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 back 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.
