there!”
Taking a deep breath, trying to get oxygen back into his lungs, Goose stood uncertainly on the lumbering engine of destruction. He peered at the bombed-out street ahead of him, seeing several beautiful buildings that had fallen into ruin under the barrage of attacks during the last few days.
The buildings that had been set aside as hospital quarters lay only a few blocks ahead of the tank. They’d be easy prey for the T-62’s upgraded 120mm main gun, and the raw weight of the war machine’s forty-plus metric tons was a fearsome weapon as well. Goose had seen M-1 Abrams crews raze buildings simply by driving the tanks through them again and again, smashing walls and breaking supports till the structures fell.
Knowing he wasn’t going to get hit by friendly fire helped, but Goose knew if he didn’t stop the vehicle quickly, the main gun would be within range of the makeshift hospital in seconds. Once in range, the tank crew would fire on the dozens of wounded inside. None of those wounded would have a chance.
The exploding truck loaded with dead men had been a feint. During the immediate paralysis after that attack, gun crews had raked the barricaded areas and rooftops with surgical efficiency. The devastation had been as complete as if the Syrians had had a map.
Goose didn’t doubt that the enemy force had just such a map. The occupying army had no control over the citizens who remained within Sanliurfa. There was every chance that the Syrians had informers planted within the city, a tactic as old as the art of war itself.
“Phoenix Leader,” Remington called calmly over the headset. “This is Control.”
“Go, Control,” Goose responded, moving forward across the bucking tank deck.
“Leader,” Remington said, “you’ve got a string of bogeys on the tail of the beast you went to intercept. Copy?”
Turning around, Goose stared back along the street. Four blocks away, he spotted the dim outlines of another tank rumbling through the area where the barricade had been.
“Affirmative, Control,” Goose said. “I see them.”
“They’re making an all-out run at us,” Remington said. “Going for the hospital. Probably the ammo dumps and the supplies after that.”
Moving supplies around during the day had become an automatic effort. With spies and potential saboteurs in the city, the three armies comprising the defense force had had no choice about trying to protect their food stores, fuel, and munitions. That protection was noticeable to even an untrained eye. Rotating the hospital around hadn’t been possible.
“I’ve got rolling stock headed your way,” Remington said. “I’ve also got two Whiskey Cobras in the air. But we need to slow those machines until help can get there.”
“Understood, Control.”
“Stop those tanks, Leader,” Remington said grimly. “Buy us some time.”
Goose took a final glance back along the street. The assault on the area had been nearly complete. Buildings stood in ruins all around him. The tanks arriving in the area would have a hard time passing through the terrain before rocket launchers carried by infantrymen or on the Cobras brought them down. If he could buy some time, they might just win this thing.
But stopping the tank he was currently standing on was critical. Disabling or destroying the juggernaut of hurtling armor and artillery might bottleneck the street and provide a momentary stopgap. He started forward, climbing over the turret.
The dead Syrian’s body suddenly fell out of the loader’s hatch and slammed into Goose, nearly knocking him off. Before Goose could recover and bring his rifle to bear on the hatch, a man’s arm reached out and pulled the hatch closed, sealing off the opening.
Goose started forward again, clambering quickly across the turret. The main gun fired again, and the sound was deafening. Goose kept his mouth open to equalize the pressure in his ears. Even then, he was mostly deaf from the detonation. The
Taking a deep breath, trying to get oxygen back into his lungs, Goose stood uncertainly on the lumbering engine of destruction. He peered at the bombed-out street ahead of him, seeing several beautiful buildings that had fallen into ruin under the barrage of attacks during the last few days.
The buildings that had been set aside as hospital quarters lay only a few blocks ahead of the tank. They’d be easy prey for the T-62’s upgraded 120mm main gun, and the raw weight of the war machine’s forty-plus metric tons was a fearsome weapon as well. Goose had seen M-1 Abrams crews raze buildings simply by driving the tanks through them again and again, smashing walls and breaking supports till the structures fell.
Knowing he wasn’t going to get hit by friendly fire helped, but Goose knew if he didn’t stop the vehicle quickly, the main gun would be within range of the makeshift hospital in seconds. Once in range, the tank crew would fire on the dozens of wounded inside. None of those wounded would have a chance.
The exploding truck loaded with dead men had been a feint. During the immediate paralysis after that attack, gun crews had raked the barricaded areas and rooftops with surgical efficiency. The devastation had been as complete as if the Syrians had had a map.
Goose didn’t doubt that the enemy force had just such a map. The occupying army had no control over the citizens who remained within Sanliurfa. There was every chance that the Syrians had informers planted within the city, a tactic as old as the art of war itself.
“Phoenix Leader,” Remington called calmly over the headset. “This is Control.”
“Go, Control,” Goose responded, moving forward across the bucking tank deck.
“Leader,” Remington said, “you’ve got a string of bogeys on the tail of the beast you went to intercept. Copy?”
Turning around, Goose stared back along the street. Four blocks away, he spotted the dim outlines of another tank rumbling through the area where the barricade had been.
“Affirmative, Control,” Goose said. “I see them.”
“They’re making an all-out run at us,” Remington said. “Going for the hospital. Probably the ammo dumps and the supplies after that.”
Moving supplies around during the day had become an automatic effort. With spies and potential saboteurs in the city, the three armies comprising the defense force had had no choice about trying to protect their food stores, fuel, and munitions. That protection was noticeable to even an untrained eye. Rotating the hospital around hadn’t been possible.
“I’ve got rolling stock headed your way,” Remington said. “I’ve also got two Whiskey Cobras in the air. But we need to slow those machines until help can get there.”
“Understood, Control.”
“Stop those tanks, Leader,” Remington said grimly. “Buy us some time.”
Goose took a final glance back along the street. The assault on the area had been nearly complete. Buildings stood in ruins all around him. The tanks arriving in the area would have a hard time passing through the terrain before rocket launchers carried by infantrymen or on the Cobras brought them down. If he could buy some time, they might just win this thing.
But stopping the tank he was currently standing on was critical. Disabling or destroying the juggernaut of hurtling armor and artillery might bottleneck the street and provide a momentary stopgap. He started forward, climbing over the turret.
The dead Syrian’s body suddenly fell out of the loader’s hatch and slammed into Goose, nearly knocking him off. Before Goose could recover and bring his rifle to bear on the hatch, a man’s arm reached out and pulled the hatch closed, sealing off the opening.
Goose started forward again, clambering quickly across the turret. The main gun fired again, and the sound was deafening. Goose kept his mouth open to equalize the pressure in his ears. Even then, he was mostly deaf from the detonation. The
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