life. But he’d never seen a saner man than Baker was right now.
“I don’t know what prompted me to come here to see you,” Baker said, shrugging. “Maybe it was the fact that since yesterday I’ve noticed you coming by at least a halfdozen times. At the church and at my postings. It seemed reasonable to think that you wanted to talk to me. However, I was willing to wait. I didn’t think it was my place to seek you out.”
“But you did.”
“That changed twenty minutes ago.” Baker smiled. “I could no longer put off speaking with you. The … feeling … got too strong. I didn’t even have a clue what we might talk about. Not until I saw you with that Bible in your hands.”
“I was just reading, trying to relax.” And that wasn’t an out-andout lie. Goose had been struggling to relax. How could he not, knowing what he did about the involvement of the Rangers and what was truly at risk in the battle for Sanliurfa?
“The book of Revelation, with all its prophecies of doom, isn’t the most relaxing reading material,” Baker said.
Goose hesitated. “No, it’s not. But that wasn’t exactly a lie. I wanted to know more about what was coming, what things are going to be like after the Rapture.”
“Because you think it’s already happened?”
Think, Goose thought to himself. Not believe. World of difference. He said, “I’ve had to admit to myself that it’s possible.”
Baker looked Goose in the eye. “I know your son was one of those who disappeared, First Sergeant, and I hate reminding you of the pain I know you must feel, but you need to remember that loss in order to give you a better understanding of what you’re going through.”
Baker was poking at what it felt like to lose Chris. Anger surged up inside Goose. He barely managed to grab on to it and throttle it back down before it escaped him and he did something he’d regret. Baker was definitely stepping across the line when he brought Chris up.
“All those people who disappeared,” Baker said, “your son among them, where do you think they went?”
Goose slowly shook his head. “I don’t know.” Facts, he reminded himself, deal in facts. The fact was that he had hoped Icarus would help him find a way to bring those people—and Chris—back from wherever they had gone. But Icarus had pointed Goose to the Bible, to the book of Revelation, and to what had to be the only answer.
“That many people,” Baker said, “and all of the children. Those facts alone are staggering. Think what it means.”
Goose kept his silence.
“Your friend Bill Townsend was among those who disappeared,” Baker said. “You know what kind of man he was: a believer. I visited with Bill on a number of occasions.”
Goose didn’t know that.
“Bill tried to help me get my faith back,” Baker said. “But after my wife and my child were killed in an awful car wreck, I felt bereft of God. I felt certain that He had deserted me and no longer cared about me.” The big man’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “But that day in the river when I was asked to baptize John Taylor, then after him all those men who came forward, when I was able to hold up the RSOV that had fallen from the mountain path, and finally when the earthquake came and washed the Syrian armored units away, I knew God cared.”
Seated there in the makeshift barracks, Goose heard again the familiar lines of the Twenty-third Psalm.
“God saved us that day, First Sergeant,” Baker said with childlike intensity.
One of the nearby Rangers cursed, then said, “Why’d God save us, Baker? So we could end up as targets in a shooting gallery for the Syrian army?”
Other men joined in, some of them supporting the cutting remark the Ranger had offered, while others argued with them.
The first speaker pushed himself up from his bed and crossed toward Baker. He was tall and lean and carried his assault rifle over one shoulder. A bloodstained bandage covered his right cheek. Another
“I don’t know what prompted me to come here to see you,” Baker said, shrugging. “Maybe it was the fact that since yesterday I’ve noticed you coming by at least a halfdozen times. At the church and at my postings. It seemed reasonable to think that you wanted to talk to me. However, I was willing to wait. I didn’t think it was my place to seek you out.”
“But you did.”
“That changed twenty minutes ago.” Baker smiled. “I could no longer put off speaking with you. The … feeling … got too strong. I didn’t even have a clue what we might talk about. Not until I saw you with that Bible in your hands.”
“I was just reading, trying to relax.” And that wasn’t an out-andout lie. Goose had been struggling to relax. How could he not, knowing what he did about the involvement of the Rangers and what was truly at risk in the battle for Sanliurfa?
“The book of Revelation, with all its prophecies of doom, isn’t the most relaxing reading material,” Baker said.
Goose hesitated. “No, it’s not. But that wasn’t exactly a lie. I wanted to know more about what was coming, what things are going to be like after the Rapture.”
“Because you think it’s already happened?”
Think, Goose thought to himself. Not believe. World of difference. He said, “I’ve had to admit to myself that it’s possible.”
Baker looked Goose in the eye. “I know your son was one of those who disappeared, First Sergeant, and I hate reminding you of the pain I know you must feel, but you need to remember that loss in order to give you a better understanding of what you’re going through.”
Baker was poking at what it felt like to lose Chris. Anger surged up inside Goose. He barely managed to grab on to it and throttle it back down before it escaped him and he did something he’d regret. Baker was definitely stepping across the line when he brought Chris up.
“All those people who disappeared,” Baker said, “your son among them, where do you think they went?”
Goose slowly shook his head. “I don’t know.” Facts, he reminded himself, deal in facts. The fact was that he had hoped Icarus would help him find a way to bring those people—and Chris—back from wherever they had gone. But Icarus had pointed Goose to the Bible, to the book of Revelation, and to what had to be the only answer.
“That many people,” Baker said, “and all of the children. Those facts alone are staggering. Think what it means.”
Goose kept his silence.
“Your friend Bill Townsend was among those who disappeared,” Baker said. “You know what kind of man he was: a believer. I visited with Bill on a number of occasions.”
Goose didn’t know that.
“Bill tried to help me get my faith back,” Baker said. “But after my wife and my child were killed in an awful car wreck, I felt bereft of God. I felt certain that He had deserted me and no longer cared about me.” The big man’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “But that day in the river when I was asked to baptize John Taylor, then after him all those men who came forward, when I was able to hold up the RSOV that had fallen from the mountain path, and finally when the earthquake came and washed the Syrian armored units away, I knew God cared.”
Seated there in the makeshift barracks, Goose heard again the familiar lines of the Twenty-third Psalm.
“God saved us that day, First Sergeant,” Baker said with childlike intensity.
One of the nearby Rangers cursed, then said, “Why’d God save us, Baker? So we could end up as targets in a shooting gallery for the Syrian army?”
Other men joined in, some of them supporting the cutting remark the Ranger had offered, while others argued with them.
The first speaker pushed himself up from his bed and crossed toward Baker. He was tall and lean and carried his assault rifle over one shoulder. A bloodstained bandage covered his right cheek. Another
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