Or is it already too late—for Alpha, for Delta, for all of us?
It all depends on the infection rate, Bowman knows. Manhattan has more than one and a half million people living on it. If one percent of them are now infected, that would be about sixteen thousand people. If five percent, it would be eighty thousand.
If ten percent, it would be a hundred and sixty thousand.
“Warmonger is reporting a large body of Mad Dogs from the west,” Sherman says.
Even when given clear orders, Bowman believes a field commander must act on his own initiative as facts change on the ground. On the other hand, a commander must recognize that he does not have perfect situational awareness and should never make emotional decisions. The fact is, nobody really knows what is happening. Everybody is guessing. And bucking orders to support Alpha or Delta, the two companies closest to Charlie’s position, would be a major risk to his own boys.
On the other hand, American soldiers are in trouble out there and need help.
The only way to find out would be to literally “do or die.”
As if reading his thoughts, Bishop says, “We’d never get there in time, Todd. There’s nothing we can do.”
“War Pig is calling in a danger-close fire mission,” Sherman says.
“We have arty support?” Knight says, incredulous.
Bowman shakes his head. Quarantine said nothing about artillery support. Artillery is a sledgehammer, too unwieldy for this situation. Even after everything he has seen, it would be almost too fantastic to contemplate—American artillery, planted miles way, firing HE rounds for effect into the middle of New York City.
In any case, the request itself is a bad sign. That’s Captain Reese, a good officer and a cool hand in a firefight, leading Delta. A danger-close fire mission is when an arty strike is called in within six hundred meters of your position. Practically on top of your own head. It’s another sign of desperation. Like Alpha, Delta is in trouble.
“What the hell?” Bishop shouts.
The skyscrapers are suddenly going dark in groups, as if a series of giant light switches controlling the glittering skyline of New York City were being flipped off one by one. The streetlights shut off. All of the lights shut off.
Kemper says simply, “Blackout. . . .”
The world is plunged into darkness.
The gunfire suddenly slackens, becomes haphazard.
The men gasp. The boys out there were caught flatfooted by the dark. Would they have time to put on night vision goggles or produce battlefield illumination? If they could get their NVGs on, they would have the advantage and might even turn the tables.
They see the flashes in the west and south where the companies are making their stand. The gunfire in the west sputters and slows.
Then it stops.
The men gasp again. Either Reese fought his way out, or he and his boys are dead. Surely, he got through and is back on the march. It is hard for these men to conceive of an entire company being destroyed.
In the south, a single flare rockets up into the sky and deploys a small parachute, producing a fiery, eerie glow as it begins its lazy descent to the earth.
Immediately, the gunfire intensifies, but then it too sputters, stops, flares up, dies.
The helicopters buzz in closer, firing missiles, raking the streets with devastating strafing fire. Then one by one they detach from the engagement and fly away.
The city is silent except for the ringing in their ears.
“Is that it?” Lewis asks. Tears of rage are streaming down his face. “The power goes out and Battalion gets overrun? Just because of some bad goddamn luck?”
Nobody answers him. Everybody knows there was a lot more to it than that. They know it was doubtful whether they could have fought their way through anyway. They realize now that they are facing an enemy that is stronger than they are.
And they are alone.
Bowman says quietly, “Jake, I want you to raise War Hammer for me.”
“All companies stopped broadcasting,” says the RTO. “The net is clear.”
“Try, Jake.”
“Yes, sir.”
Above, the sky opens up in a brilliant display of stars not seen in this part of the world since the Blackout of 2003. The tiny blinking light of a satellite lazily crosses the sky.
“No response, sir,” Sherman says in the dark.
The men stand in the dark in a stunned silence.
“Jake,” the LT says carefully, “I want you to raise Warmonger and War Pig and ask for a sitrep.”
Sherman blinks in the gloom. “Sir?”
“Now, Jake.”
“Yes, sir.”
The darkness bears down on them, forcing their thoughts inward. After several moments, the RTO says, “No response, sir.”
Bowman nods, feeling lightheaded.
In one night, the world just got a whole lot smaller. Much smaller, and infinitely more dangerous.
While there is life there is hope
First Squad marches down the hallway, the beams of their flashlights playing on the shiny floor, a display case filled with trophies, dull rows of lockers and acoustical ceiling tiles. Mooney, Carrillo, Rollins and Finnegan carry Private Chen in a black body bag.
After the power went out and the emergency generator restored the lights in the gym, they heard the news via Joe Radio—the rumor mill—that the other companies had been destroyed.
Mooney believed it. His comrades didn’t.
His BDUs are stiff, dirty and stained. His uniform would probably stand up on its own if he took it off. Probably run after a bone if he yelled fetch. He is exhausted from endless work, his left eye won’t stop twitching from stress, and his nerves take a flying leap every time somebody clears his throat. But the news about the slaughter of Warlord while trying to walk several miles across Manhattan has electrified him.
All of his worries have suddenly evaporated. He does not care about Laura or how he wishes he could spend a few hours listening to his favorite records. He does not care about Wyatt constantly bugging him. Deep down, he does not even care if this is the end of the world.
All he cares about, at this very minute, is whether he is going to survive and for how long.
This war, this total war as LT put it, has gotten very personal and Mooney simply can’t really think of its ramifications beyond that. He does not want to die. Nothing else matters.
After the news circulated about Warlord, the NCOs went up to the roof to find LT while the civilians either stood around in stunned silence or started bawling.
It was the perfect time to slip out for the funeral.
They were ordered to burn Chen’s body with the civilian dead, but the boys had another idea. If things were as bad as LT said they were, most of the empty classrooms would be staying empty for a long, long time.
Tonight, PFC Chen would be entombed in his very own mausoleum.
Multiple footsteps approach from behind. Mooney’s heart leaps into his throat, his left eye trembling.
Ratliff wheels, raising his rifle, and challenges: “Mets.”
“Go to hell, Ratliff,” a voice answers from the darkness.
Ghostly forms emerge from the gloom. It’s Third Squad, wearing bright green glow sticks hooked onto the front of their load-bearing vests.
“You’re supposed to say, ‘Yankees,’” Ratliff says, suddenly out of breath.
“Oh, Mad Dogs can talk? Can you get that light out of my face?”
Corporal Eckhardt lowers his rifle and says, “Next time, say ‘Yankees’ and you won’t get shot, Private. What you got there?”
Corporal Hicks says, “We heard what you were doing for Billy Chen.”
“Whatever you heard, you heard wrong,” Eckhardt says defiantly.
“It’s not like that. We’d like to do the same for two of ours.” Hicks gestures behind him. “This is The Newb. The other is Hawkeye. We don’t want them burned up in a pile. We want them to cross over to the other
side whole, with honors.”
Eckhardt glances at the other boys of First Squad. Mooney nods. There is plenty of room where Chen is going.
“Where’s the class clown?” he says, obviously referring to McLeod.
“Sarge gave him sack time,” says Hicks.
“All right,” Eckhardt says. “We scoped out the last classroom on the left and got everything set up there. We found an American flag. You got something to cover up your guys?”
“We’ll make do,” Hicks tells him. “You lead. We’ll follow you.”
Together, they bring the bodies into the classroom. All of the desks have been pushed against the walls, which are adorned with posters of animals, a human skeleton with all of his bones labeled, and a skinless man with all of his muscles labeled.
Earlier in the day, one of the boys wrote on the chalkboard:
here lies pfc william chen. he was a good soldier and loyal friend. he will be missed. may his death be a lesson to us that while there is life there is hope.
RIP
Mooney and the other boys pause for a moment to read the message. They grunt, impressed. They set down the body bag and unzip it.
The boys stagger back, gagging.
“Like rotten cheese and eggs,” says Finnegan, retching.
“Is he alive?” says Rollins. “He’s moving!”
“Quiet, he’s trying to say something. . . .”
“Jesus,” Mooney says, swallowing hard to force back his bile. “Some flies got on him before we zipped him up and laid eggs in him. His face is moving because it’s filled with maggots.”
“Damn,” says Rollins, paling.
“Zip him up, Mooney, goddamnit,” Eckhardt orders.
Mooney closes the bag.
“Still stinks in here,” says Corporal Wheeler.
“Not as bad, though,” Eckhardt points out.
“Smells like one of my farts after I get the MRE with chili and beans,” says Wyatt.
“Joel, shut up,” Mooney says, feeling light headed at the mention of food. “Just stop talking.”
The boys push several of the student desks together and lay the bodies on top of them.
“Check this out,” says Williams. “Somebody carved into this desk, ‘screw mr. schermerhorn.’ That’s all right.”
Nobody laughs. Eckhardt drapes the American flag over the three body bags.
The carvings on the desks give Mooney the creeps. The memory of the normal world haunts this school in a very real way. It is too easy to close one’s eyes and picture thirty bored teenagers trying to stay awake so they can figure out what their biology teacher is telling them.
Standing here in this classroom makes him feel like he is in a museum.
Eckhardt and Hicks eulogize the boys who were killed while everybody else says their own farewells by placing their right hands over their hearts, a gesture of respect they learned from the Iraqis. Eckhardt says he didn’t know Billy Chen well, apparently nobody did, but Chen was Army and that made him family. Hicks describes Hawkeye’s uncanny marksmanship, which very likely would have destined him to become a sniper if he wanted to make the Army a career. Tells how Hawkeye always got stuck on point and never complained about that or anything else. Wheeler and Williams make them laugh by describing jokes McLeod would play on The Newb while he was asleep—tying his shoelaces together, dunking his hand in warm water—the usual barracks pranks. Eckhardt says each of these men died for their country.
The boys glance at each other, uncomfortable. What does that mean anymore? They know what dying means, they’ve seen enough of it, and it is not hard to imagine themselves rotting inside those body bags instead of their friends, infested with maggots. But what country? Most of them are in a state of flat denial but even they know America is going through a crisis from which it will emerge looking entirely different. What comes out the other side, in fact, may no longer be recognizable anymore as “America.”
An awkward silence descends upon the funeral. Nobody knows what to say.
“What if it’s true?” Ratliff says hesitantly, obviously afraid he will be ridiculed for saying something this honest.
“How can it be true?” Wyatt says. “A bunch of unarmed Hajjis can’t just wipe out a battalion.”
“Why would they be making that shit up for, dawg?” Williams says. “To boost your morale? You all know it’s true but you just don’t want to face it.”
Nobody answers him.
“Well, if it’s true, then what are we supposed to do with one lousy company?”
“Keep our heads down, if we’re smart,” Williams tells him.
“You got that right,” some of the other boys murmur, nodding.
The other boys chime in.
“Give this thing a chance to blow over.”
“Wait. We’re going to be okay, aren’t we? Right?”
“They’re not going to airlift us out?”
“Don’t count on it. Where would they land the birds—outside in the street?”
“We got good people leading us,” Hicks says. “We should be okay.”
“Captain Lyons was good,” Rollins says. “And now Alpha’s gone.”
“And Reese. And Moreno. They were good, too.”
“They were following orders. Kirkland and Winters told them to march and they marched.”
“Exactly my point. What if they call up LT and tell him to march?”
“If I was LT, I wouldn’t even answer the phone.”
“I know the LT,” Eckhardt says. “He’ll follow his orders.”
“If the Army is in this bad shape, why should he risk his neck?” Williams says.
“Why should any of us?” says Ratliff.
The boys fall into another awkward silence.
Finally, Mooney says, “You guys are going to laugh, but I’m sticking with the LT because I want to see kids go to school here again.”
Nobody laughs. The boys watch him curiously.
He says: “It’s like this. . . . Billy Chen died fighting for his country. Seems to me that country is disappearing around us. If it keeps going, we might end up being all that’s left of it. We walk away from our jobs, then America is gone. That’s how I feel about it. So I’m going to do my job and keep America alive long enough so it can get back on its feet and be normal again some day. That’s my mission.”
The boys shift restlessly, murmuring and nodding. Mooney has planted a seed in their minds stronger than patriotism. He is giving them a condition for victory in this war without heroes, without winners. He is reminding them of home at peace.
They are picturing picnics and pickup trucks, girlfriends and first dates, street hockey and drive-in movies, granddads playing checkers in the park, long drives on summer nights, a favorite song on the radio, arguments about politics, getting up early for church on Sunday, holding jobs and cashing paychecks. Even the petty worries and needs that no longer seem important—like bills to pay and credit cards and what everybody else is wearing and the latest street slang—all of it strikes the boys deep in the soul, making them nostalgic for the mundane world that is ending.
There is a difference between going to Iraq to fight for your country and being in the situation they are in now, literally fighting for your country’s survival. If they can keep even a shred of the old America alive, they feel like they will win.
Mooney wants to stay alive, and there is safety in numbers. But it is not enough to stay alive. A man must also have something for which he wants to live as well.
Chapter 11
I want to tell my story first so you won’t forget me
The only thing that kept us alive so long was the small firing zones. The Maddies had to bunch up and for a while there, we were shooting fish in a barrel. They came at us in twos and threes out of doorways, around corners, out of cars—they even came flying out of windows. We had maybe sixty men when we stepped off. We were armed to the teeth and cleared hot to shoot anything that moved. No identifying targets. Just sh
oot and scoot. We also had a good leader. Captain Reese was a damn good officer and I would have followed him anywhere, even after he cracked. It took us a while to get used to the fact the enemy wasn’t shooting back at us. After that, we went to town.
After ten blocks of being in a meat grinder and shooting at a sustained rate of fire, though, we started to get tired. It was like being under harassing fire except it was bodies they were throwing at us, not bullets. The abandoned vehicles all over the street forced us to take it slow and screwed up our firing lanes, making us waste ammo. There were cars and trucks and glass everywhere from one abandoned traffic jam after another, and the shadows from the light poles were murder. We saw over and over again where somebody with a big truck or SUV panicked and tried to ram his way out, pushing vehicles into pileups. Some of the cars were on fire and pumping out this thick, oily smoke. Civilians were screaming from windows and throwing shit at us to get our attention.
By the time we’d gone twenty blocks, we were down to forty, fifty men. A few guys got killed, but most of our losses were from guys who just melted away into doorways of apartment buildings. You’d turn around, and suddenly they’d be gone. Some walked away because they’d got bit and they knew this was a death sentence. Others probably just thought it was suicide to keep pushing and they’d had enough. I don’t think they’re cowards. I really don’t. This war is bigger than all of us, almost too big to even understand. People break easy when they try to get their head around something this big. A war where winning feels like losing, and losing, well, it means you’re dead.
Anyhow, the Mad Dogs showed up in force from two directions. There were thousands of them out there in the dark, coming fast, all of them growling with each breath so that they sounded like a train. If you ever saw the movie Zulu with Michael Caine, it was like that—thousands and thousands of people running in waves against aimed rifle fire. No, better, I remember I once saw a crowd of a couple thousand kids stampede at a heavy metal concert. Now imagine all those people are running at you and they want to tear you to pieces with their bare hands and teeth. I saw them coming and I pissed down my leg. There’s no shame in that. It happens to a lot of guys, right? Never happened to me in Iraq, even when the bullets went buzzing right by my ear like wasps. Funny if you think about it. I had to come home to learn true fear.
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