The Syrian soldier on the jeep's rear deck stood and fitted a long tube over his shoulder. Goose recognized the weapon immediately as a Soviet RPG-7, a rocket-propelled grenade launcher specially made for taking out tanks and personnel.

The RPG-7 had come out of World War II as an antitank weapon for the German Panzerfaust. The Soviet army had embraced the weapon in 1961 and made it their own, then made tons of factory-assembled copies of the weapon that rendered the rocket launcher relatively inexpensive. The Afghanistan rebels had broken the back of the Communist war machine in the 1980s with the weapon, taking out tanks, APCs, and helicopters with the rocket-propelled rounds.

"I've got the Jeep," Cusack said, leveling the M-4A1.

"Leave the Jeep," Goose said. "I need it intact. Take out the troops. Let them know we bite."

Cusack shifted, then squeezed the trigger. The 40mm grenade landed just in front of the approaching line of men. Corpses left the ground and landed in crumpled, smoldering heaps when the HE round detonated.

Staggered but obviously knowing they were fighting for their lives, the Syrians continued their advance.

Goose leveled his weapon and fired, putting another grenade in their midst and only a few yards in front of the Jeep. A small crater opened up, and the concussion took down more Syrian soldiers.

"Fire at will," Goose said, slipping his finger over the M-4A1's trigger. "Stonewall."

"Go, Phoenix Leader. You have Stonewall." The Marine sniper sounded totally cool, utterly competent.

"Stonewall, do you have our position?" Goose peered around cover, dropped to one knee, and swung the assault rifle around. Two three-round bursts took out a pair of Syrian soldiers.

Another Syrian went to ground and skidded to a stand of rocks just before Goose's next burst hammered the terrain in line with where he had been.

"I've got your position, Phoenix Leader," Stonewall said.

"I've got a target for you." Goose shifted, reading the positions of his team and moving to keep the four in a solid two-by-two block of overlapping fields of fire.

"Name it."

"I need the Jeep intact. Then I need coverage till I get to it. The vehicle has ordnance I need to get the T-72 off your position."

"Will do, Phoenix Leader. Stonewall has the ball."

Goose held his position till the first Syrian soldier rounded the rocks. He fired into the center of the enemy, riding the M-4A1's recoil up naturally.

The Syrian's head snapped back, and he fell into a tangled heap with the man behind him.

"Incoming!" Cusack bellowed.

Goose hunkered down on one knee, reached under his jaw for his chin strap, and pulled his helmet down tight to protect him. An RPG7 antipersonnel round detonated against the rocks and proved to be more lethal to the Syrian troops than to the four besieged Rangers.

"Move!" Goose ordered as he swapped out magazines. "On me!" He led the three Rangers on a charge, peripherally aware that Jansen had taken at least two rounds through his thighs just above his knees. Blood matted the Ranger's pants legs.

Sitting behind the rocks, they'd been sitting ducks for the same kind of pincer movement he'd used against the Syrian armored cav units. The Ranger squads had gotten spread thin, but there'd been no other way to contain the unexpected action from the surviving soldiers.

A Syrian soldier fired at Goose from behind loose collection of boulders. Beyond the man, the Jeep was still in motion. The soldier on the rear deck had the rocket launcher over his shoulder again. Even as he swung around, he suddenly jerked sideways and fell from the moving vehicle.

Goose swept the assault rifle up and squeezed off two three-round bursts. The bullets missed the soldier but struck the rock beside him, driving stone splinters and steel-jacketed lead splinters into his face. The man fell back, slapping his hands over his bloody features and screaming.

Stretching his stride, knowing his team was following at his heels as they'd been trained to do, Goose raced for the RPG-7 that had fallen to ground. The dead Syrian soldier lay only a few feet away.

The Jeep came around in a tight turn.

As Goose watched the Jeep, watched the crew inside it turning frantically to face the Ranger squad, he saw that Ybarra's team had accounted for the other two T-55s. One of the APCs sat in a smoking ruin along the skirmish line. The lead Jeep of the surviving two suddenly caught a 40mm grenade in the grill and became a flaming pyre that slammed into some of the morning's wreckage. The man who survived the initial attack didn't get ten steps from the vehicle before Ranger rifles cut him down.

Only the T-72 remained.

Goose stopped as the Jeep turned. He lifted his assault rifle and took aim. When he squeezed the trigger, the bullets ripped through the windshield and took out both men in the front seats.

Out of control, with no one manning the accelerator or the clutch, the jeep jerked forward, sputtered, and died.

Recharging his weapon, Goose ran for the dropped RPG-7 and scooped it from the ground, praying to God that the weapon remained intact. "Good shooting, Stonewall," he said.

"I aim to please, Phoenix Leader. Glad you're happy with it. Eight and I have a small problem."

Goose glanced at the skirmish line and saw the Soviet-made tank smashing through the wreckage left from the morning's attack like it was going through wet tissue. The T-72, clad in reactive armor, was nearly invincible on the battlefield and moved through the terrain with impunity.

"I'm working on that now, Stonewall. Two." Goose slung his assault rifle and hefted the satchel of rocket grenades from the dead Syrian's shoulder, then turned and jogged toward the Jeep. He scanned the three Rangers in his squad.

Jansen had the injuries to his legs and was barely holding his own.

Cusack had a scalp wound that leaked blood down into his eyes. "Carruthers," Goose said. "I need a driver." "You got it, Sarge."

Together, Goose and Carruthers yanked the dead bodies from the Jeep. Carruthers slid behind the wheel and keyed the ignition. Goose clambered onto the rear deck and prepped the RPG-7. He slapped Carruthers on the back of the helmet to signal him. "Let's go."

Carruthers stepped on the accelerator and let the clutch out. The Jeep's four wheels slid through the loose dirt for a second, then grabbed traction.

"Phoenix Two," Goose called as Carruthers steered for the T-72. "Go, Leader. Two copies."

"That tank's covered in reactive armor," Goose said, squinting through the dust, feeling the kerchief drying around his lower face. "Hit it with everything you've got left and let's see if I can get a clear shot."

"Done, Leader. Three, Four, and Five, if you're anywhere near that tank, get clear."

"We're already clear, Two. There's no way we can stop that thing."

The crunch and shearing of metal filled the air and hurt Goose's ears as he reached into the satchel and took out a rocket. He attached the rocket to the fore end of the RPG-7 tube.

Reactive armor was a fairly recent addition to tank protection. Every tank was covered with metal plates that protected its vital areas of steering, guns, and ammunition storage. Designed by a German inventor in the 1970s, reactive armor consisted of two sets of plates with an explosive between them. When hit by a shaped charge, the explosive would be set off, blowing the outer layer out from the tank and negating most, if not all, of the damage. The RPG-7 rounds could penetrate the T-72's denser armor, but not the reactive armor, in one shot.

And Goose was very aware that one shot might be all he got.

Forty-millimeter grenades slammed into the T-72, but the flurry was quickly over because the Phoenix squads had only five to seven-Goose had lost count-rounds to spare. The onslaught had also drawn the tank crew's attention to their back trail.

The main gun swiveled around on the turret, then belched flame.

Carruthers took immediate evasive maneuvers. The 125mm shot sailed past the jeep and slammed into a burnt-out troop transport.

Standing tall, taking aim, trying to account for the bumpy terrain, Goose fired the RPG-7 just as the tank's machine guns opened up. A round caught him in the chest and knocked him down on the rear deck, paralyzing his lungs with pain. Even as he fell, Goose saw that his aim had been true.

The rocket impacted the front of the T-72 squarely, leaving a twisted mass of metal where the 7.62mm and 12.7mm light machine guns had been. With any luck Goose had blocked the driver's vision as well.

Incredibly, though wreathed in fire, the T-72 lumbered forward. Goose watched in disbelief as the tank rolled closer. He marshaled his flagging strength and finally managed to draw a breath of air.

"Carruthers," Goose called.

The man sat in the front seat without moving. The Jeep's engine had died somewhere along the way.

"Carruthers." Goose reached for the RPG-7, thanking God it hadn't fallen over the jeep's side. He found the satchel and took out a rocket.

"Get clear, Sarge," Tanaka advised. "Carruthers ... Carruthers isn't with you anymore."

Staying low, hands fumbling as he tried to fit the rocket to the launcher, Goose inched forward and looked at Carruthers. At least one round had drilled through his heart, leaving him slack-jawed in death.

God keep him, Goose prayed.

"Get out of there, Sarge," Ybarra said. "Get out of there now!"

Small-arms fire strafed the T-72 as it roared toward the jeep.

Goose remained with the jeep. If he tried to leave the vehicle in his present shape, he knew he wouldn't make ten feet before the tank overtook him and ground him under the massive treads.

The T-72 could fire on the move at speeds up to twenty-five kilometers an hour. At present, the armored cav unit was moving faster than that. Or maybe it only looked that way, and the reason the tank crew wasn't firing was because they hadn't reloaded the tank's magazine.

Standing, seeing that the machine guns had been eradicated, Goose tried once more to fit the rocket to the launcher. Before he could accomplish the task, the tank was on him.

In motion, weighing in at forty-four-and-a-half metric tons, the tank was a considerable weapon in its own right.

Dazed, working on fumes, the horror of the moment intensified by Carruthers's death and the pain and fatigue that filled him, Goose realized he only had one chance before the tank ran him down. He gripped the RPG-7 tightly, stood, and stepped forward, timing his approach with that of the tank.

Just before the treads ground over the front of the Jeep, Goose sprinted forward. He leaped from the jeep's nose to the tank's front skirting, dodged through the flames, tripped over the wreckage of the machine guns, managed two full steps that nearly got him to the tank's rear skirt despite the sudden lunge of motion and mass beneath him, then fell.

He landed on the ground. The horrendous crunching and crashing of the jeep filled his ears, and he tried desperately not to think of what was happening to Carruthers's body. The impact knocked the kerchief from his face.

As he forced himself to his feet and tried to fit the rocket to the launcher again, he noticed the auxiliary fuel tanks strapped across the T-72's rear skirt immediately behind the turret. He smiled.

Goose slipped the rocket into place and lifted the RPG-7 to his shoulder. He took aim at the back of the turret through the fuel tanks, curled his finger over the trigger as the turret started to turn, and fired.

The whoosh of the rocket ended almost immediately as the warhead slammed through the fuel tanks and into the back of the turret. As the Afghanistan mujahedeen had discovered when fighting the Russians, the most vulnerable part of the T-72 was the back of the turret. And exterior fuel tanks just made it that much more vulnerable.

The explosion, coupled with the added punch of the nearly full fuel tanks, blew the turret from the tank. The resulting heat wave washed back over Goose, and his world dwindled to one flash-fried instant.

Then the tank rolled to a halt and exploded again as the ammo stored aboard went off. A roiling mass of fiery clouds, looking like a pillar of fire, streaked from the tank toward the heavens.

Wearily, not believing that he was still alive but thanking God for His mercy, Goose pushed himself to his feet. He peered around at the battlefield. "Base, this is Phoenix Leader."

"Go, Leader. You have Base."

"Do we own this battlefield, Base?"

Cal Remington's voice came over the headset. "You own the battlefield, Phoenix Leader. Good work down there. Establish your perimeter and set up your salvaging operations."

"Understood, Base. Leader out." Goose surveyed the harsh terrain. All they had to do was put up an appearance, keep the Syrian army buffaloed, and survive long enough to retreat during the night.

But night seemed a lifetime away.

The Mediterranean Sea USS Wasp Local Time 1017 Hours Heat shimmered from Wasp's flight deck as Delroy Harte trudged toward the waiting CH-53E Sea Stallion with travel kit in hand. Frustration and anger nearly shackled his mind, blinding him and making him slow to respond to the greetings of the crewmen that he passed.

Despite the horror that had happened along the Turkish-Syrian border, despite the number of personnel that had gone inexplicably missing from the ship and the entire ARG, the ship's crew still had jobs to do. A second wave of aircraft and Marines-cobbled together from Sigonella Naval Air Station in Sicily and MCB Camp Butler in Okinawa-was due onboard Wasp in a matter of hours. The ship had to be made ready to receive the new aircraft and troops that would rally to make the next attempt to reinforce the U.S., U.N., and Turkish troops along the border.

The wind from the waiting helo whipped across Delroy with humid intensity that left him perspiring under his jacket. He knew he should feel uncomfortable, and maybe he did, but at the moment, he didn't care.

He also noticed that several of the Marines stared at him with suspicious curiosity and more than a little hostility. Well, Colonel Donaldson, you certainly get your word around quick. He held his head high and tried to appear more certain of himself than he was. God, why did You lead me this far, make me believe in You, and then let me fail at this? I know that you have raptured the church, taken your faithful with you, and I know you left me behind because I have broken the relationship I have had with You. Is this my punishment then, God, for doubting You?

The insecure feelings came rolling back in, almost thick enough and heavy enough to smother Delroy. As he walked, he carried his father's Bible in his free hand, and he thought about the way Josiah Harte had pounded the pulpit on Sunday mornings, how his father had journeyed to the homes of the sick, and ministered to them until they got better or-as in some cases-how he had helped them let go of the mortal world and not be afraid.

When Delroy was nine, his grandfather had passed. A more bitter, angry, and harsh man had never walked the earth. Delroy had never seen two men less likely to be father and son, or a man more willing to turn his son aside and treasure other children who had turned out to be as godless and violent as he himself was.

During his childhood, Delroy could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen his grandfather. Every time Josiah had taken his family to visit his parents, Jonah Harte had gone away on fishing trips and drinking binges.

Grandmother Harte had tried to fool her husband sometimes by not telling him when Josiah and his family were coming to visit, but there had always been clues: apple pies, extra cookies for the children. So Jonah would load up his tackle box, throw a six-pack of beer in the passenger seat, and be gone for a few days.

In the end, though, Jonah Harte had succumbed to cancer that had broken even his wild fierceness, had melted the unforgiving coldness from his heart. His other children, three sons and two daughters, had wanted Josiah to stay away, but Josiah hadn't. Despite their curses and anger, Josiah had ministered to his father. He knew those curses were directed at him because he could accept his father's death. And because he could offer his father the certainty that if he accepted Jesus Christ as his Savior, he would go on to a better place.

For nearly two weeks, Josiah had stayed with his father, and Delroy had helped. In the South-at least in those days-people died at home in their own beds surrounded by family, not in hospitals with only strangers in attendance. Jonah Harte had died a shipwreck of a man in twisted, sweat-soaked sheets.

But Josiah had never given up on his father or lost his faith in the Lord. That bedroom in the tiny old house had been filled with gospel, with songs sung a cappella, and Delroy had never heard his father's voice sound stronger or the songs sound sweeter. Josiah had talked of God's love, of His sacrifice of his only son to save this world.

And in the end, Jonah Harte's anger and fear and unkindness had shattered. Two days before his death, Jonah had come to Jesus, and he had died almost peacefully in the arms of a son he had never truly acknowledged in life.

Delroy stared hard at the waiting helicopter. God, take me. Please take me and use me as You see fit. Don't let me lie fallow while there is so much to be done. But in the back of his mind, Delroy knew he was still angry over Terry's death. And help me to get over the loss of my son, God. Help me to understand why You took him so that I may stand tall in Your service.

He almost felt ashamed at the last. God's plans weren't for men to understand. Only glimpses now and then were given to mere mortals. Josiah had taught Delroy that.

As the rotor wash from the helo grew stronger, Delroy tucked his father's Bible under his arm and put his hand to his hat.

"Chaplain Harte!"

At first Delroy thought he had imagined the call.

"Chaplain Harte"

Recognizing the captain's voice, Delroy stopped and turned around. The rotor wash broke across his back and whipped his jacket billowing before him.

Captain Falkirk crossed the deck in the long, rolling stride of a longtime Navy man. His dress whites shone in the sun, and he looked dapper and resplendent in the uniform. He had his hat under his arm and a pair of blue-tinted aviator's sunglasses on.

Delroy, his hands full with his Bible and his kit, fumbled with his hat and tried to tuck it under his arm so he could salute.

"At ease, Commander," Falkirk said as he reached him. "This is an informal visit." He smiled a little.

"Aye, sir." Delroy stood in the full heat of the glaring sun. He controlled his anger at the man he'd always thought of as a friend, but he couldn't help feeling betrayed. When he'd reached his quarters, Falkirk had already left a message with a young ensign outside his door with instructions to pack only an overnight bag and report to the flight deck immediately. Delroy assumed that the rest of his personal belongings would be shipped to him later. He still didn't know where the captain was sending him.