"And you trust him?"

"With my life, sir," Goose answered without hesitation. "And with the lives of my men. If it ever came down to it, I believe Captain Remington would die for the men of his command."

The Turkish captain eyed Goose in open speculation. "Not many soldiers would say that about their commanding officers."

"No, sir," Goose agreed. "Probably not."

"You are a lucky man." Mkchian offered his hand. "I'll leave you to your work then, Sergeant. Thank you for your time."

"Yes, sir." Goose shook the man's hand, then saluted smartly. Captain Mkchian walked away, already fielding calls from his troops over his headset.

Goose spent several minutes communicating with the men he had out in the field. So far, everything was progressing smoothly. In addition to creating the impression that the Rangers intended to dig in, the squads were also setting up booby traps within the wrecked vehicles creating the barrier. They'd left some nice surprises, including several remote-controlled munitions that would be set off when the Syrians attempted to breech the border. All of those traps and RC attacks were built around ammo that had been salvaged from the Syrian camp that couldn't be taken with the retreat. Later, after the sun went down, his men would put in even more booby traps on the Turkish side of the border with just enough room for the Syrian military to start feeling safe again after running afoul of the first wave.

All those efforts would buy time, not stop the enemy. But time's all we need, Goose told himself.

He stayed on the move, not daring to give in to the temptation to lie down or even sit and rest because he was afraid his injured leg would stiffen up on him. He'd gotten a wraparound brace from the medkits to help hold his knee together, and the additional support did provide some relief.

Plus, as first sergeant of the 75th, Goose knew he had no choice but to behave as though he were superhuman. A leader had to lead if he was going to be followed; he couldn't just command. General George S. Patton had put it best when he'd said, "We herd sheep, we drive cattle, we lead people. Lead me, follow me, or get out of my way." Goose tried to live by those words. If his troops saw him start to fall apart, they might not be able to believe in themselves.

He knew that Bill Townsend would have taken umbrage with him over that last thought. Faith wasn't something based on a person or even an idea. It wasn't something that could be weighed or measured. Setting an example was only coaxing others to trust in someone else, someone they could measure themselves against.

Learning to trust others didn't teach a man to look outside himself for the faith in God he needed. For a moment, Goose felt guilty, like he was letting the memory of his friend down, but at the same time he knew that Bill would have forgiven him. That was what Bill was all about. Faith. And leading people in his own way.

I'll get there, Bill. I promise you. I'll get there.

Goose took off his helmet for a moment, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and ran his hand through his sweat-slick hair. The cooling breeze felt wonderful. He wished he could leave the heavy Kevlar-covered helmet off, but he knew that if he did, his troops would follow suit. Every soldier hated the helmets, but the headgear saved lives, and the soldiers knew that, too.

The cannonade of the bombs unleashed by the F-4E fighterbombers rolled back over the border. The sound came from twenty klicks farther south, and Goose knew there was a time discrepancy between when the bombs were dropped and when the sound reached him.

"Phoenix Leader, this is Quartermaster." The call came over the headset, mixed in with the constant barrage of communications that flowed from the Ranger squads as they went about their assigned tasks.

"Leader hears you, Quartermaster. Go to Tach Two."

Quartermaster was Julian Rodriguiz, a veteran sergeant with Echo Company. He'd grown up an air force brat and lived on bases all around the world, but when the time had come for him to choose his own vocation, he'd gone army. Besides being a good soldier, a master tactician with small units, and a good cook able to do miracles with things found in the field, he'd also been gifted with a near-photographic memory. Placing him in charge of the salvage operations supply list had been a no-brainer.

Goose switched the headset over to the secondary channel. "Quartermaster?"

Here, Leader." Julian hesitated. "We've got a situation."

Goose's mind immediately flew to the possibility of small troop incursions by the Syrians. They'd fought off a few such attempts already, and Goose knew there would be more.

"What's the problem?" Goose asked.

"The water supply." Rodriguiz sounded a little tense and unsure of himself, mannerisms Goose had seldom seen from the man even in the thick of battle.

Water was a main consideration to a soldier in an arid climate like Turkey. The dry heat leached the moisture from a man's body, and dehydration was one of the greatest opponents of a fighting man in the desert.

One of the smaller tributaries to the Tigris River flowed south of here, southeast from Diyarbakir north and east of Sanliurfa. Feeding it was a seasonal stream nearly a klick to the east. During the storm season that bridged Turkey's headlong rush from rainy winter to dry summer, with only a brief gasp sandwiched in between for spring, several small streams were born, then quickly withered away. Water was, had been, and always would be a source of contention between Middle Eastern countries. But right now, it was spring and the stream was still running.

During the initial SCUD launch, most of the Rangers' water supplies, as well as those of the Turkish army and the U.N. peacekeeping forces, had been wiped out. All three commanders had sent teams to the stream to replenish their supplies.

"What's wrong with the water supply?" Goose asked. The Rangers had purification tablets to make certain the water was potable, although at the rate they were being forced to use them they wouldn't last long. But the possibility remained that someone farther upstream could foul the water.

"Not the water supply, Leader," Rodriguiz said. "It's Baker." He paused. "They're telling me he's gone crazy."

United States of America Fort Benning, Georgia Local Time 7:20 A.M.

In the nightmare, Megan was once more atop the residential building. She felt the hard edges of the rooftop cutting into her chest and stomach. Gerry Fletcher again hung at the end of her arm, and his weight was tearing her shoulder apart while slowly dragging her over the side of the building.

Gerry jerked and fought. He slipped from her grip, no longer held by her fist but only by her fingers now. The blood from the long scratches down her arm flowed across their clasped hands. The skin started to slide, to glide, and she knew she was going to lose him. He screamed at her, pleaded with her to hold on, to not let go, to not let him fall.

Somehow, in the nightmare, Megan found the strength to stop Gerry from sliding. She wouldn't lose him this time. Bracing herself, she stopped the inexorable pull that inched her over the side of the building. Then, incredibly, she started to pull Gerry back up.

Without warning, the boy's body split open, the way it might have had Gerry hit the pavement four stories below, and a great snarling beast covered in scales and fur emerged from the lifeless husk. Its triangular head had a low forehead over slitted cat's eyes above a pointed, edged beak filled with monstrous fangs. The thing was almost as big as she was, a cross between a bobcat, a baboon, and a Gila monster.

The creature snapped at Megan's head.

Startled, Megan released her hold.

No longer suspended above the ground, the impossible nightmare thing fell. As it plummeted, the creature started laughing. In the next instant, the creature became Chris. The wind ruffled his blond curls as he fell and screamed in fear. She saw his face, his mouth and eyes wide with fear, and she knew there was nothing she could do to prevent "No!" Megan's own hoarse shout woke her. She sat bolt upright in her bed, swaddled in sheets damp with sweat and wearing clothing from last night because she'd laid down certain sleep would never find her. Her heart trip-hammered inside her chest and created a sharp, painful ache. For a moment, she worried that she might be having a heart attack Chris!

Pain and anger filled her, bringing stinging tears to her eyes. Her baby was gone, taken by unknown forces. She traced the fresh scabbing that covered the scratches down her arm. It had happened; it was all true.

Resisting the urge to scream, Megan pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. She bowed her head and cried as silently as she could.

After the events of last night, after Lieutenant Benbow had finally gotten her released from the provost marshal's office, she'd returned home. She'd had no place else to go. At least, that was how it had felt last night.

Now the house seemed to echo with her son's absence. The family pictures on the bedroom wall-a patchwork of memories picturing Goose, Joey, and Megan from all periods in their lives-had served as a touchstone the three of them had used as jumping-off places for "I Remember" stories they had taken turns telling Chris.

Of course, being only five years old and living with a five-year-old's egocentric view of the world , Chris hadn't believed any of the stories. Joey's baby pictures and soccer seasons, Goose's high school basketball pictures and boot camp photos, Megan's high school swimming competitions and college graduation-none of those events had really existed for Chris's. But her youngest son had listened raptly to the tales all of them had woven sometimes separately and sometimes together.

And mixed in with all those photos of other lives were pictures of Chris. She'd had his picture taken every year on his birthday. He stood or sat or sprawled beside the numbers one through five, all of them as big as or bigger than he was.

There would be no number six.

Megan cried as silently as she could for long, hard minutes. Finally, she felt drained and empty, physically unable to cry anymore. Later, she knew, she would cry and grieve again.

She made herself get up from the bed. If she succumbed to the warm embrace of the bedding, she knew she would have nightmares again-wild visions running rampant through her head. She thought only briefly about peeling out of last night's clothes and taking a shower, but the idea was repugnant. Taking a shower and dressing for the day seemed almost obscene because that would be too normal. Life wasn't normal. It wouldn't be normal again.

Leaving her bedroom, she made her way to Joey's room and peered inside. His bed was made and unoccupied. The last she'd remembered, Joey had been sitting up with the young woman he'd brought home and watching the news channels. He had promised to wake her if there was any news of Goose.

Panic, tapped from some unknown and bottomless reservoir inside Megan, surged again. She stepped into the room. "Joey."

"He's not there."

Megan whirled at the sound of the young woman's voice and saw her standing in the hallway leading to the living room.

"He's in Chris's room," the young woman said. "I fell asleep on the couch. I woke up just a little while ago and went looking for him." She hesitated. "I didn't intend to spend the night, Mrs. Gander. Especially not without asking. It just happened. I called for a cab, but none were running. And I couldn't ask Joey to take me home. You fell asleep and things last night were just so-so-"

"I know." The young woman's obvious discomfort resonated within Megan, drawing out the nurturer that always lurked beneath the surface. "It's okay."

Jenny crossed her arms, mirroring Megan's stance.

Knowing that the crossed arms were a natural defensive posture, Megan opened her own arms. "I'm sorry. I've forgotten your name."

"Jenny. Jenny McGrath."

"Well, Jenny McGrath, it's good to meet you." Megan extended her hand.

Jenny took her hand briefly. "I'm sorry about Chris."

"Yes." Megan's voice cracked, and if she hadn't already been devoid of tears she knew she would have broken down and cried. "So am I." She blinked her eyes and felt the rough, grainy drag of the lids. "How do you know Joey?"

"We work together. At the Kettle 0' Fish."

"I'm surprised he hasn't mentioned you."

"He didn't mention he was seventeen either. Until last night."

"And you're-?"

"Twenty-three." Jenny hurried on. "We're not dating. We just wens out together. Last night. First time."

"Out?"

"To a dance club."

The announcement took Megan by surprise. "Joey isn't old enough to go to a club.'

"He had fake ID."

Megan took that in. On any other morning while finding all of this out, she would have planned on grounding Joey within an inch of his life. Maybe even until he moved out of the home. But after last night she was going to content herself with knowing he was all right.

Jenny frowned, obviously not happy. "This isn't coming out very good, is it?"

Megan shook her head. "No. Do you drink coffee?"

"Not really."

"Cocoa?"

"Sure."

"Let me check on Joey and I'll make us some cocoa. We can figure out what we're going to do next."

"All right."

Megan went down the hall and peeked in through the open door. Joey was asleep in Chris's bed. He was holding Chris's favorite stuffed bear. The sight broke Megan's heart all over again.

Oh God, why have You let this happen? Have You forsaken us?

Steeling herself, Megan turned from the door and went into the kitchen.

Small and modest, trimmed in yellow and off-white, the kitchen smelled of spiced apples. Jenny sat at the small round table and looked painfully uncomfortable.

Megan switched on the small TV on the baking rack near the stove, then went to the cupboards and started rummaging through them for baker's chocolate, salt, and sugar. She put a cup of water and two squares of the chocolate into a small pan and started to heat them.

"I hope you don't mind if I watch television while we talk," Megan said.

"No," Jenny replied.

The television cleared and showed FOX News. The footage currently rolling involved the disappearances that had taken place around the world. Megan already knew that the incidents were international in scope. She'd watched the news in her bedroom till she'd mercifully fallen asleep while waiting to wake from the nightmare she felt she surely had to be trapped in.

"Joey said your husband was over in Turkey," Jenny said.

"He is," Megan acknowledged. "Your husband." Are those Joey's words or yours? She knew Joey felt some alienation from Goose's affection.'Some of it was because of Joey's age and Goose's frequent absences, Megan was sure. But sibling rivalry was also a big issue, especially at the age Chris was getting to be. Had been. There will be no number six.

"So far, the Syrian army hasn't tried to attack Turkey anymore, Jenny said. "The media is reporting that the Rangers are digging in there. There's some speculation that they might try to hold the border, but the experts FOX and CNN has had on say that can't be done."

"Makes you hope the Syrian military command isn't watching the news."

"I know."

Now that the water and chocolate had melted, Megan added a pinch of salt, three tablespoons of sugar, and three cups of milk. "They haven't-" when her voice tightened, she concentrated on stirring- "haven't released the names of any of the dead, have they?"

"No."

"Well, then we still have hope." But Megan didn't know how she was going to tell Goose that Chris was missing. Or how she was going to deal with anything if Goose was one of the casualties of the war that had broken out in the turbulent Middle East.

"Is there anything I can do to help you?"

Bring back my baby, Megan thought immediately. Let me know my husband is all right. She took a deep breath and continued stirring. "Look in the pantry, if you don't mind." She pointed the way. "I think there may be some plain bagels in there we can heat up. Even if you're not hungry, you should eat something."

Jenny got up, crossed to the pantry, and took down the bagels. She joined Megan at the counter. Megan handed the young woman a knife and she began slicing the bagels in half, leaving them openfaced.

"Microwave or toaster?" Jenny asked.

"I like mine from the toaster," Megan answered.

"So do I." Jenny popped the bagels into the oversized toaster. "Do you think we should wake Joey?"

Megan considered the prospect only briefly. "No. Let him sleep." There was no sense in getting him up for the day before he was ready for it. They had too much tragedy to face. And Megan already felt a little uncomfortable with the young woman in the house without adding her son into the mix.

"Just so you know, Mrs. Gander, Jenny said, "I had no intention of dating Joey. Even before I found out he had been lying about his age. "

"But you went out with him to this club."

"As friends. But I don't think he knew that."