"I wouldn't know, sir. I guess it always has been."

Delroy nodded to himself. "You can go, ensign." He glanced down at Chief Mellencamp's Bible in his two big hands.

"Chaplain Delroy."

"Yes, Ensign."

The man hesitated and looked uncertain. "Did I do something wrong, Chaplain? I didn't mean to offend."

Delroy looked up, feeling bad and embarrassed. With everything else going on, the loss of lives along the Turkish-Syrian border and the unexplained disappearances of so many military personnel, it was incredible to see that a crewman could still be concerned with leaving just the right impression on an officer.

"No, Ensign, you didn't do anything wrong," Delroy replied. "This is just a trying time. I only asked because I struggle with my own faith now and again, and it's good to hear others talk about theirs." He held up Mellencamp's Bible. "That was one of the reasons the chief and I enjoyed each other's company so much."

"Yes, sir."

"Would you check on the other lists?" Sweeper teams still moved within Wasp. Most of the missing had already been confirmed, but Captain Falkirk had wanted a thorough ship's search before those names were officially designated MIA.

"Of course, Chaplain." The ensign excused himself and left.

Delroy returned to his chair behind the desk. He sat with Chief Mellencamp's Bible in his lap for a time, thinking back on their friendship and all the confusing questions that raced through his thoughts. Then he noticed the paper sticking out of the Bible.

Opening the book, Delroy found several sheets of legal pad paper folded up in Revelation. The chiefs Bible had been well used. Mellencamp's neat, precise handwriting covered the generous margins, and the pages were marked with a rainbow of highlighter colors. The chief had his own code for the information he highlighted, but he used it only for proof of his own steel-trap memory.

As chief petty officer, Mellencamp had carried long lists of men, Supplies, and necessary tasks in his head. Deroy had protested, in fun between two good friends, that the chief was extraordinarily equipped and his own arguments should be given the benefit of a handicap. But Mellencamp had loved God's Word-the Old Testament and the New-and could quote passages from several books, as well as psalms.

The fact that the chief had been preparing information based on Revelation was no surprise. Lately, every conversation Delroy had entered into with Mellencamp had turned in that direction. The chief had been convinced that these were the end times, that the Rapture-when God would come and call his church home from the earth-was very near.

Delroy's eyes were drawn to the words his friend had scrawled upon the paper.

We will be called home to heaven. No warning bell. No chance to say good-byes. One moment next, standing in God's perfection.

And what of the people left behind?

Hypnotized by the question Mellencamp had written across the page, Delroy followed the chiefs thinking and found himself flipping through the pages of Revelation. In minutes, he was digging out books from the neat, compact shelves behind him. Fear and horror and hope all began to dawn in his heart.

The end of the world: It was real and it had come. Navy Chaplain Delroy Harte became more convinced of that with each passing minute, and his thoughts became consumed with the carnage, the lies, and the treachery that were in store for those left behind.

United States 75th Rangers 3rd Battalion Field Command Post 35 Klicks South of Sanliurfa, Turkey Local Time 0922 Hours "How bad is it, Goose?" Captain Cal Remington paced the interior of the command post, scanning the computer monitors that revealed the graveyard of helicopters where the LZ had once been. He spoke over the private frequency chipped into his first sergeant's headset, keeping his voice pitched low enough that no one around him could overhear.

"It's bad, sir," Goose said. "About as bad as it could be." The first sergeant listed the details in a verbal code Remington and he had worked out years ago when Remington had taken command of the company.

Anyone listening would have been lost in the gobbledygook of baseball players, stats, records, and play references. After spending so many years together and being used to each other's ways, the Ranger captain translated the code in his head immediately without writing anything down.

After the mysterious disappearances and the casualties along the border during the first wave of the Syrian attack, the Ranger companies were down to roughly a third of their original strength. The U.N. peacekeeping forces were in similar shape. The Marine wing detached from USS Wasp was all but decimated from vanishings and the aerial crashes that had littered the dead across the harsh mountainous ground.

The Syrians, though, remained at almost the same strength they'd had prior to the missile launch. Repeated viewings of the footage Nicolae Carpathia's satellites had captured revealed only a few vanishings from among their ranks. Still, the events of the day had evidently been enough to check the Syrian advance. Enemy troopsRemington felt he could safely consider the Syrians that-continued to reorganize after the disappearances. It wouldn't be long, the Ranger captain knew, before they discovered the extent of the attrition his troops had suffered. And when they did ...

"Goose," Remington said, only then realizing that silence had stretched between his first sergeant and himself.

"I'm here, sir." Goose's voice sounded flat.

Remington knew the loss of men was getting to Goose. The first sergeant had never taken the deaths of men under his command well. During battle, during the fine-tuning of a tactical op, Goose never let the regret and self-recriminations touch him, but during the fallow times between, Goose struggled with those losses. Marriage and fatherhood had been good for him, binding the wounds and keeping his heart strong. But at the same time, the family that kept Goose together had also created a new weight for the first sergeant to carry into the field.

"We're not going to be able to hold that position." "I know that, sir. I apologize, sir."

"Knock off the sir, Goose. We've been friends a lot longer than I've had these bars."

Goose hesitated. "That we have," he acknowledged. But Remington could still hear the unstated sir in his voice.

"You've got nothing to apologize for," Remington said.

"I could have stopped that transmission," Goose said.

"Negative, soldier." Remington made his voice forceful. He strode with his hands clasped behind his back, taking care to step over the bundles of thick black cables that snaked across the floor to the Crays. "The responsibility of that issue does not reside with you or within your purview." The Ranger captain made his voice crisp and clean, ringing with authority. "If the ball was dropped anywhere, it was on my end. I should have asked our alphabet agency more questions regarding the op before I sent your team in."

"They would have lied to you."

Remington knew Goose was offering him a way out, not wanting the captain to take the blame either. A small smile framed Remington's lips. He had made a mistake by taking Section Chief Alexander Cody's story on faith. However, Remington didn't have much respect for the CIA.

"If they lied to me," Remington said, "that again would have made it my fault. As captain, I have to be a human lie detector. That power was invested in me by the Officer Candidate School, by the grace of God, and by the board that charged me with my command. No one can lie to me." The sheer brass of the statement was a joke he shared with Goose, but both of them knew that a commanding officer had to have that kind of view of himself to get the job done. "The agency representative withheld the truth from us, Sergeant, and there's nothing we could have done about that."

"No, sir."

"In addition to that, even if you had stopped that call, you don't know that a backup plan wasn't in place regarding a missed check-in."

"I know."

"Then let's worry about the things you do know and the operations that you have some control over." Remington gazed at the monitors.

The display of the images on the screens still astounded him. Whatever satellites Nicolae Carpathia was using brought in imaging-even voices, when cameras were close enough for the microphone pickups to activate-on par with or better than the mil-spec satellites they'd been using for the border op.

The screens constantly shifted perspectives, from ground cameras carried by reporters working the scene to cameras mounted on soldiers' weapons. Goose had one mounted on his helmet at present, providing Remington with a first-person view of everything the first sergeant saw.

At the moment, Goose walked the perimeter of the border the Rangers had been assigned. The first sergeant carried his M-4A1 at port arms just the way the drill instructors back in boot taught. Overturned and burnt vehicles stood out against the broken and cratered earth turned black from missile blasts and fuel-fed fires that had scoured the ground. Teams of Rangers, Marines, U.N. peacekeeping personnel, and Turkish army regulars moved through the debris searching for any that might still be left alive.

"Since we know we can't hold that position," Remington went on, "we need to evacuate."

"I know." The camera shifted as Goose climbed aboard an overturned truck. The view shifted as the camera adjusted to the shade inside the truck's cargo area. Goose's hands holding the assault rifle disappeared for a moment, then came back with a notepad. He sorted through the cargo spilled across the back of the truck and jotted notes about the contents. Later, he would coordinate the recovery of the materials that he deemed necessary and salvageable. "I'm rationing the fuel that we've been able to scavenge, and I've got Henderson and his motor-pool division working on vehicles that might be able to carry wounded and cargo that can be repaired quickly."

"Sounds like you're ahead of me." Remington moved on, checking the screens.

"No, sir," Goose replied. "We've been through situations like this before. This is SOP on a blown mission according to the parameters you've established."

"Actually, Sergeant," Remington said, "I'd be hard-pressed to remember if I came up with those parameters or you did."

"They work," Goose replied. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it."

"Agreed." An image on the screen caught Remington's eye. The banner at the bottom of the screen read TURKISH-SYRIAN BORDER-RECORDED EARLIER.

The image showed Goose carrying a wounded Marine from the burning helicopter. The first sergeant remained frozen in midstep. Pain and desperate resolve were etched on Goose's face. It was one of those images that would end up splashed on the front pages of newspapers and magazine covers back home, Remington could tell.

For a moment, a hint of jealousy flared through Remington. Even when they'd been soldiering together as sergeants, Goose had always seemed to capture the attention and respect of other soldiers as well as the media. He was photogenic and self-deprecating, every inch a team player who sweated blood for the cause.

But Goose would never be an officer. A few times, when his jealousy had risen too high, Remington had consoled himself with that thought. Goose would never be an officer, never be more than the first sergeant that he was. And when he'd had his fill of battle, as Remington suspected Goose soon would now that he had Megan and Chris waiting at home for him, Goose would quietly lay down his arms and concentrate on being a husband and father.

Remington hadn't wanted to deal with any of those responsibilities that would divide his attention and his personal resources. The screen cut away, showing footage of the caravan of vehicles from Glitter City rumbling along the road to Sanliurfa. The refugees had actually reached the city over an hour ago, and more footage showed the arrival of those vehicles inside the city. Several SCUDs had slammed Sanliurfa during the initial attack. Sections of the city were burning ruins now.

"Since we agreed on the evacuation, Goose said, "all we need is a time frame."

"Part of that will depend on how soon you can get those men ready to go." Remington returned to the screen that showed Goose's point of view.

"We need transportation."

Remington touched the monitor in front of him, loving the power that knowledge gave him. The touch-screen programming that came with the satellite feeds made shifting between perspectives a breeze. Maybe the generals at the Pentagon would give him a hard time about his decision to take the help Nicolae Carpathia had so freely offered, but Remington felt that, in the end, no blame would be laid at his doorstep. Linking with Carpathia had been the thing to do, for just the reasons the Romanian president had gone into.

The monitor cleared in a heartbeat. A long line of military trucks raced along a winding mountain road. The view from the satellite peered down at the countryside. With the magnification available in Carpathia's satellites, Remington could have isolated each truck and shifted over to infrared to discover how many men rode inside.

"Transportation is on the way, Goose," the Ranger captain said. "You'll have it in about five hours. I've got a convoy of trucks aimed in your direction from Diyarbakir."

The distance from the convoy's origination point outside Diyarbakir and the border was 223 miles of treacherous road. The Marine wing from Wasp had traveled a little more than that, but the aircraft had been able to fly in a straight line at an average of 150 miles an hour. The land-based support had to travel through treacherous mountain roads further hampered by occasional damage from SCUDs. The five hours Remington quoted to his first sergeant was only if nothing untoward happened during the jump.

"You're stripping the secondary unit, sir," Goose said.

The secondary unit of Rangers in Diyarbakir had been primarily support and supply staff. But they were a fighting unit with heavy field artillery as well, capable of becoming part of a pincer movement should the need arise.

"Superficially," Remington agreed, "the convoy might look like that, but that unit is primarily designated for emergency relief. There is a lot of cargo space aboard those vehicles to help with your wounded."

"What about our dead?"

Remington cursed in his mind, but not one word escaped his lips. He knew the evacuation would come down to this. A Ranger was trained never to leave a comrade behind, not even a dead one. And the fallback op from the border was going to require more than that from them.

On the move again, Remington walked back to the computer monitor linked to Goose's helmet cam. "We can't take them, Goose."

"Captain, I didn't lead those men here to leave them-"

"You didn't lead them here to watch them die either, First Sergeant Gander." Remington made his voice hard. "Did you?"

The view from Goose's helmet cam lifted briefly to the sky. Traces of smoke still hung in the air. Remington didn't know what answer Goose hoped to find there. Goose still clung to the idea that some higher power actually watched over the world and made decisions about who lived or died. Remington knew that decision rested solely within the individual. A strong man outlived a weak one. A warrior outlived a pacifist. In Remington's book, life's rules were simple. No higher power influenced his life or his rules.

"No, sir," Goose replied. "I didn't lead them here for that."

"We didn't lead them here for that, Goose." Remington made his voice gentle again. The commands came naturally. "We cut our losses. We save who we can. We let the others go." He paused, knowing he had to choose his words carefully. "Those we leave behind, Goose, we remember. If we can, we'll return for them and take them back to their families."

"Yes, sir."

Returning for the dead was one of the last things Remington wanted to do. Images of other ops where men had been lost came sharply to mind. Corpses left too long in the sun bloated, became breeding grounds for flies, and turned horrific. A company that had to retrieve its own dead days after the battle, as would likely be the case in this present engagement, suffered mental and emotional damage from that mission that hampered them on the battlefield. If possible, Remington intended to see that someone else was called in for that duty, but at the moment there weren't any possibilities at hand. The mystery vanishings had left everyone strapped for men.

Except the Syrians.

More news about the worldwide event poured into Remington's sat feeds from around the globe. So far, his impression was that Africa and South America had been hardest hit, with Europe next in line, and the Middle and Far East hardly touched. And Remington knew that the full depth of the losses weren't known yet. In some places in the United States, the equivalent of whole towns had vanished. Preliminary reports indicated that China might have lost ten million, but that was merely a drop in the bucket in the population of that vast country. Russia was also lightly touched, at least comparatively.

But despite their seemingly minimal losses, Russia was mobilizing her armies, air force, and navy. That news had filtered down through the command net. What shape those troop movements would eventually take remained to be seen, but the Pentagon was definitely worried. The United States had never been more vulnerable to an attack.

Remington didn't mention any of that to Goose. At present, the first sergeant believed the vanishings to be localized, either the effect of some weapon of mass destruction that the U.S. military hadn't known about or an unnatural phenomenon. Once the news broke that the vanishings had occurred around the world, the Ranger captain knew the battered remnants of the 75th Rangers would lose some of their belief that they would make it out of their present situation alive.

And belief, Remington knew, was necessary in command. Not the kind of faith Goose sometimes talked about that existed between a man and God, but the faith a soldier had in his own abilities and in the orders of his superior officers.

Without a strong command structure, an army was a riot and uncontrolled chaos waiting to happen.

Goose's view returned to the stricken battlefield. He was in motion again, which Remington knew from experience was good. Goose thought best on his feet when he had an objective to accomplish. And Remington intended to keep his first sergeant busy during the long, hard hours it would take to get the retreat organized.

"At first blush," Remington said, "the arriving convoy is going to look like reinforcements."

"What about Syrian intelligence?" Goose asked.

Remington knew Goose referred to the satellites the Russians had allowed the Syrians to use. Since the devastating losses Russia had suffered fourteen months ago during the unprovoked attack on Israel, Russia had sought to rebuild her strength through allies in the Middle East and the Eastern bloc.

The creation of Israel in 1948 had fed the Cold War between the superpowers that had intensified after the Second World War. With the United States backing Israel, Russia had invested heavily in other Middle Eastern countries to offset the edge that the American military had gained in the area. Since Chaim Rosenzweig's formula had elevated his nation's fortunes, Russia had fed the jealousy of the other Middle Eastern nations, gaining many allies that still smarted over past defeats at the hands of the Israelis.

Realizing the Eastern bloc might also be a source of Russian strength, Remington remembered that Romania was part of that sector. The Kremlin's top people would certainly court new president Nicolae Carpathia.

Maybe he already has been courted. The thought was disconcerting to Remington, but as quickly as it had come, the possibility faded from his mind. Even from only the quick conversation he'd had with Carpathia, the Ranger captain had the distinct impression that the Romanian president was very much his own man and would honor any agreement he gave his word to.

The feeling was unusual for Remington. Generally he distrusted most people and often found himself prepared to believe the worst of them. Carpathia, though, was very different. He'd known that even before the Romanian president had lent him the use of the satellites.

"Syrian intelligence has been severely limited," Remington said, addressing Goose's question. "The NSA arranged for key Russian satellites over the border to experience difficulties within minutes of the attack. Syrian military is as blind and deaf as we were. They have no idea how many losses we've actually incurred."

Unless Carpathia gave them access to satellite feeds, as well as Remington. The thought was natural to Remington given the circumstances, but he quickly dismissed the possibility. Carpathia could find a major ally in the United States, and he would be owed big-time after the assist along the Turkish-Syrian border.

Remington turned his attention once more to his men.

"All we've got to do is keep up a strong front along the border until nightfall roughly eight hours from now," Remington said. "You can do that, Goose."

"Yes, sir."

"Keep patrols moving along the border. If the Syrians want more intel, make them pay for it. They'll have to send in men and machines. When they do, take them out. Hold the center, Goose."

"They'll have another wave of SCUDs ready soon."

"Dig in. Tighter than ticks on a hound. As long as they're throwing SCUDs at your men, they can't put an infantry offensive through there. The Turkish military in Diyarbakir are amped up with a supply of Patriot missiles brought in by the United States military machine.

Most of those SCUDs win never maze it across those gun crews fire, they're going to be targeted in turn. We've already got several emplacements marked."

"Yes, sir."

Goose's camera view swept the ridgeline behind the border. Remington knew the first sergeant was thinking of the men he would lose when those attacks came.

"For now, Goose," the Ranger captain said, "we hold what we've got. The biggest threat there is the Syrian infantry and cav units. Once they start across the border, we can't hold them back."