Megan swallowed the lump in her throat. "A son who cares about his mother and wanted to protect her."

Still shaking his head, Gerry buried his face against his knees. His shoulders shook with silent grief.

"Is that when your father hit you?" Megan asked. She hated having to push the boy, but she needed as many details as she could get.

Gerry hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

"How many times?"

"I don't know."

"Was it once?" Megan asked. "Twice? More than that?"

He looked up at her, his eyes still pooling with tears of helplessness, hurt, and shame. "I don't know, Mrs. Gander. He hit me and hit me. Mom had to get him to stop. She threatened to call the MPs. She told him she would tell the base commander."

Horrible images of the violence that had taken place in the home filled Megan's mind till she felt she wasn't going to be able to handle them. Why, God? Why put a child through this? And at the same time she wondered why she had to be the one to deal with the child. Guilt ripped through her an instant after that thought.

"Did your dad stop then?" Megan asked.

"Yeah. But the house was wrecked. There were broken dishes everywhere. That's how come my arms and legs are scratched up."

"What happened to your shoulder?"

Gerry shook his head. "I don't know. He grabbed me or something. I know he didn't mean to hurt me. He said he was sorry."

Megan felt like screaming. After beating up his family, Boyd Fletcher simply handed out an apology.

"He doesn't mean to be that way, Mrs. Gander," Gent' said. "He really doesn't. But if my mom did something wrong-" his voice broke and he sucked air noisily for a moment-"if I'm really not his kid, then he shouldn't have to pay for me or take care of me. Should he?"

No answer came to Megan. In all her years of counseling, no child had ever asked her a question like that.

"You see," Gerry said desperately. "This might not be his fault at all."

"Listen to me, Gerry," Megan said as calmly as she could. "After tonight, some things are going to have to change."

The boy shook his head. "I don't want them to change. I just want them to go back to the way they were. I never should have come here."

"Yes, you should have." Megan paused, gathering her thoughts, hoping she was making herself convincing. "Gerry, this thing that happened with you and your mother tonight might have gotten worse if you hadn't said anything. You and your mom might have gotten hurt. You still might get hurt-the next time it happens.

Staying quiet when things are this wrong in the household isn't good. People who can help you have to know what's going on." "No one can help me. No one cares."

Megan took a breath, listening to the commentary of the basketball game coming from the television, not believing how ordinary the sound was when there was so much pain in the room. It seemed like a reminder that no matter how bad Gerry Fletcher's life got, the world didn't care.

No one cares, Megan thought. Or I could have stopped this long ago. Tears leaked down her cheeks, triggered by sadness and anger and confusion. Do You care, God? Do You see what You've let happen in this poor child's life? She felt bitter and angry then, and she knew her tone toward God was accusing. Guilt stung her, but in a way she forgave herself. She felt that tone was deserved even if God wasn't ultimately to blame.

"I can help you," Megan said in a husky voice. "I'm going to help you. First, though, we're going to have to get you and your mom someplace safe."

Panic filled Gerry's face. "I don't want to leave my dad."

"Just for tonight." For starters, Megan thought. She was certain she could get the base commander's office to push Boyd Fletcher into getting more and deeper counseling after this episode.

"How much trouble is my dad in?"

"Some."

"It's all my fault, isn't it?"

"No," Megan said. "It's not your fault, Gerry. Please believe that."

Gerry shook his head. "I shouldn't have told." He rocked back and forth against the bed's headboard, unable to stay still. "I knew I shouldn't have told."

"You needed medical care."

"My arm isn't broke. I thought it was broke. I got scared. I should have just stayed in bed instead of sneaking out. I should have known my dad would never break my arm. This is all my fault."

Before Megan could say anything, a familiar bass voice reverberated in the hallway outside the door.

"Where's my son?" Gerry knew that voice and trembled. Megan knew it, too, and braced herself. A string of curses exploded after the nurse answered the question. Loud footsteps, the result of heavy combat boots worn by someone big enough to make them really crash into the government-issue linoleum floor, rang out in the hallway, coming closer with every footfall.

Turkey 30 Klicks South of Sanliurfa Local Time 0743 Hours

Goose jogged as he talked over the headset, running tandem to Bill on the other side of the road. They secured the perimeter the unit had established around what was left of Glitter City during the evac op, taking their turn as the others had in two-man groups. The other eight men kept working with the wounded when they weren't walking patrol. Goose was also certain Hardin was busy squirreling away salvaged goods every chance he got.

Thick yellow dust still hung in the air. Sunlight slashed through the haze. Perspiration caked dust, smoke, and debris to Goose's exposed skin. His lungs ached for clean air and labored hard to such what he got through the wet dust filming the kerchief he had wrapped around his face. They avoided craters left by the SCUD explosions and the clouds of thick smoke streaming from buildings that continued to bum.

"How bad is it?" Goose asked Cal Remington. After their initial radio contact, the captain had stated that he would have to get back to him. Cal had only-at first-wanted to ascertain that Goose was still alive and that the unit was relatively intact. Goose had had his hands so full with the rescue/evac operation that Remington's curtness had been fine with him. But now that they'd done what they could, Goose checked in with HQ. He wanted to know more about the big picture A lot more.

Remington sounded tense. "The Syrians are not holding anything back, Sergeant. This is shaping up to be a major land grab, and the Syrians obviously want to nail down as much territory as they can as soon as possible before the Turks, and we, get a chance to recover and pin down their advance."

The grim news that the border units were still under attack pounded at Goose's conscience. The crash and thunder of the artillery strikes south of his current position continued mercilessly. The need to be on the move thrummed inside him.

"Diyarbakir is the nerve center for Turkey's military base against the PKK," Remington continued, "but they're geared for counter-terrorist operations and action against riots. Not to take on the whole Syrian army."

"That's correct, sir," Goose agreed. The great walled city had been built back in the twelfth century and was known for the beautiful mosques within the huge black basalt walls that surrounded the metropolitan area. In addition to its key military role, Diyarbakir was one of Turkey's prized cultural possessions, filled with history.

"I think the Syrians are going to try to reach Diyarbakir and sack the city to make a statement. And to gain an important piece of real estate. The only thing standing between them and that city is us." Remington breathed out angrily. "This isn't simply an escalation of border warfare, Goose. This is a commitment to work some changes in the status quo between these two countries." Frustration echoed in his voice. "The Turkish military intelligence guys should have seen this coming."

Although he hadn't seen any stats on Syrian troop movements, Goose figured Remington was right in his assessment of the situation. There was no other reason for Syria to so suddenly and so solidly go on the offensive. Chaim Rosenzweig's economic miracle had calmed down some of the tensions in the Middle East, but Israel's new and greater prosperity had also triggered jealousy in Syria and some of its neighbors.

It wasn't just jealousy that was the problem. All that money pouring into Israel had also given rise to feelings of renewed threat in the country's neighbors, as if the past tensions in the region hadn't been bad enough. Many of the Middle East nations hadn't believed Israel would be generous with her newfound wealth, except when it came to buying arms and armor. And where could the Israelis aim all of that newfound weaponry? The Arab nations had all envisioned themselves with a target circle right in the center of their borders. Even though Israel had been keeping a low profile lately, the shift in the balance of power had destabilized the region. And with that much tension in the air, something had to snap.

The Syrians had to have a goal for their aggression, and the city of Diyarbakir was the most logical goal. If the Syrians proved successful in taking Diyarbakir, they would gain a lot of raw materials and a nice piece of strategic territory-including control of the Tigris River, known as the Dicle River locally-as well as a good staging position for further military ops and missions against Turkey and the U.N. peacekeeping efforts. It would be an excellent base for an attack on Ankara, the capital city of Turkey and a center for the country's international business. Also, the Turks would be more careful about destroying the walled city of Diyarbakir than the Syrians would. All that history made a great protective barrier, if the Syrians could take it.

"The Turkish command doesn't believe that the Syrians will reach Diyarbakir." Remington's tone-at least to Goose, who had known him for years-held a note of doubt and sarcasm. "They believe we can hold the line at the border."

"What do you think, sir?" Goose went to the deuce-and-a-half and helped load an unconscious woman who had suffered an abdominal wound. They had gotten the bleeding stopped and enough plasma into her to maintain blood pressure, and she was still breathing. But she'd lapsed into unconsciousness, and Goose didn't like the look of her. He was afraid that the woman had slipped into a coma.

Bill sent the next two men out on patrol.

On the other side of the makeshift gurney made from slashed tent canvas, Danielle Vinchenzo talked on a cell phone, evidently turning in a story. Like Goose and his men, she wore a piece of cloth tied over her lower face to keep out the worst of the sand. Because of that, her voice was muffled as she talked to her network. The phone lines had come back up with the mil-sat network. When she saw Goose and Bill, she nodded a quick thank-you at them. Goose's men aboard the deuce-and-a-half helped to pull the wounded woman aboard.

"I believe we can hold them," Remington answered. "But the cost is going to be high. We're losing men out there by the minute, Goose. My men."

"Yes, sir." A bleak coldness touched an unreachable spot between Goose's shoulder blades at the thought of all those men falling beneath enemy weapons. So many of them were young, hardly more than boys. Not much older than Joey.

Even as he thought that, Goose realized he, too, might not make it back home, might not see his wife and sons again. Then he steeled himself, knowing he couldn't afford to think like that. As a soldier, he faced that risk every day of his career. He always kept the possibility in perspective. But today, that possibility was up close and personal once more, and he was reminded that there were no guarantees. The image of the dead boy passed through his mind. Why did things like this happen? Goose couldn't believe that it was part of God's plan. Faith in God could never explain the carnage he'd been witness to, today and through his long military career.

"Have you got any good news for me?" Goose asked his captain.

"We've got additional backup that the Syrians might not have been counting on," Remington said "Five minutes after the first SCUDs were launched, USS Wasp was cleared for action. President Fitzhugh didn't hesitate about making the call. Wasp lost communication with us shortly after that, when the SCUDs took out our primary communications stations, but not with the Pentagon. Air support lifted from the Wasp's flight deck and is on the way in right now. "

Goose checked his watch. He'd automatically logged the time of the attack as 0706 hours local time. The Wasp was nearly two hundred miles away. The CH-46E chopper was the slowest of the aircraft that would be in the reinforcement group. The Sea Knight helo class moved at something less than 170 mph. He did the math quickly.

"The ETA of those ships is roughly twenty-two minutes," Remington said, showing that he still knew how Goose thought and when he thought it. "I confirmed that before I got back to you. Might go ten minutes earlier or later, depending on whether they run into any trouble with the locals."

That news heartened Goose somewhat. USS Wasp was the lead ship in the seven vessel Amphibious Readiness Group (ARG). That team was designated as the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit/Special Operations Capable (MEU/SOC). Wasp was currently stationed on a 180-day float in the eastern Mediterranean not far from Cyprus, Greece.

The six other ships that supported Wasp carried more men, weapons, and materials, including Cobra helicopter gunships in addition to cargo helos that mainly transported Marine troops. Goose knew about the sea-based unit because he always made it his business to know as much as he could about anything that helped or hindered whatever mission he was currently assigned to.

In addition to nearly two thousand Marines and over a thousand sailors, Wasp also transported forty-two CH-46E Sea Knight helicopters and five AV-8B Marine Harrier aircraft. All of them were capable of making the jump to the Turkish-Syrian border. The aircraft could also be refueled in midair by KC-135 Hercules Stratotankers, so they could remain on constant patrol and provide support.

"How bad is our line, sir?" Goose asked.

"We've taken some big hits along the border. The casualty lists are going to be high." The captain's tone was somber but confident.

During his career, Cal Remington had seen down-and-dirty action around the globe, and he'd never been a man to knuckle down before a challenge. More than anything else at the moment, he would be planning on delivering a counteroffensive that would hurt the Syrians as badly as the Turks, Americans, and the rest of the U.N. peacekeeping effort had been hurt.

Goose heard the captain talking in a low voice to someone else, then Remington switched his attention back to Goose. "How much longer is your team going to be needed at that twenty?"

Goose swept the rescue effort with his gaze. All the wounded had been loaded onto the deuce-and-a-half. There were fewer than he had hoped and more than he had expected. News stations around the world were going to be in mourning, and international attention would be on the events shaping up between Turkey and Syria.

Smooth snake tracks that crisscrossed marked the paths the rescuers had made through the sand while using canvas sleds to pull people too heavily injured to move on their own. Smoke eddied and spun through the dust haze like pulled taffy, black against the deadly floating gold.

"Not long," Goose answered. "We're loading the survivors now And the dead that we can manage."

"Leave the dead," Remington said. "They're wasted time, effort, and space. Your wounded are going to have a hard enough time getting out of that area before the next attack launches."

Goose bristled at the command. Remington's order came across, as callous, but Goose's inherent rejection of the plan of action ran deeper than that. As Special Forces, as a Ranger, he was trained and committed to leaving no one behind-dead or alive.

"You don't have time for anything more, Goose," Remington said in a softer voice. He obviously knew the reservations Goose had about the order. "Sending you there was a mistake. At least, sending you there was a mistake in retrospect. Who would have guessed the Syrians would have attacked the border so quickly or without restraint?"

Goose silently agreed. He stared at the corpses littering both sides of the road that cut through the small heart of Glitter City, One of those bodies, he knew, belonged to the boy who had helped his father serve meals. They had never found the other boy.

Distancing himself from that image, Goose tried not to look too closely at the bodies that had been too disfigured to immediately identify. He didn't want to carry those memories with him from the battlefield. He already knew that the nightmares from today would always be with him. That was one of the prices he paid for being a warrior in the service of his country.

Several of the reporters and cameramen walked along the lines of the dead, filming the bodies and commenting on the attack. Their stories went out live. When the military radio communications had come back on line, so had several channels for the media. Some of the satellite-equipped vans were still in one piece and a few of the media people had gotten them operational. The vehicles now pulled double duty as media relays and ambulances as more wounded and survivors were loaded onto them.

"I need you at the front line, Goose," Remington went on. "Every minute you spend at that rescue op is a minute that I don't have you where I need you most."

Goose sighed and rubbed his jaw. His body ached from the physical demands. "I know, sir." Despite the conversational tone Remington had adopted, Goose felt more at home keeping the line between officer and non-com clear and defined. "As soon as we can clear this twenty, we'll be on our way."

"We're holding our own along the border for the moment," Remington went on. "We're rerouting the com frequencies and sat-relays to bring all the teams up to speed again. Communications between here and the Pentagon continue to be hit-and-miss. But those troops hunkered down there know we've got help on the way from Wasp. I've made sure they know it."

"The air support and the extra troops are going to be a welcome addition, sir," Goose said. He was interrupted by an explosion at the far end of Glitter City where an overturned sedan burst into flames. "But those pilots are going to be taking their lives in their hands if they attempt landings near the border. The Syrians have got plenty of ack-ack guns to knock them down."

The number of anti-aircraft guns brought into the area over the last few weeks was impressive. Part of every Ranger's job was reconnaissance, and Goose and his teams had sent plenty of numbers and stats back for the officers and computers to crunch. Military thinking at the time had been that the AA guns had been brought in due to Wasp's arrival in the Mediterranean Sea. No one had seen the additional guns as an arms buildup before a sudden strike.

"I'm aware of those gun emplacements, Sergeant," Remington said. "Those are going to be some of our first targets as we organize our retaliation. Captain Falkirk, Wasp's commander, has informed me that the Marines plan on putting in just behind our forward line. They will be relatively secure there, then they'll hump up to join the Rangers along the front line. The Harriers and the Cobras will try to punch holes along the Syrians' front perimeter and take out enemy ships invading our airspace. The Syrians have air force units on the way as well. They've been holding them back."

The thought of the men he helped command getting pounded by an aerial-based assault falling on the heels of the SCUD launch filled Goose with dread. The enemy air teams were new. The Syrians had held the planes and helos in the rear to keep from tipping their hands. And maybe to keep from losing them to friendly fire. The known unreliability of the SCUDs always made them a question mark in a battle.

"They're also moving armored cav into the area, Goose," Remington said. "Tanks and APCs as well as field artillery. We've got units in place ourselves, so they're going to wait to see how their air strikes and the SCUDs do before making that commitment. If our center holds strong along the roads crossing the border, we'll be able to keep them back."

"Understood, sir," Goose said.

"In the meantime, I've got a helo en route to pick up you and your team."

"Sir," Goose said, looking at the two RSOVs parked near the tallest building left standing in Glitter City, "I've got two vehicles here. Leaving them behind-"

"-isn't going to happen," Remington interrupted. "That helo is carrying drivers that will get those vehicles back where we can use them most. In the meantime, I want you and your team back to the front line as soon as I can get you there."

"Yes, sir."

"The helo pilot is on your team's frequency," the captain said. "He's code-named Leapfrog. He's maintaining radio silence till you're ready for him."

Goose peered through the shifting layers of dust and smoke but couldn't see anything.

"Is there anything else, Sergeant?" Remington asked.

"What about an escort for these people?" Goose asked.

"They'll be on their own. They can get to Sanliurfa."

The idea of the few surviving civilians and media people pushing forward on their own didn't appeal to Goose. The military situation could change in an eye blink. And those vehicles, especially the deuce-and-a-half, weren't going to be able to outrun another phalanx of SCUDs.

"You got them out of there, Goose," Remington said. "That's more than a lot of them could have accomplished on their own."

"Yes, sir." Goose couldn't argue with that. If the survivors hadn't been given concrete instruction and direction, far fewer of them would have survived.

"I'll be in touch, Goose. Just get yourself and those men where I need you as soon as you can."

"Yes, sir." Goose clicked the headset back over to the team frequency. "Two."

"Two," Bill answered. He stood near the deuce-and-a-half s cab, turning to face Goose. They could have shouted across the distance, but the headset communications made conversation easier.