean?”
“Yeah.” Jim nodded. “That’s what I mean.”
Tamara was quiet for a moment. “I’ve lost some friends.” Her voice was thick. A shimmer of tears gleamed in her dark eyes. “But that doesn’t mean they’re gone for good. We could find a way to bring them back.”
“Yeah,” Jim said.
