A state of disobedience

* * *

'Faster, dammit,' Williams demanded of the men slithering under the mass of corridor blocking wire suspended above. 'We've got one chance to kick their asses out of the building or it's room to room and we'll all be dead before nightfall.'

Where the hell is Pendergast? he wondered.

* * *

'Firs— . . . I mean . . . Sergeant Major,' Fontaine fought to make himself heard over the din of continuous machine-gun fire reverberating inside the rotunda.

'What the fuck is it, Fontaine?'

Huffing and puffing with the effort made to bring word to Pendergast, Fontaine briefly stopped trying to speak, drew a breath, then shouted, 'Major Williams sent me to tell you . . . Wall Four is under attack and he's going to try to hold it. He said you were supposed to come, too. He ain't got too many men with him, Fir— . . .uh, Sergeant Major. Maybe half a dozen.'

Pendergast rubbed the fingers of both hands along the side of his nose as he digested the news. Williams will go right for the likely breach, he thought. That's okay, far as it goes . . . but it won't do more than hold a line inside the building. Soo . . .

'Cease fire, cease fire.'

As he waited for the word to spread and the noise to die down, Pendergast forced his mind to concentrate. We've got a middling clear route, well . . . middling quick anyway, if we go upstairs. Then I can tell from the noise where the bad guys are. And then we come through the ceiling, right in behind them. Seal the breach and chop up any unfriendly intruders. Ought to work, he told himself, skeptically. Best chance, anyway, he thought, hopefully.

'Okay, boys, now here's the plan. . . .'

* * *

'Don't you just love it when, fucking plan comes together?' muttered the fireplug as he pushed himself through the jagged hole made by the ring charge.

The dust had cleared enough for him to see the shot, hacked and blasted bodies of the defenders his men had left behind them as they advanced. The fireplug shook a fireplug-shaped head. I'm sorry, guys. Truth be told, I'd rather be in here fighting with you than inside or outside fighting against you. But I had my orders.

Ahead, firing broke out afresh. With a glance backwards at the two thirds of his command still crawling forward under fire, the commander marched to the sound of the guns.

* * *

'Smitty,' called Williams loudly. At the order Smithfield stuck his M-16 out past the corner behind which he sheltered and fired a half dozen unaimed bursts. At the opposite corner, Corporal Petty armed a fragmentation grenade, released the spoon, and threw the grenade down the corridor between the corners.

Williams' party heard someone cry, 'Grenade!' Williams himself was pretty sure he heard someone else yell, 'Shit!' before human sounds were muffled by the grenade's blast.

'Figueroa,' William called. From beneath Petty another rifle was thrust outward and another series of short bursts flew.

* * *

'Did you hear that?' asked Pendergast.

'Hear what, Top . . . I mean Sergeant Major?'

'That explosion . . . wait . . . there went another one. Grenade, I think.'

'Oh, that,' admitted Fontaine. 'Yeah, Sergeant Major. It did sort of sound like a grenade . . . near as I can remember.'

'Okay . . . Fontaine, you take six men and put them on the firing ports we've got cut in the wall on this floor.'

'Me, Top?' asked a wide eyed, disbelieving Fontaine.

'Yes, you, son. I want you to stop any more men from getting into whatever kind of hole they've knocked in the wall below us. Remember you've also got a couple of places cut you can roll hand grenades out. Use your judgment, son, but stop them from getting through that breach.

'Oh . . . any that are trying to leave? You just go ahead and let them. Got it?'

The young soldier's chest swelled. 'You can count on me, Top . . . I mean Sergeant Major.'

'I always knew that, Fontaine. The rest of you: there's a hatchway leading down four doors thataway. We're going down it and we're gonna hit them in the ass. Now—and quietly—follow me.'

* * *

The fireplug risked a brief glance halfway around a corner. Now isn't that a kick in the ass, he thought as he glimpsed the mass of tangled up, gnarled barbed wire that blocked his men's forward progress. Clever bastards, using that old World War One trench blocking idea here.

The bodies of two of his men, gunned down while trying to move the wire, indicated that any further attempts would be futile . . . futile and bloody.

Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, the fireplug's attention was pulled away by the sound of explosions—more than a dozen, he thought—of automatic rifle fire, and the screams of struggling, dying men.