“Affirmative, Phoenix Leader. I’ve got a soldier with an MPIM en route. He’ll be here any second.”
“Great. I gotta slow the tank at least, Tango One. Till your soldier gets here.” Goose didn’t want to take the chance the Syrian rolling stock would penetrate to within line of sight of the makeshift hospital.
Wake’s response came back at once. “My guy will be here, Leader. You’ve got to get clear when he does.”
“Even if I’m not … hospital’s not far.” Talking while winded came hard. “I’ve got a shot … and a plan. I’m taking it.”
“Goose!” another soldier interrupted. “Gunners at the rear ob slit!”
With the shadows that filled the street under the cover of night, Goose didn’t see the observation slit cut in the T-62’s lower quarters at first. Then the war machine sped by the flaming wreckage of a Volkswagen minivan that had been part of the barricade. The fire lit up the oiled snouts of the submachine pistols that one or more of the tank’s crew had shoved through the ob slit.
Goose stayed the course, trusting that God was watching over him now. His good friend, Corporal Bill Townsend, had been a devout Christian and had steered Goose in that direction after years of Goose’s being lost in his faith and convictions. Bill had always believed that God watched over everyone, that no sparrow fell that God did not know about.
Goose still hadn’t found the strength to believe as strongly as the younger man had, but he was getting there. Bill had vanished from Goose’s side at the same time the air-rescue effort from USS Wasp had turned into a nightmare of smashed metal and broken men scattered across a barren landscape.
And his son Chris had been taken in the same wave of disappearing people. That was what a quiet voice had whispered into the back of his mind even as the battle screamed around him. With no warning, God had ripped away Goose’s son with no apparent care or consideration for Megan’s or Goose’s pain.
Goose didn’t know how he was supposed to believe in light of all that. The sergeant settled for hoping and training to believe. Chris was in a better place; Goose had to believe that. It was the only way he could concentrate on saving the lives he was responsible for right now. He pushed away the whispering voice planting doubts in his mind. As a soldier, as a father, he had to believe.
He reached for the tank just as rapid-fire detonation from the gunners inside the vehicle popped like a string of firecrackers in his ears. At least one of the rounds struck Goose like a sledgehammer. Thankfully, the round spent itself against his Kevlar flak jacket. The blunt force trauma from the round was a different matter; the Kevlar spread the impact across a greater area, but the savage power of the blow still bruised the flesh beneath.
Staggered by pain and the force of the shot, Goose stumbled. He pushed himself forward desperately, realizing too late that he was relying heavily on his weakened knee. He held the M-4A1 in his right hand, grabbed the tank’s rear deck with his left, and managed to jam his right boot onto the right track as it came up from the pavement.
Straining, using everything inside himself as well as the leverage gained by leaning onto his right leg as the track swung his boot up and provided purchase, he held on to the tank’s skirting. He drove the boot down against the whirring treads. In a heartbeat, the lunge that had looked dismally short of his chosen objective became forward flight with the aid of the whirring track tread. Clinging to the assault rifle, unable to draw a breath because of the pain in his side and the explosive movement, he fell away from the tread at the apex of the climb and smashed against the tank’s turret.
Dazed, Goose realized he lay on the tank’s rear deck. He sprawled on the surface for a moment as he regrouped. Reactive armor had been retrofitted to the T-62. If hit by another tank round, the added armor was designed to explode and counter the effects of the other explosives and deny penetration. Several sections hadn’t been exploded, and he knew if the armor detonated beneath him it would more than likely kill him.
“Cease fire on the tank!” Lieutenant Wake’s words echoed over Goose’s headset. “Cease fire! Phoenix Leader is up there!”
Taking a deep breath, trying to get oxygen back into his lungs, Goose stood uncertainly on the lumbering engine of destruction. He peered at the bombed-out street ahead of him, seeing several beautiful buildings that had fallen into ruin under the barrage of attacks during the last few days.
The buildings that had been set aside as hospital quarters lay only a few blocks ahead of the tank. They’d be easy prey for the T-62’s upgraded 120mm main gun, and the raw weight of the war machine’s forty-plus metric tons was a fearsome weapon as well. Goose had seen M-1 Abrams crews raze buildings simply by driving the tanks through them again and again, smashing walls and breaking supports till the structures fell.
Knowing he wasn’t going to get hit by friendly fire helped, but Goose knew if he didn’t stop the vehicle quickly, the main gun would be within range of the makeshift hospital in seconds. Once in range, the tank crew would fire on the dozens of wounded inside. None of those wounded would have a chance.
The exploding truck loaded with dead men had been a feint. During the immediate paralysis after that attack, gun crews had raked the barricaded areas and rooftops with surgical efficiency. The devastation had been as complete as if the Syrians had had a map.
Goose didn’t doubt that the enemy force had just such a map. The occupying army had no control over the
