Bowman shakes his head.
“That’s just the thing. I honestly don’t know. Eighth Brigade has not been issued evac orders for the time being, and Division isn’t telling us why.”
“What about Los Angeles? Is it being abandoned? I got people there, sir.”
“This is a goddamn disgrace!”
Several of the other sergeants start shouting at once.
“I already told you everything I know,” Bowman yells over them.
Sherman is pushing his way through the crowd. He reaches Kemper and hands him a piece of paper.
The LT adds: “So we’re going to hunker down here for a while and reorganize our unit. We’re also going to start training for a new mission.”
Kemper reads the note and glances sharply at the RTO, his face reddening.
Bowman continues, “We’re going to try to salvage the equipment H&S Company left when they got overrun. They had weapons, food, water, medicine in storage. An ammo dump. If we don’t get it, the locals will pick it clean. We need those supplies to remain combat effective.”
“How are we supposed to get to H&S?” says Ruiz. “They were over a mile away from here when they were overrun.”
Bowman smiles and says, “We’re going to innovate.”
Kemper approaches and says something into the LT’s ear. By the time he finishes, Bowman is visibly angry, leaving the sergeants wondering.
“Put it on the map,” says the LT.
The Platoon Sergeant draws a yellow border around Second Battalion in Jersey City. Bowman turns to the NCOs.
“Uh, Jake has just heard from Division that we are to avoid any contact with Second Battalion over in Jersey City,” he says. “Colonel Rose and his XO, Major Boyle, are reported dead. Captain Warner is in command, and he is refusing to obey orders.”
“Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!”
McLeod finishes mopping the hallway in the Asylum—what the boys call the wing where they put the soldiers turned Mad Dog—and walks slowly down the virtually empty hall, reading the names carved into the boards nailed over the doors. The visitors are all long gone, as the inmates have all turned Mad Dog.
He passes by one that reads, james lynch.
Behind the boarded up door, he can hear Maddy pacing in his boots, growling.
“If you had a longer life span, I’d join you,” McLeod says. “Seeing as your side seems to be winning this thing, and all.”
James Lynch snarls and throws his shoulder against the door, making McLeod take a step backward, almost spilling his bucket. Down the hall, Private Becker from Third Platoon, posted on sentry duty, watches and shakes his head.
McLeod grins and waves, then checks his watch. Lunch time. He decides to take his MRE onto the roof to watch Sergeant Lewis bang away at Maddy with his rifle.
He arrives to find the roof empty except for a smiling Private Williams, leading one of the female civilians by the hand. They disappear behind one of the HVAC units.
McLeod walks to the parapet, sets down his SAW, and looks out over the city.
New York.
What a view. Even dying of this horrible cancer, it’s beautiful.
“Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!” he says into the chilly air, quoting a poem he read once in English class, in what seems to him now to have been another life. “Allah akhbar.”
It has never been so quiet. There are no cars moving, no shrill sirens, no babble of voices. Smoke drifts over the looming skyline as fires rage unchecked. Garbage and sewage are tossed out of windows into streets choked with corpses.
Mercifully, the wind blows south, carrying the stench out over the ocean.
A single helicopter buzzes in the distance. McLeod recognizes it as an observation helicopter. Division’s air support is wasting no more fuel or ordnance on New York City. The sky belongs to the birds now, feasting on the dead.
He rips his MRE open and looks down at the street.
It is deserted. Nothing for Sergeant Lewis to bang away at except drifting garbage and a pack of feral dogs, even if he were here. Soon, even the dogs are gone.
Like looking at the frozen peaks of mountains, once the majesty wears off, New York’s skyline could not be more depressing for human survival. There is no money, only a barter economy with little to barter. Few people here have the skills they will need to survive for the next few months. There is no electricity, no plumbing, no sewage, no health system, and little hope for the future. And oh yeah, if you step outside for the next few weeks, you will probably be killed. Long term, your prospects are even worse.
Across the street, somebody taped a sign on the window of a private office, facing outward, that says, trapped, help. The office appears to be empty.
“Mind if I join you?”
McLeod turns and sees a middle-aged man wearing a neat suit, cardigan sweater and tie, fiddling with a transistor radio.
“Sure.” He nods at the radio. “What are you getting?”
“Nothing local, obviously,” the man says cheerfully. “But I am receiving an AM news station out of Pittsburgh. The government has a cure for Mad Dog disease, they say. It’s only a matter of time now before they fix this and we can get things back to normal.”
McLeod checks out his lunch. Pork rib. With clam chowder as a side. He rips open a packet of barbecue sauce and slathers it onto the ribs.
“You think so?” he says.
“Sure,” the man says.
“So what did you do before?”
“I am a professor at Columbia University.”
“I was going to go to college.”
“You still can, my boy. You got your whole life ahead of you.” He sets the radio down on the parapet and takes out a pipe. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Help yourself, Professor,” McLeod says, his cheek bulging with food.
“You can call me Dr. Potter.”
“Okay, Dr. Potter.”
“I’m joking, young man. You can call me Dave.”
McLeod shrugs. “Okay, Dave.”
They listen to the radio together. A reporter recaps a statement that the Secretary of Health and Human Services made earlier in the day.
Blah, blah, blah, McLeod thinks.
“Do they do any local reporting, Dave?” he asks.
The question appears to startle Potter, who finishes lighting his pipe before answering. The puffs of smoke smell like cherries.
“No,” he says. “They always report from the FEMA bunker at Mount Weather down in Virginia. Which is natural, since that’s where the government is these days. CNN and MSNBC and CBS, they’re all there. They are still operational. That’s a good sign.”
McLeod chews slower, suddenly depressed, until he can barely swallow.
The truth is the networks are not really there anymore. They are just repeating whatever the government tells them. The media, like all the other institutions Americans recognize, are being whittled down to facades. It is so obvious that even a guy like McLeod can figure it out, but so horrible that even a college professor will not acknowledge it.
“I have a feeling,” McLeod says, “I’m never going to get to go to college.”
Which means he is going to have to learn how to be a soldier after all, he realizes. He doubts there will be many other career choices for him in the near future. Soldier may not be the best profession, but it sure as hell beats “scavenger” and “serf.”
He flinches as two fighter planes scream directly overhead, briefly washing the roof in flickering shadows. USAF F16 Flying Falcons. Twenty-seven thousand pounds of thrust pushing up to fifteen hundred miles per hour.
“Look at those suckers go,” McLeod says.
The planes soar through the sky in unison until they disappear over the buildings to the southwest, appearing to slow as they bank over the East River.
“I should have joined the Air Force,” he adds. “Last I heard, Maddy can’t fly.”
Moments later, they begin their return, zooming b
ack towards the northwest. Four black dots emerge from their torsos, drop rapidly away, and fall hurtling through the air towards the earth in a forward trajectory.
“Holy shit,” says McLeod.
Each of those dots is an unguided two-thousand-pound bomb.
“Hum? Is something wrong?” Potter says, toking on his pipe.
The dots drop out of sight. A moment later, a distant flash, followed by grating thunder. A column of black smoke rises over the cityscape of southern Manhattan.
Potter shouts over the echo, “What in God’s name was that?”
“I think the Air Force just blew a big hole in the Williamsburg Bridge, Dave,” McLeod says, shaking his head in wonder as another pair of F16s roars past, heading south. “It looks an awful lot to me like they’re sealing off Manhattan.”
The last man standing
Four days ago, First Battalion numbered more than six hundred fifty combat effectives. It now has a combat-ready strength of less than two hundred. All of the officers are dead or missing except for 2LT Todd Bowman and the other two surviving lieutenants from the four original companies of Charlie Company.
Bowman reports these numbers after Immunity, the call sign for Major General Kirkland’s divisional command, contacts War Dogs Two by radio during a sweep of units still operating in the region.
Holding the SINCGAR handset to his ear, Bowman stands ramrod straight at attention, even though he is alone in the Principal’s personal office except for Jake Sherman, who sits nearby chewing on a thumbnail. Junior officers often do this during those rare occasions when a Major General gives them a call.
Kirkland congratulates Bowman on keeping his command intact, appoints him commander of the Brigade and, in recognition of his accomplishments in the field, promotes him on the spot to the rank of Captain.
The old ways apparently die hard. After everything he has seen, this unusual field promotion surprises Bowman more than anything that has happened yet.
Kirkland says he has a mission for him.
After the call is terminated, Captain Bowman turns to Sherman and says, “The wonders never cease.”
“Congratulations on your promotion, sir,” the RTO says, beaming.
“Thank you, Jake. Even if it is for being the last man standing.”
A simple misunderstanding
Bowman leaves the office and sees the NCOs waiting for his return, nursing their coffee mugs and murmuring among themselves in the open office area.
“All right,” he says, returning to the map. “That was Immunity. I have new orders direct from General Kirkland. We have been given a mission.”
The NCOs settle down, watching him with expressions that are suddenly wary and suspicious. It suddenly strikes him in a flash of insight that Second Battalion was probably offered the mission first. Lieutenant Colonel Rose accepted it. Then his men, seeing such a mission as suicide for themselves, rebelled and shot him.
Ironically, Rose probably would have ordered First Battalion to take on the mission and kept his battalion out of it, since the mission objective is in Manhattan. But before the Colonel could delegate the mission to Bowman’s people, his men killed him.
A simple misunderstanding.
After that, Major General Kirkland turned to one 2LT Bowman and appointed him commander of the Brigade.
There’s a lesson here. He would have to tread carefully.
“Our mission involves a research facility located on the west side.” He stabs the map with his index finger. “Right about here. Can everybody see? We’re going to this facility to secure a group of scientists and help them evacuate the city.”
“Uh, LT, sir?” asks one of the sergeants from Third Platoon. “With all respect, that sounds like suicide, don’t it?”
“We’re going to make it to that facility with no casualties if I can help it,” Bowman says, looking the man in the eye. “We’re going at night, which will help. By the way, it’s Captain, not LT. I was promoted and placed in command of the Battalion.”
Actually, he was placed in command of the Brigade, but the whole thing—a 2LT being promoted to head a brigade—sounds too ridiculous even to him.
“Congratulations on your promotion, sir,” another sergeant from Third Platoon says. “But going out at night is definitely suicide. We saw that the other night. The massacre happened after the blackout.”
“Actually, the blackout probably saved what was left of the companies from being completely wiped out,” Bowman answers. “And the survivors made it all the way here, mostly unharmed, using their NVGs. We’re going to do the same for this mission.”
Some of the NCOs nod at this.
“We can’t silence our weapons, though,” another sergeant says. “You shoot off a few rounds in this town, and every Mad Dog in the place comes swarming at you from everywhere at the gallop.”
“We won’t be firing our weapons,” Bowman says.
“Sir?”
“We’ll be making our way with the bayonet.”
The NCOs guffaw and whistle in respect. The plan has balls. They just might make it.
Bishop raises his hand. “Sir? I have a question. Why are we risking our necks at all? The Army is abandoning us here. Technically, we’re on our own.”
Bowman frowns. “We’re not being abandoned. We’re going to be—”
“All I’m saying is we’re safe here and we should consider whether the risk is worth our lives.”
Bowman shakes his head. He does not want to argue with Bishop in front of the NCOs. But they have a right to know what’s at stake.
“I’ll tell you why this mission is important,” says the Captain. “This team of research scientists has found a cure to the Mad Dog disease. And there’s a helicopter ride out of here for us when the mission is completed. We’re going with the scientists.”
“With all respect, sir, that’s bullshit,” Bishop says. “I’m not buying it.”
The NCOs gasp at the breach of discipline between officers in front of enlisted men, then begin murmuring—some against Bishop, some for him.
“He’s right!” one of the sergeants from Bravo says.
“I’m not going out there again,” a sergeant from Delta mutters.
“Even if we get out of here, they’re just going to use us like cannon fodder in some other city. You know?”
“Embrace the suck, gentlemen.”
“Shut up and listen to the CO!”
“I say call a vote!”
“I’m only asking a fair question, Todd,” Bishop says. “We’ve been lied to too many times already, and it’s gotten too many good men killed.”
Kemper roars, silencing them all, “You will address him as ‘Captain’ or ‘sir,’ Lieutenant! And you will not argue with the Captain or question his orders in front of enlisted personnel. That means shut the hell up right now!”
Bowman glowers at both of them, barely containing his rage. “Both of you get out of here. Get out of my sight. Now. I’ll deal with you later.”
“Yes, sir,” Kemper says. “Sorry for my outburst, sir.”
As he passes Bowman, he winks.
Bowman is almost too stunned to understand, but then he gets it. Kemper knew that Bowman did not need a champion to defend him, that what he needed was for his people to respect his authority and obey his orders. Kemper showed the NCOs that he obeys Bowman, while also silencing Bishop by immediately ending the public debate.
“We are not a boys club,” the Captain tells the sergeants. “We do not vote. You are either in the Army and you follow orders in a chain of command that goes all the way up to the President of the United States, or you are a deserter and scum. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the NCOs answer.
“Now listen up. This is important. If we weren’t going out on this mission, we’d still be going out to retrieve supplies from H&S, or sit here and starve. The NVGs are either going to get us there or we are returning here. After we complete the mission, the Army will lift us somewhe
re else that’s safer than being in the middle of the most densely populated city in the goddamn country. Not to mention a deathtrap, since the Air Force has started blowing the bridges in a crazy attempt to prevent the Mad Dogs here from migrating. Damn, in just a month or two, what you see outside the window today might be considered the good old days of peace and plenty. I think, given the facts on the ground, this mission is our best and only real option for long-term survival. Hooah?”
“Hooah,” the NCOs answer, some louder than others. Some not at all.
“We step off at zero four,” says Bowman. “Be ready, gentlemen. That is all.”
One of you is a traitor
The boys of First Squad, Second Platoon immediately start grumbling as they wake up in the darkness. By the time they get out of their sleeping bags, shivering in the night air that has grown increasingly colder over the past few days—this being the first week of October—they have progressed from bitching to full-fledged whining.
A lot of soldiers are gung ho for the cool stuff that happens here and there in the service, and constantly gripe and moan about everything else that happens in between. But this is real dissent. They were just getting comfortable here and starting to feel like they might be able to wait this thing out and come out the other end alive. They have food, water, electricity, heat, security in this place. A few of the platoon’s Casanovas even found the time, amidst the endless hard work, to strike up relationships with women in the building.
Mooney was the only one not surprised when Sergeant McGraw told them last night that they were bugging out. He had already sensed the change in the air. He saw the signs and portents and understood that nobody was going to make it out of this thing without intense suffering. The TV stations going off the air one by one. Paper money only having value as kindling. The complete breakdown of distribution systems for food, medicine and clothing. The rumors of Army units simply taking their guns and walking off the job.
It all happened so fast.
Soon, he believes, people will be burning library books to keep warm in between hunting each other for food and using the Hudson as a toilet and washing machine.
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