Danielle yelped in fear and took evasive action. The van’s rear bumper scraped a wooden cart that had been left in the street and reduced the cart to splintery pieces. The van bumped and jostled as it rolled over them. The transmission whined loudly.
Daring a forward glance, Danielle saw the line of machine-gun bullets tracking back toward the van. Desperately she spun the wheel and cut away just before the machine-gun fire vectored in on her. Pulling the wheel sharply, she tried to back into an alley. Unfortunately she wasn’t as talented or lucky as she’d hoped. The rear bumper collided with the corner of the building and the van came to a sudden stop.
Hammered by the collision, Danielle ricocheted off the seat and the steering wheel with bruising force. She changed gears and tried to go forward, then realized the van’s engine had died. Still unable to catch her breath, driven purely by survival instinct, she reached for the wires and held them together again.
Machine-gun rounds thudded against the van’s side and passed through without slowing. The sound echoed deafeningly within the van.
Don’t hit the tires, Danielle thought desperately. Please, God, don’t let them hit the tires. Or me.
The engine caught again, easier this time. She shoved the gearshift into first, floored the accelerator, and let out the clutch. The van shot across the street just ahead of a hail of. 50-caliber rounds that would have destroyed the vehicle and her.
22
United States 75th Army Rangers Outpost
Harran
Sanliurfa Province, Turkey
Local Time 0745 Hours
Panic filled Danielle when she realized she didn’t know where she was. In the confusion, she’d lost her orientation. All the houses and buildings along the street looked the same.
Think. You just came this way.
The side mirror showed that the Syrian military vehicle was trailing her. Machine-gun fire sounded behind her. A few bullets punctured the rear of the van and passed through the front windshield.
Danielle cut the wheel to plunge down an alley. The left side of the van scraped against the building. The impact ripped the side mirror off. Bolts bounced off the window. Fighting the wheel, she barely regained control before she crashed into the building on the other side.
The alley was a lot narrower than she’d thought it was. Only inches separated her from the sides as she rumbled toward the street at the other end. The Syrian vehicle was too wide to get through. She took hope in that.
In the next moment, the Syrian APC paused at the entrance of the alley.
Danielle hunkered lower in the seat, expecting the machine gun to open fire again. Instead, the gunner dropped back inside the vehicle. The rear bay doors closed as well. Then the APC surged forward. The tank treads chewed into the sides of the building like a harvester taking down wheat.
“No!” Danielle said in disbelief.
The Syrian war machine was actually gaining on her now. Behind it, buildings toppled into ruin. The APC suddenly transcended in Danielle’s mind to a thing crafted by her worst nightmares. She wasn’t going to be able to escape. The Syrians chasing her were unstoppable.
She reached the next street and cut hard left. The van skidded out of control, the bald tires struggling to find traction. She slewed sideways. A moment later, the Syrian vehicle powered through the final few feet of the alley and cut after her.
Just as she was preparing to abandon hope of getting away, much less of reaching Goose, Gary, and the wounded Rangers, Danielle spotted the house where she’d left them. Goose emerged from the door and looked in her direction.
Danielle knew he couldn’t have been expecting the sight that greeted him, but Goose never flinched. Or hesitated. Smoothly, like he had all day, he reached into his BDUs. After he’d inserted something into his weapon, he pulled the rifle to his shoulder.
Realizing that the sergeant wasn’t going to run, Danielle felt immediately guilty. Instead of helping the Rangers, she’d doomed them.
Local Time 0747 Hours
Goose took careful aim at the Syrian vehicle’s right tread. He recognized it as a Russian-made BTR-50. It was the only model that was tracked. All the other BTRs were wheeled. Tracks had been discontinued because they presented vulnerabilities similar to tanks, but the BTR-50s lacked the firepower tanks packed that kept soldiers back.
Danielle roared by in the van.
The forward hatch flipped open, and a Syrian soldier took hold of the machine gun. Fifty-caliber rounds filled the air around Goose like fat bumblebees. He heard them pass him only inches away.
Calmly, Goose slid his finger over the M-203’s trigger and launched the HE round at the APC’s right tread. The grenade flew thirty yards and impacted against the tread only inches above the street, almost exactly where he’d hoped it would hit. Trapped between the treads and the street, the HE round’s blast was even more concentrated.
The right tread came apart and started slapping the APC’s side in a deafening cacophony. Out of control, the left tread still digging into the street and powering the fourteen-ton vehicle forward, the APC came around in a tight circle. Then the tread lost traction, and the APC slid across the street.
By the time the tread grabbed hold again, the APC had come around 270 degrees and was now pointed at the house where the cameraman, Rainier, and Johnson lay. Goose watched helplessly as the APC surged forward a short distance and slammed into the house. The tracks ground through the side of the house, then started slipping on the debris.
Goose pulled the M-4A1 to his shoulder and took aim at the APC’s gunner as the man tried to bring the machine gun to bear. Goose fired four quick three-round bursts, ensuring that the man was down, then reached into his kit for an incendiary grenade. He pulled the pin, popped the spoon, and heaved the grenade toward the back bay doors as they started to open.
The grenade bounced against one of the doors, and for a moment Goose felt certain he’d missed the bay. Then the grenade dropped into the transport area.
Grimly, Goose concentrated on feeding an antipersonnel grenade into the M-203’s breech. He didn’t like using the incendiary grenades against soldiers. They burned at four thousand degrees and guaranteed instant death for the lucky ones and debilitating burns for anyone who survived the initial blast.
But he thought about the Harran citizens who had undoubtedly lost their lives in the morning’s attack. And he thought about Robert Johnson, who might not live to see noon. He turned off his compassion and closed the grenade launcher’s breech.
The incendiary grenade exploded as Syrian soldiers lined the transport area and prepared to open fire on Goose. Sheets of white-hot flame enveloped them. The ones who weren’t killed outright screamed in pain and terror. Two of them managed to clamber over the APC’s side and drop to the ground. Flames wreathed their bodies.
Steeling himself, Goose took deliberate aim and shot them, putting them out of their misery. God forgive me. He watched as the APC burned until he was satisfied no one remained alive on board. The stench of cooked human flesh filled the air.
Danielle pulled the van to a stop behind the APC. She remained well away from the curling flames. Getting out, she started forward, then stopped at the burned bodies of the two men Goose had shot. Her eyes fell on Goose and were filled with stunned disbelief.
Goose didn’t try to defend his actions. He was locked tightly into survival mode.
“You got the van, ma’am,” he said.
After a brief hesitation, Danielle nodded.
“It’s still running?”
“Y-yes.”
“You done good, ma’am. That was an awfully brave thing to do.”
“I brought these people down on top of you.”
“No, ma’am.” Goose walked back toward the house, peering through the ruined wall and seeing that Rainier, Johnson, and the cameraman hadn’t been injured by the flying debris. “They come here all on their own. They’re responsible for how they ended up.”