Mel Odom - Apocalypse unleashed

“You got a hiccup coming up here, Sarge,” Reilly said. He talked fast and sounded like an Easterner. “The Syrian line bulged ahead of you. You’re going to encounter stragglers.”

“No way around it?”

“Not at the rate the Syrians are coming in. That group is tracking the Black Hawk I’ve got coming to you.”

“Or they could be headed north, operating on old intel from the jets’ flyby. That’s where we had our helos stashed.”

“Roger that, Sarge. Either way, you’re in for a rough ride.”

Goose looked back over his shoulder at Danielle and the cameraman. “Get down. Flat as you can. Lie beside Private Johnson.”

“Why?” Danielle asked.

“You ever watch Western movies?”

“Occasionally.”

“Ever see Tombstone?”

“Val Kilmer. Kurt Russell.”

“Yep. Just imagine we’re them and headed into the O.K. Corral and the Clanton boys are already set up and waiting.”

“Oh.”

“You know,” Rainier said, “until now I always liked that movie. I don’t think I’m ever going to watch it the same way again.”

At the next intersection, Goose glanced down the street to the right. Syrian troops hovered around a pair of T-62 battle tanks. One of the tanks fired its main gun. The shell wobbled through the air in front of the van, and the distinct hum filled Goose’s entire world for that instant.

Rainier cursed.

Then the 115mm round struck a building on the other side of the street and blew up. Rock and mortar sprayed into the air and battered the side of the van. Windows shattered, and glass spilled all over Goose. He had his left arm up, blocking the barrage from his face, but a rock rolled under the van, got caught under the frame for a moment, and almost caused him to lose control.

“You still with me, Sarge?” Reilly asked.

“Barely,” Goose answered.

“For a minute, it looked like that one had your name on it.”

“You should have seen it from this angle.”

“Take a left. Let me get you away from them for a moment.”

“I’m all for that.” Goose pulled hard on the wheel and shot down the next street.

“Take the next two rights,” Reilly instructed. “Then go three blocks straight ahead; then take a left again. I got the helo touching ground just ahead of you.”

Goose glanced in his rearview mirror and spotted two Syrian jeeps racing in pursuit. They skidded around the corner, fishtailing on the loose debris from the wrecked building, and barely avoided wrecking against another building.

“Tell those boys in the helo I’m coming in hot,” Goose warned.

United States 75th Army Rangers Outpost

Harran

Sanliurfa Province, Turkey

Local Time 0803 Hours

Goose reached into his combat harness and took out a smoke grenade. He armed the grenade and whipped it toward the building on the corner as he prepared to make the turn. As he went around, the grenade unleashed a torrent of red smoke that partially masked the intersection.

The first Syrian jeep missed the turn and went too wide. On a direct course with the building on the other side of the street, the driver overcorrected and lost the vehicle. It skidded sideways for a moment; then the wheels caught in a pothole and on debris. The jeep flipped and went sideways.

The second jeep crossed bumpers with the first, swerved wildly for a moment, then made it through. It sped up again, quickly eating up Goose’s short lead.

“Corporal,” Goose said.

“I’m on it.” Because of his injured arm, Rainier turned awkwardly in the seat, but he got into position. He shoved his M-4A1 through the window and aimed behind them. He fired in short bursts, just the way he’d been trained. Return fire came from the Syrians and peppered the van.

Goose heard bullets whiz by his ears as he went into serpentine evasive action that made it difficult to watch the street and control the van. Then something struck him in the back with bruising force. He struggled to get the air in his lungs again, hoping the bullet hadn’t made it through his Kevlar vest. He pushed his panic aside and concentrated on his driving.

Two blocks farther on, Rainier’s bullets must have hit the driver or wrecked something in the steering column. The Syrian jeep pulled sharply to the left and planted into the side of a home. The mud bricks held for a moment, then buckled, and the jeep disappeared from view.

“Better to be lucky than to be good.” Rainier drew his weapon back into the van. He held the carbine between his knees and managed to feed in a fresh clip with his good hand.

“Sometimes.”

“Sarge,” Reilly said over the headset, “you got two hostiles coming up on your right side. We missed them in all the excitement.”

“What are they?”

“Jeeps.”

At the same time the corporal answered, the Syrian vehicles roared into the intersection. Both of them carried machine gunners on the rear decks.

Goose knew if he tried to brake or shift directions he’d expose everyone in the van to hostile fire that would cut them to ribbons in seconds. Instead, he kept the accelerator pinned to the floor and pulled his M-4A1 up to aim through the hole in the windshield before him.

The machine gunners took aim, but they were slower than Goose because they were still rocking to a stop. Driven by adrenaline, Goose steered the van toward the gap between the jeeps and hoped it was as wide as he thought it was. He fired the M-203.

The 40mm fragmentation grenade slammed into the windscreen of the jeep on the left. The shrapnel killed or seriously wounded the two soldiers in the front seats and swept the gunner from the rear deck.

Stunned by the explosion, the machine gunner in the second jeep hesitated. By the time he remembered to fire, he was aiming behind the van. As Goose passed between the jeeps, discovering that it was wider than he’d believed, he steered the van into the jeep, bumping it enough to knock the machine gunner from the rear deck.

“Oh, man,” Rainier said, “those machine-gun barrels looked huge.”

“At this end of them, yeah,” Goose agreed.

“Left, Sarge,” Reilly called over the headset. “There’s your left.”

“I see it.” Goose made the turn, but he knew something had gone badly wrong with the van’s front end. Either the rough road and high speed had finally gotten to it or the collision with the jeep had broken something. He barely made the turn.

The Black Hawk was just settling to ground in the large intersection two blocks down. A miniature dust storm rose around the helicopter.

“First Sergeant Gander, this is Sergeant Cooper Gordon. You’ll be flying the unfriendly skies with me today.”

“I remember you, Cooper.”

“Then come on ahead. Black Angel Eleven has got your six.”

Armed men deployed from the Black Hawk and prepared to bring the wounded man aboard.

“I got five with me counting the wounded man.” Goose screeched to a halt.

“Roger that,” the helo commander said. “We were on a hit-and-git mission to unload mines. We’ve got room to spare on the way back.”

The Black Hawk crew sprinted forward with a medical gurney.

When he got out of the van, Goose’s bad knee nearly went out from under him. He grabbed hold of the door and remained standing with effort.

“You okay, Sarge?” one of the Black Hawk crew asked.

“Just a little shaken up,” Goose answered. “I’ll be fine. Let’s take care of my soldier back there.”

The crew members cut Johnson free of the door and moved him to the gurney. One of them set up an IV and started a glucose pack.

“Let’s go; let’s go,” their team leader ordered.

“Goose,” Remington called over the headset, “it’s time to go. The Syrians are closing in on your twenty.”