“I suppose not.” Pete took a breath. “You’re not the only one. Me? I look at him, watch him, I wish I had a friend just like him. He’s just that guy, you know? That guy who, no matter how tough things get, will never let you down.”
“That’s why the viewers love Goose. He’s got that solidness about him. Honor.”
“Makes you wonder,” Pete said, “if all those religious people are right and all of us who have been left behind are locked into some kind of Tribulation, what is Goose doing here?”
“I did an interview with Corporal Baker right after we got to Sanliurfa,” Danielle said. “None of the television stations were interested in airing it. Corporal Baker said that some of the people were left behind because they were guilty of sin and had fallen away from God. But the majority were left behind because they weren’t true believers—they hadn’t brought God into their hearts and accepted salvation through Jesus.”
Pete studied the computer screen. “You put any stock into that?”
Danielle thought about her answer. She didn’t like talking about things like this, and she felt increasingly uneasy doing so. “I’m not sure. More so than before.”
“What about Goose?”
“He’s focused on getting through this war and keeping as many of his men intact as he can.”
“So he’s not a big believer either?”
“Not that I can see.”
Pete shook his head. “I wish I knew what to believe.”
“I know. Baker told me that even with everything going on around us, a lot of people still aren’t going to believe this is the Tribulation. They’re going to deny it and look for other reasons for what happened.”
“I suppose.”
“Baker also pointed out that faith is based on what you
believe
in, not what you know. If we knew the answers, we still wouldn’t have faith.”
“Sounds like you’ve been thinking about it.”
Danielle wanted to deny that immediately because that was how she’d always handled discussions about religion. Like the topic was beneath her. Especially since there was no clear-cut answer in her mind. She started to deny it again, then stopped. “Maybe I have been thinking about it,” she agreed. “But I still don’t have any of the answers I need.”
At that moment, the computer screen blinked, and the image came into clearer focus. Danielle leaned forward and studied the men in the vehicles below the helicopter. The image came from the footage shot just before Goose and the others had tumbled from the chopper. The focus was almost there.
“I got to admit,” Pete said, “this software package your friend put together is impressive. He could probably sell it to motion picture studios out in Hollywood.”
The software was designed to clean up images. According to Mystic, the computer hacker Danielle had struck up a relationship with a few years ago while pursuing a story, the program filled in missing details based on references gleaned from the rest of the image as well as a large data bank.
“I don’t know that much about software,” Danielle admitted.
“Well, take it from me—what this guy is doing is computer magic. Not impossible, and other people have probably got similar software, but I’d hate to have to pay for it.”
Another SCUD hit nearby and caused the building to shake. Ceiling tiles smashed against the floor. This time the ceiling fan that had threatened to tear loose since the beginning of the attack crashed to the floor. Jagged glass shrapnel flew in all directions.
Outside Harran
Sanliurfa Province, Turkey
Local Time 1036 Hours
Goose held his position next to a thick-boled tree and took deliberate aim. The M-4A1’s open sights bracketed the head of the mercenary standing where the big white man and the black man had stood only moments ago. Letting out half a breath, Goose squeezed the trigger once and trusted his sharpshooting skills.
The man fell backward with a bullet hole high in his forehead.
Three down,
Goose thought grimly.
As the sound of the shot echoed through the forest, the first raindrops zipped through the leafy branches of the tall trees and spattered against the backs of Goose’s hands and neck.
Thunder rumbled in the distance and reminded him of the Syrian armor rolling against Sanliurfa. He forced that out of his mind. The Rangers would hold there. The rain would come in time. Things would be fine until he got back. He had to believe that.
With his back to the tree, hidden within the undergrowth, Goose listened. The thunder made it harder to hear, and the pattering of the rain confused things as well.
Then there was no mistaking the cautious sound of a man’s feet sliding through the brush. The
whisk-whisk-whisk
of leaves against the man’s pants grew closer.
The man stopped. Goose knew he was only a few feet away, just out of Goose’s peripheral vision. If Goose turned his head to see the man, he was certain the motion would be seen. He breathed shallowly and waited.
Quietly the man shifted his feet. Goose knew then that he wasn’t a trained soldier or a hunter. Nervousness chafed at the man. Silence and forced stillness were his enemies instead of bringing him security and peace.
A moment later, the man stepped into view.
With the M-4A1 already at his shoulder, Goose moved the muzzle only slightly and shot the man just under the ear. The report of the gunshot shattered the quiet of the forest.
Knowing the man was dead or dying, no longer a threat, Goose shoved back against the tree.
A fusillade of bullets chopped into the tree. Bark splinters leaped from the trunk and spun in the air.
Goose pulled out a smoke grenade and threw it in front of the tree. The grenade went off with a loud explosion and filled the immediate vicinity with red smoke.
“He’s trying to escape in the smoke!” someone yelled. “Watch for him!”
Instead, Goose remained seated only a few feet from the dead man.
“Did you see him?” The voice was on the move, coming up on the right.
“No.”
“He can’t have gotten away.”
“He didn’t. He’s somewhere close by.”
For a moment, fear touched Goose. He thought about Megan and Joey and about how he was only one bullet away from not ever going home.
Don’t do that,
he told himself.
That’s the weakest thing you can do as a soldier. You’ve got to think about living.
But he kept thinking about Chris too. About how Chris was gone and he was never going to see his son again.
Is that how it’s really going to be? Am I never going to see him again?
Goose’s eyes burned as he listened for men moving in the brush. They were good. They hadn’t broken cover or backed away in fear. They’d settled into their positions as well.
The talks Goose had shared with Joseph Baker before the corporal was killed trickled through his mind. Baker had promised a better end to everything than Goose could imagine. Baker’s faith in God had filled the corporal’s life after all those people disappeared. Goose still didn’t know how that had happened, but Baker’s experience had reminded Goose of Bill Townsend. Bill was among those who’d disappeared, and he’d always said he felt close to God.
How about it, God?
Goose couldn’t help wondering.
Am I closest to You? Or am I closest to death? Are those even separate things?
The rain fell in sheets now, whipping through the forest. Goose thought about what it would mean for the Syrian assault. Hopefully the heavy vehicles would be mired in mud and never reach Sanliurfa. At the very least he hoped the mud had slowed the enemy advance.
Remembering all his days in Sunday school, Goose thought about how often rain and water had played a part in the Bible stories. The parting of the Red Sea. The Flood. Baptism.
Does baptism count when you don’t really believe? Can you be baptized without really knowing God? Is that what I did?
Sometimes in church he’d seen people get rebaptized as a testimony of renewed or restored faith. Others hadn’t been certain they’d really known how to accept salvation at the time they had.
Goose held on to his rifle and listened to the world around him. There was no noise other than the rain.
God, I don’t want to die out here. Not so far from my family. Not so far from my men. This can’t be what You have in mind for me. I know it’s not what I have in mind for me.
Goose couldn’t believe his thoughts. He’d prayed before, reflexive efforts that he’d learned as a child, but he’d never really tried to talk to God. Mostly because he’d figured if there was a God, He was probably pretty busy. And he doubted that God would concern Himself with one small sergeant in a world of trouble.
A branch, still too dry, cracked behind the tree less than ten feet away. The smoke had dissipated. Goose breathed more shallowly and waited. The next events were going to happen very fast.
A minute later, while rain dripped from the brim of his helmet, Goose saw the man ease forward in a duckwalk. He carried a rifle in both hands as he stepped toward the dead man lying only a short distance from Goose.
Goose moved his rifle into position. The small flicker of movement alerted the man. He threw himself backward and tried to bring up his weapon. Knowing his life was on the line and that it was better to be outnumbered two to one than three to one, Goose fired into the center of the man’s chest.
As Goose had expected, Kevlar armor blocked the bullet, but the impact drove the man backward. His boots churned at the loose mud created by the torrential rain and he couldn’t find traction.
Goose rose, knowing the hiding spot no longer concealed him. He took aim and put three rounds into the man’s face and neck. Coordination left the man, and he sprawled onto the ground. Blood mixed with the running water and mud.
Throwing himself from the tree, Goose ran straight ahead. He kept the tree between himself and the place where he thought the remaining two men were. A bullet smacked into the middle of his shoulder blades and probably would have killed him if he hadn’t been wearing his vest. He stumbled and nearly fell. His injured knee almost gave out on him, and pain scraped raw nerves. Agony racked the inside of his skull.
But he ran.
The large black man stepped out in front of Goose and pointed his rifle at him. In that instant, Goose realized they’d almost flanked him.
Knowing he hung suspended between life and death, Goose went down in a baseball slide only a few feet from the man. Goose’s knee screeched in protest as he folded it into the familiar figure 4 beneath him.
A line of bullets sprayed over Goose’s head. One of them ricocheted from his helmet. Then he slammed into the big man and took him to the ground. They rolled in a tangle of arms and legs. The man lost his weapon, and Goose struggled to bring his rifle to bear.
Shouting in a language that Goose didn’t understand, the big man pulled a machete from his hip and swung at Goose’s head while they were still both on the ground. Reacting instantly, Goose released the M-4A1 and grabbed the man’s wrist. It took everything he had to slow the man’s attack, but he couldn’t stop it. The keen edge came down toward his face.
“Now you will die!” the man said.
Goose focused on keeping the knife from his head. His arm quavered from the strain of holding the man’s arm back. Desperate, he bunched his fist and drove it into the man’s face again and again.
The man shouted and snorted in pain and rage. His eyes reddened as capillaries swelled and broke. His nose bled profusely.
Getting his leg up between them, Goose levered the man onto his side and crawled on top. In that position, with gravity helping, it was easier to hold back the man’s machete. Goose again hammered his fist into the man’s face, hoping his opponent would lose consciousness soon.
With a surge, the big man backhanded Goose in the mouth. The ache in Goose’s forehead from the collision with the tree reignited and pounded at his temples. Blood filled his mouth. The big man hit him again and succeeded in knocking him off.
Goose lost his grip on the man’s wrist and rolled as quickly as he could. The machete missed his legs by inches. Ignoring the pain in his knee, Goose got to his feet as the big man bared his teeth in a confident, angry grin and rushed at him.
Unable to move quickly without his knee giving out on him, Goose pulled his M9 from his hip, shoved the pistol forward, and fired. The first two rounds were wide of the target, and the next one thumped into the big man’s Kevlared chest. By then he was almost on top of Goose, already swinging the machete.
Goose fired four more times, and all of the rounds hit the man’s unprotected head and destroyed his features. The massive arm came down anyway. Stepping forward, feeling his leg go out from under him, Goose moved inside the swinging arm, felt it bang against his side so the blade missed him. He lowered his arm immediately and trapped his opponent’s limb. Then he twisted and fell, dragging the man down. On the ground now, Goose shoved the pistol into the man’s neck and pulled the trigger two more times.
The man shivered and went slack as life left him.