Mooney notices that the Special Forces guys are staring intently out the windows of one side of the helicopter, swearing. Turning in his seat, he sees the Chinook that was infested with Maddies flying erratically in the sky, its tail swinging back and forth, the loading ramp still open and spilling bodies that fall hundreds of feet to the ground below.
“Come on, come on,” one of the soldiers says. “Keep control.”
Mooney knows how they feel. Their friends are dying in the other helicopter, and there is nothing they can do about it.
The distressed helicopter roars west, veering towards the majestic, castlelike towers of the San Remo Towers building with the others pursuing at a safe distance. The men suck in their breath, expecting to see it crash and dissolve in a fireball inside one of the towers, but it pulls back, lurching and trying to stabilize. It is still too close, however: The props suddenly break against the side of the building and the violent stresses rip the Chinook in half with a burst of fire and smoke. The two pieces flop over and fall like stones to the earth, where they crash into pieces.
But while Mooney cannot tear his eyes away, he is only partly continuing to pay attention to this drama.
On the radio, the voices are screaming.
A fool’s errand
Second Platoon pauses to fire a ragged volley against the pursuing Mad Dogs, then starts running again, leaving a trail of brass and links and Maddy corpses.
Bowman lingers for a few moments, providing cover fire. He knows he is going to have to give his exhausted boys a rest soon. The platoon is starting to shed stragglers and everybody’s aim is getting wild. Maddy, meanwhile, does not seem to get tired. Plenty of the infected suddenly stop and keel over, their hearts bursting in their chests from the severe exertion, but the rest keep coming. They are the strongest and the fittest and there are always more to replace the fallen, it seems.
The same could be said of us, he tells himself, only when one of us falls, there are no replacements. There is nobody else. These men are the best but they are also the last.
He lobs a grenade into the endless horde and starts running again, flinching at the explosion that he hopes will buy them seconds.
The objective was to reach the rendezvous location at Sheep Meadow, but then Private Mooney radioed to tell him that the birds were back in the air with Dr. Valeriya Petrova safely aboard.
Their mission is now over. It was complex, extremely dangerous and partially successful. Now they have a new mission, simple but even more challenging: Stay alive.
Six blocks ahead, Vaughan’s force was stopped cold at Columbus Circle, a wide traffic area at the southwest edge of Central Park, and set up a defensive position at its center, around the statue of Christopher Columbus. He is barely holding and is screaming for reinforcements. Bowman is taking Second Platoon there. Everybody else is dead. There is nobody else. Between him and Vaughan, the unit has maybe seventy shooters left.
Vaughan picked the spot for his stand well. As a junction for Broadway Central Park West, Fifty-Ninth Street and Eighth Avenue, Columbus Circle was kept clear of civilian traffic and there are no vehicles around, offering beautiful open firing lanes with good kill zones. They have too few guns and are virtually surrounded; both units now need to rejoin to concentrate their firepower.
After that, it is either them or Maddy in a classic showdown.
The only other option is to disperse his command: Everybody break into the nearest building, find a safe place to hide, and pray Maddy does not come in looking for you. But then what? Only the NCOs have communications. Everybody would be spread out and stranded in different buildings, possibly already filled with Maddies, with little food and water. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as they say. Their only ultimate hope for surviving is to somehow get everybody into a safe place or defeat Maddy here. Now.
Ahead, the boys are slowing their pace.
Bowman doubles his effort, sprinting to the head of the column, where Lewis and Kemper are observing another large body of Maddies blocking the road ahead.
A grisly parade of Mad Dogs, loping along in a ragged column, tall and short, skinny and fat, naked and clothed, bald and hairy, black and white and yellow, are pouring out of a street ahead and turning to move north along Eighth Avenue towards the sounds of Vaughan’s guns. It’s strange, but they look almost cheerful.
Second Platoon’s situation, meanwhile, is dire. There is a huge enemy force directly in their path and another right behind them, and Bowman has seconds to make a decision.
One final rule of command: A good leader must do whatever it takes.
“Who’s holding M203s?”
The boys come forward while Martin and Boomer deploy the M240 machine gun against their pursuers to buy some time. The air fills with the thirty-cal’s staccato bark.
He tells them: “Load up with Willy Pete.”
The boys do what they’re told, loading their grenade launchers with WP grenades. White phosphorous burns fast and produces an instant cloud of smoke, making good smoke grenades. But it also ferociously consumes anything combustible and the only way to stop it burning is to smother it.
As a result, it is one of the most controversial potential anti-personnel weapons available, but ideal for the Captain’s purpose. The grenades will kill and maim many of the Mad Dogs directly and produce so much smoke that the platoon will have a chance of blasting its way through while the enemy is confused and partially blinded.
“Satisfactory, sir,” Kemper says, nodding, then issues his own orders.
The boys break apart, some going forward and some back to the rear.
They shoot.
The grenades arc high into the air and land in the midst of the Maddy column moving into its right turn onto Eighth Avenue. The WP rounds burst, burning fiercely amid the tightly packed Mad Dogs, setting many of them on fire and turning them into screeching human torches while blinding others with instant banks of smoke.
“Go, go, go!” Kemper roars.
“We get through these Maddies, and we’ve reached the Circle!” Bowman promises.
“Hooah!” the boys shout, rushing forward in a line bristling with bayonets, firing as they move, dropping Mad Dogs by the dozen.
“We’re coming in, Vaughan!” Bowman shouts into his mike.
Blasting their way past the intersection, they sprint the last block, gasping for air, finally catching sight of Vaughan’s boys formed up in a square formation ahead.
“HOOAH!” Vaughan’s boys cheer, some of them breaking off firing to stand and make a hole, raising their caps and weapons as Second Platoon joins forces with them.
“Boy, are we glad to see you guys,” Bailey yells, coming to a stop and coughing a massive wad of phlegm onto the ground. “Now where do you need my SAW?”
Bowman approaches Lieutenant Vaughan, who stands scowling at the battle with his cheek bulging with Copenhagen dip. The men salute, then shake hands warmly.
“Vaughan, this is your show. Where do you want us?”
The LT shrugs. “We’re pretty much surrounded, so pick your own ground, sir.”
Bowman nods and raises an eyebrow. “Mike?”
“We’ll take the east and get in this game if you can hold the other sides,” Kemper says. “The men are tired of running and they’re itching to kick Maddy’s ass.”
“Roger that, First Sergeant,” Vaughan says, and then they part ways to give their orders and place their squads.
Bowman deeply admires the LT. Getting his unit out of the grave Knight dug for them was nothing short of
