Stephen Knight - Slaughterhouse

Murphy leaned forward, looking at the swinging corpses. “Just hangin’ around, waiting for something to happen.” If the scene affected him at all, his voice didn’t reveal it.

Lee had no comment and merely returned to his maps and GPS display.

“Pull out of formation on the other side of the bridge.”

“Sir?”

“I want to have a quick huddle with Bravo’s commanding officer,” Lee explained.

“Uh, sure thing,” Murphy said, though he didn’t seem to like the idea much. Lee didn’t care. He reached for the radio handset.

“Wizard Five, this is Six. Over.”

“Six, this is Five. Go ahead. Over,” Major Walker responded. He was several vehicles behind Lee, ensconced in another uparmored Humvee.

Lee informed him that he would be falling out of the formation for a few minutes.

“Uh… Six, why’s that? Over.”

“Just having a quick heart-to-heart with Bravo Company. Over,” Lee said as Murphy pulled the Humvee out of the column.

They rolled to a halt behind the M925A1 truck. The soldiers manned up in MOPP gear looked at the new arrival from behind the lenses of their masks.

“Six, are we halting the column? Over.”

“Negative, Five. Keep moving. We’ll get back in the slot. Over.”

“Roger, Six,” Walker said, but he didn’t sound very happy about it.

Lee didn’t blame him. He wanted to get the hell out of there too, but first things first.

“Hey, what’s up?” Foster asked from the cupola.

“Never mind. Just stay sharp up there.” Lee turned to Murphy. “I’ll be right back.”

“Sienkiewicz, go with him,” Murphy said. Lee was impressed. Most of the troops couldn’t pronounce Sienkiewicz’s name—“Sen-kev-itch,” the tall, skinny corporal had constantly corrected—so they just called him “Witch.”

“Not necessary,” Lee said. He yanked on the Humvee’s door release.

“Absolutely necessary, sir,” Murphy said. “Sienkiewicz, get on it.”

“Hooah,” Sienkiewicz said. He pulled on his MOPP top garment, slipped on his mask, and grabbed his rifle.

Lee didn’t bother with the MOPP gear. He just stepped out and slammed the uparmored door shut behind him. The troops manning the security position stood straighter when they realized the Old Man—who wasn’t so old—was paying them a visit.

“Sir, hold up!” Sienkiewicz yelled.

Lee waved at him over his shoulder and continued walking, his M4 slung across his chest and his right hand on its pistol grip. He looked around, mindful of the civilian traffic in the far lanes and the Army convoy in the closest one. The column zipped by at an even fifty miles per hour. Overhead, Apaches orbited in the sky, never staying in one place, always moving in a pattern that kept them from becoming easy targets while allowing their weapons systems as much coverage as possible. On the horizon, smoke rose into the air as downtown Boston continued to burn.

“Where’s your commanding officer?” Lee shouted at the soldiers surrounding the Big Foot truck.

One of them pointed downrange, and Lee took off at a brisk walk, trying not to look too put out at being exposed, though it made his bowels feel as if they might turn into water any second. He puckered up. Now was not the time to explode into Hershey squirts, especially in front of the men.

“Sir, you have to wait for me,” Sienkiewicz said, pulling abreast of Lee. He carried his assault rifle in both hands, the butt of its stock pressed into his right armpit.

“Move faster next time,” Lee said.

“I will, but you should go MOPP too, sir,” Sienkiewicz said. “I mean, you’re the one who ordered all exposed troops to suit up, right?”

“Command prerogative,” Lee said. “Watch the traffic, Corporal.”

“On it, sir.”

They found Bravo Company’s new commanding officer standing next to his Humvee with what Lee presumed to be the company first sergeant. First Lieutenant (Promotable) Cassidy had his back to Lee and didn’t notice his approach. The NCO beside him looked up, and Lee could have sworn he saw the man grimace behind his facemask. Cassidy saw the look, then turned. When he saw Lee, he straightened and saluted. Lee groaned inwardly. Cassidy had just made him a target.

“Sorry to break it to you, Lieutenant Cassidy, but you’re the new commanding officer of what’s left of Bravo Company. I know you’re in the zone for promotion, so you should be ready for it. Understood?”

“Understood, sir. How many are left?”

“Unknown at the moment, but I heard Marsh’s element took ninety percent casualties. As to how many were KIA, I don’t know, yet. Listen, I’m sorry about this. I know you probably had a lot of friends back there, and I need you to come to grips with the fact that you won’t be seeing some of them again.” As he spoke, Lee noticed the company first shirt glaring at him from behind his mask. Lee locked eyes with him.

“Problem, First Sergeant?”

“Well, no, Colonel , I just noticed that you weren’t wearing your MOPP gear. Would be a shame if you became a Klown, sir.” The way the man over-enunciated the rank made Lee think it had been an intentional verbal pinprick, something to get a rise out of him. All things considered, it was probably a pretty gentle slap, but it was still needless confrontation.

“First Sergeant, what’s your mission here?” Lee asked.

“I see to the men of Bravo Company, sir.” The older soldier kept his eyes locked with Lee’s. “I remember what my pay grade is, and I remember what the billet responsibilities are. No delusion of grandeur here, Colonel .”

“Whoa, hey, First Sergeant Urena. Let’s dial that back a bit,” Sienkiewicz said, which Lee thought was unusually ballsy, given that a corporal was to a first sergeant what a ditch digger was to a billionaire.

Urena flicked his gaze over to Sienkiewicz. “Corporal, I know you ain’t talking to me.” The facemask did nothing to diminish the growl in his voice.

“Urena, square your shit away,” Lee said forcefully. “You don’t like it, turn in your weapons and file your papers. I’ll make sure someone at DA signs whatever forms they need to sign, and your merry ass is out of the Army. Those are your choices. Questions?”

Urena glared at Lee, then snorted. “You think you have time to do all that paperwork, Colonel ? I mean, you’re the guy who’s going up on charges. Uniform Code of Military Justice mean anything to you? Maybe a little dose of Article One Thirty-Four would do the Colonel good—”

“Are you out of your fucking mind, Urena?” Cassidy spun toward the shorter, older man like a mongoose whirling on a cobra. “All the shit that’s going down, this is what you’re going to play with? Pull your head out of your ass, First Sergeant. Most of our company has just been taken down! Let’s concentrate on our mission, and forget all this other shit. All right?”

Urena seemed about ready to take another swing at the topic, but he just nodded after a moment and went back to studying the map spread across the Humvee’s hood. The soldier manning the .50 cal in the cupola looked down on them, his face unreadable behind his facemask.

“Roger that, sir,” Urena said finally.

Cassidy turned back to Lee. “Sorry about that, sir.”

“It doesn’t matter, Lieutenant. Listen, it’s a shit sandwich, and we’ve all got to take a bite. Urena’s right. This is a cluster, but we’ve got to make the best out of it. Now, you have a severely understrength company to take care of. I just wanted to make sure you knew it was coming, so you can get ready for the transition. You have some qualified people to back you up? First Sergeant, you listening to this?”