“Rescuing those women seems to have gotten you the most attention,” Remington said.
“I didn’t plan on it, sir.” Goose took a couple swipes along his face, removing beard and lather. Both of them knew that was as close as he’d ever come to pointing out that Remington hadn’t let him know the women were there.
On the other hand, Remington had never admitted prior knowledge to their presence.
“Have you talked to the women, sir?” Goose asked.
“No.”
“I think you should.”
“Why?”
Goose rinsed soap lather from his razor. “When they were kidnapped here in the city by the Bedouin guy—”
“Abu Alam?”
Goose nodded. “They said they thought a guy was there who was an American soldier.”
Interest flickered in Remington’s eyes. “Why would an American soldier be there?”
“That’s what I was wondering, sir.”
“Do you believe them?”
“Yes, sir. They’re telling that story on CNN right now.”
“That an American soldier was present during their kidnapping?”
“Not during the kidnapping, sir,” Goose said. “During the trading that went on inside the city.”
“Can they prove that?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s your interest in their story, First Sergeant?”
“If there really was an American soldier involved, somebody who was trading with Abu Alam, I was thinking we might want to check into it.”
“Why?”
“You look around this city, sir, and you’ll find that most of the American soldiers here are under your command.”
Remington bridled. “Are you insinuating something here, First Sergeant?”
“No, sir,” Goose answered, though the description he’d gotten put him quickly in mind of Corporal Dean Hardin. He didn’t want to get into that. Not yet.
“Then what?”
“Damage control, sir.” Goose scraped more whiskers away. “If the media buys into their story, maybe they’ll start buying into the story that Abu Alam—who is still missing—was kidnapped by American soldiers. That could bring a lot of unwanted pressure to this command, sir. You get people with cameras out there everywhere, and the Syrians have television and satellite access, we could end up showing more of our defensive and offensive capabilities than we intend or want to.”
“That’s a good point. I’ll take that under advisement.”
“Thank you, sir.” Goose shaved for a while, knowing something else was on Remington’s mind, but the captain hadn’t gotten around to it. He opened up yet another nick that streamed scarlet.
“Goose,” Remington said, “I want to ask you something.”
“Yes, sir.”
“In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never lied to me.”
“No, sir.”
Remington paused. “Do you think you would ever feel compelled to lie to me? Do you think there would ever be anything—or anyone—that you would lie to me about?”
Goose nicked himself again, cutting deeper this time because he was thinking that Remington had found out about Icarus.
“You have to watch out for that razor,” Remington cautioned.
Goose washed the blood away, finding that with the addition of water the cut bled even more profusely.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Remington pointed out.
Goose looked at the captain in the mirror. “I don’t know, sir.”
Remington was silent for a time. “There was a time when your immediate answer would have been no.”
Silently Goose concentrated on his shaving. There was a time, sir, when you wouldn’t have sent me into a mission without all the knowledge I needed, or with the intention of leaving me behind at the first sign of trouble. But he didn’t speak any of that.
“You see, I sensed that, Goose. Somehow we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I guess as we progress through this situation we have here in Sanliurfa, I’ll have to be careful what I talk to you about.”
An explosion suddenly shook the showers, rolling thunder into the room.
Remington was out the door while Goose was grabbing his pants and his M-4A1. He ran out into the street dressed only in his pants, his dog tags thudding against his chest, and his assault rifle in hand.
The showers were right across the street from Baker’s church. Where the church had stood, though, only bits and pieces of the tents and the ammo cases remained. A huge crater had opened in the ground, and flames danced in it as if it were some express tube to hell itself.
“It’s Baker!” someone yelled. “He’s over here!”
Goose ran barefooted, keeping up with Remington.
Baker lay facedown on the ground. Burn splotches showed over his body and smoke curled from his hair.
“What happened?” Remington demanded.
“Don’t know, sir,” an ashen-faced corporal answered. “Baker asked everyone to leave the tent about twenty minutes ago.”
“No one was in there with him?”
“No, sir.”
Goose’s mind automatically jumped to the fact that Baker had held on to the information Danielle Vinchenzo had gotten from her cryptic source. OneWorld NewsNet had called her away on assignment before Goose had returned from Operation Run Dry.
Gently, Goose turned Baker over. He’d already checked the man’s carotid artery and found no pulse. But his fingers had come away crimson with blood.
When Baker was on his back, everyone could see that his throat had been slit from ear to ear.
Shaken, Goose squatted down, ignoring the painful bite of his injured knee, for a closer look. “No,” he said. “He couldn’t have been in there alone. He didn’t cut his own throat. Someone murdered him.”
And Goose knew he was going to find out who had done it, even if it was the last thing he ever did.
