That was what Josiah Harte had always asked when Delroy had come home battered and beaten or battered and victorious. Battered had always figured in there somewhere.

If a man fails, Josiah Harte used to say in his occasional sermons when he touched on the subject, he has nowhere else in the world he can go but to the Lord God Almighty. The choir would break out in song, a gospel arrangement of "Where Could I Go?"

Delroy shrugged out of his jacket and looked up at the ceilingand beyond it. "You gotta help me, Lord, because I know I can't help myself. I've gone the distance You asked me to, but I've come up short here." He hung his jacket on the paper towel holder. "I don't know what else You want me to do. You're gonna have to show me what You want me to do now."

He looked at his face in the mirror, wishing there were more of Josiah Harte's features in his. His father's face had been hard and fierce, the face of an avenging angel, Delroy's mother had always said.

Delroy had the face of a boxer. Scar tissue showed under both eyes under close inspection even after all these years. His father had loved watching him box. He'd stood in the corner and worked as cut-man while Delroy had battled in Golden Gloves boxing matches. He'd come to the gym, worked out on the ropes, the speed bag, and the heavy bag with Delroy.

"You're a good fighter, Delroy, " his father had told him occasionally, though only when he'd fought in the ring and not in the schoolyard. "You got a head for it. Always looking for an opponent, always looking. If you ever get your heart wrapped around the Word of the Lord, why, you're gonna be a champion, boy. But you got a mighty hard head. Mighty hard. Can I get an Amen on that?"

Amen, Delroy thought, and he was surprised to see a smile tug at his lips.

"You not done, boy. You not done till I throw in the towel or you can't get up no more. And I ain't throwin' in no towel. "

Delroy remembered the times his father had told him that, times that he'd been certain he'd been too broken up, too bloodied and battered to go one more round. He'd always gotten up, gone one more round and sometimes another as long as his father had kept at him.

"I'm not done," Delroy told his reflection. He turned on the cold faucet, shoved both hands under the stream, and splashed cold water into his face. The sensation woke him, alleviating some of the nausea and fatigue he felt. Between that and the memories of his father, he felt almost human again.

He raised his head and blinked the water from his eyes.

Then he saw the young blond pilot from the C-9 Skytrain standing behind him. As his vision cleared, Delroy saw that the man wasn't quite human. Scales covered his flesh, and his amber eyes were set in elongated slits that ran up on the sides of his head, giving him a snakelike appearance. His nose was a brief nub above a mouth that held serrated teeth. A black, forked tongue flicked out when he smiled.

"Oh, yeah," the creature said, "you're done. Just stupid, is all." With blinding speed, the man-creature grabbed the back of Delroy's head and smashed him forward into the mirror.

Shards of the mirror tumbled into the sink and broke again. Dazed, Delroy slumped against the sink.

The creature shoved a hand against Delroy's back and straddled his hips, leaning into him to keep him pinned against the sink. Its other hand scrabbled in the sink and grabbed a mirror shard from the rushing water in the basin. Hard black talons gleamed at the ends of the thing's fingers.

"You came into this men's room," the thing said. "You were despondent. You were right to feel that way. And right to do something about it. After all, nobody believes in you or your God. Everyone will understand how you felt compelled to come in here and cut your own throat. "

Delroy stared down at the gleaming shard in the creature's hand. He stared at the inhuman features reflected in the mirror. The black, forked tongue danced in unholy anticipation.

"You won't be waking up, Delroy, but I'm your nightmare."

Twisting quickly, Delroy brought his left elbow back into the thing's face. It seemed stunned by the blow but didn't release him. Delroy brought his elbow again, feeling the dense bone of the thing's head.

With an angry squall, the creature fell backward. Delroy pushed himself up to his feet, bringing his fists up in front of him automatically.

"Give up, Chaplain," the thing snarled, raking its empty hand across its features. "Give up and I'll kill you fast."

"No," Delroy replied.

"You want to give up." The thing swiped at him with the mirror shard. Light splintered from the gleaming surface. "It's too hard for you to believe."

"I struggle with my belief," Delroy said. "I strive to be stronger in my belief. It's what every good Christian does."

"Really?" the thing mocked. "I got a news flash for you, ace. All the good Christians have done left the planet. You people that are left here, you're prey." The creature uncoiled, almost like a snake uncoiling in a strike.

Delroy caught the creature's shard-wielding hand by the wrist with his left hand. He jammed his right forearm up under the thing's jaw, catching it so fast that the serrated teeth closed and chopped off part of the black tongue.

The creature head-butted him.

Dazed, Delroy went backward and slammed against the wall. The creature was at his throat immediately. With raw, savage strength, the thing shoved him down to the cold tile floor. Pieces of the broken mirror scraped against the floor and cut into Delroy's back.

The thing straddled Delroy. It grinned. "You're going to die, chaplain. Ersatz faith never protected anybody."

Delroy struggled, but every time he got set and pushed, the creature moved fluidly and countered his strength, keeping him pinned to the floor.

"You're nothing, chaplain." The creature smiled and the slitted eyes gleamed. "Your son was nothing. He's gone and you'll never see him again."

"God took my son," Delroy said.

"Bullets blew your son's heart out, Chaplain. Don't fool yourself."

"I'll see him again," Delroy said. "I'll see Terry again."

"Want to try for tonight?"

Delroy yanked his right hand free and drove a punch into the thing's face, catching it off guard. When the creature shifted, he rolled, getting over on top of it. But the thing slithered away, scrabbling up another mirror shard. Losing was only a matter of time. Dying lay an inch behind that.

"Die tonight, Chaplain, and you get to see your boy earlier, right?"

"1 can't," Delroy said. "God has a purpose here for me." He shook his head. "I'm not done yet." And suddenly he believed it. Believed it right down to the core. He found the will to pray, really pray, for help. God, help me, in Jesus' name.

And the bathroom door opened. Looking over the thing's shoulder, Delroy saw General Todd Cranston's jaw drop in surprise.

The creature hissed like a scalded cat, curled in on itself, and faded away into the shadows.

Gasping for air, Delroy struggled to his feet. Chest heaving, he stared at Cranston. "You saw that."

"No." Cranston shook his head.

"Then what did you see?"

"You," Cranston said. "I came in. You must have fallen. That's all." The general reached for the door.

"No." Throwing out a big hand, Delroy caught the door and shut it. "You saw it. There are no aliens, General. No mystery weapons that the Russians dreamed up."

"You're crazy."

"Those people that are missing were taken by the Rapture," Delroy went on relentlessly.

"No."

Delroy leaned into the man, invading Cranston's personal space the way he had seen his father do with reluctant parishioners. "Do you know what we're up against, General?"

Pounding sounded on the door. "General. General Cranston. Are you all right, sir?"

Delroy recognized the voice of the young Marine. He ignored the demands. "If you don't recognize what is before you, General, if you don't help curb the DEFCON 2 status we're at, you're going to help the enemy win."

"The enemy?"

"The Antichrist," Delroy said. "He's coming. You just saw one of his minions. Now that the Rapture has occurred, the Antichrist will rise and take everyone and everything he can in the next seven years before the Glorious Appearing of Christ."

More pounding hammered the door. "General!"

"We're soldiers, General," Delroy implored. "We're supposed to be good soldiers. The first line of defense for civilians and those who are too weak or unable to defend themselves."

"General!" The door jumped as someone tried to force his way in. "You took an oath," Delroy reminded. "You took an oath before God to serve this country. God is part of every military creed and duty we have. You can't turn your back on him, General."

The door flew open as Marines boiled into the room. Delroy didn't know how many of them there were. They hit him and knocked him down, driving him to his knees and pinning his arms behind his back. One of the Marines held a Colt .45 to the side of Delroy's head. Cranston stared back at him with an unaccustomed pallor.

"God put me here tonight," Delroy said. "I came a long way to be here. And the only reason I'm here is to get you to do something that you can do." He breathed hard, twisted painfully by the Marines. "I heard Him and I believed Him and I came. And He put you through that door at that moment to see what you saw, General. If you don't believe that, then you're lost. And if you're lost, that thing wins." Cranston shook his head and wiped his mouth.

"What did you see, General?" Delroy asked. "You've got a third of tine people missing around the planet. Countries armed with nuclear weapons pointed down each others' throats. Doesn't that sound like Armageddon to you?"

"General," the lance corporal said. "Why don't you get out of here and let us handle this? We've got him."

"No," Cranston said. "Let him up."

"Sir?"

"Get off him, Marine. That's an order."

"Sir, yes, sir."

The Marines released Delroy. Weakly, the chaplain tried to get to his feet.

"Here, Chaplain Harte." Cranston extended his hand. He still looked uncertain.

Delroy took the man's hand and let Cranston help him up.

"I don't know what I saw, Chaplain Harte," Cranston said, "but whatever it was, I'm willing to listen."

"Thank you, sir."

"Grab your coat and hat," Cranston said, "and let's go find out if I'm as influential as you seem to think I am."

"It wasn't me thinking that, sir," Delroy said. "I just carried the message."

Turkish-Syrian Border 40 Klicks South of Sanliurfa, Turkey Local Time 0217 Hours Pillars of fire leaped up from the ground in front of the ridge overlooking the Turkish-Syrian border.

Goose drove the Hummer flat out, feeling the vehicle claw over the broken ground, then go airborne a couple times. Less than a hundred yards from the ridge, a SCUD missile slammed into the front of the hill where the Rangers, the U.N. troops, and the Turkish army had pulled back to holding positions. Rock and dirt rained down over Goose, peppering his helmet and his body armor. His face and hands took hits as well, but those were more annoying and scary than damaging.

The battlefield, less than a day old from the previous morning's attack, only hours older than the disappearances that had caused helicopters and planes to rain from the sky, erupted again as the new wave of devastation tore into the area. Smoke and dust occluded the landscape in less than a minute, forming a thick, drifting acrid fog.

Goose flipped through the headset frequencies, tuning in to the com channel set aside for the Marine wing survivors. He jerked the wheel as a large boulder smacked into the ground ahead of him, but he wasn't able to entirely avoid the mass. The right front end of the Hummer kissed the boulder and the headlights on that side shattered. The sudden jarring rocked Goose in his seat, but the belts kept him in place till he regained control over the Hummer.

The Marine Harrier and Sea Cobra gunships leapt up from the LZ that had been made earlier. The pilots' voices sounded anxious as they formed up. One of the helos disintegrated as a SCUD hammered it from the sky. Pieces of the Sea Cobra rained down in flaming shards. Then the Marine wing was engaged, streaking over the border into Syria to hunt the SCUD launchers, targeting them through the satellite reconnaissance being done from the field command post.

Remington drove his RSOV just back of the ridgeline and parked.

A hundred yards away so that both vehicles couldn't be lost in one SCUD blast, Goose parked the Hummer and leaped out. He kept his head down, one hand on his helmet, and ran for the ridge. The Ranger rifle companies lay spread out along the ridgeline, taking what cover they could behind natural fortifications, husks of downed planes and helicopters they'd pulled into position, and behind sandbags they'd spent the afternoon filling.

Goose hugged the ground and prayed for his teammates and the Marine wing that had flown into enemy territory. As infantry, the only chance the Rangers had was to dig in and try to survive. Again and again, the earth shook beneath him. He kept his face buried in his arms, choking on the dirt and the dust that stayed stirred up. He kept praying, hoping to get home to Megan, Joey, and Chris.

In less than a minute, the Marine pilots were confirming successful strikes against identified SCUD launchers. Unfortunately, the pilots in turn were being targeted by ground antiaircraft guns. As Goose listened to the frantic radio chatter, he realized the attrition rate among the Marine wing was fierce.

"Marathon Leader, this is Blue Falcon Leader," the Harrier pilot called.

Marathon Leader was Captain Remington's call sign. The operation had been designated Marathon because of the long run the Rangers would have to do to get to Sanliurfa. The Turkish military had moved extra troops into the city to help hold the Syrians back until the next fallback to Diyarbakir could be arranged.

All we've got is forty klicks of bad road, Goose told himself. We can do forty klicks.

"Go Blue Leader," Remington replied, "you have Marathon Leader."

"Marathon Leader, be advised that the hostiles' infantry and cav units are in motion."

"Roger that, Blue Leader. Can you confirm twenty from the line?"

"Twenty from the line is ten klicks."

"Roger ten klicks, Blue Leader. Marathon One, did you copy?" "Affirmative," Goose responded. "Marathon One copies. Roger ten klicks."

It the Syrians were ten klicks out, Goose knew it wouldn't take more than seven to ten minutes to cover the distance. He looked back over his shoulder at the mountain road the fleeing transports carrying the wounded had taken earlier in the day.

Goose couldn't see any of the trucks, jeeps, and Hummers that carried the wounded, but he knew they didn't have a big enough lead to make an escape. If the drivers didn't maintain a grueling pace, the approaching Syrians would quickly overtake them. And the same grueling pace they had to maintain might kill many of the injured.

At least when the Syrians got close to the border, the SCUD launchers would have to stop firing at them. But the medevac units would remain fair game for the missiles.

Six minutes later, the command post personnel radioed that the Syrian cav should be visible from the Rangers' positions. That was the bad news. The good news was that the SCUD launches were down to practically nil. Between the attacks by the Marine wing and the probability that the Syrians had expended most of their arsenal the previous day, they obviously hadn't had much to give.

Goose crawled to the ridgeline and peered over. Through the smoke and the dust haze, he spotted the front line of the approaching Syrian cavalry. The tanks and APCs looked monstrous in the darkness, briefly lit up as their cannon and machine guns opened fire. Orange gouts of flame rent holes in the darkness.

"Incoming!" someone yelled, and Goose didn't know if someone else had yelled or if he was only hearing his own voice.

In the next instant, the cannon rounds impacted against the ridgeline. A few others exploded farther back behind Goose. A fresh wave of falling dirt and rock rained down over Goose's back.

Then the line of advancing cav broke up as they hit the first of the M-18A1 claymores the Rangers had positioned in the area in front of the burned-out hulks of Syrian vehicles left from the initial attack yesterday. The mines slowed the tanks and APCs for a moment as the drivers feared broken treads or blown tires in the case of some of the APCs.

The Syrians had been expecting the traps there, Goose knew as he took out his night-vision binoculars, but the next layer was down and dirty, stuff that wasn't found in the textbooks.

As the Syrian cav units stood down to send infantry ahead to search out the claymores that could cripple the APCs and tanks, Remington gave the order to begin the second wave of the evacuation.

The U.N. forces departed first, sagging from the middle of the confrontation zone as Remington had worked out. Even with all the casualties they'd had, the Rangers stood the best chance of surviving bringing up the rear. The U.N. forces hadn't been bloodied as frequently or as harshly as the 75th, and the Turkish army was more equipped and trained to attack en masse rather than by small, swiftly moving special forces units.

The U.N. forces sped through the night, getting away smoothly in spite of the blistering attack that had taken place. If the Syrians hadn't moved forward and forced the confrontation, Goose felt certain they could have made the retreat as easily as a practiced circus act.