Mel Odom - Apocalypse unleashed

A flaming timber lay across his back. He wedged the M-4A1 under the timber with the buttstock braced squarely against the floor. He curled his body and shoved, forcing the beam from his shoulders. When he finished, there was no breath left in him. He tried to get to his feet and failed. He was going to die there.

Suddenly, that didn’t seem so bad. His youngest son-Chris, only five years old-had disappeared with all the rest of the children in the world. If Megan was right, God had taken Goose’s son. And there wasn’t anything he could do about that.

None of it made sense.

“Sergeant.”

Goose coughed and wheezed, unable to find any air in the room. His lungs felt like they were already on fire. But he recognized the voice.

“Sergeant, you’ve got to get up,” Corporal Joseph Baker said.

You’re dead, Goose wanted to say. I buried you weeks ago. The image of Baker’s torn body, mangled by a fragmentation grenade, had haunted Goose’s sleep nearly every night.

“Get up, Sergeant. It’s not your time to die.”

It wasn’t yours either, Corporal.

“How do you think Megan will feel to learn you just lay down and died?”

Goose knew the answer to that. Somehow, in spite of everything that had happened, she’d found the strength to keep going and to believe in God more fiercely than she ever had before. He’d heard it in her voice. Even if God forgave him for quitting, Goose knew Megan never would. He’d promised her on the day he married her that he would never give her less than what she deserved.

“Then get up,” Baker’s voice said.

Goose stopped thinking about dying. He stopped wondering how he was hearing from a dead man. He did what the United States Army had taught him to do every day for the last seventeen years.

He got up.

And he had his assault rifle in his hand when he did. But the smoke was so thick and his eyes tearing so much that he didn’t know which way was out through the flames.

“Here.”

Goose moved at once. He ran through the flames because he knew he wasn’t going to get a second chance. Arm across his face, he felt the heat of the flames surround him for two strides… then three…

… and then he was out, racing into the night in front of the house. Overcome by smoke and exhaustion, he dropped to his knees and tried to breathe. His lungs remained frozen for a moment, then kick-started to life. Without warning, he threw up and felt a little better. His lungs opened up.

“Sarge!” someone yelled. “You’re on fire!”

Looking down at his pant legs, Goose saw flames clinging to the material. He raked up a handful of dirt and smothered the flames. Then he stood on shaking legs. His left knee, damaged so long ago and never quite right since, ached and felt infirm. He looked around at the villagers and the Rangers gathered there in the firelight. When he spotted the two girls he’d gone in to rescue, he felt better.

“Thought we’d lost you, Sarge,” Private First Class Billy Hendricks said. He was in his early twenties, new to the army and to the area.

“Not yet,” Goose said. “We’re going to be all right.”

“I knew that when I saw you come out of that burning house.”

Goose spotted Corporal Jamal Donner, his second on the transport assignment. Donner was an African-American in his early thirties, only a couple of years younger than Goose. He kept his head shaved clean, even managing to do so in the confusion of these past few weeks.

“Where do we stand?” Goose asked.

“We’re all present and accounted for,” Donner said. His voice was soft and smooth with the Southern accent he’d acquired while growing up in Atlanta, Georgia. “We got lucky.”

Goose looked at the handful of bodies lying on the ground. Some of the other villagers sat beside the corpses and wept without restraint.

Thank God there are no children, Goose thought. They would have been among the casualties for certain. Then he realized that God was exactly the reason why no children were there. That only brought up thoughts of Chris again, and he tried not to go there.

“Not everybody got lucky,” Donner said.

“Does anyone know what happened?”

“Got a man over here who says he saw the whole thing. Ain’t had time to talk to him.”

Local Time 2112 Hours

The man’s name was Achmed. Sixtyish and frail, he spoke English well.

“They came out of nowhere,” Achmed told Goose. The village continued to burn. There was nothing anyone could do to save it.

“Who?” Goose asked.

“Niyazi.”

Goose reached into his BDU pouch and took out his PalmPilot.

He brought up the file they’d assembled on the local warlords and showed the image they had of Niyazi to Achmed. “This man?” Goose asked.

Achmed nodded. “This man. Very bad man. He likes to kill.”

The files Goose had read on Niyazi agreed with that. Although the Turkish military hadn’t liked sharing all their information with the United States Army, they’d done so once it became apparent that sharing was necessary.

“Why did he attack the village?” Goose asked as he put the PalmPilot away.

Achmed shook his head. “I don’t know. Normally he is not in this place.”

“Not in what place? Here?”

“Not here,” Achmed agreed. “Niyazi stays to the north. Many kilometers away.”

“Something brought him down here,” Donner said.

“I don’t know what that might be,” Achmed replied. “We are a very poor village. It is known. Everyone knows how poor we are.”

Goose looked around the village and silently agreed. Except for a few goats and little patches of vegetable gardens, there wasn’t much to the village. Over the past weeks, he’d traveled with a convoy by the village at least a dozen times. They’d never bothered to stop.

“You ask me,” Donner said, “and I don’t mean to be rude about it, but this place ain’t worth the powder it would take to blow it up.”

A bad feeling twisted through Goose’s gut. He turned to Donner. “Gather the men. We need to get rolling. If Niyazi didn’t hit this village out of spite or to get something, he was just using it as a diversion.”

Understanding filled Donner’s liquid eyes. “The convoy.”

“Yeah,” Goose agreed. “And we ran off and left it unguarded.” He turned toward the nearest Hummer, ignoring his aches, bruises, and burns.

United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post

Sanliurfa, Turkey

Local Time 2114 Hours

“Captain Remington.”

Tired and frustrated, Cal Remington looked up from the computer screen he’d been studying. The army captain was six feet four inches tall with broad shoulders and short-clipped dark hair.

“What is it, Private?” Remington snapped.

“Got a problem with the convoy, sir.” The private was young and baby-faced, one of the geek army that had moved up quickly as the military had become increasingly reliant on technology.

“Which convoy?” There were currently three out. Remington checked the time on the bottom of the computer screen. Two, he amended. One of them should have reached its destination by now.

“Harran, sir.”

Goose’s convoy. The thought that something had gone wrong there irritated Remington. Then again, he didn’t know if it was the thought that something had gone wrong or the thought of Goose that irritated him most.

“What’s wrong with the convoy?” Remington asked.

“It’s under attack, sir.”

“By whom?” Remington stood and walked out of his office. The private led the way through the computer workstations that had been set up and now ran off noisy generators.

“We don’t know, sir.” The private gestured to one of the large LCD computer monitors.