The Stinger detonated and turned the fighter jet into a fireball that shed pieces of broken aircraft like a dog shaking off water.
“Ready.” Sanchez slapped the top of Goose’s helmet. Goose searched the sky for another target. Another jet, farther out, swooped in for the kill. A brief glance at the readout showed Goose the target was twenty thousand feet out. It was well within the 12,500-foot ceiling of the Stinger, but it needed to be another four thousand-plus feet closer.
C’mon, Goose thought as he tracked the fighter jet and waited for the acquisition beep. He couldn’t help thinking that Rangers were in the enemy pilot’s sights and were about to die.
The Stinger beeped, and the system showed a solid, steady signal.
Goose fired. The missile streaked away and kicked in the solidfuel afterburners.
“Load me.”
In the sky, the Stinger closed on the fighter jet. Evidently the onboard systems warned the pilot he’d been targeted. He tried to take evasive action, breaking and rolling to the right. The missile passed through the space the jet had been; then the heat-seeking systems autocorrected the warhead’s trajectory and sent it back after the fighter jet. Less than a second later, the missile sped into the aircraft’s jet engine and detonated, tearing the wing off. The fuselage careened wildly out into the empty lands and exploded when it struck the ground.
Sanchez slapped Goose’s helmet. “You’re loaded, Sarge. Good shooting.”
“Thanks.” Goose didn’t take any glory in the kills. Soldiers were separated by necessity, but they were usually cut from the same cloth. Those men had families they wouldn’t be going home to tonight, but it was better that Goose’s men went home to theirs when a choice had to be made.
He snugged the Stinger launcher into his shoulder and looked for another jet. When he spotted one, he started to sight in on it when he saw another Stinger missile lift from the ground in pursuit. The Syrian turned into a flaming midair mass and rained down over the other side of the city.
“Falcon Leader,” someone called over the headset. “This is Falcon Two.”
Goose listened intently. Falcon Two was Lieutenant Wolper. He was in charge of the front line.
“Go, Two,” Swindoll replied.
“We’ve got hostiles at the door.” Fullauto fire rattled around Wolper’s words, interspersed by the reports of the main guns of the approaching Syrian tanks.
Fall back, Goose thought, urging Swindoll to make the call. Sell them real estate, but do it an inch at a time. You can’t hold it.
“Pull back to the second line,” Swindoll ordered.
Goose searched the sky for another fighter jet, but there didn’t appear to be any. Evidently the Stinger response had persuaded the Syrians that the cost in hardware was too high to continue. On the other hand, the tanks and APCs were now close enough to do considerable damage.
“Falcon Three, this is Falcon Eleven.” The soldier’s voice sounded tense. Machine-gun fire chased his words.
Goose’s mind spun. Falcon Eleven was Corporal Brett Rainier, also one of the Stinger crews. A map of the city unfurled in Goose’s head. Rainier was a hundred yards or so to the southwest.
“Eleven, you’ve got Three.”
“We’re under attack by hostiles, Sarge.” Panic clawed at Rainier’s words. “They came outta nowhere. They’ve got us pinned down.”
“Understood. I’m on my way.” Goose turned and handed the Stinger to Sanchez. “Stay here. Kept this zone clear of jets. If you have to go, go. I’ll find you.”
Sanchez nodded. “Good luck, Sarge.”
“You stay frosty, son. A cool head will see you through this.” Goose slipped the two extra missiles from his back, took his M-4A1 into his hands, and ran for Rainier’s position, praying he wasn’t too late.
Local Time 0731 Hours
A burst of machine-gun fire sent Danielle diving to the ground near one of the mudbrick houses. She’d been listening to the sound of the big guns and the gunfire from the jets overhead. Hearing the sound at ground level was unnerving.
Gary slid down beside her.
Danielle looked at him, seeing the fear in his eyes and knowing she wore it in hers too. “Where did that come from?”
Gary shook his head. “Don’t know. Close.”
More machine-gun fire ripped into life just ahead of her. Danielle pressed against the mudbrick house and tried to imagine she was no bigger than another layer of dust. This time bullets chopped through the house and punched out fist-size holes.
“Danielle, what’s going on there?” The voice came over the earpiece she wore that connected her to OneWorld NewsNet. “We’re getting a picture of the ground, but not much else.”
Gary grimaced and lifted the camera to his shoulder.
The voice belonged to Vincent Terrell, the late night New York anchor at OneWorld NewsNet. Nicolae Carpathia’s news program had been granted an emergency twenty-four-hour news channel in the United States market only weeks ago.
OneWorld no longer had to depend on other channels to carry its feeds. It now owned a large share of the viewing market because it had reporters in the field in all the hotspots and because its communications satellites worked better than anyone else’s. The fact that Terrell was able to talk to Danielle in real time was proof of that.
“I don’t know. I think we’re under attack.” Danielle slid back up the wall and got her nerves under control.
“We’ve still got the advancing Syrian army in view. They’re some distance from Harran.”
Fullauto roars sounded again.
“Can you lock in on my position?” Danielle peered around the side of the house.
“Give us a minute.” Terrell sounded incredibly calm.
Of course he is. He’s not the one getting shot at. Danielle stared at the scars from bullets that tracked the house. It was scary how easily she identified the holes as ammunition damage. Way too much familiarity.
Danielle looked back at Gary. “Are you good?”
“Man, I don’t know if I’m ever going to be good again.”
“Can you keep that camera going?”
“Yes.”
Focusing, Danielle eased out around the house and followed the sound of the weapons fire. Only a little farther ahead, she saw a man clad in Bedouin robes scale one of the flat-roofed houses and slip a rifle from his shoulder.
Looking down at the house, Danielle spotted a U.S. Army helmet through the window. She caught a glimpse of a blood-smeared, frightened face. The Bedouin man’s intent was immediately interpretable.
Before she knew what she was doing, Danielle shouted, “Look out! There’s someone on the roof!”
The Bedouin man turned and brought his rifle to his shoulder. Other Bedouins beside the building stepped into view and brought up their weapons as well. Staring down the muzzles of the weapons, Danielle was convinced she was only a heartbeat away from death.
Then someone hit her broadside and knocked her back and down. A shadow fell across her, blotting out the morning sun and creating an instant barrier between her and the Bedouins.
Even in profile, with the buttstock of the M-4A1 blocking part of his face, Danielle recognized the soldier.
Goose.
18
United States 75th Army Rangers Outpost
Harran
Sanliurfa Province, Turkey
Local Time 0733 Hours
Standing over Danielle Vinchenzo, Goose leveled the M-4A1 and fired by instinct. Instead of using the assault rifle, he pulled the trigger on the M-203 grenade launcher mounted under the rifle barrel. The 40mm grenade thumped from the launcher and struck in the middle of the Bedouins.
Knowing he’d be fighting at close quarters around his own men, Goose had loaded a high-explosive round in the launcher’s chamber instead of an antipersonnel grenade. The area of effect would be reduced, and the likelihood of hurting a fellow soldier-if he used the weapon judiciously-was reduced. He felt certain the thick mudbrick walls would protect the Rangers inside the house.