“Yes. I’m sure that you can.”
Leslie frowned. “You think?”
Megan shrugged. “Why else pull me into your dream?”
“If I was looking for someone to fix everything, why didn’t I dream my mom into this? She’s the one that should be here. Not you.”
“Because this is a nightmare, not a dream.” Megan knew that she spoke the truth. If God had indeed raptured His church as she believed, the world remained a nightmare for those left behind. “C’mon. Get up.”
Leslie dragged herself from the floor. Her attention suddenly shifted to the flickering amber lights chasing themselves across the rain-spattered window. She leaned into the glass. The pistol rested on the sill between stuffed animals placed in a row.
God, Megan thought as her heart lurched inside her chest, please don’t let any of those young men out there panic. As tense as the situation was, she was afraid that one of the MPs might misread the situation and shoot Leslie Hollister through the window.
United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0448 Hours
“Ready, Sergeant!”
Goose provided cover fire against the advancing line of Syrian infantry that flanked the T-72 tank rumbling down the street only a block from the hospital. Keeping the M-4A1’s muzzle belt high on his targets, he swept the Syrians with sustained three-round bursts.
The nine other Rangers he’d gathered in his squad did the same, fanning out across the alley they’d taken refuge in. They had to stay bunched in order to keep from getting scattered when the marine helos vectored in on the enemy vehicles, and to provide a safer fire zone.
The Syrians went to ground, spreading across the street and taking advantage of cover offered by rubble and burning vehicles. Other Syrian soldiers followed close behind the T-72 to prevent close engagement with the city’s defenders.
“Private,” Goose snapped, feeling the assault rifle cycle dry. He stepped back to cover and shucked the empty magazine, changing it over for the full one taped to the first.
Private Al Goodwin stared at Goose through a mask of haze and blood. He looked impossibly young, but the MPIM he carried canted up across his chest lent him authority.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Goodwin responded.
“Hit it.” Goose flattened against the wall as Goodwin stepped forward and leveled the MPIM.
“Fire in the hole!” Goodwin yelled. Almost immediately, the MPIM chugged in his hands and a flash roiled through its snout.
The 40mm grenade sailed across the fifty-foot distance. Fighting in the streets kept the combatants close. By rights, the Rangers’ skirmish line was ten feet inside the blast radius of the grenade, but the wall protected them.
Goose slitted his eyes and locked them forward. A heartbeat later, before Goodwin had much of a chance to even step back, the phosphorus round exploded, throwing out harsh red light over the immediate vicinity. The heat of the blast swirled over Goose as debris slammed against the wall.
“Private,” Goose prompted.
“Yeah, Sergeant,” Goodwin confirmed, nodding enthusiastically. “I got him. Dead center. There’s a lake of red phosphorus burning on that tank’s hide. He’s marked. He can run, but he can’t hide.” He was wired on adrenaline, his words coming in a torrent, but he maintained control.
“Good job, soldier.” Goose watched as the incandescent red glare of the burning phosphorus staggered across the alley’s mouth. The light revealed the whirling clouds of dust and smoke that filled the air. He didn’t look around the corner because he didn’t want to lose his night vision.
Sporadic small-arms fire from the Syrian infantry chopped into the alley walls, chipping stone and mortar loose and striking sparks. Tracers burned lines of sight back to the shooters. The tank’s engine growled as the driver changed gears. Goose didn’t know how much contact the Syrian armored units had with each other, but they had to know that the rolling stock that had invaded the city were getting systematically hunted down and killed. Only a handful of them remained, and soldiers were stalking them now.
“Nighthawk,” Goose called over the headset.
“Nighthawk here.” The marine’s reply came strong and confident.
“We’ve lit up the cake.”
“Affirmative, Phoenix. Nighthawk’s coming in to blow out the candle. Get clear.”
Overhead, a pair of Whiskey Cobras leaned into the thin dry wind and came around on an approach path only a short distance above the rooftops.
“We’re already gone.” Goose threw his free hand into the air and waved the nine men he’d organized into a squad back into the alley.
The Rangers moved in concert, falling into the point-and-wings formation automatically. They ran by the light of the city that burned around them.
Long and narrow, the alley offered little protection or options for cover. When the tank crashed through the wall of the building behind them, locked down, and swiveled the turret around, Goose knew they were in trouble. Pools of red-flamed phosphorus fire burned and wavered on top of the T-72.
“Down, Phoenix,” the marine pilot commanded curtly. “We’re cutting this one close.”
Goose shouted, ordering his group to ground just as the lead Whiskey Cobra tilted in midair and came about. He dove for the cobbled alley floor just as the 120mm main gun roared behind them. The shell wobbled through the air only a few feet above their heads, then slapped into a curving wall less than thirty feet in front of them. Broken rock and mortar spanked the ground all around the Rangers.
A fist-sized chunk of stone landed on Goose’s back. He saw the stone roll away but realized he hadn’t heard the impact over the buzzsaw roar of the 2.75-inch rockets from the Whiskey Cobra’s wing pods. He pushed his head up and looked back.
The Syrian tank sat shivering, riddled with damage and flames and no longer in motion. Drops of burning red phosphorus still clung to the tank, but a lot of them stood out against the dark alley walls and on the cratered ground ahead of it. The tank sat inert, no longer a threat, thrust through the building wall the driver had taken out in pursuit of the
