“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 somewhere 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.
“You didn’t really think the Army was going to leave us alone, did you?” says Carrillo. “We’re one of the only units in the area that’s still obeying orders.”
“We’re one of the only units still alive,” Ratliff says.
“They at least had to try to get us killed,” Rollins says, but nobody laughs.
“Quit your bitching and gear up, boys,” McGraw says, stomping into the room. His sleeves are uncharacteristically rolled up, revealing his hairy Popeye forearms with a skull tattooed on one and crossed rifles on the other. “I want you out in the hallway, against the far wall in single file, ready to move, in fifteen. Drop your fartsack, Ratliff. Your poncho, too. We’re going light. Bring lots of ammo and otherwise only what you need. We’re leaving everything else for the Hajjis.”
The boys burst into laughter. They’ve taken to calling the Mad Dogs “Maddy” and the civilians “Hajjis” over the past few days, and hearing one of the NCOs do the same—especially their own blunt, burly Sergeant McGraw— is hilarious to them.
Many of these boys will leave their warm sleeping bags and risk their necks tonight purely out of devotion to their NCOs. They respect the non-coms. Wherever they go, the boys will follow.
“Anybody got any more glow sticks?” Rollins says. “I can’t hardly see shit in here.”
“Use your NVGs,” Mooney says. “It’ll be good practice.”
McGraw turns at the sound of Mooney’s voice, points at him, and says, “You.” He points at Wyatt. “And you.”
“I didn’t do it,” Wyatt says.
“Get your shit on, meatballs,” McGraw tells them. “You’re coming with me.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Mooney says darkly. The other boys are already tearing into MREs for breakfast. His stomach growls.
They are on the move after a few minutes. The boys of the other squads are already spilling out of the other classrooms in the wing and filling up the hallway. Most squat against the student lockers in grim silence, their carbines between their knees. Some race out of line to use the john before the company steps off. Somebody from First Platoon cranks up “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns ’N Roses on a CD player to get their juices flowing and wake up the Hajjis.
At the end of the hallway, McGraw tells them to wait, his eyes on the Platoon Sergeant, who is arguing with several civilians.
Somebody calls out for fresh batteries for his NVGs. The boys here are finishing up their last smokes, dropping the butts and grinding them out with their boots. Then two soldiers from First Platoon’s Weapons Squad show up carrying a crate of ammo between them, and start passing it out.
Top up, they say. Put a mag in every spare pocket. Bring as much as you can carry.
Mooney steps closer to the Platoon Sergeant and listens in on his argument.
“You will be okay here if you keep your heads down and don’t attract attention,” Kemper is saying. “There’s plenty of food. We had crews filling up every bottle and bucket in the place with tap water. You’ve got extra gas we siphoned from the refrigerated trucks, so you’ve got a good supply of fuel for the generator.”
“Your duty is to help these people, Sergeant,” one of the civilians says.
“My duty is to follow my orders.”
“You work for us, goddamnit.”
“I work for the U.S. Army, Ma’am.”
