ignore, and it had been told and retold among the media, with the circumstances flipping back and forth, depending on who was telling the tale.
The selling point for the media was that the CIA might somehow have been involved with the Syrian decision to attack Turkey. If that was the case, the current war story was going to get even bigger. Chaim Rosenzweig’s invention of the synthetic fertilizer had turned Israel into a veritable Eden overnight and made it into an even more dynamic economic force that had unsettled the balance of power in the Middle East. There was some suspicion on part of the Arab nations that the United States, under President Fitzhugh, had had a hand in the development of that fertilizer.
Yesterday, that CNN reporter had been found dead, his throat slit. He’d been young, convinced he was on the trail of something that would earn him a Pulitzer, and he’d taken chances by going into the rougher areas of the city where the traders and black-market dealers met. Danielle had earmarked the story to follow up on, but OneWorld had kept her busy pumping human-interest stories, such as the cooks she had been with before the attack.
“We do have Captain Remington now,” Stolojan said.
“But where is Sergeant Gander?” Danielle asked.
“Two blocks east of your position. One block south. At the main barricade blocking egress from the highway.”
“I’m on my way. I’ll cue you when we go live. Until then, we’re going to shoot some bits that I’ll want to work into the story. We’ll upload as we go. Get them cleaned up and I’ll do voice-overs later.” Danielle’s mind worked furiously. She didn’t know how many people comprised whatever workforce Stolojan was part of, but he seemed to have an army at his beck and call for research as well as for processing.
Staying close to the building, Danielle took the lead. Cezar and Gorca followed reluctantly.
“I heard what you said about the bodies,” Cezar said. “Do you think this is why the Syrians did this? To frighten the soldiers?”
“Are you scared?” Danielle countered.
“Yes.”
“Then I’d say it’s working.”
“I suppose.”
Danielle halted at the corner leading into a narrow alley filled with debris. A rumbling noise reached her ears, one of those impossible things that happened in the lull of gunfire and mortar fire. She knew what the sound was. Even though she didn’t want to, she turned toward the crashed barricade.
Dust and haze and flames filled the gap where the barricade had been at the end of the street. The Red Cross Humvee loaded the wounded and performed a U-turn just as an armored behemoth lumbered into view.
The tank was Russian-made. Danielle knew from her research that the Syrian army used primarily Soviet munitions. She didn’t know if it was a T-62 or a T-72, but it was huge. The tracks gouged the street, tearing away chunks of pavement. Then the turret swiveled as the tracks locked down. The main gun took deliberate aim.
Danielle dodged around the alley corner. Realizing that Cezar was frozen, his camera resting on his shoulder as he shot footage of the tank, Danielle reached back and grabbed his shirt. “Move!” she yelled, yanking him into stumbling motion.
Gorca followed, covering his head with his hands.
The vehicle’s main gun belched flame that tore away the shadows between the buildings. The blast deafened Danielle. Riding out an adrenaline spike, she tried to run down the alley and drag Cezar behind her. Her feet became entangled with his, and she stumbled over a chunk of building. She fell.
Behind her, the tank sped forward again.
Renewed fear slammed through Danielle. The occupying military force hadn’t claimed their cobbled-together defenses were impenetrable. In fact, Remington had told the citizens that exactly the opposite was true.
Another round blasted from the tank. A building staggered, then fell, joining the debris on the other side of the main street.
Lying on the
The selling point for the media was that the CIA might somehow have been involved with the Syrian decision to attack Turkey. If that was the case, the current war story was going to get even bigger. Chaim Rosenzweig’s invention of the synthetic fertilizer had turned Israel into a veritable Eden overnight and made it into an even more dynamic economic force that had unsettled the balance of power in the Middle East. There was some suspicion on part of the Arab nations that the United States, under President Fitzhugh, had had a hand in the development of that fertilizer.
Yesterday, that CNN reporter had been found dead, his throat slit. He’d been young, convinced he was on the trail of something that would earn him a Pulitzer, and he’d taken chances by going into the rougher areas of the city where the traders and black-market dealers met. Danielle had earmarked the story to follow up on, but OneWorld had kept her busy pumping human-interest stories, such as the cooks she had been with before the attack.
“We do have Captain Remington now,” Stolojan said.
“But where is Sergeant Gander?” Danielle asked.
“Two blocks east of your position. One block south. At the main barricade blocking egress from the highway.”
“I’m on my way. I’ll cue you when we go live. Until then, we’re going to shoot some bits that I’ll want to work into the story. We’ll upload as we go. Get them cleaned up and I’ll do voice-overs later.” Danielle’s mind worked furiously. She didn’t know how many people comprised whatever workforce Stolojan was part of, but he seemed to have an army at his beck and call for research as well as for processing.
Staying close to the building, Danielle took the lead. Cezar and Gorca followed reluctantly.
“I heard what you said about the bodies,” Cezar said. “Do you think this is why the Syrians did this? To frighten the soldiers?”
“Are you scared?” Danielle countered.
“Yes.”
“Then I’d say it’s working.”
“I suppose.”
Danielle halted at the corner leading into a narrow alley filled with debris. A rumbling noise reached her ears, one of those impossible things that happened in the lull of gunfire and mortar fire. She knew what the sound was. Even though she didn’t want to, she turned toward the crashed barricade.
Dust and haze and flames filled the gap where the barricade had been at the end of the street. The Red Cross Humvee loaded the wounded and performed a U-turn just as an armored behemoth lumbered into view.
The tank was Russian-made. Danielle knew from her research that the Syrian army used primarily Soviet munitions. She didn’t know if it was a T-62 or a T-72, but it was huge. The tracks gouged the street, tearing away chunks of pavement. Then the turret swiveled as the tracks locked down. The main gun took deliberate aim.
Danielle dodged around the alley corner. Realizing that Cezar was frozen, his camera resting on his shoulder as he shot footage of the tank, Danielle reached back and grabbed his shirt. “Move!” she yelled, yanking him into stumbling motion.
Gorca followed, covering his head with his hands.
The vehicle’s main gun belched flame that tore away the shadows between the buildings. The blast deafened Danielle. Riding out an adrenaline spike, she tried to run down the alley and drag Cezar behind her. Her feet became entangled with his, and she stumbled over a chunk of building. She fell.
Behind her, the tank sped forward again.
Renewed fear slammed through Danielle. The occupying military force hadn’t claimed their cobbled-together defenses were impenetrable. In fact, Remington had told the citizens that exactly the opposite was true.
Another round blasted from the tank. A building staggered, then fell, joining the debris on the other side of the main street.
Lying on the
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