Apocalypse Burning (49 page)

Operation Run Dry
26 Klicks South-Southwest of Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 2122 Hours

The splats Goose’s boots made as they hit the muddy earth didn’t travel far, but they alerted the Syrian soldier. The man turned with a cigarette in his mouth, the tip glowing orange in the darkness and illuminating his features under his helmet.

Goose’s knee almost went out on him when he landed. The pain blinded him for a moment. Then he pushed up, lunging, covering the six feet of space separating him from the enemy soldier. The Syrian clawed for the AK-47 that hung from his shoulder, but he never got the assault rifle pulled around before Goose was on him.

The first sergeant’s weight and rush took them both to the ground. Goose landed on top of his opponent, finding the AK-47 in the mad tangle of arms and legs and shoving it deep into the mud. He surged up and swung his combat knife forward, raking the blade across the Syrian’s throat.

Blood splashed over Goose’s face, but he had closed his eyes right before the knife made contact. When he opened them, his vision remained clear but he felt the hot rush of blood spreading over his features.

The Syrian bucked and shuddered beneath Goose for just a moment. Then he grew still as life left him. Goose gazed into the man’s eyes, seeing the thousand-yard stare settle into them as they remained unblinking in the spitting rain.

Goose was a hunter. In the country outside his hometown of Waycross, Georgia, he’d hunted deer and turkey, squirrel and dove, under his father’s tutelage. Goose had never hunted for pleasure, only to put meat on the table. A hunter ate what he killed, or he gave it to provide for those who needed it.

Hunting men was different than hunting game. Men were more dangerous, more unpredictable. But a hunter couldn’t have a conversation with a deer or a turkey. There was no opportunity for common understanding.

Goose’s father, Wes Gander, had served in Korea after the war there. North Korean snipers had taken out one of Wes’s best friends, and Wes had killed some of them in retaliation. When talking to some of the North Korean soldiers after the war, Wes had discovered that they were men pretty much like himself.

That, Wes Gander had said, had ended a lot of his youthful innocence. When he’d worn the marine uniform, he’d been a hero and the North Koreans had been the enemy, not men at all. Not long after that, Wes had ended his military career and moved back to Waycross.

Goose understood why his father had felt that way. He’d seen other men go through the same decision after being in heavy combat and meeting their enemies face-to-face instead of firing at distant targets.

It was harder mentally and emotionally to kill a man up close and personal while taking advantage of that man’s moment of weakness or indecision or inexperience. But the physical part of the killing was much simpler, less dangerous, and often saved other lives.

Goose had done it only when he’d known there was no other way. There’d been no other way with the Syrian. Trying to take him alive could have compromised the mission and jeopardized the lives of every man in the unit.

Breathing out, getting past the emotional impact of taking the man’s life, Goose wiped his knife on the man’s uniform and slid it back into the sheath. He glanced up at the soldier who was holding his weapons. Then he caught first his M-4A1 and then the MP5, quickly sliding the assault rifle over his shoulder. He pulled the NVGs back on.

He held up two fingers and pointed to the front of the building.

Parker and Huddleston slid forward on their stomachs and took up support sniper positions. Two more snipers were posted at the other end. Lieutenant York should have posted four himself to maintain a kill zone over the armored cav. The teams should have overlapping fields of fire.

In the lead again, Goose stayed close to the building’s wall and went forward. Berger, the last Ranger in line on the ground with him, caught hold of the dead Syrian and slid the corpse behind the building.

At the corner of the building, Goose scanned the nearby terrain, spotting Corporal Cliff Conner at the other end of the building. Conner spotted him as well and signaled that everything was secure.

Goose signaled again, letting Conner know that he was moving ahead. He tapped Private Darren Fieldstone behind him, and they went in tandem, swapping positions as they kept moving forward.

The front of the building was blank and squared off. The archeological crew that had constructed the warehouse hadn’t designed it with anything but function in mind. There were no frills, no extras. A single door with a few office windows occupied the north end where Goose was, and a garage bay was on the south end. Tools and vehicles had been stored there.

Dim lights showed in the heavily curtained windows on the first and second floors. Generators in the basement supplied the power. Buried deep in the earth as they were, little noise reached the outside world. The light was carefully blocked so it would not draw attention from aerial attack. In addition to that, if Remington hadn’t somehow tumbled onto the fact that the site was there and operational, Goose doubted they would have found it unless they had recovered the lost ground.

A small satellite dish also assured that the Syrian outpost had a communications array. That was going to be a problem. Remington hadn’t mentioned that the site had a sat-relay. That capability changed the dynamics of the op drastically. As soon as the Syrians knew they were under attack they could radio for help if the dish was not taken out.

The main body of the Syrian army lay within ten minutes by helo. Goose had no doubt that once the distress call went out the Syrians would scramble to their attack helos.

The time frame on this mission was drastically cut. Even taking the satellite off-line could trigger an alarm and achieve the same result.

Goose and Fieldstone reached the main door. Trying it, Goose found it locked. The fact wasn’t surprising, but in the middle of occupied territory it was possible that it wouldn’t have been locked. He pointed toward the door.

Fieldstone slung the machine pistol over his shoulder, knelt, and took out a picklock kit. Not all Rangers were trained in those skills, but with urban assault becoming more and more a part of the war effort, new skills were being taught.

Glancing at the other end of the building, Goose got Conner’s attention, then pointed to the dish. Conner signaled back; he’d already seen the dish. Goose signaled again, letting Conner and his team know he and Fieldstone were going to search for the communications center.

Fieldstone tapped on Goose’s elbow and stood with his weapon once more in his hand.

Goose nodded and pulled open the Velcro strap on his left wrist, revealing the pictures of the four targets they’d been sent to take out. All four men wore Syrian uniforms of their rank and faced forward. With the ident-kits open and ready, Goose reached for the knob, turned it easily, then pushed the door and went inside.

According to the blueprints Remington had gotten from somewhere and included in the mission briefing, the interior of the warehouse had been remodeled. When it had been built, it had provided sleeping quarters for forty people, a huge kitchen and dining room, a common room with a fireplace, and lab space that occupied an area even larger than the common room. The second floor housed labs and more sleeping quarters, and Goose was guessing that was where they would find the com center.

During the interim, according to information Remington said he’d gleaned from the nomadic traders who wandered among the southern cities of Turkey and even down into Syria, different people had owned the warehouse. Or laid claim to it with gun and knife.

The building had been used for all kinds of business, including the manufacture of drugs, which it had supposedly done during its last incarnation before the Syrians had invaded and discovered the ruins and the possibilities the caves offered. According to the intel Remington had gotten, the Syrian officials the Rangers had been assigned to take out had made arrangements with the drug suppliers to remain in operation while they were there. The intel suggested that the Syrians had cut themselves in for a percentage.

The door opened onto the common room. A low light in the center of the room shone over a pool table where three men stood chatting. Opulent ofas and chairs surrounded them.

Seeing movement, two of the three men reached for assault rifles while the third pulled at a holstered pistol.

Goose threw himself forward, going low and pushing the MP5 ahead, touching off three-round bursts. The initial burst caught the first man from right hip to left shoulder, throwing him back. The second tri-burst caught the next man in the face. Goose thought one of the rounds might have missed, but the other two more than did the job.

He missed the third man entirely, and the 9mm rounds chopped into the wall over the man’s head. Sliding across the wooden floor on his stomach, Goose turned and pulled the MP5 down, firing under the pool table as the man dove the opposite way for cover. One of the rounds ripped splinters from the pool-table leg, but the other two caught the man in the legs and knocked him down.

Fieldstone plunged into the room, following Goose’s play like he’d trained to do it all his life. He fired directly into the surviving man’s head before the guy could give voice to a warning or a cry of pain.

“Clear,” Fieldstone said, moving toward the door on the left.

Pushing himself to his feet, ignoring the biting pain in his knee, Goose lifted his weapon, changed to a fresh magazine, rotating the partially spent one to the rear of his bandolier. He used the doorframe for cover, aware that Conner and his people had entered the front door. Nothing moved in the dining room.

“Clear,” Goose called. “Conner, set the door.”

Conner quickly shoved an M18A1 Claymore mine’s three prongs into the wall next to the door at chest height. Loaded with steel bearings embedded in plastic explosive, the Claymore detonated like a shotgun round containing buckshot. The front had a little sticker that said THIS SIDE TOWARD ENEMY. A red light flashed on its side, then turned green, letting Goose know it was ready to receive electronic signals to detonate.

“We’re live,” Conner said, stepping back. “We own the front door.”

“Okay,” Goose said, knowing that for the moment they were still running silent, “move out. Conner, this is your door.”

“Affirmative, First Sergeant.” Conner stepped into position as Goose moved away to flank Fieldstone. “Always wanted to know what was behind Door Number Two.”

“Let’s move,” Goose told Fieldstone.

The private went forward, stepping quickly and smoothly. At the juncture of the next hallway, they swapped positions, offering overlapping fields of fire as Goose took the lead, still shoulder to shoulder, moving as much by feel as by sight.

At the end of the hallway, they went up the stairs. Fieldstone covered their back trail as Goose kept his MP5 pointed at the switchback stairs. Goose wished they had the headsets up and operational, but he knew the signals could have been detected and set off warnings for the Syrians. Going room to room without satellite thermographic recon was nerve-racking.

The stairwell opened on another long hallway that ran north and south the length of the building. The hallway was dark but the NVGs lit the area.

Nothing moved.

A door filled the wall ahead of them, probably leading to what had been one of the upstairs labs.

Fieldstone tried the doorknob. “Locked.”

“Unlock it,” Goose said in a low voice. He took the younger soldier’s MP5 and stood with a machine pistol pointed down to the end of the hallway.

“Unlocked,” Fieldstone said.

Goose handed the private his weapon, then opened the door. He pushed the MP5 slightly ahead of him, keeping it safely tucked into the frame of his body so it couldn’t be easily taken away from him.

He’d expected a large, empty room. Instead, he found three women shackled to a single eyebolt in the floor.
Two women,
Goose amended. One of them couldn’t have been over fifteen, and she looked enough like one of the older women to be her daughter.

They cringed away from him, cringed away from the weapon he carried.

God help us
, Goose thought.
We’ve got civilians loose inside the target zone.

“First Sergeant,” Fieldstone said in surprise from behind Goose’s back.

And that was when the wheels finally came off and the play went bust.

Goose turned to Fieldstone just as the young private’s head disappeared. Fieldstone never heard the shots that killed him, and by that time he was deadweight falling forward on Goose as the staccato rattle of a fully automatic weapon opened up in the hallway.