Apocalypse Crucible (6 page)

“Yes?” The voice at the other end of the connection was dry as ash. The deadpan tone was uninflected, neutral, and impossible to place. The owner of the voice was a man named Radu Stolojan. At least, that was the name Danielle had come to know him by. She wasn’t convinced that it was his real name, just as she wasn’t convinced that the man ever needed to sleep. Whenever she called, he was there, always aware of her situation.

“This is Danielle Vinchenzo.”

“Of course it is,” Stolojan replied. “This
is
your appointed line.” If he heard the artillery fire blasting into the city around them, he gave no indication.

“The Syrians have just attacked the city.”

“I know. I watched them approach.”

“And you didn’t think to call?” Danielle choked back a curse. She’d been interviewing military cooks who worked to feed the armies that had gathered inside the city. The attack had caught her by surprise.

“There was no need to call,” Stolojan replied smoothly. “I knew that if the Syrians chose to attack, you would know soon enough. You are in the middle of the fight, after all.”

Danielle cursed as she stared at the corpses lying across the street. A rapid burst of gunfire—from a .50-caliber machine gun she guessed from the way the targets jerked back under the drumming impacts—knocked two marines from the rooftop of the building across the street. Two stories below, both men smashed against the pavement. Neither man moved. If the armor-piercing bullets hadn’t killed them outright, the fall finished them off.

A trio of U.N. soldiers, distinctive in the bright blue helmets they wore, broke cover and raced out into the street. They dragged the marines back, securing holds on their load-carrying harnesses. Before they made the distance, the makeshift barricade that choked the street two blocks away and rendered it impassable to vehicles suddenly erupted. A huge rush of flames blew cars and tractors into the air while others skidded forward.

The ground shook beneath Danielle’s feet. Fear spun a ball of bile into the back of her throat as she heard the metallic screeches of the barricade sliding across the broken and pitted pavement. She dodged to the building’s side, flattening herself against the wall as a Volkswagen minivan wreathed in flames shuddered past her.

“Are you getting that?” Danielle yelled, turning toward Cezar. She didn’t know if she could be heard over the cacophony.

If Cezar heard Danielle, he didn’t respond. He knelt, camera to shoulder, and panned with the burning hulk of the Volkswagen as it roared past. A slipstream of embers and flaming pieces skipped after the vehicle. When the chips were down and the action was at its most intense, Cezar was the camera’s eye.

The rescue effort by the U.N. soldiers suddenly turned into tragedy, the mass of flying debris catching and scattering them like tenpins. Fire clung to the clothing of two of them, but neither moved, and Danielle felt quite certain that neither would move again.

“Medic!” one man shouted into the headset he wore. “
Medic!
”

“Have we got satellite access?” Danielle asked over her satphone.

“Of course,” Stolojan answered. “We are prepared to go live as soon as you begin broadcasting. I’ve already cleared you. Negotiations are underway even as we speak to run your piece on CNN and FOX News with a two-minute delay.”

The delay was supposed to inspire dedicated news watchers to switch over to the cable stations that carried OneWorld NewsNet as an alternative to local or national news. The violence in Turkey coupled with the disappearances that had taken place almost immediately afterward had guaranteed OneWorld a large share of the worldwide viewing public.

Nicolae Carpathia was—until a few days ago—a successful Romanian businessman worth millions. He owned OneWorld NewsNet. The day the war had broken out along the Turkish-Syrian border, the Romanian president in power at the time had stepped down from office and named Carpathia as his successor. In addition to running several corporations, the young Romanian power broker was now running a country.

And he is scheduled to speak to the United Nations,
Danielle reminded herself. She’d wanted to cover that meeting, knowing that—given the current situation—the talks would garner global interest, but the story of the men attempting to hold Sanliurfa against such untenable odds was impossible for her to resist. She’d stuck it out in the battle zone instead of breaking off to go to New York.

A Humvee marked with the Red Cross insignia roared down the street. The front bumper grazed the still-burning hulk of the Volkswagen, spinning the vehicle around a little as it passed.

The Humvee’s driver braked in front of the downed soldiers, providing a protective barrier between them and the open end of the street. Before the rescue vehicle rocked to a complete stop, four field medics leaped into action, breaking out gurneys and medkits. They shouted at each other, sorting out the quick and the dead. Another artillery round, probably from a tank, slammed into the barricade and threw more debris back over the street.

Danielle tapped Cezar’s shoulder to get his attention.

The cameraman turned around.

“On me,” Danielle instructed as she took the wireless microphone from her jacket pocket and clipped it to her collar. She keyed the power and tucked the earpiece into her other ear. When she ran her finger across the microphone, she heard the rasp that told her the mike was live. Despite the danger, she took off the Kevlar helmet and ran her free hand through her short-cropped hair, trusting that every strand would fall perfectly into place.

Cezar stood, brought up the camera, and focused on her.

Danielle moved so that she stood away from the shadow of the building. The burning Volkswagen gave off enough light for her to be clearly seen by viewers. The Humvee and the medical team could be seen in the background, illuminated by the flaming debris that lay scattered across the street.

“Cue live transmission,” Danielle said.

“Live transmission cued,” Stolojan replied. “Live in three … two … one … go.”

Cezar focused on her, framing her from the waist up so she could signal him with her left hand out of the camera’s view.

“Sanliurfa, Turkey,” Danielle said in a clear voice. The collar microphone was cutting-edge technology, and Stolojan and his crew at OneWorld NewsNet headquarters cleaned up all the audio transmission as the piece went out live. “Also called the City of Prophets because of the biblical history that played out here and in the outlying lands. For generations, armies have marched and warred through these mountains and across the plains. Tonight, a remnant force made up of U.S. Army Rangers, the United Nations Peacekeeping force, and the Turkish army stand together against a common foe.”

Stepping back, Danielle offered a better view of the rescue attempt by the medical team. She signaled Cezar with her left hand, letting the cameraman know to shift the focus to the struggling soldiers.

“Under siege from the Syrian army,” Danielle continued, “these troops have faced hardship after hardship. Only last night an air strike rocked the city, destroying buildings and supply warehouses and killing hundreds of citizens. These brave warriors have stood ready to defend the town against a ground attack. Now that attack is here.”

Artillery rockets lanced across the sky in the distance. Long tails of bright fire trailed them. Less than a moment later, the shells fell amid the city again.

Danielle waited until the rolling thunder passed. She had learned through hard experience that the attacks often came in waves. Signaling Cezar, she drew his attention to her again.

“Only moments ago, the Syrians apparently launched another major offensive.” Danielle pointed. “This is what remains of one of the barricades this city’s defenders have erected in the hopes of holding this place.”

Cezar panned from her to focus on the burning barricade. Gray smoke snaked up into the black sky. A dim yellow haze burned above the piles of rubble. An artillery shell plowed into one of the buildings, toppling the upper story down on the lower in a cascade of tumbling stone and mortar that washed out into the street.

“Prior to this attack,” Danielle said, “dead American soldiers were hurled into the city by the Syrian army.”

Growing braver as he lost himself in the camera work, Cezar stepped out from cover and focused on the corpse that had nearly come down on top of them.

“These men are not new casualties of tonight’s attack,” Danielle announced. “The dried blood on this man’s clothes is days old.” She signaled for the camera to return to her. “The only place the Syrian army could have gotten dead American soldiers is from the border action that took place three days ago. The U.S. Army Rangers pride themselves on never leaving a man behind, but during the evacuation of the Turkish-Syrian border, the 75th, commanded by Captain Cal Remington, was forced by the horrific circumstances to leave their dead behind. The Syrians are using our own dead as weapons against us.”

Another artillery shell crashed into the street behind her and created a huge crater. Chunks of pavement ricocheted from the nearby buildings.

“In past battles in this country,” Danielle went on after the din had abated a little, “armies would lay siege to fortresses and cities. They sometimes brought the bodies of their dead foes to toss over ramparts in an effort to spread disease within the ranks of their enemies.” She paused. “Tonight, there is no doubt that the Syrian army hopes to spread terror amidst the brave defenders of Sanliurfa using those same tactics.”

A quick signal to Cezar alerted him again.

Danielle pointed toward the burning barricade. “Somewhere out there in that rugged, mountainous terrain, the Syrian army is marching. In interviews, Captain Remington of the 75th Rangers out of Fort Benning, Georgia, has assured viewers that his team will stand firm and that the Syrians will not be able to take Sanliurfa. Tonight, his claim is being challenged.”

A fresh salvo of artillery shells slammed into the nearby buildings. Two buildings fell, tumbling in a widening rush of broken brick and shattered glass. The structures ceased to exist, becoming instead pools of debris.

Calling Cezar back to her, Danielle said, “This is Danielle Vinchenzo, reporting live from the front line in Sanliurfa, Turkey, for OneWorld NewsNet.” She signaled again.

Cezar pushed the camera focus past her to the rescue operation once more; then the camera light dimmed.

“You’re off the air,” Stolojan announced. “Good piece. I’m sure the producers will need more footage soon.”

Gunfire opened up all around Danielle. She stared at the barricade area. “I’ll get it,” she said. OneWorld Communications had no problem getting pushy about their news, and that was fine with her.

The harder they pushed, the more she was able to get out of her team.

“I take it the Syrians are on their way here?”

“Definitely,” Stolojan answered.

“You’ve been monitoring the city?” Danielle asked.

“Yes,” Stolojan assured her.

“Have you managed to keep a visual lock on Sergeant Gander?” OneWorld NewsNet’s satellite resources rivaled those of most modern nations. Besides being able to broadcast live news all around the world, they also had some of the best tracking satellites in the business. The corporation’s infrastructure had also seemed to be one of the most intact after the wave of mysterious disappearances had taken away a third of the world’s population. She hadn’t heard of any disappearances taking place within OneWorld’s offices.

“Yes. We lost the sergeant for a time, but quickly turned him up again. The sergeant has primarily been with his men.”

Goose Gander had become a focal point for OneWorld’s stories. Since she’d first accepted the job, Danielle had been told to stay close to Goose. Valerica Hergheligiu, the woman who had informed Danielle that OneWorld Communications had bought out her contract with FOX News, had pointed out that Sergeant Gander was exactly the kind of American hero that OneWorld NewsNet wanted to stick close to. As a result, the sergeant was gaining recognition, though he didn’t appear to be aware of it.

“Captain Remington, however, has been something more of a challenge,” Stolojan said.

Danielle knew from her own experiences that Remington was all but impossible to keep up with. During the last two days she’d tried desperately to deal with the man. The captain willingly granted interviews, even seemed to court them, but none of the media people presently working in Sanliurfa were able to keep him in their sights when he chose to vanish.

One of the CNN reporters based in Sanliurfa had voiced the rumor that Remington was searching for a rogue CIA team within the city. Or, he said, perhaps it was a double agent that had been within the PKK, the terrorist group known as the Kurdistan Workers’ Party. The story was too good to ignore, and it had been told and retold among the media, with the circumstances flipping back and forth, depending on who was telling the tale.

The selling point for the media was that the CIA might somehow have been involved with the Syrian decision to attack Turkey. If that was the case, the current war story was going to get even bigger. Chaim Rosenzweig’s invention of the synthetic fertilizer had turned Israel into a veritable Eden overnight and made it into an even more dynamic economic force that had unsettled the balance of power in the Middle East. There was some suspicion on part of the Arab nations that the United States, under President Fitzhugh, had had a hand in the development of that fertilizer.