shares his passion for hard drinking and motorcycles, among other things. He wears a medal engraved with an image of St. Michael, patron saint of soldiers and cops, on a chain around his neck, next to his dog tags and a 7.62 -mm bullet. The bullet, the type of round used in AK47 assault weapons, is the bullet that was going to kill him back in Iraq, and as long as he wore it, it couldn’t fulfill its purpose.
From here on out, he is going to need all the luck he can get, seeing how the world is ending.
He falls in with the other NCOs cramming into the school principal’s offices, an open workspace and lobby with several adjoining private offices that Bowman established as his headquarters. The men nod to each other as they enter, smelling like sweat, gun oil and stale cigarette smoke. A sergeant that McGraw knows from First Platoon catches his eye and gives him a courteous nod, and McGraw wonders at how quickly things change. Just two days ago, the other NCOs were looking at him and his squad like they had blood on their hands and swastikas tattooed on their foreheads. Now they regard his boys with something like respect. His boys popped their cherry in this war early. But if he is getting respect, the NCOs from the other companies who survived the massacres are looked upon with something like awe. They went to hell and back and survived.
The non-coms gather around 2LT Bowman, who stands with his hands on his hips next to a large tourist map of Manhattan, complete with callouts of businesses such as Barnes & Noble and Burger King, thumbtacked to the wall. The RTO pushes his way through the bodies, races into one of the private offices, and slams the door. Knight and Bishop come out of one of the other offices and hustle to Bowman’s side. Kemper is shading Staten Island and Battery Park red with a Magic Marker. Bowman is already greeting them in a quiet voice, and McGraw can’t hear him.
The sergeants blink in the fluorescent light and sip their lukewarm coffee, bags under their eyes and carbines slung over their shoulders, murmuring to each other. Sergeant Lewis is sharing some of his chaw. As Bowman finishes his welcome, they settle down to listen. McGraw does a rough headcount; there are so many NCOs in their unit now that the crowd spills out into the hall. Some he recognizes from the other platoons of Charlie Company, others are survivors from the massacre of Alpha, Bravo and Delta. These are the best men the Army has, McGraw thinks. The lifers. They are the bedrock of the Army, these modern-day Centurions. It takes years to make one of these men, and once they are gone, they cannot be replaced.
All of them now report to a young second lieutenant who happens to be the most senior officer alive in the entire battalion. McGraw watches him and thinks: We’re lucky the man’s competent. It could be much worse. They could have Knight, who is only nominally still in command of Third Platoon, or Bishop, the type of officer who risks lives to advance his career. McGraw has been hearing rumors that Bishop has been telling some of the NCOs that he wanted to lead a party out to try to help the other companies during the massacre. The sooner LT gets him squared away, the better.
“Jake has been combing the nets to come up with a list of assets and threats,” Bowman says. “Mike has been marking them on this map. If we’re going to survive, gentlemen, we need information.”
The NCOs periodically stand on tip toe to improve their view, squinting at the map. McGraw sees a series of colored circles, squares, long smears and triangles littering the length of Manhattan and the river coasts of the boroughs and neighboring states. It is pathetic. In just a few days, the Army has lost control of most of New York City and its population of more than eight million. The color-coded geometric shapes float on the map like islands in an ocean.
We really do have our backs up against the wall, he realizes.
Bowman traces his finger across the map and stabs a red square at Battery Park.
“This here is actually what’s left of a mechanized infantry brigade of marines sent to reinforce Warlord before Command decided against it,” he says. “They’ve got two platoons at Fort Clinton and the rest are stationed in Staten Island, which used to be Twenty-Seventh Brigade’s responsibility. After the government here collapsed, Colonel Dixon declared martial law and cleared Staten Island of Mad Dogs.”
Some of the sergeants grin and nudge each other.
“They, uh, do like to take the initiative, so I hear, sir,” Kemper says, making the men laugh.
“Yeah, well, Manhattan’s got a hell of a lot more people than Staten Island,” Hooper says, reminding them that they work for a rival branch of the military and not to give the jarheads too much credit for anything.
“I could get some work done around here if I had some LAVs, too,” another sergeant says.
“Hooah,” somebody mutters.
“Give me some Bradleys and about thirty bulldozers, and I’ll unfuck this island double quick,” somebody shouts from the back, and the NCOs cheer.
“The Marines have got their own problems,” Bowman says loudly, regaining control. “The only reason the Marines are on Staten Island to begin with is it was being used as a staging point to reinforce us here in Manhattan. The boats dropped off two platoons in Battery Park, then the Brass called off the game and the units ended up stranded. Now they’re effectively cut off from their main force and they are not being resupplied.”
The NCOs stop smiling. If military units in the area stop being supplied, then eventually they will start looting to survive, and once an army crosses that line, they cease being an army and become a rabble—part of the problem, not the solution.
Bowman adds, “Meanwhile, Dixon’s low on food, ammo and fuel, he has a man down out of every four, and he’s now governor and de facto chief of police of an island with nearly five hundred thousand people on it. That’s a half a million people getting hungrier, sicker and more pissed off by the minute.”
The sergeants bury their faces in their coffee mugs, chastened. Bowman returns to the map, pointing at police stations where at least a few cops are trying to hold it together, Financial District and municipal buildings occupied by ragtag National Guard units and the Brigade’s civilian affairs unit, a bridge still held by military police and engineers, and Twenty-Six Federal Plaza, where a handful of FBI agents, immigration officials, Federal judges and their families are apparently holed up. Manhattan is riddled with islands and pockets of friendly units, but nobody is strong enough to link up with anybody else or project their power. The marines at Battery Park might as well be on the Moon. The only real estate any of these units truly controls is right under their feet.
McGraw believes there could be up to fifty, even a hundred thousand Mad Dogs in Manhattan alone. The population grew fast because the problem started mostly in the hospitals and there were thousands upon thousands of people there, lying helpless and easily infected, like tightly packed kindling awaiting a spark. The good news is the Mad Dog population does not appear to be growing as fast as it was. The hospitals have been emptied and most people are staying home, denying the virus a plentiful source of new bodies. In any case, the Mad Dogs now appear to be concentrated into sizable mobs that often end up killing anybody they come into contact with instead of infecting them. Soon, the number of Mad Dogs on the streets is going to start declining as they suffer a massive die-off. The war might end soon if everybody just stays hidden and waits.
Somebody asks about the three yellow boxes in Brooklyn and Queens.
“I was getting to them,” Bowman answers. “As far as I can tell, they’re deserters. Nothing bigger than a platoon at this point, but it’s another thing that Twenty-Fifth Brigade has to worry about that’s out there.”
The sergeants glance at each other. The country must really be on the brink of collapse if the Army is starting to fall apart.
But the real problem isn’t people leaving the Army, the LT tells them.
He adds quickly: “The real problem, it seems, is the Army leaving us.”
His finger traces along Brooklyn’s western coast, a long green smear.
“This is Second Battalion, Twenty-Fifth Brigade, commanded by Colonel Guzman. He’s in a good position.”
Another green smear along the north coast of Queens.
“This is two companies of First Battalion, Twenty-Fifth Brigade, commanded by Colonel Powers. He took a real beating last night and is barely holding it together.”
He points at a red X in the South Bronx.
“This is the last known position of the other two companies of First Battalion, Twenty-Fifth Brigade, commanded by Captain Marsh. We have lost all contact with his command. It is believed to have been destroyed.”
The NCOs murmur and step from foot to foot, suddenly restless and angry.
Bowman taps his finger on a blue square in midtown.
“This is us here. First Battalion, Eighth Brigade.”
He points to a blue rectangle in Jersey City, to the west.
