“Phoenix Leader,” Remington called calmly over the headset. “This is Control.”
“Go, Control,” Goose responded, moving forward across the bucking tank deck.
“Leader,” Remington said, “you’ve got a string of bogeys on the tail of the beast you went to intercept. Copy?”
Turning around, Goose stared back along the street. Four blocks away, he spotted the dim outlines of another tank rumbling through the area where the barricade had been.
“Affirmative, Control,” Goose said. “I see them.”
“They’re making an all-out run at us,” Remington said. “Going for the hospital. Probably the ammo dumps and the supplies after that.”
Moving supplies around during the day had become an automatic effort. With spies and potential saboteurs in the city, the three armies comprising the defense force had had no choice about trying to protect their food stores, fuel, and munitions. That protection was noticeable to even an untrained eye. Rotating the hospital around hadn’t been possible.
“I’ve got rolling stock headed your way,” Remington said. “I’ve also got two Whiskey Cobras in the air. But we need to slow those machines until help can get there.”
“Understood, Control.”
“Stop those tanks, Leader,” Remington said grimly. “Buy us some time.”
Goose took a final glance back along the street. The assault on the area had been nearly complete. Buildings stood in ruins all around him. The tanks arriving in the area would have a hard time passing through the terrain before rocket launchers carried by infantrymen or on the Cobras brought them down. If he could buy some time, they might just win this thing.
But stopping the tank he was currently standing on was critical. Disabling or destroying the juggernaut of hurtling armor and artillery might bottleneck the street and provide a momentary stopgap. He started forward, climbing over the turret.
The dead Syrian’s body suddenly fell out of the loader’s hatch and slammed into Goose, nearly knocking him off. Before Goose could recover and bring his rifle to bear on the hatch, a man’s arm reached out and pulled the hatch closed, sealing off the opening.
Goose started forward again, clambering quickly across the turret. The main gun fired again, and the sound was deafening. Goose kept his mouth open to equalize the pressure in his ears. Even then, he was mostly deaf from the detonation. The tank shivered beneath him.
On the front deck now, Goose pulled a satchel explosive from his combat gear. He’d grabbed the explosive from the munitions stores as soon as he heard the tank had penetrated the defensive line. Tracks were always the weakest areas on tread-driven armored vehicles.
Lying flat on the tank’s deck, Goose primed the satchel charge for a three-second delay, held it for a quick one-thousand count, then placed the bag on the whirring right tread, praying that the explosive wouldn’t immediately fall away. The links coming up from the street caught the satchel’s heavy cloth and carried it back along the tread.
“Fire in the hole!” Goose yelled over the headset. He rolled to his feet and stayed low as he dove from the tank’s left side. The satchel charge exploded while he was in midair.
United States of America
Fort Benning, Georgia
Local Time 2129 Hours
By the time Megan Gander arrived after getting the emergency phone call about the potential suicide, the MPs had erected a loose barricade around the Hollister home. Amber lights flickered at the tops of red-and-white sawhorses, driving shadows back from the open areas. Soldiers stood guard outside the ropes, establishing the perimeter with their presence and the assault rifles they carried, holding back the neighbors but also possibly trapping the young girl inside the home.
One of the soldiers stepped forward and shone a flashlight into Megan’s face through the windshield as the wipers swept across, sluicing away more of the unexpected rain. Less than an hour ago, the dark sky had released a torrent.
“Mrs. Gander?” the soldier asked. His stance bristled with challenge and authority. Three other soldiers stood nearby to back him up immediately if necessary. Fort Benning was on full alert.
Megan pulled up the military-issued ID she wore on a chain around her neck and rolled down the rain-spattered window of her husband’s Chevrolet short-bed pickup. The truck smelled of Goose’s cologne. Even on the brief drive over from the base’s counseling center she’d missed her husband fiercely. She still did. She wanted desperately to talk to Goose face-to-face, to feel his arms around her and hear him telling her everything was going to be all right. And when she wasn’t thinking that, she wanted to be the one holding him because she’d heard his heart break when she’d told him that Chris was one of the missing children.
“I’m Megan Gander,” she said. Rain ricocheted from the door and misted her face. Spring was often a rainy season in Georgia. It was only three days since the disappearances had rocked the world and pushed nations to the brink of nuclear disaster. Megan felt like she’d lived through years in those few days. She was sure she wasn’t alone in that feeling.
Relief showed on the young soldier’s face as he played his flashlight over the ID and matched it against the color printout in the plastic-covered pouch sewn to his left forearm. Taken recently, the picture was a good match. She wore her dark hair short so she could easily fix it while on the go, and regular tennis and hiking with Goose while he was on base kept her fit. Except for the clothes and the circumstances, not much had changed. Right now she wore a shapeless rain slicker over jeans and a knit shirt. The clothing was hardly professional, but it was durable enough to stand up to the demands of the eighteenand twenty-hour days she was working in this crisis.
“Good to have you here, ma’am.” The corporal put the light away. “I’m Corporal Kerby.”
“You’re point on this,
