Apocalypse Crucible (47 page)

“Where is that?” Danielle asked.

Bogasieru didn’t answer, just tapped on his keyboard. The monitor beside the one showing the attack suddenly opened on a gridded map of the city.

“We have been tracing the actions of the other media groups in the city,” Bogasieru said, “using the satellite array. I’ll know the location in just a moment.”

Yellow horizontal and vertical lines started coming together on the monitor. The gridded map of Sanliurfa magnified as the double sets of lines closed.

Danielle’s satphone rang. Thinking it was Stolojan calling to make sure she was on the story, she scooped the phone from her hip and said, “I’m on it.”

“Hello?”

The feminine voice startled Danielle, but she watched the action on the screen as the Rangers went into action. First Sergeant Gander returned fire from cover of the Hummer.

“Who is this?” Danielle asked.

“My name is Simona. I am sister to Lizuca.”

From the distraught tone in the young woman’s voice, Danielle knew something was wrong.

“Forgive my call,” Simona said. “I got your number from my mother, yes? She could no make the phone call. Not after what happened to Lizuca.”

A chill ghosted through Danielle. “What happened to Lizuca?”

The young woman’s voice broke and she cried. When she spoke, her voice got higher and higher till it was squeaking at the end. “Poor Lizuca. My poor sister. She is
murder!
”

The announcement froze Danielle’s brain. She thought she couldn’t have heard what she’d just heard. “What happened?” Simona cried for a time.

Danielle watched the attack on the monitor, her attention torn and the need to do something almost overwhelming.

“Lizuca,” Simona said in a halting voice, “she is go to café, yes? To get computer information for you as she say. While she there, a man, he come up to her.” She cried softly, and Danielle heard the keening of an older woman in the background. “This man, he say her name; then he shoot her.”

Stunned, Danielle didn’t know what to say. Tears welled up in her eyes.

“I must go now,” Simona said. “We have many things to do to prepare for my sister funeral, yes?”

A thousand questions hammered at Danielle’s brain. “What happened to the man who shot Lizuca?”

“He get away. He have gun. No one stop him.”

“Was he identified?”

Lizuca’s mother called out. The only thing Danielle recognized was Simona’s name.

Simona answered rapidly in her native language. “I must go, Miss Vinchenzo, yes?” Simona said. “My mother, she needs me.”

“Of course,” Danielle said. “Did they identify the man who shot Lizuca?”

“No. That man, he get away. No catch. No identify. No find. The police, they still looking. I must go take care of my mother.”

“If there’s anything I can do,” Danielle offered.

“Pray for us,” Simona suggested.

The phone clicked dead in Danielle’s ear.

Bogasieru looked up at her. “I have the location.” He handed her a computer printout with directions to the building where the Rangers were under attack.

Danielle took yellow, lined paper, then wrote Lizuca Carutasu’s name on a section of it. She gave the paper to Bogasieru.

“This woman was just murdered in Bucharest at a café,” Danielle said. “I want you to find out as much information about the shooting as you can.”

Bogasieru frowned at the piece of paper. “Bucharest is not part of our assignment, Miss Vinchenzo.”

Danielle held on to her anger and pain as she shrugged into her gear. She looked at the man. “Find. Out.”

Bogasieru held her gaze for only a moment. Then he dropped his eyes. “Of course.” He swiveled back to the computers.

Looking at Cezar and Gorca, who had already grabbed their gear and didn’t look happy as they stared at the monitor over Bogasieru’s shoulder, Danielle said, “Let’s roll.”

“I’m driving,” Cezar said.

“No,” Gorca said with quiet but firm authority. “I will drive.”

By the time they got outside to the Jeep carrying OneWorld NewsNet identification plastered all over it and flying from a twentyfoot whip antenna, Danielle had already slid behind the steering wheel. Cezar hurried around to the passenger side while Gorca hoisted himself onto the rear deck with deep resignation.

Danielle reached under the seat for the keys and turned the engine over. As she drove, she tried to sort through her thoughts and her guilt. It wasn’t working.

What was that unidentified CIA section chief hiding that called for the murder of a young woman in Bucharest? What did OneWorld NewsNet have in its corporate files that the CIA agent would be willing to kill over?

She didn’t know, but she was determined to find out. Whatever the information was, Lizuca Carutasu had gotten killed because she’d tried to find out who the CIA man was.

And Danielle knew she had put the young woman in harm’s way. Licuza’s death was her fault.

United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 1335 Hours

“Air support,” Goose called over the headset as he stripped an empty magazine from his M-4A1 and shoved a fresh one home. “This is Phoenix Leader. Do you copy?”

“Affirmative, Phoenix Leader,” the crisp voice responded. “We are en route to your twenty.”

Shoving himself back up behind the Hummer, Goose pulled his assault rifle to his shoulder and took aim at one of the three buildings their attackers held. He pulled the trigger, spacing three-round bursts across the rooftop, chewing through the thirty-round magazine in seconds.

So far, they hadn’t identified their attackers. They wore street clothes and burnooses, but so did a lot of Sanliurfa’s citizens and some of the city’s visitors. But they came equipped with rocket launchers and assault rifles.

During the morning, at other spots throughout the city, the military forces had been attacked by Syrian soldiers caught behind the lines as well as PKK members and other terrorists who had elected to serve whatever convictions drove them. As paranoid as the soldiers defending the city were, the strategy was probably to get the armies firing at shadows. With the division of Turkish, American, and European soldiers, a few cases of friendly fire because of itchy trigger fingers could go a long way to breaking up the partnership they’d been forced to undertake.

Goose knew the Turkish military was still having problems with the Rangers running the joint op. The U.N. forces had their problems, too, but the United States Army still maintained the largest and most heavily equipped firepower and tech in the world. The general consensus was to let the U.S. try to get all of their soldiers home.

The downside was that the U.S. was going to be blamed for every death that occurred in Sanliurfa, and the nation’s critics were going to have a field day. If a U.S. soldier fell, it would be because the U.S. military had poor planning. If a U.N. or Turkish soldier fell, the loss would be attributed to a lack of coordination or because the U.S. military was following personal interest. Every citizen who died would be because the U.S. chose to insert itself into every international confrontation that came along.

The Whiskey Cobra gunship soared through the air, looking like a deadly dragonfly. But a dragonfly never came equipped with 20mm cannon, LAU-68 rocket pods, Hellfire antitank missiles, antipersonnel bombs, and a 30mm chain gun mounted underneath the carriage.

Beside Goose, Corporal Robinson smiled and said, “Those attackers are definitely in a world of hurt. They just don’t know it yet.”

Goose silently agreed. He shoved a fresh magazine home and glanced toward the burning building. Six warheads had slammed into the structure during the last minute and a half. The Rangers had succeeded in keeping some of their attackers pinned down. Teams were already approaching the buildings where the hostiles had taken up positions on the rooftops as well as inside the rooms.

“This is Search Twenty-Two,” a young man called over the headset. He sounded slightly panicked. “This is Search Twenty-Two.”

“Tango Fourteen Leader reads you, Search Twenty-Two,” Robinson responded.

“My team is down. My corporal is down. We’ve got wounded, and we’re part of them now.”

“Understood,” Robinson said, looking back over the bullet-riddled Hummer. “Tango Fourteen is coming to assist.”

The marine aircraft maneuvered as if by magic, approaching at speed then hovering in place like a freeze frame on a DVD player. The 30mm chain gun opened up at once, hammering rounds across the rooftops and through stone walls, chewing holes through in rapid succession. The wicked and deadly fire made Swiss cheese of the buildings. The basso booming of the rounds detonating filled the air.

“Tango Fourteen, this brief intermission has been brought to you courtesy of the United States Marine Corps,” the helicopter pilot said. “You’re now free to move around your war zone.”

“Affirmative, Rattler,” Goose radioed back. “Thanks for the assist.”

“Take care of your team, Phoenix Leader. We’re gonna fly standby till you get your op clean and green. We’ll control the horizontal and the vertical.”

Goose ran toward the burning building, dividing the rescue team up into squads as he moved. The structure had three points of egress on the first floor. They used them all, swarming up the two stairwells at either end and going downstairs. The pile of debris still blocked the doors leading to the basement, where a dozen people had taken refuge.

The rocket blasts had scattered and damaged the SAR team, and the time allowed by the attack had enabled the fire more time to feed. The oppressive heat filled the building and twisted the black smoke before the acrid clouds found their way out.

Goose stayed low to the ground as he moved, but the position put increased strain on his bad knee. He willed himself to keep going in spite of the cold sweat that ran down his face and back.

The com op called out the locations in the burning structure, adding to and changing the intel as the teams worked through the scene.

Goose tripped over a dead body in the third-floor hall and sprawled. Close up, even though his eyes teared constantly, he saw that the corpse was one of the SAR team. A rocket blast had torn him nearly in half.

Help those you can help,
Goose reminded himself.
You can’t do anything for this boy.
He pushed his feelings into a nice, tight box, then set about stripping the SAR member’s oxygen tank from his body. The oxygen helped, as did the mask, although he couldn’t see any better than he had before.

Only a few steps ahead, Goose found the door that the dead soldier had reported hearing voices and banging behind. A burning section of the ceiling lay in the hallway and blocked the open door with a wall of fire that splashed across the ceiling like an upside-down waterfall. “There’s an old woman in here,” a man called. “I can’t get her out, and I can’t move the blockage. I don’t have any tools. Every time I tried to shift it, more of the ceiling came down.”

Goose removed his mask so he could be heard better, but regretted it at once as the acrid smoke burned his eyes, throat, and sinus passages. “It’s okay,” Goose said. “I’m going to get you out.” He turned his attention to the blockage and replaced the oxygen mask.

Glancing back at the dead SAR soldier, Goose spotted the fireman’s axe halfway hidden under the body. He took the axe, positioned himself, and swung at the blockage as if he were back on his daddy’s small farm.

The keen blade chopped into the ceiling section with sharp
thunks
that quivered up Goose’s arms. Embers swirled all around him, stinging his arms, his chest, and his ears where the mask didn’t cover them.

In seconds, he’d chopped the longest boards in two; then he used the axe to lever the bulk of the debris from the door. Only a few small flames danced on the floor, clinging to the carpet and the wood below. He stomped them out as a figure approached him through the smoke.

“Thanks for your help,” the guy said. “I think I could have jumped out the window and made it. I might have broken a leg or two, but I would have survived. I couldn’t leave the lady in this room. I knew she was an invalid so I came back for her, but I couldn’t get her—”

Staring through the smoke, Goose stared in surprise at the man.