Apocalypse Dawn (65 page)

“Marathon Leader, this is Blue Falcon Leader,” the Harrier pilot called.

Marathon Leader was Captain Remington’s call sign. The operation had been designated Marathon because of the long run the Rangers would have to do to get to Sanliurfa. The Turkish military had moved extra troops into the city to help hold the Syrians back until the next fallback to Diyarbakir could be arranged.

All we’ve got is forty klicks of bad road, Goose told himself. We can do forty klicks.

“Go Blue Leader,” Remington replied, “you have Marathon Leader.”

“Marathon Leader, be advised that the hostiles’ infantry and cav units are in motion.”

“Roger that, Blue Leader. Can you confirm twenty from the line?”

“Twenty from the line is ten klicks.”

“Roger ten klicks, Blue Leader. Marathon One, did you copy?”

“Affirmative,” Goose responded. “Marathon One copies. Roger ten klicks.”

If the Syrians were ten klicks out, Goose knew it wouldn’t take more than seven to ten minutes to cover the distance. He looked back over his shoulder at the mountain road the fleeing transports carrying the wounded had taken earlier in the day.

Goose couldn’t see any of the trucks, Jeeps, and Hummers that carried the wounded, but he knew they didn’t have a big enough lead to make an escape. If the drivers didn’t maintain a grueling pace, the approaching Syrians would quickly overtake them. And the same grueling pace they had to maintain might kill many of the injured.

At least when the Syrians got close to the border, the SCUD launchers would have to stop firing at them. But the medevac units would remain fair game for the missiles.

Six minutes later, the command post personnel radioed that the Syrian cav should be visible from the Rangers’ positions. That was the bad news. The good news was that the SCUD launches were down to practically nil. Between the attacks by the Marine wing and the probability that the Syrians had expended most of their arsenal the previous day, they obviously hadn’t had much to give.

Goose crawled to the ridgeline and peered over. Through the smoke and the dust haze, he spotted the front line of the approaching Syrian cavalry. The tanks and APCs looked monstrous in the darkness, briefly lit up as their cannon and machine guns opened fire. Orange gouts of flame rent holes in the darkness.

“Incoming!” someone yelled, and Goose didn’t know if someone else had yelled or if he was only hearing his own voice.

In the next instant, the cannon rounds impacted against the ridgeline. A few others exploded farther back behind Goose. A fresh wave of falling dirt and rock rained down over Goose’s back.

Then the line of advancing cav broke up as they hit the first of the M-18A1 claymores the Rangers had positioned in the area in front of the burned-out hulks of Syrian vehicles left from the initial attack yesterday. The mines slowed the tanks and APCs for a moment as the drivers feared broken treads or blown tires in the case of some of the APCs.

The Syrians had been expecting the traps there, Goose knew as he took out his night-vision binoculars, but the next layer was down and dirty, stuff that wasn’t found in the textbooks.

As the Syrian cav units stood down to send infantry ahead to search out the claymores that could cripple the APCs and tanks, Remington gave the order to begin the second wave of the evacuation.

The U.N. forces departed first, sagging from the middle of the confrontation zone as Remington had worked out. Even with all the casualties they’d had, the Rangers stood the best chance of surviving bringing up the rear. The U.N. forces hadn’t been bloodied as frequently or as harshly as the 75th, and the Turkish army was more equipped and trained to attack en masse rather than by small, swiftly moving special forces units.

The U.N. forces sped through the night, getting away smoothly in spite of the blistering attack that had taken place. If the Syrians hadn’t moved forward and forced the confrontation, Goose felt certain they could have made the retreat as easily as a practiced circus act.

The vehicles drove without lights because that would have drawn Syrian fire immediately. With the heavy dust and smoke streaming across the battlefield, the vehicle’s lights wouldn’t penetrate and would only blind the drivers. Small reflectors had been placed along the mountain road for the first five klicks, till the road disappeared up into the mountains high above the border.

The Syrian infantry advanced cautiously against the threat of the claymores. Using rifle-fired grappling hooks, they shot the heavy hooks into the area methodically, crisscrossing the lines and dragging the hooks back through. As they hit claymores, the explosion threw dirt and rock into the air. Occasionally, some of the Syrian soldiers were hit, but not often. Thousands of dollars of munitions were going up with nothing to be gained for it.

Except time, Goose reminded himself. Time was the one priceless commodity a soldier needed. The ability to control time was a dream.

The Syrians continued advancing, firing the grappling hooks, dragging them through the claymores, advancing, reloading, and firing again.

They were, Goose had to admit, remarkably efficient. In a handful of minutes, groups of men had cleared tank-wide paths through the open area to the maze of broken vehicles. The tanks and APCs inched forward, still comfortable out of range of the Rangers’ M-203s.

“Snipers,” Goose called.

The sniper teams along the ridgeline, composed mostly of Marines who had survived the crash of Wasp’s Marine wing responded.

“Targets,” Goose commanded. “Fire at will.”

Almost immediately, the snipers opened fire. The heavy reports of the 7.62mm rounds from the M-40 sniper rifles and the .50-cal cartridges from the Barrett popping off with measured cadence seemed barely noticeable after the thunder of the exploding SCUDs. The M 40s were ranged out to a thousand yards. The Marines handling the Barretts claimed hits had been confirmed out to a mile.

Syrian infantrymen dropped in their tracks. In less than a minute, the Syrian tanks locked down and started firing, punching rounds into the ridgeline. The Syrian infantrymen moved quickly through the remaining ground to the abandoned vehicles, thinking they were safe from the sniper fire as they continued searching for a way to the border.

“Marathon Fire Control,” Goose called. His voice sounded hollow and far away. Ringing rolled inside his ears from the explosions that had fallen all around him. “This is Marathon One.”

“Go, One. You have Fire Control.”

“Do you have your target?”

“Roger target, One. Fire Control is up, fully loaded, and hunting bear.”

Tension knotted Goose’s stomach. He stared down at the broken maze of shattered Syrian vehicles. The Rangers had taken as much fuel as they needed to get their own transport back to Sanliurfa and hadn’t tried to carry any extra. If they made Sanliurfa, the objective and the necessity would be to hold the city, not abandon it immediately.

With that operating parameter in mind, the Rangers had devised crude napalm bombs using the leftover fuel from the downed aircraft that hadn’t exploded or ruptured their tanks. Aviation gas was the most combustible liquid they had. While they had been filling jerry cans with salvaged gas from the Syrian vehicles, they had also been refilling those gas tanks with a mixture of aviation gas, detergent, and oil from the motor pools of the Rangers, U.N. forces, and Turkish army. Adding remote-control detonators and wiring them to go off in select areas gave them an added arsenal.

With the snipers driven back by the tank support cannonfire, the Syrian infantry moved deeper into the maze of vehicles. None of the soldiers seemed to notice that the vehicles had been positioned to lead to strategic locations.

“Fire Control,” Goose said, “light up the primary zones.”

“Fire in the hole, One.”

Goose dropped the night-vision binoculars so the incendiaries wouldn’t cause temporary blindness when magnified through the lenses.

The near-napalm, as the Rangers had termed the explosive mixture, detonated, blasting free of the constraining spaces where it had been held. Huge gouts of flaming liquid spewed through the air, covering several of the Syrian infantry.

Goose’s heart almost went out to the men. God help them, it was a horrible way to die. But he turned off his feelings. If the Syrians weren’t stopped here, at least for a while, they would roll over the Rangers, the U.N. forces, and the Turkish army. Not even the wounded had a chance of escaping. Goose knew they wouldn’t hesitate about killing everyone. After the bloodthirsty attack with the SCUDs yesterday morning, he knew there would be no Geneva Convention rules.

The battle was a basic one. The winners lived and the losers died.

Syrians covered in the sticky flames created by the mixture of fuel, oil, and detergent turned into human torches. Panicked, they ran in all directions. Some of them tripped claymores, proving that the threat still existed within the maze of vehicles.

Still, the Syrians regrouped and came inexorably forward. When the tanks were certain the claymores had been cleared, they rolled ponderously forward.

“Fire Control,” Goose called.

“Go, One.”

“Zone Two. Now.”

With the tanks and APCs in the heart of the maze, the secondary explosives, blocks of C-4, diesel fuel, and fertilizer, detonated from ground emplacements. The rolling cav halted again, but only for a moment. Evidently knowing they had no choice but to push on through, the tank commanders engaged again and rolled forward.

“Blue Falcon Leader,” Remington called. “17his is Marathon Leader.”

“Go, Leader. You have Blue Falcon.”

“You’re up.”

Goose glanced to the east and saw the few Harriers and Sea Cobras sweep in toward the tanks and APCs. The Marine wing had few bombs left after attacking the SCUD launch sites, but they unlimbered everything they had. The effect left several APCs and tanks disabled or heavily damaged.

“Marathon, this is Blue Leader. We’re tapped, guys, and running on fumes.”

“Get clear, Blue Leader,” Remington said. “Thanks for the assist.”

“I’ve heard that Rangers lead the way,” the pilot said in a gruff, friendly voice. “Didn’t know they stayed to close the door.”

“We’re a full-service corps,” Remington said.

“God keep you, Marathon. We’ll be waiting on you in Sanliurfa.”

The surviving Harriers and Sea Cobras turned north and disappeared into the black sky.

“One, this is Leader.”

“Go, Leader,” Goose responded.

“Let’s break it off by the numbers.”

Calmly, Goose called out the evacuation units, sending the Rangers into full retreat in waves. He was aware of the RSOVs, Hummers, and jeeps departing in an organized fashion. He stayed with Fire Control.

When the Syrian army hit the abandoned Ranger, Turkish, and U.N. vehicles, they hesitated. There were no claymores in front of the wrecked vehicles, but the near-napalm and C-4 was in place. Thunder and flames shredded the night again. When the tanks tried to rush through, they found claymores staggered and waiting on the other side that blew some of the treads.

“All right, Fire Control,’ Goose said. “We’re done here. Retreat.” He turned and stayed low, running across the broken ground.

The twenty Rangers of the fire control unit ran for the waiting vehicles a quarter mile distant as the Syrian cav opened fire again. The tanks and APCs fired blindly, though, lobbing shells into the ridgeline where they believed their tormentors were, and put very few over the top.

We’re going to make it, Goose thought. He was covered with grit and perspiration. The pain in his knee was more fierce now, but it held together. His breath burned the back of his throat dry.

Twentyone men piled into three RSOVs, leaving the other Jeeps and Hummers behind. The fact that those vehicles weren’t going anywhere offered mute testimony that several soldiers who had held the line at the ridge weren’t going to make it to Sanliurfa.

Private John Brady from backwoods North Carolina took the wheel of the RSOV and aimed them at the reflectors that had been set up to mark the road. He was a seasoned driver, a good wheelman, and claimed to come from a long line of moonshine runners and NASCAR racers. Goose didn’t know if the claim was true, but the man knew how to handle a vehicle.

The three RSOVs sped toward the winding mountain road.

Goose sat in the passenger seat and tried to find a comfortable position for his injured knee.

“They’re coming, Sarge,” Corporal Travis Madden called from the back of the RSOV. He was one of the best electronics-on-the-run guys the Rangers had ever turned out.

Twisting in his seat, Goose peered back at the ridgeline and saw the first of the tanks, APCs, and jeeps pull into view. There was no hesitation; the Syrians came on at full speed now, a rolling onslaught of armor and firepower.

They’re not going to stop, Goose thought. They are not going to stop.

In the darkness, with only indirect moonlight and starlight illuminating the night, the Syrian cav took on the appearance of monsters, merciless juggernauts on the trail of weakened prey.

There was no certainty that they would be able to hold Sanliurfa without the reinforcements from Wasp.

“Marathon One,” Remington called.

“One reads you, Leader.”

“Are you underway?”

“Closing ground,” Goose assured him. He held his M-4A1 butt to the floor next to his seat and held his shoulder strap with his other hand. The RSOV jumped, jerked, and bounced as it flew across the terrain.

The road turned narrow as the grade inclined, and it twisted like a broken-backed snake. Loose rock made the going more treacherous, and Goose felt even the RSOV’s four-wheel-drive struggle to keep traction.

“Sarge!”

Whipping his head around in the seat, Goose looked at Madden.

The corporal was pointing behind them. “We lost Sullivan.”

Only a short distance behind them, Goose watched as the rear RSOV tumbled down the steep mountainside. The drop had to have been a hundred feet, with nothing but broken rock at the bottom. The vehicle rolled twice, then came to a stop wedged precariously against a rocky outcrop.