Then her doubts disappeared, becoming an arctic cold spear that pierced her heart when she saw Gerry Fletcher standing at the edge of the building's roof four stories above the ground.

Turkey 30 Klicks South of Sanliurfa Local Time 0759 Hours

The explosions that had ripped the UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter from the sky had scattered the machine over two hundred yards of desert sand. Flames still clung to some of the bigger pieces, and turgid black smoke curled up from them.

Goose was amazed that anyone had survived the destruction and the tumble from the sky, let alone four of the crew. He stood in the passenger seat of the other RSOV as Tanaka parked the vehicle fifty feet away from the one Hardin and the two Rangers with him had used to get to the site. Tanaka pointed their RSOV in the other direction, giving the Ranger teams overlapping fields of fire as well as a perimeter.

"Phoenix Leader," Remington called over the headset.

Goose assigned men to perimeter watch. Cusack stayed in the RSOV to finish tending Bill Townsend, who had taken a round through his upper thigh. Luckily, the 7.62mm bullet had cored through the outside of the leg. The wound was debilitating, but the steel-jacketed round had missed both the thighbone and the femoral artery. Contact with the bone would have broken the leg, and slicing through the femoral artery might have caused Bill to bleed out and die before they could get the flow stopped. Either way, he had been lucky.

Or had God watching over him, Goose amended, feeling certain that was more reason than the other.

"Go, Base," Goose said as he stepped out of the RSOV and dropped to the sand. "Leader reads you five by five."

"How bad is it?" Remington asked.

"The helo is gone, sir." Goose surveyed the bulk of the wreck. Fire wreathed the Black Hawk, burning off the excess fuel. Whatever equipment remained aboard that might be salvageable wasn't going to be approachable for some time. "We've got four survivors. All of them are wounded."

"What about your squad?"

"Mostly intact, Base. One walking wounded."

"Your vehicles?"

"We're in motion, sir." Goose surveyed the wounded men.

The chaplain wore an identifying armband that guaranteed recognition but not safety from enemy fire. He was in his late forties, his dark hair peppered with gray. Hard lines made his face look haggard. Quietly, he held one wounded man's hand and spoke in a low, confident voice.

Hardin stood beside the chaplain, out of the line of sight of the wounded man. With an impassive expression, Hardin locked eyes with Goose and slowly shook his head.

"There's something you should know, Sergeant," Remington said.

"What, sir?"

"The reporter that was talking to you, Hardesty, was sending out a live transmission at the time the helo went down and your squad was attacked. The television stations carried that transmission in real time. No delay."

Goose took in the statement, automatically logging the ramifications. If Megan or Joey was awake, and if they knew that war along the Turkish border had broken out, they might have seen the footage on television. He felt guilty that his wife and son might be sitting home worrying about him.

"I'm sending a message through channels," Remington said. "Fort Benning will send a dispatch to Megan to let her know you're all right."

For the moment, Goose thought. He was enough of a realist to know that Remington might be sending a message that might not be true twenty minutes from now. "Thank you for that, sir."

"We're fighting wars in unusual times," Remington said. "Battle has never been a televised event before. Yet that's where we're finding ourselves. I didn't want you distracted from your mission."

Goose checked his watch. "I've still got a window on the arriving aircraft, sir."

"Yes, you do. Can you get there?"

"Yes, sir. We'll be carrying wounded. I'd like a medical team to meet me if possible. I've got one man here who's touch and go."

"Affirmative, Leader. I'll pass the request along, but I can make no promises. Those people are busy. We've got wounded and casualties scattered all along the border."

"But we're holding."

"Yes, Sergeant. Those men at the front are Rangers. Our Rangers. They'll stand. And once those Marines arrive and we get the air support we're expecting, Syria is going to be sorry she opened the ball on this one."

Goose cleared the channel and switched back to the squad frequency. The sat-relay vids weren't up yet, but he thanked God the com channels held up through the emergency rerouting.

"Hardin," Goose called.

"Yeah, Sarge."

"Let's get loaded up. Take the two wounded. We'll handle the chaplain and his charge."

"We're on it." Hardin trotted back to the RSOV he commanded and got his four-man team to transfer two of the wounded helo crewmen to the vehicle.

Goose surveyed the burning remains of the helicopter. Occasionally the flames shifted and he could see the bodies of the two pilots still strapped into their seats. Both dead men were burned beyond recognition.

"Sergeant."

Turning at the sound of the soft voice behind him, Goose faced the chaplain. "Chaplain," Goose said.

"O'Dell," the chaplain said. "Timothy O'Dell." He spoke with a New York accent and offered his hand.

"First Sergeant Samuel Gander." Goose took the man's hand, finding the grip solid and reassuring.

O'Dell nodded. "I know who you are, Sergeant. We were briefed before we jumped from the border."

"We're pressed for time here, Chaplain."

"I know, but I wanted to talk to you about Private Digby over there." O'Dell paused, looking back at the young man lying unconscious on the OD field blanket that was pockmarked with ember charring. "If we try to transport him across the desert, I'm afraid he's not going to make it. Shrapnel from one of the shattered helicopter rotors pierced his right lung. It's pretty much filled with blood. There are other injuries, but that one is the most serious."

"The only other option is to leave him here," Goose said. He kept emotion from the decision, though he knew if anything happened to the young soldier he would feel guilty later. Command came equipped with harsh decisions.

"I could stay with him," O'Dell offered.

Goose looked into the man's eyes. "I can't guarantee a medevac, Chaplain. I can't even guarantee there will be one when we get to the other end of this jump."

"God will provide, Sergeant. He always does."

For a moment, Goose was almost swayed by the chaplain's quiet words. They carried the same certain conviction that Bill's counsel often had. But the stark desert surrounding them weighed heavily on him.

"I can't let you do that," Goose said. "If I leave you out here, we could lose you both."

"Sergeant, I'm willing-"

Goose cut the man off firmly but politely, having to talk a little louder because the fresh assault of artillery fire thundering to the south. "Chaplain, I appreciate that, but it's not going to happen. I don't want to lose anyone, but I'm not going to risk two."

The chaplain looked like he wanted to argue, then he stood respectfully. "All right, Sergeant. We'll do it your way. I'll pray for success for us all."

Goose nodded a thank-you and turned from the man, focusing on the mission, concentrating on the need to get to the front where he could perhaps start saving lives instead of losing them. He walked to the wounded man's side, listening uncomfortably to the wheeze and rasp of the young soldier's breathing as his chest labored. Blood streaked the wounded man's face and his left eye was swollen shut.

Calling Cusack, Evaristo, and the chaplain over while Tanaka manned the RSOV, Goose gripped the edge of the bloodstained field blanket under the wounded man. On the count of three, they lifted the young soldier from the ground. He groaned in pain but didn't wake.

Goose felt like yelling with the wounded man. The exertion pulled at his strained shoulder and brought back the sensation of the iron band around his chest, cutting his breath short. Together, they carried the injured man to the back of the RSOV.

Bill reached out and helped guide the soldier onto the rear deck area. Cusack had cut away Bill's left pant leg to get to the wound. Heavy gauze bandaged the leg.

"Don't bust that dressing loose," Cusack warned. "We had a hard time pulling everything together."

Bill's face blanched white and a sick sweat poured from his skin. Gingerly, he returned to a sitting position. "I like being a soldier," he said with a grin that was only a shadow of the usual effort. "I don't even mind getting shot at. It's part of the service. But this getting shot, you know, I have a real problem with that."

The moment of levity, even as out of place as it was, lightened the mood. The young soldier lying on the RSOV's rear deck even woke long enough to gasp, "Tell me about it."

As the other Rangers belted in around the RSOV, Goose took his position in the passenger seat. "Let's roll," he told Tanaka.

Tanaka let out the clutch and the four-wheel drive kicked small rooster tails in the sand for a moment before catching better traction.

Glancing over his shoulder, Goose saw the second RSOV flank them, staying behind and to the right. He checked the western skies, knowing the aircraft from USS Wasp was inbound from that direction.

Except for the smoke and dust haze rising from Glitter City, the blue sky remained empty.

C'mon, Goose thought, be there. We've got a lot to do.

United States of America Fort Benning, Georgia Local Time 1:12 A.M.

"Gerry." Megan grew short of breath as she sprinted up the steel fire escape that zigzagged back and forth across the outside of the resident building. She was in shape from the sports she and Goose played, but that didn't prepare her to be at peak condition during one of the most intensely stressful situations of her life. "Gerry."

The boy didn't answer.

Below, out in the parking lot, Private Newman and his friends kept the spotlight on the boy. They also stayed back at Megan's request. At this point, with everything that had happened to him tonight, she wasn't sure what Gerry Fletcher was capable of doing.

"Gerry." Megan's feet drummed against the metal fire escape steps. The clanging noises rang and echoed against the apartment building.

One of the windows above on the third floor opened and a young, bare-chested man leaned out. His dog tags glinted in the spotlight. Rap music with unintelligible lyrics blared out into the night. "Hey! What's going on out here?" he demanded.

Without pausing to answer, Megan ran past him. The vibration of her passing tipped over a wrought-iron stand containing three potted plants. Potting soil and vegetation scattered across the landing and leaked through the holes in the grilled landing.

"Hey," the guy in the window called again. He started climbing out.

"Back off, soldier," Megan ordered, putting all the steel she could muster into her voice. During her observations of Goose in his element, she'd seen him bark commands in the same kind of tone. He'd told her that the voice of authority was something a soldier often responded to without identifying the source, if the speaker could carry off the role. The ability to produce that voice was one of the first deciding factors in choosing non-corns and officers.

The soldier froze halfway out of the window.

Megan grabbed the next rail headed up and took the steps two at a time. She looked up at Gerry Fletcher. The boy still stood transfixed in the bright spotlight. His face was wracked with anguish and fear. Tears glistened like silver as they ran down his cheeks to his quivering chin.

Heartbroken, Megan thought as she hurled herself up the flight of steps. And terrified. She couldn't help wondering how much of Gerry's life had been spent feeling that way. Later. Think about that later. Get him down from the building now. Why did he come up here? Why is he standing near the edge? God, that boy shouldn't be up here.

But she was afraid she knew.

God, I need Your help here. I hope that You're listening. Please be listening.

In the parking lot below, a military jeep with flashing security lights pulled to a stop beside Newman and his friends. Two uniformed MPs got out with flashlights and shined the beams over the Jeep, highlighting Newman and his friends.

Megan ran. Her breath burned the back of her throat and her lungs seemed too small to drag in the air that she needed. Calm, she instructed herself. Gerry needs you calm. You need to be calm for yourself.

She pulled up the final few steps. Her body felt like lead. Everything seemed to be going too fast and too slow at the same time. She stepped out onto the rooftop. Gravel cracked and crunched under her feet. She had to be trapped in a nightmare. This had to be a nightmare. God help her if it wasn't.

Gerry Fletcher stood farther down the same wall she'd come up on. The spotlight on his body turned him almost ghostly white in the front and made his back half as black as night.

"Stay away, Mrs. Gander," Gerry said in a voice that broke. "Please stay away."

Megan stopped immediately. In a situation like this, the potential victim needed to feel in charge. Many suicides took their own lives in an attempt to prove they had some control left to them. She held her hands out to her sides.

"All right, Gerry," she said in a calm voice. "I've stopped."

Gerry looked back out at the parking lot.

The MPs shined their lights up at the roof, adding to the intensity of the spotlight. Then they started for the building.

"Gerry." Megan forced herself to sound calm. She didn't feel that way, but she could sound that way-with effort. Years spent counseling troubled youths had honed that skill within her. "You've got to come away from the edge of the building, Gerry. If you don't, the MPs are going to come up."

Gerry shook his head, peered over the edge, and looked like he was going to throw up. But when he faced her, he still looked resolute. "If they do, I'll jump."

The calm way he stated his planned action scared Megan. Gerry sounded broken in spirit, filled with a quiet desperation that ran bone deep. "You're breaking the law, Gerry. They can't just walk 11 away.

"I'm planning on jumping anyway." Gerry's voice remained calm and matter-of-fact. "When they get too close, then I'll jump."

"Let me try to stop them," Megan offered. She lifted her cell phone and punched in the number to the security office.

The dispatch officer came on in a crisp, efficient tone.

"This is Megan Gander," Megan said, watching the MPs jog across the parking lot. "You've got men monitoring a situation near the base hospital. A boy on an apartment building roof."

"Who are you, Mrs. Gander?" the dispatcher asked. Other voices sounded in the background, other dispatchers working other calls.

"I'm the boy's counselor," Megan said. "You can verify that through Helen Cordell at the base hospital. She called me in. Dr. Carson is the attending physician in the ER tonight. He's aware of the situation as well."

The MPs had jogged to the base of the building.