Craig Dilouie - Tooth And Nail

If ten percent, it would be a hundred and sixty thousand.

“Warmonger is reporting a large body of Mad Dogs from the west,” Sherman says.

Even when given clear orders, Bowman believes a field commander must act on his own initiative as facts change on the ground. On the other hand, a commander must recognize that he does not have perfect situational awareness and should never make emotional decisions. The fact is, nobody really knows what is happening. Everybody is guessing. And bucking orders to support Alpha or Delta, the two companies closest to Charlie’s position, would be a major risk to his own boys.

On the other hand, American soldiers are in trouble out there and need help.

The only way to find out would be to literally “do or die.”

As if reading his thoughts, Bishop says, “We’d never get there in time, Todd. There’s nothing we can do.”

“War Pig is calling in a danger-close fire mission,” Sherman says.

“We have arty support?” Knight says, incredulous.

Bowman shakes his head. Quarantine said nothing about artillery support. Artillery is a sledgehammer, too unwieldy for this situation. Even after everything he has seen, it would be almost too fantastic to contemplate—American artillery, planted miles way, firing HE rounds for effect into the middle of New York City.

In any case, the request itself is a bad sign. That’s Captain Reese, a good officer and a cool hand in a firefight, leading Delta. A danger-close fire mission is when an arty strike is called in within six hundred meters of your position. Practically on top of your own head. It’s another sign of desperation. Like Alpha, Delta is in trouble.

“What the hell?” Bishop shouts.

The skyscrapers are suddenly going dark in groups, as if a series of giant light switches controlling the glittering skyline of New York City were being flipped off one by one. The streetlights shut off. All of the lights shut off.

Kemper says simply, “Blackout. . . .”

The world is plunged into darkness.

The gunfire suddenly slackens, becomes haphazard.

The men gasp. The boys out there were caught flatfooted by the dark. Would they have time to put on night vision goggles or produce battlefield illumination? If they could get their NVGs on, they would have the advantage and might even turn the tables.

They see the flashes in the west and south where the companies are making their stand. The gunfire in the west sputters and slows.

Then it stops.

The men gasp again. Either Reese fought his way out, or he and his boys are dead. Surely, he got through and is back on the march. It is hard for these men to conceive of an entire company being destroyed.

In the south, a single flare rockets up into the sky and deploys a small parachute, producing a fiery, eerie glow as it begins its lazy descent to the earth.

Immediately, the gunfire intensifies, but then it too sputters, stops, flares up, dies.

The helicopters buzz in closer, firing missiles, raking the streets with devastating strafing fire. Then one by one they detach from the engagement and fly away.

The city is silent except for the ringing in their ears.

“Is that it?” Lewis asks. Tears of rage are streaming down his face. “The power goes out and Battalion gets overrun? Just because of some bad goddamn luck?”

Nobody answers him. Everybody knows there was a lot more to it than that. They know it was doubtful whether they could have fought their way through anyway. They realize now that they are facing an enemy that is stronger than they are.

And they are alone.

Bowman says quietly, “Jake, I want you to raise War Hammer for me.”

“All companies stopped broadcasting,” says the RTO. “The net is clear.”

“Try, Jake.”

“Yes, sir.”

Above, the sky opens up in a brilliant display of stars not seen in this part of the world since the Blackout of 2003. The tiny blinking light of a satellite lazily crosses the sky.

“No response, sir,” Sherman says in the dark.

The men stand in the dark in a stunned silence.

“Jake,” the LT says carefully, “I want you to raise Warmonger and War Pig and ask for a sitrep.”

Sherman blinks in the gloom. “Sir?”

“Now, Jake.”

“Yes, sir.”

The darkness bears down on them, forcing their thoughts inward. After several moments, the RTO says, “No response, sir.”

Bowman nods, feeling lightheaded.

In one night, the world just got a whole lot smaller. Much smaller, and infinitely more dangerous.

While there is life there is hope

First Squad marches down the hallway, the beams of their flashlights playing on the shiny floor, a display case filled with trophies, dull rows of lockers and acoustical ceiling tiles. Mooney, Carrillo, Rollins and Finnegan carry Private Chen in a black body bag.

After the power went out and the emergency generator restored the lights in the gym, they heard the news via Joe Radio—the rumor mill—that the other companies had been destroyed.

Mooney believed it. His comrades didn’t.

His BDUs are stiff, dirty and stained. His uniform would probably stand up on its own if he took it off. Probably run after a bone if he yelled fetch. He is exhausted from endless work, his left eye won’t stop twitching from stress, and his nerves take a flying leap every time somebody clears his throat. But the news about the slaughter of Warlord while trying to walk several miles across Manhattan has electrified him.

All of his worries have suddenly evaporated. He does not care about Laura or how he wishes he could spend a few hours listening to his favorite records. He does not care about Wyatt constantly bugging him. Deep down, he does not even care if this is the end of the world.

All he cares about, at this very minute, is whether he is going to survive and for how long.

This war, this total war as LT put it, has gotten very personal and Mooney simply can’t really think of its ramifications beyond that. He does not want to die. Nothing else matters.

After the news circulated about Warlord, the NCOs went up to the roof to find LT while the civilians either stood around in stunned silence or started bawling.

It was the perfect time to slip out for the funeral.

They were ordered to burn Chen’s body with the civilian dead, but the boys had another idea. If things were as bad as LT said they were, most of the empty classrooms would be staying empty for a long, long time.

Tonight, PFC Chen would be entombed in his very own mausoleum.

Multiple footsteps approach from behind. Mooney’s heart leaps into his throat, his left eye trembling.

Ratliff wheels, raising his rifle, and challenges: “Mets.”

“Go to hell, Ratliff,” a voice answers from the darkness.

Ghostly forms emerge from the gloom. It’s Third Squad, wearing bright green glow sticks hooked onto the front of their load-bearing vests.

“You’re supposed to say, ‘Yankees,’” Ratliff says, suddenly out of breath.

“Oh, Mad Dogs can talk? Can you get that light out of my face?”

Corporal Eckhardt lowers his rifle and says, “Next time, say ‘Yankees’ and you won’t get shot, Private. What you got there?”

Corporal Hicks says, “We heard what you were doing for Billy Chen.”

“Whatever you heard, you heard wrong,” Eckhardt says defiantly.

“It’s not like that. We’d like to do the same for two of ours.” Hicks gestures behind him. “This is The Newb. The other is Hawkeye. We don’t want them burned up in a pile. We want them to cross over to the other side whole, with honors.”

Eckhardt glances at the other boys of First Squad. Mooney nods. There is plenty of room where Chen is going.

“Where’s the class clown?” he says, obviously referring to McLeod.