Apocalypse Unleashed (13 page)

“Except when you don’t.”

“Yes, sir. But I’ll stand to take the fall for that.”

Leaning back, Miller looked around the cellar. “Yet for all that, here you sit under house arrest.”

Goose remained silent.

“Actually,” Miller went on, “it’s worse than that. If the armed men guarding the cellar entrance are any indication.”

“The captain’s just keeping me honest.”

“Do you really think that’s what those men are there for?”

“I wasn’t trained to second-guess a commanding officer,” Goose said.

“You may have to, Sergeant.” Miller’s voice came a little harder now. “The men out there ready to champion you aren’t happy with how things are going. Most of them aren’t sure that circumstances back home are safe for their families. In fact, most of them have lost family. Just like you lost your son.”

Goose winced. He forced himself to breathe as an image of Chris momentarily filled his thoughts. Guilt hammered him when he told himself he had to quit thinking about his son at the moment. For that split second, he rebelled against being a soldier. Then he grew calm.

“You know,” Miller said, “if you think about it, maybe this next seven years of unrest and horror we’re about to face is God putting all of us under house arrest. We’re here by choice, and we’re going to have to work our way through it.”

“If you want to believe that, you go on ahead.”

“Can you think of another reason everything’s happened as it has?”

Goose didn’t say anything.

“This isn’t a good time to be without answers,” Miller went on.

“I know that, but I don’t have any.”

“The men—many of them—trust you, Goose. They believe you care about them and have their best interests at heart. They don’t feel the same way about Captain Remington.”

“Then they’re making a mistake. He’s a good man.”

“I don’t doubt that you believe that,” Miller replied. “But with you sitting here in this cellar, maybe you can see how some of them would begin to doubt it.”

Goose folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the earthen wall. He
could
see how men would think that. Remington, for whatever reason, had made a critical mistake.

“What makes it worse,” Miller said, “is that the man who killed Corporal Baker hasn’t yet been found.”

“The captain has a detail looking for the person or persons who did that.”

“Why aren’t you on that detail?”

“Captain Remington felt I’d serve the company better elsewhere.”

Miller regarded Goose for a moment. “Then the captain has made another error in judgment. The men want
you
investigating Corporal Baker’s murder.”

“We don’t know that it was a murder.” Goose automatically repeated the line Remington had taken on the incident. “It could have been a tragic mistake.”

“Strange that we haven’t had a tragic mistake before or since. Don’t you think?”

“This is a war zone, Chaplain. Things happen out here that don’t happen during peacetimes.”

Miller’s gaze pierced Goose. “Do you think Corporal Baker’s death was a tragic mistake, Sergeant?”

Goose tried to answer immediately that it was. But the words got stuck in his throat. By the time he got the way clear, it was too late.

“I don’t think so either,” Miller said. “Corporal Baker wasn’t liked by Captain Remington. His efforts to tend to the men’s religious needs were not appreciated.” He took a breath. “It shames me that I wasn’t one of those leading the men in prayer. Instead, I was drawn to Corporal Baker and looked to him for answers I should have known myself.”

Hanging from the rafter, the electric lantern shimmied. Light wavered throughout the cellar. Uneasiness descended on Goose. He checked his watch.

“It’s morning outside, right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“We got clear visibility?”

Miller nodded and looked slightly puzzled.

The lantern vibrated again. A puff of dust descended from the wooden crossbeams that shored up the earthen ceiling.

“What’s wrong?” Miller asked.

Goose nodded at the lantern. “Vibration like that, coming steady, means we got armored cav moving around somewhere.”

“We don’t have many tanks or Bradleys here.”

“I know. I’m crossing my fingers that it’s just earth tremors.”

“Wouldn’t they be noticed by someone else in the camp?”

“Not necessarily.”

“I thought the nearest Syrian armor was days from here.”

“That was according to the last reports.” Goose stood. The pain in his leg flared to renewed life, and he winced. “Captain Remington’s kept the scouts pulled back, and we’re not doing any air recon because our pilots have been sitting ducks for entrenched Syrian ack-ack guns.”

The antiaircraft guns had knocked down five scout planes in the last two weeks. Air support was as hard to come by as armored cav, and Remington didn’t want any of it squandered.

“We’ve been working blind south of the border,” Goose went on. “Satellite recon has been iffy.”

The lantern swung wider this time.

“Excuse me,” Goose said. He limped up the stairs carved into the earth. At the top, he rapped on the door with a handful of knuckles.

“Who is it?” one of the guards demanded.

“Sergeant Gander.”

The hole the men had drilled into the door darkened as someone stuck his eye to it. “Back away from the door.”

Angrily Goose took two steps down the stairs.

“What do you want?” the guard asked.

“I need to talk to Lieutenant Swindoll.”

“Can’t let you out, Sarge. It’ll be best if you go on back down and have a seat. Where’s the chaplain?”

“He’s fine.”

“You need to let him see Lieutenant Swindoll,” Miller said from behind Goose.

“No can do. I’m under Captain Remington’s direct orders.”

“Then get the lieutenant here.” Goose used his command voice.

The guard banged against the door with the butt of his assault rifle. Goose identified the heavy thump immediately.

“You don’t give any orders here, Sarge. Not anymore. Now you back away from the door. Chaplain, your visit’s over. You’re coming out of the hole.”

Goose retreated down the steps. Miller had to go first because there wasn’t room to step past. Back in the cellar, they traded places, and Miller went up.

“I’ll get Lieutenant Swindoll,” Miller promised Goose.

Goose nodded. The lantern swung as another puff of dust dropped to the floor.

“You’d better make it quick,” Goose growled.

“I will.” Miller hurried up the steps.

Bright sunlight stabbed into Goose’s eyes when the door opened. Then Miller passed through, and the darkness returned.

Goose sat on the steps and watched the lantern as it danced again.

12

Downtown Sanliurfa
Sanliurfa Province, Turkey
Local Time 0605 Hours

SCUDs and missiles had destroyed many of the downtown buildings. Bombing runs by Syrian planes and the attack on the city only weeks before accounted for other damage. Remington had put Rangers on cleanup detail to make sure the streets were clear enough to navigate in case they had to. They’d been aided and abetted by the United Nations teams that had survived the attack along the border and had regrouped in Sanliurfa. Eventually citizens had joined in.

For the most part, the cleanup detail had amounted only to shoving debris to one side of the street or the other. They didn’t have time to haul the remains of the broken buildings away, and there was no real place to dump everything that had been destroyed.

Earthmovers roared and snorted like mechanical beasts all around the city as they labored to continue clearing streets. With the Syrian army and air force mostly intact, Remington had had no choice except to figure out fallback positions within the city. If they were pursued from Sanliurfa, they were going to be targets while they raced to the next city.

A moment later, Remington reached the street he wanted. It took some scouting to find streets because he was having all the signage torn down as well. In case an invading Syrian ground effort reached them and had maps, directions would be harder to figure out without neatly labeled streets and thoroughfares.

He stopped at the intersection and spotted the restaurant he was looking for. It was open. Bright flags—Turkish, United States, British, Canadian, French, and Russian—flew above the open-air café.

The fact that the restaurant was open didn’t surprise Remington. War zones brought capitalists swarming like flies to honey. Everywhere he’d served, there had always been a thriving black market and local entrepreneurs willing to risk their necks to make a profit.

He turned onto the street and took a space out front next to a station wagon loaded down with chicken crates. Evidently not everyone had finished leaving. There were still a few rats deserting the ship.

Felix Magureanu’s midnight blue Mercedes sat nearby. Though a patina of dust covered the city, the luxury car looked freshly scrubbed. The personalized license plate on the back read,
DEALZ
.

Local Time 0609 Hours

The restaurant’s interior was clean and well lit. The power was out; electricity throughout Sanliurfa was generally absent, except in key locations like the hospital and the mess area, where food perishables were kept refrigerated. But there were plenty of candles. The burning wax filled the air with a sweet, heavy scent.

“Welcome,” a young woman greeted. She wore black slacks and a white dress shirt. “Will you be dining with us today?”

“I’m looking for a friend.”

“You are Captain Remington?”

“Let me guess,” Remington said irritably. “The uniform gave it away.”

“I am sorry, but I see many uniforms. They all look the same to me. It’s hard to tell American soldiers from British and the others.”

“I’m Remington.”

The hostess smiled. “Good. Your friend was wondering how long he would be kept waiting. This way, please.”

Remington followed the woman across the restaurant’s floor space. Only a handful of patrons sat at the tables. A ragtag family that matched the station wagon sat near the front windows, obviously concerned about their chickens. A handful of soldiers, all of them wearing blue berets of the United Nations, occupied other tables.

A moment later, the hostess showed Remington to a private dining room in the back.

She knocked on the door.

“Come in,” a booming voice called from within.

The hostess slid the door open and ushered Remington inside. The wood paneling and tables were old and dark, looking black as ink in the uncertain shadows created by the wavering candlelight. “Would you like anything to drink?” she asked.

“Coffee,” Remington said.

“Of course.” The hostess left.

“Good morning, Captain.” Felix Magureanu sat in front of a superthin computer. He waved Remington to the chair on the other side of the square table. Candles stood at attention in an elegant centerpiece.

Remington removed his hat, set it on the table, and took a seat.

The long fingers of one of Felix’s hands trailed through his red goatee. His head was shaved and pale as milk, matching the rest of his complexion. He looked like a man who’d never been out in the sun. As always, wraparound sunglasses with ruby lenses hid his eyes. His black suit was Italian and tailored to his lean, hard physique. A gold Rolex gleamed on one wrist. Rings adorned his fingers.

“You’re late,” Felix said.

Irritation gnawed at Remington. Although he’d learned to work with Felix, he hadn’t learned to care for him. The man was too arrogant to be likeable. Remington kept his expression neutral. “You asked for this meeting, not me.”

“True.” Felix leaned forward and accessed the Internet on his laptop. A small satellite unit sat near the computer on the table. “I wanted to talk to you about Sergeant Gander.”