Craig Dilouie - Tooth And Nail

The thing is, if they will die, at least they won’t die alone. In the end, after all, that is all a soldier truly owns in combat—the possible comfort of dying among friends. That is why soldiers consider other soldiers their family. They look the tiger in the eye together, at the edge of oblivion.

It is sad to think, though, that for those who do die today, war will be the only thing they have every truly experienced.

“So this Hajji’s up on the roof firing an RPG—remember that guy?” Carrillo says, almost shouting as he reminisces. “Every time Second Squad shot at him, he ducked down, then popped up to fire again, only he wasn’t even firing at us.”

“Oh right, he kept shooting at that yellow station wagon parked near that factory,” Finnegan chimes in. “And we were like, ‘What’s he shooting at? Does he need glasses or is he just an idiot?’”

“They had Second Squad boxed up nice and neat in a kill zone and that dude could have done some serious damage to those guys, but he kept firing at the vehicle,” Ratliff says, laughing.

“That’s right, it was a VCIED!” Carrillo says, his eyes gleaming and slightly vacant, reliving the moment. “That car was wired up like a big brick of C4 but didn’t go off. So he tried to make it blow by hitting it with a grenade.”

“Only he couldn’t shoot for shit,” Wyatt points out.

“Some of them could,” Mooney says, instantly regretting it. The laughter dies down into a smattering of chuckles. Now they are starting to think about the rest of that horrible day fighting in the alleys, streets, courtyards, houses. By the end of that day, they were exchanging point blank fire with insurgents in the middle of people’s living rooms. They cannot remember whether the insurgents were Sunni or Shi’a, jihadist or nationalist. But they do remember how Torres died in the house to house fighting, how Simmons lost both his legs.

“Yeah,” Carrillo says softly, trying to hold onto the moment.

“Hey, what about that night, when the Tank Team showed up, and that crazy Hajji took on an M1 Abrams with an AK?” Finnegan says.

The boys howl with laughter, rekindling their mirth with fresh memories. Mooney grins. The AK47 rounds bounced harmlessly off the tank’s composite armor, already scorched and scratched by numerous RPG hits and heavy machine gun fire. At first, the tankers could not believe what they were seeing, then decided if it’s a duel the insurgent wanted, they would oblige. The tank ground to a halt in a cloud of dust, its turret swiveling, and lowered its rifled tank gun. Moments later, it fired a round that lit up the street like daytime for a moment, vaporizing the Iraqi instantly.

“Like a fly swatter squashing a gnat,” Finnegan adds.

“Brave or stupid, take your pick,” Corporal Eckhardt chimes in.

Again, the levity does not last. This time, the image of the lone Iraqi pointlessly shooting at a sixty-ton armored monster bearing down on him—its steel-clad treads squealing and its big gun lining up to belch instant death in the form of a 105-mm HE round—does not strike them as quite so darkly comical today.

The prospect of going up against Maddy again this morning, in fact, is suddenly making them identify with that plucky but seemingly suicidal insurgent.

Brave or stupid, take your pick.

And yet they too would try.

Not quite saving the world, but I’ll take it

Kemper knocks on the door with the nameplate that says joseph hardy, research director , and enters to find the CO sitting on the edge of the desk, studying his wrinkled map of Manhattan that he has thumbtacked to the wall.

Kemper places his hand over his heart and says, “Salaam ’Alaykum, sir.”

Bowman usually answers, “Hooah” to this greeting when it’s given by a fellow veteran of Operation Iraqi Freedom—specifically, Operation Together Forward III, in which all soldiers learned Iraqi customs as a strategy to win hears and minds—but today he says earnestly, “Wa ’Alaykum As-Salaam, Mike.”

And unto you be peace.

Kemper’s eyes flicker to the map.

“The plan is solid, sir,” he says. “The men know what to do.”

“I have endless faith in the men,” Bowman answers. “But almost none in plans.”

Kemper laughs, lighting one of his foul-smelling cigars.

Bowman continues: “A million things could go wrong and get us all killed. It’s going to be a hard day, Mike. The ultimate test.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This will be the last military operation before America gives up on New York. Once we’re gone, the city will be ceded to the virus.”

“If Maddy lets us leave, sir.”

“And if Immunity sends us those birds.” Bowman checks his watch. “It’s already too late. We’re going to be making part of this march in broad daylight.”

“I don’t suppose you can get the General to postpone the extraction for a day.”

“I’m afraid that’s a big November Golf, Mike.”

“You don’t want to go now, while it’s dark, and wait for the birds at the Park?”

“What if they don’t show? We’d be stuck out in the open. This is a good position we’ve got here. We’ve got electricity. We may end up having to stick around.”

“Speaking of which, there is another alternative, sir, that I didn’t want to bring up in front of the other men for obvious reasons.”

“Stay here?”

“Do what everybody else is doing. Take care of number one.”

Kemper realizes that only in a crisis as bad as this are they able to even talk this openly about desertion.

“And then what?”

Kemper shrugs. “Maybe try to get back to the high school and sit this thing out until Maddy finally drops dead. Try to get the people here fed and organized somehow after it’s over. They’re going to need a government. Perhaps this is where our duty lies?”

“Yeah. You’ve seen how good we are at nation building.”

Kemper exhales a cloud of smoke and laughs again.

Bowman shakes his head.

“Seriously, Mike. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to stay in this war as long as I can. We raised our right hand to uphold the Constitution against all enemies, and if ever America needed us to fight an enemy, it’s now. In any case, we’ve got to get the scientist out. Who knows, maybe she really can cure this thing. The world can’t have a vaccine right now, but it might need one later. It’s not quite saving the world, but I’ll take it.”

The Platoon Sergeant nods. “I figured on you feeling that way, Captain.”

“That’s the mission.”

“It’s a bag of dicks, that’s for certain.”

“Hooah, Mike.”

“Anyhow, you asked to see me. What do you need?”

“Right. It’s like this, Mike: I need an officer to command Second Platoon.”

“What about Lieutenant Knight?”

“I’ve made him my XO.”

“Ah. Smart.”

“Mike, I’m offering you a promotion to the rank of first lieutenant.”

“Right. Ah, sorry, sir, but I’m going to have to say thanks but no thanks to that promotion. If you’re really feeling magnanimous, sir, you can promote me to Sergeant Major. But even First Sergeant would be a nice step up in pay grade.”

The CO grins. “Afraid all your friends would ditch you, Mike?”

“If I became an officer, sir, whose incompetence would I bitch about all day?”

Bowman laughs out loud and says, “So be it. The battalion will be reconstituting as an overstrength company, and it’s going to need a First Sergeant, so you’re it.”

He extends his hand to Kemper, who shakes it warmly.

“Congratulations,” he adds. “It’s a well deserved promotion. Although I don’t know about that rise in pay. Money’s becoming worthless. For all I know, they’re going to start paying us in MREs.”