Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0524 Hours
Captain Cal Remington surveyed the computer screens in the situation room hidden in a basement café deep in the heart of Sanliurfa. His team operated smoothly, efficiently using the limited capabilities they had access to.
Infrared images of the city relayed from FLIR mounted on the marine helos scrolled across the screens. Other images came from Rangers in the field carrying digital cameras mounted under their assault rifles that connected to the modular computer/sat-com feed on their LCEs.
All of the communications relays pumped through rooftopmounted dishes scattered throughout the city. The network wasn’t much compared to the speed and scope offered by satellite relays, but the system kept the command center from being deaf, dumb, and blind.
White noise from the radios and clipped pieces of chatter filled the room.
Buried deep in the ground, shored up by thick stone slabs, and having a manhole that led into the city’s sewer system for a quick escape or in the event the building was targeted by Syrian artillery and brought down, the room was a perfect place to run ops control from.
The only thing the room didn’t have was air-conditioning. Fans pushed the air around but did little to cut the heat. Body odor mixed with the stink of overheated components. Cables, bundled together with OD green tape and held in place with tent stakes, crisscrossed the room. The generators used to run the operation occupied a room upstairs, but the steady vibration remained detectable even over the hum of the computers and the sharp barks of the radio communications.
“Foxtrot Four has wounded,” a Ranger called over the channel.
“Affirmative, Foxtrot Four,” one of the dispatch officers responded immediately. He tapped keys on the computer in front of him.
The screen blinked, closing out four windows that showed two aerial and two ground shots of the main areas that had gotten hit by Syrian troops. The next image was relayed in IR black and green, showing bodies strewn under a badly damaged building.
“Who are the wounded?” the dispatch officer asked. His voice sounded strained, and the effort to keep himself calm showed frayed ends.
“Nobody on Foxtrot. We’re looking at civ casualties.” The Ranger’s voice hesitated a little and lowered. “Got two kids in here, Dispatch. I think one of ‘em’s already dead.”
A woman’s harsh screams and pleas for help in English, French, and Italian came over the channel.
The dispatch officer punched another series of keys. A small window opened and revealed Foxtrot Four’s GPS location. Thankfully, he could access the global positioning satellites easily.
Remington missed the quick and quantitative information offered by the usual network of spy satellites that special forces units used while on a mission. Still, as far as he could tell, the operation was limping along just as it was supposed to be.
For cannon fodder and a distraction, the 75th Rangers maintained a lively game. Remington took pride in that, but the fact didn’t remove the sting of facing a losing situation.
“Foxtrot Four, I’ve got your twenty locked,” the dispatch officer said. “Be advised that a medevac is en route.”
“Roger that, Dispatch. We’re going to stand hard here. I’ve got a medic in my squad. Maybe we can help out till the evac arrives.”
Remington almost stepped over and ordered the squad into motion. Staying with civilian casualties was a waste of time. He needed the city secure. Compassion at this point would only make things worse. Then he remembered that several reporters and news teams remained within the city. Getting reported on national television ordering troops away from civilians, especially if one of them was a journalist, would leave him seriously compromised. He held himself back, took a deep breath in through his nose, and let it out through his mouth.
Holding Sanliurfa for the next few days wasn’t just a military operation. When he was done, if everything went his way, he figured he could become something of a media darling. Promotions and cushy careers followed media darlings.
“We’re live,” another dispatch officer said.
“Radio?” someone asked. “I’ve heard some radio reports broadcasted from inside the city.”
“No. Television. OneWorld NewsNet.”
Remington turned to face the computers that were dedicated to monitoring the media sources transmitting out of the city. FOX News and CNN managed to get sporadic stories out live, but most of what they could send were finished stories through burst transmissions.
OneWorld NewsNet remained the consistent source the world turned to for news in the Middle Eastern theater. Of course, even then Remington didn’t know how large a share of the overall world audience OneWorld pulled. News from the rest of the world painted a picture of riots and fear. Cities had declared martial law and curfew, then discovered they didn’t have the emergency people to properly administer those conditions even after calling in the National Guard.
The anchor on the OneWorld NewsNet station looked professional, edgy, and sharp. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed, serious, and intent—the kind of guy people sitting in their living rooms could trust. He sat in front of a Mercator map that displayed the globe in cutouts like orange sections. At first glance, though, the news logo had often struck Remington as a row of closed fangs.
Remington worked the time difference in his head and realized the time was after 10 P.M. back in the States. Back there, it was still yesterday. At that time of night, though, the news teams brought out their big guns.
“As you know,” the anchor said, “OneWorld continues our coverage of the outbreak of war in the Middle East with our reporter in the field, Danielle Vinchenzo.” He placed his hands together, a practiced effort at being solemn. “Danielle, are you with us?”
“Yes, Addison, I am.” The audio transmission popped and stuttered a little, but definitely less than the efforts put out by the major American networks.
“We’ve shown viewers at home that traumatic footage your team shot of the attack there at Sanliurfa,” Addison said. “As you might imagine, the station has been besieged with calls
