Apocalypse Burning (41 page)

47 Klicks East of Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0627 Hours

“—five,” Goose counted out, standing beside the CH-47D’s rear jump gate, “four, three, two, one! Go! Go!” He slapped the first Ranger standing in the jump line on the helmet.

The Ranger took a running start, arms wrapped around his chest pouch, and hurled himself through the jump gate. He fell through the air toward the ground that was, according to the helo pilot, 1122 feet below. The static line attached to the big hook over the gate reached the end and yanked his parachute open. The black mushroom belled at once.

LALOs—low-altitude, low-opening—parachute drops were dangerous even under the best conditions. Jumping now, with the rain and in the purple-and-gold twilight right before dawn, could be an invitation to disaster. But it was the fastest and safest deployment for the two units assigned to the op.

“Go!” Goose bellowed over the rotorwash to the next man in line. He slapped him on the helmet, starting him on his way.

In seconds, the twenty-nine other Rangers had evacuated the Chinook and were hurtling toward the earth suspended under black parachutes in a fairly straight line.

“Sir,” Goose said to the lieutenant, reaching up to verify that the man’s static line was clipped in place to the hook.

Keller nodded and gave Goose a thumbs-up. “See you on the ground, First Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.” Goose slapped Keller on the helmet.

The lieutenant stepped through the jump gate and fell, plummeting till the static line snapped taut and popped the parachute free.

Still counting in his mind, Goose snapped his own D-ring into place, then ran forward, wrapping his arms around his chest pack. He experienced a moment of disorientation as he ran out of ramp and stepped off into the sky.

For a moment everything was still, till gravity reached up for him with greedy claws. Then he was falling like a rock. The
zzziiinnnngggg
of the static line paying out echoed inside his helmet. A second after that, the pop of the parachute releasing sounded a heartbeat before the crack of silk overhead and the immediate jerk of the harness as his fall was slowed almost as soon as it started.

Goose released the chest pack after checking to make certain it was still attached properly. Losing gear and having to backtrack for it and hope that it survived the impact wasn’t the ideal way to start a battle. Getting battered by it during the descent because it had pulled loose also wasn’t ideal.

He reached up for the cords and held on. With the older, roundparachute design, he had only a little control over his flight. The neardarkness stretched across the landscape and the blinding rain made visual sighting of a landing area even harder.

He counted the parachutes out of habit, noting with relieved satisfaction that they had all opened. That didn’t always happen.

Glancing down, he saw the ground coming up rapidly. Covered with one hundred fifty pounds of gear including the parachute equipment, Goose knew that breaking an ankle or a leg on the slippery turf was too easy. The main thing he had to avoid was landing on another Ranger. He made a small adjustment, then aimed himself at a clear spot below.

Goose set himself, hit, and immediately rolled, sliding and slipping through the muddy turf. He came up tangled in parachute shrouds and caked in mud. Standing quickly, he pulled at the lines and gathered the parachute in.

“Gather ‘em up,” he yelled to the men. “Gather ‘em up before they fill with rain and make it even harder.” He popped his trenching tool free of his LCE and started digging a hole to shove the parachute into.

For now, no one used the headset radios. They wouldn’t be used until the op was in play at the Syrian base. For the moment, Operation Run Dry was all alone in the world.

Goose hurried through the other Rangers, helping men, encouraging men, and getting them all headed back west, trying to stay ahead of the sun. Getting dropped off by the Chinooks was only the first stage of the op. If Syrian military forces had become interested in the helos, there could have been problems from the get-go. In that case, Remington would have warned them and ordered an exfiltration.

But for the moment, they were forty-seven klicks east of Sanliurfa, more or less behind enemy lines. No one would come to their aid once the helos got out of range, and that state of affairs was only minutes away.

“Let’s go,” Goose said as he hurried through the soldiers. “Let’s go. You’re burning daylight.”

The men responded, pulling their gear and themselves together and falling into their respective squads under their sergeants.

The Syrian fuel depot that Remington had somehow uncovered and mapped out for the op lay fifty-three klicks to the west. They had fourteen hours to get into position, and no way to get there except on foot.

Goose felt twinges from his bad knee but so far the pain showed no signs of increasing. While jump preparations were being made, he’d had one of the med corpsmen inject him with cortisone. The painkiller would help keep the pain at bay, but it wouldn’t prevent further damage to the knee. And if the knee gave out on him, prevented him from taking part in the mission, the other Rangers would have no choice but to leave him behind.

Please, God,
Goose prayed as he pushed himself into that distanceeating lope he’d first learned in basic and spent all his adult life working with,
please see me through this. My men need me.

The Rangers fell in behind him, letting him take the lead until three men sped forward and took up point and wing positions. They stayed with the terrain, avoiding the spots with running water and treacherous mud, finding the high ground at a glance and keeping up the pace.

Goose took his M-4A1 in both hands, holding the assault rifle across his chest as he pushed himself up to speed. His injured knee felt stiff and distant, causing him some momentary panic; then it started to warm and loosen, giving in to the familiar motion.

Just help me get through this one, Lord,
Goose prayed.
I’ll try and see if I can’t get through the next one on my own.

14

Church of the Word
Marbury, Alabama
Local Time 0819 Hours

“You don’t look like a man who got much sleep last night, Chaplain,” Deputy Walter Purcell commented.

“It wasn’t your bed’s fault,” Delroy said, stifling a yawn.

“Well,” Walter said, nodding his head, “you put in a hard day yesterday, I’ll have to say that for you. Probably a lot more than you should have.”

“I shouldn’t have left when I did,” Delroy said, remembering how chaotic yesterday had been.

After Phyllis and her children had arrived at the church, followed by the young couple who had been just as troubled and needing answers, more and more people had come from the neighborhood. Delroy had not done a head count, but he guessed that three or four hundred had come in for counseling.

He felt bad that he didn’t have a proper place to welcome them, or even enough chairs to sit them in. After the new arrivals started coming, he’d tried to get the church in order, surprised at how he could hear his mother’s voice in the back of his head telling him that she didn’t want people in the church if it wasn’t fit to keep hogs in.

The church back in those days had always looked homey and neat as a pin. But yesterday Delroy hadn’t had much of a chance to clean. There had been too many people with questions about what had happened, about what was going to happen next.

After the discussions they had divided up among themselves and started cleaning the church. Of course, the ladies had initiated most of that effort, but the men had quickly fallen into line. They’d collected brooms and mops and trash bags at first, then chairs for people to sit in. By evening, men had come with tools and glass and paint, and they’d quietly set to work repairing and restoring the church.

At first as Delroy had talked to the neighborhood folk, he’d taken strength from their presence. It was surprising how much it seemed they had to give. Finally, though, when even he had been forced to admit his voice was giving out, he’d allowed Walter to take him back to the Purcell home, eaten the meal Clarice had prepared, and had fallen into bed. When he got up this morning, he’d discovered Clarice had washed and ironed his dress whites.

“You couldn’t have went on, Chaplain,” Walter said, waving the excuse away. “Why, if you had’a, you wouldn’t have been able to go back today.”

Delroy accepted that. “I know.”

Walter pointed. “We’re gonna stop up here at Mitchell’s Donut Shop. Gonna rent us a five-gallon coffeemaker and buy plenty of grounds. I figure it’s gonna be another long day.”

After they’d parked in front of the small building, Delroy followed Walter inside the shop. The smell of donuts greeted him but didn’t tempt him. In addition to doing his laundry, Clarice Purcell had prepared a breakfast that even a sailing man had to respect. And Delroy had eaten his fill.

Delroy insisted on paying for the rental and the coffee, and Walter finally agreed to go halves. While Walter picked up the equipment from the back, Delroy’s attention was drawn to the television hanging in one corner of the shop’s small dining room.

“… trial begins today here at Fort Benning, Georgia,” a woman reporter was saying as she stood in front of a building marked O
FFICE OF THE
P
ROVOST
M
ARSHAL
. “Colonel Henry Erickson is sitting at the bench of this military court.”

The scene changed to show a woman with dark hair and dark eyes.

“As you may recall from my interview with Mrs. Megan Gander on last night’s show,” the woman reporter said, “Mrs. Gander is on trial for dereliction of duty here at Fort Benning.”

The news caught Delroy’s attention even more. It seemed like he remembered the name. People at the church yesterday had been talking about Megan Gander, but he couldn’t quite remember what they’d said.

“Mrs. Gander tried to save a young boy from jumping to his death on the night of the disappearances,” the reporter went on. “According to her story and the stories of a few others I have talked to, the boy did indeed fall from that building. But he disappeared, just like all the other children.”

The story clicked into place in Delroy’s head. He’d wanted to see the story, but there had been no television at the church. By the time he’d arrived at the Purcell home, he’d forgotten all about it.

“Many people don’t believe those disappearances followed a pattern,” the woman reported. “There are many doubters out there who subscribe to the theory advanced by Chaim Rosenzweig and Romanian President Nicolae Carpathia that some bizarre chain of events involving built-up nuclear energy and electromagnetism caused the disappearances of so many people around the world. But Mrs. Gander contends that the Rapture occurred that night, that the hand of God came down and took all the believers from the world, leaving behind those who had missed out on the opportunity to have a personal relationship to Him through Jesus Christ, our Savior.”

“Quite a story, isn’t it?” Walter asked as he returned to the front counter with the coffeepot. “I got a chance to watch the interview last night.”

“What did you think?” Delroy asked.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” Walter said, “I don’t think I’d have believed as much of it as I did if I hadn’t heard you talking about the same thing all day yesterday.” He nodded toward the television. “That Mrs. Gander there, she appears to be a fine woman. A stand-up woman. But she’s going up against the United States Army, and that’s no easy thing. I think she believes what she’s saying, but she doesn’t know as much about the Tribulation as you do.”

“We’ll all learn about it,” Delroy said. “Those of us who have been left behind. We’ll see it firsthand.”

“Yes, sir, I believe you when you say that.” Walter glanced back at the television. “But that lady there, she’s gonna need to pull a rabbit out of her hat to convince them military folks. I listened to an interview with Major Augustus Trimble last night, too, and you can see he’s all ready to lock up Mrs. Gander there as a nut job. If I wasn’t comin’ around to seein’ things the way you’re talkin’ about ‘em, I’d be inclined to agree with him.”

“I know,” the counterman said. “News was talking about the Gander woman this morning, telling about how she hypnotized some girl she was counseling to get her to shoot herself.”

“Why would she do a thing like that?” Delroy asked.

The counterman shrugged and rang up Walter’s charges. “Don’t know. Guy on the news was kinda suggesting that the Gander woman had convinced the kid she’d get to heaven faster that way.”

Delroy shook his head and glanced back at the screen.

“We’re asking anyone with information that might help Mrs. Gander today in court to come forward,” the reporter said. “I’m going go be here all day for anyone that wants to stop by and talk. I’m Penny Gillespie for Dove TV.”

“Hey,” the counterman said, snapping his fingers, “aren’t you that new preacher everybody is talking about? The one that’s preaching at the old black church over in Shackleton?”

“I’m not a new preacher,” Delroy said. “I’m a navy chaplain. My name is Delroy Harte.”

The counterman thought for a moment. “There used to be a preacher here named Josiah Harte.”