Cal Remington sat in his ready room in the command post and reflected on that thought. The prose was too purple to put in a field report, but the summation would stand out in a biography or an episode of The History Channel.

The Ranger captain had no doubt that history was being made and that he would probably figure large in that history. A third of the world's population had disappeared with no apparent catalyst-except for a sudden border skirmish that had flared up in the Middle East. The Middle East had been a hotbed of terrorism and world threat for decades-centuries even. But the fighting had never been anything like this. Some weapon of unimaginable power had been unleashed, and Remington had been at ground zero.

Rosenzweig's formula had changed the balance of power within the Middle East. If there was any finger-pointing later, Rosenzweig would surely bear the brunt of the blame. Perhaps the Israeli scientist had come up with the miracle growth serum, but someone elsesurely the Russians or the Chinese-had come up with the weapon that had eradicated all the missing people.

But why give it to the Syrians to use?

That was the question.

Sitting behind the desk, Remington rested his elbows on the chair arms and rested his hands together, fingertip pressed to fingertip. He felt tired. He was coming up on almost forty-eight hours without sleep. But he'd never needed that much sleep, and he'd always been able to get from his body what he demanded of it. He wouldn't accept any less now.

He scanned the notebook computer in front of him. The LCD screen filled the small lightless room with soft blue illumination that grayed out all the color of his BDUs and the blue steel of his Colt.45 lying in the modular holster on the metal desk. An earbud connected him to the computer so that he could listen to the files he wanted to without being overheard.

Now that the Crays were up and running at peak performance, Remington had the files archived off-site where he had access to them for reviewing through the notebook computer. He scanned the FOX and CNN feeds coming through, as well as the OneWorld NewsNet footage.

FOX and CNN covered most of the domestic scene in the United States, including the disaster areas that had been declared in all the major cities. Chicago had been hit hard, and Los Angeles had experienced looting, fires, and riots the likes of which even that city had never seen. D.C., New York, Atlanta all had their own share of troubles. The list went on.

The footage rolled, showing wrecked cars, burning buildings, downed planes shattered across airfields and cities. One catastrophe followed another. Martial law had been declared in several metropolitan areas, but the understaffing of the police, fire, and National Guard units that had experienced even larger percentages of disappearances than the population at large had made it almost impossible to enforce.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Come," Remington said.

"Sir," Corporal Waller, one of the computer techs, said, "there's something on OneWorld NewsNet that you might want to see."

"What is it, Corporal?" Remington let the irritation he felt at being interrupted sound in his voice.

Waller hesitated.

"You're burning daylight, mister," Remington warned.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It's just kind of hard to explain. The OneWorld reporter, she's with the 75th, Captain."

That wasn't news. The presence of the news teams in the area, with the acknowledgement that they couldn't fault the military in any way, had been one of the concessions Remington had granted to Nicolae Carpathia's liaison. Evidently Carpathia was planning to address the United Nations when he made an upcoming trip to the United States. The new Romanian president wanted to use some of the footage of the military engagement along the Turkish-Syrian border to make whatever case he was going to present.

"I knew those people were in the area," Remington said. "As you might recall, I authorized their presence."

"Yes, sir. I know that, sir. But the story they're covering. That's what I thought you might be interested in."

"What is it?" Remington prepared himself to royally chew out his intelligence teams. If he had to learn of an enemy incursion into the protected territories through a news service, heads were going to roll.

"It's the 75th, sir. They're-" the corporal paused.

"Spit it out, soldier." Uncertainty, one of the feelings that Remington most hated in the world, nibbled at the edges of his confidence. The planned retreat from the border was scheduled on a precarious timetable. He wouldn't allow anything to circumvent that schedule.

"Well, Captain, there's a man baptizing soldiers out there."

At first, Remington was certain he hadn't heard right. He couldn't possibly have heard right. "What man?"

"I don't know, sir. One of ours."

"Dismissed, Corporal."

"Yes, sir." The corporal left with alacrity.

Remington closed the windows and opened a live streaming feed from OneWorld. The screen cleared, showing a beautiful brunette standing in front of a slow-moving stream. He recognized her from earlier transmissions that had basically introduced her to the viewing audience and recapped the situation along the border.

"This is Danielle Vinchenzo of OneWorld NewsNet," the young woman said. "We're only a few miles-or klicks, as the soldiers of the United States Army Rangers would say-from the border separating Turkey from Syria. Nearly nine hours have passed since the devastating launch of the SCUD missiles that piled up casualties here at ground zero along the border and several targets deeper into Turkey. The soldiers here-the Rangers, the United Nations peacekeeping effort, and the Turkish army-know they are in for the battle of their lives."

Glancing past the woman, using the zoom function on the video program, Remington focused on the stream in the background. The cameraman almost had the shot in the frame. He couldn't recognize the man doing the baptisms, but his actions were plain enough. Remington saw one line that was on the east side of the stream, judging by the sun's position, made up of soldiers from all three units stationed along the border, as well as civilians. They stood quietly and patiently, and they appeared to be singing.

"Events have gone rather badly for the 75th Rangers," Danielle said, "as they have for every soldier stationed along the contested border. The death count from this morning's attack is still not finalized. Nor have the lists been compiled of those who have simply.vanished as has happened around so much of the planet."

Remington clicked the touch pad, bringing the image back to normal.

"But here in the heart of the darkness between these two ancient enemies," the reporter went on, "a man seems driven to snatch hope from the jaws of despair."

The video suddenly cut away and brought up stock footage. Remington immediately recognized the replay of Goose carrying the wounded Marine from one of the downed Sea Knight helicopters.

"So many of you are familiar with the horrible accident that knocked Marine reinforcements from the air only two hours after the blistering attack launched by the Syrian military. Many of you first came in contact with this man then."

The image zoomed in tight on Goose's face, showing the bloodand the sand-encrusted kerchief over his lower face, and the haunted blue eyes. The scar along his right cheekbone stood out bloodred against sunburned flesh.

Remington had seen the footage several times. Goose was clearly being molded into a hero by the media. But not Goose's captain. The OneWorld reporter hadn't sought him out for an interview. The fact chafed him. Goose hated media attention, yet here he was becoming a poster child for the Syrian engagement.

"This is First Sergeant Samuel Adams 'Goose' Gander," Danielle said, "of the United States Army's 75th Rangers. He helped organize the rescue of Glitter City, the television and media center north of the border, after the initial SCUD launch, then arrived back at the border encampment to bring in reinforcements from the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit from the Amphibious Readiness Group in the Mediterranean sea headed by USS Wasp."

The video changed again, showing a quick snippet of Wasp cutting across the ocean under a full head of steam with helicopters flaring around her.

"In minutes, Sergeant Gander was forced to go from bringing a reinforcement team into the area to helping his flagging troops recover from the devastating attack to rescuing the survivors."

Video footage rolled, showing Marine helicopters exploding.

Then the image changed and showed Danielle standing on the stream bank again. "With the reinforcements they were promised lying either in the triage area they've put together or as casualties across this battleground, with no hope of other reinforcements for some time to come, and knowing that they've been left in charge of defending this country, most soldiers would be daunted to say the least. Others might even give up."

The camera swung past the reporter and focused on the two lines of men that met in the center of the stream. Several of the soldiers carried some wounded on gurneys.

"But the men of the 75th Rangers are not ordinary men," Danielle said in a voice-over. "They are the best of the best. The cream of the crop. Even now, facing tremendous odds with the Syrian army standing down-at least for the moment-on the other side of the border, these soldiers have found a renewed faith."

The camera focused on the huge man standing in the middle of the stream. Remington didn't know the man-yet. But he would, and there would be an accounting two seconds later. The big man placed his hand over the face of a U.N. soldier, then lowered him into the water and raised him.

"I'm told this man, Corporal Joseph Baker, one of Sergeant Gander's handpicked crew, was an ordained minister who had given up his church after losing his wife and child to tragedy." Danielle's voice quieted. "Some said his faith was broken. But Baker has found that faith again, here on one of the bloodiest battlefields that has happened in recent years."

The footage continued to roll. The mountain of a man dealing with the tide of men coming at him from both sides worked like a machine. He talked briefly to each man in turn, covered the man's face with a big hand, and dunked him.

"Most of the soldiers have to hurry back to their posts," Danielle said. "In the beginning, I'm told Corporal Baker simply came here on a water detail assigned by Sergeant Gander. When one of his crew asked to be baptized, Baker granted that request. Other crews from the U.N. peacekeeping forces and the Turkish army were on hand getting water as well."

The camera view pulled back and shifted to show a broader view of the stream. Hundreds of men lined the hillsides.

Remington swore in disbelief. What had Goose been thinking by leaving Baker in place instead of taking the man into custody?

The camera view tightened on Danielle Vinchenzo again.

"Some of the men consented to talk to us," Danielle said. "Although most preferred their experience here today to be kept private." She turned to look off-camera and gestured to someone.

A soldier wearing the familiar baby blue headgear that identified the United Nations peacekeeping teams stepped on-camera with Danielle. He was big and young and nervous and soaking wet. Deep scratches showed on the left side of his face.

"This is Corporal Flannery O'Doyle of the Irish contingent of the United Nations peacekeepers," Danielle said, turning to the man. "Corporal, I'll only take a few minutes of your time. I know you've got to get back to your unit."

"Yes, miss. Me an' the boyos, we've been powerful busy." O'Doyle looked slightly embarrassed. When he smiled, he showed a gap between his two front teeth.

"This assignment hasn't turned out as you expected."

Sadness touched the young corporal's face. "No, miss. I lost three of me mates this mornin', I did. Good men. All of 'em." "I'm sorry to hear that, Corporal."

"Yes, miss. Thank you, miss." O'Doyle put his hands behind his back at parade rest.

"What brought you here?"

O'Doyle looked over his shoulder, squinting slightly against the sun to the west. The deep scratches on his face showed more. "I heard about a man baptizin' in the stream, miss. An' I had to come."

"Why?"

The big Irishman shrugged. "I was raised Presbyterian, miss. I already been baptized once. When I was just a wee lad. Me ma, she saw to that. She was a right stubborn old lady when she put her mind to it, she was. An' she puts her mind to it often." He pursed his lips. "But I never saw to gettin' baptized on me own. A decision like that, why it seems like it ought to be left betwixt a man an' his Maker, you know?"

The camera tightened on O'Doyle's face. He stuck his chin out, obviously having trouble speaking.

'This mornin', after that ferocious battle, all them men dyin' an' them bombs droppin' from the air, why it was like-" O'Doyle pursed his lips and sucked in a quick breath. Tears glittered in his green eyes. "I held one of me mates when he died this mornin', miss. That's just somethin' you don't forget. But as I sat there holdin' him, feelin' him goin' away from me, I felt like God hisself put it in me heart to get right with him. To come to him on me own two feet." His voice broke.

"And you heard about Corporal Baker," Danielle prompted gently.

"Yes, miss. I did. An' I asked me sergeant if I couldn't come out here an' get right with the Lord. He sent me on, he did. An' I got here an' Corporal Baker, why he rightly baptized me." O'Doyle looked at Danielle. "I tell you, miss, I haven't felt like this in me whole life. I feel like I done been reborn. I come up outta that water, an' I knew everythin' was gonna be okay."

"You mean with the coming battle?"

O'Doyle shook his head. "No, miss. We got a powerful lot of fightin' ahead of this. Our commandin' officers, they all tell us that. I don't know if I'll make it back home or not, but whatever happens, I know it's gonna be all right." He touched his wet uniform. "I'm not alone anymore, miss." He nodded back out at the stream. "Me an' these men what's here, them what has had God hisself speakin' into our hearts, why we'll never be alone on this battlefield again." He shifted his assault rifle over his shoulder and touched his blue beret. "Now, if you'll excuse me, miss, I gotta get back to me unit."

"Of course, Corporal," Danielle said. "Thank you for sharing that with us."

"Miss," O'Doyle said with deadly earnestness, "if you go through somethin' like that back there, bein' saved in the Lord, I mean, you'll find you just gotta tell somebody. It's too big to just keep all to yourself. I'll pray for you, miss, that God will keep you safe in his sight, an' that you'll make your own peace with him." Without another word, he turned and trotted away.

Danielle Vinchenzo appeared to have been caught off guard. She fumbled the smooth transition back to the camera. "This is Danielle Vinchenzo, on special assignment for OneWorld NewsNet, where a miracle is taking shape on a battlefield."

The news channel switched back to the anchor, and the stories moved on to the disappearances that had taken place around the world.

Remington tapped the touch pad and broke the television feed. He leaned back in his chair and stripped the earbud from his ear. Anger swirled through him. He swore.

The mission had fallen apart. He'd been used by the CIA and didn't know the full extent of his culpability in precipitating the attack, had been in command of the rescue mission that had ended up scattered across the hardpan. His first sergeant was allowing a crazed corporal to baptize the men of three armies while the event was filmed for an international audience.

Remington didn't want to hear about it when the joint chiefs learned of the baptisms. He rubbed his face. More than anything, he needed a win. And to get that win he knew he needed to start putting his foot down and take command of the unit that Goose had let slip through his fingers.

And Remington was going to start by putting an end to the nonsense taking place in that stream.

Turkish-Syrian Border 40 Klicks South of Sanliurfa, Turkey Local Time 1623 Hours Goose parked the Hummer along the ridgeline overlooking the stream where the baptisms continued. He'd managed to send three chaplains to aid Corporal Baker, drawing from those who manned the triage center. Instead of allowing himself to be relieved, Baker had continued with his work. Seven other chaplains from the U.N. forces and the Turkish army had joined them.

Singing continued to fill the streambed area.

Thankfully, Goose noted, the woman reporter for OneWorld was absent. With Remington stepping out into the field himself, Goose really didn't want her around to witness what he knew was going to be a confrontation.

Feeling the pain of his knee from the driving, Goose stepped from the Hummer. He leaned against the vehicle and stretched the knee out carefully. He'd had similar injuries in the past and had worked through them. The stretching didn't help. What he needed more than anything was rest, a good meal, and eight hours of sleep. Soldiers won wars on supplies like that.

Instead, Goose reached into the pocket of his BDUs and took out a packet of analgesic tabs. He popped the tabs into his mouth, not happy about having to use them because the aspirin in them also thinned the blood and would make any wounds he received bleed more and be harder to staunch.

But being able to move was top priority. He was infantry, after all, not air force or navy. He fought his battles on his feet and he needed two good legs.

He took the canteen from his hip and drank the tabs down in two long swallows. For a moment, he remembered how he and Chris sometimes filled one of his canteens with Sunny Delight-which Chris always called "power of the sun" because he quoted commercials that caught his eye-and "camped out on safari" in the backyard for an hour or two at a time. Chris's vivid imagination always created ferocious beasts, which they tamed or trapped, or swamps filled with alligators, which they avoided. After while, alligators!

Joey never hung out there with them because he didn't want to get caught crawling around on the ground to avoid vultures and dragons, but Bill Townsend had. Bill ended up getting to be Chris's horse or camel or elephant a lot. When Joey had been not quite nine, when Goose had married Megan, the backyard had been Wrigley Field or Dodgers Stadium or Fenway Park or Turner Field. Megan had gotten to be the cheering section and umpire, just as she'd always been the "girl" Chris had insisted they rescue from the beasts in the jungle.

A wave of homesickness passed through Goose. He wanted to be back home with his family, to sit at the kitchen table and watch Chris playing in the backyard, to catch a ball game with Joey and work on whatever was creating a rift between them, to have dinner with Megan.

And Goose wanted Bill back here with him.

He pushed the thoughts away and concentrated on the action taking place in the stream. He made himself drink more water. That was one of the things he was pushing on all his troops. Perspiration was the body's cooling mechanism, and drinking water provided the raw materials to get the job done.

A Jeep pulled away from farther up the stream's edge. As the vehicle drew closer, Goose recognized Captain Tariq Mkchian in the passenger seat.

The Jeep pulled to a stop in front of the Hummer. Goose saluted.

"At ease, Sergeant," Mkchian said as he stepped from the Jeep.

"Yes, sir." Goose replaced his canteen on his hip.

Mkchian took off his sunglasses and wiped them free of dust. He put them back on and looked at the stream. "It's an amazing thing, isn't it?"

"What's that, sir?"

"Belief, Sergeant. Belief."

"Yes, sir."

Mkchian looked at him. "I'm surprised to see you here. I'd heard you were here earlier."

"I was."

"And you're back now." The statement came across as a question.

"Yes, sir." Goose wasn't going to tell the man that Remington had ordered him to be there or that the captain intended to put an end to the baptisms.