Apocalypse Dawn (3 page)

That shift in prosperity in the Middle East, especially since it also affected the global balance of trade and power, had triggered a Russian surprise attack that had caught Israel and the world off guard fourteen months ago. When he’d heard of the attack, Remington had figured Israel’s existence would be measured in minutes.

Instead, the Russian air force had suffered a massive systems failure. Their attacking force had self-destructed, its crumpled remains raining down from the sky in flaming chunks. Military experts and analysts agreed that the Russian air force had grown lax and that the fleetwide systems failures were caused by poorly maintained, obsolete equipment. Remington wanted to be sure that such a disaster never occurred to his forces on his watch.

“If this assassination attempt is off the books,” Remington asked, “why is your covert agent still with the PKK cell?”

Cody stared at the young man’s face on the computer screen. “We haven’t been successful in exfiltrating Icarus.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to be exfiltrated.”

“We don’t feel that’s the case.”

Don’t feel, Remington knew, wasn’t a definite answer. “How long has Icarus been under?”

“A year and a half. He penetrated the PKK almost seven months ago. We were about to pull the plug on the op at that point but he managed to get inside the cell.” Cody paused. “Captain, there is no question about this man’s loyalty. That’s why I’m here talking to you today. He’s a good man in a bad situation. He gave us the assassination team when they were ready to strike, and he endangered himself by doing so.”

“He could be dead already.”

Concern creased Cody’s face for just a moment then flickered out of existence. “I refuse to believe that.”

“You’ve asked for help,” Remington pointed out. “I’m risking the lives of my men. Sell me on what you believe.”

The CIA agent nodded at the computer terminals. “I can log your computers in to the link we’ve set up for your team.”

Remington excused Lewis from the chair and Cody sat. The CIA chief’s fingers clacked against the keyboard in rapid syncopation. The monitor screen scrolled and scrolled again.

“What am I looking at?” Remington asked.

“I’m downloading a satellite feed. We have a lock on the vehicle Icarus is being transported in.”

The screen image changed, revealing a ten-year-old Subaru Legacy. Battered and pale blue, the vehicle stood out in sharp relief against the yellow sand. A billowing amber dust cloud trailed behind the Subaru.

Remington watched the station wagon jerk and bounce across the rough terrain. The road was ancient, a whisper-thin memory that probably was constructed for carts and foot traffic, or military Jeeps.

“You’re sure he’s in there?” the Ranger captain asked.

Cody tapped more keys. The feed changed to a thermal image view. The station wagon registered as purple, and the road and the desert became a sheet of pale yellow. The human body temperature of 98.6 degrees was lower than the ground temperature, making the four figures actually register cooler than the land around them. The four people inside the car became outlined in dark yellow and orange.

“We’ve had a lock on this car since it left Ankara this morning,” Cody said. Ankara was Turkey’s capital city. “We’ve tracked Icarus since the group left Jerusalem.”

“The assassins got close,” Remington observed.

“Yes. Icarus has been closely watched.”

“They suspected him?”

“The group watched each other. Since we decided to take them down in Jerusalem, we created an opening for Icarus to feed us information. However, we couldn’t get a message back to him.”

“What message?”

“We wanted him out,” Cody said. “Icarus has reached an untenable position. If those other men don’t suspect him now, they will soon. Or whoever they’re going to meet in Syria will.”

“When your teams swept the other members of the cell, seems Icarus should have jumped ship.”

“Unless he thought he was about to get more information we needed. We would have gone after Icarus ourselves, Captain Remington, but given the state of alert in Turkey and Syria, the decision was made that it would be more feasible and prudent to have your men handle the exfiltration.”

Remington silently agreed. While the United States Army’s peacekeeping effort was welcomed incountry, CIA agents weren’t. Especially since they didn’t operate with Turkey’s permission in many cases.

Cody tapped the keys, changing the view back to normal.

The perspective also pulled back, revealing movement high in the hills overlooking the road. Cody tapped the keys again, narrowing the focus to the eleven Rangers huddled in two groups on either side of the narrow road. Another keystroke put the group’s geographic location in longitude and latitude under them.

“These are your men?” the CIA section chief asked.

Though he recognized the Ranger camo fatigues, Remington checked the location of Goose’s group. The figures matched. Goose had brought his unit into position after a fifteen-minute hop from the front lines. They now sat seven klicks north-northeast of the border face-off.

“Yes,” he replied, moving back to Cody’s screen.

“They’re good?’

“They’re Rangers,” Remington answered. “They’re my Rangers. They’re the best.”

“Well,” Cody replied noncommittally, “in three or four minutes, we’re going to find out.”

The pale blue station wagon continued bouncing across the broken terrain, closing on the Rangers’ positions.

Turkey

Goose hunkered down behind the rocks on the west side of the road he’d decided had probably served as a pass through the mountains back in the days of the Silk Road. These days it was so little used Goose figured the only reason it wasn’t grown over was that nothing would grow in the sand and bleak rock.

A half mile away, a dust cloud closed on their position.

Moving slowly, letting his dustcovered camo do the job it was designed to do, Goose lifted his M-4A1 and peered through the scope. He checked to make sure the digital camera mounted underneath the assault rifle had a clear field of view.

The digital cam hooked into the modular computer/sat-com feed on his load-bearing frame, spreading the extra weight across his shoulders. After two years of training with the rig for special urban warfare operations, Goose didn’t even notice the extra weight on the rifle.

In most instances, the M-4A1 carbine was a better weapon than the M-16A2 Goose had been given when he entered the Army sixteen years ago. He’d been a rawboned twentyone-yearold fresh from the backwoods country of Waycross, Georgia. Both assault rifles fired the 5.56mm round, but the M-4A1’s barrel was fourteen and a half inches long, nearly six inches shorter than the M-16A2. Along with the collapsible butt stock, the M-4A1 offered quicker reaction speed as well as the ability to use the weapon in more compact places.

Goose lay prone on the hot ground. Before taking up his position, he’d scraped away the top layer of sand and rocks, exposing the cooler earth below. It made lying down on the scorching desert surface more bearable. Only a minute or two of being exposed to the dry heat had turned the layer he’d exposed the same color as the land around him.

He adjusted the telescopic sights, bringing the image of the pale blue Subaru station wagon into proper magnification. The image sharpened. He kept both eyes open, the way he had been trained to do, mentally switching between both fields of vision. His father, a woodsman who had hunted all over the Okefenokee Swamp and had pulled a tour of duty as a Marine in Korea, had first taught him the technique. Drill sergeants and sniper specialists had refined the skill during training.

Dried mud covered the station wagon’s windshield except for the arches carved out by the wipers. Streaks of dried mud stained the car’s body. Tie-downs held two spare tires and two five-gallon jerry cans on the roof.

Goose played the scope over the vehicle’s windshield. The driver and the man sitting in the shotgun seat looked Middle Eastern. Evidently the vehicle’s air-conditioning wasn’t working because they were both drenched with perspiration that left damp stains in the armpits of their shirts.

“Base,” Goose said, speaking into the pencil mike at the left corner of his mouth.

“Go, Phoenix Leader,” Remington called back. “Base reads you five by five.”

“You got vid?”

“We see what you see, Leader.”

“Can you confirm your package?” Goose asked, sweeping the M4A1’s sights from the driver to the passenger.

Remington hesitated an instant. “Neither of those men. They are confirmed hostiles. Repeat, we have positive ID of hostile nature. Don’t take any chances with these people.”

Shifting the rifle slightly and refocusing the scope, Goose ran the sights over the two men in the backseat. He knew the agent immediately because the man’s face was battered and bloody. Gray duct tape covered his eyes, wrapping around his head. From the uncomfortable way the man was sitting, Goose guessed that his hands were tied or cuffed behind him.

“Is this the package, Base?” Goose asked.

“Affirmative, Leader,” Remington said. “You have visual confirmation.”

The station wagon had come within a quarter mile of the Rangers’ position. The rough terrain kept the vehicle’s speed down to about thirty miles an hour.

Goose switched over to the team frequency. Remington and HQ remained part of the loop. “We’ve got ID. Our save is located in the rear seat. Passenger side, not the driver’s side. Copy?”

The ten men in the unit responded quickly.

Glancing over his shoulder, Goose looked at Corporal Bill Townsend. The corporal had been the first man Goose selected for the ten-man unit.

Bill had just turned twenty-eight. He was young, easygoing by nature but quick on the fly on an op. Like Goose, he wore load-carrying equipment, an LCE, that supported his gear. Combat webbing held extra magazines and rounds for the M-4A1/M-203 combo he carried. The M-203 grenade launcher fired 40mm grenades and added a wallop to a squad’s force.

During the eight years he’d known Bill, Goose had never seen him perturbed. Things didn’t always go the way Bill thought they should, but he worked through any situation, be it smooth sailing or total chaos, with better grace than any man Goose had ever known. Bill was totally relaxed and at peace with himself. Goose figured it had something to do with the corporal’s faith. Bill was a devout Christian who spent time with squadmates who were having personal troubles. He was good at easing the burdens down to some manageable load. If Bill hadn’t been such a good soldier and adamant about making a difference in the world in that fashion, Goose would have recommended the corporal for a counseling position on base.

Seven years ago, when Goose had met Megan Holder at Fort Benning and fallen in love with her in spite of his best efforts not to, Bill had counseled him. Goose had always promised himself that he’d remain single till he finished his twenty years and retired, reminding himself that a dedicated career soldier’s family often got short shrift by the very nature of the job. He hadn’t wanted to put anyone through that. But Goose had been torn in his resolution when he saw Megan trying bravely to raise her son-our son, he corrected himself-Joey, all by herself.

Bill had known Goose was troubled and had talked to him without really talking to him for a while. At least, that was the way it seemed. Looking back on things now, Goose had the distinct impression that the young man knew exactly what he was doing.

In the end, Bill helped Goose get over his cold feet and follow his heart. Bill had been best man at their wedding, a position Goose always thought would belong to his old friend Cal Remington. After all, Goose had been best man at two of Remington’s weddings. But for some reason Remington hadn’t been able to participate on the date Goose and Megan had chosen. In the end, Bill had been the perfect best man, and he had stayed close to Goose’s whole family. These days, Remington seldom visited the Gander household, while Bill was often around. He frequently baby-sat Chris.

“I’m here,” Bill told Goose quietly. “When you move, I’ve got your six.

“You get your prayers said?” Goose tossed off the question in a lighthearted way, but he’d been around Bill when the man had prayed over injured soldiers and during disastrous situations. It seemed to Goose that God paid special attention to Bill’s words. Although he’d never talked about his feelings with anyone else, Goose had always felt the strength and conviction in Bill’s prayers. While he had a few doubts of his own about God, Goose leaned on Bill to put in a good word for him with the Big Guy.

Bill nodded. “Prayers said. Mine. Yours. The squad’s. We’ll make it home okay, Sarge.”

“I hope you’re right.”

An easy grin touched Bill’s lips. “You can’t just hope. You gotta have faith.”

“I do have faith.”

“Nah.” Bill shook his head. “If you had faith, you wouldn’t have to reach for hope.”

“Then I’m working on it. Best I can do. Thanks, man.” Goose turned from Bill.

It wasn’t often Goose felt the difference between the younger man and himself, but today he did. They often attended the same prayer groups while they were in the field. Or, more accurately, Goose joined the ones that Bill headed. And even back on base, Bill had found the church that Goose’s family attended. Bill spent some of his free time working as a youth minister for athletic events there.