Apocalypse Dawn Page 3

  In most instances, the M-4A1 carbine was a better weapon than the M-16A2 Goose had been given when he entered the Army sixteen years ago. He’d been a rawboned twenty-one-year-old fresh from the backwoods country of Waycross, Georgia. Both assault rifles fired the 5.56mm round, but the M-4A1’s barrel was fourteen and a half inches long, nearly six inches shorter than the M-16A2. Along with the collapsible butt stock, the M-4A1 offered quicker reaction speed as well as the ability to use the weapon in more compact places.

  Goose lay prone on the hot ground. Before taking up his position, he’d scraped away the top layer of sand and rocks, exposing the cooler earth below. It made lying down on the scorching desert surface more bearable. Only a minute or two of being exposed to the dry heat had turned the layer he’d exposed the same color as the land around him.

  He adjusted the telescopic sights, bringing the image of the pale blue Subaru station wagon into proper magnification. The image sharpened. He kept both eyes open, the way he had been trained to do, mentally switching between both fields of vision. His father, a woodsman who had hunted all over the Okefenokee Swamp and had pulled a tour of duty as a Marine in Korea, had first taught him the technique. Drill sergeants and sniper specialists had refined the skill during training.

  Dried mud covered the station wagon’s windshield except for the arches carved out by the wipers. Streaks of dried mud stained the car’s body. Tie-downs held two spare tires and two five-gallon jerry cans on the roof.

  Goose played the scope over the vehicle’s windshield. The driver and the man sitting in the shotgun seat looked Middle Eastern. Evidently the vehicle’s air-conditioning wasn’t working because they were both drenched with perspiration that left damp stains in the armpits of their shirts.

  “Base,” Goose said, speaking into the pencil mike at the left corner of his mouth.

  “Go, Phoenix Leader,” Remington called back. “Base reads you five by five.”

  “You got vid?”

  “We see what you see, Leader.”

  “Can you confirm your package?” Goose asked, sweeping the M-4A1’s sights from the driver to the passenger.

  Remington hesitated an instant. “Neither of those men. They are confirmed hostiles. Repeat, we have positive ID of hostile nature. Don’t take any chances with these people.”

  Shifting the rifle slightly and refocusing the scope, Goose ran the sights over the two men in the backseat. He knew the agent immediately because the man’s face was battered and bloody. Gray duct tape covered his eyes, wrapping around his head. From the uncomfortable way the man was sitting, Goose guessed that his hands were tied or cuffed behind him.

  “Is this the package, Base?” Goose asked.

  “Affirmative, Leader,” Remington said. “You have visual confirmation.”

  The station wagon had come within a quarter mile of the Rangers’ position. The rough terrain kept the vehicle’s speed down to about thirty miles an hour.

  Goose switched over to the team frequency. Remington and HQ remained part of the loop. “We’ve got ID. Our save is located in the rear seat. Passenger side, not the driver’s side. Copy?”

  The ten men in the unit responded quickly.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Goose looked at Corporal Bill Townsend. The corporal had been the first man Goose selected for the ten-man unit.

  Bill had just turned twenty-eight. He was young, easygoing by nature but quick on the fly on an op. Like Goose, he wore load-carrying equipment, an LCE, that supported his gear. Combat webbing held extra magazines and rounds for the M-4A1/M-203 combo he carried. The M-203 grenade launcher fired 40mm grenades and added a wallop to a squad’s force.

  During the eight years he’d known Bill, Goose had never seen him perturbed. Things didn’t always go the way Bill thought they should, but he worked through any situation, be it smooth sailing or total chaos, with better grace than any man Goose had ever known. Bill was totally relaxed and at peace with himself. Goose figured it had something to do with the corporal’s faith. Bill was a devout Christian who spent time with squadmates who were having personal troubles. He was good at easing the burdens down to some manageable load. If Bill hadn’t been such a good soldier and adamant about making a difference in the world in that fashion, Goose would have recommended the corporal for a counseling position on base.

  Seven years ago, when Goose had met Megan Holder at Fort Benning and fallen in love with her in spite of his best efforts not to, Bill had counseled him. Goose had always promised himself that he’d remain single till he finished his twenty years and retired, reminding himself that a dedicated career soldier’s family often got short shrift by the very nature of the job. He hadn’t wanted to put anyone through that. But Goose had been torn in his resolution when he saw Megan trying bravely to raise her son—our son, he corrected himself—Joey, all by herself.

  Bill had known Goose was troubled and had talked to him without really talking to him for a while. At least, that was the way it seemed. Looking back on things now, Goose had the distinct impression that the young man knew exactly what he was doing.

  In the end, Bill helped Goose get over his cold feet and follow his heart. Bill had been best man at their wedding, a position Goose always thought would belong to his old friend Cal Remington. After all, Goose had been best man at two of Remington’s weddings. But for some reason Remington hadn’t been able to participate on the date Goose and Megan had chosen. In the end, Bill had been the perfect best man, and he had stayed close to Goose’s whole family. These days, Remington seldom visited the Gander household, while Bill was often around. He frequently baby-sat Chris.

  “I’m here,” Bill told Goose quietly. “When you move, I’ve got your six.”

  “You get your prayers said?” Goose tossed off the question in a lighthearted way, but he’d been around Bill when the man had prayed over injured soldiers and during disastrous situations. It seemed to Goose that God paid special attention to Bill’s words. Although he’d never talked about his feelings with anyone else, Goose had always felt the strength and conviction in Bill’s prayers. While he had a few doubts of his own about God, Goose leaned on Bill to put in a good word for him with the Big Guy.

  Bill nodded. “Prayers said. Mine. Yours. The squad’s. We’ll make it home okay, Sarge.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  An easy grin touched Bill’s lips. “You can’t just hope. You gotta have faith.”

  “I do have faith.”

  “Nah.” Bill shook his head. “If you had faith, you wouldn’t have to reach for hope.”

  “Then I’m working on it. Best I can do. Thanks, man.” Goose turned from Bill.

  It wasn’t often Goose felt the difference between the younger man and himself, but today he did. They often attended the same prayer groups while they were in the field. Or, more accurately, Goose joined the ones that Bill headed. And even back on base, Bill had found the church that Goose’s family attended. Bill spent some of his free time working as a youth minister for athletic events there.

  “Phoenix Three,” Goose called out.

  “Three,” Bobby Tanaka responded. He was the unit sniper, young and cool under pressure. “Go, Leader.”

  “I want the package protected, Three. Your primary target is the hostile in the backseat with him.”

  “Affirmative, Leader.” Tanaka lay in a prone sniping position behind an M-24 bolt-action sniper rifle.

  The station wagon closed on the gap.

  “On me,” Goose ordered. He tracked the vehicle with the M-4A1.

  Twenty yards in front of the Rangers’ position, the Subaru’s front wheels hit the portable spike barrier concealed under the sand. The tires blew as the spikes shredded the rubber. Before the driver could hope to regain control over his vehicle, the rear tires hit the spikes and went to pieces as well.

  “Go!” Goose commanded, pushing himself up and racing down the hill. Sand, gravel, and rock tore loose under his combat boots, throwing up dust. He ski
dded twice, dragging a knee both times to stay upright while he cradled the M-4A1 in his arms. Bill pounded along behind him.

  The station wagon driver tried to keep going, but the tire rims sank into the soft sand and chewed through the hard-packed earth. In less than five feet, the station wagon had mired up to its chassis. The engine roared as the driver tried to use the four-wheel drive to fight free of the earth. The churning rims threw rooster tails of sand and rock behind the vehicle, then reversed and threw them forward.

  Skidding down the hill, Goose closed on the vehicle. He watched the movement in the station wagon, tracking his unit as well as the targets. Years of combat training, discipline, and action in several deployments stood him in good stead. He kept his finger on the trigger guard. Until he knew he was going to have to shoot and he had a confirmed target, he never touched the trigger.

  Dust filled the air around the station wagon, obscuring his vision. The man getting out of the passenger side looked blurred, but there was no mistaking the Uzi submachine gun clenched in his fists.

  “Weapon!” Goose yelled, throwing himself forward and down. He brought the M-4A1 up and slid his finger into the trigger guard, squeezing the trigger three times. The butt stock shoved against his shoulder with each shot.

  Hit by the rounds, the terrorist fell backward. The passenger window erupted in a spray of glittering shards.

  Even as the terrorist fell to the ground, Goose spotted the station wagon’s driver lifting a semi-automatic pistol in his fist and pointing the weapon at the CIA spy. Goose tracked the man but couldn’t fire because one of the Rangers was in his field of fire.

  Then the driver’s head snapped back.

  For Goose, time seemed to slow down. His senses whirling, his mind driven to adrenaline-charged razor awareness, Goose noted the starred hole that had formed on the windshield, then heard the heavier 7.62mm report of Tanaka’s M-24 sniper rifle roll into the gap around the road.

  As he died, the driver fired a pistol round that punctured the station wagon’s roof and the jerry can on top. The jerry can exploded in a seething mass of hungry orange and yellow flames that spread across the top of the vehicle. The second can, already propelled by the first can’s explosion, detonated in midair. A sheet of flames arced over two of the Rangers standing ahead of the vehicle to the left. Both soldiers hit the ground and rolled to extinguish the flames that clung to their fatigues and helmets.

  The heat wave generated by the blast hammered Goose. Through tearing eyes, he stared through the pool of flames that clung to the station wagon. Flames poured down over the vehicle’s side and formed fiery puddles on the ground.

  The third terrorist was fumbling for the door.

  The battered CIA agent screamed, “Kill him! Kill him!”

  Managing to hit the door release, the terrorist vaulted from the Subaru and ran. He pulled a sat-phone from his pocket even as he brandished a 9mm pistol in his other hand. The man hit the dirt and crawled for cover.

  “Kill him!” the CIA agent yelled from inside the burning car.

  Goose transferred his M-4A1 to his right arm and pushed himself up. The car blocked his line of fire. He ran toward the station wagon. The windshield, covered in flames, imploded and blew back over the body of the dead driver. Fire rushed into the vehicle’s interior.

  Ducking to avoid the tongue of flame that spat from the open passenger door, Goose reached into the burning car and hooked a hand inside the agent’s elbow. He yanked the man from the vehicle, nearly sending both of them sprawling before getting his feet under him.

  Bill rushed in and grabbed the agent’s other arm. They had to drag him back from the burning Subaru because his feet were taped together.

  “You’ve got to get that guy!” the agent yelled hoarsely. Fresh blood trickled from his split lips and broken nose. Bruises showed all across his face.

  “Our mission is to get you out of here alive. That’s our first priority.” Something else in the car blew, sending waves of blistering heat over them. Goose quit talking and helped Bill drag the guy farther from the flames.

  “Take it easy,” Goose said. He stood, cradling the M-4A1 and looking for the terrorist.

  Bill flipped a combat knife from his LCE and slid the sharp blade through the duct tape securing the man’s ankles and wrists.

  The agent reached for the tape covering his eyes but couldn’t manage to pull the strips from his face. The binding at his wrists had been tight enough to cut off his circulation, and his hands probably remained numb. Goose knew that when the man started to get the feeling back he was going to be in a world of hurt.

  The terrorist was out of sight, invisible in the cloud of black smoke spewing from the burning station wagon.

  “Don’t you understand me?” the agent bellowed. He tried a couple different languages while Bill pulled at the duct tape over his eyes.

  “We understand you,” Goose replied. “We’re U.S. Army Rangers. With the 75th out of Fort Benning. Our mission is to get you out safe. Why do we have to kill him? Give me a good reason to risk my men to do it, now that we’ve done what we came here to do.” As a soldier, Goose had killed, but always to protect himself or others. He had never killed indiscriminately or allowed any man under his command to do so.

  The agent blinked his eyes against the harsh sunlight. Tears rolled down his dusty cheeks. “That man will transmit to the Syrian forces. They’ll know you’ve saved me. They know that I know they’re planning to launch a major offensive against the Turkish and U.N. forces, especially the American military. If he gets his message through, they’ll launch that strike immediately. Your refusal to kill him will take away days and hours we might have had to prepare.”

  Fear raced through Goose. He’d known something was up on the border. He’d felt it in his bones.

  “Three,” Goose said as he threw himself in pursuit.

  “I’ve got him,” Tanaka replied.

  The wind changed. The terrorist materialized out of the concealing smoke with the sat-phone clasped tightly against his head. Then he spun, his legs flaring out wildly as he fought to keep his balance. The phone against his head went to pieces. Blood showed on his hand. He turned just as the sound of Tanaka’s sniper rifle slammed across the sound of the burning car.

  The wind carried the twisting black smoke across Goose’s vision, smudging the sight of the terrorist as he raised his pistol. The station wagon exploded, bits of it launching into the air, its body buckling into a wrenched mass of flaming metal.

  Goose twisted into a profile stance, offering the smallest target possible to the terrorist. He flicked the M-4A1’s fire selector over to a three-round burst. “Put the weapon down!” he ordered. “We’re the United States Army! Throw down your weapon and step away!”

  Instead, the terrorist screamed in rage and opened fire.

  One round slapped against Goose’s Kevlar-lined helmet. It hit hard enough to knock his head to one side like he’d caught a punch from a professional boxer. The bullet ricocheted from the helmet, though. Goose took a half step to the right to recover. His sights on the terrorist never wavered. He squeezed the trigger, aiming for the kill zone.

  The terrorist staggered backward just as the report from Tanaka’s sniper weapon echoed around Goose. It was over.

  Goose assigned Williams and Clark to secure the third terrorist’s body and confirm the kill, then turned back to the CIA agent.

  The agent stood with difficulty, leaning heavily on Bill. Holding his assault rifle in one hand, Bill put his other arm around the man’s waist to support him.

  Flipping over to the secure command frequency, Goose said, “Phoenix Base, this is Phoenix Leader.”

  “Go, Leader. Base reads you.”

  “Can you confirm the story we’re getting here?”

  “Affirmative, Leader,” Remington said in a cool voice. “My translator at this end tells me the man was telling someone that the group had been attacked by American Rangers.”

  “W
as he alerting Syrian forces or the PKK?” Goose asked. He thought of his team. The front line was only seven klicks away, but suddenly it felt like a million miles.

  “He was transmitting a warning, Leader,” Remington said. “We haven’t been able to confirm the destination of the signal. There wasn’t time to get a lock on it.”

  “Did he get through?”

  “We don’t know.”

  United States of America

  Fort Benning, Georgia

  Local Time 11:21 P.M.

  Megan Gander stabbed a hand out, palmed the handset, and had the cordless phone to her ear between the first and second ring. The real trick was being awake and semicoherent by the time the chill plastic touched her ear and cheek.

  Her thoughts flew immediately to Joey. She’d fallen asleep on the couch waiting for him to get home. She looked at her watch. Joey had a 9 P.M. curfew on school nights, and he knew it. It was way too late for her boy to be out. Her anger came awake with her, and she was ready to unload on her seventeen-year-old son if he was calling with any excuse as to why he hadn’t been home at curfew.

  If Goose were home, Joey wouldn’t push his luck so hard, she thought, and at the same moment she prayed the call wasn’t from the police to tell her something had happened to Joey. Or from the army, telling her something had happened to Goose.

  That was her second thought as she awoke. Maybe the call was about Goose. Her husband had sounded calm and casual during their phone conversation the previous day, and she knew he wouldn’t call her late at night or during her scheduled shift at the base’s counseling center. Goose was just that way. No matter what time zone he was in, Goose always knew what time it was in her world and what she had going on.

  Just as she thought the call might be about Goose, she dismissed the possibility. While Goose thought things might heat up along the Turkish-Syrian border, he’d assured her that nothing had happened yet. And if something had happened to Goose, there would have been a uniformed officer at her door to inform her, not some impersonal phone call.