The MP looked past her at the kids that had gathered behind her. "I'm looking for Gerry Fletcher, ma'am."

This is insane, Megan thought. But she said, "Gerry isn't here. He was one of the kids that disappeared last night." God, how could she say that so off-handedly? Chris was one of those that disappeared. It wasn't natural; she'd never accept it as natural even if, as Jenny suspected, God had had a hand in it.

"Yes, ma'am." The MP nodded. "You're probably right, Mrs. Gander. But I was ordered to search the premises."

"My son." Megan's voice became a hoarse, tight whisper. "My son Chris was one of the children that disappeared." She could still remember the deep sobs that had racked Goose at the other end of the phone connection. How could they be so far apart when there was so much to deal with? They needed each other. She knew that her husband needed her as much as she needed him.

"Yes, ma'am," the MP responded. "I know." He looked upset and uncomfortable. "Mrs. Gander, I still have to look."

Wordlessly, Megan stepped back.

The teenagers stepped back, too.

The MPs filled the room. They looked big and alien and uninvited. The weapons they wore seemed threatening.

"Any of you guys Gerry Fletcher?" the MP asked.

A chorus of "nos" followed the question.

"Well, then," the MP said, "I'll have to look around."

Unable to speak, Megan waved them on into her house. She couldn't believe what was happening. She had tried to rescue Gerry Fletcher the night before last. Now she was being treated like a criminal.

The search, thankfully, was thorough but brief. Jenny treated the men with icy, reproachful stares during the time they spent in the house.

At the door again, the lead MP held out another piece of paper. "I was also ordered to give you this, Mrs. Gander."

Tears leaking down her cheeks, Megan took the paper with a shaking hand. "What is it?"

"It's a summons, ma'am. You're being ordered to appear in the provost's office."

"Why?"

The MP shook his head. "I wouldn't know, ma'am. That's all I was told.

In disbelief, Megan opened the paper. There, in big bold letters, were the words ORDERED TO APPEAR and DERELICTION OF DUTY. She looked up.

"Ma'am," the MP said. He seemed hesitant. "I know your husband. I don't know Goose well, but I know that he is a good man and he's doing his job over there. I don't know if you can get through to him about this, but if you'd like some advice. .."

"Yes, Corporal," Megan said. "I'd very much like some advice."

"Get a lawyer, ma'am," the MP said. "The military will probably give you one, but I'd hire an outside attorney to help represent you. The provost marshal, I don't know what's got him so hot on this, but from what I saw this morning, he's going to be coming after you. And he's going to try to nail you."

Oh, God, Megan thought, what else are You going to put my family through? She made herself nod. She made herself say, "Thank you, Corporal," then she made herself close the door because she didn't know anything else she could do.

"Megan," Jenny called.

Unable to speak, Megan waved the young woman away. Aware of the teenagers staring at her, Megan went to her bedroom. She tried to gather clothes to take with her to the shower, but she couldn't. She saw Chris' pictures hanging on the wall, all the birthday pictures from age one through five, and knew there would be no picture for age six.

Dereliction of duty.

It didn't make any sense. But she knew if she were found guilty she would be locked up. A sentence that could last for years.

Was that what life-what God-had in store for her? Years spent in a military prison without her sons, without her husband?

She knelt beside the bed and tried to pray. But she couldn't. The words wouldn't come and she felt horribly betrayed.

United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post Sanliurfa, Turkey Local Time 1956 Hours Goose sat at the bar in a tavern that had been resurrected that afternoon. The furniture had been cobbled together from wreckage that had been nearer to ground zero of several SCUD strikes.

Other men sat around him. Some of the men were military, from the US, from the UN, from the Turkish army, but others were citizens, displaced villagers, media personnel, and hucksters trying to make money. No one tried to sit with him. He'd claimed a small table as his own and every man there read the warning signs.

Cigarette smoke hugged the dark ceiling where stains and residue from millions of other cigarettes had left permanent marks. The smell of beer and alcohol pervaded the tavern. The place felt like a thousand other places around the world that Goose had been in before he'd met Bill and Megan. It even reminded him of the beer halls his father had hung out in back in Waycross when Goose was a kid.

Jeeps and Hummers and cargo trucks rolled by outside as the military continued putting down sandbags and shoring up defensive postures in case the Syrian military decided they felt lucky despite the turn of events on the mountain. Those soldiers worked by lanterns and Kleig lights now. The night had fallen nearly an hour ago. Or maybe it only seemed like an hour ago. Goose wasn't sure.

He turned his attention to the beer bottle sitting on the table in front of him. Then he looked at the picture of his family, taken only last summer at a backyard barbecue. Even though he wasn't in the picture, Bill Townsend had been there. Bill had taken the picture.

In the picture, Goose held Chris tightly in his arms. Chris loved being out in the sun, and his hair was bleached so blond it was almost white. Megan stood at Goose's side with Joey next to her.

Gone.

The word hammered into Goose's mind and sent a stake through his heart one more time. How could his son just be gone? How could Bill just be gone?

Footsteps sounded behind Goose and he recognized the measured stride immediately. He would have recognized the stride in a parade march. He sat quietly, waiting.

Remington came around the table.

Reluctantly, Goose came to his feet and saluted, then stood at attention.

"At ease, Sergeant," Remington said. "This is a social call."

"Yes, sir." But Goose knew that Remington had waited until he'd gotten to his feet and saluted before telling him that. "Sit down," Remington said.

Goose sat.

"Mind if I join you?"

"No, sir."

Remington hooked the chair on the other side of the table and sat. He folded his hands on the tabletop. "I heard about Chris."

"Yes, sir."

"Knock off the 'sir', Goose. This is me and you."

"All right."

Remington took a deep breath, looked away and let it out, then looked back at Goose. "I had to find out about it from someone else. I should have heard about it from you."

"You were busy."

"Not too busy for you, Goose," Remington said. "I'm never too busy for you."

Goose knew that wasn't true. There had been times in the past when he'd had to wait for Remington's attention, sometimes for days. "How are you holding up?" Remington asked. "Not good," Goose answered.

"Can you do your job?"

"I don't know."

Remington's voice crackled with authority. "That's not the answer I was hoping for, Sergeant."

"No, sir, it's probably not."

Anger darkened the captain's features. "Don't you sit there and feel sorry for yourself, Goose."

Goose held back an angry response, because Remington was a friend as well as a commanding officer.

"What happened to Chris is a bad thing," Remington said. "But, from what I understand, that happened to every kid out there."

Goose controlled himself with effort. Remington didn't have kids.

"I don't know what you're going through, Goose," Remington said, "but if I could share part of the burden of it, I would."

Shame cracked Goose's anger a little because he believed Remington might have tried. But in the end, all the same, he knew that Remington wouldn't have been capable.

"I don't know what happened to those kids," Remington said. "I don't know what happened to those men everyone reported missing. But there are some things I do know." He ticked points off on his fingers. "There's an army waiting out there thinking they're holding a sword to our bared throats. They're waiting for us to make a mistake. They're waiting to grow brave again. I've got busted rifle companies out there that are undermanned, under-equipped, and some of them scared out of their minds, scratching around in the dirt looking for Jesus to come bail them out." The captain took a ragged breath. "I can't have that, Goose. And you know I can't have that."

"Yes, sir."

Remington looked at him. "I need you, Goose. I need you to be strong."

Goose paused. "I don't know if-"

"Then you figure it out, mister!" Remington's voice grew loud enough to quiet the men around them.

Goose was conscious of the unwanted attention.

"You're a soldier, Goose," Remington stated in a harsh voice. "You're a sergeant. A leader of men. More than that, you're my sergeant. You'll get those Rangers up and running, and you'll stand tall when I tell you to."

"Sir, yes, sir." Goose's response was automatic, ingrained by years of military training.

Remington exhaled again and leaned back in his chair. "I shouldn't even be having this talk with you, Goose."

"No, sir."

"You've been hurt before. You've been scared before. When those things happen, there's one thing that you've always been able to hold fast to."

Goose remained silent.

"You're a soldier, Goose. You've always been a soldier. You were a soldier waiting to happen back in Waycross. You're a soldier now. You'll be a soldier the day you die."

"Yes, sir."

Remington's voice softened a little. "And when you die, Goose, you're going to die standing tall, facing whatever enemy you're up against that day, and you're going to die believing that you're doing all you can do." He paused. "That's all a professional soldier can ask for. And before you're anything else, Goose, you're a professional soldier. Probably the most professional soldier I've ever seen."

"Thank you, sir."

Remington pursed his lips. "You've got some downtime coming, sergeant." He glanced at the picture on the table. "Get this straight in your head. Figure out what you can do something about and what you can't. Don't let the world get so big you can't deal with it. One thing at a time. One opponent at a time. One mission at a time. One battle at a time. One war at a time. That's how we've always done it." He paused. "It works. That's how we'll continue to do it."

"Yes, sir."

"We'll get through this, Goose." Remington stood, and Goose stood with him. "We will because we don't have a choice. Get some sleep, then get back out there. We've got to make this city look like we're going to hold it. That way Ankara and Diyarbakir City will have time to get ready to deal with the Syrian invasion when it comes. And it will."

"Yes, sir."

The captain hesitated. "I also want Baker and his snake-oil show shut down."

Goose took a moment to consider, wanting to make sure he had his words right and wasn't too confrontational. "I don't know if I can do that, sir. The men have a right to peaceably assemble on their own time. "

"Back home, sure, but this is a war zone, sergeant. They can assemble only when I say so. Remember that."

"I will, sir."

Remington grimaced. "If you can't shut the man down, Sergeant, at least limit him."

"Yes, sir."

"I don't want an army full of zealots," Remington said. "After last night, stories have passed all through this command about how God reached down and saved the 75th."

Goose nodded.

"I've also heard that God took all those missing people."

Goose didn't say anything. Megan had tried to tell him that, too, but she'd sounded more like she was trying to convince herself. "Including your son," Remington said.

Reaching into himself, Goose made his face stone.

"I don't believe that, Sergeant," Remington said. "I believe if you'll think back, you'll remember that several SCUDS hit that mountain before we got there. SCUDS that didn't make it to their target destinations. I know that's what I saw."

Goose knew that was true. The SCUDS had gone everywhere again for a while. The second attack was what had damaged Sanliurfa so much. But he could also remember the feeling, the euphoria, that had filled him when Joseph Baker had led the Rangers in prayer.

"You have to ask yourself, Sergeant," Remington said, "that if you want to believe that God cares about the 75th so much that He would save us from the Syrians, why would He see fit to take your boy?"

And that, Goose knew, had been exactly the question he had been wrestling with while he'd sat there and contemplated drinking that beer. He faulted himself for being so weak. Yet he forgave himself immediately. The God that he had been brought up to recognize wouldn't have just taken Chris away. Would He?

Would He?

Indecision chafed at Goose's thoughts. Baker seemed certain of what had happened. But you no longer are, are you? The saddest part of that was that Goose honestly didn't know. If Chris hadn't been taken But he had. Chris was gone. Megan had told him that.