Craig Dilouie - Tooth And Nail

He suddenly notices that the singing cut off abruptly several moments ago.

“Private McLeod, shut yer dicktrap!” Sergeant Ruiz roars inches behind his ear, making him jump. “We are in a potential combat situation, and that means no singing and no chatting with the other girls! Williams, your muzzle’s lazy: Don’t point your weapon at Hawkeye’s ass! He’s on our side! Johnston, put that goddamn camera away: Stay alert and watch your sector, you moron! And Hawkeye, what the hell are you looking at up there? You’re supposed to be leading this platoon.”

“Sorry, Sergeant,” Hawkeye responds.

“Right now you are the eyes of this platoon and you are looking at everything except the street. What’s the problem, son?”

“Well, I never been to New York before, Sergeant,” Hawkeye says shyly.

“What’s that, Private?”

“Somebody told me the United Nations was around here somewheres.”

“You were sightseeing,” Ruiz says in disbelief.

“Yes, Sergeant. Like I said before, I am sorry about it.”

“Get a good look before it’s gone, Hawkeye,” says McLeod.

The squad leader shakes his head, darkening with barely controlled rage. “Stay sharp and keep it zipped, ladies!” He turns around and sees Corporal Hicks trailing him, looking pale. “Corporal, I could use your help keeping this freakshow in line.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

Ruiz lowers his voice. “You all right, Ray?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Hicks says. “I just saw. . .she looked like my. . . . Never mind, Sergeant. It doesn’t matter.” He looks dazed.

“Put it out of your mind, whatever it is,” Ruiz growls. “We got a job to do.”

“Roger that, Sarge,” says Hicks.

Hawkeye suddenly turns and extends his flattened palm for all to see.

Immediately, the column stops.

Security halt

The boys get behind the nearest cover and crouch, continuing to scan their sectors and provide three hundred sixty-degree security around the platoon. Within moments, Lewis’ column on their right also scatters behind cover and stops.

Hawkeye makes a throat-cutting gesture, indicating danger ahead, and then taps his chest twice, asking for the squad leader to come forward.

Keeping low to the ground, Sergeant Ruiz scurries to join Hawkeye.

“What you got?”

“Not sure, exactly. But listen, Sergeant.”

Ruiz closes his eyes. He can’t hear anything. He wonders if maybe the platoon should do a listening halt, where they all get comfortable and settle into a complete silence. Finally, he says, “I don’t hear—”

Hawkeye raises his hand, silencing him. Ruiz raises his fist for the platoon to see, telling them to freeze. Don’t move an inch.

The screams become audible, carried on the shifting breeze on an east-west street ahead of them, barely penetrating the background hum of New York City.

“Some kind of trouble up there, seems to me,” says Hawkeye. “Kind of sounds like a girl screaming for help.”

“Like a lot of people screaming,” Ruiz says. “Screaming bloody murder.”

He keys his handset and softly relays what he has learned to the LT.

Bowman, about forty feet behind him, replies on the commo.

Is the sound coming from Thirty-Eighth or Thirty-Ninth Street, over?

“We think it’s Thirty-Ninth Street, over,” says Ruiz, glancing at Hawkeye, who nods.

War Dogs Two actual to all War Dogs Two squads: Fragmentation order follows, break. We will take an alternate route to the objective, break. Turn left here at Thirty-Eighth Street and proceed west, over.

“Turn on Thirty-Eighth. That’s a solid copy, out.”

Hawkeye looks down at his rifle wearing a sour expression. There are American civilians up ahead in trouble and the LT has ordered the platoon to march the other way.

Ruiz nudges him. “We’re not police, Hawkeye,” he says. “There’s danger all around us here. LT’s intent is to get the platoon to the objective on time and in one piece. It makes sense.”

“I guess so, Sergeant,” says Hawkeye. “I mean, it’s not my place to say.”

The Sergeant’s eyebrows lift in surprise. He has never seen his boys so uncertain and sour about a mission. “You heard the LT. Go on, then. Lead us out of here, Private.”

“Roger that, Sergeant.”

Ruiz stands and moves his arm in a wide forward-wave, giving the signal to advance.

Hey, Army! Can you hear me?

The platoon hauls itself back onto its feet, grunting at the weight of rucksacks and armor and weapons and water, and trails after Hawkeye, making the turn onto Thirty-Eighth Street. Soon, they cross Tunnel Approach Street, where they weave their way through a pile-up of cars that crashed into each other during the night and became hopelessly ensnarled in a massive sculpture of chewed-up metal. Nearby, an ambulance is parked, its doors open and its lights still eerily flashing, a dead man lying on a gurney outside atop a glittering carpet of broken glass. His throat has been torn out.

They are moving into a residential neighborhood. As they approach the middle of the block, they hear the screams.

The cries appear to come from all around them, as if a crowd of howling ghosts were passing through them, making them shiver.

Then a man shouts down at them from an open fourth floor window, “Hey, Army!”

The soldiers of Third Squad look up at him.

The man is young, with swarthy skin, long black hair and heavily muscled arms.

“There are these two guys banging on my door trying to get in and I have to go out and pick up my insulin,” he says. “Can you help me out here?”

Negative , Ruiz hears over his handset.

“Keep it moving,” he tells his squad.

“The screaming is coming from these buildings,” Williams says. “Hardcore, dawg.”

“Hey, Army! Can you hear me down there?”

Williams glances up and sees people leaning out of other windows.

“Are you going to do something about these homicidal maniacs?” an old woman shouts down at them, immediately joined by a chorus of others.

“Isn’t there anything we can do for these people, Sarge?” says Williams.

“Keep moving,” Ruiz says.

The falling girl strikes the blue Toyota Camry on McLeod’s right with a heart-stopping crash, her face plunging through the windshield in a spray of blood and hair. The car sags for a moment at the impact, setting off its grating car alarm.

“Christ!” McLeod shrieks, almost dropping his SAW.

Three of Lewis’ boys open up on the fourth floor window, making the swarthy man flinch and duck back inside.

“Cease fire, cease fire!” Lewis is shouting. “What are you shooting at, dumbass?”

Kemper’s voice grates over the radio: War Dogs Two-Five to all War Dogs Two squads, cease fire, over.

“Hold your fire,” Ruiz tells his squad. “Keep your cool.”

The squad is gathering around the corpse.

Keep it moving, out.

“Her freaking leg’s twitching,” McLeod says. “Oh, God.”

“LT says, keep moving,” Ruiz tells them, raising his voice to be heard over the car alarm. “There’s nothing we can do here.”

“LT’s got no heart,” Williams says, shaking his head. “That shit is ice cold.”

“She’s dead, Private,” the Sergeant says. “And we’re not. Let’s go. Now.”

Williams is starting to get a bad feeling about this mission, and his hunches are usually correct. He can feel the boys around him tense up, mad and powerless and itching to fire their weapons at something. He has a feeling that once they start shooting, they will all cross a threshold, and they may not like what they find on the other side.

“War Dogs Two-Three to War Dogs Two-Six. Coming up on Second Avenue now, over.”