Apocalypse Dawn Read online

  “Megan Gander,” she said, then covered the mouthpiece while she cleared the sleep from her voice.

  “Megan, this is Helen Cordell.”

  “Yes, Helen. What can I do for you?” Helen Cordell was the current night shift supervisor at the counseling center where Megan worked. Megan sat up on the living-room couch. She wore pink sweats that were a favorite of hers from her high school days eighteen years earlier. Other than during her two pregnancies, her size had never changed. She’d been gifted with a fast metabolism and worked hard to stay in shape. She and Goose shared mutual interests in tennis and hiking, as well as other team sports supported on base, and that helped make scheduling activities easy.

  “I know it’s not your scheduled shift,” Helen said, “but we have a situation.”

  “It’s no problem. I was just grabbing a nap.” Megan got up and moved through the small three-bedroom base house she and Goose had filled with comfortable furniture and personal items. She walked past the master bedroom and down the hall to Joey’s room. “I’d have been up anyway in a few minutes.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s my son, Joey.” Megan opened the door and peeked into the room. The room was a mess—the walls covered with posters of extreme sports icons in midstunt, CDs scattered everywhere, and schoolbooks gathering dust on the small rolltop desk Goose had given the boy as a birthday present a few years ago. The bed was empty. “It’s past curfew and my teenager still hasn’t made it home.” Megan walked to the other bedroom. “He was supposed to be home by nine. If he’s not home by midnight, I get to go out and look for him.”

  “Now I really hate having to call you,” Helen said. “I know how nerve-wracking it is waiting up on a teenager. I’ve done that myself.”

  “I know. Joey wouldn’t pull something like this if Goose was at home.” Megan eased her other son’s door open.

  Chris lay swaddled in blankets featuring his favorite cartoon heroes. He slept on the top bunk of the bunk bed, which he’d had to have because “sometimes me and Daddy like to have guy time to play video games and watch videos and stuff-like-that-PLEASE-Mom.”

  The night-light on the dresser bathed him in soft golden illumination that highlighted the wheat-colored hair he’d gotten from his father. The night-light was a scene that showed Jesus with a shepherd’s crook telling stories to a group of children gathered at his feet. It had been a gift from Bill Townsend, who sometimes spent the night with them at the base when the weather turned bad or when he and Goose had to make an early morning jump. On those nights, Bill read to Chris from the big book of children’s Bible stories he had bought for the boy, giving the characters unique voices that delighted Chris and left him imitating Bill for days.

  It helped knowing that Bill and Goose had each other over in Turkey. But who do you have, Joey? Megan couldn’t help but wonder.

  “Maybe this can wait,” Helen suggested.

  Megan sighed. She knew she wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep. Worrying about Goose and Joey was getting to be too much, and that wasn’t even taking into consideration the caseload she was currently working at the counseling center.

  “If you called this late,” Megan said, “I know you thought it was important. Now spill.”

  “Gerry Fletcher is in the infirmary,” Helen said.

  Megan’s stomach lurched. Gerry Fletcher was one of the special projects Megan had taken into her heart. Helen was well aware of that. Everyone connected to the counseling center—half the base—was aware of that.

  For the last fourteen months, since Private Boyd Fletcher had moved to Fort Benning with his wife and son to become a Ranger, Megan had been aware of the abuse Gerry underwent. Most of it, she’d gathered, had been psychological in nature: unkind words, sarcastic comments, anything to wreck the eleven-year-old boy’s self-esteem.

  But occasionally there had been bruises on Gerry’s arms and legs and shoulders. None had ever shown up on the boy’s face, though. Boyd Fletcher had evidently declared Gerry’s face off-limits.

  Megan had tried several times to get Gerry out of the home. She’d failed. No one had ever seen Boyd Fletcher punish Gerry in any way. Gerry was, according to staff at the base schools, one of the best students a teacher could hope for.

  Megan had urged Gerry to come forward with what happened. No dice. He always smiled at her and tell her that he was just “accidentprone.” Boyd Fletcher had refused steadfastly to talk to her, other than the one time he had been ordered to by the base commander.

  Gerry had gone more than a month without a bruise after that; then he’d suffered a devastating bicycle wreck that had broken his left arm. Or so Gerry and Boyd had claimed. Somehow, though, the wreck hadn’t taken any skin off the boy’s knees or elbows the way such an accident normally would have. When Megan had asked for another interview with Boyd Fletcher, the base commander had denied it, telling Megan he would only enforce such a visit if she could offer proof of physical abuse.

  It had gotten so hard going through channels that Megan had gone to Goose with the situation months ago. That was something she almost never did. He had listened and soothed her because he was Goose and that was what he did. However, during the past months, until Goose’s unit had been pulled out to reinforce the Turkish troops, Gerry had seemed to relax and even be happy most days. Megan couldn’t prove it, and she wouldn’t ask, but she felt certain Goose had done something to affect the situation in the Fletcher household.

  “How is he?” Megan asked.

  “Bruised. Shaken up. He says he was outside on the roof with his telescope. He says he slipped and fell.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “The doctor says he’s dislocated his shoulder, but the physical pain is only part of it. That’s one scared little guy, Megan,” Helen said. “Gerry doesn’t want his dad to know.”

  “Where’s his father?” Megan always thought of Boyd Fletcher as Gerry’s father. A dad was someone like Goose, someone who cared.

  “At home.”

  “Does he know Gerry’s in the hospital?”

  “No. Gerry’s with Dr. Carson.”

  Megan relaxed a little. Thank You, God, for that. Craig Carson was a friend and one of the best pediatricians on the base.

  “Dr. Carson and I are electing to have a busy night and phone trouble until you get a chance to see Gerry,” Helen said. “If you want to come in to see him, that is.”

  “Of course I want to see him,” Megan said. “I’ll be right there.”

  3

  Turkey

  39 Klicks Southeast of Sanliurfa

  Local Time 0643 Hours

  Belted in tight, Goose sat in the shotgun seat of the Ranger Special Operations Vehicle. The vehicle’s powerful diesel engine growled as the all-terrain tires dug into the sand and propelled the team across the desert back toward the Turkish-Syrian border.

  Based on the Land Rover Defender Model 110, the RSOV offered seats all the way around that faced outward rather than forward, giving passengers 360-degree visibility. The Rangers had adopted the vehicles after the Gulf War. With ten inches of clearance, heavy-duty suspension, and four-wheel drive, the RSOV was a mover and shaker on a cross-country run.

  Tanaka drove while Clark handled the top gunner position where the M-249 SAW was mounted. Bill sat with the CIA agent on the rear deck, which was the most protected point on the RSOV. Williams and Cusack occupied side seats. The rest of the Ranger unit rode in a second RSOV. Both vehicles charged and leaped across the broken terrain.

  Goose scanned the countryside continuously. Nothing else appeared to be moving on the desert. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the CIA agent staring apprehensively south to the border.

  “Phoenix Leader,” Remington said.

  “Go, Base,” Goose responded. “Leader reads you.”

  “Do you have a headset on Special Project?”

  “Affirmative, Base. Special Project, do you copy?”

  “I copy,” the agent
replied.

  “I’m Captain Cal Remington, son. I’m glad we were able to get you out of there in one piece.”

  “So am I. Until your guys showed up, I thought I was dead.”

  “You probably would have been. They tell me you’re the main reason Chaim Rosenzweig isn’t lying in a box right now.”

  “I suppose so, sir.”

  Goose listened to Remington work. In a few short sentences, Remington had managed to remind the agent what he owed the Rangers, and Remington in particular, while at the same time acknowledging the agent’s potential worth. Goose didn’t always agree with the captain’s methods, but they were effective.

  “I need to know about the offensive the Syrians have planned, Son,” Remington said.

  The agent hesitated. “Is Section Chief Cody there, Captain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could I speak to him?”

  “This is a military operation,” Remington said. “Mr. Cody has been sidelined for the moment.”

  Sidelined? Goose thought. More likely Cody had been thrown out by his boot heels. If the Rangers had known there was a chance that a transmission might result in a Syrian attack, they would have handled the rescue mission differently. The CIA section chief hadn’t been up front with them, and Goose knew Remington wouldn’t have stood for that. Cody had probably been cleared from HQ in that moment.

  “The information I have is sensitive,” the agent said.

  “If the Syrians are planning to attack the Turks and the company I’ve got stationed there, I can guarantee you, no one is going to be more sensitive than me.”

  “With all due respect, sir, the information is highly classified.”

  “Let me ask you a question, Son. If the bullets start flying across that border in the next few minutes, are we going to be seeing dead CIA agents hitting the sand? Or dead Rangers? My dead Rangers.”

  The agent still hesitated.

  Looking back at the man, Goose noticed how young he was. Surely no more than a handful of years older than Joey, probably less than that. It was strange to realize. Joey still fought and complained about taking out the trash, and this agent had been responsible for penetrating a terrorist cell and preventing the assassination of an international figure.

  “Rangers, sir,” the agent replied. His voice broke and Goose felt a little sorry for him. When he glanced back over his shoulder, he saw that Bill had a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

  “If you can,” Remington said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d help me save some of those Rangers, Son. The same way we saved you.”

  For a moment, the RSOV’s engine droned into the silence that followed Remington’s plea.

  “I guess Section Chief Cody told you it took a long time to gain the PKK’s trust,” the agent stated.

  “Almost a year,” Remington agreed.

  “The reason they let me in was because I crack software. I don’t know if you realize this, Captain, but hackers aren’t the real deal when it comes to penetrating firewalls and security countermeasures surrounding computer systems.”

  “I work with intelligence,” Remington replied. “I know the difference between crackers and hackers.”

  Goose checked his watch. The Chase-Durer Combat Command Automatic Chronograph had been a gift from Megan and the kids. The watch was solid and heavy, and its cost had been excessive when matched against the family budget. But Megan had insisted on giving it to him, especially since he was gone from home so much these days. As first sergeant, time was always a consideration, so he was always looking at the watch, always thinking of the family he left at home.

  Now, though, Goose felt time working against him. He figured they could be no more than five minutes out from the front line.

  “I impressed the men I was with,” the CIA agent went on. “I managed to crack into several security areas that held Chaim Rosenzweig’s movements and finally located the target in Jerusalem. Thankfully, I was also able to alert the agency team there to set up the intercept. I don’t think Rosenzweig or his people even knew he was in danger.”

  “Why didn’t you shake loose then?” Remington said.

  “Because while I was inside the hotel system, using the computer the PKK cell had given me to use, I found out they had another man on me, piggybacking every move I made.”

  “They made you?”

  “Yes, sir. I think so. I don’t know how far back they made me. Maybe the day I stepped into the cell. In order to crack Rosenzweig’s security, I had to use agency resources. Every time I was inside the system using the tools I keep stashed there, the PKK cracker was shadowing me. I discovered him two weeks before the assassination attempt was scheduled.”

  “He found out information about the agency?” Remington asked.

  “Yes. In the beginning.”

  Goose waited for the other shoe to drop.

  “That wasn’t the guy’s major interest, though,” the agent said.

  “What was?”

  “The United States Army buildup along the Turkish-Syrian border.”

  Cold dread spread across Goose’s back, neck, and shoulders. He remained calm and quiet, letting Remington handle the questions because he knew the captain would be asking the same things he would.

  “What did they get?” Remington asked.

  “Everything,” the agent answered. “They know where the U.S. military forces are, and they know where the Turkish forces are. Exact locations.”

  Goose glanced at Bill, knowing the man could overhear the conversation even though he wasn’t linked to the frequency through the headset. Bill looked grim but he didn’t say anything.

  “I tried backtracking the guy,” the agent said. “I put a trace on him through the sat-com relays I was using, a relatively simple snooper program that masks itself as a digital enhancement viewer. Using the information I received through a dozen traces, I triangulated the guy’s location through ground-based satellite relays.”

  “Where was it?”

  “In Aleppo, Syria. Do you know where that is?”

  “I know where Aleppo is,” Remington said.

  Goose digested that. Aleppo housed the Syrian Missile Command. They had three mobile surface-to-surface missile brigades there that included one battalion of FROG-7 surface-to-surface missiles and one battalion of SS-1 SCUD-B missiles.

  The FROG-7s were unguided rockets but capable of carrying nuclear, chemical, or biological payloads seventy kilometers in from their point of launch. The SCUDs had limited guidance systems that made them somewhat reliable but certainly more dangerous than the FROG-7s.

  “When did you know for sure the cell had made you?” Remington asked.

  The agent took a deep, shuddering breath, then knuckled fresh blood from the corner of his mouth. Goose believed the young man might have a cracked rib. If it had punctured a lung, thankfully the arterial flow seemed minimal, only coloring his breath now and again.

  “The minute the assassination started to go badly,” the agent said, “I was locked down by the three men your team rescued me from. After the sweep, they were the only ones left standing. They took a ship around Syria, sailing from Israel to Turkey so they wouldn’t draw attention to themselves. They knew the U.S. military was observing the coastal cities and didn’t want to take a chance on someone identifying me.”

  “Why didn’t they kill you?”

  “Killing me would have been simpler. But they wanted to use me to continue digging into military placements around the Turkish border. We sailed to Izmir, then took a car to Ankara to one of the safe houses they had set up. I suppose the agency picked me up there and told you.”

  Goose watched the southern horizon. Tension knotted his stomach. If the Syrians had the information they needed to attack the border armies, and they knew the CIA agent they’d been waiting for was now in American hands, there was nothing holding them—

  “Phoenix Leader,” Remington said.

  “Go, Base,” Goose responded.

 
; “I need you to delay your return to the front lines.”

  Goose bridled at that. The last place he needed to be during the coming engagement—an engagement he had unknowingly triggered by rescuing this CIA agent—was away from the front line.

  “But, sir—”

  “That’s an order, Sergeant,” Remington barked. “I want you and your team to head to Glitter City. You’ll need to take control of the evacuation there.”

  Goose glanced at his watch, thought of Megan, Joey, and Chris, and did the necessary math. He was three minutes from Glitter City and ten minutes from the front line.

  Glitter City was basically a tent city built of Quonset huts and leftover buildings from small towns that had been bombed and shelled out of existence years ago during border hostilities. It was located halfway between the border and Sanliurfa. During the past few weeks, as armament on both the Turkish and Syrian sides had built up, reporters from FOX News and CNN had taken up transitory residence in the tent city, becoming media nomads reporting on soldiers in the field, weaponry, political and sociological issues, and the possibility of war or peace.

  During the previous weeks, at Remington’s insistence, Goose had done two interviews. He hadn’t enjoyed doing them. So far, as near as he could tell, neither of the pieces had aired. Which was fine with him, though he considered the possibility that he wasn’t very interesting or very photogenic. Maybe he was just too boring for TV. Still, he and Megan had enjoyed a laugh about them. She had threatened to tape them and play them at family gatherings.

  “Sir,” Goose said, curbing his impatience and his anger because he knew Remington maintained a no-fly zone for those emotions, “Sergeant Michaels can take care of the evacuation. His qualifications—”

  “Make the adjustment now, Sergeant,” Remington said. “That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir.” Stung, Goose gave Tanaka the order, then reset the GPS heading himself while Tanaka made the course correction. “New course has been laid in, Captain.”