The second wave started forward.
“Fall back,” Remington ordered. “Fall back now.”
As one, the city’s defenders retreated from the forward line and ran into the city. Syrian bullets followed them. Some of the soldiers didn’t make it. Remington stumbled twice as rounds hammered his body armor. He went down after a third round struck, his face digging into the mud, then got back to his feet and ran harder.
Less than a minute later, the advancing line of Syrians reached the sandbags. The antipersonnel claymores opened up as the invaders reached them. Solid steel shot chopped into human flesh and tore it to pieces. Tankbuster bomblets blew apart the treads on some of the Syrian vehicles. The ones still capable of moving rolled into the sights of artillery teams.
Destruction opened up along the forward line. At the second line of defense, taking cover behind a section of a building wall that remained standing, Remington watched as his enemies died. Savage glee filled him. This was why he’d been born: to be a warrior, a winner, a survivor against all odds.
His talent for bringing death and mayhem to his enemies stood him in good stead. He loved his calling, and he embraced it wholly as he watched his counterattack take shape.
“Hound Leader,” Remington called.
“Hound Leader standing by.”
“You’re up.”
“Roger that. We’ll clean and set the table, sir. Count on us.”
“Artillery,” Remington went on, “light ’em up.” He ducked around the wall and shot a Syrian who burst into view. The enemy soldier took two more steps, then went down and didn’t get back up.
Across the front of the second line of defenders, laser target designators painted the enemy vehicles that milled around in confusion at the line of sandbags. TOW and Hawk missiles launched, taking out the targets in quick succession.
The Syrian survivors tried to pull back. The second wave had frozen in its tracks.
Then the Hound units swept by from the outskirts of the city, flying toward each other at speed. The six cargo helicopters crossed over the empty land behind the first-line Syrians and the empty space that separated them from the other troops hidden within the treeline. The Hound helos spewed bomblets, spreading hundreds of them over the space in less than a minute.
The bomblets were tankbusters and antipersonnel pressure mines. Remington had found a storehouse of Turkish military equipment and had put it to good use.
Syrian men and machines tried to retreat from the brutal attack that faced them. When they rolled back over or stepped on the mines, the vehicles blew their tires or their treads. Men died in bloody ruin, tattered by the shrapnel.
When they realized they were trapped, the Syrians tried to make use of the sandbags. Remington gave the order to detonate the plastic explosives they’d planted within some of the piles. The barrier vanished, and more of the enemy died.
“Not exactly playing by the Geneva Convention, are we?” Rebreanu asked over the com.
“I didn’t come out here to get my butt kicked,” Remington responded. “I came out here to win.” He stood and surveyed the battleground, watching as the Syrians died.
“Not going to ask if they want to surrender?”
“No,” Remington said. “I don’t want a mass of prisoners inside the city. We can’t look after them anyway.” He paused. “When those people have had enough, they can take their chances fleeing back to the main forces.”
The Syrian tanks and artillery located within the treeline continued firing, but they made fine targets for the laser painters as well. Three Syrian soldiers tried to dash back across the open land. Unfortunately for them, the mud had swallowed some of the bomblets. Two of the men blew up almost instantly. The third one made it almost halfway when his luck ran out.
All right, Remington thought, we’ve earned some distance and respect. What are you people going to do now?
39
Outside Sanliurfa
Sanliurfa Province, Turkey
Local Time 2105 Hours
Goose waited in the darkness. After the sun had set and the moon slid behind the cloud bank, he’d crept toward the city. Miller and Icarus trailed after him. The rain, which had been a blessing earlier because it had reduced visibility, turned the terrain treacherous. Thick mud sucked at his boots and added several pounds to his feet. The extra weight also made traveling silently even harder.
Hostilities had come to a stop between the U.S. and UN forces within Sanliurfa and the Syrian forces outside the city. Fighting at night in the rain was risky. However, it perfectly masked efforts to get into the city. None of the forces on either side of the deadly no-man’s-land chose to keep lights on. Those only made men targets for snipers.
The problem was that Goose and the two men with him weren’t the only ones attempting to get into Sanliurfa. Instead of advancing toward the city in a straight line across the dangerous stretch of corpses and ragged earth, Goose had decided to circle around farther to the west. He noticed the shadows east of their position before they left the treeline.
Goose held a hand up and waved Icarus and Miller to ground.
“What’s wrong?” Miller whispered.
“Quiet,” Goose ordered. He used his peripheral vision to track the shadows he’d spotted through the falling rain. His M-4A1 slid easily into his hands. But using the rifle would immediately draw the attention of every Syrian soldier camped nearby.
Miller lay belly-down in the mud and didn’t move.
Icarus held up one hand and showed three fingers.
Goose waited a moment, checking the movement of the shadows. Then he nodded and held up three fingers. Three Syrian soldiers.
Almost effortlessly, Icarus pushed up into a crouch and slid a knife from his boot. The dulled matte finish didn’t gleam.
Goose passed his rifle back to Miller. “Hold that,” he told the chaplain. “Me and Icarus will be back in a minute.”
“What if you’re not?”
“Trust me. You’ll know about it. If this goes bust, hightail it to somewhere safe.” Goose pulled the knife from his harness and made certain his sidearm was secured in its holster. Then he stayed low and went forward, toward the three Syrians.
Local Time 2108 Hours
Goose moved slowly. In the dark, he knew he could remain almost invisible as long as he stayed low and didn’t move quickly. He took a fresh grip on the knife in his hand. The rain turned the handle slick.
Almost twenty feet away, moving parallel to him, Icarus remained hunkered down. Goose thought about how easily the man had taken on the role of assassin. There hadn’t been any time to think about it. Icarus had just shifted into killer mode without a second thought.
That was enough to give Goose pause. Then again, he realized he’d done the same thing. When it came to survival, people made choices quickly about living and dying.
The three Syrians carried backpacks. Goose figured they were loaded with plastic explosives. Something to provide a quick punch back at their enemies. The three men concentrated on watching in front of them, obviously expecting any trouble they might experience to come from the direction of the city.
Icarus waved his free hand to get Goose’s attention. Goose nodded at him. Icarus pointed to the man at the end of the Syrians, then at himself. The meaning was clear. Goose nodded again.
Without another gesture or word, Icarus rushed toward the Syrians. Goose did the same. When he reached the man he’d set his sights on, Icarus wrapped a hand around the man’s mouth to stifle any outcry, then slipped his knife between the man’s ribs. The Syrian soldier shuddered and died.
By then Goose had reached the man he had chosen. He clapped a hand over the man’s mouth as well, then drove the knife point into the back of the man’s neck at the base of the skull. It was a clean, immediate kill when the blade separated the spinal cord. The body sprawled in the mud.