Apocalypse Dawn (35 page)

Turning from the dead men, Goose headed for the side cargo door. The headset was filled with constant chatter, squads talking over each other, somehow managing to pause and listen and swap the information each needed to get through. Through the myriad voices, some of which he recognized as men from his own companies, Goose missed Bill Townsend’s voice with agonizing awareness.

Before he stepped outside the helo, Goose spotted Dean Hardin twenty feet away. Hardin was crouched over the broken body of a Marine who had evidently tumbled from one of the helos during a midair collision. At first, Goose thought the corporal was only making certain the man was beyond help.

Hardin squatted with his assault rifle across his thighs. His head moved like the heads of squirrels back in Waycross did when they sensed a predator was in the area. That instinctive wariness on Hardin’s part froze Goose in place, triggering the hunter’s skills his father had drilled into him from the time he was eight.

Working quickly, Hardin went through the dead man’s pockets. The corporal scattered personal items from the Marine’s belongings like chaff. Money quickly found its way into a cloth bag tied around Hardin’s neck and tucked into his shirt. Other things quickly followed as Hardin went through familiar motions.

A murderous, cold rage filled Goose. The emotion was an alien thing, something he had never felt before, even in the middle of a firefight. Before he knew it, he was out the cargo door and striding across the missile-blasted ground. His boots scattered aircraft pieces. He didn’t know what he was going to say to the Ranger corporal, but by the time he realized that, it was too late.

Hardin heard Goose’s approach. He pushed himself up, unsheathing a knife from his boot in a liquid flash of metal.

Goose didn’t believe the corporal knew whom he was turning to face, only that someone had seen him stealing from the dead. Getting caught while robbing a fellow soldier, especially a dead one who had given his life for his country and his fellow soldiers, could put a man behind bars in Leavenworth for the rest of his life.

Hardin turned with the knife in his fist and every intention of fighting for his life.

Only Goose’s reflexes, honed from years of battles and training, saved his life. He lifted the M-4A1 to block the knife, heard the heavy blade slam into the underside of the rifle’s barrel, and felt the vibration of the blow jar along his arms. If he hadn’t blocked the wicked knife slash, he felt certain that Hardin would have cut his throat.

Hardin spun away, flipping the knife expertly to his left hand in a motion so quick that most people wouldn’t have noticed. His eyes blazed with wolfish intensity and hunger. Then he feinted with his right hand and swept the blade toward Goose in an effort to disembowel him. No remorse showed on the corporal’s hard face. Fear tightened his sweat-slick features.

Moving quickly, Goose evaded the knife blow but felt the keen edge sheer through his uniform blouse below the combat vest. The cruel kiss of the knife blade licked fire across his belly but didn’t let him know how badly he’d been injured. He stepped back, creating space, remembering even as Hardin launched a boot at his face that the man was also skilled in martial arts.

Hardin’s boot caught Goose along his jaw with explosive force that snapped his head around, filled his mouth with blood, and dropped him to his knees dazed. He lost the assault rifle and didn’t have time to look for the weapon before Hardin slashed at him again.

Goose fell back out of the way, only inches from death, and swung his right leg around to kick Hardin’s feet from under him. The corporal landed face-first on the ground, growled foul curses, and tried to push himself up.

Forcing himself to move, Goose caught Hardin’s right wrist in his own right hand, then grabbed a fistful of the corporal’s hair in his left. He threw his weight on top of Hardin’s head, banging the man’s face into the ground. The knife came loose and Goose knocked the blade way, watching it skitter under the helicopter he’d stepped from. Goose wasn’t formally trained in martial arts as Hardin was, but he was no stranger to physical confrontations. Back in Waycross, he’d been an all-star wrestler in high school. Once a fight progressed to the ground, as most did, he was in his element. He started running his opponent’s body, looking for a hold that would allow him to incapacitate the man.

Hardin’s left elbow came back unexpectedly and caught Goose in the face. More blood gushed from his nose, and his eyes filled with tears. Before Goose could recover, Hardin squirmed out from under him and sprang for his assault rifle.

Pushing himself up, Goose reached forward and caught Hardin’s foot, tripping the man and sending him sprawling again. Hardin still managed to grab his M-4A1 and roll over onto his back, trying desperately to pull the barrel in line.

Already moving forward, knowing his life was measured in a fraction of the scant time between frantic heartbeats, Goose grabbed the assault rifle’s barrel in his right hand and deflected the sudden stream of 5.56mm rounds that spewed forth. The string of reports echoed over the landscape and voices barked out, demanding to know what was going on.

Still holding the heated barrel, knowing the metal could sear his flesh if he held on too long, Goose fell on top of Hardin and hammered at the man with his left hand. He punched the corporal in the face three times, feeling the solid impacts of flesh against flesh. Hardin yowled in pain, then released the assault rifle so he could better block Goose’s brutal attack.

Part of Goose knew that he was out of control. A sergeant wasn’t supposed to fight with a man of lesser rank, was never supposed to lay hands on a man of lesser rank in anger. He should have pointed his weapon at Hardin and ordered the man to put his own weapons down, then placed Hardin under arrest.

But catching Hardin looting the dead had been too much. Those Marines had given their lives in an effort to come to the 75th Regiment’s aid. Watching Hardin steal from them, stripping away the Rangers’ dignity, had pushed Goose over the line between civilian and savage that existed within every battle-seasoned soldier.

Goose’s breath drew harsh and ragged, burning and drying the back of his throat. Despite his punishing assault, Hardin got his hands up to block, then fired the Y between his left thumb and forefinger into Goose’s throat. For a moment, Goose thought Hardin had shattered his larynx. He choked, couldn’t get his breath, and sagged back. Hardin lifted a foot and kicked him in the face.

Overpowered by the kick, Goose rolled backwards, managing to turn the effort into an ugly shoulder roll that was still good enough to bring him to his feet. Hardin was on his feet as well, already in midkick. Goose kept his hands in close, feeling his opponent rain blow after blow into him. His arms kept the punches and kicks from his face, and the Kevlar vest prevented most of the damage to his midsection.

Without warning, Hardin turned, evidently giving up on the idea of chopping Goose down. When the corporal shifted, Goose snaked his left hand out, caught the man by the right shoulder, and spun him around. He stepped forward and drove his right fist in a short, tight arc, twisting his hips to get all his weight behind the blow.

The punch caught Hardin in the middle of his face and lifted him off his feet. Before the corporal could steady himself, Goose raked the M9/Model 92F pistol from his hip holster, cupped his left hand under his right in a modified Weaver stance, and aimed at Hardin’s head.

“Don’t,” Goose said in a cold voice. He somehow managed to keep himself from shaking with anger or from exhaustion. He was in no-man’s-land as far as the mission went, somewhere deep in the Twilight Zone because of the way Bill and all the other missing soldiers had disappeared, and in uncharted territory in dealing with his command. Never before had he ever drawn a weapon on a teammate with the full intention of killing the man if he didn’t listen.

Hardin’s eyes blinked and Goose could see the calculations flickering in the man’s mind.

“You’re a dead man if you do,” Goose promised. “I swear to God, Hardin, I’ll put a round through your head and drop you like a rock.”

Cursing, Hardin lay back on the ground and kept his arms outstretched.

Two Rangers from Lieutenant Wake’s Charlie Company rounded the downed CH-46E. Both men had their assault rifles tucked muzzle down toward the ground and butt plates resting against the upper right shoulders, ready to open fire and ride the recoil up any target that presented itself.

Goose stood with effort. Blood coated his mouth, and he spat a blob of it onto the dry land.

“Sarge?” Private First Class Darrell Walker stared at Goose. He was twenty years old and new to the Rangers. He’d been recruited only a few weeks out of regular army boot camp for his computer skills.

“Arrest this man, Private,” Goose commanded. “I want him held under separate guard back at the triage.”

Walker hesitated, as did the other Ranger.

Goose put steel in his voice. “That was an order, Private.” Command came when there wasn’t time or resources for explanations, and Goose didn’t want to talk about the situation till after he’d conferred with Cal Remington.

“All right, Sarge.” Walker crossed to Hardin and offered to help the man to his feet.

Hardin shook the offer off and stood with overstated ease. “I don’t know why you attacked me, Sergeant Gander,” he stated.

Goose looked at him. “Yeah, you do.”

“Whatever you think you saw,” Hardin said, “that wasn’t what was going on.”

“Private Walker,” Goose said.

“Sarge?” Walker bound Hardin’s hands behind him with a pair of disposable cuffs. Ranger scout teams carried them in case they had to take prisoners while working point.

“Corporal Hardin has a pouch around his neck. I want it.”

Hardin struggled, but the effort was only token resistance. Goose kept his pistol trained on the man while Walker cut the pouch free, then tossed over the bag.

Goose caught the pouch, leathered his sidearm, and examined the contents. A sheaf of money nearly two inches thick sat inside. There were also rings and bracelets and watches. Dizziness from his injuries, the heat, and everything he’d been through for the past two hours swept over him like a tidal wave.

“I saw what I saw,” Goose said.

Hardin wiped his chin on his shoulder. “You’re making a big mistake.” Naked menace anchored the corporal’s words.

“Private Walker.”

“Yes, First Sergeant,” Walker replied immediately, reacting to the tone in Goose’s voice.

“Get that man out of my sight,” Goose ordered.

“Yes, First Sergeant.” Walker got on one side of Hardin, and the other Ranger mirrored him. Together, the two privates marched Hardin away.

Goose took another look at the contents of the pouch. He didn’t understand how Bill Townsend could be gone, other men could be dead, and someone like Corporal Dean Hardin could be up walking around. The fact didn’t make sense. He knew he’d never get the image of Hardin hanging over the dead Marine, picking his pockets clean like a carrion eater working the bones of roadkill. Before he knew the nausea was going to hit, Goose was doubled over and throwing up.

After the gut-wrenching attack passed, Goose didn’t know if the reaction was triggered by the inhalation of smoke, the stink of the blood and dead bodies, or the fact that he had pulled a weapon on a fellow Ranger. And been prepared to use it. The thought remained as sharp and as bitter as the sour taste in his mouth.

He stared up at the blue sky in an effort to center himself. Black smoke stained the clouds and made the air taste thick and acrid. The world had changed, and he somehow knew that things could never go back to the way they had been.

He said a quick prayer, not knowing what to ask for other than his family’s safety and the safety of the soldiers who faced death along the TurkishSyrian border. He found his helmet on the ground, pulled it on his head, and got back to the job he knew and had devoted so much of his life to. Men were left to be saved, supplies salvaged, and plans laid.

And they still had no idea what shape the Syrians were in or if the mysterious vanishings had taken their toll among that army as well. For all they knew, without the satellite communications, the Syrian army was at full strength or had even been the cause of the disappearances.

United States 75th Rangers 3rd Battalion

Field Command Post

Staring at the mild-mannered, blond young man on the notebook computer’s LCD screen, Cal Remington was surprised to see that Nicolae Carpathia, president of Romania as of yesterday, looked very ordinary. Carpathia was thirty-three years old, broadchested and photogenic in a pleasant sort of way rather than having movie-star good looks. He moved with compact, athletic grace but acted reserved and interested. While CIA Section Chief Alexander Cody had been arrang ing the satphone/video cam conference call, Remington had gone through intel files that were locked into his personal computer.

Carpathia’s name had been in the news a lot lately, especially as a diplomat promoting the increase of U.N. peacekeeping efforts, but Remington had never thought that Carpathia would be on a firstname basis with a CIA section chief.