James Tarr

DOGSOLDIERS

PART I

RATS

A friend of mine who is a political activist said something interesting the other day, and that was for most people on the left political violence is a knob, and they can turn the heat up and down, with things like protests, and riots, all the way up to destruction of property, and sometimes murder… But for the vast majority of folks on the right, it’s an off and on switch. And the settings are Vote or Shoot Fucking Everybody. And believe me, you really don’t want that switch to get flipped, because Civil War 2.0 would make Bosnia look like a trip to Disneyworld.

…God willing, America never gets to that point, because if we ever go to war with ourselves again, then it will be a blood bath the like of which the world has never seen. We have foolishly created a central government so incomprehensibly powerful, that to stop it from committing genocide would require millions of capable citizens to rise up and fight.

—Larry Correia

The guys who won World War II weren’t soldiers either, until they were.

—Kurt Schlichter

CHAPTER ONE

He sank into the chair with a sigh, closed his eyes for a few seconds. Even with the window the room was dim, almost cave-like, and pleasantly cool. It wouldn’t take much at all for him to drop off to sleep right there in the chair.

With a little shake of his head he roused himself and bent down to massage his aching calves which were already tightening up. Like he needed another reminder he wasn’t eighteen anymore. Or even twenty-eight. Youth is wasted on the young.

Through the window all he could see was an expanse of the neighboring roof, almost close enough to touch. Angling up to the left, covered in curling brown shingles long overdue to be replaced. The roof lit up suddenly as the setting sun ducked underneath one of the few clouds in the sky. The long shadow of something, perhaps an old TV antenna, ran across the slope out of sight.

A brilliant red flash made him jerk. The cardinal perched on the edge of the roof, atop an especially bad shingle curled up in fine imitation of a potato chip. The small bird was so radiantly, unnaturally red it looked like a prop, a fake, a special effect. It twittered, looked left, right, up, down, then peered past the peeling white window frame into the gloom where he sat motionless.

He held his breath, willed his body to stone, and tried not to blink as the fiery red bird stared into the room. Its tiny beak gleamed in the dying light. Without a sound the bird shot away in a flash of flapping red. A wry smile curled his lips—he’d never been much good at hiding and waiting.

He scooted the old wooden chair forward with a chorus of protesting creaks. The desk was ancient, with only three small drawers, but all he needed was a flat surface.

From his breast pocket he pulled out a dented and scuffed black metal case. Out slid a very dated mini-tablet and its loose battery. He inserted the battery, laid the tablet on the desk, then turned it on. It was the size of a cell phone, but only had Bluetooth and wi-fi connectivity, both of which were very short range—fifty, maybe one hundred feet. He retrieved the Cerulean SatLink6 from a cargo pocket on his thigh, carefully stored inside a plastic sandwich bag, inserted the battery, and turned it on as well. He raised the stubby antenna on the SatLink and waited while the two devices powered up. The tablet gave a tiny beep and the small screen lit up slowly, showing a little discoloration here and there where it had suffered past abuses. He checked the battery display first. He wondered how much longer the battery would hold out. It still took a charge, but who knew how old the thing was, how many times it’d been recharged before it had come into his possession. They had a habit of dying without warning.

The battery in the SatLink6 was newer and seemed to be doing just fine. Unlike the tablet it was built to military specs. He watched the icon spin as the small device searched for a satellite uplink. As it was not connecting to anything locally, just a satellite up in orbit, and a commercial one at that, theoretically it was nearly impossible to track or hack. However, the “theoretically” and “nearly” caveats were always on his mind whenever he powered up his only connection to the outside world. Still, it was much better than working off cell phones. He doubted there was a cell tower within fifty miles that wasn’t being piggybacked by the military. Not that there were many cell towers left in the city, period, except the ones running up the middle of the Blue Zone.

The readout in the corner said he had excellent signal strength, which was why he’d climbed up to this second floor room on protesting legs. Getting any signal at all these days was a major accomplishment. He didn’t know if the problem was the satellites or his aging device. Maybe there was some sort of jamming technology being employed.

He connected the tablet to the SatLink via wi-fi and opened the internet browser. From the first breast pocket he withdrew a palm-sized spiral notebook and a worn pencil. He tore a blank page from it—all the pages were blank—and returned the notebook to the pocket. The sun had left the next-door roof, but there was still enough light for him to write. Beyond the aged shingles the evening sky was navy blue, and with only a handful of clouds to hold it in, the heat of the day was already fading. A perfect summer night.

He checked his watch, then used his thumbs on the small illuminated screen to type in the website address. It was an online forum, based in Canada, but its users came from all over the globe. The users posted about cartoons, comic books, and CGI animated movies. From their posts the users seemed mostly to be young, or at least young at heart, and free from worries like starvation or war.

He navigated his way into the “Classic Cartoons” section and started working his way backward through the threads. Twenty-seven threads in he spotted the one he was looking for, entitled “Theodore is my favorite Chipmunk, Change My Mind, Vol. 23”. There were a total of seven posts including the original one. The thread had been created… he checked the time and date stamp. August seventh, two days previous. He checked that he could see all of the posts in the thread on the first virtual page then cut the uplink, folded down the antenna of the SatLink6 and pulled its battery.

The initial post was short. “My favorit chipmink is Theodore. I like him. Alvin is a jerk.” And there was the same picture of Alvin and The Chipmunks. Most of the responses came shortly thereafter and accused the original poster of being a stupid kid and wasting forum space with his dumb thread yet again. Five posts down was the picture he’d been looking for, a jpeg. After he put away the satellite connector he tapped the jpeg link on the tablet with his finger, and it expanded.

The jpeg was a photo of a small toy car, the car slightly out of focus like a kid had snapped the pic… but in the background, leaning against the wall at floor level, was a small whiteboard, seemingly forgotten, covered in what at first appeared to be nonsense. If he expanded the photo the ten lines of handwritten code were visible, out of focus but legible. Each line contained mostly one- and two-digit numbers, with the odd word added in. At first glance it looked like gibberish, background visual noise in a waste of time thread on a little-known forum frequented by kids and nerds.

The small phone-sized tablet had a small 16 GB onboard memory. Half of that was taken up by various games, none of which he had ever played (battery life was too important). The rest of the tablet’s memory was taken up by thousands of downloaded books. At first he’d been shocked at how many there were, shocked at how little memory was required for the digital version of words on a page. Usually an entire book used fewer megabytes than a photo.

He took a deep breath, flipped through the fiction options until he found the selection he wanted, grabbed his pencil, and went to work. It was never a quick process.

UNCLE CHARLIE ARRANGING BIG FAMILY REUNION 8 23 BRING KIDS AND ALL THEIR TOYS LET ME KNOW IF CAN MAKE IT COME QUIETLY BREAK AARDVARK BREAK BUCKAROO BREAK 49 31 BREAK 90 14 45

He deleted the browser history off the tablet for what little good that did, then randomly went through his library of novels and clicked on several at random, paging through them briefly, just in case somewhere in its deep core the tablet kept a record of which books had been accessed. Then he pulled the battery while he thought. And to keep anyone with the technology from turning on the speaker remotely and listening in. Or triangulating the position of the device, even though it shouldn’t be detectable to anyone further away than fifty feet. It wasn’t paranoia when they really were after you.

That was why they were using so many layers, some high-tech, some analog. A photo, which was harder to scan electronically or with AI than text. Handwritten text in the photo, which was much more difficult to scan with a program. The coded message hidden in the background of a photo of something else, in a thread about an old cartoon series. Then there was the message itself—the numbers denoted pages, lines, and words of a book, and unless you knew which book, the code could never be broken. Uncle Charlie had the same library available to him, and never used the same book twice—the first part of the message was always two words. The first indicated which book, and the second indicated the font size, as changing the font size altered the number of pages of the digital book.

He didn’t know anything about espionage or what he’d learned was called “signals intelligence”. The whole system seemed a grossly overcomplicated pain in the ass and, perhaps, stupid. But, he had to admit, it had been in place for years without being compromised, as far as he knew, so there was that….

It was the strangest message, by far, that he’d ever received from Uncle Charlie. He looked down at what he’d written on the paper, then picked up the pencil again and began figuring, because, as usual, there was a code within the code. The month was August, so subtract eight from 23 to get 15. August 15th.

The message had been left on the seventh. Subtract seven from 49 and 90, eight from 31 and 14, and nine from 45. Then he did the conversions from minutes and seconds into decimals. He wrote the new numbers down and dug into his vest for the map.

It was laminated, but even so it had seen so much use it was nearly falling apart at the folds. He laid it flat on the desk and peered at it in the dim light. He had no proper tools, and used the side of the tablet as a straight-edge. He studied the point where his two drawn lines intersected, and was surprised to find his heart beating fast. He couldn’t attribute it to the location indicated on the map, there really wasn’t anything there, but there’d been something about the message… “BIG FAMILY REUNION” could only mean one thing.

He licked his thumb and rubbed out the pencil lines, folded the map up and stuffed it away, then reinserted the batteries and turned both devices back on. As he waited he crumpled the paper into a tiny ball in his palm and stared at it. After a few seconds he looked back to his small tablet and logged back in to the forum and went to the Chipmunks thread. He made a new anonymous post, something the forum allowed, and wrote, “Theodore approves this thread. He and his band of chipmunks are now heading out to a family reunion.” He yawned, the fatigue creeping into him. Even the little surge of adrenaline he’d gotten decrypting Charlie’s message wasn’t enough to mask how bone-tired he was. When was the last time he’d gotten a full night’s sleep? Not since late winter, at least. Fear, apparently, interrupted REM sleep.

He disconnected and quickly pulled the battery from the SatLink and used the military-grade software program downloaded onto the tablet to wipe the history. He had no idea if it completely removed all traces of his activity, but he had to hope. Every time he inserted the batteries and powered the things up he imagined the thump of rotor blades, the shriek of turbo-diesel engines, the thud of boots coming his way. Or maybe just the brief incoming roar of a missile, even though he knew a missile would impact before he heard the roar as they traveled faster than sound. The batteries went back into their clear plastic sandwich bag and into his right breast pocket. The tablet he slid it into its battered case, which went into his left breast pocket. The SatLink6 went back into the pocket on his thigh.

He looked around to make sure he hadn’t left anything, and saw the ball of paper still in his palm. Shaking his head he popped it into his mouth and started chewing, then stood up, knees protesting. The change in altitude was all it took for his nose to fill up with the delicious aroma that had been creeping through the house. His empty stomach flopped and gurgled loudly, and his mouth began watering.

He moved to the window and peered out at the night sky, changing from dark blue to coal black. Here and there stars twinkled brightly above the rooftops, but the waxing moon was still thin and low in the sky and provided no real illumination; what few houses he could see were hulking shadows. Other than the tiny orange twinkling of a small fire in the distance there was not a light to be seen other than the stars and moon. No sign of the cardinal; undoubtedly he’d found a safe perch for the night. A faint breeze stirred, touching his face, and for the first time he noticed there was no glass in the window frame.

With a grunt he reached down and grabbed his rifle from where he’d leaned it in the corner and headed downstairs.

CHAPTER TWO

It hadn’t been a spur of the moment decision; before he’d finally left home, Jason had thought about going for at least a year, and planned how he’d do it for months before finally working up the courage. He’d found several paper maps and studied them at night when he was supposed to be sleeping, planning various routes down into the city. He knew not to do any online searches, using what little internet access they had; everyone knew internet searches were being monitored. You had to be careful about everything you said and did these days, because you never knew who was listening or watching. Besides, he doubted any maps of the city were accurate. At least those he could access.

It took him a week to carefully travel the hundred miles to the suburbs ringing the city. Once he was there, it had taken Jason another week, slowly working his way south, before he’d been steered to the old woman’s cramped little house. A week of sleeping in abandoned houses and stores, among the rats and the roaches. During the day he roasted in the heat, the sun turning the broken streets into ovens, the air so humid it felt like he was breathing soup. At night it was worse—the heat was mostly just a bad memory, but the tension was unbearable. Every sound had him on edge, sitting up, peeking out the shattered doorway of whatever ruined house he was in. Even though he knew it was ridiculous he couldn’t stop thinking about the rumors he’d heard about cannibals roaming the city. He was scared, and angry with himself for being scared.

No one he talked to was any help; it seemed the people he was looking for didn’t want to be tracked down easily. He should have guessed that; apparently he hadn’t thought things out as fully as he’d hoped. It seemed insanity to be alone on foot, wandering the streets, and more than one person told him as much, but it was all he could think to do. The people he was pursuing were ghosts. Often he was chased off just for asking about them.

And the people he met… his clothes were nothing special, years old, some belonging to his father, the backpack an old hunting pack, and yet compared to the ripped and stained rags most people here wore he seemed formally dressed. A few of the tougher-looking customers eyed his clothes and gear and his young face, but the rifle gave them pause, as did the familiar way he carried it. The only people who walked around openly with weapons were just looking for trouble. If the military caught you it was automatic jail time, or at least that’s what he’d thought was the law, but everyone he met who saw the rifle—and was willing to talk to him—told him that if he ran into a patrol the soldiers would just shoot him on sight if they saw a gun, even though it was just an old lever action. He wasn’t sure if they were messing with him or not. He didn’t care. He was done waiting. It felt like he’d been waiting his whole life.

Once he heard a furious firefight in the near distance, explosions and automatic weapons. Foolishly, perhaps, he ran in that direction, hoping to make contact. It was over before he got there, with only a burning vehicle and a fresh mangled corpse to mark the site.

The first body he’d seen was still fresh in his mind. It was his first day on foot in the suburbs bordering the city, moving south through the bedroom communities that, at first glance, seemed largely untouched by the war. Then he’d seen the corpse, stretched awkwardly across the curb, head in the gutter. A black man, his body stripped of everything but tattered jeans, covered in flies and just starting to bloat in the sun. The smell, he knew now, was but the merest shadow of what it would become, but still he’d vomited right there, on the sidewalk, untold eyes in the surrounding houses watching him.

Since then he’d seen dozens more bodies, some so decomposed they were hardly recognizable as human. Hardly recognizable as bodies. What shocked him was how they’d just been left there, lying where they fell. Was there no one to recover the bodies? No family members, no police? Were things that bad even in the suburbs, hundreds of miles from anything approximating a front line? Apparently. The smell was constant, always in his mouth and nose, even when he slept. The air tasted of smoke as well, acrid stuff, even though what fires he saw were small and scattered. He supposed what he was smelling were the burned-out houses. There were a handful on every block, even in the more intact neighborhoods. No fire departments meant fires were left to burn themselves out.

At first the suburban neighborhoods he was walking through—for he didn’t dare the main roads, not with a rifle in his hands—seemed fine. Sure, most of the lawns were a foot tall or more, but who could afford gasoline just for a lawn mower? He’d seen more than one homemade scythe at work in the past few years. Then he began realizing just how many of the intact houses were vacant. Saw that the windows weren’t crystal clear, they weren’t windows, just empty frames. He wondered if perhaps he should be walking at night and holing up during the day, but he didn’t know where he was going, and needed to talk to people. Plus, to be honest, the neighborhoods had started to feel like graveyards to him, the houses tombstones. He wasn’t about to go walking through them at night. Whatever kind of courage that took, he didn’t have it.

Finally, after five days in the suburbs, his food and water and spirits running low, he’d stumbled across a heavily barricaded residential subdivision. The old men guarding the place looked so hostile, staring down at him from the wall of junked cars blocking the street, that he hesitated even speaking to them. They had no visible weapons, but he wasn’t so naïve as to think someone didn’t have him in their sights, and he kept his rifle slung. It was one of the residents, leaving the place, who pointed him in the right direction. The woman, who was skinny as a stick, had seen him lurking nearby, trying to work his nerve up to talk to the hard-looking men. She’d taken one look at his young face and guessed immediately what he was after. She’d given him remarkably precise directions and in twenty minutes he was knocking at the door of a small house, nervously checking over his shoulder.

The woman who’d opened that door was now busy toiling over her little cookstove just outside the back door. It was soup in the small pot, and the smell had his shrunken stomach rumbling. He’d thought he’d brought along more than enough food—homemade horse jerky, mostly—but even eating it sparingly he was almost out, and was borderline dehydrated to boot, thanks to the unrelenting heat and humidity.

She looked like a grandmother—short, with dark hair halfway gone to grey. Her clothes were thin and faded, as tired looking as her cramped little pillbox house, stuffy and filled with derelict furniture. She’d invited him in and offered him water and crusty homemade bread, but had very little to say. He’d waited, and waited, expecting her to make a call, or go out to find someone. Finally he said as much. She gave a sad, patronizing little laugh.

“Oh no, dearie, I don’t know how to contact them.”

“You can’t call?”

“On the phone?” She laughed, but not unkindly. “Where did you come from? There haven’t been working phones down here in years. Sometimes I miss it. Most times I don’t. No, they show up unannounced. Safer that way, you know.”

“When?” he’d asked impatiently. He’d already been there an hour. She shrugged.

“Could be today, could be tomorrow, might not be ’til next month. You’re welcome to wait as long as you like, but I don’t have any more food for you. That bread was all I could spare.” Colleen, she said her name was. Jason didn’t much care for her, but he was out of alternatives. At least the homemade bread had been delicious. Nothing seasons like hunger, as his mom used to say.

The two men had appeared silently, one knocking softly at the front door while the other checked around behind the house. Jason had spent the night on the lumpy couch, troubled by nightmares, and had waited out the length of the day badly, in an ever-darkening mood. The house was cooler than the yard, but not by much. He’d finished the last of the food in his pack, wondering where he was going to get more, and was eyeing the woman’s kitchen cabinets when the knock came.

Colleen had puttered around the house all day, but doing what he had no idea. He was distracted by his own thoughts, his head filled with images of his journey south. At the knock she jumped up from the battered chair where she was reading a two-week-old copy of the Times. The idea of an underground newspaper printed on actual paper was so old-fashioned it seemed absurd, but with the power out to the area and all the airwaves and internet controlled and patrolled by the government, there were only so many options. He’d seen issues of the underground newspaper fluttering around the streets, but had no idea where people were picking them up. Or who was printing them. Or if the stories in it were true.

“Saw your signal,” the man on the porch said.

“Got someone here who’s been looking for you fellas,” Colleen said.

Jason had had certain expectations even before he’d begun his trek south, but after a week of bodies, fires, burned out buildings and distant gunshots, he just knew that these men who lived and fought in this hellhole had to be something special, had to be.

Ed was tall, maybe six-two, but looked like an accountant. A tired accountant old enough to be Jason’s father, and who needed a shave. Skinny, with a sharp nose and receding hairline, he even wore glasses to complete the picture of a complete and total elderly nerd. Jason’s sense of disillusionment was nearly complete; only the man’s equipment gave Jason some comfort—a military-style rifle, a pistol high on his thigh, and a small tactical backpack. He wasn’t wearing camouflage clothing, though—behind all the gear he had on a simple brown small-check plaid button-down shirt over khaki cargo pants.

Jason had jumped up from the couch when the figure knocked on the door, nervous as a kid on his first date, but the man had seemed less than enthusiastic upon seeing him.

“Looking to join up?” He didn’t just look tired, he sounded tired. His eyes roamed over Jason’s clothes and equipment, little more than a small backpack and a battered lever action rifle that was older than Moses. Jason had barely started to nod when Ed grunted and headed upstairs in the fading light.

The other soldier was just as disappointing. He was even older than Ed, who had to be at least forty. Ancient. He was a big guy, over six foot, with wide shoulders and a giant sunburned head atop them.

“How y’all doin’?” was the first thing he said as he stepped through the back door. At the accent Jason’s heart sank. A nerd and a bigheaded cracker redneck in Wrangler jeans, who looked like he used to have a sizeable beer belly.

“Call me Early,” he’d told Jason, wandering aimlessly through the house. Eventually he took a position before the front window, leaning against the back of the couch, resting his big rifle across his thighs. His hands were huge, and tanned as brown as the wood stock of his rifle. And just as scarred.

Colleen, the same woman who’d told Jason she didn’t have any food for him, promptly began cooking up a pot of soup full of squirrel meat over a small fire behind the house. Bitch. Early just stared out the window, humming softly to himself.

“You don’t have to cook fer us, Coll,” he called out.

The woman was just outside the back door, stirring, and shook her head.

“Meat’s gonna go bad if I keep it any longer,” she called back. “’Sides, don’t tell me you’re turning down food now.”

Early’s big face broke out in a grin. “No, can’t say that I am.”

Jason was twitching with nervous energy. Were these the guys? They weren’t wearing any patches or insignia or even camo, although they both had angular vests strapped across their chests, filled with armor plates he was pretty sure. How come there were only two of them? Were they going to take him with them when they left? He tried to ask Early about it.

“Jes’ relax, Junior,” he drawled. “Sit down and we’ll have a little dinner first, soon as the Cap’n comes down. First rule you gotta learn is never do anything on an empty stomach if you kin help it.” And that was all he had to say, until Ed trudged down the narrow staircase.

The setting sun threw a few orange fingers into the living room but otherwise the house was a cave. Colleen brought the soup pot into the kitchen and set it on the stove, then went about lighting half a dozen obviously handmade candles. As the sun finally dropped out of sight the candles threw flickering shadows around the small kitchen, reflecting off the linoleum and Formica and spotted chrome.

At Early’s nod Jason joined them around the small table, leaning his rifle against the counter next to theirs. The sight was oddly disconcerting to him. His lever action was a family heirloom and, he had to be honest, looked a little pathetic next to Ed’s magazine-fed military rifle with its battered camouflage paint job. But it was all he had to bring.

“Colleen, you better sit down too. I’m not going to let you stand there and watch us eat.” Behind his glasses Ed looked cross. “You look like you’ve lost ten pounds since the last time I saw you.”

She emptied the remains of the soup into the third bowl then set the still-hot container back on a stove burner that hadn’t been lit for most of a decade.

“Don’t you try bossing me around in my own house.” She put her hands on her stocky hips. “I’m the only one in this house that has any fat on their body, don’t think I can’t skip a few more meals. You, you look like a scarecrow. I ought to give you Early’s portion.”

“Hey now.” Early put a protective arm around his bowl.

Ed laughed and held up his hands. “Okay, okay.” He cocked his head. “How much have you lost, now?”

The stocky woman gave a shy, prideful smile. “Hundred and eighty pounds, last I checked, but I think my scale’s broken now.”

“Hell of a way to diet,” Ed told her.

“You got that right,” Early nodded.

“I’m getting enough to eat, it’s just mostly protein,” she told them. “I guess that low-carb diet stuff was true. I must have thirty snares, one, two blocks in every direction, and let me tell you, the war might be hell on people but the animals are loving it. The long grass everywhere and the bushes going wild. I got squirrels, rabbits, even pheasants. Trade my extra meat for seeds for my garden. Another three weeks or so and the raspberries’ll be ready.”

“You have a garden?” Jason said, automatically glancing at the rear of the house. He’d looked into the backyard several times and not noticed it.

“Not where anyone can just stumble across it,” Colleen told him. She sat down. Jason grabbed a spoon and was about to dig in, then noticed both Early and Colleen had their heads bowed, their lips moving in silent prayer. After a few seconds they finished, traded a nod, and grabbed their spoons.

“Did you say you saw her signal?” Jason said to Ed around a mouthful of soup. It tasted amazing. He looked at Colleen. “Did you call him or something?” He hadn’t heard her make a phone call. Did the phone service still work down here? He was under the impression it didn’t.

Ed and Early traded a glance. “Ancient Chinese secret,” Early finally told him, and Ed snorted.

Jason frowned, but didn’t press it. He knew Colleen hadn’t made a phone call. Heck, she hadn’t left the house since he’d arrived except to hang some laundry in the side yard. That thought made him stop, and blink. Hmm.

CHAPTER THREE

“How much action have you seen?”

Ed stood along the wall near the stairs, almost hidden in shadow. The candles in the kitchen didn’t carry into the living room. Jason wished he could see the man’s face, but was glad they couldn’t see his own. He tried not to sound intimidated as he answered.

“Some. Three or four big gunfights. Probably doesn’t seem like much to you guys, all the fighting going on around here, but we don’t see that much army up north. Not as much as there used to be, I guess. And most people just don’t… aren’t… interested in fighting. That’s why I came down here.” He could describe, in detail, each and every incident for them if they wanted.

“You’re so far behind the lines you might as well not exist to them, you’ve got nothing they want, and they’re stretched thin as it is,” Ed told him. His voice sounded hollow, bouncing off the drywall. Jason didn’t know what the man meant by his comment. He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, not sure what to say.

Early sat on the couch across from Jason, his big frame leaning back against the cushions. Slowly he leaned forward, set his elbows on his knees. “How old did you say you were agin?”

“Nineteen.” The blonde kid sounded angry that he had to repeat himself. Early made a sound and looked over at Ed. Their faces were unreadable in the dark.

Glasses catching a faint gleam from the starlight trailing in through the front window, Ed motioned at Jason’s rifle. “You been using that the whole time?”

His hand went out reflexively to touch the battered lever action leaning against the wall. Most of the bluing was worn off the receiver, but it was free of rust. “Yeah. I—I’ve had it a long time.”

“How many people have you shot?” Early cocked his head, face still unreadable in the dark. The woman was silent in the kitchen, reading by candlelight, studiously ignoring their conversation.

“I—I don’t know. I wasn’t the only person there, you know, and things got a little… confusing. Six or seven, maybe.” If there’d been any light at all they would’ve seen how badly he was sweating, but they seemed not to notice his quavering voice. Early leaned back on the couch, clasped his hands over his belly.

“You go for headshots, or you shoot ‘em center mass, so you’d be less likely to miss?” His slow drawling voice was like molasses creeping from a jar.

“Uh, yeah, center mass.”

“Mmmmm.”

“How many rounds you got for that thing?” Ed asked from his spot.

“Uh, I’m not sure. Let me check.” Nervously he rummaged through his small pack. He pulled items out and set them on the floor around his feet—it was too dark to see into the canvas pack.

“With, um, with what’s in the gun, thirty-eight,” he said finally. He heard Ed sigh.

“Well, that’s better than thirty-seven, I guess.” Ed scratched his forearm, then jerked his head at Early. “Earl? Give us a minute,” he said to the blonde kid. He and Early stepped through the back door and stood in the cool night air. Early looked up at the sky, picking out the constellations. Both men carried their rifles, having grabbed them reflexively, but held them down along their sides, doing what they could to conceal their shape from aerial surveillance.

“Earl?”

Earl dropped his gaze and shook his head. “If that kid’s nineteen, Cap’n, I’m Winston fucking Churchill,” he said softly. “If he was over eighteen he should have been drafted.”

Ed nodded. “What about his dad not letting him off the farm until now?”

Early chuckled. “Now that I believe. My mother would call that boy apple-cheeked, looks like he should be in choir practice after pulling straw out of his hair, working up his nerve to kiss a pretty girl. But… walking around with a rifle in his hand for a week or two, that’s not nothing. Decade in a government lockup if they don’t decide to shoot you outright. Mostly I hate looking at his face, it reminds me of how old I am. And how long we’ve been at war. I doubt that kid remembers a time when this country wasn’t at war, which is just sad.” He sighed. “Still, you never can tell. Intelligence is getting pretty slick these days, whenever they remember this patch of heaven ain’t quite pacified.”

“Nothing’s ever simple, is it?”

Early smiled, his white teeth glossy pearls in the starlight. “Let’s take him back, give him a Shake Up Wake Up, see if his story changes.”

“Better be careful, Earl, the kid’s a confessed killer.” His wry smile was almost hidden in the night.

“Sheeeeit,” Early drawled, following him back into the stuffy house.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen.”

The two men stood shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the living room. Ed was jabbing his finger as he talked.

“We’re going right out the front door and heading straight west, pretty much. I’ll be on point, and Early’ll bring up the rear. I want you in the middle. We’ll go single file. I want at least a thirty-foot space between us, you hear me? I know you’re going to want to hurry, and crowd me, but watch your interval. Thirty feet. Mark a spot when I pass and count how many steps it takes you to reach it. Any less than ten and you’re too close. If you can spit and hit me, you’re too close.”

Jason was nodding at all the instructions, heart in his throat. His hands were sweaty on the rifle, and he had to keep wiping them on his jeans.

“If you see me stop, you stop. If I crouch down, you crouch down. If I start shooting, I want you right on my ass immediately. That way neither of us will pop you accidentally. Move slowly. Slowly and quietly, no sudden movements, move no faster than I am, and that’s not going to be fast. Freeze if you see trouble, then slowly get down.”

“As we’re walking along, you watch your muzzle. I don’t know how competent you are with that thing, but if Early sees you sweeping me—pointing your gun at me, accidentally or otherwise—he’s just as likely to put a bullet in your head as abandon you before we get there. We’ve got enough bastards trying to kill us without getting shot by our own people by accident. You understand?”

Jason swallowed, nodded, and tried to be subtle checking that his rifle was pointed in a safe direction.

“No talking. None. As in zero. I’ll use basic hand signals until you get up to speed. Now, what do you do if the shit hits the fan?”

Jason cleared his throat. “Get on your ass as fast as I can.”

“Right.”

“There’s been a dusk-to-dawn curfew in effect since before the war started, so just leaving now, with us, could get you arrested if you got caught. Or shot.” Ed was giving him every excuse to change his mind but the kid wasn’t biting.

“Where are we going?”

Ed hit him with an unreadable stare. “To meet up with the rest of the squad.”

“No, I mean, how far are we going?”

“When we get there I’ll tell you. Saddle up, grab your pack. Early,” he said, and jerked his head again. They moved into a corner, and Jason watched as the skinny leader unfolded a paper map. The two men had a brief hurried conversation, which left Early looking like he’d eaten something distasteful. “In case both me and the SatLink get it,” he heard Ed say. Then the two men were at his side again. Early grabbed the backpack straps around the young man’s shoulders and tightened them.

“You gotta run, you don’t want this floppin’ around,” he murmured. “Backpack should be on your back, on your shoulders, not your ass.” He glanced down at the lever action in Jason’s nervous hands. “Haven’t seen one of those in forever, but took my first deer with one just like it. Keep your finger off the trigger less you’re pullin’ it. And keep that hammer down. You’ll have plenty of time to cock it when you’re eatin’ dirt.” He looked over. “Ready, Cap’n.” His own rifle made the lever action look tiny.

Ed moved to the front door and peered out the small window left and right. “You stay out of trouble, Colleen.”

“I try.”

“You sure you can spare all this water?” They’d filled all their canteens. Jason only had one, the other men carried two or three each.

“I’ve got rainwater traps all over this block,” they heard her voice from the kitchen. “If I couldn’t spare it I wouldn’t be giving it away.”

“Fair enough.”

“You make sure those biscuits get to your boys, Ed. I know Early, he’s liable to eat ‘em between here and the next block.”

“Why Coll!” Early tried to sound offended but they could all hear the smile in his voice.

Ed quietly swung the wood door open and cracked the storm door. He checked left and right again, up and down the dark, quiet street, then quickly jogged across the lawn and street to the fenceline.

Early put a hand on Jason’s shoulder as he tried to follow. “Jes wait,” the big man whispered in his ear. They watched Ed stand perfectly still, rifle at the ready, looking and listening. The chain link fence at his left shoulder stretched away before and behind him. He stood in waist-high grass, a four-foot-wide belt of it between the fence and the curb running up the street. The fence was topped with a vee of barbed wire, rusty but still unbroken, and was choked with weeds and grape vines growing rampant and unchecked in the summer heat. In his earth-colored clothes and gear he nearly disappeared against the mottled backdrop.

Facing north he scanned the empty street, a line of small homes to his right. Halfway up the block an electrical power line had fallen across the pavement. It was quiet, no sparking, but you never could tell for sure. He looked left, through the fence, then back over his shoulder. The night was silent and still but for the conversation of a few birds.

From the doorway they watched Ed slowly advance up the street, swishing through the tall grass, just a shadow. Jason saw him pause, and then the slender man just disappeared. Where the hell had he gone? There was nothing for him to hide behind, no bushes or trees. Jason gripped his rifle tighter.

Ed stepped back into view and lifted his hand. Jason felt Early squeeze his shoulder. “Head right for ‘im boy,” he whispered. “Don’t dawdle, but don’t tear ass. Be quiet, most of all.”

Heart a jackhammer in his chest, Jason left the safety of the doorway and almost tripped going down the concrete porch steps. He looked left and right, then jogged at an angle across the street. Ed vanished again, right in front of his eyes.

Jason reached the curb out of breath and sweaty, the tension wracking his body. He moved into the tall grass, hearing the rush against his legs. He was right on top of it before he noticed the slit cut into the fence. Cautiously he pushed through, big grape leaves brushing his face. There in front of him was a small hill, barely more than a mound six or eight feet high and maybe thirty wide, overgrown with grass and weeds. It sat at the edge of what appeared to be an empty field, featureless in the dark.

Ed squatted near the top of the hill, his rifle up and sweeping back and forth. Jason’s heart leapt into his throat but after a second he figured out that the man was merely looking using the scope of his weapon to study their surroundings. Jason could see a faint glow around Ed’s eye and guessed, correctly, that he was using some sort of night vision scope.

As his heart slowed down Jason watched Ed lower his weapon and peer with his own eyes over the small hill. Some sort of aging white cross was stuck in the ground beside him. A few trees dotted the otherwise flat landscape.

Jason waited at the fence, not sure what he was supposed to be doing. He looked around, back over his shoulder, wondering where Early was. A hiss snapped his head back around. Ed had climbed down the slope and was moving around the small hill to the right. Jason followed him at a distance, trying to remember what he’d been told and not screw up.

Around the tiny rise they headed west, Ed moving slowly through the tall grass. Jason followed him, staying in the same trail of broken stems, after a few seconds thinking to check behind him. Early was right there, about forty feet back, moving soundlessly with his rifle sideways across his body. He caught Jason’s look, nodded, then went back to scanning the tall grass. Jason’s eyes moved to the small hill. Cut into its short slope were five wide wooden steps leading to the flat summit. Up there, dangling from the white crosspiece by one rusty chain was a sign. 5TH HOLE, he read, 134 YARDS PAR 3. Even in starlight the dark lettering was plain to see on the white background.

As they moved west a berm rose to their right, blocking their view of the weed-choked fence there. A street bordered the course on the north side, just on the other side of the fence, and there were houses there overlooking the links. Between the grape vines and the berm they were hidden from any casual observers as Ed slowly worked his way west. There were a few big trees, beeches and maples, but no actual cover other than the berm to their right.

Ed paralleled the 4th hole, gazing south over the expanse of the course. It was empty and overgrown, but you never knew who might be wandering around at night. He glanced up at the sky. They should be dead, really. All of them. With the technology available to the army, satellites and aircraft and drones of every size, the dogsoldiers were barely more than well-armed hobos in comparison. But this city wasn’t the front. Wasn’t anywhere near the front. Hell, from everything he’d heard and seen this city was the opposite of the front, in every way. Even if it wasn’t, the government reportedly still had problems inside its own ranks in addition to having to fight an actual war that had ground on far longer than anyone could have imagined. Tanks going missing, spy satellites spinning off into space because the guidance update had been hacked, whole trainloads of gear diverted from the military to the ARF even at this late date.

Whether it was a lack of them or something else the Army wasn’t using the big armed drones to secure this dead husk of a city. Word was they were being used at the front, although news of that fight was sketchy at best, and nobody trusted anything coming out of the government-approved news sources.

Personally, Ed believed the Army had very few of their high-tech toys left to use over the city, if for no other reason that the ARF Irregulars, dogsoldiers, doggies, guerrillas, freedom fighters, resistance, rebels, whatever you wanted to call them, were still alive and fighting in and around the city, with very few craters to be found. Bombings were still out of the question, and officially had never happened, even though the truth was a bit different. Air-to-ground missiles were always on the menu, however, although he hadn’t heard of any in close to two years. Ambushes of squads like his were even rarer, which made him think that the military didn’t have access to many satellites.

They used to be pretty common, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen unmanned aircraft, drones, of any size. All he’d seen for months were helicopters heading in and out of the military base near the city center, and jets and cargo planes landing and taking off from the large regional airport thirty miles west of the city. Luckily, jets and helicopters were big and loud. So unless God was really pissed at them they’d hear any aircraft long before it came into view, but he scanned the starry sky anyway. They had a portable jammer which worked on the small unarmed recon drones, but when the squad was split up and he was with the element that didn’t have the drone jammer….

Near the fourth hole tees the berm sunk back into the ground, leaving just the weed-choked fence to their right to provide concealment. He moved that direction, hugging it, passing the small, foul-smelling pond. Once, Canadian geese had lived around it, but none were to be found now. Eaten or scared away, he supposed. Most likely eaten.

He worked his way through a small stand of trees, checking over his shoulder. The kid was maintaining a good interval, keeping his natural urge to hurry in check, but was likely to have a sore neck tomorrow the way he was whipping his head around, trying to eyeball everything at once.

Off to the southwest he could just make out the tiny clubhouse, a black blot against a charcoal background. He stayed close to the fence, walking slowly, listening more than looking. The night was alive with the sounds of birds and insects. He was listening for any sudden changes in that tune, indicating they weren’t alone on the links. Away from the houses and buildings, which universally smelled of dust and decay, his nostrils filled with the odors of dirt and grass

The mercury had dropped into the seventies, but they were sheltered from any breeze by the fence and the humidity was still hellish. All three of them were slick with sweat within minutes. Whole squadrons of mosquitoes descended upon their moist flesh. They were in Jason’s eyes, his ears, even his nose, driving him crazy. He smacked at his skin, waved at them swirling around his head, until he saw Ed slowly turn around and glare. Jason remembered the forceful “no sudden movements” command, and put his hand back on his rifle, chastened and angry. The pointman’s face and neck were covered with the bloodsuckers, but he never made a move to touch them. How could he stand it?

Jason looked around him, trying not to make fast, jerky movements. The rolling grass of the decrepit golf course didn’t look much different than the fields behind his parents’ property, but there he was relaxed. Here, he was terrified. He kept expecting soldiers to pop out from everywhere in the night, shouting, searchlights blinding him. It turned what would have been a pleasant walk, but for the humidity, into a kind of waking nightmare. And yet, he reminded himself, this was what he wanted. He’d searched these men out. Came far south to the city, to find them, find the war, no matter how dangerous or stupid or traitorous their cause was—according to his father. After wandering through the abandoned suburbs for a week he wasn’t sure these neighborhoods were anything but where the dreams of so many had died, but it was the closest thing to the war this side of the front.

Up ahead the fence turned to the south, and Ed angled toward where he knew there was a concealed break in the chain link. Even left unmowed for a whole season the grass on the 3rd hole green was barely ankle high and felt strangely crunchy underfoot, like toasted moss. Ed always felt nervous edging through the fence here—maybe it had something to do with the big propane tank squatting in the parking lot just a few feet away. Even if there were only a few wisps of gas left in the tank it would make quite an impressive bomb with only a few minutes work. With a grenade or some plastic explosive—homemade or military—even just a properly connected car battery, in five minutes he could rig the tank to blow with enough force to kill anyone in the lot. Which was why he hadn’t vented the tank, just in case someday he needed a big boom.

Sometimes it frightened him just how much he’d learned about how to kill human beings. Now, he could hardly remember a time when it had been otherwise. He knelt in the long grass and checked for trip wires, disturbed grass or weeds, then peered through the gap in the fence, listening intently. Nothing.

Ed dug around inside the cargo pocket of his pants and found the small flashlight, the one with the red cellophane taped over the lens. Aiming it as well as he could in the dark, he hit the button once, waited five seconds, then hit it again.

After a long enough wait he was wondering if he’d have to send his signal again, he saw an answering red light. Two blinks, then a five second pause, then a single blink. All clear, come on in. He checked over his shoulder. Early was with the kid about twenty feet back, both of them squatting in the shadows of the fence.

Taking a deep breath, Ed pushed through the cut in the chain link into the small parking lot.

The industrial park was little more than a short street lined with small one- and two-story machine shops. The tan brick building to his right had once housed a fire defense equipment business, selling and serving extinguishers and sprinkler systems. To his left was a two-story grey building; whatever it had once sold was now buried under a layer of bricks from the dump truck that had long ago careened through the front door. There were bullet holes in the door frame.

Ed hugged the brick wall to his right and moved cautiously forward, scanning the street in front of him and the building fronts on the far side. When he ran out of wall he checked left and right. Nothing moving, no sounds other than one bird and a few crickets. He checked back over his shoulder and saw Early had cleared the fence, then quickly jogged across the street.

CHAPTER FOUR

The building was musty and dusty. It smelled of old paper, damp drywall, and, oddly enough, burnt metal. Jason caught just a quick glimpse of a small cluttered office space, after following Early up the stairs, dark figures rising and turning to look at him, before he was violently shoved up against the wall and the rifle ripped from his hands.

“Hey! What the—”

“Shut the fuck up!” somebody snarled. A flashlight came on in his face, soon joined by others. After moving around in nothing but moonlight the flashlights seemed bright as the sun. He was surrounded by men and could sense them pressing close, but with the lights in his eyes he couldn’t see a damn thing.

“Strip,” he was commanded.

“What?”

Into the cone of light around him came the muzzle of a rifle, pointed right at his face. From the long flash hider he recognized it as Early’s. “Don’t mess with us, boy,” came the familiar drawl, the big man a vague silhouette beyond the lights. “Ain’t nobody jokin’ here.” The strong smell of unwashed bodies filled his nostrils.

“Backpack first, hand it over,” someone else growled.

Jason couldn’t take his eyes from the rifle bore just a few feet from his head. What the hell was going on? Were they robbing him? These were supposed to be the good guys. Suddenly a thought occurred to him—how did he really know who they were? They could just as well be thieves, running a con on Colleen, taking whoever she rounded up, stealing their gear and killing them. Hell, she could be in on it, bringing them idiots who were easy pickings. Oh my God, or worse—maybe they planned to rape him, or—

“You don’t start stripping they’re gonna hold you down and cut your clothes off,” Early warned him.

Jason jerked, then with fumbling hands pulled off his pack and handed it over.

“You got anything you want to tell us?” He recognized the voice as Ed’s.

“What’s going on?” He couldn’t decide whether to be angry or scared. Ed noticed the anger, nodding, filing that information away. Anger was good.

“We don’t much like being lied to, boy,” Early said warningly. His shoulders were starting to ache from holding the rifle up for so long. With his forefinger he checked to make sure the safety was still on.

“What are you talking about?” He stood there, a nervous grimace on his face, until one of the figures smacked him on the shoulder. Clumsily he pulled off his shirt, which was taken from his hands.

“Even in this godawful heat all of the troops wear their body armor when they go outside the wire. The plate stuff’ll stop anything we’ve got, even the hotrodded stuff they’re shootin’, but I don’t think your thirty-thirty’ll even go through the soft part of their vests. If you’d ever shot one of them you’d know that. Six or seven people my ass.”

A low grumbling made itself known and the shadowy figures all lifted their heads. The sound rose into a growling roar close above them, louder and louder, then began to fade.

“Going up and away,” Ed’s experienced ears told him.

“Afterburners,” someone else agreed.

“And if you’re nineteen,” Early went on as if there’d been no interruption, as Jason tugged down his pants, “I’m wearing little pink panties with a rose on the front.”

“No telling what else you’re lying about.” Ed glanced quickly at Early. Little pink panties? “For all we know Military Intelligence sent you in to infiltrate us.”

The young kid shook his head vigorously. “No, no, I’m telling you the truth. My dad wouldn’t let me come, I’ve been wanting to join up for years, but finally I just left anyway, and—”

“How old are you?” another voice demanded, someone he hadn’t heard before.

“Seventeen,” he said. He looked at the silhouettes around him, then lowered his gaze. “Sixteen,” he mumbled, knowing the time for lying was over. Then he jerked his head up, defiance once again showing. “But I’ve shot at soldiers. I—” He stopped, realizing he’d gone farther than he’d wanted to.

“You what? Hand those over.” Fingers snagged the jeans from his hand.

“I’m just not sure I hit anyone.” As if being forced to strip wasn’t embarrassing enough. And he knew he didn’t hit anything other than the pickup the soldiers were in. They sped away, and he cut cross-country for home. He’d later heard they’d busted down the doors of any house close to where he’d fired the shot, interrogated anybody they found at home and searched the houses for illegal weapons. He’d felt guilty about that, but also exhilarated that he’d actually, finally, done something.

“Yeah.” About what I thought, Ed mused. He glanced again at Early, who seemed to be having trouble keeping his rifle up.

“Skivvies too, junior. Ain’t nothing you got none of us haven’t seen before.” It sounded like Early was talking through gritted teeth.

“Why do you want me to strip?”

“You think I can miss you from here?” Early almost shouted, the end of his rifle quivering. Jason hurriedly tugged down his dirty jockeys, wanting to cover himself but knowing somehow that he shouldn’t.

“We’re looking for bugs, boy, the electronic kind. Tracking devices. You afraid we was gonna start flirtin’ with you? Pull up your package, want to make sure you got nothin’ hidin’ underneath. All right, now turn around and spread your cheeks. Christ, boy, I got more hair in my ears than you got on your whole body.”

“Nothing in the pack,” someone said.

Early let out a deep breath, and lowered his rifle. His shoulders were screaming. “Looks like you’re clean, unless you swallowed it. Turn around already, it ain’t like we want to eyeball your crack.”

Quentin and Bobby finished going through his clothes and shook their heads. Early grabbed Jason’s pants and tossed them at the boy. The flashlights went off in quick succession, and the crowd around him spread out. Jason blinked, blue spots swimming in his vision.

“Welcome to the squad,” Ed said dryly. “Everybody, this is Jason.” Hands clapped him on the shoulders, and there was laughter at the expression on his face.

He didn’t think it was funny at all. Not one damn bit. Even in the darkness it was clear he was furious. One of the dark figures leaned close and spoke quietly. “If you’re here to join the fight, that means you’re here to kill people. Maybe get killed. If getting your feelings hurt is all it takes to make you want to go back home to mommy, you don’t belong here anyway. Go ahead and fuck right off. Or grow a pair.” Then the man, whoever he was, moved away.

Jason blinked. He was still angry at being treated the way he had been, but could he blame them? They didn’t know him. And this was war, they were risking their lives every day. He swallowed his anger and pride and finished getting dressed.

“Did I miss anything while I was gone?” Ed stepped around an overturned desk and peered out one of the windows, trying to blink his night vision back after the bright flashlights. Diagonally across the intersection was a long, low building, still mostly white. Once it had housed cable or phone company offices, he couldn’t remember. The big satellite dishes on the roof were all mangled from explosions or fire, and the fifty-foot antenna lay crumpled across the small parking lot. Nothing moving, even after all the light and noise they’d made confronting the kid. He turned away from the window.

George glided up silently, peered out the window with his typical lack of expression. “Weasel found fresh piss spots in the back corner,” he murmured. “Rain trap’s been damn near emptied as well. Somebody left here right before we arrived. In a hurry, too, looks like. You got any idea who?” Ed shook his head, considering the information. The bucket into which the tarps on the roof drained was concealed behind ceiling tiles on the second floor. Unless you knew where to look you wouldn’t just stumble across it accidentally.

“Something big’s in the works,” he told the squad’s most veteran man. “Uncle Charlie’s sending us south. Not just us, apparently. I want an ammo and gear check, including water. Briefing’s in ten minutes.”

George, looking thoughtful, went to spread the word.

Jason sat next to a young kid named Bobby who really was nineteen. Once Jason’s night vision came back he could see Bobby had a big sheaf of brown hair and permanent red spots on his cheeks.

“Relax,” he whispered to Jason with an apologetic smile. “It’s nothing personal. We’ve had a run of bad luck lately and they just wanted to make sure. They’re really good, don’t worry. Just do what they tell you and you’ll be fine.”

Jason wasn’t entirely placated but he kept his sharp words to himself. Intellectually he knew he had no right to be angry, but he’d always had a hard time controlling his emotions. However, yelling at guys with guns seemed like a bad idea no matter how mad he was. “How long have you been with them?” he whispered back.

“Six months.”

Sitting on the other side of Jason was Quentin, the squad’s only black member. He looked about thirty, stocky, with a bald head and a shovel-shaped jaw. He studiously ignored Jason, chewing instead on one of Colleen’s biscuits.

Bobby had very quietly pointed out the members of the squad. Ed and Early he’d met. George was another old guy; Bobby said he was second in command. Mark was a big guy, six foot four, but moved very quietly. “This is Q. Quentin,” Bobby said softly, nodding at the man sitting next to him. Quentin glanced over, but didn’t say anything. “And Weasel’s over in the corner.”

“Weasel?”

“Yeah.”

The squad was in a loose circle in the middle of the second floor, all but Mark and Early who were keeping watch. Mark was a dark silhouette near the windows staring out at the street, close enough to hear the discussion. Early was in the back of the building, standing guard on the ground floor. On one knee Ed spread the map out on the floor and twisted on a small penlight with red cellophane taped over the end. The pale red glow illuminated a circle of scuffed boots and fraying shoes, stained and faded clothing, and thin, tired faces behind stubble and scruffy beards. Bobby was the only one of them that didn’t badly need a shave, even though it had been weeks since his face had felt a razor.

“Here we are.” Ed marked it with the penlight’s tiny circle of light. “Today’s Saturday. Next Friday, the fifteenth, we’re supposed to be here.” He ran the light down the map and stopped. Everyone leaned forward.

“What’s there?” Weasel was the one who’d spoken. It was the only name, Jason had been told, that he would respond to. In any case it seemed an apt nickname—hatchet-faced, with oily black hair swept back above a skinny body barely five and a half feet tall, Weasel vibrated with nervous energy. He was somewhere in his twenties, but kept his exact age just as much of a secret as his real name. Everyone understood why. If the government learned you had a relative fighting as a guerrilla, your entire family was detained as sympathizers and interrogated. And there’d been too many disappearances, too many ugly violent reprisals, even though the official word was that such things did not, would not, and never had happened. Across the front of his plate carrier, in black magic marker, had been inked LGBTNBBQ.

“Unknown. Anybody ever been through there before?” Heads shook all around.

“I’ve been near there,” Quentin said. “Block or two over. Nothin’ special that I can remember. Those buildings are big and built with a lot of brick. Hard to take down, if that’s the plan, but I don’t think they’re being used for anything. It’s a school, if I remember correctly. Or, at least, used to be.”

Ed nodded, staring down at the map. “I’m guessing it’s an RP, but why there?” There were a handful of commonly used rendezvous points throughout the city, but they were located near water, or supply dumps. Plus, the dogsoldiers had dozens of safehouses throughout the city they used. The spot Uncle Charlie had indicated wasn’t near anything. And it seemed somewhat exposed. “It sounded like Uncle Charlie was calling everyone out. Family reunion, he said. Anybody heard any rumblings about this?”

Another chorus of shaking heads. “Gators are supposed to be tearin’ it up down south,” Bobby said excitedly. “Maybe they’re ready to push north!”

Ed sighed. “That’s still a long way down the road, if it ever happens. Even though this is our home, we’re nobody’s priority. We’re fighting in a dark forgotten corner of this war. You know that, Bobby.” He glanced at George, intense as always, who nodded grimly in agreement.

Ed had discussed possible ways down with George, and they’d settled on a route that would avoid most of the known trouble spots. Once they crossed the Ditch, though, any plans they made became mere wishful thinking. Anything could happen in the city, and usually did. What was that famous quote? ‘No plan ever survives contact with the enemy’? Something like that.

With the light he traced their proposed route. Jason looked on excitedly, still a little off-balance, a little pissed, but pumped to have finally made it. He looked around the circle, studying the faces. They all looked so comfortable, so natural in their gear—even Bobby—sporting pistols and knives and spare magazines in addition to the ever-present military rifles they carried so unconcernedly. Jason still felt self-conscious whenever he picked his rifle up, like he was playing a role, even though he’d carried it hunting dozens of times. The squad displayed an easy familiarity with each other that he envied. Even though—post striptease—they’d been polite to him, or at least not antagonistic, he knew he was still the outsider, the unproven element, and he didn’t know how long that might last.

George, the second-in-command, was the scariest one of the bunch. He was maybe forty but had the wrinkles of someone ten years older. Above a compact, wiry body was a face that stared out with absolutely dead eyes. Every time he looked over at him Jason felt like George was measuring him for a casket. While his personal gear showed some serious use—there was a fresh, bright silver scratch in his stubby rifle’s handguard, to go along with the dozens of older scratches—his stuff looked top notch. Bobby’d said George had been fighting since day one, and Jason believed it.

“We’re just gonna dump our wheels?” Weasel looked up from the map.

“Can’t take it into the city,” George spoke up. “Half the streets are too choked to pass, and you know anything rolling is fair game, fuck the rules of engagement.”

“Wait, what?” Jason said.

George looked up sharply at the interruption. “If the Army sees a moving vehicle inside the city limits, outside of the approved travel corridors, they’re just as likely to light it up as not, even if they don’t see any weapons. Just in case.”

“But… aren’t there… don’t people live in the city?”

Ed nodded. “Thousands, still, even after years of fighting, no power, and no water. Some are diehard residents who refuse to leave, others are just crazy, but they’re not involved in the fighting. Army doesn’t care. Ninety percent of the ‘guerrillas’ killed in the city these days are just civilians in the wrong place at the wrong time. I think they feel it’s the only way they can maintain what little control they have over the place, keep everybody on foot.”

“What, that’s not what the government-approved news sources are telling you?” Early said to Jason’s surprised face. “Color me shocked.” He shook his head. “Almost nothing’s rolling on wheels south of the border, not since the government had every automaker shut down every satellite-connected vehicle inside the city limits like they used to do when the cops reported them stolen. OnStar, Ford SYNC, all of them. Which was pretty much every car made in the last twenty years. Cars just stopped dead where they were. And then the government never turned them back on again,. Martial law, all the same excuses. Sad fate of a city, you ask me, that was once known for its cars.”

“There are checkpoints all around the city if you need to drive into or through it,” Mark told him. “The soldiers manning them will take your DNA and scan your fingerprints and while they’re waiting for those results to come back they’ll search your vehicle down to the welds. Maybe steal some of your shit, if you’re bringing in anything they could use. Needless to say, it takes forever, and it’s better just to go the long way around. The only place you see vehicles going through those checkpoints with any regularity is on the south side of the city where the trucks are coming in, bringing supplies to the military and local government, such as it is. And then they’re required to stay in restricted travel corridors. Stray outside those and you’re likely to get turned into slag by a Kestrel.”

“Downtown’s really the only place you see people driving around,” George told Jason. “They call it the Blue Zone and it stretches from the New Center area to the Army base to the riverfront. Maybe half a mile wide by three miles long, and it’s all commercial buildings, parking garages, government offices, restaurants, the stadiums, although half of everything or more is empty. The New Center area is about the only place in the city where you’ll see actual stores still in business in any number, and almost the only place in the city you’ll see a static Army presence outside of their base. Almost all of the businesses still operating in the city are in the Blue Zone, but a big chunk of the workers there are city employees and government support staff. They live there, and down at the riverfront. The sight of the soldiers makes them feel safe, I’m told. Amazingly enough they have power in the Blue Zone, and running water, and cell phone service. It’s like a separate city inside the city. There are some jersey barriers put down on some of the side streets, limiting traffic, but unlike the Army base the area isn’t restricted. It’s more a psychological separation. Inside the Blue Zone they can pretend there’s not a war on, and that the rest of the city doesn’t look like I Am Legend.” He looked at Jason. “That’s zombies,” he explained.

“I think I saw that movie, actually,” Jason said.

“Anyway,” Ed said loudly, getting back to the briefing, “Uncle Charlie said to come in quiet. A vehicle will only draw attention. We find a spot near the border to hide it, disable it like usual, and hopefully it’ll still be there when we get back, with more or less the same amount of parts and fuel.”

Quentin snorted, indicating what he thought the chances of that happening were.

Weasel was scratching his head. “Boss, near as I can see it it’s ten miles in a straight line, double that if we take a roundabout way in. Why are we leaving in the morning? There’s no way it’ll take us six days to get here. That’s a two-day foot patrol, tops, even if we’re creepin’ along. I could use a rest. We all could.”

“No way? You’re so sure?” George growled. He squinted at the dark-haired man. “How’s the rib?” he asked pointedly.

Weasel frowned, leaned to the side, and made a face. “Could be better.”

Bobby leaned close to Jason and whispered. “He cracked a rib last week. Lucky bastard.”

“Lucky?” Jason didn’t see how getting injured required any luck.

Bobby murmured. “We hooked up with another squad and ambushed a small Army column, but it turned out they weren’t alone. Killed six, maybe eight of them, but we burned up most of our ammo getting out of there. A Toad nobody saw coming took a wild shot at Weasel’s group through a gap between buildings.”

“A Toad. That’s a tank?”

“Yeah. Weasel got nailed by some flying bricks, that’s how close it was. If the Toad had had an HE round loaded instead of whatever he was using he’d be dead.”

“Wow.” Jason was pretty sure HE meant high explosive, but he didn’t want to ask and sound stupid.

Ed had been staring at the map and straightened up. He looked around the circle at their drawn faces. “You’ve been getting the shit end of the stick from day one. Always outnumbered, always outgunned, thirsty, starving, half the time out of ammo, rarely able to do much more than harass them riding around in their goddamned armor. The only thing that’s kept this little police action anywhere close to fair is that occasionally, eventually, they have to get out from behind that armor. We’ve had more luck than some, but that column we hit last week was the first time in two months we were actually able to do some real damage. And the very next day we lose our wheels. Charlie said he was calling everybody in. He wouldn’t do that unless something big was up. Something we don’t know about.”

“You don’t think it’s the Gators?”

Ed shook his head at Bobby. “No, we’d have heard something. I don’t know what it is. But I have a hunch it’s going to be important. And I’d rather be two days early for the party than two minutes late. And taking a roundabout way through the city is a good way to get a feel for the area, see if the Army’s up to anything, whatever. Either way, I want to be on site a full twenty-four hours early so we can get eyes on that location, know what we’re walking into.”

“We’re in sorry shape for any kind of action,” George reminded him.

“I know, I know.”

They’d done an equipment check right before the briefing and it was as bad as it had ever been. George had the most ammunition of any of them, sixty rounds. Ed only had forty-two for his rifle – the pouches all across his chest were filled with magazines, but only one of them was loaded, and that only partially. Everyone in the squad carried at least one pistol and had spare ammo for it, but pistols were last ditch defensive weapons. There was only one round left for Ed’s grenade launcher, and the entire squad had but one hand grenade. George took that; he had the best aim and they’d yet to see him get rattled under fire. Even with the grenades, if they ran into anything larger than a squad of dismounted infantry they’d be down to knives and harsh language in no time.

They had three rechargeable batteries they rotated in the drone jammer, which used to last a whole day; now they barely went eight hours. They hadn’t had a working drone in over a year. The squad had only one working set of night vision goggles and the batteries on those were twitchy. The NV scope on Ed’s carbine had plenty of juice but two working NV units for an eight-man squad heading into enemy territory was far less than a good situation. The filter elements of their water purifiers were long past needing replacement, but of course they had no spares. For the moment, almost all of their canteens were full, but in the city water could be an elusive creature. Food was another matter altogether—they had a day’s rations apiece, no more. But it was a rare day they weren’t hungry; hunger was just another enemy they had to deal with.

Their first aid supplies were nearly exhausted, not that they’d ever really had that much. They had bandages and compresses by the dozen, a few tourniquets, but the painkillers were gone, and there were only a handful of antibiotics left.

Ed sighed. They’d been in worse shape, a lot worse—nobody was dead or bleeding—but this time they didn’t have the luxury of pulling back to wait for a trickling resupply through the Underground Railroad, as they liked to call it. That Byzantine web of doctors, safehouses, of locally grown food, smuggled guns, ammo, and other supplies clandestinely fed to guerilla squads like theirs had kept them in the fight during the worst of times, but to tap into it they’d need to go north, south, or west of the city, and there was no time. They’d just have to make do with what they had, somehow. They always did.

“We’ll head for the general store as soon as we get south of the border,” Ed said gamely, staring at the map. “Then sweep up back northeast to the RP.” He shut off the penlight finally and darkness descended.

“Assuming the cranky bastard’s still alive and in business, and actually has something useful on hand,” Weasel’s voice floated out of the gloom.

“I guess we’ll find out. He’s always got news, if nothing else.” Ed looked to George. “You have anything to add?”

“I want everyone to keep their eyes open and their brain in gear when we get moving.” His gravelly voice was barely more than a murmur. “We don’t know what’s up but that doesn’t mean our friends on the other side don’t. We have to assume they’re on alert, looking for us coming south, just waiting to call in the fast movers and barbeque our asses. Get your shit in order, and your head on straight, or it’s going to be a short trip.”

After a few seconds of silence, Mark’s voice echoed from over by the windows. “Another cheery pep talk from Dale Carnegie. Good thing it’s dark, I’m all weepy now.”

Everybody had to strangle their laughter so as not to violate noise discipline, but Jason heard snorting on both sides of him. The meeting, which had been much more informal than what he’d been expecting—no saluting, or Yes Sirs!—broke up. The squad members climbed to their feet and drifted apart, finding their own space. Jason stood up as well and made his way over to the squad’s leader, who was conferring quietly with George. Behind them stood a decaying office partition that looked like someone had once unsuccessfully tried to light it on fire. He had to clear his throat to be noticed.

“Yes?”

“Yeah, um, well, a couple things,” Jason said. “What do I call you—lieutenant, sergeant? What’s your rank? Should I say Sir? I’ve never been in the army.”

Ed tried hard to suppress a smile, glanced at George. “Well, you’re not in it now, either. The Army’s the people we’re trying to kill. And who are trying to kill us.”

“Plus the Air Force,” George added helpfully.

Ed rolled his eyes. “Yeah, them too.” He sighed and told Jason, “You’re in the ARF Irregulars, kid, and hell, we can’t even agree on what ARF originally stood for. Armed Resistance Fighters, American Reacquisition Forces, whatever, but if you’re a dogsoldier you’ve decided to take a stand and fight for freedom against those of our fellow citizens who have lost their way and those pure bastards who know what they’re doing and are just plain evil. Not that you necessarily need to join up to join in, plenty of killing in this war has been done by people just too fed up to take it any longer, shooting out the front door of their house with their deer rifle or shotgun at soldiers, and before that at cops tasked with enforcing all the new illegal laws. That’s pretty much how the war started, and it’s still happening to this day. Those souls are the true Irregulars, we’re just… semi-regular.” He smiled at his own joke. “As for rank, I’ve got a rank, it’s written down somewhere, but I don’t think it’s really that important right now. Besides, George here has more experience than me and I don’t even think he has a rank. Everybody here’s a volunteer. They can get up and walk out that door right now if they want to. You too. They’re here because they believe in what they’re doing. Fighting the good fight. They put me in charge because I make the right decisions more often than not. That stops, they’ll start listening to someone else.”

The truth was the Irregulars were a lot more organized and regimented than it appeared from the outside, and he did have a rank, just like the squad had a codename, Theodore, but just because they’d found no evidence that the kid was a plant didn’t mean they trusted him. Not completely, not yet.

“You’re in charge because you’re lucky,” Weasel called out quietly.

“Yeah? How is that rib?” Quentin asked the hawk-faced man.

“Coulda been my head,” Weasel shot back. “And we didn’t lose anybody during that thing, not us or the other squad. And we chewed them up bad. Twelve KIA.”

“Only if you’re counting some of them two or three times.”

“The confirmed kill numbers they claim to the media, I think the Army counts actual dogs they shoot as dogsoldiers,” Weasel said.

“That sounds about right,” Mark said with a laugh.

“I don’t care if you call me Ed or Sir or Luke Skywalker,” Ed told the young man. “What I care about is the squad. If George or I or Early, or anybody for that matter, tells you to do something, you do it. Don’t ask why, don’t think about it, just do it. You understand?” Jason nodded quickly.

George spoke up, voice low but full of steel. “You don’t know anything, and don’t think you do. And that’s just fine, everybody was green once. Look around. Ask questions if you need to. Keep up, stay quiet, and when the shooting starts watch what the other guys are doing and imitate them. Soldiers get eight weeks of basic training; we don’t have that luxury. You’re going to learn on the job. We do expect you to make mistakes at first.” He stepped close to the young man, and leaned forward. “At first, you understand me?”

Jason nodded quickly. The grizzled veteran did not appear reassured.

“Get some sleep.” There was just enough of a reflection for Ed’s eyes to be invisible behind the lenses of his glasses. “I want everybody sharp for tomorrow. Weasel!” Ed jerked his thumb at Jason. “Check out the kid’s gear. See what he’s got, throw away any dead weight, get him ready to run.”

“You got it, Captain.”

“Sweet dreams,” George growled at him as he turned away.

Weasel had Jason hold a small muted flashlight as he dug through the boy’s pack. “How many clothes you got?” Weasel muttered. “Hell, all you’ve got is clothes, I was hoping you’d have some food.”

“What does that mean?” Jason asked, gesturing at the letters inked on Weasel’s plate carrier above his rifle magazine pouches. LGBTNBBQ.

Weasel looked down to see what the kid was indicating, then looked up with a smile. “Liquor, Guns, Beer, Titties, and Bar-B-Que. Not necessarily in that order.”

“Oh. Uh, how often do you—do we—run into Army soldiers?” Jason asked.

Weasel’s shrug was almost missed in the dark. “We know where they’re headquartered, but we don’t have the numbers or equipment to take them on there, it’d pretty much be suicide, so we patrol and try to ambush them when they’re out looking for us. Or when they’re not. We’ve gone weeks without even seeing a soldier. And we’ve shot up two different convoys in the same day. You never know.” He sighed and looked at the kid.

“Look, what you’ve got in the city, what we do, this isn’t the ARF. The ARF’s out there with its divisions, Gators, Longhorns, everybody else, and they’re actually fighting the war, with tanks and planes and drones and, well, everything else that we don’t have. They’re the real soldiers. What we are is rats. We scurry around this shithole city, hiding in the dark, waiting for someone to walk by. When we see something, we dart in, bite the shit out of it, and disappear. What we’re doing isn’t going to win the war. What we are doing is keeping this city an open wound in the side of those assholes, one that hopefully keeps them weak and distracted from the real fight. Every soldier they station here is one more not on the front. But that doesn’t mean you can’t get your head blown off if you’re not paying attention. So pay fucking attention.”

CHAPTER FIVE

The rear three-quarters of the building was a high-ceilinged, single room machine shop. Most of the machines were gone now; the lathes, the mills, the grinders, even the chairs. All that was left of them were pale outlines on the grimy floor.

The tall, small-paned, steel-framed windows, greasy as they were, let in a lot of early morning light. Dust motes danced in the yellow glow like clouds of gnats. Jason sneezed once, then looked around to see if the sharp noise would get him in trouble. Most of the squad was scattered throughout the big room, gearing up to move out, and paid him no mind.

His urine, as it splashed onto the grate in the floor, was bright yellow. He knew what that meant, and as soon as he was zipped up took several deep swallows from his full canteen. He would’ve liked more, but everyone seemed paranoid about water—how much they had, where would they get more, would this or that rain trap still be in place. He had just the one canteen, and planned to make it last as long as he could.

Jason had been sleeping on the ground or hard floors for weeks but he still wasn’t used to it. Even using his pack as a pillow his back was stiff every morning, but the discomfort didn’t tame the fire he was feeling. Looking around at the others he felt scared and excited at the same time. By the light of day they didn’t seem so scary, but maybe that was just his initial shock wearing off. They looked competent enough. Not that he had any experience to judge them by.

Mark had roused Jason shortly after dawn with a hand on his shoulder. At first he couldn’t remember where he was—he’d been having a dream about that last fight with his father, where he’d grabbed the rifle, stuffed a few things into his pack, and stomped out. He wondered what his father would think if he could see him now. Probably nothing different, that Jason was making a mistake. His father thought that if he minded his own business the war would just go away and things would go back to normal. Of course they wouldn’t, couldn’t, but his father’s only political conviction seemed to be cowardice.

“Uh, Sir?” The word felt strange in his mouth. Ed was crosslegged underneath one of the windows, in shadow. Parts from a water purifier were strewn across yellowed newsprint on the floor before him. There was a pistol in a holster strapped to his thigh and its butt scraped on the concrete floor as he shifted his weight.

“Yes?” Ed didn’t look up. He picked up a small cylinder and looked at it dubiously, then blew into it.

“You said I should ask if I had any questions, and I, uh…” He was embarrassed to ask, which was stupid. It was a valid question. He was trusting his life to these people, wasn’t he? “How come we’re traveling during the day and not at night? Wouldn’t it be safer at night?”

The commander didn’t seem the least perturbed by the implied accusation inherent in the question. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Ed said. He peered at another small part. Beside him on the floor lay his ugly mottled rifle with what Jason thought was a silencer hanging off the muzzle, and an even uglier weapon. At least, Jason assumed it was a weapon. It resembled a break-top single-shot shotgun, but the proportions were all wrong. The barrel was too short, and far too fat. It was dark green, and the wood stock was scratched and dinged. He was already thought of as the new kid that didn’t know anything, and he didn’t want to reinforce that image by asking Ed what that thing was, so Jason bit his tongue.

Not too far away Mark was cleaning his weapon. He was in charge of their SAW, Squad Automatic Weapon, a small-caliber belt-fed machinegun, and he had it broken apart in pieces on the floor. Without looking up he said “Flurr.” Jason turned his head.

“That’s it,” Ed said.

“That’s what?”

“FLIR,” Ed repeated. “Forward, uh…”

“Looking,” Mark volunteered.

“Right. Forward Looking Infrared. The Army owns the sky, and all of their choppers, those Kestrels, have FLIR. You know what infrared is?”

“Heat, right?”

“Right. The FLIR cameras can find you ‘cause of your body heat. Doesn’t matter if you’re hiding behind bushes or have a camouflage tarp covering your body. The heat you’re giving off lights you up like fluorescent paint.”

“I’ve heard that if it’s cold enough they can even see your footprints,” Bobby chimed in from the corner, where he was pissing onto the grate.

“I don’t know about that,” Ed said. He looked at Jason. “But it only works when there’s a substantial difference in temperature between your body and its surroundings.”

“Nighttime,” Jason said.

“You got it. Cold weather, too, that’s why we really scale it back during wintertime. You think the heat and humidity’s bad, operating in winter’s like Russian roulette. Add to that the fact that at the moment we’ve got about zero night-vision capability, daylight becomes the only time we’ve got anything close to a level playing field.”

Jason nodded. “Got it.” He frowned, wondering if he should ask any more questions. “Um, what were those sheets you guys had pinned up all over the walls and ceiling?” And most of the windows, he could have added. They’d been some sort of quilted fabric that resembled heavy duty burlap.

“Originally it was a space-age material used to wrap steam pipes,” Mark told him. They had looked like something from a spacecraft, Jason had to admit. The material was a butterscotch color with a basketweave pattern.

“I’ve heard there’s copper or even woven ceramic in there,” Ed told him. “Feels like some sort of thick polyester knit, but I’ve heard if you put a blowtorch on it… it does nothing. Barely even discolors it. Those sheets reflect heat. So anyone with a thermal scope or a FLIR unit, which sees body heat, doesn’t see the outline of a body. Blocks it entirely or spreads it out, not sure which, but it keeps us from being spotted through the walls. Or, at least it’s a lot tougher, especially on warm days like this.”

“Really?”

“You think we like the smell of moldy blankets?” Ed looked up at him. “We don’t want to die any more than you do, son.” Whenever possible they staged a cotton or wool blanket or two under slow drips in buildings they frequented to get them soaked with water, as spread wet blankets concealed heat signatures too, and they only had so many of the heat blankets. A soaked mattress was better yet. However, when it came to portability….

Jason’s face flushed. “No, I, uh…”

“You just remember to do what we tell you, when we tell you, when you’re out in the field.” Mark said. “You don’t understand something, you ask later.”

Mark was the only one of them wearing camouflage clothing, pants, but his trousers were cut off at the knee, revealing large, tanned calves above dusty boots. Above the butchered pants, underneath his plate carrier, he wore, of all things, a green and blue Hawaiian shirt. “Why aren’t you guys wearing camo?” Jason asked him. It unnerved him a bit to see a Hawaiian shirt on a man carrying a belt-fed machine gun. These days, possession of any firearm was a felony, even if it was just a single shot duck gun.

“City’s still full of people,” the big man told him. “So just wandering around down there won’t necessarily set off alarm bells. And sometimes we need to blend in. It’s easy to stash your rifle and plate carrier, just takes a couple of seconds. Takes a lot longer to change clothes, if you’ve even got a spare set.”

Jason frowned. “But camo helps you blend in.”

Quentin was nearby, listening, and he snorted. “To what? Rusty cars? Concrete? Half-burned houses? We ain’t trudging through the jungles of Vietnam where everything is green, we’re fighting in a city. Sure there’s a lot of green there, camo would be nice, but your eye spots movement a lot better than it does color. As long as you’re not wearing something that’s bright red or yellow or electric pimp-hand purple, if you’re hunkered down most people won’t see shit until you move.” He pointed at Mark. “Even with the blue that Hawaiian shirt’s great camo, from a distance the blue just looks like shadow. That’s why we’re the Irregulars, we don’t wear uniforms. Being able to blend in with other people helps keep you alive too.”

Jason nodded and hurried off, looking at the floor, feeling like a bit of an ass for asking so many questions. Ed and Mark exchanged a grin, then the commander checked his watch.

“Five minutes,” he softly called out. He caught Mark’s eye. “Go tell Weasel.”

Mark nodded. Weasel was up on the second floor, keeping watch out the front windows. Mark slapped the SAW back together with practiced speed, unfolding its integral bipod so it would stay upright. The SAW’s ammo belt was coiled in a soft-sided box that hung from the underside of the receiver. He laid the end of the belt into the open receiver, then closed the top and chambered the first round. He stood, then bent and picked up the weapon. Mark was a big man, six-foot four, with dirty blonde hair graying at the temples. His Vandyke beard had gone almost entirely grey and badly needed a trim. His arms below the sleeves of the Hawaiian shirt were covered with tattoos.

“This thing’s getting awfully light,” he told Ed. “A machine gun’s supposed to be for suppressive fire. I get any lighter on ammo all the Tabs are going to be doing is suppressing yawns.”

The squad leader looked up and nodded unhappily. No one quite knew where the nickname had come from, but the enemy soldiers, whether they were Army or Air Force, were often referred to as Tabs when no one felt like using any of the usual profane nicknames.

Ed put the purifier back together and stuffed it into his pack. He didn’t know if he’d made it better or worse, but he’d had to try. With a grunt he stood up, shouldered the pack, and grabbed the grenade launcher that had so perplexed Jason. Ed slung it behind his arm alongside his pack.

The small pack wasn’t nearly as heavy as it should have been. They needed to find more food and water, and soon. Conscious of the load on his back he bent down and picked up his carbine. The empty magazines in the front pockets of his vest poked him in the arms. That was another must-have item for the grocery list—ammo.

George cornered Jason on the ground floor. “You really walk down from Omer?” he asked the boy, squinting.

Jason swallowed. “Yes sir.”

“How long did that take you?”

“Eight, nine days to get to the suburbs, then another week before I found the lady who contacted you guys.”

“Hmm.” Well, at least he wasn’t a quitter. George’s feet ached at just the thought of that much walking… not that he wasn’t on his feet all the time anyway, or that they didn’t ache all the time. “You want to go by Jason?”

“Umm… what?”

“We’re fighting our own government, which considers us terrorists, and we’re behind enemy lines to boot. I don’t know about rank-and-file ARF, but Irregulars like to keep their anonymity, so if the government is in the mood for reprisals against family members, audits, property seizures and the like, they don’t know who to go after. Government has a price on all our heads, reward for ‘information leading to the death or capture of…’ Don’t tell me or anybody else here your last name, it’s not like you’re drawing a paycheck. And if you want to use a different name than Jason, that’s fine too. Early’s not Early, and you think Weasel’s his given name? I don’t think even his mother hates him that much.”

“Oh. Uh, Jason’s fine.”

George nodded. He looked at Jason, then around at the immediate vicinity.

“Where’s your rifle?”

Jason pointed. “It’s over there in the corner.”

“Are you carrying a pistol?”

Jason shook his head. George stepped close, and his voice dropped. “We’re in a combat zone. Any second we could take incoming, get surrounded, whatever. If you don’t have a single loaded gun on you, or within arm’s reach, you’re just a liability. Stay strapped or get clapped. You understand me, son?”

Jason nodded quickly. “Yes sir.”

George jerked his head. “Go get your fucking rifle.” Jason scampered off, and when he returned George took a step to the side and gestured. “Shoulder your rifle,” he said.

“What?”

He pointed his hand again. “Point your rifle, I want to see something.”

Jason frowned, but did as he was told, pointing the rifle at the far wall. George noted that the boy kept his finger off the trigger and didn’t point it anywhere near anyone. Without warning, he stepped in front of Jason, and watched as the young man instinctively lowered the rifle and twisted it to the side so that it wasn’t aimed at George.

George nodded. “Excellent. They said you had good muzzle awareness. Keep it up. If you never point your weapon at any of us, even if you fuck up in every other way, you can never shoot us by mistake.” He nodded at the battered lever action. “What is that, a Winchester? No, a Marlin. You shoot a lot of deer with that?” Jason nodded.

“Well, knowing how to stalk and shoot is good, so’s being familiar with the sight of blood, but we’re not out here hunting deer. What we’re going after shoots back, and a lever action rifle’s just not going to cut it. However, we don’t have any spares to give you. Still…” He hoisted his short rifle. “You know how to work one of these?”

Jason shook his head. “I think my dad owned one when I was little, but he turned it in when the government told him to.” He made a face at the memory, then nodded at the stubby piece in George’s gloved hands. “But that’s a machine gun, right?” It also had a metal tube screwed onto the end of the short barrel, which Jason was pretty sure was a silencer.

George snorted and looked down at the gun in his hands. There, barely readable through the three or four worn layers of spray paint—mostly tans—were the words SAINT EDGE etched into the right side of the battered magazine well. “Hell, technically, this is a pistol. Or at least it was, before the war. Now it’s somewhere between ten years in prison and an automatic death sentence they catch me with it, depending on their mood, and who’s doing the catching.”

“A pistol? But it’s…” Jason moved his hands two feet apart.

“Calling this carbine a pistol makes as much sense as forcing law-abiding citizens like your father turn in their guns for the sake of ‘public safety’, but it’s not about making sense, or reducing crime, it’s about taking control. That’s what this whole war’s about in a nutshell. That’s what most wars are about, really.” He sighed. “Okay, let’s get you read in on some of the hardware you’ll be seeing.”

“The camouflage rifles you’ll see the soldiers carrying are M5s. Actually, technically, I think they’re M5A3s, but whatever. They’re chambered in a new proprietary cartridge made just for the military, the 6.8x51mm, that was supposed to be great at punching through walls and car doors and other intermediate barriers, but it still won’t penetrate a chest plate.” He knocked at the one covering his heart. “And compared to the 5.56 ammo that all our rifles shoot, that new 6.8 kicks a lot more, and apparently it beats up the M5s something fierce. The cartridge is stupid and unnecessary, thought up by armchair warriors to justify their salary. Still, I wouldn’t mind having one, but battlefield pickups are mostly a thing of the past, because those M5s all have tracking chips embedded in the polymer stocks. So we can’t use the guns, and that ammo doesn’t fit into anything else, which means we’re always struggling to keep our mags loaded.”

George hefted the gun in his hand. “Most of what we’re running are standard commercial semi-auto rifles people refused to turn in, mostly AR-15s, and that’s true around the country. Mine’s a Springfield Armory, and legally, before the war, it was a pistol. There were a whole lot of AR pistols on the market, with arm braces on the back instead of stocks. After the war popped off most people said ‘Fuck it’ and swapped those braces with stocks, but the Maxim Defense brace on this works better as a stock than most stocks.” He glanced at the left side of the magazine well where there was an oval missing from the aluminum, revealing the side of the polymer magazine beneath it. “Put on stocks, and drilled out the serial number. Helps that the side of the magazine well isn’t required for structural integrity.”

“And that’s a silencer?” Jason asked, pointing at the tube.

“Suppressor, sound suppressor. You ever seen one before?”

Jason shook his head. “They’re illegal.”

George snorted. “They are now. They were legal in over forty states before the war.”

Jason blinked. “Really?” The news said only criminals and terrorists used them. And Army Special Forces.

“Lot of hunters liked to use them. Helped to save their hearing.” George hefted his Springfield. “How loud do you think it would be if I fired this?”

Jason shrugged and shook his head. He’d only ever seen them in movies. “Quiet.”

“Shit,” Weasel said with a snort.

“You ever shoot a .22 rifle?” George asked him.

“Yeah.” Jason had killed a lot of squirrels and other small game with a bolt-action .22. It was the only way they could get any meat, they certainly couldn’t afford to buy it. Of course, hunting was just as illegal now as possession of a firearm, but even his dad ignored those laws when the alternative was borderline starvation, which was why he’d held onto the Marlin lever action, the .22, and one shotgun, all of them kept inside a false wall in the mud room of their house.

“This thing, with this suppressor attached, is as loud as a .22 rifle. Maybe louder.”

“Really?”

“Suppressors are designed to keep you from suffering immediate hearing loss when you pull the trigger, but they are not quiet. Far from it. I pulled the trigger in here your ears would be ringing.” He hefted his gun, gestured to it, then around the room. “So, Springfield AR. Quentin’s got a Smith and Wesson, Bobby’s got SIG, Ed’s got a fancy Geissele… we’re mostly fighting this war with the guns they outlawed, which only seems fitting. Poetic. Ironic? Maybe poetically ironic.”

“It’s totally fucking predictable is what it was,” Mark’s voice floated out of the dimness at the back of the room. “The first shot fired in the American Revolution was at British soldiers trying to seize an ammo dump belonging to the colonists. There were actually too many guns for them to even think about confiscating those—sound familiar?—so they went after ammo instead, and that war lasted for eight years. Those who forget history are doomed to blah blah blah.”

“This war’s got that one beat by at least a year,” George observed. No wonder he felt so tired. He looked at the new kid. “This and most of the guns we’ve got are semi-auto, one round per pull of the trigger, which is all you really want most of the time. The only full-auto guns we’ve got here are Weasel’s MP5 subgun, Ed’s Geissele, and Mark’s SAW. Don’t mess with that, belt-feds are a whole ‘nother animal. But apart from the MP5 and SAW and Early’s big piece of lumber, all the rifles we’ve got or that you’re likely to see in the hands of doggies are ARs of one kind or another, and work the same way. And take the same magazines, which is important. Let me show you how to work the controls.”

“Okay. Um, why?”

“So if the guy next to you gets killed, you know how to shoot his rifle when you pick it up.”

As the rest of the squad sealed up their packs and shouldered their loads Ed wandered toward the rear of the former machine shop where Early sat patiently on a thick pipe, his big rifle across his knees.

“You know, ah had a thought this mornin’,” Early began.

“Yeah?”

“You evah consider maybe that Uncle Charlie was compromised and left that message f’us with a gun to his head?”

Ed sighed and shook his head. “You really know how to start the day off rosy. Yeah, I thought of it. Every single time we get a mission I think of it.”

“Jes’ wonderin.”

“He didn’t use any of the red flags, though.” If Uncle Charlie, or anyone for that matter, was captured and forced to send a message, they were supposed to insert any one of a half dozen innocuous words into the message, so the recipient would know he was compromised.

“Yeah. So?”

“You’re right. But we weren’t going to stumble in blind anyhow. And I can’t let the ‘what ifs’ take over.”

“I know, Cap’n, I know, jes wanted to bring it to your attention.”

Ed glanced around the room at his squad. Camo or not, no one was going to mistake them for regular army, what with their bearded faces, helmet-less heads, and motley collection of weapons. Which was both good and bad; if they stumbled across an army patrol they’d never be able to pass for regular army, even at a distance, but at least they should be safe from friendly fire. Hopefully. He looked back down at Early.

“You going to need help getting up?” He did an admirable job of keeping a straight face.

Early squinted up at him. Ed was silhouetted against one of the filmy windows lit up by the morning sun.

“I saw how badly you were shaking last night trying to keep your rifle on the kid,” Ed went on. “I mean, Jesus Christ, Early, for a second there I thought you were having a heart attack.”

Early looked from him to George, who’d walked up and was now trying hard to hide a smile. “It’s gotta be hard being the only retiree on the squad,” George said innocently. “We’ve got time this trip to stop for afternoon naps, don’t we?” He raised his eyebrows at Ed.

“Oh you miserable bastards,” Early cursed. His hands gripped his rifle tight as he stood. “If either a you carried a real rifle maybe we could have an adult conversation.” He’d been forty-nine years old, just three years from retirement, when the war started, and that was near on a decade ago. Through all the years of fighting he’d managed to keep the same rifle he’d started with, a National Match M1A. Compared to the carbines the Army and just about everybody else used it was long and heavy and didn’t hold much ammo, but what he hit stayed down. And he had a track record of hitting what he was aiming at quite a bit more often than not.

George held out his stubby carbine. “You want to trade for the day? I don’t mind carrying an antique.” He eyed the bright scrape down the handguard. He knew he needed to repaint the thing, but finding spraypaint these days was nearly impossible. Grease, though, he should be able to find some grease inside this former machine shop to rub on it.

Early was visibly insulted. “Carry one ‘a your poodle shooters? No thank you. I take my job seriously.” He scowled at the short-barreled carbine in George’s hands. “I think I’d be insulted, you shot me with that thing.”

It was so easy to push Early’s buttons. George sobered up first. “How many rounds you got left for that beast again?”

Early pinched his lips together unhappily. “Thirty-four. We don’t do something soon I’ll be throwing rocks.”

Ed checked his watch. Time to go. He pulled the SatLink6 and battery out, assembled it and switched it on, unable to contain his impatience as it booted up. Once it was ready to go he looked at the signal strength icon. He’d charged the battery for twenty minutes early that morning, hooking it to the roll-up solar panel he’d laid on the concrete out back where it caught the morning sun. George was tasked with carrying the drone jammer, and he had his own rubber-backed solar panel for the four working batteries they still had for it.

“Can we get a signal here?” Ed asked. It wasn’t the metal in the roof interfering with the signal. Satellite coverage in the city had never been great, even though back before the war every car with a satellite radio never had any problem getting a signal. He supposed the military had shut down or taken over a lot of the birds in orbit. Or the ARF had taken them out.

George pointed. “That corner, usually.”

Ed moved to the rear corner of the shop room and was rewarded with a half-strength signal reading. “Better than nothing,” he muttered. He pulled out the tablet and got that up and running. He quickly checked the forum thread and saw there were no new messages, then used his thumbs to type in the other now-familiar web address.

George moved up quietly behind him and peered over his shoulder as a list of cities appeared on the small screen. Ed tapped one and the two men waited.

“I’m surprised it’s stayed up this long,” George said, nodding at the screen. “Whoever this guy is, he’s good.” He blinked. “I wonder if it’s Uncle Charlie, or someone on his team.”

The palm-sized screen changed from bluish-white to a mottled brownish green and both men breathed silent sighs of relief. Ed checked the readout in the corner of the photo for the time it was taken. “Christ, Zulu, Greenwich Mean Time, I can never remember. When was this taken?”

George checked his watch. “Thirty-seven minutes ago.”

“Not bad,” Ed said, nodding, as he used his fingertips to zoom in on the satellite photo. The mottled colors soon resolved themselves into a busy crisscross of tiny lines and dark splotches.

“No cloud cover,” George observed, staring at the screen. He then looked out the grimy windows, peering upward into the dark blue sky, idly wondering what piece of the world the satellite that had taken this photo was over now. “Better save this and disconnect.”

“Shit, yeah, right.” Ed saved the ultra-hi-res photo file and then pulled the battery from the SatLink. He then moved to the far corner of the building where the walls and pipes prevented any signal from going in or out. You never knew when someone might be trying to trace your signal, although passive downloading from a piggybacked Polish server was a far cry from broadcasting propaganda. He put away the SatLink and peered at the photo on the tablet.

Ed tapped the zoom button repeatedly, leaning close to peer at the screen until his nose was almost touching. The resolution on the satellite photo was scary good.

“Move a little north, about one tic,” George suggested. “That’ll center us.” He watched as the squad leader re-centered the screen. What was now displayed on the tablet’s small screen was a section of the city approximately one mile across. Both men squinted at it. “You think they have a clue we’ve got access to this?” he wondered aloud, much as he did every time they studied satellite data.

“As soon as they found out they would shut it down,” Ed replied. “Unless ARF controls the satellite. I don’t know.” His world was filled with unknowns. Since he couldn’t control them, he tried not to worry.

“Unless they wanted to feed us doctored photos.”

“Now there’s a cheery thought.”

“Too iffy, though,” the taciturn man said. “The photo covers the whole city, and unless they knew exactly when we’d download it, and where we were when we did, and where we wanted to go, they wouldn’t know exactly how to fudge it to get any benefit. And if they knew all that they’d just send in armor to surround us.”

“Hmmm. I wish this thing was bigger,” Ed said for the hundredth time, staring at the small screen. “See anything?”

“Not yet. Keep heading in.”

As Ed resumed zooming in on the satellite photo, he commented, “I don’t think whoever set this up is still hands on.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think he set up a ghost piggyback program for the bird to download an extra copy of these photos to this site. In fact, they probably don’t come directly to this site, I’m sure they’re routed through all sorts of blind links before they end up there.”

“That makes sense. I forgot, you were in computers, before, weren’t you?”

Ed glanced back at him briefly. “A little bit.” Ed didn’t like talking about his life before the war. Not many of the men did.

“All right, stop there.” Both men studied the picture carefully. “Okay, this is us,” George said, pointing with his finger at a tiny tan rectangle in the center of the screen, the building in which they stood. “What do we got?”

They both squinted at the screen in silence for about a minute. The tip of Ed’s finger traced the streets surrounding their building.

“Okay, nothing rolling, and no roadblocks or checkpoints. Why don’t you zoom in another thirty percent or so and we’ll work the route south.” Ed nodded and did just that. The rest of the squad glanced occasionally at the two men hunched over the small computer screen. The men who’d finished cleaning their weapons and checking their gear sat quietly, waiting. Finally, the squad’s two leaders straightened up. Everyone knew what that meant.

“Quentin?”

Perched on a deep steel shelf bolted to the wall, Quentin had been on watch for the last hour, staring out a clean spot in the grimy north side windows. He turned his head, the sunlight painting his cheek a rich shade of copper. “Nothin’ but the pigeons.”

Everyone then turned their heads toward Bobby, who had the south side windows. He shook his head. “Clear here.” Up on the second floor, Weasel would have called out immediately if he’d seen anything.

“All right.” Ed nodded. He spoke to Mark. “Weasel’s got the best eye. Tell him to stay in place until we pull around front. He can come right out the front door and jump in.” Mark nodded and jogged up the stairs. He was back a few seconds later and gave a thumbs-up.

George straightened. “Okay, anybody who’s not, wake the fuck up. We’re going to be all over each other in that car. I want you loaded, but safeties on. You hear that? Safeties on. Doublecheck ‘em, and watch your muzzles getting in and out. We’re going to be packed like sardines—a stray round won’t just hit one person, you got it?” He got a few dark looks from the seasoned veterans, but nobody said anything. Among other things George had been a firearms instructor before the war, and old habits died hard.

The room echoed with snicks and clicks as everyone checked and doublechecked their weapons and gear. Jason looked around nervously. He felt like he should be doing something, but he didn’t know what. After what had happened the night before, he decided to just wait for them to tell him to do something.

George pointed himself at a wall and practiced snapping his carbine up to his shoulder a few times to get a sight picture. Ed blew dust off the lenses of his carbine’s optical sight and snapped the weapon up to his shoulder a few times. The scope’s reticle, a large ruby red circle around a dot, was powered by light-gathering fiber optics and glowed faintly in the dim shop. In direct sunlight the sun lit up the reticle like it was powered by batteries, but he was glad it wasn’t. Batteries were getting harder and harder to find. Behind it on the weapon’s receiver was the base for the small NV scope Ed had pulled off just after dawn. He took a deep breath and wiped his palms on his thighs one at a time.

“All right,” Ed said finally, scratching his head, staring at their transportation. “Let’s see if we can all fit in and then maybe this piece of crap will actually start.”

The Ford Expedition was thirty years old if it was a day. The general consensus was that its original paint job had been a creamy yellow. It had been painted at least twice since then, poorly, and suffered body damage, major and minor, along with a not inconsiderable amount of rust. It looked like someone with a rich diet and internal hemorrhaging had been sick all over the car, and when they’d first spotted it Bobby immediately dubbed it the Vomit Comet.

All four tires were low on tread and the suspension was pretty much shot. Every window, including both the front and back windshields, had long ago been smashed out. Even in these slim times there were much nicer vehicles to be found, but they just hadn’t had the time. The battered SUV was big enough to hold the squad, if just barely, and wonderfully nondescript. It also held something even harder to find than a working vehicle—gasoline, over a third of a tank. The Ford was old enough that Quentin, who in some former life had spent a few years as a mechanic, had been able to get it up and running without a diagnostic computer.

There was no power, of course, but the blue overhead door could be rolled up by hand. Ed unbolted the pedestrian door beside it, glanced at Quentin, who gave him a thumbs up, and stepped outside.

The air was already heating up in the bright sunlight. It was going to be a scorcher, but the brick and concrete hadn’t yet begun to soak up the heat and the shadows were still cool. Ed looked left and right, but nothing was moving on the short cross-street that dead-ended to the west at a double set of train tracks atop a six-foot gravel-strewn berm. The four-foot-wide alley at the back of the shop was empty but for some broken bottles and the reek of something very dead. He stood there silently, waiting, watching and listening. All he heard were a few birds. He smacked his hand against the overhead door, then walked toward the front of the building, scanning the street, the windows, the few bushes, the carbine’s buttstock tucked into his shoulder, ready.

Ed crouch-walked to the corner, squatted behind a twisted juniper bush, and used his loved and much-abused Meopta binoculars to peer north and south. Above the still concrete the air was just starting to shimmer in the heat. The mirage waves were boiling straight upward, which meant another day without so much as a whisper of wind. To the east a piece of frayed string had been flung across the sky, a contrail so high up they’d heard nothing of the jet’s passage. Military or commercial jet, he wondered. As insane as it seemed, much of the world was going on with business as usual (or attempting to) while the war raged.

Behind him the overhead door rolled up with protesting groans. The Expedition’s exhaust was a low chug as Quentin backed it out. Mark and Early were in the way back, designated tailgunners, staring out the hole where the rear window used to be, kneeling on the tattered brown carpet. George was with Quentin in the front seat, and the two kids, Bobby and Jason, were behind them. Between their packs and rifles, the six men already had the vehicle filled.

As the Ford chugged patiently behind him, Ed checked the street once more with his naked eye, then waved the SUV around the corner. It had barely come to a stop in front of the building before Weasel was out the door. He piled into the front seat. Ed was right behind him and jumped in next to Jason, who looked nervous enough to puke.

Quentin had the car moving even before the doors were closed. The Ford swayed like a pregnant cow under the weight, and accelerated much the same, but the engine never faltered.

George had his carbine aimed forward, over the dash, and scanned the street ahead of them. “Here’s where the fun begins,” he muttered.

CHAPTER SIX

At the moment his office was on the fourth floor, and faced south. Every few weeks he moved it inside the building, just in case there were informants among the civilian employees. Well, he knew there were informants and infiltrators, one of his Lieutenants had been found with his throat slit in one of the abandoned office buildings in the Blue Zone just the week before.

An industrious guerilla or two could conceivably get close enough to put a round through the double-paned plate glass window before him, no matter how tight perimeter security supposedly was or how many tanks were parked around the building.

For a base of operations his predecessor had chosen well. The piece of land he’d staked out was hard to beat, at least inside the city, so close to the river. The location provided almost instant access to two expressways and two major surface streets while being somewhat physically isolated.

Truthfully, the environs had had less to do with the late Major General Block’s choice of the site than the buildings themselves. The logic of his choice was hard to dispute; the electric company building, he said, would be the last to lose power and the first to get it back. Ditto the AT&T building. The perimeter included the Federal Building in the southeast corner, and the public safety headquarters (city and state police and fire) in the southwest corner. Most of the surface streets leading into the half mile square area had been blocked off to vehicular and foot traffic with concrete barriers and concertina wire.

It was within the first building that the current base commander moved his office about. The soldiers had dubbed it Echo Base, E for electric, or maybe Edison, and the name had gradually expanded to denote the entire military compound. Supposedly the name was some sort of classic sci-fi reference, but to what he’d never known. It was twenty-four stories tall, the tallest of an interconnected cluster of four buildings that, with their associated parking lots, sat at the north end of the property the military had taken for their own.

On the south side of the buildings were two whole square city blocks of cheerful plazas with fountains and modern art sculptures and decorative landscaping. Or so he’d seen in old photos—once the military claimed the area those two blocks, plus the parking lot of the adjacent Leland hotel, and the park just north of that, the area became parking lots and, eventually, an airfield for his rotary wing aircraft when he no longer had the resources to guarantee the security of his birds at the airport some fifteen miles west. The fountains had been filled in, the grass paved over, the sculptures torn down. In their place was a sea of concrete, with helicopter landing pads on the south and east side of Echo Base. The two hangars for their aircraft sat on the eastern end of the concrete, almost in the dead center of the base. Most of his tanks squatted in the numerous surrounding parking lots, which accounted for nearly half the area inside the perimeter, their main guns facing outward protectively. If only Echo Base was as impregnable as it looked. Echo Base was at the south end of the Blue Zone, the strictly controlled and patrolled strip in the middle of downtown where everyone tried to pretend the war was happening somewhere else, to other people.

There were still a few hardy souls working for the power company in Echo, but most of the building was vacant office space and the Army officers were free to move their offices around. The view from his eighth-floor office had been much better, but that really was too high. If the guerillas launched a major attack on the building the first thing to go (after the windows) would be the power, which meant the elevators. If his aides had to run up and down eight floors in the thick of it, most likely in the dark, he wouldn’t have to worry about the opposition, his own people would kill him. The enlisted troops were billeted in the ground floor of the adjacent office building.

Echo Base was an oddly contoured piece of real estate, roughly the shape of a rectangle, half a mile long by a third wide. Lay the rectangle long side down, chop off the top right corner, turn the rest clockwise a hair, and there was Echo Base. It was bordered on the north and west by sunken multilane expressways, and to the south by a simple four lane surface street. Running through the lower third of the rectangle was an avenue fully seven lanes wide, blocked at both ends by manned gates—those were the only ways in and out of the base. Between Echo and the sunken expressway to the west was a huge casino, now abandoned. The perimeter of the base was a tangle of chain link, razor wire, jersey barriers and dragon teeth, patrolled constantly day and night by men on foot and in vehicles.

The east side was the most vulnerable. There Echo Base ended at a simple surface street, four lanes across, with five and six story buildings perching right on the opposite curb. The 27-story former Federal Building and the similarly-sized AT&T headquarters, both at the southeast corner of the base perimeter, helped block visual access to much of the base. General Block had ordered many of the buildings in the immediate vicinity demolished, but the east was still the direction from which they took most of the harassing sniper fire.

The Federal Building had been profoundly ugly even when new; it looked like a high-rise prison. It had been so badly damaged in the fighting it had been abandoned, and the drastically reduced-in-number federal agents still in the city worked out of the public safety headquarters. The PSH seemed a good spiritual stand-in for the city—it was nearly a ghost town with the police and fire departments present in name only.

In addition to those structures, the power company buildings and the AT&T skyscraper, Echo Base contained the burned-out shell of a small commercial building that had once housed a bar, a former Salvation Army office (now abandoned), a twelve-story apartment building, and a twenty-story hotel called the Leland.

The Leland hotel was at the eastern edge of the Army base’s perimeter, its ground floor wrapped in layer upon layer of concertina wire, inside a quadruple row of dragon’s teeth. The concrete obstacles were designed to stop car bombs and tanks, but did nothing against the bullets which slammed into hotel far too often for comfort even at this late date. Although it had been almost a year since anyone had lobbed a 40mm grenade through a window of the hotel, and years since it had taken an RPG.

The officers, when not on duty, still slept there, but on the west and north sides of the hotel, where the Tangos would have to fling their ordnance a thousand yards or more, across the length of Echo Base, to reach the hotel. Most of the civilian contract employees and city government workers lived up at the north end of the Blue Zone in what was called the New Center area. There was a hotel there, the St. Regis, that had been commandeered by the government not too long into the war, and it was connected to many of the adjacent high-rises by pedestrian walkways above the streets, further enhancing security.

General Block hadn’t been the first casualty in the Leland, but he was the most well-known. He’d died half-asleep, drinking his morning coffee, staring out a south-facing window, cut down by sniper fire from a derelict office building nearly four hundred yards away. The guerillas had known exactly which window to fire into and were gone long before troops could identify the building from where the shot had been fired. A search had turned up a rifle—an old Remington 700 bolt-action in .270 Win, topped with a cheap 3-9X scope—in a room on the fourth floor.

The serial number on the weapon had been run, and it came back registered to a man at an address in one of the small bedroom communities to the south. Two federal firearm agents accompanied a squad of soldiers on a raid of the address… which resulted in two more dead, and four injured, as the guerrillas had boobytrapped the house.

Forensic analysis of General Block’s body and the window in his room revealed bullet impacts from three different rifles, fired so closely together witnesses only heard one gunshot. The technique was an advanced one—the glass might deflect a bullet, or nerves might get the better of one man, and he’d jerk the trigger and send the shot awry, but with three snipers? One of the bullets was bound to find its mark, after the others helped soften up the glass.

It hadn’t been luck, spotting the general standing before that window. One of the hotel employees, a maid, never showed up for work the next morning, so there was no mystery to how they’d known which window to aim for.

Block had been appointed the area commander not long after the local ground war, such as it was, was over. He’d been in charge for seven years, far longer than anyone had expected the war to last, before being assassinated. As for the man who was General Block’s successor, he had a well-appointed room in the hotel that he was using more often lately, but still found himself regularly sleeping in his office, or in one of the rooms nearby. The building seemed to be filled with couches, half of them expensive leather jobs. He was stretched out on a long loveseat, half awake, when Major Cooper came in to wake him.

Major Paul Cooper was his S2, the member on his staff in charge of intelligence, and also his Number 2 man at this command. Cooper was also the elder of the two, and by all rights should have been the one promoted, but he was too much of a professional to say anything critical of the decision. Forty-two years old, he was slender with coal black hair slowly graying at the temples and a ramrod stiff posture. He was brusque and efficient and damn near emotionless no matter what was going on around him.

“Good morning Sir. I see you didn’t make it back to the hotel last night.” Without waiting for a reply the Major strode into the next room, set a stack of papers down on the desk, and opened the horizontal blinds. The thin light of morning lit up Colonel Anthony Parker blinking on the couch.

The colonel kicked off the ugly, thin, Army-issue blanket and sat up stiffly. He slept in an undershirt and jockey shorts but kept his uniform and boots within reach in case the building came under fire during the night. Prior to the war he’d been an avid long distance runner, but that was one luxury he had no time for now. He’d also been a lowly Captain, which showed how much things had changed. His stomach was still flat, his long legs still muscled, but he looked to be in much better shape than he actually was after a decade of coffee, stress, and very little physical activity. He hadn’t worked out in years, and it only in the past few months had started hitting the gym again. Motivation was the key. More than a few grey hairs had begun to sprout from his temples, a most unwelcome sight.

No one could agree on exactly when widespread civil unrest turned into open warfare, but things had been going downhill for a long while before the sides actually started trading shots, everyone agreed on that. Well, except for the gun nuts resisting the legal confiscation of the military-style firearms they never should have been allowed to own in the first place. They’d been the loudest voices protesting the government and had been very successful, unfortunately, in convincing a lot of otherwise smart people to join the fight. It was always a few loudmouths that got mobs stirred up and started riots.

Before the war, relationships between the cities and suburbs, the coasts and the center of the country, the two political parties, hadn’t been so strained in decades, if not centuries. There’d been a rash of riots in many of the big cities, ostensibly about race or immigration or some other perceived slight, but in Parker’s experience all rioters cared about was causing trouble. And maybe looting some freebies. The conspiracy theories about the government fomenting the riots to justify taking more control were just ridiculous, of course.

Martial law was declared in several cities, government troops deployed, some federal agents and soldiers got missions to search neighborhoods for recently banned weapons, but instead of the violence ending all of a sudden there was a lot of shooting—the government and military versus… well, at first they just seemed to be criminal malcontents. Troublemakers. Anti-government extremists who seemed to be opposed to everything the government wanted to do to restore order. Isolated incidents, at first, but the harder the government tried to tamp them down, temporarily suspending habeas corpus (although that temporary suspension was still in effect) the more resistance flared up, and suddenly they found themselves in a patchwork civil war, although officially, even now nearly a decade later and after mountains of bodies, it was still officially a “police action”, at least as far as the politicians were concerned. Worthless words. His men were still just as dead.

All of the experts had predicted the conflict would be over before it was really begun, the upstart self-titled constitutionalists falling before the combined weight of the armed forces. And, with those first big victories, it had seemed like the conflict would have a short life, and things would go back to normal. The military had the tanks and aircraft, after all, as well as the intelligence structure. Then things went off the rails; sabotage on a wide scale, massive desertions and defections including so much of the Marine Corps it basically ceased to be an effective fighting unit. At least for the government. The government somehow lost control of half its surveillance satellites and had so many other software problems it was obvious they were due to hacking and sabotage. There was sniping and random attacks on an enormous level from “lone wolf” perpetrators as seemingly every idiot with a gun decided to join in. At the early war’s height those lone wolf snipers were killing a thousand police officers and government agents and soldiers a month all across the country. Some of them in front of their families. They were mostly working alone, taking targets of opportunity, and were almost impossible to stop when seemingly everyone had guns. It was insane.

That’s what Parker had been taught in school, before joining the military. The random sweeps done in concert with the martial law declaration worked prior to the start of the war, and afterward… for a short while. Then the raid teams, often federal agents working with military troops, would either get ambushed on the way to seize guns or on the way back, often emptyhanded, because of some sympathizer warning the locals. When he was young Parker had been outraged about it all, and it had been a fight he’d been happy to join in, to defend his country from the lunatic enemy within that was tearing it apart and causing anarchy.

Now he was just tired.

The couch was in a little room off the office he’d temporarily claimed. In addition to the couch the room held a small refrigerator, a tiny bar (long since emptied), and its own bathroom with a shower. The Colonel had no doubts that the executive whose office this had been had spent many an afternoon banging his secretary on the leather couch. Every once in a while he idly wondered where they might be, whether they were still alive. Millions had died, from the war, from starvation, from disease, so many millions that the government had to conceal the true casualty numbers from the people for the sake of morale and unity.

Parker was under no illusions; he knew how lucky he was, in this city, in these thin times, just to have power, much less have it ninety-nine days out of a hundred. Inside he raged at the enemy for causing all this misery and suffering. The running water was a miracle. He took a lukewarm, three-minute shower, then cracked the door and let Major Cooper brief him on the night’s events while he drip dried.

“The resupply ship still has not arrived,” was the first thing out of the Major’s mouth, knowing that was what concerned the Colonel the most.

“And have they provided us with an explanation?” That goddamn ship was going to rust through and sink to the bottom, the rate it was proceeding across the lake and down the river. The trip was less than three hundred miles. They would have sent everything by train, but the guerrillas kept blowing up the tracks in that region.

“No Sir, nothing I would qualify as such. Apparently they had to wait quite a while for a minesweeper to check the area outside their last port of call.”

“A minesweeper. When was the last time we lost a boat to a mine?” It was a rhetorical question, and the Major didn’t bother replying. Nineteen months ago, both men could have answered, but the Navy had strict procedures when it came to waterways it “knew” to be mined. And that hadn’t even been a mine, a terrorist had swum out to the ship in the middle of the night and planted a homemade bomb on the hull. The end result was the same.

His command wasn’t completely cut off, far from it. They received supplies and equipment every day. They came by road and rail and supply planes, from ships heading up and down the river, carried by military transports and those private businessmen who’d decided the money involved was worth the risk. Food, medical supplies, spare parts and, first and foremost, fuel. Not nearly enough fuel, and less every day. However, what he needed the most—besides the diesel and gas, that is—what he sought desperately, was something the private sector could not provide. Armor. Armored vehicles, and men to command them. That was what was on the supply ship. A handful of tanks, not nearly as many as he’d asked for, just a token few, but a few was better than none. Along with the tanks were some support vehicles, three pieces of self-propelled artillery, some IMP armored personnel carriers, half a dozen of the problematic four-wheel-drive Growlers, and ammunition enough to replenish their dwindling supply. It wasn’t that the enemy kept cutting their supply lines, far from it. His own superiors did that. His wasn’t the real war, they told him, just an “occupation”, or a “non-critical holding action”. His wasn’t technically a “peacekeeping” force as the area had yet to see any post-conflict peace, but his goals and mission were the same, so when it came to men and materiel his was the last wish list to be filled. The big shipments of arms and ammo, and men, went to the front, such as it was. The thing was, he knew, most of the fighting in this war had been nowhere near anything that could be called a “front”. The military currently was fond of the term “contested territory”. The only difference between the city he occupied and the theaters most of the military was operating in was the level of opposition.

“There didn’t seem to be much activity at all in the city last night,” Cooper went on. “Hardly any reports of sniper fire or movement, which is a nice change. I do, however, finally have the detailed after-action report of the patrol that got hit late last week, with interviews of the wounded. The AAR is already on your desk.”

“Tell me.” The AAR would tell him the who, the what, and the when, but sometimes they didn’t provide the whole story. He knew he’d lost four men in the attack, with another ten injured. It was the biggest single loss they’d suffered in months. Which meant they’d had a relatively quiet spring and summer. For which, he knew, he should be grateful, but he also knew the lull wouldn’t last.

“An understrength platoon from the 12th, more like three squads, really, twenty-eight men, commanded by Lieutenant Hauser. Mixed armor package, including one Toad, doing a sweep and clear. Force projection as much as anything else, that’s why they had the Toad.” Through the cracked door he saw the Colonel nodding.

That was the only reason they still patrolled this gigantic cesspool of a city, “force projection”. Parker, and Cooper, and probably all of the soldiers in the command would prefer to just stay buttoned up inside their base and let the city eat itself, but IV Corps in all its wisdom had decreed that, despite a critical lack of men and resources (most notably fuel), they had to keep patrolling the area to keep the population in check.

And, in truth, Parker was in charge of more than just the city, he was in charge of the whole region, from Fort Gratiot to the northeast to Lansing to the west, all the way to Monroe in the south. However, it was the city and the suburbs which surrounded it which occupied the lion’s share of his time, attention, and manpower. The city was the rotten center of the decaying piece of fruit they’d all been told to eat with a smile.

“On their way back in, running late because one of their vehicles broke down. They were rolling in four Growlers, doing a sweep, backed up by the Toad and IMP.” Growlers were the Army’s four-wheel-drive passenger vehicle. Great ground clearance, and enough torque to get over or around just about any obstacle, but their passenger compartments were cramped, their diesel engines were loud, and their transmissions were, strangely enough, difficult to maintain. The troops were not fond of them.

“They were hit at a residential intersection. One of the Growlers was not armored, and the armored windows on the other one failed to stop half the incoming. UV deterioration, apparently.” Parker nodded. They’d been seeing a lot of that, but despite numerous requisition requests had yet to receive any new armored window panels for their Growlers. Or run-flat tires. “The tank commander fired a round from the main gun, and the troops cranked off a lot of rounds from their rifles and belt-feds, but they didn’t find any bodies. They had to abandon one of the Growlers, it was shot up pretty good. When a patrol went back for it, it was stripped and torched.”

“Of course. Heavy weapons?”

“Just small arms, rifles and a couple grenades. The lieutenant thinks they were ambushed. Well, of course they were ambushed, but he thinks it was ‘extensively planned’.”

“Hmmmm.” As dry as he was likely to get just standing there, the Colonel pulled on a clean pair of jockeys and opened the door the rest of the way. He shared a look with his subordinate. Both of them knew that if it had been a planned ambush, a lot more than four people would be dead. And the guerrillas really didn’t like going up against the impenetrable Toads, which was why there’d been one with the patrol. A hasty ambush, perhaps, set up by a guerilla squad that’d heard the Growlers coming their way. Luck. “No enemy KIA even with a 120mm main gun firing at them?”

The Major made a face. “The tank commander accidentally had a sabot round loaded instead of HE.”

“Christ. Why the hell? There isn’t any enemy armor within a two hundred miles of this godforsaken trash heap of a city.”

“He knows he was supposed to have an HE round loaded, sir. He screwed up.”

Parker sighed. Christ. More dead men on his conscience. How many did that make? Eleven in the past month alone. What a waste, killed patrolling a city that had been killing itself long before the war ever started. Hell, the city wasn’t dying, it was dead. They were fighting over a corpse.

Major Cooper watched his commander get dressed. Parker was a likeable man, but sorely out of his depth when it came to commanding this many men and machines. He wasn’t stupid, per se, he just didn’t have the experience required. Admittedly, the Army was a little short on experienced officers—hell, make that a lot short. They’d had a dearth of competent officers before the war ever started, what with the massive retirements due to the new socially and culturally sensitive rules imposed on the military by the new administration. After the war more commanders than he wanted to remember had either deserted or ended up like General Block. In Parker’s chain of command the men directly above him, General Maxwell Goetterman and Brigadier General Danvers, had both died in the suburbs just a few miles to the north, Goetterman during the intense but short-lived armor campaign, Danvers four years later from a sniper’s bullet. After General Block’s assassination they hadn’t bothered to assign a new General to this command, or promote Colonel Parker after assigning him to hold the region. Cooper wasn’t sure what that said about the importance of this command, that it no longer rated a General. Nothing good.

Since the initial conflagration they’d held the ground, sure, with their tanks and aircraft and men, but at what cost, and with what result? They’d lost only fourteen tanks during the fierce eight-day battle, surprisingly few. Since then they’d lost twenty-two, a few from sabotage, a few when a Toad rolling through the city or parked in a laager outside the wire with a hatch open was successfully swarmed or hit with a grenade or RPG. The rest were destroyed by improvised weapons such as a combination of hand-dug tank traps and fertilizer bombs. Not to mention all the IMP armored personnel carriers and Growlers that had been destroyed and not replaced. And men. They now only had twelve tanks, only eight of them functional, and his mechanics were having to cannibalize the four for parts to keep those eight running. Parker rarely had them out patrolling the city, ostensibly because they rarely had the fuel to support patrols, but the truth was he was deathly afraid of losing another. His plan seemed to be working, as they hadn’t lost a tank in almost a year. Spare parts were getting so scarce he’d already started cannibalizing his own vehicles, and he barely had the fuel to send them out more than once a week. They sat around the perimeter, main guns facing out, the crews disgruntled, their morale nonexistent. Not that they had much morale to begin with, they were all draftees.

The situation with the aircraft wasn’t any better. They had more tanks than Kestrels, and you couldn’t patrol an entire massive metropolitan area and its environs, much less project force, with only a handful of helicopters. There were no fighter jets stationed at the airport, either, not any more. None. Any that landed were just there to refuel.

The young Colonel had yet to rule the city, much less tame it, no matter what the reports said about who held what ground. It was a festering wound that continued to fester. After two years of command. His predecessor had fared no better. Not that things were going well in the war anywhere, it seemed to have devolved into a war of attrition, but worries like that were above Cooper’s pay grade. He was not, however, ignorant of the fact that while the other side had less armor and vehicles and planes and bombs and drones and satellites… they had far more bodies in the fight. And in a war of attrition, numbers mattered.

After Block’s untimely demise Parker had been picked for the command, the Major was convinced, for no other reason than because, in addition to being politically reliable, everybody liked him. His men liked him, as much as any soldiers liked their commanding officer, and the brass at HQ liked him. Which was fine, as long as he could do the job.

To be fair, they didn’t have enough men and machines to physically command a piece of earth the size of which they’d been charged with “governing” or “pacifying” or any one of a dozen other euphemisms. It just wasn’t possible. The city itself was 140 square miles of destroyed buildings, empty homes, and vacant land being reclaimed by Mother Nature, and the “Zone of Conflict”, the contested surrounding urban and suburban areas, tripled that. Once you added in all the outlying cities and suburbs and rural farmland, Parker was tasked with controlling nearly twenty-five hundred square miles. An area more than twice the size of Rhode Island. Forget men and machines, Parker never had the fuel reserves to be able to consistently patrol such a space, so he’d concentrated his efforts on the city and the surrounding ‘burbs, which was where most of the trouble occurred anyway.

There were always ways to project force and influence beyond your number… but Parker seemed unable to do anything but respond to the guerillas’ actions. That was a dead-end street—you didn’t win a war by playing defense. He’d said as much to the Colonel, in a polite, non-insubordinate way, but nothing had changed. His predecessor, General Block, had attempted to keep the populace cowed with immediate reprisals against the citizenry whenever there was a guerrilla attack. Parker was no fan of mass jailings, much less the torture or mass executions Block was famous for, and had stopped most of those upon assuming command. Cooper thought that made him appear weak, and had said as much as politely as he could, but Parker was quick to point out the guerrilla attacks had not increased under his “kinder, gentler” hand. They also hadn’t decreased, Cooper was quick to point out.

They still, technically, controlled the city and the surrounding suburbs, but the bragging rights cost them dearly; ten men dead, on average, each and every month, for the past few years. One, two, four at a time, in shitty little actions in a horrific war nobody—well, almost nobody—had seen coming. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they’d been hitting back at the guerrillas just as hard, but he’d seen the numbers. The real numbers, not the ones they gave to the state media. For every guerrilla or suspected guerrilla they’d captured or killed in the past year, they’d lost ten soldiers. That wasn’t just unacceptable, it was unsustainable, and Parker knew it. Everyone knew it. The problem was no one seemed to know how to turn the situation around. And most of the brass didn’t seem to care, about the numbers or the city itself, because the casualty numbers coming out of the region paled in comparison to the real conflict areas.

At the start of the war federal agents were arresting and interrogating a lot of “collaborators”, trying to uncover the locations of terrorist cells, with very little success. While Parker was no fan of torture, at his S2’s insistence he had finally decided to revisit some of those techniques and do some enhanced interrogations on the few captured guerrillas they had, and their suspected civilian confederates, but so far they hadn’t gotten any actionable intelligence. Cooper knew it was only a matter of time, though.

“I don’t know how you do it, Coop.” The Colonel leaned over the freshly brewed pot of coffee on the bar and breathed deep. Real coffee, every day. The man was a saint.

“You just have to know who to threaten, sir.”

The Colonel raised a hand. “I don’t even want to know,” he said quickly. There was coffee to be had in the city, even a coffee shop up in the Fisher Building at the far end of the Blue Zone, but the cost of the stuff was outrageous. With the hyperinflation even on a Colonel’s salary he balked at the prices. He poured himself a cup, aching for some milk; two percent, skim, breast, even that “environmentally conscious” vegan soymilk found on the Army bases that tasted like ditchwater filtered through dirty underwear.

“Intelligence seems to think the Tangos are up to something.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” He knew the report would be on his desk, and he would read it, but it was always good to hear someone else’s slant on the news. He found a few battered sugar packets and poured them into his cup.

“Heavier than usual signal traffic in the region. Slightly higher casualties to snipers in the past few weeks. Spotters report more movement than usual along the Ditch.”

Most of their casualties were to snipers, and always had been. One shot fired, and they could rarely even determine from where, much less by who. But as for spotters… Parker shook his head. “If we can spot them we should be able to kill them,” he growled, not for the first time. Using soldiers to surveil the likely traffic areas was archaic in this era of drones, but could he get a resupply on those? No. Three years into the war the two CONEX boxes containing nearly all the small drones in the city had been sabotaged, and since then what few drones they’d had left seemed to disappear or get downed faster than they could be replaced. It wasn’t just in the city, there seemed to be a real shortage of them Army-wide, both the bird-sized flitters and the armed UAVs the size of small planes. And he’d learned—forget about getting anything high-tech or cutting edge like MURVs or sentry guns, they couldn’t even get new runflat tires for their Growlers or Spikes. He’d been out of Spikes for a year. Maybe it was that the better gear was all tasked for missions in the “real” war. Or maybe the Army just didn’t have enough in inventory. He could never get a straight answer out of headquarters. He sighed.

“Anything concrete? Did they go to the trouble of actually listening to any of this traffic? Or following the people on the ground, getting eyes on, determining whether or not they’re guerrillas or just residents?” That there were still people who lived in the city outside of the Blue Zone amazed him, but they were there, it was a fact. Thousands, maybe tens of thousands of them, although the local population was a fraction of what it had been before the war. Over four million, he’d read somewhere, in the greater metropolitan area, before the fighting had started. Those civilians were why they didn’t shoot everybody on sight. Or, at least, his troops weren’t supposed to, they had strict Rules of Engagement, but war was war, and morale was in the toilet due to those damn snipers… He stirred the coffee with a finger.

The Major shook his head. “But you know how undermanned we are. To tell you the truth, so few people have working phones, much less access to functioning cell towers, that I don’t know if ‘increased traffic’ has anything to do with enemy activity or not. It could be some grandmother who finally got a signal after four months, spending three hours crytalking to her daughter and grandbabies.”

Cooper raised his eyebrows and gave his second-in-command a dubious look.

“I’m serious, Sir, I’ve lost faith in our sigint brothers. I think often they’re telling us what they think we want to hear, or to cover themselves in case they missed something. What we need is a satellite intercept, so we can route the phone and radio traffic through some of those supercomputers.”

“I’ve asked. I don’t even know how many sigint birds we’ve still got flying, they won’t answer that question, which let me tell you is troubling. You know how many holes we have in our camera bird coverage as well. Most of the satellites we still have are busy down south and west. And the crypto supercomputers are otherwise occupied, or something.”

The Major shook his head, not hiding his disapproval well. A thought came to mind. “That firefight in sector eleven might be related to what intelligence is telling us, if what they’re telling us is accurate,” he said. “That sector’s been pretty quiet the past few weeks.”

“Was the lieutenant able to provide any numbers on the guerillas? Direction of travel? That might help. You mentioned it was just small arms.”

“Small arms fire, that’s all he knew, coming from the houses lining the road. Couple of grenades thrown their way. The patrol the next morning checked the houses before towing the Growler, but didn’t find so much as a blood trail. The tangos even policed their brass cases.”

The Colonel crumpled up the sugar packets and threw them into a corner. “I’d like to bulldoze this whole fucking city,” he spat.

“They’d just go into the sewers. They did exactly that at the start of the war. General Block had many of them flooded and demo’d, just like the Nazis did in Warsaw during World War II,” Major Cooper observed flatly. Against standing orders, if he remembered correctly, at the time the government was still worried about preserving the city’s infrastructure. Now, outside of the Blue Zone, no one cared about the state of the city, but Parker had neither the bulldozers nor the diesel to make his dream a reality.

“Yeah? Did it work?”

Cooper wanted to shake his head, but instead kept his expression blank. The guerrillas already compared them to the Nazis, but this young Colonel seemed oblivious to any and all of the political nuances. He just followed orders, and believed in the cause, and these days being politically reliable was more important to the brass than experience, skill, or intelligence. “Yes.”

“Well there you go.”

Cooper declined to point out that the Jews of the Warsaw ghetto started out unarmed and had held off the entire might of the Nazi war machine for over two weeks, longer than the entire country of Poland had resisted. The enemies they were fighting were many things, but unarmed wasn’t one of them.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Colonel Parker was supposed to be reading the reports stacked on the desk before him, the daily log, the AARs and OARs (After- and Overnight Action Reports), the incident and status reports, the requests and reminders, but he kept drifting off. He’d find himself staring out the window, eyes fixed on some point, some visual reference, the corner of a building, the burned-out hulk of a car inside the perimeter, two of his men standing beside their tank, smoking. On the side of the tank away from the perimeter, he observed, because of the persistent threat of snipers.

There was a constant haze of smoke over the city, from cooking fires and fire fires; even after all these years people still seemed to find entertainment in arson, setting fire to buildings. It was surprising, actually, that there was anything left in the city to burn.

The former Federal Building, across the avenue to the southeast, looked especially decrepit in the morning light. Most of its windows below the twentieth floor or so were empty black sockets, scorched from the fires and explosions. Molotov cocktails, grenades, mortars, tank rounds, artillery, small arms fire; at one time or another during the initial eight day battle it had been pounded by everything. It was a wonder it was still standing.

To the west, across the avenue, was the casino. Between the high-tech parking garages, hotel towers, and the casino building itself the site covered two large blocks. The city had been drab and grey before the war, and the casino’s creamy yellow and burgundy paint job had been quite striking. The partnership that owned it had done everything they could to keep it operating and turning a profit even with a war cranking up. When the power became undependable they brought in huge generators. When the water supply became unreliable they brought in their own filtering systems. It was a gallant effort, and worked for a while, but eventually, when they could no longer find enough diesel for the generators, or food for the kitchen, or employees willing to pass through the checkpoints, or customers willing to brave all that to gamble, and hyperinflation making the cash its customers wagered increasingly less valuable, the casino closed its doors. Hope had finally succumbed to reality. Ironically, the shuttering of their doors made a small number of locals mad. They’d been consistently willing to brave roadblocks and snipers to gamble, and couldn’t believe a little thing like a war should be reason enough for the casino to close its doors.

There was a knock on the open door and he turned his head.

“Sir, General Barnson’s on the line.” Major Cooper glanced past his commanding officer out the window, wondering what he’d been staring at so intently. The windows were all mirrored on the outside, and the tint gave everything a smoky cast.

“Thank you.” He nodded and his S2 left. Parker stared at the phone on the desk, sitting atop what looked like a small stereo receiver. He had a direct land line to IV Corps headquarters that was almost always up, which he much preferred to the satellite uplink radios the troops had to depend on. The satellites weren’t nearly as dependable as they used to be. Or numerous. Fifth column activity, he suspected, but nobody had been able to prove anything. Or maybe they had and he was being kept out of the loop to keep his morale up. Which was a sobering thought.

Parker hit two buttons on the scrambler unit, then picked up the receiver. “Good morning Sir.” There was always about a half-second delay as his voice was scrambled, sent out, and unscrambled at his commander’s end.

“Morning Mr. Parker.” The digital scrambling process made everyone sound as if they were talking with a mouthful of water. Barnson’s voice was slightly blurred and bubbly. “I trust you’re still well?” Major General Barnson was his commanding officer, the man he directly reported to. The two men liked each other, but their friendship had become strained over the last few months.

“As well as can be expected, Sir.”

“Well, Colonel, I hate to be the one to ruin your day, but I have bad news. The resupply ship you’ve been waiting for, the one carrying the armor you’ve been hoping for, has been ordered to turn around.”

“What?”

“Now I know this news doesn’t come at a good time, but rest assured I’m doing all I can to get you properly resupplied.”

Parker was incredulous. “General, Sir, I know I don’t have to remind you just how thin I’m stretched here. You’ve tasked me with controlling an area half the size of Connecticut. I have less than one quarter of the men and equipment that would be necessary to even attempt such a thing. I’m not sure I’d even have enough men to control Manhattan, and that’s an island. I mean no disrespect, Sir, but I’m being set up to fail through no fault of my own.”

“Mr. Parker, we have had this conversation before.”

“Yes sir, that’s why this decision has me so confused. Never mind the equipment, or that we’re having to pull old rifles out of storage because we can’t get basic spare parts for our M5 carbines, which as you know chew through bolts and barrels like they’re candy. You pulled all my fixed-wing air assets last year. I’ve had to pull all of our Kestrels inside our base here, as I don’t have enough men to secure them at the airport, and eight Kestrels, eight, comprise my entire air wing, apart from two unarmed cargo copters which I think are older than you and I put together. I’m barely getting enough fuel to keep birds in the air or patrols outside the wire. I’m losing ten men a month to the guerillas, and another five to desertion… for which I’m getting five replacements. And those five replacements, draftees all, I swear half of them have never touched a rifle before, and if their sergeants give them orders they don’t like they want to file hate crime charges. If the guerrillas had a clue about how thinly stretched we are I’m sure they’d be a lot more aggressive. My men are running double and triple patrols, per your orders, just to give the impression we’ve got bodies to spare, and it’s wearing them down.” It had also depleted his fuel reserves to near zero. He was thinking about reducing the number of men he had providing security at the food distribution centers or on foot patrol in the Blue Zone to give the few productive people still in the city peace of mind. The guerrillas had never attacked the Blue Zone or any of the food distribution points, and he knew why, “hearts and minds”. Except… there’d been a small, quickly put down riot at the northeast food site several days before when they’d unexpectedly run out of water. Without soldiers providing security for the government aid workers, that riot could quickly have gotten out of hand.

In wars, probably every war since the dawn of time, militaries always had to deal with DPs, displaced persons. DPs were ironically one thing Parker didn’t really have to trouble himself with. This city seemed to be filled with people who refused to leave even when they should.

“Colonel, I’ve spoken to you about your language before. Our enemy is not to be given any respect they are not due. They are not guerrillas, much less soldiers. You can refer to them as rebels, traitors, or, preferably, terrorists.”

Parker closed his eyes and ran a hand through his short hair. Semantics, he thought. I’m being slowly bled to death and they’re worried about my vocabulary. He didn’t hold it against Barnson; both men knew their conversation was being recorded, and intelligence was always on the lookout for signs of sympathy toward the enemy. A number of high-ranking military officers had simply disappeared, and it was assumed they weren’t appropriately supportive of the government’s endeavors. Thinking correctly was valued just as highly as acting correctly at this late stage in the war. Parker didn’t have sympathy, but he knew his enemy wasn’t evil incarnate. He was fighting ordinary men who for various bad reasons had chosen the wrong side. He wasn’t about to demonize them or make them something they were not. Still, he knew better than to say anything like that aloud.

“I’m sorry, Sir, I was just trying to be accurate as the… terrorists are using guerrilla techniques. But you haven’t addressed my concerns. We’re being nibbled to death here, by a ragtag bunch of amateurs. They don’t have the numbers to actually come at us, try to displace us or seize any objectives, and I don’t see how they can have any hope of victory here, all they do is harass my men and damage their vehicles. If you actually gave me some resources I’d be able to wipe them out in no time.” He barely had the manpower to police the markets which had popped up all over the city to make sure they weren’t selling illegal goods, much less provide security in the Blue Zone and at the three government distribution centers in the city which handed out food and medicine to the civilian populace. Such tasks should have been handled by local law enforcement, but there hadn’t been a police presence in the area for years. The handful of fools in the city council fighting with the Mayor over the carcass of the city barely counted as government.

So many of the housekeeping duties, so to speak, that his troops were forced to perform in the city, should have been handled by members of the local government, especially the police. However, once civil disobedience turned into active resistance, and cops started getting killed for trying to enforce the new common-sense restrictions aimed at curbing violence, they bailed out and left the job to the military. In fact, a sizable percentage of law enforcement officers decided to take up arms opposing their government, a fact which he still, to this day, could not comprehend. If your job is to enforce the law, you didn’t get to pick and choose which laws, and you sure didn’t, or shouldn’t, join the other side and become criminals. No one got to choose which laws to enforce or obey, especially not those who were tasked with upholding them. They’d taken an oath. But then, so had all the members of the Marine Corps, and after six months of combat with the anti-government forces so many Marine Corps units had defected—with their tanks and planes and guns, he might add—that the few remnants remaining loyal to the government had just been absorbed by the Army.

There was a grumble on the other end of the line. “As you say, they are a ragtag bunch of amateurs, low in number. As such, you should have all the resources you need to take care of such a minor problem. As difficult as I admit fuel is to come by these days they still have zero Toads. Zero IMPs. Zero armor of any sort. Zero aircraft. And yet you seem incapable.”

Parker took a deep breath. “With all due respect, Sir, I just don’t have enough men to properly go after the—the enemy. We can’t attack them en masse, they never move about in groups larger than a dozen men. Usually less than that. Over half of the men we lose are to snipers, and the only way to defend against them is to either not patrol or for my men to stay buttoned up in their vehicles where they couldn’t see a circus parade marching down the street. And we can’t attack the enemy’s bases in or outside the city, because as far as we can determine they don’t have any as such. They don’t use cell phones or traditional radios. For all I know they’re passing paper notes or banging rocks together. Or using smoke signals. We’re not even sure how they’re operating, if there is any civilian infrastructure in the area supporting them we haven’t been able to find it. The city is an overgrown ghost town, which is why those drones I’ve been begging you for would be so valuable. I’ve barely got enough surveillance drones and operators to cover our Blue Zone and the perimeter of the airport, and I don’t dare pull them away from that to assist with patrols. The only option we have is to cordon off large areas and go house to house, but to do that I’d have to pull in all my patrols and roadblock troops just to have enough bodies. But we’ve still done it… with very little to show for it.

“Our intelligence is pretty much useless. Nothing actionable out of our so-called sources in the city for months. We’re getting near zero human intelligence out of the city now that I no longer have the funds to pay for real-time intelligence from informants. Interrogations of what few people we’ve arrested recently have provided negative results. I’ve been reduced to waiting for the… rebels to strike and then chasing after them.” They’d tried decoy convoys, and a few other tricks, hoping to lure the guerillas into ambushes, but with little success. Their intelligence, apparently, was better than his. Or their luck was. He looked out the window of his office at the buildings visible in the distance. He wondered how many guerrillas were out there, surveilling the base, logging every arrival and departure, the numbers and types of armor and aircraft… “Like I said, the problem is, the majority of our losses are due to snipers. One man here, another there; I lose soldiers every week, summer or winter. With all its vacant buildings this city is a sniper’s paradise, but to be honest we take just as many casualties from snipers out in the country as we do inside the city. And most of the time the shooter gets away.”

Barnson sounded angry. “I have addressed your concerns, Colonel. And I’ve brought them to the attention of my superiors. I and everybody else down here are aware of the shortages you’re suffering. They are not worried. Intelligence reports enemy numbers in your area are low, and that they’re very disorganized.”

“General, are they aware I’m losing ten men a month to these disorganized few? They’re organized enough to aim rifles and disappear when we give chase. I know ten casualties is a paltry few to what’s going on elsewhere, but we are still steadily losing men. The local population, thin as it is, has to be supplying them aid and comfort, as your intelligence specialists like to say. We’ve had very little luck disrupting their support infrastructure, or even identifying it. My men… I haven’t actually been sent any new troops in two months. I’m as short-handed as I’ve ever been. As I’m sure you’re aware.”

“I was under the impression four sniper teams just arrived there this morning.” Now Barnson was getting irritated. He’d had to move heaven and earth to get those teams for Parker.

“Yes Sir, and I welcome their arrival, as almost all of my snipers were reassigned to the heavy conflict zones months ago. I’m sure they’ll perform admirably, Sir, but eight men are a fraction of what I need. Eight men in hundreds of square miles of territory.”

“Parker, you know as well as I do that snipers are force multipliers, and these men are Special Forces. Once they bag a few terrorists, and word gets out, I’m sure you’ll see enemy activity in your sector drop right off. Those traitorous criminals with their damned deer rifles will either run off in terror or find themselves shot in the head.” He paused and sighed. “The straight fact of the matter is we can’t spare anything right now. Men or machines. In fact… I’ve come very close to requisitioning some of your tanks. Shipping some of them back to the front. The only reason I haven’t is that I’m not convinced, due to the distance involved, and the fact they would have to go by rail, which is a very risky form of transportation these days, that they’d even make it back here.” He sighed again. “In fact, the shipments of food that you’ve been getting for distribution to the local populace? Expect them to be cut, and sooner, rather than later. And not by a small percentage.”

Parker cleared his throat. “Sir, just wondering if I should report the food riots now or just wait until they actually happen. Because they will.”

“Every rioter that you shoot is one less mouth begging you for food,” Barnson said coldly. “One less potential enemy sympathizer. Rioters, just like looters, should be put down like the disobedient dogs they are, and that falls clearly within your ROE.” Then the General cleared his throat. “Look, I know you’ve got a tough job, that place was a Third World-level hellhole before the war began. Don’t think everyone doesn’t know that. But there’s nothing keeping those people from leaving any time they want.”

Parker was shaking his head. “Sir, you’ve got me treading water in a sewer. Morale…” he muttered. Barnson’s sharp voice cut in.

“Don’t speak to me about morale, Sir. The morale of your men is your responsibility, no matter what the situation is.”

“Yes Sir, you’re right. I’m just tired.” The night before he’d been writing a letter to the family of just the latest of his soldiers to be killed by a faceless, nameless sniper. He didn’t doubt it was some farmer, idiot, or nutjob with a deer rifle, it had happened near dusk outside rural Armada when one of the long-range “force projection” patrols had stopped for an overnight bivouac. The truth was most hunting rifles packed more punch than the carbines his troops were carrying even with the hot new ammo they were fielding. The Corporal had been hit in the face by whatever powerful rifle the sniper was using, and his head had literally exploded inside his helmet. The rest of the men there weren’t even sure from which direction the shot had been fired. Searches of nearby houses had turned up nothing. His men had burned a few of the houses down, as an object lesson.“I just wish I could give the men some good news for once. How does it go on your end?” In the real war, he wanted to add.

“The fact that your supply ship has turned around, and that we’re cutting your food allotment, should give you a good indication of where things stand.”

“That bad?”

“We were having trouble in the West before the enemy ever got organized. And, to be honest, we’re suffering through the same kind of situation as you have there, only on a vastly larger scale. It’s like fighting water; push in with armor and airstrikes, take control of one small town, and either the enemy disappears entirely to hit us somewhere else we’re not expecting or every mother one of those townspeople pulls out a rifle and starts letting loose. Those small arms casualty figures I’m sure you heard about were not exaggerated. I always thought the ‘400 million guns in the country’ number was exaggerated if not impossible, but I’m beginning to suspect I was wrong. And the people we’re fighting, at this late date, know how to use them. Apparently the only people out there who weren’t raised with a rifle in their hands are our men. And the bastards all seem to be experts at lobbing Molotovs, we’re lost more vehicles to fire than we have anything else, and getting new vehicles, much less parts, has been… problematic. Union work slowdowns, assembly line sabotage, shoddy workmanship, every complication you could imagine. If it wasn’t for our new allies we wouldn’t have any fuel to send you.”

“It’s really that bad?” Parker had noticed more and more of their supplies were coming in from Russia, China, or Cuba, based on the writing on the crates.

“After eight years of this meatgrinder there’s still no end in sight. In fact, we seem to be giving up ground.”

“We’re getting pushed back?” That had been the rumor he didn’t want to believe. He noticed Barnson said eight years, which meant command had once again changed the date of what they considered the start of this war that wasn’t a war, against enemies that still weren’t “soldiers”.

“And paying a steep price for the privilege as well. Your ten men a month, I’m sorry to say, are nothing compared to the figures rolling in from around the country. That’d be a slow afternoon. As I said, just be glad they haven’t called and told me to order you to send more of your tanks south. Or all of them. Risky rails or not.”

Parker ground his teeth. If that happened again he’d promised himself he’d resign. He might not have had an active front, but his men were still fighting for their lives. Take away their armor, their biggest advantage, and a lot more than ten of them would be dying every month. Air power was nice, but there hadn’t been a war yet that had been won or lost anywhere but on the ground.

Barnson breathed in his ear for a bit. “Speaking of setbacks, I’m getting whispers that diplomacy may be rearing its ugly head again.”

“What do you mean, Sir?”

“I mean I’m hearing rumors of a sitdown between the two sides. A ‘conference’, they’re calling it. And when I reached out to my political contacts they did not get back to me, which seems to me to be a clear indication that there might be something to these rumors.”

“They’re… ARF isn’t surrendering, are they?”

Barnson snorted. “Wouldn’t that be nice.”

Parker felt cold. ARF enjoying a few simple successes on the battlefield wouldn’t be enough to get both sides sitting down at a conference table. If such a conference was indeed happening, it most likely meant the Army was getting its ass seriously kicked. And had been for a while. And had apparently been concealing the fact, even from its own officers. He was stunned. “There haven’t been even talks of peace talks in… years.”

“No there have not. I don’t like the timing of this one bit. You just make sure you’ve got a lid on your kingdom over there. We’ve got enough headaches.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

From the abandoned machine shop they headed south on the two-lane surface street. The pitted blacktop was mostly clear of debris, and Quentin accelerated steadily. The men watched the low buildings on either side slide past the muzzles of their rifles. This small industrial area had always been a safe haven for them, but they knew better than to think that meant they could relax their guard.

The rifle barrels sticking out of all the SUV’s empty window frames made the vehicle look like some sort of giant, mutated, stinging insect. The threat of drones was everpresent, but they were willing to risk the visible weapons for the ambush-repelling instant firepower it afforded them. If they were inside the city limits that would be another story, but up in the suburbs simply driving along in a vehicle wasn’t enough to immediately earn unwanted attention by the military.

The speed at which the SUV lumbered along, however, was nothing like a quick and darting stinging insect. Even if the old Ford had been up for a high-speed slalom, never mind its soupy shocks and bald tires, Quentin knew better. There were telephone poles across roads, abandoned, burned cars, sinkholes, debris everywhere, even the occasional bomb crater (although officially that had never happened). You never knew what was around the next corner, because it was never the same. Even on straightaways they chugged along at a stately thirty miles an hour—fast enough to cover ground quickly, but not so fast they’d run right into a roadblock or the odd Army improvised checkpoint without time to react.

Random roadblocks were just another of the hazards they faced; not only did the army like them, but gangs had discovered their merits as well. Armed with whatever weapons they could find the bandits would block a street with cars and dumpsters and rob whoever came along. As the army had an unofficial and technically illegal policy of destroying without warning any unauthorized moving vehicle inside the city limits outside the approved travel corridors the gangs preferred to prowl the bordering suburbs. They took whatever they wanted, or needed—food, water, guns, gasoline—and killed anybody who offered resistance. The gangs tried to avoid preying on anybody too well armed, and stayed out of the way of both the army and the guerillas, but nevertheless there were occasional surprises. The only boring day was yesterday.

George blinked against the wind blowing over the Ford’s dented hood. He had 20/15 vision, and his eyes continually scanned the street through the ballistic glasses he’d donned; the buildings on the left, windows, alleys and doorways, the buildings on the right, looking for any silhouette of a head, a shoulder, movement, the muzzle of a rifle belonging to a new army recruit overeager for the ambush. The streets were dangerous, every one a potential death trap, but his main focus of attention was the sky. Infantry was a problem they knew how to handle; the only way to deal with aircraft when you didn’t have any missiles was to see them before they saw you and get the hell out of sight. Luckily they were so distant from the front, and so few in numbers, that the Army no longer flew armed drones above the city. The drones were too few in number, the missiles too valuable, to waste on small groups of guerrillas performing “harassing actions” far from the real war. Or so they’d guessed, nobody had reported seeing an armed drone, or drone missile strike, in years. Still, they kept their drone jammer active. It did nothing against the large craft, but it would disrupt the navigation and audio/visual feed of the small bird- and insect-sized drones the military used.

George didn’t like the street leading through the industrial park; it was too open. No tree cover, no avenues of escape for almost half a mile to the south. The rest of the squad thought of him as unflappable, a rock, but until they got some overhead cover—and it would be a ways out, almost two miles, before their route provided them with some measure of security from the eyes in the sky—he would be a nervous wreck, even if he did hide it well.

Jason found himself more than a little unnerved at the situation he found himself in. He’d wanted to join the fight, pick a side in the war, sure, but now he found himself packed into a piece of junk car with heavily armed men he didn’t know and who didn’t know him, heading straight into an infamous city that was the stuff of nightmares. The fact that it was a war zone was just one of the dangerous aspects of the urban cadaver they were heading into.

It was surreal. It was terrifying. It was awesome.

Looking around the vehicle, he suddenly noticed the string of birds tied to the outside of Weasel’s pack. Were those pigeons? “Where’d you get those?”

Weasel glanced back to see what Jason was talking about, then went back to scanning out the windows. “I went fishing.”

“What?”

“So many decades of being tame city birds, they can’t get rid of the mentality. You start throwing out bread, or corn, they show up and start eating without a thought to predators. You put a fishhook in a kernel of corn or a wadded-up piece of bread, as soon as they gobble it down you give a yank to set the hook and pull ‘em in. By the time you’ve got the hook out the rest of them have forgotten the squawking and have returned and are pecking around again. So you rebait the hook and throw it back out. You can get a whole flock one at a time. I’ve never seen animals so dumb. Hell of a lot easier to bag than squirrels.”

“Socialism works the same, no matter the species,” Mark said, loud enough to be heard over the wind and engine noise. His belt-fed SAW was pointed out the rear window frame.

“What?”

“Mice die in mouse traps because they don’t understand why the cheese is free. Same thing with those pigeons. And all the fuckers out there,” he gestured beyond the vehicle, “who kept voting for more free shit in exchange for less freedom. When the mouse trap finally snaps, when the fishing hook sinks into your mouth, when the boot is on your neck… you suddenly realize the free shit wasn’t free.”

“Mouths closed, eyes open,” George growled.

Everyone was sweating as Quentin drove southbound. The golf course’s low clubhouse appeared to their left, then the course itself, bordered by more of the same rusty chain link. A small weed-choked parking lot and more grape vines were next, but beyond the scorched, abandoned clubhouse were two majestic weeping willows, silvery in the sunlight, a reminder that things had not always been as they were.

The street dipped and ended at a T-intersection, the traffic signal lights still up but dark. The dip meant the ground rose on either side of the road, limiting their visibility. Quentin slowed to a crawl and eased out into the intersection. To the left the street entered a residential area, the same neighborhood where Colleen lived but further to the south. Tall trees, oaks and elms, shadowed the asphalt. Before the war it would have been called a “charming bedroom community” in a middle-class suburb. No one still in the area thought in those terms any more, cities and neighborhoods were deemed more or less dangerous based on how likely you were to be ambushed or killed travelling through them. The only problem was… even if the chances of that were very low, very low was still greater than zero.

To the right was the reason for the dip: the same set of railroad tracks that ran close behind the shop where they’d spent the night. The tracks were supported by an old concrete bridge that was decorated with graffiti and starting to crumble. Nothing was moving in either direction, on the street or the bridge. Quentin cranked the wheel over and the Ford slowly chugged under the bridge, its exhaust momentarily loud as it echoed off the square bridge columns. Half a mile away, straight west, was another intersection with dark traffic lights.

Past the bridge the two-lane road rose quickly. More small businesses on the right, some but not all abandoned; even with intermittent electricity some owners refused to close their doors. They had seen entire machine shops operating on bicycle and solar power. A few occasionally ran generators on black market gas. Where there’s a will… On the left were tiny one-story homes, once well maintained but still little more than pillboxes. Some were obviously vacant, but a surprising number seemed to still be occupied. No one could afford gas for lawn mowers of course, but quite a few of the lawns had been hacked down by hand, and a few residents had planted flowers in their front yards in addition to the ubiquitous garden in back. Store-bought vegetables were a thing of the fabled past.

“Watch the windows, watch the windows!” George barked over his shoulder. No matter where they were, snipers were a real threat. Not necessarily the trained professionals, the men the Army sent out regularly to harass them, but yahoos, drunks and crazies with guns who liked to shoot at anything—or anyone—that happened by. There weren’t so many of those around anymore, though. They’d gotten bored, run out of ammo, or been shot. George kept his eyes locked on the distant intersection, and let the rest of the squad watch the buildings and the road behind them.

On the far right corner of the intersection ahead sat a small, low-roofed bowling alley. There were two cars in its lot. While they appeared empty, both vehicles looked driveable. George pointed his rifle at them and the bowling alley’s front door as the SUV slowed for the intersection.

The street signs, as was so often the case, even in the suburbs, had been ripped down. The north-south surface street they planned to turn onto had been nicknamed long ago The President. Whenever possible nicknames and euphemisms were used for street and site names, leftover when the dogsoldiers were using radios, thinking it was probably safe since they were encrypted. That had turned out not to be the case, but the habit remained.

The Pres had a narrow median running down its center, with two lanes on either side. The grass on the median was tall enough to partially block their view of the far lanes as Quentin nosed the SUV into the intersection. George stayed focused on the cars and bowling alley while everyone else looked about.

“There’s a car moving up north!” Bobby said excitedly. “Way up there, almost half a mile away.”

Ed squinted. Damn, the kid’s eyes were good. All he could make out was a tiny blue blob. “Keep going,” he told Quentin, who’d kept the SUV rolling. As Quentin turned south onto The Pres Ed lifted binoculars to his eyes and peered out the back of the Ford. What he saw was a small, battered blue car, with two or three people inside. Coming their way, but slowly. Too far away to tell who they were or if they had weapons.

“Early, you and Mark keep an eye on them,” he said as they began accelerating, southbound once again. “You tell me if they’re getting closer.”

“You got it Cap’n.”

George twisted back straight in his seat and peered forward once more over the hood of the Ford. Small houses lined this stretch of The Pres, tiny, one story ranches close to the road that had suffered quite a lot of damage, but it was hard to tell whether it was from vandalism or combat. A pickup truck was upside down on the median. As they passed they could see the grass growing through the rents in the rusty body; it had been there a while.

Half a mile up was the next in a quick succession of major intersections. Once past the first, where the traffic lights appeared to be down on the pavement, The Pres curved right and then crossed the widest thoroughfare they’d find until they hit the Interstate; a boulevard, ten lanes total, plus a wide median.

“Heads up everybody, this is where it gets hairy,” Ed called out.

“Watch for choppers!” George threw over his shoulder. Once they hit the first intersection they’d have no overhead cover, absolutely none, for almost half a mile.

The tiny houses to either side vanished. A park appeared on the right, swingsets and slides rusty with disuse. Batting cages, then a baseball diamond popped up on their left. Two boys in their early teens stood where home plate would have been. Both were painfully skinny, wearing clothes that hung on them like sheets. One held a bat, the other a ball, but finding the energy to play seemed beyond them. They turned and watched the SUV roll by with eyes sunken deep into their skulls but made no move to hide or run away. They’d seen carloads of rifle-toting men before.

Quentin took his foot off the accelerator and steered around the crunched hulk of the traffic light on the concrete in the middle of the intersection. On the ground they looked a lot bigger than when they hung above the passing cars. The whole squad leaned as Quentin took the sharp curve to the right. The small blue car was way back there, apparently stopped on the road.

A hundred feet up the wide boulevard nicknamed One Way loomed. The intersection was vast and empty. Once they were out in the middle of it they’d have a much better view both north and south, but they’d also be visible to any aircraft in the area. They weren’t in a restricted area yet, but any moving vehicle close to the city limits always garnered attention and unless the pilot was blind he’d see their weapons. The secret to survival was to drive as fast as possible where you could and get the hell out of sight.

Jason caught glimpses of gas stations, a car wash, and a drug store, all abandoned, then they were rolling through the huge intersection as fast as Quentin could get the Ford to move. One Way was four lanes on either side of a wide boulevard spotted with small trees and topped by grass three feet tall. The men stared out the windows intently, peering over their rifles, sweating even as the cool morning air poured through the car.

There was a bump bump from the undercarriage and then they were through, shooting by a gas station on their left and a tire store on their right, both long abandoned and wantonly vandalized.

“I saw something flying way the hell north of us,” Weasel said. “It was just a dot, too far away to tell what it was. I doubt he saw us.”

“It’s the one you don’t see you’ve got to worry about,” George muttered.

Not quite half a mile to the northwest loomed the big square bulk of a hospital. A handful of dedicated doctors and nurses still worked there, doing what they could under horrific conditions. Hardly any water, even fewer medical supplies, and more than half the time without power. Ed didn’t know how they did it. The Red Cross had been providing limited amounts of food and medicine, not to mention intermittent foreign aid from the few allies who had proven to be true friends, and a few new “allies” who were hoping for a piece of the pie when the war finally wore down, but those humanitarian shipments had dried up inexplicably six months before. Rumor was the Army had cut them off to drive people away from the city. The patients they helped paid with whatever coin they had, whether that was food, clean water, scavenged wiring, electrical components, sometimes even good old-fashioned sex.

Since he’d assumed command of the squad Ed had had to leave over a dozen wounded men at the hospital, knowing that if they survived their wounds the Army would probably take them prisoner. The men were always stripped of their gear and uniforms but the soldiers stationed in the emergency room usually could tell the difference between battle-hardened veterans and random victims of violence. It killed Ed to do it, but he refused to let a wounded man suffer, perhaps die, just because there was a chance he might be captured. Some had died anyway, others had never fully recovered from their wounds, either physically or emotionally, disappearing and leaving the fighting to those who were still whole or, if not whole, still motivated. The Army had its own medical facility downtown, but only soldiers and the rare captured guerilla ever benefited from its services.

The Pres took another sharp curve to the left and they were pointed south again. The hospital tower quickly dropped from view behind them. The street grew a little friendlier; trees lined both sides and hung over the curb lanes, providing some concealment from flyovers.

On the left a chain link fence ran unbroken for half a mile. On the other side of it was a cemetery hidden behind a row of trees and leaning seed-topped grass that hadn’t been mown in years. To the right, concealed behind fences, hedges, and mature trees, were the backyards of a small secluded neighborhood, mostly two-story colonial homes. On the straightaway Quentin got the Ford up to forty miles an hour before he had to brake. Another intersection was coming up quickly.

Although they’d yet to meet up with any trouble, Ed had had enough of traveling on major surface streets. Even though it was faster it was always a bad idea. At the intersection Quentin took a right turn, accelerated, braked, and turned south once again onto a residential side street.

The houses were small, one and two stories, most with small covered porches. Almost all of them were clad in aluminum or vinyl siding which had weathered the years well. Mature, fifty- to sixty-foot silver and red maples lined the narrow street, meeting far overhead, throwing most of the street into deep shadow.

“Beautiful, beautiful,” Ed murmured.

There were more cars here, because this neighborhood still had residents. Here as in most areas ringing the city the remaining people had banded together to survive. Behind the fences and blank faces of the houses they’d find communal gardens, catch basins for water, perhaps chicken coops, all guarded by residents who knew their neighbors by name and had developed a healthy distrust of anyone just wandering by. It was in neighborhoods like these that the squad usually hid to heal and re-equip if they didn’t head out into the country. The locals, those part of the ARF Irregulars’ “Underground Railroad”, provided them food, water, and funneled them ammunition and medical supplies, sometimes from the strangest sources. The same was true of the unoccupied safe houses throughout the region—the squad would show up and find the cabinets freshly stuffed with antibiotics from Spain and Poland, ammunition from South Africa and Turkey, batteries and binoculars from the Czech Republic, ghost guns, water bottles, baby wipes, vitamins—they’d seen it all.

The SUV coasted along, bristling with rifle barrels and filled with nervous faces. The street was quiet and for the most part clear; here and there scorchmarks marred the pavement, but the vehicles that had burned had all been towed away. Sold for scrap, most likely, before the scrap yards were closed down.

They passed an old man, shuffling north along the sidewalk with a plastic bag swinging from gnarled fingers. When he heard the car coming he looked up, revealing dark haunted eyes. He stopped, and as the SUV drew close he raised a quivering hand. George lifted a hand in response, and the two men stared at each other until the vehicle rolled by. Then the man began shuffling northward again. George’s hand clenched into a fist, then relaxed and settled around the pistol grip of his carbine.

Jason looked left and right out the windows. Block after block of houses, small, neat, many obviously still occupied. “People live here?” he asked.

“Not nearly as many as used to, but more than you’d think,” Ed told him. “A lot of the people who fled the city had relatives or friends living in the suburbs.” Ed peered down each passing street. Bedroom communities like this one, with absolutely no businesses except on the busiest through-streets, had fared the best in the fighting.

Quentin slowed as they reached the next mile road, and everyone in the SUV looked right and left. They saw a few scattered people on foot, and a short line in front of what was probably a store of some sort, but nothing that looked threatening. Sure, the guy leaning against the front of the store had a shotgun poorly concealed behind his leg, but he was store security, not Army. The old vehicle surged forward across the avenue and continued southward along the same residential street.

Ed bent forward over the seat. “Things seem quiet today. Is gang activity down?” George shrugged. He didn’t know.

They rolled by a small beige brick community church, hardly bigger than a house, then a narrow boulevard with a grassy median narrow enough to jump across. As soon as they passed it Jason noticed the increased alertness in the men around him. He felt the big vehicle slowing down.

“Quentin, you kill the engine before we turn the corner.” George looked over his shoulder into the interior of the car. “I want four on each side when we un-ass the vehicle. Make that three on the left, Quentin’ll stay with the car. Early, you grab the cherry, keep him close.”

“Gotcha.”

“I’ll take right point, initiate the approach,” Ed said. “Watch the houses on either side just before, if there’s going to be an ambush that’s where they’ll be hiding.”

What was happening? Jason realized everybody knew but him. “Where are we going?”

“OP. Observation Post near the Ditch,” Ed told him. “Might be empty, might be occupied, might be hot, might be blown, no way to tell ‘til we get there.”

Ahead, the street they’d been on for almost two miles without incident—Thank God for small favors, Ed thought—rolled through to a tall red brick wall. The residential street dead-ended at the westbound service drive of the Ditch, which was what everybody called the sunken interstate running east-west for twenty-five miles, several miles north of the city limits proper. The wall had been erected to block the noise of the cars zooming by below. Jason could just make out the empty space beyond the service drive where the once busy freeway had been carved deep into the ground in an attempt to make it both safer for the residents and quieter. The effort had proved only partially successful.

A hundred feet before the brick wall, still coasting along at twenty miles an hour, Quentin cut the engine, then swung a hard left onto an east-west side street. It looked no different from any of the other three dozen streets they’d already passed, lined with small houses on small lots. A few derelict cars were in evidence.

They coasted a third of the way down the block, until the Ford had slowed to walking speed, then Quentin pulled to the curb. Before the SUV had even stopped men were bailing out of the car in every direction. Jason frantically slid across the seat and out of the open door, not wanting to be the last man out of the car. He was, except for Quentin, who crouched behind the wheel. Early was jogging heavily across the street, heading for the gap between two houses, and Jason scrambled after him, rifle in hand.

CHAPTER NINE

The houses were single story red brick pillboxes with white siding trim, most with attached one or two car garages. Many of the lawns had gone unmowed for years, and the bushes had grown wild. In their neutral clothing the squad disappeared as they moved into the long grass. Early pulled Jason close in behind him as he hugged the corner of a house and peered up the street. The other members of the squad had also ducked in-between houses and were watching and listening. They could hear birds, and someone talking loudly a very long way off, and the soft chug of the Ford’s exhaust.

After a minute, Ed broke from the shadows of a massive yew bush and slowly moved forward, carbine up. He kept close to the houses, moving from shadow to shadow, swishing through the long grass, his eyes darting back and forth. He would have preferred to traverse the backyards of the houses toward the OP, but just about every one was enclosed by chain link. Climbing over fences was slow and usually noisy, and fences trapped you.

George began paralleling the squad leader on the opposite side of the street. He was more exposed to the early morning sun, but there was nothing he could do about that. At least they had some overhead cover; maples here and there leaned over the narrow street. He kept to the thigh-high grass and used whatever overgrown and gone-to-seed shrubs and ornamental trees he could find for concealment as he slid east. Mark, Early, and Jason silently moved out and began following him, keeping at least a house length interval between each man. Bobby and Weasel shadowed Ed, watching the far side of the street as much as their own.

At least a quarter of the houses on the street were maintained to some degree, and Ed could feel eyes on him as he picked his way across overgrown lawns and cracked driveways. He tried to ignore the crawling sensation on the back of his neck every time he went on patrol. There was no real way to predict or protect against snipers and so he did his best not to think about that one bullet. If it happened, it happened.

It was a long block, but he finally drew within five or six houses of the end of the block, The Pres, and the OP. Ed knelt behind a browning arborvitae and studied the remaining length of the street. He dug out the binoculars and examined the front of each house, each window and door, and the short section of The President where it passed in front of their side street. He saw nothing amiss. His had been the first boots in days to walk through the overlong front yards of the houses, but this far north that didn’t really mean anything. Everyone used the sidewalks and streets in this neighborhood. It was a lot different in the City.

At the corner of The Pres was a two story cube of red brick and white siding, the first of four stretching from the side street nearly to the service drive along The Pres. Ed didn’t know if they’d originally been rental units or privately owned homes, and didn’t care. He only cared about who might be inside them, especially the furthest one south. Its second-floor window provided a great view of the Ditch, both service drives, and The Pres for over a quarter mile past the expressway.

Ed signaled to the men behind him and across the street to give him more of a lead, then stood up and carefully moved forward once more. He had no doubt many of the closed garages he was passing contained cars, but nobody parked a car with gas in it—unguarded—where it could be seen. Gas was in perpetual short supply, but siphon hoses were not.

Ed reached the last house and paused underneath the gnarled branches of a flowering crab tree. Ahead of him was an expanse of grass and beyond it the row of four block houses. The fire-gutted hulks of two cars sat on their frames near the brick edifices, weeds growing through the ragged holes in their bodies. The rear doors of all four houses were gone or splintered into uselessness, and most of the glass was gone from their window frames. Ed couldn’t see anything in the shadows within the houses, but he was on high alert; parked between the center two houses, hidden from casual observation, was a battered full-size Toyota pickup.

The north-side lookout was in the second-floor window of Number One and had spotted George about ten houses away from the corner. Word had been passed, and by the time Ed paused at the last house and stared at the dark interior of Number Four half a dozen weapons were trained on him.

Standing well back from the empty window frame, the tall man peered through his binoculars at Ed. The lenses brought the squad leader’s thin face into sharp focus. The man made a sound and let the binoculars fall on their strap around his neck. With one hand on the carbine slung over his shoulder, slowly chewing a piece of turkey jerky, the man stepped forward and stopped in the open doorway in full view of their visitor.

Ed blinked as the man, wearing a plate carrier and magazine pouches, appeared suddenly in the doorway, looking right at him. The two men stared at each other for a second, then he was gone, sliding back into the shadows of the house. Ed signaled for his squad to stay put and slowly rose. He looked around once more, then, keeping both hands on his carbine but pointing it at the ground in front of him, carefully walked across the open grass to the house.

Ed stepped through the doorway and blinked as his eyes adjusted. There were three men in the room with him, two of them pointing rifles at the floor near his feet. The third was the man who’d shown himself to Ed. Ed looked at the two men covering him, his face unreadable, not moving his hands from his carbine, then moved his eyes to the tall man with the binoculars around his neck.

“Theodore,” the man said.

“Franklin,” Ed said. “You got room at the inn?”

The tall man’s face cracked open in a huge grin. “Shit, Ed, I thought you were dead. I heard you had a nasty run-in with a Toad.” He stuck out a bony hand and the two men shook.

Ed shrugged. “Weasel’s got a cracked rib, but we didn’t lose anybody.” Even inside the house they spoke quietly out of habit.

“The geriatric squad pulls one out again,” one of the two rifle-toters said, slinging his weapon over his shoulder. Ed couldn’t remember his name, Mike or Mark, but he was just a kid, maybe twenty years old. “You move pretty quiet in those silver sneakers.” Someone nearby chuckled. Ed ignored him.

“Clear to roll ‘em up?” Ed asked.

“Yeah, it’s pretty quiet today.”

Ed stepped into the doorway and signaled to George across the street. He couldn’t see George, but he knew he was somewhere over there, hunkered down, watching.

“You get a call too?”

Ed stepped back into the darkened room and looked at the tall man. “We’re compartmentalized for a reason, Tony,” was all he said.

Tony tried to suppress a grin. Ed was still Ed.

“Jesus,” Mark or Mike said in exasperation, with perhaps just a hint of admiration. His partner leaned his rifle against the wall and pulled out a canteen.

Tony tried a different tack. “Charlie said everybody was invited.” He looked at Ed with raised eyebrows.

Ed didn’t change his sour expression, but did say, “Well, then, I guess that includes us.”

Tony’s eyes rolled up toward the ceiling. “You ever wonder how many of us there are? Not just us ARF Irregulars, necessarily, but who all else is out there. Because you know they’re out there, people that just showed up, on their own, alone or in pairs, guns in hand. I’ve seen them. We’ve all seen them. More at the start of the war, but they’re still out there.”

“War tourists,” Mark/Mike said dismissively.

“It’s not tourism if they’re fighting,” Ed said sternly. “Hell, just heading into the city can get you killed whether or not you’ve got a gun in your hands. They’re not getting Uncle Charlie’s intel, but then again if they’re unaffiliated… if our network gets compromised, the Irregulars wiped out cell by cell, it won’t affect them at all. They’ll still be out there stirring up trouble. Fighting for what’s right.”

“Always the optimist,” Tony said, grinning but shaking his head.

“You call them ‘war tourists’ now, but those solos were the first ones to fight. They’re the ones who lit the fire. And I’d wager they’ve killed as many Tabs as ARF with its tanks and planes and uniforms, all told.”

“You think?”

The squad came in slowly, one man at a time. George was last, signaling to Quentin as he crossed the street at a jog. George stood watch at the corner of Number One, the northernmost house, as Quentin rolled the Ford down the street.

“Christ, what the hell is that?” Tony exclaimed as he watched the abused SUV slowly hop the curb. Quentin pulled it between the third and fourth houses and cut the engine, hoping it would start back up when they needed it. Just to the south of Number Four was a long, low brick building, a dentist’s office still sometimes open for business, and it shielded the ground floors of the four houses from any prying eyes that might be across the Ditch.

“We lost our wheels,” Ed told him. “That’s all we could find on short notice.” His squad was spread out among the four houses, as was Tony’s.

“I’m impressed you could even get it running.” Mark or Mike snickered, and Tony turned toward the young man.

“Get back upstairs and get an eye on the Ditch,” he said shortly. The boy sobered up immediately and disappeared.

George stepped into One and found Weasel talking quietly with John, Franklin squad’s SAW gunner.

“John, how you doing?” George shook his hand, checking him over. The small man looked healthy, and was recently shaved. His equipment appeared in good condition. “Franklin in good shape?”

“Nothing that couldn’t be fixed by a week on the beach,” John said, his smile missing a few teeth. He’d written FREEDOM ISNT FREE in big block letters with a black magic marker across the back and front of his plate carrier.

“Sign me up for that too,” Weasel said wistfully.

“Who’s upstairs with the eye?” George asked.

“Sheila.”

“Oh yeah?” Weasel said, glancing at the stairs, suddenly interested.

George was short with him. “She saw you coming in. If she wanted another go-round with you she’d have come down. And you’ve got birds to clean, we can’t afford for that meat to go to waste.”

George’s attempt to discourage him had zero effect on Weasel. “She’s on lookout, she can’t come down,” he told George as explanation. “The birds’ll keep for a bit.” He laid pleading eyes on John. “Can you relieve her?” he begged.

George patted John on the shoulder and made his way through the house and out the side door. Number Two’s side door was about twelve feet away directly across a narrow driveway that was half weeds. George quickly crossed the space and had to blink as bright sunlight was once again replaced by dim interior. Mark, Early, and the new kid were all inside the front room of the stuffy house, talking to two of Tony’s men. Tony’s kids, really; not one member of the squad was over twenty-five. Franklin and Theodore had only worked together once, about six months previous, and Tony’s young people had been competent, if a bit overeager for George’s taste.

“Gentlemen,” George said with a nod all around. Jeff and Tavon, he was pretty sure those were their names. They seemed in good spirits.

“How long you reckon we’re here, Cap’n?” Early asked George. He was keeping watch through tattered curtains pulled across the living room window.

“Just long enough,” George told him. Early nodded. No one who had any experience liked to spend time close to the Ditch. Too much chance of being noticed. And they’d packed a lot of Irregulars into a very small space, which was never a good idea. “You check if there’s any water?” George asked the big man.

“I think there’s a little bit left in the trap,” Jeff said.

“Don’t suppose y’all got any extra ammo laying around?” Early asked.

“We’re a little short of that ourselves,” Tavon admitted. “I was just about to ask you.”

“You okay?” George asked the young man. Tavon actually carried a Tavor; George was convinced that was God making some sort of cosmic joke. The Israeli-designed bullpup rifle looked odd, but was fed by standard AR-15 magazines. He wondered how many of the kid’s ammo pouches actually contained loaded magazines. Jeff carried an RPG, a launcher and three cone-shaped rocket-propelled grenades. It was an AirTronic copy of the classic Russian model, the design now more than seventy-five years old. The grenades themselves had been upgraded over the years, and would defeat most light armor. Toads, unfortunately, weren’t lightly armored except in a few, very hard-to-hit spots.

“Can’t complain,” Tavon said with a shrug, then smiled and added, “but sometimes I still do.”

George’s brows moved together, and he looked at Mark, who had a strange expression on his face.

“My Maserati does one-eighty-five,” George astonished the young men by singing softly. His voice was a little gravelly, but even.

“I lost my license, now I don’t drive,” Mark sang out, finishing the verse for him. Jeff, Tavon, and Jason all swiveled their heads around to look at the SAW gunner, as he and George burst out in harmony, “Life’s been good to me so far….” Stunned silence greeted their spontaneous outburst.

“Was that a song?” Jason finally asked.

“Christ,” Early muttered.

“Yes, it’s a song,” George growled, scowling. “You never heard of Joe Walsh? How about The Eagles?”

“What’s a Maserati?” Jeff asked.

Mark made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. “I’m going to go kill myself now,” he announced, and stomped out of the room.

George traded a commiserating look with Early and then carefully picked his way through the jagged hole in the kitchen wall. He stepped out next to Franklin’s transportation wedged between Two and Three. The Toyota was dusty and a bit dented but overall appeared in good condition. George felt a pang of envy.

He stepped through the matching hole in the red bricks of Three—he didn’t know if it had been a grenade or something else that had damaged both houses, but other than the two ragged holes in their brickwork the four residences were in good shape. Inside Three he found Bobby, Quentin, and Arnold, one of Tony’s people. Arnold was a legendary asshole to anyone and everyone he met, but he’d proven himself under fire time and time again. The thick man hadn’t shaved in three days and sported a nearly full beard. He was happily eating a military nutro-bar and, of course, the thought of asking if anyone else wanted a bite never occurred to him.

“Hey Bodycount,” he said to George, his mouth full of food. “Thought you fellas had your tickets punched by a Toad.”

George gritted his teeth at the old nickname. “Just a little banged up, that’s all,” George said, never stopping. He found Ed in Number Four conferring with the other squad’s leader.

“George,” Tony said in greeting. He studied the compact man. “Pissed off as usual, I see.” The teenager keeping watch out the back door stifled a laugh.

“You got a whole squad of comedians here,” George said to him without humor. The young soldier in the room immediately grew serious. The lean intense man had earned the Bodycount nickname.

Tony smiled and just shook his head, then got back to business. “We’ve been talking about going across. Staggered over an hour or whatever, or all together?”

“All together,” George said without hesitation. “If anybody is out there watching I want all of us across before they have a chance to plan any surprises. And if they try something, it’ll be both of us pouring fire into them.”

“Well, I’ll defer to your guys’ judgment,” Tony said, frowning. “You’ve got the experience.” As far as he was concerned, two cars together was far too big of a target, but George wasn’t wrong either. There was no way to cross the Ditch without putting a big target on your back.

“I don’t want to burn too much daylight here.” George said.

“No,” Ed agreed. He dug out the small tablet and handed it to George. “That photo we downloaded earlier is over an hour old now. See if you can pull up a more recent one. I’m going to go up and get eyes on.”

Mark or Mike visibly straightened as Ed paused in the bedroom doorway. Theodore’s squad leader had as much of a reputation as anyone could have in their compartmentalized organization, and the young man eyed him appraisingly as the thin, bespectacled man stood in the center of the dim room and peered out the small window set high in the far wall.

“You Mark or Mike?” Ed asked without turning around.

“Mike.”

Ed glanced over his shoulder at the young man sitting at the table behind the spotting scope, then back out the window. Mike looked nervous.

“Seen anything?”

“Half a dozen on foot, and two vehicles in the past half hour or so.”

“Vehicles?”

“Passenger cars. Small, scooting along the far service drive.”

“Hmmm.” Ed lifted his binoculars to his eyes. He was far enough back from the window that light wouldn’t reflect off the lenses, but he still took a careful half step back as he studied the crossing.

The Interstate known as the Ditch, with its eight lanes split by a four-foot cement wall, was out of sight, a concrete channel carved into the earth thirty feet below street level. Once it had been the area’s busiest road traveled by tens of thousands every day, cutting through the meat of the northern suburbs. No one used it anymore; rubble from damaged and downed overpasses had rendered it impassable, at least to anything larger than motorcycles. The service drives on either side were used regularly.

The President where it crossed the Ditch was pockmarked by explosive damage so old nobody remembered if it had been caused by grenades, mortars, or an IED. Pedestrians could navigate its span safely, but vehicles had to use the intact crossovers a hundred yards to either side. Residential streets ran off the service drive to the south, the houses so close to the Ditch their second floor windows almost overlooked the abandoned traffic lanes far below. At the southwest corner of the intersection was the wreckage of a gas station, destroyed in a fire near the start of the war. Across the Pres from the station was a small strip mall, the stores now dusty and vacant.

Ed played his binoculars over the front of the mall first, looking for movement or signs of human occupation, then turned to the houses visible along the service drive. The Army had, in years past, set up observation posts of its own overlooking undamaged crossing points of the Ditch. They themselves were usually spotted within twenty-four hours. What followed was a consistent pattern—harassing sniper fire, usually mixed with well-aimed 40mm grenades and the odd RPG, and in a day or a week the Army would abandon the post. The Army tried using tanks or armored fighting vehicles as mobile OPs at some of the crossing points, but anything the guerrillas couldn’t destroy they just avoided, and those OPs never had anything to report.

The house closest to the twisted gas pumps showed sign of having been used as an Army OP some time past; its entire second floor had been obliterated by RPGs. Ed let his binoculars drop on their strap, then on second thought pulled them over his head and held them out. “Let me get on that,” he said to Mike. The young man got up from behind the spotting scope, taking the proffered binoculars, and Ed settled in behind the glass. What it lost in field-of-view over the binos was more than made up for by its thirty-power magnification.

Ed set his glasses on the table so he could get his eye closer to the scope and adjusted the focus on its eyepiece. The shabby houses across the ditch jumped out at him, their siding shimmering in the heat mirage. He studied the black rectangles of their windows, looking for glints of light, movement, anything that might indicate the crossing was under surveillance. After ten minutes his eye hurt and he was starting to get a headache.

He pulled his head back from the spotting scope and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know how snipers do it,” he said quietly.

Mike was standing off to one side, using the binoculars. “Here,” he said. He dug into his pocket and produced a foil-wrapped stick of gum.

“Thanks,” Ed said in surprise. He hadn’t seen any gum in over a year, and even though the stick was initially hard as ceramic he chewed it with appreciation.

George popped his head through the doorway, saw Mike, then found Ed with his gaze. “Nothing new,” he told Ed, referencing the satellite photography. “Tony’s good to go, unless you’ve got something.”

“Probably too much to hope for,” Ed mused. He put his glasses back on and stared out the window. “Other side looks clear. Why don’t you give everybody the heads up. Five minutes.”

“Roger that.” George’s head disappeared.

With a grunt Ed stood and moved from behind the table. “All yours,” he told Mike. He stuck a hand out for his binoculars. “You see anything, you let someone know.”

“Yes Sir.”

CHAPTER TEN

The word had been passed—five minutes. Jason wasn’t sure why everybody was nervous, but they were, and it was making him twitchy as well. “Did somebody see something?” he asked Early, as the big man checked his kit.

“If they had, we wouldn’t be standing here with our thumbs up our behinds,” Early said. He pointed at the wall in the general direction of the Ditch. “That road ain’t the city limits, but south a it’s where things tend to get excitin’. Once we hit the border, well, that’s a whole ‘nother world.”

The Ditch was as much a psychological boundary as it was a physical one. To the men in the squads, everything south of the Ditch was enemy territory, even though they were three miles from the actual city limits and plenty of civilians still lived between the Ditch and the Border, as they called the city limit.

“Don’t worry,” Jeff told him. Jason looked at him, a young man not much older than he was. “When the shooting starts you’ll figure out real quick what to do.” Tavon nodded in agreement.

“Or you won’t,” Mark said, fiddling with the SAW’s sling. He looked up at Jason. “Either way it’ll be over quick.” Jason didn’t know how to react to the statement, delivered without inflection. Jeff and Tavon just looked at Mark, then busied themselves checking their weapons.

George stood near the center of the shadowy room, snapping his carbine up to his shoulder, aiming out the empty window frame at a loose brick sitting in the grass about thirty feet away. Tony’s young fighter, Mark, looked on silently in amusement. Tony caught his expression out of the corner of his eye.

“You see something funny?” he snapped.

The young man quickly shook his head and looked away. George glanced around, not sure what he’d just missed, then jumped up and down a few times, trying to loosen tense muscles and make sure nothing in his kit rattled. Ed stepped in through the doorway, blinking his eyes. It was a bright sunny day outside, and in comparison the inside of the small houses were dark as caves.

“Your man in One says it’s all clear,” Ed said. “Time to go.”

“Back into the fire,” George mumbled, so quietly no one heard.

“All right,” Tony said, then cocked his head. “Man? I thought Sheila was up there.”

“She was. John relieved her. Apparently she and Weasel have been getting… reacquainted.” His mouth bent at the corners.

Tony shook his head. “Christ. You think they could have picked a—never mind. We gonna have to wait on them now?”

“No.” Ed shook his head.

George cleared his throat, what might have been a smile coloring his features. “Weasel’s more of a sprinter than a marathoner,” he added helpfully. Mark choked back a laugh.

“Well, let’s get out of here before he gets his second wind,” Tony said. “Jesus. Mike!” he called softly up the stairs. “We’re rolling.”

The two squads piled into their respective vehicles with a chorus of grunts and clanking metal. Weasel’s face was flushed as he clambered over the tailgate of the Ford. Mark grabbed him by the shoulder straps of his armored vest and helped pull him in.

“What she sees in your scrawny ass I have no idea,” the SAW gunner said cordially. Weasel just smiled at Mark and hunkered down in the corner.

“She doesn’t care about your syphilgonertaids?” Mark asked with concern.

“My what?”

Mark smiled and moved on. “I haven’t had sex in so long I should qualify as an honorary virgin,” he said sadly, shaking his head.

“Don’t you have a kid?”

“Yeah, but maybe my hymen grew back when I wasn’t looking.”

“Your what?”

The SUV was already running and as soon as the last of his teammates was aboard Quentin nosed it out from between the two houses. George was wedged between Quentin and Bobby in the front seat and their three heads swiveled back and forth as the overloaded Ford rolled down the short drive. The Toyota pulled out from its hiding place a second later, loaded down with Franklin squad. Jeff, Tavon, Arnold, and Mike sat in the pickup’s open bed, looking in every direction. John was driving, and Ed spotted Sheila with her dimpled smile and tight brown curls in the front passenger seat. Tony and the other Mark were tucked into the rear of the truck’s extended cab. The pickup pulled out right behind the Expedition as Quentin accelerated toward the Ditch.

“Get off my ass!” Quentin growled, as John demonstrated the Toyota’s superior acceleration, his grin visible through the truck’s windshield, but then the truck sank back as Quentin slowed to take the turn onto the service drive. A hundred feet down was the crossover where, once upon a time, westbound cars U-turned so they could hop on the interstate heading east. All eyes, in both vehicles, watched the far side of the freeway, alert for any signs of danger.

Captain Paul Evancho, pilot of Kilo One-Three, kept the Kestrel, the Army’s latest two-seater attack helicopter, two hundred feet off the deck as he followed the snaking pavement at eighty knots. Low and Slow, they called it, looking for trouble. He hated it, but orders were orders—fly low enough that any nearby assholes in the area with guns might be tempted to take a shot—then take them out with rockets and guns. He wished his command structure didn’t have so much faith in the armored glass and titanium that surrounded him, as he would have much preferred to be doing his patrols at 1000 feet AGL. One-Three was one of three birds up on patrol, but Kilo One-Eight and -Nine were south of the city trying to track down a squad of guerrillas that had shot up a patrol that morning. Nobody killed this time, thank God.

“Remember when they’d have a dozen birds up at any one time?” he asked his backseater. “We don’t even have that many left total.” He scanned his front, then left and right, then his bank of instruments, before starting the sequence all over again. The most pertinent information—speed, altitude, remaining fuel, and weapons status, were illuminated on the HUD of his helmet visor.

“That’s because this isn’t considered a combat zone anymore,” Lieutenant Casey Jenkins said, the very sound of the words distasteful to him. “The war’s out west. Don’t complain too much,” he warned his commanding officer. “They’re talking about shipping tanks to the front, and if it happens helos will be next.” His head swiveled left and right as well, scanning for danger. Minor G-forces pulled at him as the Captain put the bird through a gentle S-curve following the unused interstate.

“I know, it’s just that—” Evancho’s eyes moved up from his instruments and locked on the two vehicles halfway across the secondary bridge less than three hundred yards from his bird’s nose. He was more than close enough to see the rifle muzzles sticking up from the bed of the pickup truck.

“Tangos Tangos Tangos!” he yelled, arming the helicopter’s missiles with a flick of his thumb. He nosed the bird down, centered the orange aiming reticle in his visor’s HUD on the vehicle, and pulled the trigger on his joystick. It had taken the captain only two-point-nine seconds from the time he spotted the vehicles to trigger the seventy-millimeter missile, but instinctively he knew they were too close for a second missile to arm itself in flight before impact. The pilot thumbed the switch back to Guns as he roared over the bridge and released a wild burst from his nose cannon at the lead vehicle. He immediately threw the Kestrel over into a high-G banking turn to come back around. He heard Jenkins grunt through his earphones.

Ed was looking out the front of the SUV at the houses lining the south side service drive when someone yelled “Kestrel!” He looked over and the helicopter was right on top of them, having appeared from nowhere, a missile already streaking from one of the pods under its stubby wings.

“Move!” George yelled at Quentin, as the driver floored the overburdened SUV. Everyone in the Expedition was shoved back into their seats as an explosion behind them pushed the sluggish vehicle forward. A huge roaring BRRRRRRT! filled the sky above them as the helicopter fired a long burst from the electric Gatling gun under its nose. The SUV lurched and filled with smoke and the smell of ozone as a line of thirty-caliber bullets, fired at a rate of fifty per second, ripped through its thin steel body like a chain saw.

Ed got his carbine up and fired a wild burst at the retreating helicopter as he felt the SUV shudder under the impact of the bullets. The vehicle immediately began slowing down, and they’d barely reached the service drive, much less the adjoining sidestreets, but behind them Franklin’s Toyota had exploded in a ball of flame. There was nothing left of the cab but twisted metal and flames shooting ten feet into the air. Ed could only stare at it in shock.

The dive had cost them a hundred feet of altitude but as Evancho pulled the Kestrel out of the hard bank they still had seventy knots of airspeed. He saw immediately the missile had found its mark. The pickup was on fire, not moving, with bodies on the pavement all around it. The other vehicle was crawling along, smoke pouring from under its hood. Muzzle flashes caught his eye, and he heard the tank, tank of bullets bouncing off the bird’s armor. He leveled the chopper out and fought to get the targeting reticle on the second vehicle, finger poised over the trigger.

The missile had penetrated the Toyota’s thin sheet-metal body and exploded in the rear of the pickup’s cab, killing all four people inside instantly and igniting its fuel. Everyone sitting in the bed of the truck had been blown backwards by the blast. John and Tavon had been killed instantly.

Arnold found himself lying on his back in the middle of the bridge, twenty feet from the rear of the burning truck. He rolled over, his ears ringing unmercifully, and saw the Kestrel three hundred yards out in a banking turn. He looked around for his rifle but couldn’t find it.

“Go! Come on!” Ed yelled at Quentin, who seemed to be fighting with the wheel. The Expedition was barely moving at a jog.

“I’ve got it! I’ve got it! You’re going to be okay!” Ed heard George’s strained voice from the front seat.

Ed leaned forward over the front seat, his eyes burning from the acrid smoke filling the car, and saw the front seat was swimming in blood. George was frantically trying to stem the bleeding from Bobby’s femoral arteries. The burst of machine-gun fire had cut diagonally across both the young man’s thighs, nearly severing them both, and into the engine compartment, where the heavy bullets had destroyed the engine. Bobby was slumped against the door, groaning, eyes half closed, pale from shock and blood loss.

“Jesus! Fuck!” There was shouting and chaos from inside the vehicle as the squad saw the Kestrel coming back for another pass while their own transportation slowed to walking speed. Ed fumbled for the door handle as some in his squad began firing at the helicopter.

Arnold saw Tavon crumpled on the concrete, obviously dead, the RPG beside him. He tried to stand up but there was something wrong with his balance, so Arnold crawled over on hands and knees. He wrestled the launcher tube from underneath the young man’s body, fighting the urge to look up at the Kestrel. He could feel the thrum of its rotors in his bones, so he knew it was close.

Sticking out of Tavon’s pack were the grenades themselves, but they were spares. As he succeeded in pulling the launcher from underneath Tavon’s body Arnold saw there was a grenade already in the tube. It was when he hefted the RPG onto his shoulder that Arnold noticed for the first time his sleeves were on fire. He couldn’t feel any pain, and his only concern was that the flames wouldn’t ignite the grenade before he had a chance to fire it.

As he raised his head the Kestrel was right there, coming in low, maybe two hundred yards out. The pilot had overcompensated coming out of the bank and was in the process of leveling the bird out when Arnold put the RPG’s crosshairs on the orange cockpit. He instinctively adjusted for distance, pulling up until the RPG was aimed just above the incoming helicopter’s rotors, and pulled the trigger.

“This is Kilo One-Three, Kilo One-Three,” Jenkins said quickly, keying his radio. He hoped somebody was paying attention. “We’ve got two vehicles with tangos—RPG!” he yelled, seeing the distinctive smoke-trail.

Evancho had just started applying pressure on the trigger when his backseater had screamed the warning. His eyes were still on the smoking SUV, and just for a second he wondered if Jenkins had mistaken the curls of grey smoke oozing from underneath the Ford’s split hood for an RPG’s discharge. Then he saw the incoming round, and yanked the stick, pulling the Kestrel into another hard turn, but that half second of hesitation had been enough. The helicopter’s cockpit glass, while more than strong enough to deflect the occasional rifle bullet, was not designed to absorb a direct head-on hit from an armor-piercing rocket-propelled grenade. The grenade exploded as it penetrated the curved glass, killing both men inside instantly.

Trailing smoke from its shattered windscreen, the helicopter’s momentum kept it moving forward even as the power going to its rotors died. It made a graceful, curving arc straight into the Ditch’s eastbound lanes. The copter hit the concrete with a huge crunch.

“Somebody get me a tourniquet!” George’s blood-slick hands kept slipping off Bobby’s mangled thighs as Quentin wrestled the dead vehicle onto the service drive. Everyone else in the SUV saw the RPG hit the Kestrel dead center and explode, killing the bird. It dropped out of sight. Quentin began fighting the wheel to get the big Ford to turn onto the first side street. The vehicle was moving at a crawl, its momentum nearly spent.

“Who was that?” yelled Ed.

“Arnold!” Mark shouted, seeing the potbellied man for the first time. The Franklin squad member was on his knees in the middle of the bridge, batting the flames out on his sleeves.

Ed finally found the door handle and flung it open. The rest of the squad bailed out of the disabled vehicle behind him. “Take defensive positions!” Ed shouted at them, pointing at the nearby houses, as he ran toward the flaming pickup. “Watch for more birds!”

Ed saw Arnold stagger to his feet, not on fire anymore but trailing smoke. He looked around dazedly for the Kestrel, not sure where it had gone down, as Ed ran back out onto the bridge toward him.

“Help me get him out of here!” George yelled.

“Oh my God.”

“Grab his legs!”

George and Mark lifted Bobby’s limp body out of the Expedition and set him on the concrete near the curb. George yanked out a knife and started cutting away Bobby’s shredded trousers. “Early! Get over here.” Early was the only other member of the squad besides George with formal first aid training. The gutter began to fill with blood.

“Already here Cap’n.” The two men bent over the still form in the middle of the street as the rest of the squad took cover nearby, nervously scanning the skies.

The heat from the Toyota was so intense Ed had to put his hand up to shield his face thirty feet away. He saw a few dark shapes inside the shattered cab, through the roaring flames, but whether they were seats or their occupants was impossible to determine. There could be no question that everyone inside the cab was now dead.

On the far side of the truck, through the shimmering waves of heat, Ed saw Arnold stumble drunkenly to the edge of the bridge and look down at the helicopter wreckage through the tall chain link fence designed to thwart suicidal jumpers and delinquents wanting to drop items on passing cars. Back when there had been passing cars.

The flames were baking Ed’s face like an oven. “Arnold!” he yelled, but his voice was lost in the roaring flames. Ed held an arm up beside his head to shield it, closed his eyes, and ran past the wreck. He reached the far side and opened his eyes just in time to see Arnold lose his balance and nearly topple over the railing. The RPG launcher slipped from his hands and fell out of view through a rent in the chain link. Then Arnold looked up at the sky and fell backward onto the pavement.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ed leapt over bodies and ran to Arnold, on his back on the concrete. The big man’s limbs were sprawled awkwardly.

“Arnold! Arnold!” Ed yelled at him, checking him for injuries. His sleeves were still smoking. Ed’s hands and gaze moved up the soldier’s body, checking for cuts or obvious broken bones. Then he looked at Arnold’s face, and saw the man’s eyes were open and unblinking. “Shit. Arnold?” He dropped to his knees and started CPR.

“Jesus!” Weasel cursed as he ran past the burning truck, shielding his face. He joined Ed at the railing and looked around at the scene. “Goddamnit.” Then he looked down at Arnold. The man’s body shifted from side to side as Ed did chest compressions.

“Wait.” Weasel stopped him with a hand on his sleeve. He stared down at Arnold. “He’s dead.”

“No, he’s—” It was then that Ed noticed the hunk of metal sticking from the man’s skull, and the blood leaking out of Arnold’s left ear. “Fuck.”

The pool of blood surrounding Arnold’s head was reflecting the orange flames shooting out of the truck. The loss of one more man hit Ed in the stomach like a hammer, but he pushed himself up and away from the body. “Help me,” he told Weasel, as he began checking the bodies on the bridge for signs of life. It took the two of them less than a minute to determine Franklin had no survivors.

“Motherfuckers. Motherfuckers.” Weasel was staring at the burning pickup just a few feet away, seemingly oblivious to the heat. Sheila’s body was inside that inferno. His only comfort was that it had been quick for her, and that was no comfort at all.

“Weasel. Weasel! Grab their gear and any intelligence. Personal items. Can’t afford to leave anything.” Ed was pawing through the pockets of the fallen, with disappointing results. Franklin had been as short on ammo as they were. From the four bodies blown free of the wreckage Ed and Weasel recovered just five magazines, two of them only partially loaded.

One of the Toyota’s tires blew from the heat, sounding like a shotgun. Ed flinched involuntarily, then glanced up at the towering column of black smoke roiling up from the burning truck. It was over a hundred feet tall already and could be seen for miles. The helicopter had also probably radioed their position, if not their strength as well, which meant they were tempting fate with every second they stayed there. Thank God there’d only been one helicopter, or they’d all be dead.

The two men ran back across the bridge to the ruined Expedition. Ed waved Weasel toward one of the nearby houses to take up a covering position and then stopped behind George and Early and looked down.

George squatted in the street, staring down at Bobby. He ran a bloody hand through his short, graying hair, then started pulling equipment from the teenager’s gear. Early looked up at Ed but said nothing.

“There was nothing I could do,” George said through clenched teeth, patting Bobby’s pockets. “Both his femoral arteries were shredded. As soon as he was hit he was dead.” He concentrated on what he was doing, not looking at anything or anybody.

Looking between his two soldiers Ed stared at the blood-soaked pantlegs. What looked like a gallon of blood filled the curbside gutter and was trickling toward the storm drain. There was so much of it he could smell it. He shifted his weight and looked over George’s shoulder. Bobby’s pale, lifeless face stared up at the sky, eyes open and glassy.

Ed gritted his teeth and his hands shook as they squeezed his carbine but he didn’t let the anger distract him. “We’ve got to get moving.” When that didn’t get a response, he added, “We’ve got to leave him. Army’ll bury him.”

George sagged with a sigh. “I know,” he said. George stood, pocketing the rifle magazines he’d taken off Bobby. Early rose without a word. He looked at Ed without expression, then raised an arm and signaled for the squad to get ready to move. Ed could see his men prone on nearby porches or squatting behind bushes, looking over their rifles in every direction, and he glanced around quickly to get his bearings. The street they were on had overhead tree cover as good or better than any nearby. Ridgedale, if he remembered correctly, although the street sign had been torn down long ago to confuse those unfamiliar with the area. He pointed south.

“Go.”

The squad jogged down the sidewalks on both sides of the street in two ragged lines, more interested in putting distance between them and the downed chopper than being stealthy. Ed was last in line on the left. Quentin was half a dozen steps in front of him as they began jogging down the sidewalk, and he turned and jogged backwards for a while, staring back at the bridge and Bobby. He looked at Ed, but all Ed could do was shake his head. After a few more seconds Quentin turned back around, his expression both sad and full of rage.

“Go! Go!” Early urged Jason, as the boy seemed reluctant to move.

“But what about—?” he began, as the squad began moving out.

“Ev’ry body that’s comin’ is here,” Early growled. “Move, boy.”

The spreading arms of mature maples, beeches, and birch trees kept most of the sidewalk in shade, but after a hundred yards there wasn’t a man among them who wasn’t soaked in sweat in the humid heat. The houses to either side were single story red brick block houses with small lawns, maybe a tenth of which were still being maintained to one degree or another. None of the residents poked their heads out as the squad went by, but there were definitely eyes on them.

Ridgedale ended four-tenths of a mile from the service drive in a T-intersection. The experienced fighters increased their intervals as they neared the intersection. So far they hadn’t heard the growl of approaching armor or the freight train roar of 4-blade helicopter rotors, but they knew as soon as that Kestrel had gone down an alarm had gone off in the military’s operations center.

At the T the squad turned right and again spread out on both sides of the street. It ended a hundred yards up. George was in the lead and he slowed to a walk as he moved between the houses on the west side of the small cul-de-sac. Past the back yards he could see the overgrown field he was looking for, but he paused between the brick walls to catch his breath and scan the area with his eyes and ears. The squad spread out around two houses and watched the sky.

Jason knelt between two overgrown yew bushes and tried to fight down his panic. Bobby was dead? It didn’t seem possible. He was a kid, hardly older than Jason himself. It had to be a mistake. But he knew it wasn’t. He’d seen the blood as they’d pulled Bobby from the SUV. It had been everywhere. He’d never seen so much blood. He could still smell it. And once they’d laid him in the street Bobby’d never moved. The explosion of the rocket—had it been a rocket? He didn’t really know—had been louder than anything he could have imagined. He’d felt it in his chest, and his ears were still ringing. Jason found he was gripping the lever action so tightly his fingers began to hurt. He stared down at the rifle. It belonged to his father. His father, who didn’t see a reason for the war, didn’t understand why people felt they had to fight, who’d never taken a stand for or against anything in his life, and who’d never pointed the Marlin at anything other than deer.

“You okay?”

Jason looked up to see Early standing over him, looking concerned at the expression on Jason’s face. Jason glanced from the big rifle in Early’s knuckly hands to the slender lever action in his own, then up at the big man’s face.

“I’m fine.”

Early regarded him with appraising eyes for a few seconds, then nodded. Then the look Jason had given his rifle sunk in.

“Sheeeit,” he cursed quietly. “We shoulda grabbed you Bobby’s rifle. And armor.” He glanced back past the houses the way they had come. “Cain’t go back now. My fault.”

Jason again looked down at the weapon in his hands, then back up at Early. “I’m okay.” Something in his voice made Early give him a second look.

George moved out, still on point. He slipped through a gap in the chain link fence encircling the house’s back yard and moved in quick strides into waist-high grass beyond. The slightly elevated field sat at the edge of the small bedroom community’s indoor/outdoor recreation complex. George avoided crossing the field directly as it would expose them unnecessarily. He reached the weed-choked gravel drive behind the ice arena building and followed it west. The men spread out in a line behind him, mostly hidden from view by the arena building on one side and the raised field with its high grass on the other.

The air was calm and quiet but for the sounds of a few birds as the squad prowled forward at a fast walk. They were trying to be careful and cautious, but at the same time there was still far too little distance between them and the crashed Kestrel. At the far end of the tan brick building the land opened up and George paused. He peered around the bricks to the left and could see a section of the municipal parking lot. Only a few cars were in sight, and while some looked drivable they were all unoccupied civilian vehicles. Even if they held fuel, which was doubtful, there was no time to hotwire one of them, and none of them was large enough to hold the entire squad, which meant they’d have to hotwire two. At least he didn’t see any tanks, or IMPs, or troop trucks disgorging enraged soldiers by the dozen.

The gravel access road continued on, wending its way between the city pool on the left and a baseball diamond on the right. The padlocked pool hadn’t been used in years and was bordered by a ten foot concrete wall. Arborvitae, which were now twenty feet tall, had been planted around the ugly wall in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal it, or present a more attractive alternative. The baseball field was enclosed by a chain link fence and still looked serviceable. To the north, past left field, more small houses could be seen.

The squad jogged from behind the ice arena to behind the pool one at a time, then continued moving west in two lines on either side of the road. Past the pool and the baseball diamond were several acres of woods, which would conceal them from eyes on the ground and in the air.

Ed was still the last in line, guarding their rear, and his head jerked up as he heard it, perhaps echoing off the wall of the ice arena. “Go! Go!” he said sharply, jabbing at the trees. Faces looked back at him, but they started running even before they heard the helicopter.

Ed jogged backwards towards the trees, scanning the sky to the south. He heard the squad crashing into the brush behind him, and hoped the tree cover overhead was thick enough to shield them. The gravel under his boots turned to the muffled thud of composting leaves and he glanced over his shoulder. He was ten feet from the treeline, and most of his men were already invisible inside the patch of woods.

Ed could tell just from the sound that the helicopter was another Kestrel. He moved twenty feet inside the treeline before he knelt beside a tree trunk and looked up. He tried to spot the helicopter through gaps in the trees and finally saw it to the east, coming in low and fast.

The Kestrel was visibly slowing as it went by about half a mile to the east, heading north toward the crash site. Ed lost sight of it as it banked hard. He could hear the sound of its engine and rotors changing as it circled over the downed copter. Whether the helicopter kept airborne watch over its crashed brethren until ground units could arrive or started circling the area looking for them would depend upon a number of variables, the biggest of which were how many helicopters were up and how far away the closest ground units were. Ed preferred to not find out.

“You grab the RPG?” George called to him softly.

Ed shook his head. “Dropped in the ditch.” Even if the fall onto concrete hadn’t damaged the launcher, it would have taken them five minutes to retrieve it. Five minutes he didn’t think they had, and he’d been right. Which was just another piece of bad luck, as RPGs were very, very useful.

The squad leader stood and faced the dense patch of forest. The air was stuffier inside the trees, but slightly cooler out of the sun. He was soaked in sweat, more from the humidity than anything else, but he’d grown accustomed to that—he’d been sweaty since May. The smell of dirt, and bark, and a hundred plants whose names he should know but didn’t filled his nose, replacing the noxious odor of burning rubber. It took him a few seconds to even spot one of his men crouching in the thick undergrowth. It was amazing to him just how much wilderness could be found in the most built-up urban areas. He signaled for them to move out and half the squad appeared around him, rising silently from the long grass and wild shrubs, facing outward in a defensive perimeter. A cloud of mosquitoes decided that moment there was nowhere they’d rather be than inside Ed’s nose, and he huffed in quiet misery as he followed the backs of his men.

Noise was more of a factor than speed in the woods and they picked their way carefully around patches of dried leaves and over crumbling deadfalls. The farther they got from the crash site the more important noise discipline became.

The original plan had been to roll south on the Pres until just before the city border, then hide the Ford inside one of the numerous abandoned commercial buildings nearby and continue on foot. The Tabs, however, now knew they were in the area. Ed had no way of knowing if the helicopter pilot had had time to radio their troop strength before Arnold shot him down, but the search and rescue teams would, for their own safety, have to assume there were still a few guerrillas in the area. The Army would either expect them to continue south on their mission, if they had one, or retreat back north, but they’d check at least half a mile in every direction just to be thorough. How much they did beyond that would be an indication of how well informed they were about survivors.

The squad moved west through the trees for several hundred yards until more houses came into view. They could still hear the Kestrel circling in the distance, and Ed thought he heard the faint growl of diesel engines as well. Army vehicles.

They reached the street bordering the far side of the woods and spread out in a line. Every man in the squad studied the row of houses on the far side of the concrete ribbon, watching and listening. These were compact houses, little more than cubes of red brick with bumpy roofs and small, detached garages, half of which were falling down. But there were many mature trees lining the streets, which was good. Ed really wanted to move farther south through the woods, but the sound of diesel engines was louder in that direction and they had to get out of the trees quickly, while they had the chance, before the Kestrel pilot got tired of circling over the wreckage. The trees made for excellent cover, but the other side knew that as well.

Ed pointed at Quentin and Weasel and together the three of them sprinted across the street and did a quick check of the nearby yards. The men didn’t find anybody hiding in the bushes, and so he signaled to the rest of the squad. They came running across in pairs without incident, then the squad cut through the fence-enclosed backyards to the next street, then dashed across that. Then they started heading directly west through the backyards between two parallel east-west streets.

The ever-present chain-link fences made for slow, arduous going, but they didn’t dare travel down sidewalks or streets. The Kestrel swung over them twice, but each time they had plenty of warning. Half the houses were vacant, with yawning doors and windows indicating that at some point in the past they’d been looted, but the men didn’t like diving inside buildings they hadn’t checked out first unless actually under fire. However, the back yards were so small they were never more than a dozen feet from a ragged patio awning, or some overgrown ornamental tree they could hide under. When the temperature got over eighty they’d learned the Kestrel’s thermal imager was undependable if they were under roofs, so as long as they couldn’t be seen with the naked eye they should be okay. Should be.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The four two-man sniper teams had flown in on one of the regular weekly supply planes, then ridden in buttoned-up IMPs to the base downtown. They’d already spent some time looking over maps of the area, and once they arrived they all took at least one overflight of the city in a rotary wing to get a proper look at the place. It was even more of a shithole than they’d been told, but still it seemed to be full of people, and they should have a lot to do. It helped that the rules of engagement were simple.

They weren’t regular Army incompetents, they were Special Forces, so they did things a little differently. They wouldn’t be supporting regular Army patrols, no matter how much the full bird colonel in charge of the base would have preferred, and had in fact demanded of their unit commander, to no avail. Instead, they stripped off their camouflage fatigues for civilian clothes, to better blend in, and then moved out of the base into the city on foot, in the middle of the night, using their NODs. Intelligence said the guerrillas in the city didn’t have much night vision capability, so they thought their best bet was to move around at night and then be in position by dawn.

Every team had a different sector of the city, and the plan was to be out beyond the wire for three days. They had enough water and food for four, just in case.

Keeley and Hulce were Anvil-6, and had chosen their first hide well. They were set up in the second floor of a small office building on the northeast corner of a major intersection about six miles north-northwest of the military base. It had taken them all night to hike in, but being able to see in the dark made things much easier. They saw a number of people, unarmed locals, who never saw or heard them passing, and a surprising amount of wildlife, dogs and possums and a raccoon, all of which had no problem seeing the men in the dark.

Through the fractured windows they could see south along Meyers for a third of a mile, and through the ragged gap in the bricks of the west wall they could see west on McNichols for three-quarters of a mile. Hulce was prone atop a desk six feet back from the windows, positioned so his bullet would pass between two angular pieces of pane somehow still stuck in the frame. The men had actually pushed two desks together, and if he needed to Hulce could rotate behind the rifle and look west through the foot-wide hole in the bricks.

Both of the men were sniper trained, but this mission Keeley was tasked with support, and Hulce was the designated sniper. He was toting a suppressed bolt-action .300 WinMag, and Keeley had a sound-suppressed M5 to back him up and provide site security, as well as be the eye on the spotting scope. Hulce also had a suppressed PDW in his pack for close-range defense, if the need arose, but it would take him some time to get to it.

As the sun rose on the city they began to see movement, but no guerrilla activity. A few people walking here and there, but none of them were armed or wearing armor. Keeley diagrammed the site in his logbook and used the laser rangefinder to get the exact distance to several landmarks both south and west of their location. They worked out the drop of his rounds at that distance and Hulce made notes on the sheet of paper in front of himself. This way he’d be able to dial in the drop and get on target more quickly.

Keeley had both 8X binoculars and a 30X spotting scope set up on a tripod. The binoculars didn’t have nearly the same magnification, but they had a much greater field of view. He glassed the area with the binos, and if he saw something that warranted further investigation he went to the spotting scope. Hulce stayed on the variable power riflescope, and at 10X he had a good balance between magnification and field of view.

After they’d been in position close to an hour, switching vantage points a few times, they decided Keeley should take the southward eye, as there was a wide sixty-degree field of view out the front window, something better tackled with binos. Keeley would stay on the rifle pointed west down McNichols through the hole in the bricks. Three hours after dawn they still hadn’t seen any guerrilla activity, but there was much more movement on the street. At any one time Hulce could see a half a dozen people on foot. They weren’t guerrillas, just local residents, although they more closely resembled starving or crazy refugees.

Hulce’s eye was drawn to some activity on the left side of the street. It was on the far side of the service drive to the expressway which angled southeast toward downtown. Two men were arguing in front of a low brick building. There was a shopping cart between them laden with junk and that seemed to be the subject of debate, but the sniper had no idea which of the men the cart belonged to.

“Got something, maybe,” he said softly, trying not to jostle the image in his scope. “Couple hundred yards down, south side of the street. You want to get the spotting scope over here?”

“On it.”

Keeley moved around the desks and planted the spotting scope between his partner’s splayed legs and oriented it over his head and paralleling the long rifle barrel made even longer by the suppressor. The end of the suppressor was five feet back from the opening in the bricks. “Two hundred… okay, I see them,” he said as he got the spotting scope in focus. He quick-glanced down at the notebook in his hand. “Far side of that service drive lazed at two-forty, so they’re two-fifty or a hair more. You need me to laze it?” He got back on the spotting scope, but was ready to grab the laser rangefinder if necessary.

“Nah. Maybe if it was twelve fifty.”

Through the thirty times magnification of the spotting scope Keeley could see the two men clearly. Both were dark-skinned, one thicker, one rail skinny, both wearing baggy clothes that hung off them. And they were in a very heated argument, pulling back and forth on the shopping cart. The two men were too distant for their shouting to be heard. “They’re not Tangos,” Keeley said, stating the obvious. He could see the lettering on the side of the tan brick building behind them, just visible above wildly overgrown bushes. It was a branch of the city’s public library… or had been.

The tug of war with the shopping cart ended. The skinner of the two men reached into the cart and withdrew something wrapped in a rag. He looked around, then unwrapped the object and showed it to the other man. It appeared they were engaged in a business transaction.

“Confirm,” Hulce said softly, eye to the scope, which was still at ten power magnification.

Keeley was bent over the spotting scope. “Gun,” he said simply, confirming identification of the object. A revolver, actually, they were close enough for him to see that much detail.

There was a pause, less than one second, and then the rifle shoved the sniper back several inches. Even with the suppressor the gunshot sounded like a gunshot, it was simply quieter. Through the spotting scope Keeley saw the armed man’s head disintegrate in a chunky crimson spray, and he dropped lifelessly to the sidewalk. The other man froze for a second, then took off running. Unfortunately for him, he began running directly away from the sniper team. Hulce worked the bolt, and settled the reticle high on the running man’s back, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger.

“Down,” Keeley said flatly, to the sound of Hulce working the bolt again. “Good hit.” Keeley sighed, then said, shaking his head, “That’s just…”

“Hey, fuck those guys,” Hulce said quietly, back on the scope and scanning the street once again. “They’re playing the game, they know the rules.”

“I was going to say it was a waste of a good bullet,” his partner told him. “Two bullets. That shitty little revolver probably doesn’t even work, and those two dudes didn’t look like they had two spare brain cells to rub together.” Their rules of engagement were simple. They were weapons free to engage anyone with a firearm or wearing body armor, as both were expressly prohibited under martial law, and had been for years. Their commander had been very clear about their mission. It was time to bring some order back to this lawless shithole of a city, some fear back into the hearts of the shitty little civilians playing soldier.

“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes,” Hulce murmured, cheek against his rifle’s stock. “Only the police and military can have guns. Should have guns. You can’t get that through your head, you deserve whatever happens to you. Let’s see if anyone tries to pick it up. It’ll be like hunting over bait.”

Keeley entered the time and distance of the two kills and then went back to scanning with the binoculars.

They worked their way steadily west through the neighborhood, moving as quickly as they could remain quiet… which was not quick at all. Jumping fences, even low, waist-high chainlink ones, was easy for kids at play but not so much when you were men burdened with body armor and rifles trying to not make a sound or be seen, pausing for minutes at a time at every noise, hunkering down into waist-high grass and wildly overgrown bushes and ornamental trees that had once been landscaping for the trim houses. Twice they heard barking nearby but never saw the dogs. The houses were small one-story edifices, brick with siding, most of them with covered car ports instead of garages, which was unusual for the area.

Ed had paused in shade at the back corner of a small house, peering between it and its neighbor at the street to the north, drinking from his canteen, when he noticed movement nearby. His eyes darted over to see an old man standing in the shadowed dining room of the house, staring at Ed and past him at the gear-laden soldiers creeping silently through his and the adjacent backyard. The man was short and thick, but not fat—it was all knobby bone, including a big brown head dotted with just a few gray hairs. He and Ed stared at each other for a few seconds, then the man gave him a slight nod and a thumbs up. Then he gestured at Ed and walked closer to the window between them, which was open.

“You gentlemen look like you might want to rest your feet for a few minutes.” He nodded past Ed. “I appreciate that you didn’t trample my garden.”

Ed glanced over his shoulder. “Looks like you’ve put a lot of work into it.” He pointed at the adjoining backyards of the two houses to the south, which were nothing but rows of plants from fence to fence. “Those yours too?”

The man nodded. “Most everybody else in the hood has skipped out, but I’m too damn old to pick up and move. Besides, gardening relaxes me.” He gave a brief smile. “’Nother hot one. I don’t have the water to spare, but I just picked a mother of a watermelon out of the garden this morning, was just about to cut it up. Care to join me?”

Ed glanced up at the sky and did a little figuring in his head. They were not quite a mile southwest and fifty minutes removed from the crash site. He smiled at the shrunken man. “That’s mighty neighborly of you. I’m Ed.”

“Russell.” He pointed down at the floor beside him, and there was a dog that Ed hadn’t even noticed. It was small but thick, with white fluffy fur and a short tail going back and forth so vigorously its rear feet were dancing on the floor. It appeared as old as its owner. “And this is Willis.”

Ed raised his hand and signaled the men to him. The rest of the squad had paused when they heard Ed talking softly to a resident, and headed his way silently when he waved his hand.

Ed and the rest of the men in Theodore—heck, every dogsoldier in the city—did their best to tread softly and treat nicely anyone brave or crazy enough to still be living in the area. There was always a chance a local would contact government forces and rat a team out for the standard reward, but grisly ARF reprisals against civilians actively collaborating with the military were a very real thing, and everyone knew it, so usually residents pretended not to see anything if they didn’t want to pick a side. Truth was, most people who had picked a side were already in the fight.

The remaining locals generally had very little love lost for the Army. It was the Army which put up roadblocks and enforced martial law. The Army which went through neighborhoods, kicking in doors, looking for guns and other contraband. And the Army which had shut off water and power to the entire city in hopes of driving away the Irregulars. Of course, they denied it was intentional, claimed the water and electrical infrastructure had been irrevocably damaged from the fighting, but nobody believed the official story on that. Besides, both the water and power had been off for years, with no sign anyone was trying to “repair the damage”… and yet, somehow, the Blue Zone, which included the Army headquarters, had never lost power, and still had running water. It was hard to feel sympathy for a government that lied to you and was doing its best to drive you from your home. The suburbs still had power and water, but it was nothing anyone could depend on.

“General, I’ve got some news.”

Parker looked up from his paperwork. “Tomahawk Two-Bravo have some luck chasing down those guerrillas that shot them up?” The patrol had taken fire a few hours earlier, but only suffered one minor injury, probably from a ricochet. They’d seen at least two insurgents and given chase on foot while their Growlers had driven ahead to box in the enemy. The pursuit had very quickly turned into a house-by-house search.

“No news on that, Sir. They’re still doing a grid search. We’ve got a second enemy contact.” He stepped to the large map of the city and its environs Parker had tacked to the wall. He pointed to a spot north of the city. “Kilo One-Three, one of our Kestrels running low and slow, reported an enemy contact here. Two trucks full of Tangos. Then they went radio silent. The two other birds we had on deck rotated over there ASAP and reported Kilo One-Three down and burning in the middle of the Ditch—”

“Shit,” Parker swore. He got up and moved around his desk to peer at the map.

“Yes sir. Ground units arrived on site fifteen minutes ago. It appears Kilo One-Three was downed with an RPG, both pilot and co-pilot dead in the bird, but not before he lit up the two vehicles. Initial reports are eight enemy KIA, two vehicles destroyed. However, it seems clear some enemy combatants survived the attack.”

“How many?”

“Unknown, sir, but first aid was attempted on one of the dead, and the RPG was fired a distance from that body, so best guess is at least three or more survived the attack and are on foot in the area. Our guess is that they were heading south, and whoever survived the contact continued in that direction or went to ground nearby. I’ve got two birds in the air, looking, and two platoons in Growlers and IMPs heading to the area. I thought you should know.”

“Thank you.” Parker thought for a bit. “Is this related to the other incident this morning?”

“I don’t think so, Sir. Not directly. This was two miles north of the city, the other incident was in a suburb as well, south of the city.” The Colonel pointed. “They’re nearly twenty miles apart.”

Parker huffed. “I still don’t like it. I want us to find these fuckers, Coop. North and south.” He waved a hand at the map. “I’m getting tired of this shit. I’m glad that aircrew gave better than they got, but it’s still a tragedy.” As was the loss of the Kestrel, he could have added. “Any insurgents killed or captured at either of those locations, I want to know. Or if anything else pops off in the city. AARs on my desk tonight either way.”

“Absolutely.”

“Sir, if this was your daughter, I would ask you for its hand in marriage,” Mark said, hoisting the curve of watermelon rind aloft. It was his third, and his lips and fingers were wet and sticky with the juice of the fruit. He hadn’t had fresh watermelon in forever. He wasn’t alone.

“Nothing seasons like hunger,” Ed said. He’d heard the phrase years ago, and had found it to be unerringly accurate. He looked at their host, missing the strange look Jason threw his way. “And you’re taking one of those birds as a thank you.” He pointed at the pigeons Weasel had field dressed while they’d eaten and rested.

“You won’t get an argument from me.”

“This seems like a nice neighborhood,” Quentin said. He was still trying to forget the smell of Bobby’s blood, the sight of the boy’s shocked, pale face as he died.

“It’s quiet. I enjoy my gardening. And I get a lot of reading done.”

“Not at night,” George observed. Even in midday the house was gloomy due to a lack of windows.

Russell chuckled. “I get up and go to sleep with the sun. Isn’t that what old people are supposed to do anyway, get up at the crack of dawn and eat dinner in the middle of the afternoon?”

“So I’ve heard,” George replied with a smile. He checked his watch, then pointedly looked at Ed, who nodded.

They’d been inside the house for an hour. Longer than Ed had first intended, but they’d heard Kestrels passing nearby twice, and he was loathe to head outside when helicopters were in the air close enough to hear.

“Haven’t had electricity but three weeks this year, but the water’s running two or three days a week. ‘Course, you still have to boil it. I’d offer you some, but it’s been four days since I got a trickle out of a faucet. I would like a favor to ask of you boys, though, before you leave,” their host said from his chair. “Might sound a bit odd.”

“Try us,” Early said, leaning on a door frame, letting Willis lick the watermelon juice off his fingers. The dog was very friendly as well as being seriously arthritic.

“If any of you feel the urge to do your business before you get on the road, I’d be obliged if you could do it around the corner,” he pointed, “where I’ve got a compost pile. Every little bit helps.”

Early’s face split in a huge smile. “Well, Sir, folks have been telling me my whole life I’m full o’ shit, it’s about time I finally put that to good use.” George snorted and Ed shook his head.

Before they headed out, Ed took a moment to talk to the entire squad. They were all hurting, some more than others. It wasn’t the first time they’d had a casualty, but it had been quite some time since Theodore had suffered a loss, and they’d all been feeling lucky. Untouchable. Especially after Weasel’s close call with the Toad.

“Bobby was a good man, and he will be sorely missed,” he said to their solemn faces. He traded a look with Quentin, and squeezed Weasel’s arm. “As will everyone we lost today. Franklin was as good as they get, and if it wasn’t for Arnold, that magnificent bastard, we’d all be dead too.” He paused. “A whole squad, plus one, is a stiff price to pay for a Kestrel, but don’t think they scored a walk-off home run on us. Maybe losing that one bird, that one thirty million dollar bird, will put a hole in their air coverage that will save lives tomorrow or the day after. Either way, we don’t have time to grieve. Not now. We’ve got a mission.” He paused, then his voice got steely.

“Are you dragging? Are you tired? Sad? Want to quit, go home, take a long nap, have a good cry? Make it personal. Remember the names of the men who died today, fighting for freedom. Remember their jokes, their laughter, the things they did that annoyed the fuck out of you. Remember their bloody, burned faces. Bring that pain, that hurt, that outrage at the unfairness of it all with you wherever you go. Make it personal. Because if you don’t keep that fire in your belly, the enemy will kill you, and getting killed is about as personal as it gets.” He looked around the squad, and Jason was shocked by the anger on the man’s face. “And if we all keep our heads on straight, maybe we’ll get an opportunity to fucking avenge them. We clear?” He got a chorus of yessirs and thumbs up.

Half an hour earlier they’d heard the muted rumble of several Growlers rolling down a street nearby to the north, but then nothing. “Haven’t heard a Kestrel in ten, maybe fifteen minutes,” Early said, staring out the window. “And it was way the hell off, at least a mile and a half.” All of them had become experts at gauging the distance of armor and aircraft.

“Twelve minutes,” George said, glancing at his big watch. It was solar powered and GPS enabled, although several times a day it lost all connection to the commercial GPS satellites. He didn’t know if that’s because the army was jamming their signal, they were being routed away from the city, they’d been downed as part of the war effort… So many questions, so few answers.

“We’ll separate into two groups, but I want to stay line of sight. Leprechaun is just a couple hundred yards west of here,” George told them, using the nickname for the major road that paralleled “The President” a mile to the west. “I want to cross it, then start heading south.”

“That’s a big ass road,” Weasel pointed out. “We’ll be wide open.”

“So we’ll need to be quick about it.”

“You don’t want to search the neighborhood for a car?” Quentin asked.

“There’s but one car in this neighborhood with more than a drop of gas in it,” Russell spoke up from his easy chair. “It belongs to Amy Robinson, down the block. You’ll have to cut through three locks to get to it, and by that time she will have stitched you up one side and down the other with birdshot from her giant duck gun.”

“There’s seven of us,” Mark pointed out.

“She don’t care. She’s feisty.” He smiled, his white teeth just visible in the gloom. “That’s why I like her.”

“Sounds like you’re doing more in your afternoons than just reading and gardening,” Mark observed.

Another flash of teeth. “That just may be. I ain’t dead yet. There’s a small market, half mile west of here, sometimes they have gas. They take cash, food… or ammo. But then, I guess, you’d have to find a car to put it in.”

“We’ll make do,” Ed told him. “Thanks for the hospitality.”

They slipped out the back door in ones and twos, moving silently through the yards. They could hear birds, and the occasional squirrel, a random dog barking in the distance, and the sound of the wind moving through the treetops above the houses.

They crossed the last neighborhood street in two columns and then moved between houses, into the back yards of the residences that lined Leprechaun on the east side. Ed moved to the edge of the back yard which was separated from Leprechaun and the sidewalk there by a six-foot wooden fence. There were enough missing slats in the fence for him to see up and down the street easily, and he pulled out his binoculars.

Leprechaun—Greenfield on maps—was two lanes running north/south with a center left turn lane between them. Even with little vehicular traffic the concrete lanes were heaved and cracked after a decade of winters with no repair. There was a two-story brown brick office building directly across from the squad on the west side of the street. A fading “Government Health Care” sign hung over the front door, but there wasn’t an unbroken window visible, and only a few vehicles in the lot, all of which sat on flat tires. Behind the building was another neighborhood of one- and two-story brick houses. To the north and south of it were more small commercial buildings and empty parking lots.

Ed signaled for the rest of the squad to stay put and moved two houses north. There he slipped through an opening in the wood slat fence made by a privet grown wild. Just two feet away was a mature maple. He stood between the tree trunk and the huge bush, nearly invisible in the shade, and looked up and down Greenfield. To the north he saw several people on foot, maybe a quarter mile up. Not military. To the south….

“Shit,” he muttered.

Not quite three-quarters of a mile south was a major cross-street, and through the binos he could see several Growlers scattered across both north- and south-bound lanes. A few soldiers on foot around the vehicles. It appeared to be an impromptu roadblock. And past that, beyond where he knew there was another sunken highway running northwest/southeast, Slash in ARF-speak, he saw a Kestrel circling. He could faintly hear it, and guessed the bird was roughly a mile and a half away.

He retreated into the backyard and made his way to the squad. He pulled them together under the overhang of a house and related what he’d seen. “If I can see them, they can see us if we try to cross,” he said quietly, stating the obvious. “So we wait until they displace, or until it gets dark. Then we cross Leprechaun. I want to get on the far side of that road ASAP.”

“They looking for us?” Jason said nervously.

“Wouldn’t you be? We downed one of their helicopters and killed the crew. But they don’t appear to be doing a full grid search of the area, so it seems they aren’t sure which way we went after the crash. They’re all south of here, so until that changes we’re going to keep heading west. Spread out in a defensive perimeter, find some cover, and I’ll give you the signal when we can move out. It might be a while.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Terrified?”

Jason looked up at Mark. The big man with his big belt-fed machinegun was smiling at him, no malice in the quiet question. Jason, hunkering in a dark corner between a fence and the back porch of a house as the light finished fading, nodded. He’d been walking through bad neighborhoods, rifle in hand, for quite some time before meeting up with the guerrilla fighters, but that had been an adventure. Whatever risk it involved seemed distant. However, after joining up with them, and then the confusing horror of the helicopter attack… suddenly the threat of death seemed very, very real. Still, he couldn’t be scared every second of every hour. For most of the last few hours he’d just been tired. The terror was intermittent.

Mark said to him, “Holding a rifle and feeling like a tough guy is a far cry from the reality of it all, which is that you’re out here hunting people… and people are out here hunting you. I’d tell you to not jump and twitch at every sound, but me telling you, and you being able to do it, are two different things.”

“I guess.”

Mark smiled down at the teenager. “It’s not that us old guys aren’t scared… when it’s time to be scared. But that’s when people are shooting at you. Worrying about when you’re going to get shot at, when it’s not happening, will give you an ulcer. Trust me. Been there, done that.” His smile got wider. “These days I’m just too old and tired and hungry to be scared unless someone’s actually shooting at me.”

Jason nodded, then realized he was nearly invisible in the gloom. “I just can’t believe there’s no water or electricity.”

“You had that, at home?”

“Water all the time, although you had to filter or boil it before you could drink it. Scheduled power blackouts once or twice a week. But that’s nothing like this.”

“Hell, there’s still a little water and power out here, in the suburbs,” Mark told him. “Maybe not predictable, but it’s there. In the city, there’s nothing, except in the Blue Zone. Hasn’t been anything for years.” He waved a hand around. “You think this is dark, just wait.” He nodded and wandered off, checking the perimeter.

Jason had moved around a bit since the squad had gone to ground. He’d looked out into the neighborhood and peered through the fence up and down Leprechaun (which he thought was a dumb name). Here and there he saw an electrical or battery-powered light, the flickering of a fire, and the glow of candles. Occasionally the sound of talking or laughing carried on the wind. There were people out there, living their lives, like the friendly old man, Russell.

Russell had offered them the use of his fireplace inside his house or the fire pit outside for them to cook the pigeons Weasel had caught, but Ed hadn’t wanted to risk the heat or smoke. After an hour of waiting for the roadblock to disperse, Weasel had slunk off and cooked the birds inside a nearby house which had been gutted by fire some years past, then distributed the food to the squad. It wasn’t much more than a few ounces of meat per person, but it was welcomed nonetheless.

As the sun sank toward the horizon the sky filled with clouds, and darkness approached quickly. When Ed could no longer see anything of the roadblock to the south other than lights he figured it was safe to cross the street.

“I know we normally go to ground when it’s dark, but I want to put some more distance between us and the crash site. And that roadblock,” Ed told George and Early. He saw their heads nod in the dim light.

They crossed Greenfield in pairs. The first two—Quentin and Ed—darted across, and spent five minutes checking the large building and the area around the parking lot, making sure it was clear. Then Ed cupped his hand around his flashlight and hit the button briefly. At the signal, two more figures broke from the fence line on the far side and dashed across the road. They were hard to see in the charcoal light of late dusk.

George dashed across last on his own. Then they closed up, arranged themselves in two columns, and slowly began working their way west through the neighborhood there. Backyards were more hidden from view, but climbing over fences in the dark was a great way to get a stupid injury, and maybe meet up with a pet dog, so they stalked along the front of the houses on either side of a side street, making good time. They stepped through tall lawn grass and hugged the overgrown bushes that decorated the front of most houses, but still felt very exposed even in the dark.

It was not late, and in the fresh dark they heard voices from time to time and saw twice the glow of fires in backyards reflecting off aluminum siding. The smell of cooking meat made all their mouths water.

The men moved quietly through the humid night air, working their way through one neighborhood into another. The houses grew larger, two story colonials, aluminum siding above brick, most with attached two car garages. There were very few cars visible on the street or in the driveways, and Mark, bringing up the rear with the SAW, his feet inside his battered boots hurting (as usual), wondered how many drivable cars were in the garages, and if any of them had gasoline.

After three quarters of a mile Ed brought the group to a halt, briefly consulted with George, and then turned the group dead south on the next street. Ed figured they were far enough removed from the Growlers positioned on Leprechaun, and the crash site now nearly two miles distant, to begin heading south once more. But, aside from all that, the main issue was Slash. Unlike the Ditch, Slash was still in use, one of the approved travel corridors through the city. It ran from the suburbs to the northwest all the way down to the center of the city and the riverfront. Not that it saw a lot of traffic, but its lanes were kept clear of debris. There weren’t a whole lot of bridges across it, and all of them would put the squad out in the open in the time it took to cross.

The residential street dead-ended at a cross-street, and directly across from them was the long narrow parking lot of a former elementary school. The school was long since abandoned, every window broken, the parking lot empty. To the west the lot bordered a small residential subdivision. George took the lead and the men, in single file, followed him along the grass verge between the parking lot on the east and the back yards of the houses to the west. Most of the yards had chain link fences separating their property from the school, but bushes growing out of control and untended for the better part of a decade had swallowed the fence line. Where the chain link was visible it had been distended by the wild foliage into a twisting coil resembling a DNA strand.

The parking lot ran for over five hundred feet, and beyond that was waist-high grass covering several flat acres, the site of an adjacent school that had never been built. The men hugged the overgrown fence line, their legs swishing through the grass, walking slowly, looking in every direction, listening intently.

As they made their way toward the end of the fence line the moon came out from behind the clouds. It was still a slender crescent but bathed the open field around them with cool light.

Just beyond where the fence ended, south of the small neighborhood, a small rise blocked their view southward. The rise was a man-made ridge, about fifteen feet tall, and ran east to west.

Ed planned to leave the squad in the shadows of the overgrown bushes and trees behind the houses to head up the slope for a peek south. Then he heard the gunfire. One gunshot, then a second, then several. Then a brief burst of automatic weapons fire. All of it quite distant. He cocked his head, then looked at George. George looked back at him and shrugged.

Using hand signals Ed had the squad spread out, then advance into the grass and up the slope. Going prone wasn’t an option, the grass was too tall, but Ed took a knee just below the top of the rise and peered over, George on one side of him, Mark on the other.

The ridge they were on ran along the northern edge of a sea of grass. The patch was nearly square and a quarter mile long on each side. At the very southern end of the square was a large building, formerly the home of a TV station before the government shut most of them down. There was a massive, thousand-foot antenna on the northwest corner of the building in front of them, and sabotage early in the war had brought that down. It lay crumpled on the ground like the accusing finger of a witch, pointing west. When the resistance started posting home addresses of politicians online, and several were murdered, a few in front of their families, the government mostly abandoned the concept of free speech. The only local media source still in operation was a combined TV and radio center located inside the Blue Zone and it only broadcast government-approved news.

North of the building was a drainage pond over one hundred feet wide. Presumably to hide the unsightly station from the residents (as the station didn’t generate any noise that needed to be blocked) there were man-made ridges running along the west, north, and east sides of the property, with clumps of trees here and there. Thanks to the bright moon and their elevated position the men of the squad could see across the vast expanse of grass, the drainage pond, and beyond.

“Where…?” Ed murmured.

After a brief pause, George pointed. Ed looked down the man’s arm, then grabbed his Czech-made Meopta binoculars.

Even though it was dark his binoculars collected light and he could see better through their eight-power magnified lenses than his own eyes in the dark. The TV station sat on the north side of a major east-west road, codenamed Felix. On the far side of Felix was another vacant field and past that some parking lots. Standing proud and isolated past that flat earth were what everyone called The Twins, but was officially The Sapphire. Two matching 18-story apartment buildings with a connecting ground-floor café/convenience store. There was another single and even larger apartment building a quarter mile to the northeast, but that building had burned early on in the war. Many people had died in the vicious fire. The Twins, on the other hand, even at this late date, were still full of residents. Just a handful compared to how many had lived there before the war, but those who had remained had forged a cooperative existence. There were gardens on the balconies and roofs.

From where they crouched on the grassy slope The Twins were half a mile away and clearly visible in the crisp moonlight. The Growlers Ed had spotted earlier at the intersection of Felix and Leprechaun were in the parking lot below the towers, and the gunfire they’d heard was rising in volume. Through the binoculars Ed could see muzzle flashes. Isolated shots out of windows halfway up the western tower, presumably down at the Army vehicles. Heavy return fire, some of it on full automatic. In the otherwise quiet night the gunfire reports rolled over the dark suburbs like thunder.

“The hell’s going on over there?” Mark said quietly, squinting to make out details.

“Why does it sound wrong?” Jason asked Early. He was staring at the scene half a mile away, and his young eyes allowed him to clearly see the details of the Growlers, and the muzzle flashes, but the sound of the gunfire didn’t match up.

“Sound wrong? Oh!” Early said, suddenly understanding. “It’s science, actually. The sound of the gunshots don’t match up to what you’re seeing because the light from the muzzle flash travels at the speed of light. The sound from the gunshots travels at the speed of sound, which is something like a thousand feet per second. Speed of light is a couple hundred thousand miles per second or something crazy like that. Close up, say from across the street, you won’t notice anything, but the further away you are from the fighting, the more of a difference you’ll see. You’ll see the shot before you hear it. That’s also a good way to tell if the person shooting at you is close or far, as bullets travel faster than the speed of sound. If the sound of the bullet hitting nearby comes at the same time as the gunshot, they’re close. If the bullet hits and you have to wait a second or more to hear the gunshot… well, then you know you’ve got a sniper to deal with.”

The men lined up along the ridge saw a long staccato flash from the Growlers, and after a pause the deep bass of the heavy machinegun firing reached them.

“Somebody got pissed off,” Quentin observed.

“That a .50?” Weasel asked.

Quentin nodded. “Roof mounted on a Growler, I’d bet.”

“Kestrel!” George hissed. He’d heard it a second before he saw it, swooping in from the south. The helicopter was running dark. It came in low over the giant abandoned mall to the southeast, circled around to the north side of The Twins, and then suddenly there were flashes and contrails. The front of the apartment building exploded. Bricks and glass showered the parking lot from the missiles impacting the sixth and seventh floors. Then the Kestrel let loose with its minigun. At 2000 RPM, with every fifth round a tracer, the bullets leaping from the six-barreled cannon looked like a reddish-orange laser beam running from the front of the aircraft to the face of the apartment tower. When the sound hit them it sounded like a giant ripping a phone book in half.

“Time to go!” Ed said, biting back more profanity. They wouldn’t be heading south for a while, not with all that activity. He jabbed his hand toward the west. The men slid backward down the hill, got to their feet, and headed through the grass.

Jason looked back wistfully, wanting to watch the action, but couldn’t see over the hill. Instead he followed Early through the tall grass toward more dark houses.

There were more houses past the grassy TV station property, as well as a condo complex filled with duplex units. Past that… Ed wracked his brain, trying to remember the map he stared at so often. The entire area to the west of the sunken freeway was residential. Wall to wall houses. There were a lot of old neighborhoods two miles west of where they were now, choked with mature trees that hindered aerial observation. The squad had one… no, two houses in the area they used, as well as a couple of rainwater catches. If they were in place and undisturbed. Of course, they still weren’t heading south, but they also hadn’t been spotted by any Army units either. At that thought he heard the sound of the Kestrel’s minigun letting loose again.

PART II

THE CITY

The land was ours before we were the land’s.

She was our land more than a hundred years

Before we were her people. She was ours

In Massachusetts, in Virginia,

But we were England’s, still colonials,

Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,

Possessed by what we now no more possessed.

Something we were withholding made us weak

Until we found out that it was ourselves

We were withholding from our land of living,

And forthwith found salvation in surrender.

Such as we were we gave ourselves outright

(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)

To the land vaguely realizing westward,

But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,

Such as she was, such as she would become.

The Gift Outright

Robert Frost

If some foreign government had done to our major cities what we have done ourselves, their capital city would still be a glowing sheet of radioactive glass.

—Patrick Sweeney

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

They’d stayed on the move until after midnight. Every time Ed wanted to rotate south the squad heard a Growler in that direction, a Kestrel flying low, or more gunfire. They were forced back north even as they moved west, making their way slowly through old neighborhoods which had been woody before the war had broken out; now they were downright rustic.

After several hours of careful trekking through backyards and small city parks and down tree-lined streets the squad was finally able to turn south. Through the light of the bright moon they hiked through treelines and parking lots and fields overgrown with waist-high grass, and finally crossed the 18-hole golf course of a now-defunct country club. They spooked two deer bedding in a thicket between two high-grass fairways. The animals bounded away silently, beautifully, moving as if they existed on a planet with lower gravity.

On the south side of the golf course were a few residential streets. Before the war the houses there were a bit secluded, sitting on large, heavily treed lots. Ed didn’t care about the tree cover as much as he did the river winding its way south through the golf course. Well, technically it was labeled a river even here, but it didn’t rate the name. Ten miles south it grew into a true river, but here it was just a large muddy stream… but it was only four hundred feet from the back doors of those secluded houses. One of those houses had burned and then been abandoned. Or abandoned and then burned—Ed didn’t know exactly the order of what had happened, all he knew was that the house was vacant, secluded, blessed with great tree cover, and a stone’s throw from running water. It had served them well on past patrols.

A quick search showed them the house was unoccupied, and after establishing a watch schedule the exhausted squad went to sleep in the half of the house untouched by fire, although everything still smelled of smoke and mildew.

“Nobody thinks of there being streams or even rivers in cities and neighborhoods, but there are,” Ed told Jason the next morning. While they’d been diverted from their route they were nowhere near behind schedule, so he’d let everyone sleep until eight. Rest while you can, he’d learned that lesson years ago. “Some of them are sealed away, or walled off, but they’re on most maps, and easy to find.”

“And when in doubt, head to a golf course,” George said, chewing on an energy bar. “There’s always ponds, and usually a stream or two. The nice neighborhoods, you can find swimming pools every block.”

“Now, none of it is safe to drink, untreated,” Ed went on, “but cities aren’t nearly as dry as you might think.”

Jason looked between the two older men, then around at the rest of the squad. “How come none of you wear helmets?” They were all wearing what he’d learned were “plate carriers”, vests which held armored plates front and back to cover their vitals, but unlike the military, he hadn’t seen a single dogsoldier wearing a ballistic helmet. Half of them were bare-headed, the rest wore baseball caps. The ball cap snugged onto George’s head bearing an Olde English D was so sweatstained, faded, and dirty it was impossible to tell its original color. Which meant it was nicely camouflaged.

George answered. “The last two generations of ballistic helmets for the military have had tracking chips, locator chips, embedded in them just like the soldiers’ rifles.” His eyes tracked up to the brim of his baseball cap. “A helmet would be a pain in the ass in this heat, but I’d surely appreciate some Kevlar up there when the bullets start flying.” He cocked his head and eyed the baby-faced new member of the squad. Jason was staring intently at the energy bar in his hand. “When was the last time you had something to eat?”

“The pigeon yesterday.”

“You don’t have any food of your own in that pack?”

Jason shook his head. “I ate up all my food looking for you guys.”

George made a sound, and held the bar out to Jason. “Here, finish this, I don’t want you collapsing on us.”

Quentin was in the other room, heating up several pots worth of water carried from the nearby river. They had the time, and boiling the water wouldn’t tax their already overwrought water filters.

Weasel and Early returned to the house within a few minutes of each other. Weasel had his pockets stuffed with edible greens including dandelions and daylilies, and Early had a squirrel and a rabbit that he’d shot with the suppressed .22 he carried. The gun was so quiet none of the men in the house had heard it go off, but then again the woods stretched almost half a mile south from the edge of the golf course in a point-down narrow triangle shape.

Early looked at Quentin, boiling the water, at the greens Weasel had, then at Ed. “Well, Cap’n, I was gonna clean these critters and stick ‘em on a fire, but it looks like we got us all the makings of a soup pot here.” There was a question in his statement. Ed looked at Weasel, his eyebrows up.

“Yeah, some of what I brought would do for soup,” Weasel said. “The dandelion leaves and wild carrots will taste better after a boil.”

“Then cut ‘em up,” Ed told the two men. “Looks like we’re having rabbit-squirrel vegetable soup for breakfast.”

“I’ll see if I can find bowls or cups or something,” Mark said, standing up.

“See if you can find any herbs as well,” Weasel said to him. “Maybe salt. I’d kill for some salt.”

“I think we’ve picked the cupboards pretty clean,” Ed cautioned him.

“And rice. Dry rice lasts forever, if you can keep the bugs out of it, and it’s perfect for soup.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Mark told him.

“Should we follow the river south?” George asked Ed as the squad—minus Weasel and Early, who were on watch—ate and drank the soup from a motley collection of bowls and cups Mark had salvaged. Mark had also found a small plastic bag of uncooked white rice in a house two doors down. Not much more than a cup’s worth, but it was unspoiled and went into the soup, providing some desperately needed carbohydrates. Looting was stealing what you didn’t need, and was not something they ever did. Salvage, on the other hand, retrieving unused items that you needed to survive… that was something they did as often as they could. Still, they were very careful not to take anything from houses that weren’t clearly unoccupied. “Then turn east once we get far enough south and head to the general store?” Ed had his map of the city laid out on the table before them, and George used a finger to suggest a route.

For most of its southward wend through the city the river was bordered by narrow city parks or just strips of undeveloped land thick with trees. Not quite two miles south of them it meandered through a large cemetery.

“I like that it’ll keep us away from prying eyes, but it also keeps us away from cover,” Ed replied. “A Kestrel rolls over us we’re going to want more than tree trunks to hide behind.”

“Haven’t been on this side of the city for a while now,” Mark observed. “I’m curious how much of that land around the river is gardens.”

“I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s a good point,” George admitted. “Ready source of water… we could be tromping through tomato plants and dodging scarecrows. If there’s anybody living in the area, they’ll be getting water from the river.”

“There’ll be people living there,” Mark told him. “There are people living everywhere. Still. I don’t understand it.”

“They just never left,” Quentin said. “It’s their home.”

“But no power, no water? War zone?”

Quentin shrugged and smiled. “I didn’t say they were smart. The military still runs the distribution centers, handing out just enough food. Those are keeping a lot of people in place, and dependent, just like they like ‘em.”

Spread across the city, the three distribution centers operated by the government handed out food, medicine, and bottled water to the residents, but they never seemed to have enough. They didn’t charge for anything, it was a “humanitarian” gesture, but the foodstuffs and antibiotics had always been in short supply, and from everything they’d heard and seen the supply seemed to be drying up. There’d been reports of near riots.

ARF had never attacked the soldiers guarding the distribution centers, or the centers themselves. If there was one sure way to turn the citizenry against you, it was disrupting or destroying the one government organization that was trying to help them as opposed to jail them or kill them…

“I wonder if there are any fish in it,” Ed mused.

“The river?” George blinked. “That’s a good question.”

“I’m thinking we keep to the neighborhoods on the east side of the river. Quarter, half a mile out from it, far enough that we won’t be bumping into anybody that lives near the water. Once we cross into the city it’s, what, six miles south and a little east to the general store?”

“More or less.”

Mark knew the area well and pointed at the map. “For the first couple of miles there are houses galore, no vacant lots. Even though there are a lot of people still living in those hoods, only maybe a tenth of the houses are occupied, so we’ve got lots of places to bail if we hear a chopper. Every house has a basement. Pretty much all the blocks are rectilinear.”

“Rectum what?” Quentin said with a smile. George snorted.

“Rectum? Damn near kilt ‘em,” Early added.

“Rectangles, they’re fucking rectangles,” Mark said, rolling his eyes with no little bit of exasperation. Then he paused, and got quiet.

“What is it?” Ed asked, seeing the look on the big man’s face.

“I grew up in that neighborhood,” Mark said, pointing. “I mean, it was kinda shitty back then, suffering from decades of high taxes and high crime, people being paid to do nothing, which kills your soul slowly, and then taught in public school that the country sucked, that it had never been great, all our heroes and founding fathers were racists or whatever, but at least it was a neighborhood, you know? Now…” He got an ugly look on his face, and glanced at Jason. He wanted to make sure the young man understood.

“Humans need government kid, get more than four of us in the same place at once and you need somebody to take charge. But government is a necessary evil. Both necessary… and inherently evil. Government cannot exist, cannot function, without restricting the freedom of the people it governs. But that’s the agreement that we as a society make, setting up a government to do what individual people can’t, with that famous ‘consent of the governed’.”

“But power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely,” George said.

Mark nodded. “When the government stops trying to govern and help the people and instead starts trying to control them, that’s when wars start. Or genocides. The two things governments do best. Perhaps the only two things they’re good at. Our government stopped trusting us decades ago, treating us like misbehaving children instead of citizens with rights. And then we weren’t stupid kids in their eyes, the government started acting, starting passing laws that made it clear it considered us all incipient idiotic criminals who couldn’t be trusted. With guns, with our money, choosing our doctors, plastic bags, plastic straws, gas-guzzling cars… with freedom.

“They’ve been putting people on our side in jail for years for violation of this or that law, none of which had any effect on public safety, and for years, maybe even decades, we just took it. And took it. Until we didn’t. It wasn’t until police, federal agents, politicians, prosecutors and judges started getting shot that most people woke up to the fact that there was a war on. Had been going on for decades actually, but for most of that time it was a cold war. And most everybody in the country except those in the middle of the fight had no idea it was even going on. Until the shooting started.”

“There was more going on than just that,” Quentin said, cocking his head. “But… that was a lot of it.”

Jason nodded. “They did that with my dad, and our farm. Since they nationalized all the ‘food producers’ five years ago, because of the wartime food shortages, every day there was a new regulation he’d have to follow. He couldn’t keep up with them. He was doing all the work, and yet all the corn and soybeans belonged to the government. They decided what we could keep, even though we grew it.” Even though they needed a tractor to work the farm, his dad could barely afford any gas for it due to all the taxes and carbon offsets being levied, not to mention the reparations assessments. Government agents who’d never in their lives planted a seed walking the rows of corn, telling his father what percentage of the crop he was allowed to keep. And no matter how mad it made him his dad just took it. And took it. He’d never had much fight in him, and what little he’d had left had disappeared after Jason’s mother had died. The cancer should have been survivable, but she’d had to wait eight months for treatment under the national health care system, and by the time they scheduled her surgery… it was too late for surgery. And his dad just took it. Didn’t even seem to get mad about it. Jason had never forgiven him for that.

Mark heaved a big sigh, then went back to the map. “Mile or two south of the border the place was a war zone before there was a war, and less than half of the houses are even still standing. Great thing about those blocks is the almost complete lack of fences. We can walk through the yards between and paralleling the streets, and with all the trees and bushes no one’ll see us.”

After the soup was finished Ed sent Quentin and Weasel back to the river to refill all the pots. “I want everyone to drink everything in your canteens, then we can refill them.” To Jason’s questioning glance he explained, “The best place to store water is inside your body. It’s not bad right now but it’s early. It’s been hot and humid all week and likely to stay that way. Before we leave here I want everybody so hydrated they’re pissing clear.”

Jason didn’t have a sling for his rifle and couldn’t carry it and a heavy pot of water, so Ed detailed him as security for Quentin and Weasel.

“What kind of gun is that? Where’d you get it?” Jason asked Weasel quietly as they walked through the trees to the water. His black submachinegun, if that’s what it was, was slung across his back as he carried the big pot.

Weasel looked at him and thought about how to answer. “When the war started, it wasn’t a ‘war’,” Weasel told him. “We weren’t soldiers, we were just violent criminals, according to the police and the news media. At first, the military wasn’t involved at all, it was just cops. Cops doing the house searches and riot control, federal agents shutting down the websites they didn’t like because they were criticizing the government and exposing the truth. National Guard only got called in when the riots got out of control and cops were getting ambushed. Then, for a while, military and the cops were working together. Because it still wasn’t a war, we still weren’t soldiers, we were murderers. Domestic terrorists. Fundamentalist cultists. They called us all of that, and worse, not just the cops but everyone in the media and all the useful idiots that were happy to believe the shit they were being told. Then came martial law, and they suspended habeas corpus, which meant they could lock up anybody for any reason, for as long as they wanted, which is about as wrong as it gets.”

“Hell, you ask them, we’re still terrorists,” Quentin said. “Have the government or military ever, officially, called this a war? We’re still criminals to them. Because calling us soldiers would maybe force them to admit that we’re actually fighting for something, we’re not looters or crazies or murderers.”

They reached the water. There was no way to do it without getting wet, so Weasel jumped into the knee-high water and dunked one pot under the flowing stream, then the other.

“So the long story short is that this is an MP5,” Weasel told Jason, touching the gun on his back. He climbed out of the water. “It’s a nine-millimeter sub-machinegun. Police SWAT teams used them.” He lifted the full pot of water with a grunt. “It’s not as powerful as an actual rifle, but I earned it. I fucking earned it. And I’m not giving it up. They’re gonna have to take it.”

“It fires a pistol cartridge, right? So it won’t go through their armor?”

Weasel snorted and said defensively, “Neither will your rifle, or any of the rifles we’re carrying, not even Early’s boat anchor. It maybe doesn’t hit as hard, but it doesn’t have any recoil. In the time it takes Early to fire three rounds I can do a full mag dump, and I like not blowing out my eardrums every time I fire a shot. And it seems like it’s easier to find pistol ammo these days than rifle.” He had thirteen 30-round magazines… the only problem was he only had enough ammo to fill three mags and change. “I’m not the only one on the squads to feel that way, there are a number of guys running guns like this, subguns and 9mm ARs and even one pistol-caliber AK. So fuck off.”

Jason changed the obviously touchy subject. “Rouge means red, right?” he asked Quentin quietly as they were working their way back from the river with the freshly refilled pots. It was quiet underneath the trees and the gurgling of the wide stream behind them was soothing. “Is it called that because it’s muddy?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. You know, it caught fire once.”

“What did?”

“The river.” Jason assumed the man was messing with him and made a sound. “No, seriously,” Quentin insisted. “Back before I was born. They used to dump all sorts of chemicals in it, and it caught fire one day.”

“And we’re drinking it?” Jason said, aghast, staring at the water sloshing in the big pot Quentin was carrying.

“They cleaned it up before the war ever started.”

“You see a lot of industry around here likely to pollute the water?” Weasel asked the kid, grunting with the effort of carrying a cast iron pot that had been heavy before he’d filled with two gallons of water. “This whole city’s turning green.”

“Where’d you learn about which plants you can eat?” Jason asked him.

“Some from Early, but most from Todd. He was a landscaper and ran a greenhouse before the war.”

“Todd?”

“Caught a round in the face. Years ago. Four years? Jesus, has it been that long? This fucking war, man. This whole city’s a graveyard.” Filled with a sudden anger Weasel marched past Jason toward the rear of the house, his subgun bouncing on its sling. Jason looked at Quentin, who just shrugged.

It was nearly noon before they left the shelter of the smoky, collapsed house and began picking their way south through the stand of trees. The belt of trees narrowed to a mere fifty feet wide as it approached the next major road. Just to the east was a large, defunct auto salvage yard.

As the squad took up a defensive perimeter Ed glassed the auto salvage yard (he saw nothing moving but a cat), then turned his binoculars to the massive road in front of them. The border between the suburbs and the city to the south, The Border, was a wide surface street running directly east/west. There were four traffic lanes in each direction, separated by a grassy median as wide as four lanes of traffic. Including the easements and sidewalks on either side of the road, the squad was faced with two hundred feet of open ground to cross. Actually, directly south of their position was a gas station that had been torn apart in an explosion followed by a fire, and there was no real cover there. To make it to the dense neighborhood south of the gas station was another hundred feet.

Before they’d left the house that morning he’d pulled up a fresh overhead photo of the area, but saw nothing that warranted alarm. No roadblocks, no patrolling Army units or armor, no columns of smoke large enough to attract military attention. Still, the battery on the drone jammer was fully charged, although it only reached fifty meters or so. It worked great on the small surveillance and infiltrator drones, bird and bug size, but didn’t do a thing against anything big the military had circling at altitude.

They all heard the sound of a motor, and Ed raised his glasses to see a motorcycle with one helmeted rider appear to the west. The rider—it appeared to be a man—was doing about forty miles an hour, which was about as fast as was prudent given the poor condition of the road and the likelihood of encountering lane-choking debris or abandoned cars in the middle of the road.

“Rice burner,” Mark said derisively, going off nothing but the sound of the exhaust. He was a Harley man himself.

Ed spotted someone walking on the sidewalk a few hundred yards to the east, and some sort of activity in front of a partially collapsed building not quite half a mile to the west. He couldn’t make it out, but it didn’t look dangerous. Some sort of fight between several of the city’s al fresco denizens. Or maybe it was a midday open air orgy. He’d seen stranger things. What concerned him were the figures in the parking lot of the gas station directly south of them.

Ed waved Mark up, and pointed. Then he handed the big man the binos. Mark studied the group carefully.

“What do you think, cross here, or go around?”

Mark handed the Meoptas back to his squad leader. He shrugged. “They’re just doing a bit of private enterprise. Most neighborhoods we go through, we’ve got eyes on us even if we don’t see them. And it’s not like the locals don’t know there’s a war on, but the ones left are professionals at not getting involved. Weren’t there, didn’t see shit, even if they get splashed with blood…. I know you don’t like crowds, but cross here and we’re just more potential customers to any eyes in the sky.”

Ed grunted and raised the binoculars again. His heart rate was up just studying the city through the lenses of his binos. Technically they were in just as much danger where they were now as they would be once they crossed into the city proper. He knew it was more psychological than anything else. South of the border was enemy territory.

“The city… it’s never the same,” Ed mused.

“What do you mean?”

“Every time we pop out of it and come back, it’s a little bit different.”

“Worse?”

“No, different,” Ed said quietly, still staring through the binos. He snorted. “I don’t think it can get any worse. It turns out one can simply walk into Mordor.”

“Oh, it can always get worse,” George, just in earshot, felt obliged to add.

Ed sighed, then motioned at George and Early. “You two first. Rifles down along your sides and walk, all casual like, don’t run. Talk to our entrepreneurs over there, and if nothing feels off, give a wave. We’ll stage up at that house past them,” he pointed.

They were all sweaty with anticipation, but crossing into the city, as was often the case, was anti-climactic. No shouts, no shooting, and best of all no Growlers, IMPs, or Kestrels.

George and Early strolled across the street, rifles held vertically at their sides, and struck up a conversation with the group in the parking lot of the gas station. Four men and two women, all thin and in dirty clothing, standing around a 55-gallon drum cut in half lengthwise. Both halves had been turned on their sides and were supported by metal frames that looked crudely handmade. Ed watched through the binos. The men eyed the rifles of the newcomers but that was about it. Ed knew there was a good chance every man there was carrying a concealed handgun. Or a knife. Or, more likely, both. After about a minute of conversation Early turned and gave them a wave.

Ed crossed last, with Jason. He felt horribly exposed and, perpetually tired as his legs were, wanted to sprint across the cracked pavement. Instead he forced himself to make slow, steady strides, carbine pressed against his side. George and Early were still standing in the parking lot, the rest of the squad having gone past them for the cover of the nearby houses.

“How many more you got in those woods over there, it’s like a clown car,” the man tending the barbecue said to Ed with a smile. “How about you, you hungry?” He gestured at the meat on the grill. Jason’s mouth watered at the smell. “I’d be willing to bet you gentlemen have something worthwhile to trade.”

“Fella’s a born salesman, won’t take no for an answer,” Early said out of the corner of his mouth.

“Or if you’re interested in satisfying another kind of hunger…” the man said, gesturing at the two women beside him. Ed looked at them. The two women were war skinny and had the haunted eyes of people who’d seen too much. One of them smiled at him, the smile not reaching her eyes, and lifted her shirt. Jason’s eyes bulged at the sight of her naked breasts. “The boy here seems like he might be interested.”

“Appreciate the offer, but we’ve got places to be,” Ed said. He had to grab Jason by the shoulder and pull him along, to the accompaniment of laughter.

“You didn’t want any?” Jason said to him as they walked across the lot. “The meat I mean. That smelled really good.” Although the sight of the woman’s small breasts were burned into his brain.

“You see any cows around here?” Ed asked him. “Or chickens?”

Jason blinked and looked around reflexively before realizing it was a rhetorical question. “Ummm…”

“The city’s filled with all sorts of small game, squirrels, rabbits, rats, pigeons, pheasants, turkey, geese, even deer, but none of the locals know how to hunt for shit. What they do know is how to breed dogs, and that’s what was on that grill, since you didn’t notice. Puppy. Puppies.” He turned his head, his eyes boring into Jason’s. His voice became steel. “We do not eat dog.”

A quick stroll across the parking lot and then they were in a neighborhood thick with one story brick-and-siding houses built in the 1950s. Most of the houses had wrought iron bars over the doors and windows for security, back when random street crime was the biggest worry of the residents.

Almost all of the back yards were enclosed with either low chain link or tall wooden fences, often leaning drunkenly. The houses were set close to the street, which meant the front yards were small and very open, with few trees. Some of them were even mown, or at least trimmed. The squad moved as fast as it could, split into two columns on opposite sides of the street, feeling exposed. Two blocks south and east they moved into a community of smaller homes, in much poorer condition. Here the lawns were untended, and there were more trees, but still Ed led the squad south quickly, trying to put distance between them and the city limits just in case someone had spotted them crossing.

At first, Jason had found it odd. The men of the squad would be walking together, sometimes for hours, and never say a word. Only communicate with hand signals. When there was talking, it was whispering and murmuring, the men’s heads nearly pressed together. But he’d very quickly gotten used to it. More than used to it, he understood it. Absent the white noise of vehicular traffic, the city around them, apart from the sounds of nature, was shockingly quiet. A human voice at normal conversational volume carried on the air a surprising distance, as did any loud sounds—an engine, shouting, gunshots.

A mile south they crossed over “Lucky” without incident. They left the shelter of houses and entered a large, quarter-mile-square section of undeveloped land that was nothing but waving grass and thick tangles of trees and brush.

Ed had no idea if there used to be something on the piece of property, or if it was land set aside for a project that had never come to fruition, but the chain link fence around the periphery was so old most of it hung like ripped shower curtains from the supporting crossbar. They jogged across the four lanes of Lucky, slipped through a split in the rusty chain link, then strode through a line of mature maples just inside the fence line. Past the trees were a hundred yards of open grass, knee high, and beyond that a thick patch of woods.

The squad moved through the grass quickly, at five-meter intervals, their pantlegs swishing. In less than a minute they had all moved out of sight under the trees. Inside the tree line they tightened up their distance, and George took the lead. He knew from studying the map that a thousand feet ahead of them, through the patch of woods, was the border of another neighborhood. An old one, with tree cover so complete the houses were nearly invisible to passing aircraft or satellites, at least to the naked eye.

They were weaving between trees, moving up a slight slope in an arrowhead formation, the first house just visible in front of them through the wild green tangles—an attractive edifice with a fieldstone exterior—when Ed abruptly raised a fist. Everyone froze.

Ed cocked his head. He’d heard something. Something bigger than a squirrel. Something close. He gave a quick gesture and the men quickly and quietly moved to cover behind tree trunks, raising their weapons. Weasel happened to be standing in a slight depression and he slowly sank to his belly, disappearing into the grass and ferns.

Ed exchanged a look with George, forty feet away. George had heard it too. Both men shouldered their rifles and peered around the trees they’d chosen for cover. The ground between the trees was not open but rather snarled with bushes and saplings and clumps of grass, all of it deeply shadowed by the canopies of leaves above.

Ed peered into the foliage, hearing a faint snuffling. His thumb moved the selector switch on his rifle from Safe to Fire, and he felt fresh sweat pop out all over his already damp body.

Leaves swayed, a dead branch crunched, and then a furred snout emerged from a thick tangle of raspberry bushes twenty feet ahead. Ed blinked, at first not sure what he was seeing in the dim light under the trees. The fur was various shades of brown, giving the animal a kind of natural camouflage, and its snout was wide. Not an enemy soldier, then. Breathing easier, Ed was just starting to wonder what kind of dog it was when the animal pushed the rest of its body through the thorny bramble with a loud grunt. Everyone on the squad froze at the sight of the massive bear.

Its head was the size of a basketball, and there was a big hump above its shoulders. The light under the trees had disguised its size at first, but as it emerged from the bushes the immense size of the animal was unmistakable. It was chewing something, and its big head swayed from side to side. Then its nose shot up and sniffed. After a half second pause, the animal stood up on its hind legs and swiveled its head to look directly at George, who was closest to it. A sound halfway between snort and growl crawled its way out of the animal’s throat. Its fur was long and thick and medium brown.

Ed’s mouth dropped open. On its back legs the bear had to be ten feet tall, and looked as wide as a garage. His mind quivered in place for a moment. He had no idea what you were supposed to do when confronted by a bear. Not run away, he was pretty sure bears viewed that as an invitation to attack.

Making a decision, George stepped out from behind the tree. He didn’t want to be seen as trying to hide. He gestured with his hand still behind the tree; show yourselves.

Taking a deep breath, Ed stepped out from his tree. The giant bear swiveled its eyes toward him, startled, then toward Mark farther back as the big man moved out from behind the two-trunked oak he’d been behind. Then it saw Jason, and Quentin. Then Early. When Weasel slowly rose from the grass, seemingly out of nowhere, the bear made a loud sound, almost a bark, of displeasure. It sank back down to all fours and slowly, insouciantly, turned around and padded off, stopping several times to look over its shoulder at the squad. For as huge as the creature was it made almost no noise pushing through the underbrush.

Keeping his eyes and his rifle trained on the spot in the brush where the bear had disappeared, Ed waved for the squad to move. He heard them behind him, heading for the house. After waiting another minute Ed began heading that way too, walking backward, rifle butt still against his shoulder. He found George next to him, and the duo backed up together, slowly, carefully, all the way to the house, where they found Mark covering them with the belt-fed SAW.

The house was empty and smelled dusty. The squad collapsed in the main room.

“Jesus fuck, I need a minute,” George gasped, his face white. “I nearly had a goddamn heart attack. That bear was big as a car.”

“What do you think that thing weighed?” Jason marveled.

“I think that was a grizzly,” Quentin said.

“Eight hundred, a thousand pounds,” Early estimated. “I think it was a grizzly too.” He had more experience hunting prior to the war than the rest of the squad combined.

“We could have killed him easy, right?” Jason said, looking around at all the weaponry.

“Not before he made at least one of us into a chew toy,” Mark said with a grim smile. He looked over and saw Ed’s hands quivering. “You okay?”

Ed shook his head as he pulled out a canteen and took a sip. “Years ago somebody told a story about how they’d run into a lion patrolling the east side, but I always assumed it was horseshit. I think I might owe him an apology now.”

“You think it walked all the way down from up north?” Jason asked.

“You mean like you? More likely it escaped from the zoo. Like that lion, if that story’s real. Zoo’s only ten miles from here.”

“Man, I haven’t thought about the zoo in years,” Mark said. “I know it’s shut down now, but did they close it, or just abandon it? You think they let all the animals loose?” He couldn’t believe the vets and everyone else who worked there tending the animals would just leave them in their pens to starve. “Anyone know?” He just got shaking heads and shrugs.

“Could a lion survive the winter? The snow?” Jason wondered.

“Like we didn’t have enough shit to worry about in this shithole,” Weasel said. “Now it’s lions and tigers and motherfucking bears. Oh my.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Combat made you expect the unexpected, to make plans but assume they would fall apart at the first gunshot, but still, a bear? Ed had thought he’d seen it all, after nearly a decade of fighting, but the bear had been something else entirely. For some reason it made him remember one of the first “unexpected” incidents of the war, or at least his part of the war. When he really hadn’t known anything, but still, apparently, had been very lucky…

The street had been quiet and nearly empty all day. A few pedestrians had scurried down the sidewalks as fast as their legs could carry them, obviously aware just how dangerous their neighborhood had become. Most of the homes looked undamaged until you got close and saw how few of the windows sported whole panes. Half the houses were bungalows and half were a full two stories, almost all of them clad in brown or red brick, and it was difficult to see bullet holes in dark brick from more than ten feet away. More than one fierce firefight had swept through these streets. While the conventional battle was long over, almost none of the area residents had returned, even though their homes (compared to some in the city) were relatively undamaged.

At the far end of the block squatted an ugly two-story house of brown brick. From the outside it appeared unremarkable, except perhaps for the fact that it was surrounded on all sides by shorter bungalows. A person looking out its second-floor windows would have an unrestricted view in every direction.

The men inside the house had arrived just after dark the night before and were getting tired of waiting. There were twelve of them in the house, for the most part bloodied veterans of the guerilla war not yet eight months old. The night before they’d sent out two eyeball drones and kept a quiet watch in shifts, peeking out past the sheets tacked to the inside of the empty window frames. Once the sun came out they could move around a bit inside the shadowed rooms, but no one was about to relax south of the border. They still kept watch, but now it was for their informant. He wasn’t late, not yet, but the waiting wasn’t doing anybody any good.

The twelve-man team was the lead element in what really was the first organized probe of Army-occupied territory since the combat at the start of the ground war. The two sides had been trading fire every day since the shooting began, but organized groups larger than one or two six- to eight-man squads were something the Army hadn’t really seen since their decisive victory in the eight-day city-wide battle at the beginning of hostilities. Up-armored pickup trucks had proved no match for the military’s tanks and armored personnel carriers.

This, however, was a recon in force, numerous twelve-man teams moving south in a loose arrowhead formation, going slow and quiet, avoiding contact, gathering intelligence, their ultimate goal a hit and run on the armory/fuel depot near the city’s geographic center. The men were organized into squad-sized cells but the official ARF Irregulars designation, much less the “dogsoldier” moniker, had yet to be coined.

They’d been on the move south for four and a half days, inside the city limits for the last three. The teams kept in contact via frequency-hopping transmitters they were pretty sure were impossible for the Army to home in on. Still, to be safe, they kept transmissions to a bare minimum and relocated immediately whenever possible. It was still early enough in the game that neither side was really sure of what the other was capable of. The government had beaten down the rebels almost everywhere, although at great loss of life, and their thinking was that the war, such as it was, would be over shortly. The newly-reorganized guerrillas hoped to prove them wrong.

All but one of the teams had seen at least one Army patrol. Military presence on the street was a lot higher then. Buttoned-up columns of two to four vehicles was the norm, winding through the rubble-strewn streets at a slow walk, usually led by a poorly armored Growler way out front to draw hasty fire. In a city where every block held a thousand places for a sniper to hide the Army troops had experienced a rekindled love for armor. The lead vehicle was followed by at least one IMP flanked by dismounted infantry to check the buildings to either side. While these patrols weren’t difficult to surprise, at the first shot the army troops would pile into the backs of the IMP’s, button up, then use their heavy weapons to level every building in sight. One sure sign of a veteran patrol was armor crawling down not one but two parallel streets while the dismounted troops searched the yards and houses in-between. This U-shaped formation was hard to evade without being spotted and impossible to ambush effectively, but wasn’t seen as often because it was slower and more work for the troops. Luckily none of the six teams had been spotted on the way down, although there’d been a few close calls.

Ed tried to stay out of the way as much as possible, but there were a lot of bodies and not a lot of room. It wasn’t the smallest house he’d overnighted in, but they’d been there all day and most of the night before, waiting for their contact. He wasn’t late, not yet, in fact they’d been a day early, but everyone was antsy just the same.

Ed had all of a month under his belt. A month since he’d joined up, not really long enough for him to do anything but get armored webgear, a weapon (used, and he didn’t want to think about what might have happened to its previous owner), a few patrols under his belt, and realize just how far in over his head he was. That he was blissfully ignorant of all things military was an understatement—he had no military or police experience, and had only fired guns a few times before the war—paintball guns.

He’d been bounced around from group to group, not really feeling welcome at all. They needed new bodies, but nobody seemed eager to take responsibility for him. Those patrols he’d been on had been terrifying at first, even though he’d learned quickly. Local guerrilla activity was near its high-water mark but somehow his squad was never where the action was. They’d had a few scares, sure, but he still hadn’t seen a soldier closer than two blocks away.

He still wasn’t sure how he’d ended up where he was, a member of the advance unit for a new offensive. They were scouting ahead for enemy positions, trying to gather intelligence on the move as best they could. The squad included the ranking officer of the operation, a curt, professional military veteran, a Captain who had no tolerance for fools. Assisting him were a Lieutenant and a Sergeant, backed up by nine trigger-pullers including, absurdly enough, him. They were one of three or six squads (Ed wasn’t sure), heading slowly but steadily south. Their target was the downtown depot, but they were also tasked with mapping out roadblocks and spotting armor.

Things had been so crazy and hectic when he’d joined up that no one had time to find out if he knew which end of a rifle the bullet came out of. Their solution was to slap a weapon into his hands which gave him the greatest margin for error. Ed had been horrified to discover he was the proud new owner of a grenade launcher. It looked like a short, fat, single shot shotgun, only the shells were bigger around than jumbo-size eggs, not that he’d seen any of those recently. He’d received all of five minutes of training on how to use it, most of that consisting of instructions on how not to blow himself or any of his teammates into hamburger. He also had a pistol on his hip, and he was even less sure of his ability hit anything with that. But… everyone seemed to have a pistol, it seemed to be a badge of honor in a war that was, at least in small part, about guns.

You would think he would’ve been used to the smell of unwashed bodies, but for some reason by now that wasn’t the case. So many nervous men, packed in together—the raw stink filled his nostrils, even though there wasn’t a whole pane of window glass left in the house. The temperature had been in the eighties all week—not too hot, but still they were having trouble finding enough water. It had been a hot summer, and all the rain traps were baked dry.

“Got movement,” one of the lookouts called softly into the house. “Looks like Jasper.”

The Captain looked up from the maps of the city he was constantly studying. He was a stout, imposing figure, with graying hair shaved to stubble and odd-looking ears that curled out at their tops. “’Bout goddamn time,” he growled.

The lookout watched the slender, furtive figure hurry up the street, keeping to the shadows as much as possible, checking over his shoulder constantly. In a previous era his worn, dirty clothes would have identified him as homeless or an addict, now he just fit right in with the rest of the wretched populace still stuck in the city. The Captain had been going to give him another two hours and if he hadn’t shown up by then they would have had to move on without whatever information he had. They’d stayed too long already.

At the news everyone inside the house breathed a little sigh of relief—at least their delay wouldn’t be for nothing. There were eyes everywhere, and every hour in hostile territory increased the chances they’d be discovered. Not that Jasper knew he was holding up seventy-plus men.

In short order he arrived at the front door, breathless, as if he’d been running. He nearly jumped through the door and darted his head about, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the light. None of the men appeared happy to see him. His appearance had never inspired a lot of confidence.

“You had me wondering whether or not you’d show up,” the Captain admitted to the new arrival.

Jasper swallowed and his brows knitted together in worry. “Why?” he said quickly.

“Because you’re fucking squirrelly, dude,” the Sergeant leaning in the doorway said.

The Captain shot the NCO a look and turned to their local source. “You seem nervous, and so it makes my men nervous,” he said to Jasper. “Any reason why we should be nervous?”

Jasper blinked in the dim light of the house, then snorted. “Of course you should be nervous. You’re in Army-controlled territory. And they’ve got tanks. You’d be stupid if you weren’t nervous.” The thin man was speaking quickly, as usual, gesturing wildly with his hands.

The Captain sighed. “I meant specifically, right now. You were supposed to be finding us a safe route down. Spotting armor, patrols, roadblocks, etcetera. Your so-called inside man give you those patrol routes we were hoping for?”

“Well, see, that’s the thing,” Jasper began, hopping from one foot to the other.

The Sergeant rolled his eyes. “Here we go,” he said.

Jasper gave the man a dirty look, then turned back to the Captain. “No, see, he did. Or he will. He’s supposed to. I just haven’t had a chance to hook up with him yet. He’s been busy or something. But I’m meeting up with him tonight.” He glanced at his watch. “In two hours. He’s gonna have the info for me then.”

The Captain was not pleased to hear Jasper’s news. “Why didn’t you meet with him first? So you had that intelligence when you showed up here?”

“I tried, but I couldn’t make that happen. Besides, I didn’t know for sure if you were going to be here. Plans change. Shit happens.”

“Okay. I’ll send a man with you, for the meet, and—”

“No,” Jasper said, shaking his head forcefully. “This guy, you think I’m nervous, I’m supposed to show up alone. He sees someone with me and he’s gone.”

“I’ll have him stay out of sight.”

Jasper blew a raspberry. “Please. All the empty houses these days, he could be watching from anywhere. He’ll spot your guy, and then he’ll be gone.” He raised a hand. “You just stay here, and I’ll be back before you know it. What this guy’s gonna give you, it’ll help you get right downtown, right on top of them, before they ever know you’re there.”

Neither the Captain or the Sergeant were happy about having to wait several more hours, but there didn’t seem to be any other option. What Jasper’s source was promising was too valuable not to risk it. So the men watched him scurry away down the street, grumbling, irritated and eager to move on, but stymied.

“Sir?”

The Captain looked up. “Yes? It’s Ed, isn’t it?” While he was a new face on the teams, Ed was far from a baby-faced teenager. The man was in his mid-thirties, and did not have the vocabulary of a blue-collar laborer.

“Yes sir. Sir, I know when it comes to war and tactics I don’t know anything about anything. Never been to West Point or read von Clausewitz… but I have a question. Do you trust him? Jasper.” The man in question had left the house fifteen minutes earlier.

“Trust him?” The Captain snorted. “I barely trust myself these days.” Ed nodded. “Why?”

“Because when he was in this house, standing right there, every fiber of my being was telling me to get the hell out. Get away from him.” Ed made a come-hither gesture with his hand and pointed out the nearest window of the house. “That house, right there, at the end of the block. It’s taller than its neighbors, just like this one. Great view of this house. I know we’ve got guns, and drones, but staying here… Put one person there on the second floor, and hide the rest of the squad a couple blocks away out of sight, in a basement or something. Jasper shows up, and nothing looks wrong, he’s all alone, the person in the window there can signal to him when he comes out wondering where the hell we went. Shout, flashlight, whatever. Meet him halfway between the two houses and get whatever intel he has.”

“Are you always this suspicious?” the Captain asked Ed. His expression was unreadable.

“This is the first job I’ve had where the competition actually wants to kill me,” Ed told the man. “I’ve been learning on the fly.” He gestured at the other house. “If I’m wrong, no harm no foul, other than Jasper maybe getting his feelings hurt a little bit. If I’m right…” He shrugged expansively. “I’m just saying, whether you trust him or not, he knows exactly where we are.”

The Captain stared at Ed for thirty solid seconds. “Shit, you’re right,” he said finally. “Sergeant!” he barked.

“Yes sir?”

“You remember that Godawful ugly green house we passed on the way here? Maybe half a mile back? Probably less. You think you can find it again?”

“With my eyes closed, Captain.”

“Well, the house next to it was all brick and stone and obviously abandoned. We’re heading there. On the fucking double. Ed here,” he turned to Ed and smiled grimly, “has volunteered to wait on our skittish friend.”

“Yes sir, glad to hear it sir.” He turned and began getting the rest of the men up. They started pulling down the thick sheets on the walls and stuffing them in packs. The man controlling the eyeball drones that were doing a surveillance pattern over the house hit the recall button.

The Captain turned to Ed. “You’ve got a flashlight if you need it? Good. Jasper shows up, you give him my apologies for not being here. Pressing, urgent matters elsewhere, yada yada. If it’s not just Jasper who shows up, you either go to ground or you pull back to us, whichever is safer. You remember where that green house is? Think you can find it?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Do you know the next rally point, if you can’t make it to the green house?”

Ed always made a point of studying the Captain’s map whenever it was out, and had paid attention to every Rally Point there and back. “Yes sir.”

The Captain nodded. Then he pointed at the grenade launcher slung over Ed’s shoulder. “You fire that thing off, everybody within half a mile is going to know exactly where you are. So my suggestion is don’t, unless the alternative is even worse.”

Which is how Ed came to find himself alone, deep in enemy territory, armed with weapons he wasn’t even sure he could use correctly. He was standing in a dilapidated musty-smelling lilac-painted bedroom waiting for someone to show up. Waiting for something to happen. At first he was terrified, but after an hour of waiting the terror turned to boredom.

Jasper appeared not quite three hours after he’d left, walking down the sidewalk past Ed’s position. The sun was very low in the sky, but it was reflecting off a bank of low clouds. Jasper didn’t appear as twitchy as before, but he also wasn’t moving very fast. He was heading straight for the rendezvous house, not looking around at all.

Ed fought the urge to call out to the man as he walked by below, and instead hugged the window frame in the second story bedroom where he’d been waiting rather impatiently. He watched Jasper walk down the block, away from his position and toward the house they’d sheltered in for nearly twenty-four hours. Ed had the grenade launcher in his hands but had no idea what he’d actually do with it if something happened. And what would happen? What could happen? Jasper was alone and either unarmed or toting a pistol small enough to conceal.

Doing his best not to expose himself, Ed looked out both windows in the bedroom, one facing east, one facing south. He could see where Jasper was heading, and where he’d come from. Nothing was moving in either direction.

He turned back in time to see Jasper pause briefly, then the man headed across the street and up the walk to the front door of the house where he expected to find the squad. Jasper paused again, then went inside.

Ed guessed it was less than ten seconds, long enough for Jasper to look around the house and realize that it was, in fact, now empty, before Jasper appeared at the front door. He raised his arm, Ed wondered later if he was trying to wave someone off, then there was a blinding flash and Ed found himself on the floor of the bedroom, the huge crashing boom echoing around the city.

He struggled to his knees and peered over the windowsill. The house at the end of the block, where they’d all been just a short time before, was now a smoking ruin. The roof was ruptured, and the back of the house was a spray of bricks across the lawn. The explosion hadn’t thrown him down, he was too far away for that; he’d fallen down in shock.

Thick black smoke poured out of the roof and windows, and after a few seconds he began to see the orange licks of flame. Then Ed spotted Jasper. He was facedown on the grass beside the street. The explosion had blown him thirty feet through the air, and he wasn’t moving. From the unnatural positions of his limbs, it didn’t seem likely he’d ever move again.

Ed blinked and shook his head. What the hell had happened? If something like that had occurred before the war it would be blamed on a faulty gas main, but here? Now? He squinted, and looked at the hole in the roof. Just as he started to realize a missile had struck the house, he heard the faint sound of a straining diesel engine. Several of them, coming from the south… but heading his way. Fast. Growlers. And something… bigger.

“Time to go!” he barked to himself, climbing to his feet. Whether he should hide in the basement of the house he was in or try to make it back to the rest of the squad, that was the question.

They’d never made it to the depot downtown. None of the squads had. Their plan to assault in numbers and ransack the armory was turned on its ear as the government revealed that it could, in fact, do a pretty good job of triangulating the positions even of encrypted frequency-hopping radios. The two-day running gun battle which had resulted could best be described as a fighting retreat, one where the guerrillas had suffered almost fifty percent casualties. But, by the end of it, Ed was a bloodied veteran, and had used the grenade launcher several times to save his life and the lives of others.

He realized, thinking back on the incident after all this time, that was the last big defeat for what had become the ARF Irregulars. Since that time they’d had losses, sure, but they’d consistently chewed away at the government forces, giving as good or better than they got, on average. No big losses… but no big victories, either. Then again, what would constitute a big victory in what was left of this city? He couldn’t picture it, but Uncle Charlie’s BIG FAMILY REUNION message had him strangely hopeful that things were about to change.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“I don’t actually like it down here, but why aren’t we doing more of this?” Jason whispered to Mark. “Isn’t it safer?”

For the last twenty minutes they’d been half walking, half crawling through a sewer pipe. It was five feet in diameter, or had been before the bottom six inches was filled with semi-dried muck. After what seemed like forever they reached some sort of collection point. Several concrete pipes of varying diameter met in a rectangular space below street level. Six feet above them was a square ventilated steel cover that let in the first natural light they’d seen since entering the sewer system. While they packed the small space elbow to elbow, all of them were relishing the opportunity to straighten their backs.

“Is that poop?” Jason had asked, when he’d been about to enter the cement tunnel. It was a stripe of brown sludge a foot wide along the bottom. He’d never even looked inside a sewer pipe before.

“From who? From what?” Quentin responded. “Nobody left in the city to shit, and none of the toilets are working. That’s just mud.” He smiled. “Although it smells pretty shitty, I’ll give you that.”

No matter what it was, it was a nightmare to walk through, especially when bent double carrying a rifle and backpack and wearing body armor. Everything about the sewer was nightmarish—the smell, the darkness, the claustrophobia. If he hadn’t had men in front of and behind him, grumbling and grunting and obviously as unhappy as he was, Jason might have panicked. Instead of being scary, it just became shared misery.

Ed was in the lead, using a flashlight that, even on its lowest setting, provided a surprising amount of light in the obsidian gloom. Weasel, in the rear, had another small flashlight out, and between the two of them there was just enough light to trudge along without bumping into the man in front. Jason was terrified of what would happen if the batteries in their flashlights died, but then he’d remembered Early had a lighter, and somebody else had some sort of fire-starting tool.

Mark took a drink from his canteen before answering. “Yes, a lot safer. And at the start of the war it was a great way to sneak around without being spotted. The larger trunk lines, I think they’re called, like this one, are big enough to move through, and there are more of them the closer you get to downtown. A few of those are ten feet wide. But the Army figured out what we were doing real quick. They flooded some, blew up others, put booby traps in a few more, blocked some by pouring concrete or dirt or gravel down manholes. So we’ve only got isolated sections left that we can move through, and nothing close to the Blue Zone or the Army base. The Blue Zone’s blocked off below ground, and aboveground there are Tabs and drones.”

“You never know from one year to the next which of these pipes are still going to be open,” Weasel added quietly. “City’s not doing any sewer repair, at least not outside the Blue Zone, so every winter and spring some pipes collapse, or flood, or fill up with silt.” He gestured at the floor below them, and smiled. “It’s a crapshoot.”

His comment was greeted with moans, and his smile grew even wider.

Jason looked at the various other pipe mouths. None of them was any wider than the one they’d just exited. “How much farther are we going down here?”

“Another quarter mile, if nothing’s changed since the last time,” Ed told him. “Now stop asking questions and drink some water.”

They took a twenty-minute lunch break in the ruins of a house that in its day had been quite impressive: two stories, fancy brickwork, a spacious floorplan probably in excess of three thousand square feet. At one point in its history it had been turned into apartments. Now it was crumbled in on itself, a fire having gutted it at least a year before.

The roof was caved in onto the second floor, and the rear wall was a pile of bricks in the back yard grown through with weeds. Water damage from the rain and the abuse of many harsh winters had turned the plaster walls into an earth-tone kaleidoscope of color. Rats and pigeons and bugs had all at one time or another made the house their home, but after so much time living in ruins the men didn’t even see the broken shell around them as they wolfed down what little food they could spare.

The stench rising from the rotten carpet, a combination of mold and animal droppings intermittently soaked by rain and left to bake in ninety-degree weather, only days ago would have been enough to make Jason vomit. Now he barely noticed it. In fact, he was grateful to be in the house, for it brought them out of the baking sun.

Food they could make do without, and he’d been hungry for days, but water was a necessity. They weren’t out, not yet, but each member of the squad had at least one empty canteen hanging off him. While the others ate George and Early prowled the neighboring houses, looking not just for forgotten canned food but standing water, concealed rain traps, anything they could run through their water purifier. They did this every time the squad stopped, security permitting. Usually the searches turned up zero food, but water was a different story. After moving stealthily through the city for years, the squads had set up hundreds if not thousands of rain traps in abandoned residences and commercial buildings. Most of them were simple, a pot or pan placed where it would catch the runoff from a hole in the ceiling, but every little bit helped. Also, just about every house had a water heater, and even if it wasn’t whole there was usually an inch or two of water inside. Of course, they weren’t the only thirsty souls wandering the streets, and while the military handed out jugs of water at the distribution centers it was never enough. George and Early returned dusty and sweaty and handed back most of the squad’s canteens still empty. Not all, though; they’d managed to get enough out of one rusty water heater to fill two canteens, which was better than nothing.

The squad passed one of the full canteens around, everyone taking a few big gulps, and by the time they’d all taken a turn the plastic container was empty again. Ed hung it on his belt in back and they moved out.

As they headed south, the prevalent single-story wood frame houses clad in siding slowly gave way to bigger, older residences. Brick became the exterior of choice, red and dark brown mostly, the houses square two-story affairs with raised, covered front porches and detached garages in back. The garages were usually in worse shape than the houses. Very few trees were to be seen; most were ornamentals planted up close to the houses, now shaggy and uneven.

Ed took the left side of the street, on point. He preferred to stay in the tall grass near the houses but many of them had yards bordered with chain link and he had to keep weaving down to the sidewalk and back. Weasel was behind him, George bringing up the rear. Across the street Mark led that column and was having the same trouble with fences. Early trailed far behind, watching their rear.

Ed glanced up to the right at the sun beating down on him, then across the street at the rest of the squad. Should’ve chosen that side, he thought to himself selfishly, not really meaning it. Mark’s line of men weaved in and out of cool shade thrown by the houses. He guessed it was close to ninety degrees, with high humidity. Which wouldn’t have been unpleasant at all, if he’d been in a t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. The armor plates front and back trapped heat like an oven door.

Walking slowly in the sun, the only sound they heard was the buzz of cicadas, the chirp of birds, the distant bark of a dog, and the rush of swaying grass. Fat bumblebees dipped and wove in the air above the grass. Every once in a while they’d hear the fierce chitter of an unseen squirrel announcing his displeasure at their arrival. Now that nature was halfway back to reclaiming the city, the wildlife was abundant; Ed had seen squirrels, rabbits, pheasants, chipmunks, turkeys, even deer in the decaying neighborhoods thick with vegetation. Plus packs of wild dogs. Not to mention the bear they’d seen the day before.

They were slowly approaching the only car on the block, a burned-out hulk sitting near the right curb. All that was left of it was the frame sitting on dented rims, brown rust slowly eating the black scorch marks. Ed scanned the street ahead, the houses to his left, then the ones across the street. Nothing but the squad could be seen moving, unless the bugs dancing over the grass counted. There were signs of foot traffic all over the neighborhood, cutting back and forth from the sidewalk to the street, but it seemed to be the work of individuals rather than a patrol moving in formation.

The trails in the grass didn’t appear to be fresh – they were all a day old, at least. Ed had gotten good at reading sign, and if he’d taken the time to confer with George he would’ve concurred. Ed preferred patrolling in late summer, not because of the heat, which he despised, but because of the grass. In their muted clothing he could hardly spot the rest of his patrol across the street slowly moving through the green and brown stalks waving slightly in the breeze, brushing past overgrown bushes, and he knew right where to look. When they paused in the shadows, they simply disappeared.

As he passed abreast of the rusting hulk in the street another fence pushed him back down to the sidewalk. Ed glanced across and saw a rusting fence line forcing Mark and his column to do the same thing. They’d been on the move half an hour, and had covered maybe four-tenths of a mile, when Ed, still on point, froze and reflexively held up a fist. Everyone stopped immediately, even Jason, who’d been looking across the street past Ed at the dilapidated houses overgrown with weeds. They slowly crouched in the long grass and gripped their rifles tighter, wondering.

Ed stared down the street, not sure what had brought him up short. He hadn’t seen anything, nothing was moving in the heat, but there’d been something… he cocked his head.

“Move!” he hissed, afraid to shout, charging blindly at the nearest house. The adrenaline surge had his heart in his throat as he ran all out. He found he was angling toward a raised brick front porch with low walls and prayed he’d make it in time.

The rest of the squad had heard it at nearly the same instant and reflexes took over. They scrambled away from the open street toward the cover of the houses. Weasel was right on Ed’s heels and landed on him as both men launched themselves up the steps onto the crumbling porch. George darted between the houses just behind them, nearly falling in the grass. Across the street Mark bolted into one of a pair of houses that had crumbled into each other. Quentin dashed into the rubble between the two, nearly impaling himself on a jutting splintered two-by-four.

Jason saw the squad disappear in the blink of an eye, bounding through the grass like jackrabbits. Then Early had him by the collar and was shoving him toward the nearest house.

“Go!” the old man grunted as he passed Jason on the run. Jason automatically glanced up the street, still not seeing anything, but he ran after Early all the same. As big as he was Early moved like a man possessed, and was through the open doorway of the nearest house before Jason reached its porch.

“Unhh!” The concrete floor of the porch did nothing to soften the impact as Weasel landed on top of Ed. The men rolled away from each other to opposite sides of the small porch, panting.

The low brick wall that encircled the porch gave them more than enough cover, and Ed hated to poke his head out, but he had to do it. An overgrown half-dead privet bush stuck up six inches past the top of the porch wall and afforded him even more concealment as he turned his head sideways and slowly raised it to peer out.

Ed had just enough time to see his squad was out of sight before he spotted movement at the end of the block. The cross-street was just four or five houses down in the direction the squad had been heading. Peering through the browning leaves of the privet, at first all Ed could see was indeterminate movement. After a second, though, the shape of a soldier dressed in camouflage revealed itself to him. Then another, on the far side of the intersecting street. Then the blunt nose of an IMP armored personnel carrier rolled into view.

“Fuck,” Weasel whispered, sinking back down below the wall. He patted his chest, reassuring himself that his spare magazines were still there. He’d have felt a lot better if more than two of them had been fully loaded.

The IMP rolled forward slowly, keeping pace with the soldiers on foot to either side. Its top hatch was open, providing cover to the rear for the soldier manning the roof gun, in this case a belt-fed grenade launcher. The dismounted infantry fanned out as they approached the intersection, looking up and down what, to them, was a cross street. Ed glanced back across the street needlessly to make sure his own people were still out of sight.

The IMP rode on eight big rubber tires and had a well-designed engine. Even with its top and back hatches open it was a quiet vehicle. What had alerted Ed was the four-wheel-drive passenger vehicle behind the IMP—everyone, even Army troops, called it a Growler because of its diesel engine, which was shockingly loud at speed. Even at barely more than idling its rattling exhaust echoed off the houses. It had been around a corner, over a hundred yards away, and Ed had still heard it.

This IMP—and in fact every IMP Ed had seen in the city in the last five years, without exception—wore slat armor around its exterior. The standoff armor was a simple defense against rockets, and it looked like someone had welded a fence around the exterior of the armored personnel carrier, about a foot away from the surface of the vehicle. Incoming rockets or grenades would detonate upon hitting the metal slats, and the explosive force would spread out across the surface of the armor rather than penetrate it. The end result was awkward and ugly, and made the IMPs look like giant grocery carts. It also significantly increased their already large footprint, which meant they couldn’t fit down some alleys and narrow streets.

“Keep going, keep going, keep going,” Ed murmured, thinking he was the only member of the squad that could see what was coming. But George, after darting between the houses, had circled around the back of the one holding Ed and Weasel. He made his way to the south side of the house, which faced the intersection. It was overgrown, and he slid along the brick hidden by gnarly yew bushes until he was nearly underneath the raised porch. George was on the ground and therefore didn’t have quite as good a view as Ed, but he could see enough. He cursed silently.

Ed watched the Army patrol approach the intersection. They were in standard formation, a well-spaced line of troops to either side of the street, supported by—in this instance—two vehicles. They were still too far away to get a good head count, but whatever their numbers he knew his squad did not have the resources to take them on.

The troops on foot seemed to spread out and pause in their forward advance, letting the IMP enter the intersection. Without hesitation it turned left and began rolling up the street right at Ed.

“Shit,” Ed whispered, pressing his forehead to the warm brick. He collected himself and looked back up the street. Still coming, with the Growler now making the turn. His position on the porch now seemed ill-advised and untenable. The house’s front door was in place and intact. Weasel was on his side in the far corner of the porch trying to become invisible. Ed gestured at the door.

Weasel stretched out, staying low, and extended a booted foot. He pushed against the door, then again, harder. The door didn’t budge. Weasel shook his head and rolled over onto his stomach, clutching his subgun and peering sideways out the opening in the wall where the front steps rose up.

Ed peered over the wall again, heart hammering in his chest. He had a good view of the patrol and didn’t like what he saw. He counted five men on foot on either side of the street, on the sidewalks and with proper intervals. There were three in the Growler, a driver with two bored-looking men in back. It was an open-topped Growler, not one of the up-armored hardtopped models he was used to seeing in the city. One of the men inside was probably the ranking officer, but they were too far away to read insignia. As for the IMP, it had a driver somewhere out of sight behind the narrow slit filled with thick armored glass that provided him protection in exchange for poor visibility. The roof gunner was the only other occupant of the personnel carrier Ed could see, but he was well aware there could be more inside. The rear hatch was open, but until the vehicle passed his location he wouldn’t be able to see into it.

Between the IMP and the Growler, in the street and on foot, were two more soldiers. That made at least seventeen men in the patrol, versus his poorly armed seven. One of whom was a cherry who’d never pulled a trigger on another human being, but Ed didn’t want to think about that now. He signaled seventeen plus to Weasel, who shook his head.

“You stay the hell away from that window boy,” Early murmured, his voice so low Jason almost missed it. The inside of the house was like a cave, even with the big window in front and half the south wall gone. The two of them stood in darkness to either side of the empty window frame, peering out past the overgrown bushes and over the long grass.

Early’d snuck a peek up the street and had seen what was coming their way, but Jason was on the wrong side of the window to see anything but the street back the way they’d come, and then only if he craned his head out. His quivering body was wedged tight into the dark front corner of the room, hands so sweaty he was afraid his rifle would slip out and bang onto the floor. All he could do was listen to the ominous growing sounds.

Early stole another glance out the window—yep, still coming. He didn’t know what kind of patrol it was—they didn’t seem to be checking the houses to either side—but they definitely had his boys outnumbered and outgunned. But weren’t they always? Though he hated to do it, best thing would be to hide and hope they kept on going. He moved back into the dark corner and glanced at the boy, who looked ready to wet himself. Early’d already told him to hug the wall no matter what, unless he saw him start shooting. Well, whatever happened, happened.

There was a big hole in the far wall of the small house. Through it he could see the bungalow next door, also crumbling, sunlight, and a lot of waist high weeds. He was pretty sure Quentin and Mark were in there, but things had been pretty hectic there for a few short seconds and he wasn’t totally sure who had scurried where. Ed and Weasel were most likely near that raised porch across the street, but he hadn’t a clue as to where George had disappeared to. He just hoped that if any shooting started that nobody found themselves in a crossfire.

Mark had almost popped Quentin as he came crawling in through the jagged hole in the side of the house. They each had a window to peek out of and neither liked what they saw. They caught sight of the IMP about the time the Growler made the turn, and both faded back away from the windows, trading hand signals. They stayed on the ground floor of the house—on the ground, you could always retreat out the back. On the second floor, if someone got in the house the only options were to fight your way down the stairs or jump out a window. Mark had had to do that once, and didn’t wish to again. His knees were already in bad shape, and even with only half a belt of ammo left the SAW was not light.

As the IMP and dismounted soldiers drew closer George cursed his own judgement and tried to disappear into the undergrowth. He was dressed in earth tone clothing, his plate carriers tan, his Springfield AR painted a nice camo pattern, backed into a privet bush, behind a big, seven-foot yew, standing in thigh-high grass and day-lilies that reached past his belt, but still he felt naked.

The IMP rolled inexorably on and in a few short seconds had drawn abreast of the house next door. George stood frozen in the bushes as the soldiers on foot drew close. The grunt on point was a few steps in front of the IMP and glanced at the space between the houses but never left the sidewalk. George was just starting to breathe a little easier when the second man in line broke formation and walked straight toward him.

As the IMP grew close Ed set his rifle on the porch and slowly unslung the grenade launcher. The one round they had for the stubby weapon was already loaded and his hands clenched the wooden stock nervously. Weasel eyed the weapon and squirmed, perhaps hoping that with enough effort he’d be able to dig through the porch’s concrete with his knees and elbows.

Ed’s eyes darted this way and that, gauging, calculating, as the IMP rolled sedately on. His head sunk down until just half of one eye showed over the wall.

George was afraid to blink as the soldier stopped right in front of him, fiddling with the button-fly of his fatigue pants. He was young, not much older than Jason, but the rifle slung over his shoulder made his age meaningless. George could have reached out and touched him, he was that close.

“Whaddaya doin’?” one of his squadmates called out to him. The soldier turned halfway back, still fiddling with his fly. George’s right hand, unbidden, left the grip of his rifle and crept up toward the knife strapped upside down over his left breast.

“Takin’ a piss.” George’s hand froze, five inches short, as the soldier turned back.

The two men were so close George didn’t know how the soldier couldn’t hear his heart thumping in his chest, much less the ragged breathing he labored to subdue. They were practically eye to eye, and George knew if the young soldier looked up he’d be caught for sure. The soldier, however, was more interested in playing his urine over the grass and daylily blossoms. George felt drops hitting his boots but didn’t dare look down, instead slowly closing his eyes to mere slits so that when he did have to blink the movement would be less noticeable. He prayed he didn’t stink so badly the soldier could smell him.

Even though every cell in his body was telling Ed to get the hell down behind the wall, rationally he knew that none of the soldiers would spot his sliver of skull and eyeball behind the patchy shrub. Not unless they started up the steps to the porch, which was why he needed to keep a lookout. If any of the troops on foot headed his way he wanted to know about it before the man stumbled over them.

As to what kind of patrol it was Ed couldn’t be sure—the open-topped Growler confused him—no armor, and not even a roof? He had no way of knowing the troops inside weren’t happy about it either, but fully a third of the Army’s up-armored Growlers in the city were down for repairs, and the others were out with other patrols.

The soldiers weren’t searching the houses to either side, that much was clear. If their goal was just to make their presence felt in the outlying neighborhoods, Ed would’ve thought they’d all be packed into armored Growlers and cruising along at ten or fifteen miles an hour. Cover a lot more ground that way; he’d seen it done more than once.

The troops Ed was watching didn’t seem to be especially on edge; in fact, they looked rather bored. Bored, and painfully young, although maybe that was just him. They were wearing their ballistic helmets, though, even in the heat and humidity, which gave some indication as to their discipline. It also looked like they all had on the standard body armor with composite plate inserts at chest and back. As they kept coming Ed could see they were all sweating buckets. It was damnably hot, but this late in the season they should have been used to the heat. They were either new replacements or spent too much time in air-conditioned barracks.

He spotted a Sergeant on foot behind the IMP as it drew close, and the way one of the soldiers was slouching in the back of the Growler he had to be an officer, although he was too far away to see any rank.

Suddenly Ed twitched, realizing a soldier had veered off the sidewalk and was heading toward the side of the house, his house. There was another tall privet shielding that side of the porch as well, but Ed could tell the man had stopped just feet away. Spitting distance.

The IMP drew abreast of Ed, the exhaust a low grumble, its big tires quiet on the pavement. He stared with envy at the belt-fed grenade launcher on its roof. It was the perfect weapon for these neighborhoods and fired the same round as the weapon he held in his hands, but his was a break-open single shot. Theirs could fire a hundred rounds a minute. Its only drawback was that it was too big and heavy to be carried; it had to be mounted on a vehicle or a tripod.

One soldier had passed by on the sidewalk and another was drawing close as the IMP slowly swung past. Ed caught a glimpse of a gesturing hand at the back of the armored personnel carrier and then the roof gunner jerked in his perch and slumped over. A meaty smack combined with a loud SPANG! echoed down the street, then another, more recognizable sound. Gunshot.

Everyone froze for half a second, then someone yelled “Sniper!” and all hell broke loose.

The street looked like a kicked anthill as everyone scrambled. The soldier on the sidewalk in front of Ed charged directly at the porch, eyes wide. Weasel rose up and fired a long burst into the man’s upper chest and neck before he’d cleared the top step, aiming above the soldier’s armor plate. As the dead-on-his-feet soldier flew by him Ed straightened up and fired the grenade launcher at the rear of the IMP. The round exploded inside the open rear door just as several panicked soldiers were about to dive inside. Bodies flew and gunfire erupted all around.

George felt lightheaded from lack of oxygen as the soldier in front of him finally emptied his bladder and tucked himself away. In just a second he’d be able to take a normal breath, blink his itchy eyes, and…

The sound of the bullet impact and following gunshot was totally unexpected, and both men jumped. The young soldier saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and turned his head. For a fraction of a second George was still invisible to him, then his eyes went wide in shock and disbelief. George yanked his knife from its sheath and buried it in the boy’s neck, wrapping his other arm around his head. As he dragged him behind the bush George roughly sawed outward and felt the soldier kicking. He left him flailing on the ground and spun to face the street, finding the squad’s last hand grenade in his palm. Straight across from him was the Growler and he yanked the pin and heaved.

Whether he saw George, the incoming grenade, or both, one of the soldiers in the back of the Growler shouted a warning and jumped over the side. As he landed a blast at the back of the IMP knocked him off his feet, and then George’s grenade went bouncing by him to explode under the Growler. Both his legs were sheared off at the knees as the Growler lifted two feet into the air with a thunderous flash. Both men inside the vehicle died instantly from the shrapnel, as the underside of the vehicle was not armored. By the time the Growler was airborne George had his carbine up and was firing at the soldiers on the sidewalks. Most of them were less than fifty feet away, practically point-blank range.

The explosion at the IMP caused both Mark and Quentin to duck back from their windows, then they were firing at the troops on their side of the street. Mark let loose a long burst from the SAW. Two soldiers went down immediately. The others charged off the sidewalk and ducked between the houses.

“Fuck!” Mark yelled, hurtling himself across to the far side of the rotting living room. Just as he neared a small window one of the panicked soldiers appeared outside it. Mark fired a short burst, bringing the man down, but another soldier ran past the window and disappeared from view.

“Shoot boy, shoot!” Early yelled, dropping one of the soldiers on the sidewalk before the man could take two steps. Explosions near the two vehicles had bodies all over the road, men screaming. There was black smoke coming from the Growler. He heard what had to be the sniper’s weapon again, something heavy and distant, but still had no idea where the shots were coming from. He poured fire at every soldier he saw not flat on the ground, then heard shouting next door. He looked across his shouldered rifle to see Quentin trip and fall trying to exit the next house through the ragged hole in the wall. Early instinctively lunged that way. By the time Early reached the gap in his own house Quentin was up and suddenly there was a soldier running between the two houses, looking for an escape route. They shot him in the back and he slid to a stop in the tall grass.

When the grenade went off Ed heard shrapnel zinging over his head. It cracked against the bricks behind him. Weasel, up on one knee and firing, flinched and a red line appeared at his temple. Ed dropped the grenade launcher and grabbed his rifle, but before he could bring it to bear on anyone the Growler exploded into the air. None of the soldiers nearby stayed on their feet.

Those soldiers that still could were scrambling for cover, firing wildly in an attempt to keep their attackers’ heads down. The combined roar of over a dozen rifles created a wall of noise Ed could feel in his chest. He had his carbine up and fired at the soldiers trapped in the street, pulling the trigger as fast as he could. He could see their panicked expressions as they realized they’d been caught in an ambush. Receiving fire from two directions they discovered they were exposed to fire no matter which side of the vehicles they cowered behind. A few tried to run from the kill zone, but they were cut down before they could reach the safety of the houses. Bodies covered lawns and sidewalks.

Weasel had reloaded once and was firing short bursts, pivoting back and forth. “Get the driver!” Ed yelled at Weasel, pointing at the IMP. Weasel leapt off the porch and fired a wild burst as he ran into the street toward the open rear door of the IMP. Ricochets whined off its armor, but the IMP wasn’t accelerating away. It was still coasting leisurely down the street, now angling slightly toward the far curb and the burned out and rusting vehicle. Ed fired at the writhing bodies in the street between the vehicles to cover Weasel during his charge. The red circle/dot reticle of his carbine’s optical sight bounced up and down every time his gun fired, but the noise was distant, deadened by the adrenaline in his bloodstream.

Jason jumped at the sniper’s shot and then Early was spinning around, graceful as a dancer, brining his big rifle to bear on something in the street as an explosion shook the house. Jason stood frozen, his mind blank, the rifle in his own hands forgotten. Early fired, adjusted his aim, fired again, and a second explosion shook the house.

“Shoot boy, shoot!” Early yelled from behind his rifle. Jason stared at him uncomprehendingly, the wall of noise from the shooting and the explosions freezing his brain, then the big man fired again. The National Match bucked in Early’s brown hands and the smoking, spent case struck Jason square in the face. The pain brought him out of his reverie and he turned toward the window.

The scene before him was a madhouse. Bodies littered the street, some thrashing, and their screams above the deafening gunfire were horrible. A huge army vehicle was almost directly in front of their house, its open rear door hazy from smoke. The four-by-four behind it was a crumpled, smoking hulk and as Jason stared he saw its back end erupt in yellow flame.

There was blood on the pavement, and severed limbs. Camouflage clad figures were running in all directions and he could hear bullets whizzing through the air nearby. Gunfire echoed off the housefronts and the noise was incredible. He was hit in the side of the head by another smoking case as Early fired again.

Jason shouldered his rifle and fired without aiming at the armored personnel carrier still rolling down the street. He heard the clang and whine of the bullet ricocheting away. The sound of his rifle discharging hardly bothered him; it was like a muffled thump, a handclap buried by pillows.

He worked the lever automatically, still transfixed by the carnage in the street. Suddenly he saw there was a soldier atop the APC just yards from him and coming closer. This time he pointed the rifle more or less in the right direction before yanking the trigger.

His second shot went wide but then he saw the soldier was already dead, slumped over behind the roof gun. Jason worked the lever of his rifle again as a soldier appeared off the nose of the IMP. He was on the far side of the street, running flat out.

Hey! One’s getting away! Jason shouted inside his head, but nothing escaped his lips. The shooting seemed to be dying down. Didn’t anybody else see him? This time Jason put his cheek to the rifle stock. The soldier looked huge against the rifle’s front sight, impossible to miss, but Jason jerked the trigger and he could see his front sight pull off the running soldier.

He worked the lever again, cursing, and concentrated. The soldier was further away now, almost out of sight, angling for a gap between two houses. Jason held his breath, took up the slack in the trigger, and put the rifle’s square front post on the soldier’s lead shoulder. The rifle bucked in his hands as the trigger broke clean, and when it came down the soldier was nowhere to be found. Then Jason saw him, lying sideways in the grass, feet kicking awkwardly. The bullet had gone in just under the man’s armpit.

Jason saw another soldier on hands and knees scrambling backward beside the creeping IMP. One handed, the soldier raised his rifle and fired a shot past the vehicle’s rear hatch. Jason saw Ed across the street running for the IMP, and knew the squad leader couldn’t see the soldier. Jason brought his rifle back up, working the lever, and sighted in. The shot took the soldier behind the neck and he dropped without a twitch. Jason blinked twice, then looked left. Early wasn’t there.

Panicked, Jason looked left and right, and there was Early at the ragged hole where the wall had caved in. Early had turned back just as Jason took the shot and had been in line to see the soldier crumple.

“No time for gawkin’!” the big man yelled at him. “C’mon!” Early charged back across the house. Jason was right on his heels out the door.

Ed was five steps behind Weasel when he dived into the rolling APC. Before Ed could do the same the IMP thudded into the burned-out car hulk and began pushing it across the concrete. The screech of metal lasted just a few seconds before the wreck slammed into the curb and stopped the IMP’s forward momentum. Ed heard cursing from inside as Weasel tripped. There was a shredded body on the floor in back and the non-slip floor was awash in blood. Ed jumped over the body and almost fell.

The IMP’s driver was dead, that much was obvious from the low-speed collision. Ed left Weasel to check out the interior of the vehicle and turned to survey the street from the darkened interior. Every soldier he could see was down, although many of them were thrashing or screaming in pain. Or both. The Growler was farther away than he’d expected. The explosion had flattened all four of its tires and eliminated whatever forward momentum it’d had. The back of the four-by-four was engulfed in flames and sitting in a burning puddle of diesel fuel. That meant the fuel tank was perforated and not likely to explode, just burn. George was on the far side of it, moving in slowly, carbine sweeping back and forth. He fired at one thrashing body, which stilled, paused briefly to check another, probing with the muzzle of his weapon, then another. The heat from the flames kept him away from the Growler and two more still forms, but their indifference to the terrific heat told him all he needed to know.

“Are they all down?” Ed yelled at George.

George, still checking bodies, looked up and down the street. “I don’t know.”

Early and the kid emerged from a ramshackle house and scanned the street. Jason looked a little stunned but Ed didn’t fail to notice him clumsily reloading his little lever-action. “Watch the street!” Early told the young man.

“You gotta come see this,” Ed heard Weasel say from the front of the IMP.

“In a minute,” he snapped over his shoulder. The air smelled of blood and burning fuel and gunfire. “Anybody hurt?” he called out. “Anybody? Where’s Mark? Q?” Ed jumped down from the APC.

Quentin appeared just then from between two houses. “We’ve got at least one on foot!” he yelled, pointing back in the direction he’d come.

“Fuck. Jason! Get over here in front of the IMP and keep an eye out. You see anybody you yell out.” Ed pointed where he wanted the young man. “You hurt?” he asked Quentin. The black man shook his head.

“Coming out!” Mark jogged into view through the tall grass and stopped on the sidewalk, breath coming in ragged gasps. He bent nearly double, letting the SAW hang from its sling around his shoulders. “Too old for this shit,” the big forty-eight-year-old panted. “At least one, maybe two, zig-zagging through the yards, tearing ass outta here.” He waved a hand in the general direction. “Think I tagged one, but I couldn’t catch them. Fuckin’ teenagers.” He hawked a big wad of phlegm onto the cracked pavement.

“You hurt? No? Nobody? Unbefuckinglievable.” Ed was still jacked up on adrenaline, his whole body vibrating. He put a fresh magazine into his weapon, his last, and looked at the mag he’d just taken out. He could see four, maybe five rounds left in it.

“We’ve still got a fucking sniper out here,” George warned everybody. “Guy could be a friendly, or he could be a fucking wingnut and start taking potshots at us, so don’t bunch up.” That got their heads swiveling.

“You guys have two minutes!” Ed yelled at them. “Grab all the shit you can carry. Ammo, water, anything that looks like intelligence. And somebody get me a body count!”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Ed clambered back into the IMP and shuffled toward the front, banging elbows and head on unforgiving steel. As big as it was on the outside, the armored personnel carrier was less than roomy. The firing platform for the roof gun took up a big chunk of the center of the compartment. The dead gunner’s body was visible from the chest down as he hung by his armpits from the hatch.

The IMP’s driver was slumped in his chair, one shoulder covered in blood from a head wound. Light came in through what passed for a windshield in the armored personnel carrier, a curving, four foot wide, four inch tall slit. The clear polymer in it was designed to stop most small arms fire and was divided into sections, or blocks, that could be replaced individually.

“What?” he demanded. Weasel, furiously opening the vehicle’s storage compartments, pointed at the block directly in front of the driver’s head. There, in the middle of it, like a mosquito trapped in amber, was a bullet. A big bullet with a silver tip.

“Our sniper?” Ed asked. Weasel shrugged. Ed looked from the bullet to the driver and back to the bullet. “So what killed him?”

“He took something in the side of the head. Shrapnel from a grenade or a stray round maybe. Back hatch was open and even though he’s got armor behind him shit just bounces around in here once it gets in.”

Ed stepped back to the roof gunner and examined him. The sniper’s first shot had hit the man in the base of the throat and blown his spine out the back of his neck. It was grisly. Ed forced his eyes off the man, glanced around the IMP’s mostly metal interior and grunted. “Two minutes,” he told Weasel. Then he looked down at the ammo cans Weasel had found. “Those full of anything we can use?” he asked, hardly daring to hope.

“Bet your ass.” Weasel hissed loudly, and flipped open the lid of one. There, each nestled in its own slot, were eight fragmentation hand grenades.

“Beautiful. See what else they have.” Ed scurried out the back of the carrier. He climbed up the side of the IMP, using the slat armor like a ladder, to the roof.

“You see anything?” he called down to Jason, who was standing at the rear corner of the rusted vehicle wedged between the IMP and the curb. Jason looked up at him and shook his head.

The squad was moving with directed intensity, systematically looting the bodies of anything of value. George saw Mark digging through one of the soldier’s packs he’d found blown from the roof of the Growler, pulling out items one at a time, and yelled at him.

“No no no, fuck that, we don’t have time,” George told him. He jogged over, and reached up to where his knife should be hanging from his webbing. It wasn’t there. Instead he pointed at the big blade on Mark’s hip. “Use your knife. Cut the whole thing open.” He looked up and around. “Move, people!” he yelled. “We’re living on borrowed time.” Then he jogged back between the houses to retrieve his knife.

A long time ago—it seemed like decades—when he’d first joined up, someone had shown Ed how to operate a belt-fed grenade launcher, but he hadn’t laid hands on one since and couldn’t figure out how to get the belt out of the weapon. He used his knife to pry apart the metal links and laid the rest of the ammo belt back into the oversize ammo can resting on a raised tray beside the gun. He closed it up and moved to the rear of the vehicle.

“Hey.” Weasel looked up, and Ed dropped the heavy can into his arms before climbing down.

“There’s a big water tank on the wall in here.”

“Can we grab it?”

Weasel shook his head. “Bolted in.”

“Fuck.” He thought for just a second. “You done in here?”

“Yeah.” Weasel glanced down and Ed saw the grenade box, three ammo cans, and a battered M4 carbine that probably belonged to the driver all lying on the back hatch. Weasel’s chest rig was stuffed with the extra magazines that went with the rifle. Ed dug out his empty canteen and tossed it to Weasel.

“Form up on the IMP for water and grenades!” he called out to his men. He could see they were almost finished, and he checked his watch. Three minutes already. They needed to move. Weasel tossed the canteen back to him, full.

George staggered up with an extra carbine over one shoulder, his pack stuffed with salvaged gear. Ed was happy to see two grenades hanging from his chest straps. George was too overloaded to reach his canteens himself. Weasel yanked them out roughly and began filling them.

“Some of these guys were carrying M4s, so we can finally grab some ammo.”

“You find any intelligence?” Ed asked George. The taciturn man shook his head.

“Whatever they had was probably on the officer, who was in the back of the Growler.” They both looked at the vehicle, which was still burning fiercely. The two bodies in the back seat were black shapes huddled low in the seats. The pungent odor of burning flesh and rubber filled the street. It was a smell they’d become all too familiar with.

George looked down at the big can of belted grenades on the ramp of the IMP. “What’s that?” Ed told him about grabbing the can off the roof. “No, no, leave it, you can’t use those in your grenade launcher.”

“They’re the exact same!” Ed protested.

“No, they’re hotrodded, like magnums. They’d blow your thumper apart if you could get them to chamber, but you can’t, they’re a few millimeters longer. Leave ‘em.”

“Shit.”

Mark jogged up and hefted his SAW in Ed’s direction. “I’ve only got about five rounds left.” The end of the ammo belt barely extended out of the receiver. He had a salvaged carbine slung over one shoulder but it couldn’t put out anywhere close to the amount of fire that the SAW could.

Ed nodded. “Don’t worry about it now. Right now we’ve got to get the fuck out of here.” He jogged around the side of the personnel carrier to Jason.

“Haven’t seen anything,” the young man said before Ed could speak. Ed stared down the street. Blank faces of crumbling houses lined the street, stretching away from the men for half a mile. In the distance the concrete was a shimmering puddle in the heat, the rising mirage making the far houses dance and sway. Ed could see a hundred windows and only a handful of them still held glass. Most of the doorways were gaping, splintered ruins. Every yard was overgrown with waist high grass and weeds and the occasional patch of flowers.

“Jesus, he could be anywhere,” Ed breathed, thinking of the sniper. He tapped the boy on the shoulder. “Go on back and gear up,” he told him. “We’ve gotta move.”

He stood behind the rusting car husk which smelled of charcoal, staring at the street and listening to his men behind him. He could hear the clank and rattle of metal, the gurgle and splash of water, and the groans as they tried to get used to the weight of much-needed gear and water and ammunition.

“Hey. Ow!” Early was just throwing things into Jason’s backpack. Hard metal corners were jabbing at him. Everyone jumped at a nearby gunshot and turned to see Weasel stuffing a snubnose revolver back into a pocket. Jason realized he’d been hearing a low groaning sound nearby, and now that sound had stopped. Fresh blood seeped from the head of the soldier at Weasel’s feet.

Jason turned to Early, but the big man cut him off before he could say anything. “We don’t take prisoners, boy,” he said roughly. Beyond Weasel George was rising from a crouch, a bloody long-bladed knife in his hand. He was cutting the throats of the wounded, as it was quieter and didn’t use any ammunition. Jason was shocked.

Every vehicle in the army’s inventory was equipped with a GPS transponder that broadcast its exact position day and night. As soon as someone in headquarters realized they’d lost contact with the column they’d be able to get a fix on the IMP accurate to within one square meter. They’d see the column was stopped, and when further attempts to raise the vehicles on the radio were unsuccessful a phone call would be made. Airborne reconnaissance would be next, unless another patrol was close by. The column of black smoke rising from the burning Growler would make a spotter’s job just that much easier, but depending on how close the nearest fighter or helicopter was, it might be another five or fifteen minutes before they had eyes on target. The squad needed to be long gone before then.

The Army would probably assume they were using the standard guerrilla tactic of hit and run which meant they’d also assume they’d head back north. At least, Ed hoped so. He swept the street with his eyes one final time, then backed up to the IMP. Quentin grabbed him by the shoulder straps of his plate carriers and hooked the lever of a grenade through a MOLLE strap. Quentin had two hanging from his chest already. Ed smiled at him, then grabbed an ammo can, surprised at its weight. “Let’s go. Doubletime.”

The squad spread out and began jogging down the sidewalk. They didn’t have time to be discreet; what they needed was distance between them and the ambush site. They needed to move.

The extra water and weapons and ammo were heavy and awkward but time was their enemy now, not noise. On the sidewalk at least the tall grass to either side would shelter them somewhat from inquisitive eyes. Ed was in the lead, setting the pace, watching the houses to either side and scanning the sky. His carbine hung across his chest by its sling and he kept one hand on its grip both to keep it from bouncing and to remain ready for any other surprises that might pop up. The grenade hanging from his webgear bounced around a little but seemed firmly attached. He glanced behind him and saw the rest of the squad spread out in a ragged line, jogging along with good intervals between them. They were all carrying extra gear, ammo cans, backpacks, even a few rifles.

The squad neared the end of the first block and Ed, in the lead, paused. He checked the cross-street, glancing both ways, paying close attention to the direction from which the patrol had come. Nothing, but then he hadn’t expected to see anything—if there’d been another patrol anywhere nearby they would have raced up as soon as they heard the first shot. He sprinted across the intersection, breath loud in his ears. The rest of his squad followed, dashing across the street singly and in pairs. After checking that the rest of the squad was still coming Ed jogged on.

It was ninety degrees in the shade and every man had been carrying thirty to forty pounds of gear before they’d started looting the soldiers’ bodies. In the baking sun their burdens doubled in weight, then quadrupled. The heat and the long days without adequate food or water had them gasping for air after two minutes. By the end of the second block so much sweat was running into Ed’s eyes he was having trouble seeing but he didn’t dare slow down.

“C’mon! Go! Go!” George urged his squadmates, his breath coming out in rasps. Between his own gear and what they’d taken off the bodies he was carrying a hundred pounds on his back. His thighs felt like they wanted to seize up. Instead he helped Mark, grabbing the big man by his webbing when he tripped over a buckled sidewalk slab and almost fell.

Two blocks covered, then three. Ed checked his watch without stopping, barely able to focus on the dial as he fought for air. To do it he had to lift the ammo can to shoulder height and his arm, already on fire, started shaking. His fingers were cramping up, yet one more burning pain shooting through his body.

They’d been on the move for just over four minutes. His urge to put distance between themselves and the ambush location was tempered with the knowledge that if they didn’t slow down, they could run into something nasty and never spot it until it was too late.

At least half a mile. That’s how far Ed figured they needed to be from the ambush site before they went to ground. They hit another cross-street and dashed across it in pairs. The houses here were in bad shape, some nothing more than piles of rubble. There’d been a lot of fighting here once. They could still smell the smoke from the fires that had charred them years before. Charred timbers shot skyward from jagged clots of broken brick. The curbs were choked with mangled vehicles and Ed eyed their dark interiors suspiciously until he heard something bump in a house as he jogged by. He gripped his carbine tighter. Running headlong into unknown areas of the city was the closest thing to suicide he’d ever attempted, but they couldn’t stop, not yet.

George was having trouble keeping up under his payload and Early dropped back in the pack to give him a hand. “C’mon boss,” Early urged the compact man between gasps. Early grabbed hold of George’s shoulder strap and pulled him on. George was panting hoarsely with the effort of running and he didn’t have the air to argue.

Ed reached the end of the block and peered out past the tall grass, trying not to gasp for air too loudly. The cross-street dead-ended a block to the left at what once had been a park. To the right, about two hundred yards down, was a jumbled pile of cars that had perhaps once been part of a roadblock. With a grunt Ed jogged across the open space toward the safety of the tall grass on the far side. Three houses down from the corner he checked his watch and slowed to a walk. Sweat dripped off his nose.

The squad formed up behind him, gasping and coughing. Mark vomited quietly but angrily waved off worried looks. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Ed checked to make sure everyone was caught up and looked past them. The column of smoke from the Growler no longer seemed close. He pointed at the houses to their right. The squad silently disappeared into the shadows.

On either side of the crumbling ruin of a house they swished slowly through the grass. There were fences separating many of the back yards, but most of them had been knocked down or ripped up for reasons unknown.

Behind the house they spread out and paused, watching and listening. Insects, birds, and the distant hollow hammering of a woodpecker were they only sounds they heard. Slowly and carefully they began moving southward through the backyards between two rows of houses. They crouched low, staying in the shadows and grass, peering into the houses and between them, listening. Gradually their pounding hearts slowed, and their breath came easier.

The area was either devoid of people or they’d learned long ago to stay out of sight whenever they heard gunfire nearby. Halfway down a block Ed held up a hand and the squad hunkered down. For half a minute they squatted, waiting, watching, listening, then Ed pointed at a house. The squad rose as one man and moved forward.

Ed took the left side of the house, Quentin the right, as the rest of the squad quickly entered the battered abode and checked it. After determining the perimeter was clear Ed slowly backed up to the house. Its side door was half off its hinges and he sidestepped inside.

The brick-sided bungalow was in better shape on the inside than its exterior led them to believe. Although nothing but slivers were left of its windows, and both its front and side doors had been kicked in, the interior walls and floors hardly showed any damage. It was over three-quarters of a mile from the ambush site, and looked unremarkable. It should do. Ed sent Mark to the front of the house to keep watch and Weasel to the back. After dumping their extra gear in the center of the house the two men moved out.

Jason helped a staggering George onto a chair in what had been the dining room. George fought his way out of his pack straps and slid onto his butt on the floor, chest still heaving.

“Christ I’m out of shape,” he murmured. He allowed himself another thirty seconds to recover, then took charge of inventorying their booty. He glanced around, finally deciding the kitchen, with its counters, would be the best spot. “I need a magazine count,” he announced.

Even though he knew his men had already checked it Ed crept up the stairs to the second floor and made sure it was clear. The top floor contained a master bedroom with its own bath and a tiny second bedroom hardly larger than a closet. The roof seemed to be intact, keeping the interior dry except for a leak in one corner which had soaked the mattress there, making the whole room smell of mildew. Ed peered out the windows front and back, then went back downstairs.

Mark was in the living room in the shadows six feet back from the bay window’s empty frame. The SAW was set up on its bipod next to him. Shards of glass littered the stained carpet, glinting faintly in the light. They’d all been cut by broken glass so many times it hardly seemed worth mentioning. George set an ammo can next to him just as Ed was coming down the stairs.

Mark cracked the can open and nodded. He opened the top of the SAW, then unhooked the soft-sided ammunition box from underneath the SAW’s receiver, revealing a belt of linked ammo barely six inches long. From the ammo can he pulled a fresh, gleaming belt of 200 rounds and wound it carefully into the soft-box. After reloading the light machine gun Mark pulled a second full belt of clinking ammo from the can. He sent Ed back to his pack for the spare soft-box he’d kept, never really believing he’d have the ammo necessary to fill it. He wound the second belt of ammo into the spare box.

“Got a better view out the front upstairs,” Ed told him, jerking his thumb at the ceiling. “There’s a wet mattress up there. A soaked mattress will hide you from infrared in the middle of a snowfield in January,” he said, not telling the big man anything he didn’t already know. “Pull it off the bed and set it up so you can dive under it quick if you need to.” Mark nodded and grabbed the SAW, now ten pounds heavier, with a grunt.

“Here,” George said quietly as Ed came back into the kitchen, pointing at a stack of loaded magazines. Ed counted six.

“Excellent,” he said.

“You’re going to get more, I just haven’t finished inventorying everything,” George told him pointedly. The two men looked at each other. Finally George shook his head. “Can you believe that?” he asked.

Ed shook his head and smiled. How they’d managed to not just survive but get through the incident without suffering any injuries, other than the small cut on Weasel’s forehead, was a minor miracle. He grabbed the magazines and began quickly stuffing them into the pockets of his vest.

George had the kitchen counters piled with confiscated gear. Among the many items were three old M4 carbines that had been stripped from fallen soldiers. Ed pointed at them questioningly.

“Spare parts,” George told him. “And maybe one for the kid.” Ed nodded in understanding, then his eyes shot toward the ceiling. The rest of the squad heard it too, and the rustling as they checked their gear ceased.

“Kestrel,” Mark called softly down the stairs.

The helicopter came curving in from the west, a thousand feet off the deck, the pilot aiming for the column of oily black smoke rising slowly in the afternoon air.

“That’s gotta be it,” the copilot confirmed, nodding at the smoke, after checking the GPS.

The big bird circled once high above the smoke, then dropped down low for a closer look.

“Christ,” the copilot muttered.

The pilot keyed his radio. “Hotel Four, this is Lima Eleven, over.”

“Go ahead Eleven.” The Major at the other end didn’t sound like he was expecting good news.

“Hotel, we’ve got one vehicle on fire, another stationary, surrounded by what looks like at least a dozen friendly KIA. Nothing’s moving, no sign of hostiles. It’s over, over.”

“Roger Eleven. Circle the area, see if you can spot the Tangos heading out. I’ve got Lima Twelve heading your way, ETA three, over.”

“Roger that.”

“Hotel to all air and ground assets, per protocol we will be switching to the alternate channel. I repeat, switch over to your designated alternate channel now, over.”

The pilot spoke over his shoulder. “You keep your eyes on that SAM radar. I don’t want to get a Spike up my ass.”

“I thought that was just a bullshit rumor.”

“You mean like the Gators pushing north and west far enough to hook up with the Longhorns?”

“What’s he doing?” Ed called softly upstairs.

“Circling around to the north.”

Ed nodded and went back into the dining room. Early had one of the dead soldier’s rifles and was explaining to Jason how to operate it. “I know it’s an ugly piece of shit,” he heard Early murmur, “but even John Wayne wouldn’t use a lever action in this war.”

“Who’s John Wayne?”

“Do we have satellite coverage?” the Major in charge of the air wing, such as it was, asked loudly, not turning around. The operations center behind him grew quiet.

“No,” the Sergeant tasked with knowing such things answered, after checking his watch. “We’re right near the end of a forty-two minute blackout window.” The blackout windows were getting longer and more numerous. At the start of the war they had numerous Keyhole reconnaissance satellites over the city at any one time. Now they only had coverage nine or so hours a day… spread out over twenty-four hours.

“Goddamnit,” the Major growled. His headset came to life.

“Lima Twelve is on station, over.”

“Roger Twelve. Be advised we have ground units en route, ETA six minutes, over.”

“Roger Hotel Four. Four,” the Kestrel pilot asked, “any chance we have a bird overhead that we can roll back the film on, see which direction the Tangos went? Over.”

“Negative, Twelve. Just checked on that myself. Keep an eye, over.”

“Roger, over and out.” Mike Cornwell, the pilot of Lima Twelve, switched channels to talk directly with Eleven.

“Eleven, this is Twelve, you check south at all?”

“Negative, just done circles north, over.”

Cornwell turned to his copilot. “Now, if you didn’t want us to spot you, where would you go?” He grinned.

“Got two out there now,” Mark called softly down the stairs. The first circling Kestrel had been joined by a second from the north.

“Yeah, I can hear it,” Ed murmured, mostly to himself.

“Second one’s curving off, heading this way. Dropping down.” Mark paused, and his voice got a little tight. “Coming straight in.”

George snapped his fingers loudly and started barking orders quietly. “Away from the windows. Grab the sheets but leave the rest of your shit. Basement, into the basement.” He looked at Ed. “One house or two?” He was worried about one rocket taking out the whole squad.

“One. We can double up on the heat blankets, and we’ve got a wet mattress up there in the middle of the floor that might as well be lead for as well as they can see through it.”

“Me,” Cornwell, said, as he banked the big helicopter around, “I’d head south, where no one expected me to go, and then circle around back north when they got tired of looking for me.” He lost altitude and speed. “Hit the thermal.”

“I hate this shit,” Marsh, the copilot said, flipping on the Forward-Looking Infrared. “We’re going to get a missile up our ass and there won’t be a goddamn thing I’ll be able to do about it.” Under five hundred feet the helicopter’s automatic missile defense systems just didn’t have time to react to an incoming bogie.

“If these cocksuckers had a missile Eleven’d be a smoking pile of slag,” Cornwell said. “Just ask Evancho.”

“Jesus, Mike.”

“I’ve got movement,” Mark called down, not as quietly as he should have.

“What?” Ed was watching his men scramble into the small house’s basement.

“Next street north, between the houses. Someone on foot.”

“Fuck.”

“Wasn’t in a uniform. Probably a local,” George reassured the squad leader. “Besides, Army’ll be in armor when they roll up. And numbers.”

“Shit.” But George was right. “Come on down,” Ed called to Mark. “I don’t want you spotted.” The freight-train rumble of the Kestrel was getting louder and louder.

They left most of the gear piled on the floor in the dining room and kitchen and crouched in the cool basement shadows, every man in the squad staring upward with concern. They’d pinned the heat blankets up to the two-by-twelve floor supports above their heads, overlapping them as much as they could.

“FLIR’s fucking useless this time of day,” Marsh reminded his pilot.

“It’s useless during daylight this whole time of year, but sometimes you get lucky,” Cornwell responded. He floated the Kestrel two hundred feet off the deck, running straight south at barely thirty knots. Unlike some areas of the city, most of the houses here were still standing. Roof after sun-baked roof disappeared underneath the nose of his ship as the FLIR’s computer examined the thermal images it was receiving. If any of them were identified as having human profiles an alarm would sound. At this altitude the FLIR could only scan a fifty-foot-wide section of ground, but to a certain extent it could see through walls. During wintertime the thing was absolutely amazing, but in warm weather the FLIR had definite problems. During the summer the average house absorbed so much heat most of the flight crews doubted the scanner’s brain would ever be able to identify a human silhouette amidst all the thermal clutter. The copilot stared at the murky blotches on his screen and shook his head. Waste of time.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Coming back again.”

There were muffled groans and Ed, hunkered on the basement stairs, stared upward unseeingly at the stairwell ceiling. The drywall was bubbled and stained parchment yellow. He could hear the throbbing roar as the Kestrel swung around for another pass. The chopper was running low, he could tell that just from the sheer volume of noise. Really low, and slow. The whole house had rattled on the bird’s first pass and Ed’s hair was grey from the dust that drifted down from the deteriorating drywall.

The squad below him nervously fingered their weapons in the darkness. The basement had two narrow windows near the ceiling, but the lawn outside was so overgrown hardly any light reached the cracked panes.

“I hate this shit,” Jason heard Weasel say in the dim light. He could see a faint gleam from the skinny man’s eyes as they stared upward. The small basement echoed with the sound of coughing, shuffling feet, and the clink of metal on metal. It began to grow thick with the smell of unwashed bodies.

“Is this asshole flying between the houses?” Mark said loudly, as the roar of the helicopter once again began to shake the small bungalow.

“He’s trying to draw fire,” Quentin observed.

“I’d like to oblige him.”

The clattering rumble of the helicopter came closer, and closer, and then began to fade.

“That wasn’t as close,” George said from behind Ed, crouched halfway down the basement stairs.

“No,” Ed agreed. They waited in silence as the helicopter put distance between it and the small residence, then turned and came back for another pass. This time it was obvious to every man in the squad that the helicopter wasn’t coming as near.

“Moving away,” Ed breathed in relief. He sat on the top step and stared down at George and Quentin, half in shadow at the bottom of the stairs, as the helicopter made pass after pass.

“Anybody got a cigarette?” George asked over his shoulder. That got a lot of laughs. They hadn’t seen any tobacco in months.

Weasel shuffled into view at the bottom of the stairs. “Here.” He tossed something at George, who caught it reflexively, then stared in amazement at the pack of cigarettes in his hand.

“Where the fuck did you get these?”

“Spoils of war, my man,” Weasel said. He was more excited about the three boxes of 9mm NATO ammunition he’d found inside the IMP. The 150 rounds would be enough to fill five of his MP5 magazines. He’d still have about six empties, but it was better than nothing.

“You grab any steak or chocolate while you were shopping?” Mark asked him. He hadn’t smoked in years and wasn’t about to start. Food, on the other hand….

George extracted a cigarette from the pack and stuck it between his lips, then dug around in his pockets. He finally found a battered Zippo which reluctantly ignited after half a dozen flicks. He sucked down a lungful of smoke with gusto, held it in until his face started to turn red, then blew it forcefully toward the ceiling.

“Toss me one a them.” Early’s drawl floated up from the darkness. He replaced Weasel at the bottom of the stairs.

“You smoke?” Ed asked him. Early gestured at the cigarettes in George’s hand. George tossed him the pack.

Early hefted the pack. “This ain’t smokin’,” he said derisively. He pulled one out and held it up for them to see. “But unless somebody liberated some Churchills it’ll have to do. I’d kill for a Partagas or Arturo Fuente.” He jammed it between his thin lips and handed the pack back to George. Early’s Zippo looked like it had been driven over by a tank—twice—but the flame sprung up yellow and bright with just one gentle roll of the wheel. George gave Early’s lighter a dirty look.

Ed watched the two men blissfully suck down nicotine. “You know,” Ed told them, “those things’ll kill you.” A grin he couldn’t fight split George’s face, and he shook his head. The chuckling that rolled up out of the basement warmed Ed’s heart in a way he hadn’t felt in months, perhaps years.

“Echo Two-Eight, Hotel.”

“Go ahead Two-Eight.” The Major sounded resigned to having a bad day.

“We’re rolling up, Hotel.”

“Roger, keep your eyes open.”

“Echo, this is Lima Twelve, over.”

“Go ahead Twelve.”

Cornwell watched the small column through the armored window at his feet as it wound its way through the littered streets toward the smoking Growler and stationary APC. “It’s two blocks up and on your right. You’re aiming for the smoke. I’ve got no movement and nothing on thermal. You can take that for what it’s worth. Eleven and I are on station at five hundred. Over.”

“Roger Twelve. Vehicles in sight now.”

The Captain leading the column switched his radio over to the ground channel. “Two-Four and Two-Six, take the street to the east, Two-Five and -Seven, the one to the west. We’ll roll up slowly.”

“Roger Eight.”

“Roger, breaking off now.”

The Captain watched out the slowly opening rear hatch of the IMP he and ten of his men sat in as the first two Growlers behind him peeled off to the right. The next two turned left, each vehicle loaded with five soldiers and equipped with a pedestal-mounted heavy-caliber machine gun.

The IMP rolled sedately along, the trooper manning the belt-fed grenade launcher on the roof nervously scanning the houses to either side. The two pairs of Growlers roared up the parallel streets to either side in hopes of flushing out any potential ambushers.

The Captain watched the nervous faces of the young men crowded into the personnel carrier. Barely more than kids, most of them, looking to him for reassurance and guidance. Once, he’d have been able to give it to them. Now, he wasn’t so sure. The back hatch stopped, fully descended. The soldiers nearest the hatch raised their weapons and scanned the passing houses.

“Eight, this is Four. Got nothing.”

“Seven here. Nothing moving.”

The Captain stood and shuffled up the compartment to stand next to the driver. He peered out through one of the window blocks and saw they were about a hundred yards from the ambushed patrol’s IMP.

“All right,” he called out, turning back to his men. “I want two lines, either side of the street. Keep your intervals. I’m going to keep this thing rolling for a bit. You start taking fire get your ass back in here. Move.”

As his soldiers stood and began hopping off the tailgate of the slowly moving IMP, weapons up and scanning the nearby porches, the Captain got back on the radio. “Four, Seven, you stay on your streets, opposite the smoke, and sing out if you see anything. Five and Six, roll up the south end of this street and hold up about fifty yards out. Keep a man on the gun and one behind the wheel, I want everyone else checking for survivors and hostiles.”

“Roger that.”

“Let’s hope.”

The Captain smacked the leg of the roof gunner and the man looked down through the hatch, hands tight on the grenade launcher. “We start taking fire I want you to put rounds in every fucking house you can see. There’s fifty rounds in that can and it better be empty before you get off the trigger.”

The young soldier grinned. “Yes Sir!”

The IMP rolled to within twenty yards of the idling personnel carrier without incident. The troops moved up either side of the street, moving in quick dashes from cover to cover, searching the houses and in-between them, wondering if they were next in line to be ambushed. They passed the IMP nosed into the rusting vehicle hulk, checking the street half a dozen houses past the burning Growler. By that time the Captain was out of the APC and striding forward down the middle of the street.

It was as bad as he’d feared. The street was littered with silent forms, the bodies of his men. He saw at least one man with this throat cut—the ARF was very consistent, they didn’t leave their wounded, and they didn’t take prisoners. The ambushed patrol hadn’t been under his command, directly, but every man in it had at one time or another served under him. Dead, all dead. Christ, would this war ever end?

His Lieutenant came running up to him. “Looks clear.”

The Captain nodded. “Make sure they keep their eyes open, Reed. Do a thorough check for wounded, every house and yard within a couple hundred yards from here, but I don’t think we’re going to be that lucky. And I want eyeballs on the street at either end of the engagement zone.” He pointed.

“Yes Sir.” Lieutenant Reed started barking out orders and the few soldiers still up near the houses grudgingly moved toward the street to help with the dead. They didn’t want to see the bodies, perhaps recognize someone they’d spoken to the day before, but they all knew they had a job to do.

The Captain stood near the back deck of the lost patrol’s IMP and surveyed the carnage. The Growler was still burning and probably would for hours. It was in the middle of the street and no danger to anything, so they’d let it burn. He peeked inside the IMP.

The floor was awash with blood, but the personnel carrier didn’t appear seriously damaged. He carefully stepped over the mangled body at the rear deck and checked on the driver and door gunner. No surprises. The bodies looked like they’d been hastily searched. They’d been relieved of their spare rifle mags and probably anything that either was or looked like intelligence. The IMP’s driver looked all of seventeen. The Army, which was growing increasingly short on bodies, was now drafting seventeen-year-olds, and talk was they were going to drop the age to sixteen.

“What a fucking waste,” he spat.

There’d been eighteen men in the patrol and out the back hatch of the IMP he could see a dozen or so bodies. The rest, he was sure, would be found in and around the nearby houses, shot as they’d tried to escape the killing zone. He seriously doubted whether any of the soldiers had made it out, but until the body count was in he still held some small piece of hope in his heart.

There was a big ammo box on the back hatch of the IMP, its lid cracked. The Captain frowned at it, then stepped off the deck and looked up at the roof. Yeah, that’s where it came from.

I wonder why they didn’t take it? he mused silently. He walked back to the box and flipped open the lid. There was a faint ting! and he felt something brush past his ear. He looked around, not seeing anything, knowing it hadn’t been a gunshot, then looked down into the ammo can. There was a nearly full belt of grenades filling the can, plus a thermite hand grenade someone had stuck in there against regulations. The Captain had just enough time to notice the grenade’s handle was missing before it blew and set off the whole can.

“Holy shit! What was that?” Cornwell spun Lima Twelve in a tight arc as a massive fireball bloomed near the open rear door of the disabled personnel carrier five hundred feet below him. Bodies flew through the air and the IMP jumped ten feet into the air and toppled over onto its side. The shockwave from what had to be a bomb shook the helicopter and for just a few seconds he had to fight the controls.

“Hotel! Hotel! This is Lima Eleven. We’ve got an explosion on the ground, unknown source, multiple casualties, over.”

“Roger that.”

“Was that a mortar?” Eleven asked, curving his bird away from Twelve just in case they started taking incoming fire. He scanned the horizon for missile exhaust trails. He glanced back at the carnage on the ground. “Goddammit.”

Ed was standing in the kitchen with George as the squad’s number two man sorted gear. They could feel the explosion in their feet.

“What the hell was that?” Quentin asked, sitting on the basement stairs.

“I left them a little present,” Weasel said from the basement shadows. He explained what he’d done.

“Nice,” Mark said. “You think that’d be enough to take out the IMP?”

“Sure sounded like it.” He looked at the squad leader. “Add that to the scoreboard for the inning. A Kestrel, a Growler, and an IMP. All we need now’s a Toad and we win the scavenger hunt.”

“We really ought to be further away, after that,” George said quietly to Ed. Ed nodded, but both men knew leaving the house was riskier than staying put.

George cracked an ammo can and peeked inside to make sure it was the right one, then carried it over to the top of the basement stairs. “Earl,” he called down softly. “How many mags do you have for your rifle?”

“Loaded? After this little dustup? One. Barely. Got six or seven empties on me.”

George handed the can to Quentin. It was passed down the stairs to Early, who sat against the cool basement wall to open it.

“Gonna be a pain to de-link all that, but I didn’t think you’d mind,” George called out with a smile.

Early pulled a shiny belt of ammo from the can and a big smile broke across his face. It was the real stuff, not the popgun rounds everyone else carried, and the same type of ammo he had in his rifle now, so he wouldn’t have to re-zero. “Naw, don’t think I will. Hot damn!” He preferred using a hammer to de-link, but a loose brick would do the job just fine.

“Oh. Weasel, here.” Weasel moved to the bottom of the steps and George dumped several objects into his hand. Weasel looked to see four fully-loaded pistol magazines. “Nine millimeter. That’ll fill at least a couple of your MP5 mags.” George headed back into the kitchen.

“Hell yeah. Sweetness!”

Ed chuckled and stared at the huge pile of confiscated gear still in the kitchen. “Jesus, how much did we get?”

George shook his head. “Enough to share, if we need to. Or trade. Who knows what kind of shape other squads’ll be in once they make it to the RP. Half the guys on that patrol were armed with old M4s for whatever reason. Between what I stripped off their bodies and an ammo can full of loaded mags in the IMP we’ve now got over ninety mags of five-five-six between the four of us that’re using them, if you can fucking believe it. And at least two spare canteens of water each.” He laughed and shook his head. “No food, of course. Well, three meal packs to split between seven guys. What’s that, about five hundred calories a person?”

“More like a thousand. And better than nothing.”

George shrugged noncommittally. “Thirteen hand grenades, mostly frags, plus eleven rounds for your grenade launcher. We grabbed three M4 carbines that look older than I am, but at least that means they were never fitted with chips. I’m thinking we pull the bolt carriers out of two for parts and give the third to Jason.”

Ed continued shaking his head as he stared at all the looted gear. “Jesus, we’re rich.”

Early knelt in the dim living room and helped Jason wrestle on the gear someone had stripped from a fallen soldier specifically with the young man in mind. There was a spot of blood on one strap that Jason eyed warily, but he didn’t say anything as Early helped him into the uncomfortable harness. He hated the new rifle they’d given him, it didn’t point naturally at all, but he knew he’d have to get used to it.

Early helped him stuff the pouches of the vest with magazines for the rifle and then told him to walk around so he could get used to the weight. Between the armor plates and magazines and the four full canteens it was a struggle for Jason even to get to his feet. Early hid a smile and watched the kid walk away, then turned to peer out the back windows of the house.

“Early?”

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t we take prisoners? Why were Weasel and George killing their wounded?”

Early looked and saw the teenager was seriously bothered. “Well, there’s two answers to that. First one is… where would we take them? It’s not like we’ve got a base. Or vehicles to transport them. We wander around, causing trouble, living in empty houses and borrowed basements, and then when the cold rolls in either do more of the same or we hol’ up with friends or relatives or in our own houses, far away from the trouble.”

“We could let them live, let the Army treat their injuries.”

Early nodded. “And that’s the other part of it. At the start of the war we let them be, tried to do the civilized thing. Let the Tabs recover their wounded. Not now. Not after ten years. Because they just keep coming back, like the tide. At this point we’ve all realized we’re in a war of attrition—that means neither side is going to surrender, the war only ends when one side has been ground down so much they’ve got no one left who can fight. They’ve had their chance. Any Tabs still fighting are either too mean or too stupid to know they’re on the side of evil.”

“And after the war? In any other war, you capture POWs, at the end of the war you send ‘em home. Which is somewhere else, a whole ‘nother country. Over there somewhere.” He waved his hand vaguely. “After World War II the Germans were sent back to Germany, where they could be Germans, and be nowhere near us. That’s not what this war is. The Tabs live here; win or lose, they’re not going anywhere. Even if they’re not fightin’, and we’re all peaceable and neighborly, they’ll still believe the same things that caused the war in the first place—socialism, communism, vegan grocery bags, twenty-seven genders, guns are evil, America has never been great, never hit back, government should be in charge of everything, all of it. That’s not peace or victory, that’s just a temporary ceasefire. Their beliefs aren’t just evil, they’re a poison, a cancer, a rot. Winning doesn’t just mean the war stops, we want to have a healthy country after all this.”

“It ain’t pretty, son. It ain’t even nice. Maybe it’s our own brand of evil. You don’ like it? Good. That means you’ve got a soul. But it’s the only way we not just win the war, but win the peace afterward.”

“Cap’n?” Ed turned to see Early squatting nearby. The squad leader was sitting on the floor in the kitchen, studying his map.

“Yeah Earl?”

“We spendin’ the night here?”

Ed looked out the small kitchen window, then glanced through the doorway into the dining room. Mark was up on the second floor again, and George was somewhere out behind the house keeping an eye on their back door. The rest of the squad, having received their share of the gear, had spread out through the house. Ed caught snatches of their murmuring conversations and wished they’d get some rest, but they were probably still as wired as he was. He hadn’t heard a helicopter in almost an hour, but it was far too easy for him to imagine an armored search column rolling right for them. He hadn’t been able to sleep properly since he’d put on his first plate carrier.

“Yeah. I’d like to put more distance between us and the column, but they’re going to have high-flying fixed-wings and probably a satellite or two spinning overhead all night looking for something that looks bomb-able. Or missile-able, if that’s a word. We were a little too lucky today. Twelve KIA without so much as a scratch. Well, one scratch. And who knows how many with Weasel’s little present.” Although at least one of the soldiers had been killed by the unknown sniper. Ed would like to have a talk with him. Or her, he’d known two women over the years who had racked up a lot of kills behind a scope. Sniper-initiated ambushes were actually a military tactic, except Ed didn’t like surprises. Then again, would the patrol have passed by without spotting one of his men? Maybe not. Maybe that’s why the sniper had fired.

The tanned southerner nodded, and squinted at the window. “Thought I’d head out for a bit, see if I can’t find us something to eat.” He patted the suppressed .22 pistol in the holster under his arm.

Ed chewed on his lip for a while in thought.

“We’ve been running on empty for almost a week, Cap’n,” Early said in a quiet voice. “It’s a big city. Lot a people still running around that don’t want nothin’ to do with the war. One man alone, even if they spot me from the air, ain’t gonna give ‘em much pause. I’ll leave the rifle here.”

Ed chewed his lip for another second, then nodded. He stuck a finger at Early.

“You watch yourself. For some reason you get cut off, don’t try to make it back here. You know where we’re going.” He rubbed his nose, then looked past Early. There was no one else in sight.

“Jason?” he asked pointedly.

Early looked his leader in the eye as he responded. “Boy was scared spitless, but he stood up and fought when there was fightin’ to do.” He paused. “And hit what he was aiming at, at least once. Saw that much.”

Ed sighed and looked back out the small window. He could see part of a wispy cloud scudding across the blue sky, and listened to the hum of insects on a late summer afternoon. When he looked back at Early his eyes were weary. “Do what you can to keep him safe.”

Early smiled, flashing his big white teeth. “Be back in a bit,” he said.

Jason near the back door, saw him heading out and stood up. Early waved him back. “You stay here, keep outta trouble,” he told the boy.

“Where are you going?”

“Shoppin’,” Early said with a grin. “Practice working that new rifle, shoulderin’ it and flippin’ the safety off. You don’t want to be fumblin’ with it the next time bullets are whuppin’ by your head.” He silently stepped into tall grass of the back yard, slipped between two bushes, and disappeared from sight.

Two hours later Jason was sitting with Ed and Quentin in the downstairs hallway. He was sitting there in armor, with a new rifle, surrounded by dogsoldiers, still having flashbacks of the gunfight… and even with all that, he was bored. They’d been stuck in the house for hours, and now they were going to be spending the night there. He had no cards, no book to read (he’d checked the house) and had practiced shouldering his M4 until his shoulder and hands were sore. So he sat. And thought.

“Sir?” he finally said.

Ed looked up. He’d been daydreaming. “Yeah?”

“I saw a couple of radios with those soldiers. How come we didn’t grab one, to listen in on them?” He figured there was a good reason, he just had no idea what it was.

Ed nodded. “SOP—standard operating procedure—for the Tabs, when they’ve suffered an ambush or had any other sort of incident where they think a radio might have been snagged by us, is to immediately switch channels. All those radios are encrypted, which means to even listen in on a new channel you’ve got to punch in a code. Which we don’t have.”

“And we’re not sure they can’t triangulate our position with one of those things,” Quentin added.

“They kicked our asses at the start of the war,” Ed told the young man. “We had encrypted burst transmitters, military grade, and even though they couldn’t understand what we were saying, they could triangulate our position. We ate a lot of missiles, and lost a lot of people before we figured out how they were locating us, and we figure they could do the same with one of their radios if we took it. It’s not that we don’t have more high-tech gear, we just can’t use it. We’re low tech because it keeps us alive.”

“What the hell is this?” Weasel studied the brown chunk in his hand as he chewed. “I can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a brownie or beef jerky.”

Mark had his head tilted back against the wall and rolled it over so he could see what Weasel was talking about. “I don’t know. What’s it taste like?”

The hawk-faced man chewed for a while. “Cardboard,” he concluded finally.

“Then it’s a brownie,” Mark told him. “The beef jerky tastes like dirty socks.”

“You get some?” Weasel held up what was left of the bar.

“I got an entrée, some noodle thing, and a packet of crackers. I don’t know if I want to eat it or not, I think it’ll be just enough to remind my stomach how hungry I am.”

“I hear that.”

The two men were sitting in the upstairs hallway with their backs to opposite walls. They’d tacked up the heat-reflecting sheets on the ceilings in the hallway and the front bedroom, and had the wet mildewed mattress leaning up against the wall in the hallway, just in case. They could pull it down over them in just a few seconds. Quentin’s rifle lay beside Mark. It looked small compared to the SAW, which was still set up on its bipod on a table looking down out a second-floor window. Quentin was with it, taking his turn on watch.

Mark scratched at his forearm, and Weasel’s eye was drawn to his tattoos. He squinted in the dim hallway.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Mark looked down and twisted his arm. The black and red design was now no more than an unreadable splotch. “That’s sign of a misspent youth,” he said. “Was part of a biker gang. Used to think I was tough.” He snorted. “Then I got married and had kids. Tough is getting a real job and sticking to it even if it sucks, and then working double shifts of suck, so there’ll be food on the table and money for clothes.”

“Kids? I thought you just had one.”

Mark stared down at his tattoo, then rubbed a hand self-consciously over the artwork. “I had two boys, teenagers. Toby got killed in the riots. Still not sure what happened. My wife left with the younger to live with her sister until ‘all the craziness stopped.’ That’s how she put it. That was years ago.”

“How are they doing?”

Mark shook his head. “Haven’t spoken to them since November. Fine, then.”

The two men sat in silence for several minutes. Somewhere outside they could hear a blue jay protesting loudly. “I don’t have anybody. Not any more,” Weasel said after a while, looking up at Mark. Mark returned his gaze but didn’t say anything. “I… I don’t know if that’s better or not,” Weasel finally finished.

Mark didn’t answer him, and both men stared at the floor, alone with their thoughts.

“I remember when I used to run five miles for fun,” Parker gasped, the sweat streaming down his face. He looked at the readout on the treadmill as he cooled down after his workout. Three miles, at ten minutes a mile. Pathetic. But still better than not jogging. And he hadn’t thrown up, so there was that.

Lydia was on the treadmill next to him and she’d kept up with him effortlessly. Well, maybe not effortlessly, but she wasn’t gasping, and she wasn’t sweating as much as she was glistening. She gave him a smile, and her big white teeth were brilliant.

“It’s not like you’ve been sitting on your ass watching TV and eating Cheetos, General,” she told him. He gave her a small smile. She’d been telling him almost since they’d met that he should be a General, with all the responsibilities he had, and she liked calling him that when no one else was close enough to hear.

“Still,” he said. He glanced around. He had a four-man security detail—one man by the front door of the big gym, the only formal gym in the Blue Zone, one by the back near the locker room, one about twenty feet away trying to be inconspicuous, and one waiting in the Growler outside. She was the reason he’d started working out again, after however many years it had been. She was younger than him by five years, but looked at least ten years his junior. In her white athletic top and black yoga pants she looked simply fabulous, and he didn’t think she was wearing anything under those pants. Oof. If he ever met the man who had somehow convinced women everywhere yoga pants weren’t lingerie and were acceptable to wear in public he’d put him in for a Presidential Medal of Freedom.

She noticed him checking out her ass, which he did frequently. “You want to do another mile? Looks like you’ve still got some energy.”

“No, please, I surrender. You win. Let’s hit the showers, then maybe we can walk down Grand and grab a cup of coffee? I don’t have time to do much more than that today.” Coffee was too damn expensive to splurge on a cup just for himself, but he’d happily spend the money on her.

“Absolutely.” Him ending up behind her as they walked toward the locker rooms was no accident.

He’d never been with an African-American woman before, and he’d treaded very carefully, doing his best to make sure he never said or did anything that could be construed as offensive, sexist, culturally insensitive or, God forbid, racist. Until she’d made it clear that she had no time for the political correctness that seemed to be strangling the officer corps of the military.

“Of course this skirt looks good on me!” she’d told him after he’d given her a vague compliment on her outfit prior to them heading out to dinner on their third or fourth date. “I’ve got a black girl’s ass. And it’s a good thing, too, since I’m a black girl. Wouldn’t be right to have some flat-as-a-board white girl’s butt, I’d have to go around calling myself Britney or Karen and talk about Starbucks and soccer or whatever.” If he remembered correctly, it was that night after the dinner and wine they’d first had sex. And he’d quickly learned she was completely unconcerned with gender pronouns or racial stereotypes when they were behind closed doors and naked.

Twenty-five minutes later they were walking up 2nd Avenue toward West Grand. The huge 15-story Cadillac Place office complex was on their right, and the massive 30-story tower of the art deco Fisher Building was directly in front of them. Two of the men followed behind them in the Growler, while one was on foot in front and behind. There were a few people walking on the sidewalks in the warm afternoon sun, and the occasional vehicle, making this part of the city appear almost normal.

Directly across from them was the front entrance to the Fisher Building. The façade was three stylish stories of glass panes with gold lattice figurines just above the doors and black stone ravens on the exterior columns. The massive edifice was on the National Register of Historic Places and had somehow, so far, come through the war unscathed. Parker didn’t feel like walking a block to the nearest pedestrian walkway over the street, so he waved the Growler forward and had it block traffic as he and Lydia walked across West Grand. It was three eastbound and three westbound lanes separated by a grassy boulevard dotted with low trees.

Foot traffic passed in both directions, and there was actual vehicular traffic as well, personal vehicles as well as delivery trucks. West Grand was perhaps the busiest street in the city during business hours as so many corporations and city departments had their offices in nearby buildings. There were regular foot patrols in the area, to keep the civilians feeling happy and secure, as well as a few static posts that were more for visibility than function.

Compared to anywhere else in the city the foot and vehicular traffic made it seem like rush hour in Manhattan, but he’d heard from locals that even this relatively bustling area of the city was but a shadow of its former self. The Cadillac Place office building was mostly empty; the same was true of the Fisher Building, New Center One next to it… in fact, that could be said of most of the Blue Zone. Even with the military protection, being inside a war zone was hard on people and business. War was hard on people and business.

Like many skyscrapers and high-rises the footprint of the Fisher Building was actually rather small. It’s 100,000 square feet of space was due to it rising thirty stories above the street, and one story below.

As the local combined TV and radio station broadcast out of the building the military treated it like a potential terrorist target, even though there’d never even been unsubstantiated threats against the facility. Nevertheless there were jersey barriers and dragon’s teeth in front of all four entrances, north, south, east, and west, and there was usually a manned Growler or IMP parked in front of the Fisher, or nearby.

Parker led Lydia between two of the concrete barriers and then held the door open for her. He nodded at the men in the Growler parked at the curb about fifty feet away. The three-story lobby of the building was just amazing, and had won a number of awards when it had been constructed over a century before. The vaulted ceiling was richly decorated and he’d once heard they’d used forty different kinds of marble. The lobby walls and hallway ceilings were covered with artwork including eight-foot-tall tile mosaics. Parker spotted two additional soldiers loitering at the security desk near the entrance. They straightened up when they saw him, and saluted. He nodded as he and Lydia walked by.

The independently-owned coffee shop was deep inside the building, and even with the outrageous prices did a steady business, as it was one of the few places inside the city to find coffee. Still, Parker winced inwardly at the near fifty-dollar bill for two large cups of the stuff. Just one more reason to hate capitalism.

They were standing in the grandiose lobby talking and laughing and sipping at their black gold when Parker’s encrypted military satellite phone rang. He frowned. The phone never rang with good news.

“Sorry, I’ve got to take this,” he told Lydia, digging it out.

“Sure, no problem,” she told him, watching him over her cup as she took a sip.

“Parker.”

“Sir, it’s Chamberlain.”

“Yes Major?” Mike Chamberlain was his S3, in charge of Operations.

“We’ve had an incident I think you should be aware of.”

Parker took a deep breath, glanced at Lydia, and said, “What kind of incident?”

“We had a patrol ambushed on the west side of the city not quite an hour ago. When the QRF arrived on scene, apparently… well, there appears to have been a bomb, or a booby-trap, we’re not quite sure exactly what it was…”

“How bad?” Parker asked, a leaden feeling pulling at him.

“Fourteen KIA, six wounded. At least two missing. And we lost a Growler and an IMP. If there were any EKIA they took them with.”

“Goddammit.”

“Yes sir. We’re still searching the area. Sir, I’m beginning to think this isn’t random. Maybe ARF is making a move. The Kestrel a few days ago, which took out an entire squad of terrorists, but we’re thinking another squad got away. Those two dust-ups just south of the city yesterday, the one patrol taking fire and that truck running the checkpoint for no apparent reason. Whatever the hell happened at that apartment building tower the other night, which might have just been crazies, but maybe not. This ambush. I don’t know if I’m seeing a pattern, but it’s definitely unusually high activity. I’ve started plotting everything that’s happened in the last week on a map, and I’d like you to take a look at it. And the S2.”

“I’ll be over in about fifteen minutes, I’m off base right now.” He looked at Lydia and shrugged apologetically as he disconnected the call. “I’ve got to head out.”

She nodded. “I heard.” In fact, she’d been able to hear most of the other end of the conversation, he always had his phone’s speaker turned up to max volume. Hearing loss from a firefight when he was a Captain, he’d told her. She kissed Parker on the cheek. “Go on, get to work, do Army stuff. I’ll talk to you later.”

He headed toward the front door with his two soldiers, their boots echoing off the marble, and she watched him go, sipping at the coffee.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Early returned not quite two hours later with two squirrels, a pigeon, and the cargo pockets of his trousers stuffed with red-orange daylily blossoms. The men had learned the tender flower petals were very mild, with a faint mushroomy aftertaste.

Early and Weasel built a small fire about a hundred feet from the house they were using as overnight shelter. The fire was between two ramshackle homes very close together, barely six feet separating their burgundy brick walls. The space between the houses was entirely in shadow and cool; it felt like a tunnel. The walls seemed to lean in. Aircraft would need to be directly overhead to even spot the fire or the heat it was giving off. And then they’d only see the silhouettes of two men.

“A wild game dinner after a snack of military munchies?” George said to Ed as the two men pored over the map spread out on the kitchen table. “I’m going to get fat.” Just about everyone in the squad had their own map, but Ed’s was the only sample that had been laminated. Ed snorted.

“What are we, about three miles from the general store?” George put his fingertip on the laminated surface.

“Straight line. If it’s still open for business. And about the same distance to Uncle Charlie’s rendezvous point, but I don’t want to head there. Not yet. We’re not due for days, and I don’t want to draw any unwanted attention to the area. Presuming nothing untoward happens tonight, we can head out in the morning, very slow and careful. Shouldn’t take too long to get to the store.” Ed frowned. “I want everyone spread out when we go. I mean really spread out, fifty foot intervals or more, so that if anyone gets spotted they’ll look like they’re alone, at least at first. I don’t know if they’ll have high altitude drones up or satellites, but we hurt them bad today, and they’re going to want payback.”

“It’s weird,” Jason said to Early, hefting his new rifle. Early had shown him how to disassemble it for cleaning and watched him put it back together. “You just look through the tube, and where the red dot is, that’s where the bullet hits?”

Early nodded. “Provided its zeroed. Lot easier than the iron sights you’ve been using. That’s why everyone’s gun has them.” They were sitting in a downstairs hallway, facing each other, backs against the wet plaster walls.

“Yours doesn’t.”

“My M1A is very old school. But unlike your lever gun it’s a semi-auto, holds twenty rounds and is quick to reload, and hits harder than anything anybody else here is carrying except Quentin’s sawed-off shotgun, and that’s an across-the-street gun at best. Although it’s actually for drones.”

Early stared down at the scarred wood stock of his rifle. He’d been carrying it since the start of the war. He’d owned it for twenty years before the war had ever started. It was long, heavy, and recoiled quite a bit, but he knew it like a part of his body. It had saved his life more times than he could count. And with it he’d taken more lives than he cared to remember. He sighed, and looked up. Jason saw the look on his face and couldn’t read it.

“You okay?” Jason asked.

Early shook his head. “You’re too young, you probably can’t even remember what the country was like before the dang war. How much things had changed ‘fore the war ever started. How bad, how crazy it had gotten. Hell, that’s why the war popped off.” He leaned his head back against the wall and spoke to the ceiling. “Most people jes’ want to be left alone to live their normal, peaceful, boring lives. Even in a war zone. Eat, sleep, work, screw, repeat. Only three percent of the population actually fought in the American Revolution. But, see, the thing is, three percent of a population is jes’ a huge number when you get down to it. Bigger than just about any peacetime army in the world. When push finally came to shootin’ this time around, after so many years of bad and crazy, the guv’mint was shocked at just how many people was willin’ to boogaloo.” He lowered his gaze and stared at the boy. “Cain’t say I was.”

Jason didn’t know what to say to that. He looked down at his new gun. “It’s ugly.”

“It sure is,” Early agreed. “But it’ll help keep you alive. Remember, though, it won’t go through their armor plates any better than your lever action did. You’ve gotta aim for everything but the plate. Which, when the fur’s flyin’, ain’t so easy to do.” He peered at the boy. “But it ain’t nuthin you haven’t done already. You did a fine job. However, what you’ve got there is an honest-to-God military M4, which means it’s select fire. Hand it here.” Jason did. Early double-checked to make sure the rifle was empty, then turned it so Jason could see the controls. “This is the safety. One click down, like this, and you’re good to go. Semi-auto, one bang per pull of the trigger. Push the selector all the way forward, and you’re in full-auto. Dump that whole thirty-round magazine in two seconds. You don’t want that, you won’t hit anything, and you’ll be out of ammo standin’ there with a stupid look on yer face.”

“Weasel’s MP5 is full auto.”

“And that boy is a tear-ass helluva shot, but even he gets a little trigger happy with his bullet hose sometimes. You, you stay on semi-auto, I’m only showing you the selector so that if you happen to get excited and push the switch too far forward, now you’ll know what you did, and that you need to move the switch back. Got me?”

“Yeah.” Jason still felt like throwing up at the thought of the gunfight. How scared he’d been. All the torn bodies, the blood… but instead he swallowed, and nodded. “I thought we couldn’t use their rifles. That they were a different caliber, and had tracking chips in them.”

“Not these, not the M4s. The new ones, with the molded plastic chassis with the built-in camo pattern.” Early frowned. A number of the soldiers they’d killed, maybe as many as a third, had been carrying older M4s, not the new modern M5 with the high-pressure cartridge. He’d thought the M4s had been completely mothballed. He wasn’t sure what that meant, if anything. And why the fuck were they toolin’ around the city in a Growler convertible?

There’d been Kestrels in the air most of the night, using their FLIR to scan houses, but the squad was far too experienced to be caught like that. They heard Growlers once, but they were no closer than a quarter mile away.

There was a rotating two-man watch throughout the night, and everyone else got what rest they could in the basement of the house underneath the heat-reflective sheeting. Most everyone was awakened by the dawn, but in a city filled with people who, for the most part, had nowhere to go and nothing to do, men on the move at six a.m. by itself was enough to draw attention. Ed’s plan was to wait until eight a.m. or so and have the squad begin slipping out in ones and twos, spread far apart, rifles held vertically alongside their bodies at first to confuse any airborne cameras. Everyone knew the basic route down to the general store, and if they got separated there was a rendezvous point a little more than halfway there.

However, not long after dawn they began hearing Kestrels. While none of them flew directly over the house, they were close, and appeared to be hunting. An hour after the first Kestrel made itself known they heard a Growler, then several more. The sound of their engines would fade. There would be quiet for fifteen or thirty minutes, sometimes even an hour, then the faint sound of one of their engines would drift back to the house. Then men hunkered in the basement, impatient.

“They still looking for us?” Weasel said incredulously. He checked his watch. Just after one p.m.

“We hurt ‘em bad,” Mark reminded him.

“What else do they have to do?” Quentin grumbled.

“This is why we left so early for such a short trip,” Ed said pointedly to Weasel. “Were you with us when we got stuck in that half-collapsed basement for two days?”

“Yeah.”

“We were standing in six inches of freezing water the whole time. Half of us got hypothermia.” He waved a hand around the dim basement. It stunk of unwashed men, but it was dry and significantly cooler than being outside. “This is like the Ritz Carlton compared to that.”

Not quite three hours later they heard distant gunfire. A lot of it. Semi-auto rifle fire, and answering full auto fire from what sounded like heavy weapons, and explosions, a lot of them. George went up to the second floor and listened for a while, then came back down to the basement.

“Sounds like it’s directly east of us. A mile, maybe more.”

“Another squad of dogsoldiers?” Ed asked him. “That sounded like someone letting loose with a Mark 19.” George just shrugged. There was no way to know. Being compartmentalized meant they rarely knew where any other squad was, much less what they were doing.

“Whoever it is, they’re burning through a lot of ammo,”

“If they’re still shooting. Wouldn’t be surprised if the Tabs were shooting at each other while the lil’ doggies crept away,” Early opined. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. The ARF had observed there were many more young and inexperienced soldiers in the Army than in the ranks of the Irregulars. Which was just fine with them.

The gunfire tapered off to single rounds, then there was a final explosion. Five minutes later a Kestrel roared over their house, heading toward the sound of the firefight, so low and close dust came down off the walls.

“We’re staying the night,” Ed announced, staring up at the ceiling, making a decision. His pronouncement was greeted with a few groans, but that was it. They’d long ago learned the value of discretion. Quentin moved to the small battered table in the basement and began fieldstripping his rifle for cleaning. The squad members, at various times throughout the day, had taken the opportunity to clean and lube their rifles.

Ed sat down beside George and started massaging his aching calves. He couldn’t remember what it was like to have legs and feet that didn’t hurt. Add his back to that list, too.

“I never asked, where’d you get your rifle?” George asked him.

Ed looked down at the rifle, then at George. “Why?”

George frowned, then he got it. “Oh, you’re not a gun guy, are you.”

“All I know about guns is on the job training.”

Unlike a surprisingly large chunk of the dogsoldiers George knew a lot about guns, and he was aware of how things had changed. At the start of the war he’d seen AKs in the hands of more than a few doggies. And ARs chambered in .300 Blackout. Not any more. It wasn’t that the guns wouldn’t run, it was that they couldn’t find any ammo for them. Also, the cheap ARs, the ones which didn’t have pinned gas blocks, generally hadn’t lasted more than a year or two. And, while everyone was running an optic of some sort, usually a battery-powered red dot, a decade of civil war had been quite a ‘survival of the fittest’ petri dish for them. Only the exquisitely tough sights, and those that didn’t chew through batteries quickly, had survived to make it this far.

Another thing that had changed—at the start of the war a lot of the dogsoldier squads had been absolute shitshows. Perhaps only a quarter of the all-volunteer force initially had military experience. Which wasn’t horrible, but many of those who didn’t were also idiots and/or strangers to common sense. The first year of the war had seen a lot of attrition. That was always the case with war, though—combat thinned the ranks, and those left tended to be lucky, or good, or usually a bit of both. Now, after a decade of war, the veterans were solid, and even the new generation of fighters coming into the conflict—like Jason—were tougher than their predecessors. They’d been living with the war, and wartime deprivations, for so long most of them couldn’t remember what life had been like before.

George gestured at the rifle in Ed’s lap, which had been spray-painted a tan camo pattern at one point. Now, years later, half the paint had worn off, but the end result provided just as much of a disruptive pattern. “That’s a Geissele. Doesn’t look nearly as fancy as a lot of things out there, but it’s fancy on the inside, where it counts.”

Ed looked down at the gun. “I’ve had it for years. Took it off a soldier in Cleveland.”

George looked at his squad leader in surprise. “You fought in Cleveland? I thought you were only ever local.”

“I started the war here. After a year or so they asked for volunteers, there was going to be a push in Cleveland. I did three, four months there, just brutal fighting. Then the Tabs brought in shit-tons of armor, Toads and IMPs and everything else, and we had to back out, gave the city over to them. Still pissed about that.” He stared down at the rifle, remembering.

“Did a lot more night ops back then. Actually had batteries for our goggles, and there were so many people still living in the city their drones and FLIR were kinda useless. One night our squad went out on patrol, trying to stir stuff up, make something happen, without much luck. ‘Movement to contact’, I believe the military guys called it. We were heading back to our hidey hole when we hear something. We duck and three pickups go sliding by us, quiet as ghosts. I actually heard their tires on the pavement, not their engines, I think they were electric. Maybe hydrogen. Spooky as hell. They rolled up and stopped a block from where we were pretty sure another squad was hiding out. They bail out of their vehicles and start moving up. They had eight guys, and we were just four, but we hit them from the rear, by surprise. Still, it was close, we lost a guy and all of us were injured. Those guys were good.” He hefted the rifle on his lap. “They were all carrying these, and it was a hell of a lot nicer than my rifle at the time, so I took it. All their gear was top notch.”

George grunted. He knew for a fact the only Army troops who ever carried Geissele rifles into combat were Special Forces, but he wasn’t sure if he should tell Ed that. You didn’t need a fancy gun to get into this war, George knew, plenty of people had gone up against the agents of the state using rusty shotguns and Hi-Point pistol caliber carbines. Hell, at the beginning of the war, he’d heard a few local federal agents had been killed by a very talented and motivated individual with a compound bow. Arrows went right through soft body armor designed to stop pistol bullets.

“Then I get back here,” Ed said, shaking his head, “and I find Canadians working the roadblocks and patrolling the city. Canadians.”

“Oh, that ‘International Peacekeeping Force’? That didn’t last long.”

Mark, listening in, chuckled. “I guess they thought nobody would shoot at them. Who doesn’t love Canadians? Man, were they wrong. I almost felt bad for them. They lost a lot of people before they pulled out. Decided it wasn’t their fight.”

“Problem was,” George observed, “they were backing the wrong horse. Because they’re socialists, or at least their government is.”

Ed made a face at the memory, but George was right.

“Canadians are subjects, not citizens, and they’ve bent over and taken it from their government for years,” Weasel’s bitter voice floated out of the gloom, the words spat with venom. “Should have followed our example, fought for their freedom, but instead they’ve spent the last decade sitting on their asses, when they weren’t here helping the Tabs out. So fuck those guys. Fucking socialists. You know the difference between a socialist and a communist? It’s the difference between a whore who spits versus swallows. She’s still a whore, she just has commitment issues. Socialists are communists, and communists aren’t people.”

Ed and George traded a look. If nothing else, Weasel was very consistent.

“All that hate’s gonna burn you up, kid,” George called out to him, a smile on his face.

“It keeps me warm,” Weasel shot back.

Since George was being talkative, and they weren’t going anywhere for a while… “How’d you get the nickname ‘Bodycount’?” Ed asked him.

George took so long to respond that Ed thought he wasn’t going to. Then, finally, he spoke.

“You don’t want to hear that story,” George said flatly. Ed just stared at him with his typical reasonable patient face until, finally, George sighed. “You know I was a cop, right? Back when the world was sane. Downriver. Small department. Lower-middle-class suburb. I was a Sergeant, I was the Rangemaster, I was the head of the SWAT team, I had a lot of hats. I was also a pretty avid competition shooter. For a cop I was a really good shot. Compared to the guys I competed against I wasn’t that good, but they were really really good. Most cops, much as it pains me to say it, are not very good shots. It’s not that important to them. The gun is as much a sign of the office or their power as it is anything else, they figure that might makes right, just the fact they have a gun is enough, and most of the time they’re correct.” Ed kept his eyes on George but he could sense the other members of the squad within earshot listening as well. This was the most talking anyone had heard out of the man.

“So, anyway,” George said slowly, apparently in no hurry to get to what pained him in the story, “because we were a small department our SWAT team was only a part-time gig. We trained with a lot of other small local departments and were in fact part of a multi-jurisdictional task force that rolled out on big incidents. Barricaded gunmen, bank robberies, that kind of thing.” He waved his hand vaguely. “Things had been going downhill for a while, inflation, protests, riots, shootings, but we still hadn’t seen much of it, most of it was taking place in the big cities. We only saw it on the news. But still, it was a lot crazier than what anybody had seen before and a lot of people were bugging out of town. We had a lot of officers calling off with the blue flu. Lot of outrage about civil liberties being violated, but that seemed to be all on the federal side, we just kept trying to do our jobs, traffic, domestics, whatever. One day my Chief gets a call from the feds, they’re asking if the SWAT team can assist them in serving a search warrant. All they would need us to do is provide perimeter security, they’d be the ones actually going in and searching the premises. Nothing we hadn’t done before, so how could you say no to a friendly request like that? Brothers in blue, right?” He shook his head.

“There ended up being six of us on site from the multi-jurisdictional SWAT team, two each from three departments. I actually had the most seniority and experience of anybody there, so I took informal command. I set up in an overwatch position to the rear of the property with Greek, who was my spotter. Nobody could actually pronounce his last name, there was a lot of apa-papa-lapadopoulos’ in there. The property was just a medium-sized residential house on a big couple-acre lot halfway between the neighborhoods and cow country. It was technically inside our city limits but I’d never rolled out on the address before. That should have been my first clue.” He sighed and paused for a while.

“Anyway, there were six feds all done up in tactical raid gear, and our ‘perimeter security only’ role didn’t last five minutes. Then two of our SWAT team guys are with them going through the door for additional manpower, and the other two are set up in an overwatch position covering the entry. I hear the call over the radio, they’re going in. I’m about a hundred yards out so I can barely hear the shouting, but then the shooting starts and everybody’s talking all over themselves on the radio and I can’t understand shit. Suddenly a suspect comes running out of the back of the house with an AR-15.” He glanced at Ed. “I don’t know if you know much about police work outside of watching TV, but running into bad guys, actual criminals with actual guns, much less ARs, is pretty damn rare and it freezes your blood cold. Mostly who cops deal with are idiots and assholes, not actual bad guys, with or without guns. So I took the shot.” He sighed and shook his head. “Technically, it was a good shot, and a good shooting. Person was running at an angle about eighty yards from me, so I had to figure the lead on the fly, and the bullet hit exactly where I wanted it to go. She was dead before she hit the ground.”

“She?” Ed said.

George looked at him, his face gray and stony. “Yeah,” he said curtly, “she. Now, she wasn’t the first person I’d ever killed. When I was practically still a rookie, barely two years on the job, I had to shoot a guy in a domestic. He’d been beating on his wife and when we showed up he came at us with a baseball bat. If I hadn’t shot him he would’ve laid that bat across my partner’s skull. But at the time of this raid, I was the only person on our department in fourteen years who’d actually ever killed someone on duty. Most small departments, it’s like that. We only had one, maybe two murders a year, and they weren’t big mysteries, half the time the person who did it was standing over the body when we rolled up. So me shooting somebody, much less someone who looked like a teenage girl, with a black rifle in her hands, was quite something. For me, and for our department.”

“I get my partner to stand watch over the body and go inside to find out what the fuck happened on this supposed ‘no big deal’ search warrant—” at which point George interrupted himself. “I guess I should have known it was more than just a simple search warrant if they had twelve guys including a loaner SWAT team working the house. But anyway, I go in there and talk to the lead fed, and they’re all standing around the homeowner who’s DRT on the floor in the front room with a pistol near his hand. So they killed the dad and I killed the daughter, and I still don’t know why the hell we were even there because all my Captain told us was we’d be assisting feds on a search warrant and that it was no big deal.”

George flexed his hands, obviously upset at the memory. “So I’m hot, you know I’ve got a temper, and I get all in the feds’ face wondering just what kind of shit they dragged us into and what the hell the search warrant was about because the girl, she was blond and turned out to only be 22 years old, and the homeowner, he looked like an accountant. A lot like you,” George said glancing at Ed. “No offense.” Ed just shrugged

“Turns out,” George growled through clenched teeth, “they didn’t even have a search warrant. They were hitting the house using the blanket protection of the federal martial law which had just gone into effect. I mean, the President had declared a National Emergency eight months earlier because of the civil unrest and halted all gun and ammo sales and assemblies of more than ten people, and everyone was still in an uproar over that. Then he doubles down with martial law, including a total gun ban and curfews and warrantless arrests and a dozen other things nobody could quite believe were real? It was crazy, you remember, nobody knew what to think or even, for sure, what the new rules were. And yet there we were, hitting the house like a platoon of Rangers because the homeowner owned several firearms including handguns and an ‘assault rifle’ and they had no record of him turning them in, even though the deadline to do so was barely a day past.”

“They suckered you into helping out on a gun raid?”

“Yeah,” George said, practically spitting. “And I know they didn’t tell my Chief the truth, or at least tell us the whole truth, but because if they had, there’s no way we would have helped out on a raid to confiscate guns. We kinda knew those were going on but most of our guys weren’t about to do that, for a lot of different reasons, and my Chief had no interest in risking our lives on something he viewed as illegal and unconstitutional. So I keep talking to the feds hoping to find out something that would ease my conscience, you know, that it’s not really just about the guns, that the guy is a serial killer or a pedophile or bank robber or making meth in the basement or something. But no. The guy had no criminal record. Didn’t even have a fucking parking ticket to his name. The only reason they were there was because of the guns. For that they kicked down his door, and with what I know now I’m not convinced they even properly identified themselves as police. He came running up with a gun in his hand and they downed him. Shit, for all I know they shot him down and planted the gun, wouldn’t surprise me after all I’ve seen now. Daughter saw it and went running out the back, which they were supposed to have covered before they went in the front but didn’t, and I shot her. Maybe she didn’t even know it was cops busting down her door, maybe she thought they were home invaders and she died not knowing it was her own government doing this to her.”

George looked at Ed, and it was the closest Ed had ever seen him to crying. The sadness in his eyes was palpable. “And they had a whole list,” he told Ed, his voice cracking. “I saw it. It had to have forty, maybe fifty names on it. That was their sole assignment for that week, heck maybe that month, they were just going house-to-house knocking down doors, seizing guns that had been bought legally, and arresting anybody there. And probably shooting a bunch more people,” he added. “They didn’t seem to care whatsoever that they’d just killed a man who’d honestly done nothing wrong other than not turn in guns the government decided were now bad and who ran up when he heard his front door getting kicked in. In fact, the way they were talking, they were looking forward to killing more guys like him. I’ve known a number of cops like them, that if it’s legal that meant, to them, it was right, and they never gave any thought to the idea that just ‘cause they can doesn’t mean they should. The type of guys who never consider the fact that some laws are not just stupid but wrong, and these feds were that times ten. These guys were just ecstatic about their new freedom and power to do damn near whatever they wanted. Might makes right,” he said again.

George didn’t say anything else for so long that Ed thought perhaps maybe he couldn’t finish his story, maybe the memories were too much for him. It was the most emotion Ed head ever seen the man display.

“So I killed them,” George said finally. “Those six federal agents. Right where they stood. Because…” He shook his head. “They were just going to keep doing what they were doing. And it was wrong. Hell, it was evil, even if it was technically legal. And… because they’d made me complicit in what they were doing. Made me kill a young lady who’d never done anything wrong. Before it was over they’d probably kill a lot more innocent people. Or get other cops, like me, to do their dirty work for them. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“Six. How’d you manage that?” Ed asked softly.

George shrugged. “You’re not a gun guy, or a competition shooter. If you were, me saying that on a good day I could run a plate rack in three seconds might mean something. That’s six six-inch metal plates, seven yards away. Think six headshots. These guys weren’t seven yards away, they were seven feet away, and not expecting it. The other guys on the SWAT team lost their minds and would have arrested me reflexively if I’d given them a chance, but the muzzle of a smoking gun in your face tends to reorient your priorities. I zip-tied them, and I walked away. Walked away from the scene, walked away from the job, walked away from my whole life.”

“Family?” Ed asked. Ed had never inquired about George’s personal situation.

“Daughter,” George said. “And an ex-wife. They were living down in Florida, I was pretty much estranged from both of them. Haven’t talked to either in forever. Since the war broke out. Which happened not too long after that.”

“You didn’t know,” Ed said to his number two about the woman he’d killed.

“I should have, though,” George said. “I should have asked questions instead of just blindly following along.” He looked at Ed and said simply, “And I’ve been trying to make up for it ever since. But no matter what I do, how many of them I kill, it doesn’t bring her back.”

Major Phillip Abraham Stein, commander of Wolverine—Phil-A to a lot of his friends, and Chick to everyone else—listened to the man breathing. His breath was chugging in and out, slow, uneven, wet, syrupy. Bubbling? No, closer to burbling, like one of those picturesque streams out in the woods somewhere, happily bouncing over stones and through fallen branches. Except, of course, that it wasn’t a stream, it was a human being in a lot of pain struggling to pull air into his lungs. Which still wouldn’t have been great cause for concern, in a war zone a lot of horrible things happened, people died every day, except that, in this particular case, all those troublesome sounds were coming out of his own mouth.

His squad had been heading south-southwest, carefully, slowly, doing everything they could to not get spotted by anyone, as instructed, when they heard one hell of a firefight half, maybe three-quarters of a mile ahead of them. They immediately took a left turn and headed east, trying to put some distance between them and whoever and whatever the hell was going on over there. The firefight hadn’t gone on very long, but it had been fierce while it lasted, with a couple of explosions that sounded like grenades. Before long he’d spotted a fresh column of black smoke, probably marking the spot where whatever had happened, happened.

Ten minutes later Potter, his #2, had recommended they get under cover, because you just knew a gunfight that big was going to draw a lot of attention. He’d been right, as usual—they’d barely gone to ground inside a half-collapsed small commercial building when the first Kestrel had roared overhead.

Whatever had happened it seemed to have seriously upset the Tabs, because between the incessant circling helicopters and the rumble of patrolling Growlers, Wolverine only made it another block east before giving up on any further movement that day. They overnighted in a big two-story house that three generations earlier had probably been very nice—now they were happy that the roof only leaked a little, and nothing inside the house had been set on fire by recreational arsonists.

The next day hadn’t been much better. Birds back and forth overhead for most of the morning and into the afternoon. The occasional distant sound of a vehicle, no doubt military. “Whatever happened, the Tabs are pissed,” Brown observed, staring up at the ceiling.

Finally, as the sun was heading west, the activity died down. They hadn’t heard a wheeled vehicle in hours, and the closest aircraft had been well over a mile away. Chick had been itching to put more distance between them and that firefight, as well as move further southward toward their objective, even though they had all the time in the world to get there.

They moved out slowly, carefully, walking through the back yards of the decrepit homes, finding their way to a gravel alley that ran behind the detached garages to the rear of the houses. With all the trees and bushes gone wild they felt invisible as they walked down either side of the narrow alley.

Near the end of the block Chick stopped and held up a hand. He’d heard something, a whimpering scramble that sounded like an injured dog. He and Brown rounded the corner of the last house together and saw two men behind a low commercial building. One of the men was standing, the other was atop a very skinny naked black woman. Even though she looked about twelve Chick thought for a second the act might have been consensual, or perhaps a business transaction—he’d seen a lot worse things during his time as a dogsoldier—then he saw the revolver in the hand of the man watching, and the knife in the hand of the man atop the girl. And her terrified angry face.

“Hey, fuckers!” he shouted reflexively.

The standing man turned, the revolver started to come up, and Brown put three bullets through the man’s chest with his AK-V.

“Don’t you do it!” the man atop the girl said, pressing the knife to her throat and staring at them with wild eyes. “Don’t you fucking do it! I’ll—” The bullet from Chick’s Daniel Defense Mk18 hit him just below the bridge of his nose and the man fell backwards off the girl, the back half of his head gone. She screamed reflexively and scrabbled backward from the dead body.

“You okay? Where are your clothes?” Chick asked her, gun down and hands up soothingly. He didn’t approach her, the knife had fallen out of the dead man’s hand and was right beside her hip.

“Shit, I don’t know. They cut ‘em,” she said, sobbing. But she wasn’t just sad, she was angry, too, which he was glad to see.

“I think we might be able to find something for you to wear,” Chick said.

Potter had an old button-down shirt in his pack that was long enough on her to cover the essentials, but she still took the holey t-shirt offered by Fine and wrapped it around her waist for an additional layer of psychological protection.

“We need to di-di,” Brown said.

“Yeah, I know,” Chick agreed. They were too exposed there, and hadn’t moved after shooting. “You got someplace to go?” he asked the girl, as he walked around the corner of the commercial building to take a peek at the area. There, less than a hundred yards away, were an IMP and two Growlers who’d heard the gunshots and were creeping in as quietly as they could.

“Contact! Displace!” he screamed, and then the roof gunner on the IMP let loose with the full-auto grenade launcher, and the one atop the Growler joined in with his belt-fed M240B.

The girl and maybe half the men of Wolverine died where they stood, before they even had a chance to fight back, shredded by the bullets and grenades landing between the buildings. Chick found himself with Potter and Brown in a fighting retreat through backyards, using houses as cover, as the vehicles surged forward, trying to encircle them. A long burst of machine gun fire slipped between houses and took Brown down as he hopped a fence right behind Chick.

Now Chick stared down at himself. The syrupy breathing was problematic but he was sitting upright, so at least there was that. Of course, he couldn’t really move his left arm, and his legs weren’t much better. The amount of blood he could see on his skin, and his clothes, and the pavement underneath, seemed excessive. Quite uncalled for. His back was against a low concrete wall, and there was the rotted hulk of a car to his left, providing cover in that direction. There was a burned-out gas station on the other side of the wall behind him. In front of him was a small, half-collapsed house. The five steps leading up to its porch might as well have been a mountain.

Potter was ten feet away, on his back next to the car carcass, his eyes open and unstaring. The pavement around the two men was littered with spent brass. ‘Better to die on your feet than live on your knees’—Potter, in fact every dogsoldier, believed that credo, and the man had gone down shooting. Potter’s rifle had slid over the hood of the car toward the Tabs when he’d gone down—so far out of reach it might as well have been in Alaska.

Between them on the concrete was Chick’s DD Mk18. He hadn’t known anything about guns before the war, but he’d learned. This particular Mk18, which had served him so well for so long, had started out life as a pistol legal to own almost everywhere in the country—or so he’d been told—before being branded illegal and immoral. By the time it had come into his possession someone had swapped out the SBA3 brace on the back for a Magpul stock and mounted an Aimpoint Comp M5s red dot sight on the receiver, and so it had remained until today.

Chick hadn’t run out of ammo. Currently there was a large hole in the lower receiver where a lucky incoming round had disabled the firearm. Another round from that same burst had hit him in the side. A third had hit his leg. Altogether quite unfortunate.

With a grunt he levered himself up and fired his Glock 19 over the wall, then fell back down as incoming rifle fire from multiple directions sent bullets over his head and thumped into the wall. Chips and concrete dust settled over him. A Growler was on the far side of the gas station parking lot.

He fired the Glock blindly over his shoulder in the general direction of the Growler and stared down at the front of his plate carrier. He had pouches stuffed with magazines for his rifle, which were useless right now. Above the magazines on his chest he’d inked WOLVERINES! with a sharpie not long after joining the squad over four years before. But what really caught his eye was the fragmentation grenade hanging off the side of his plate carrier.

With a lucky toss he might be able to get a handful of the soldiers, maybe damage the Growler. But even if he did, he wasn’t getting away. There were too many of them, and he was too messed up. He wasn’t sure where the other vehicles were, and didn’t know why they weren’t lobbing grenades into his position. It’s what he would have done.

Maybe they wanted to capture him. Take him to the Fun House for interrogation.

At that thought, his eyes traveled to the cargo pocket in his pants, now half-soaked with blood. The mini tablet was in there, as well as the satellite uplink. The Tabs wouldn’t find anything on either, he’d wiped the histories, and even if he hadn’t they didn’t know about the book code.

He was fading fast, and was actually worried that he would pass out instead of die. If he died, then he was dead. If he just passed out, on the other hand, he knew he’d wake up in the Fun House downtown, the little jail the Tabs took anyone they suspected of anti-government activities, or even sentiment. Him, he had no illusions, he was sure they’d waterboard him or something as equally unpleasant to get information. Maybe, probably, straight up torture. He didn’t know anything about such things but he’d been told, by hardcases who knew, that everyone, eventually, breaks. And he couldn’t give up Uncle Charlie or the method the dogsoldiers used to find and decode the messages to get their missions.

With a grunt he fired the Glock over his shoulder once more, than stared at the pistol in his hand. It would be so easy…

He pressed the hot muzzle of the gun against the soft underside of his chin, his hand shaking slightly. Then the shakes grew in intensity, until finally he dropped his hand to his lap.

“Fuck,” he gasped. He couldn’t do it.

It wasn’t because suicide was a sin and forbidden by Jewish law, God himself knew poor little Phillip Stein had long ago strayed far from the faith. If you were a Jew, tattoos were a serious, definite no-no. The Old Testament was pretty fucking clear about that, which was exactly why he’d gotten one when he was in college. Well, actually, he’d gotten it specifically to piss off his parents, who were hypocrites about everything. They claimed to be observant, and went through the motions of Judaism, but the rest of the time they were just horrible people, to everyone including their family, so what did it matter which religion they claimed to follow? By junior high school he was pretty sure he didn’t believe in God, and even if he did, obeying traditions just to obey them, just because they were traditions, went against his very nature.

His mother made a point of telling people, almost proudly it seemed sometimes, that her great-aunt had died in the Holocaust. Then there she was, when things got really bad, making excuses for a government that seemed to be doing all the same things, in spirit if not in fact, as the German government in the 1930s.

The day when everything had suddenly unfolded logically in his mind was crystal clear in his memory, as was the pain from the slap his mother gave him when he told her she had the same kind of perpetual victim/gas chamber mentality that caused her great-aunt to meekly be led to her death in the first place, and that he would not comply. He hadn’t seen or spoken to his parents since.

That had been, what, six years ago? Seven? He’d been pasty and pudgy and balding and realized now that, at the time, he didn’t know anything about anything… but he’d been willing to fight. Now, sixty pounds lighter and more than just ‘balding’, he’d been the commander of Wolverine for twenty-seven months, kicking Tab ass as much as any squad in the city. Two years back they’d killed a Toad, a feat of which he was especially proud. Even though they’d suffered well over one hundred percent casualties over the years, Wolverine had killed well over a hundred Tabs and destroyed a handful of IMPs and at least half a dozen Growlers in addition to that Toad. It had been a good run, a great run, but it appeared that run was over.

He stared down at his broken, bloody body. He just couldn’t, wouldn’t kill himself, and not because of the traditions of a religion he’d finally, probably too late, come to appreciate. No, it was because he just couldn’t give up. That had always been his problem, or so he’d been told, he just wouldn’t quit. And there was no truer definition of quitting than suicide.

There was a sound close behind him and he jerked the pistol over his head and fired twice. He was rewarded with a scream of pain. He would have smiled, if he hadn’t been so tired. Schmucks. When he brought the Glock back down he saw that the slide was locked back on an empty magazine.

“Well, shit,” he muttered, dropping the Glock onto his lap.

Past the grenade hanging from his chest he looked at his left arm sitting lifeless beside his body. His sleeve was rolled up partway, far enough for him to read, maybe for the thousandth time, the tattoo on the inside of his forearm. He’d gotten it a year into his service with the ARF Irregulars. He already had one tattoo, so his body was damaged goods, so to speak, as far as Judaism went, so what was one more?

The tattoo had gotten him through the worst of times. Injuries, death of his men, the horrors of war, the despair of fighting in a conflict that never seemed to end. But every time he felt his body or his resolve grow weak he looked at that tattoo, stared at it, and remembered others who had sacrificed far more than he ever had or even could.

NEVER AGAIN

The words were simple, as was the message, and they’d kept him strong for years. Because ‘Never Again’ meant nothing if you weren’t willing to do something about it. He wouldn’t let them down, he wouldn’t, couldn’t let himself down either. His eyes strayed upward to the bill of the stained, battered baseball cap on his head. Not exactly a yarmulke, but if he was destined to head upstairs in short order for his final interview with the Man, it would have to do….

“Look at this sad piece of shit, he looks like he pissed himself.” The soldiers laughed at the guy sitting slumped in a pool of his own blood, empty pistol in his lap.

“Did he bleed out? We should have just grenaded his ass.”

“You don’t have to tell me, jack, but they want prisoners to interrogate. No, look, he’s fucking breathing. Medic!” he called out. “We’ve got a live one over here.” The speaker stepped close to the guerrilla and bent down to snag the pistol sitting on the man’s thighs as a war trophy. The injured man startled him by grabbing at his arm, and the soldier saw his eyes were now open. The guerrilla’s bloody hand clamped onto the side of the soldier’s armored vest.

“Get the fuck off me, man!” the young soldier said, more startled than scared. He jerked back and the guerrilla fell forward, then rolled onto his side. Most surprising of all, the man who seemed near death was actually… laughing.

“The fuck you laughing at, dickhead?” one the soldiers surrounding him demanded.

“Wolverines,” Major Phillip Abraham Stein croaked, the smile on his bloodied face radiant. Then the grenade, which he’d had wedged under his thigh until five seconds earlier, the pin pulled, detonated.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Late the next morning, Weasel left the shelter of the house first, just ambling along through the overgrown yards, keeping close to the houses. They hadn’t heard an aircraft or vehicle since just after midnight, and Ed decided moving was safer than staying in place any longer.

Ed hadn’t been joking; he staggered the departure of the rest of the squad so that it took ten minutes for them all to exit the house. Ed took it upon himself to leave last. Quentin was half a block away, nearly invisible as he swished through the thigh-high grass. The men from long experience were moving in the shadows wherever possible, and at that hour of the morning the shadows from the houses on the south side of the street stretched almost halfway across their front yards. Everyone was moving slowly with the weight of the gear they’d taken from the ambush site.

Ed had been on the move for fifteen minutes when he stopped and tucked himself between two houses. He’d had a strange feeling all morning, like being watched or even followed, but he hadn’t seen anything. Hadn’t heard anything. But still….

He peered out past a crumbling porch column down the street he’d just traveled, rifle butt at his shoulder, uneasy. The military didn’t do subtle or sneaky—they rolled up in armor or came in with helicopters firing missiles and miniguns—so even if he wasn’t imagining it, whoever or whatever was following him wasn’t Army. Could it be that damn bear? He shivered at the thought, then dismissed it. They were far away from where they’d run into that beast, and he couldn’t imagine there was more than one in the city. On the other hand, there’d been ten thousand dogs roaming the streets of the city before the war. Seeing dog packs was a daily occurrence for the squad, or near to it, but they were rarely a problem. Dogs were smart and they’d learned early on that men with rifles were not an easy source of protein. Ed hadn’t had to kill a dog in years.

“I thought you’d spotted me day before yesterday,” Ed heard from behind him. He spun around, rifle coming up. A dozen feet away was a man with his hands up, trying to look as non-threatening as possible.

Ed’s mind raced. “Passing by on foot, the house we laid up in?” He spotted the barrel of the rifle slung over the man’s shoulder. “You’re the sniper.”

“That’d be me. You boys looked a mite jumpy, thought I’d give you some time to relax so I didn’t catch a bullet in the face. You stayed holed up longer than I thought you would. But it gave me some time to check you out, see if you were serious.”

If Ed had wanted to put a face to their mysterious sniper, it wouldn’t be this man. He was in his early sixties and thickening with age, nearly bald, and wearing glasses. In addition to the huge barrel of sniper rifle sticking up behind his back he wore a large backpack, and had a pistol in a holster across his chest.

“You by yourself?” Ed’s eyes darted left and right.

“By my lonesome,” the man said pleasantly, his hands still up, palms facing Ed. “I’m Renny.”

“Renny?”

The man shrugged. “Actually, it’s René, but that’s a girl’s name, or so I was told all through grade school. Renny saved me from having to punch a lot of guys in the face.”

“You just wander into the city by accident?” Ed squinted at him, trying to get a feel for the man.

“Just finally got tired of sitting on the sidelines. And I’m not getting any younger.”

Early appeared soundlessly behind Renny, M1A in his hand. As quiet as he’d been Renny still turned his head and nodded in Early’s direction.

“I’m sorry if I gave you boys a start, but you were blown one way or the other. I thought it might help if I took the initiative. Took out the roof gunner for you. Did I get the driver? I didn’t think my rifle would get through that armored glass.”

Ed took a breath, then lowered his carbine. He’d developed good instincts for judging people after years of combat and sneaking around the derelict city, and Renny wasn’t giving off any danger signs. “No, driver got hit by shrapnel.” He frowned. “You sat and waited on us for a day?”

The man shrugged. “Your team handled itself well, but you sticking in one place allowed me to do a little surveillance, figure out if it was luck or skill that got you through that.”

“It was a little bit of both. Where you were holed up, across the street?”

The older man nodded. “But I snuck in close after dark, listened to you talking for a couple hours. Wanted to get a feel for you gentlemen, see if I could trust you.”

Early’s face grew dark. “You snuck in?” It was obvious he didn’t believe it. They’d had people on watch continuously.

Renny turned and looked at him. “From your voice, you’re Early. You’ve got a kid in there, sounds like a teenager. And what the hell kind of name is Weasel?”

Early fought back his anger, realizing it was counterproductive. “You find that peashooter just leanin’ in the back of your closet?” he asked the man, staring at the rifle on his back.

A smile crept across Renny’s face. “Not quite.”

“Mind if I…?” Early held out a hand.

“Not at all.” Moving slowly, the man unslung the rifle from his shoulder and held it out to Early, who slung his M1A over his shoulder to take it. Ed blinked. The bolt action sniper rifle made Early’s big M1A appear dainty. The stock wore a gray camouflage pattern.

Early opened the bolt and verified the chamber was empty, then removed the loaded magazine from the rifle. “Sweet baby Jesus, what is this?” Early turned the magazine so Ed could see the big cartridges stuffed inside.

“It’s a big prick.”

“A… what?”

Renny smiled. “GA Precision custom rifle in .300 PRC with a Templar action and McMillan A-6 stock done in Urban Ambush camo. Five-round detachable box mags. Twenty-six-inch Bartlein barrel with a gain twist. 250-grain Hornady A-Tip bullets, handloaded myself. Nightforce NX8 2.5-20X scope, Atlas bipod. It’ll do half MOA if I do my part. Way too much gun for the city, I’ve only had two shots over four hundred, but I decided I’d rather be overgunned than under.” He paused and shrugged. “Although one of those long ones was at twelve-sixteen. Trust me, it’s not as impressive as it sounds, I’ve got one of those Gen 3 Ventus gadgets from Trijicon, rangefinder with doppler lidar that tells you the wind and everything. I’m just the monkey pulling the trigger. Took him in the thigh because of the armor plates they’re wearing. Seemed to work well enough, and I was so far away they had no clue where I was. Wasn’t sure it would go through the armored glass in that APC, but hope springs eternal, as they say.”

“You follow all that?” Ed asked Early. All he knew about guns was what he’d picked up on the fly with the Irregulars. Or from watching TV, back in his previous life.

“Jes’ barely. Pretty sure this rifle and scope combo cost more than my first house. Weighs as much too.” He closed the bolt, reinserted the magazine, and handed it back to their visitor.

“Over twenty pounds empty, but between the weight and the muzzle brake it stays flat enough I can usually see my hits.”

“Been keeping busy?” Ed asked pointedly.

“You mean before I spotted you gents? Got in the area not quite three weeks ago. Had a few targets of opportunity, but not nearly as many as I’d hoped. Should have expected that, I guess, people have been sniping at ‘em from day one with everything from BB guns on up. I’ve been working my way, very slowly, into the city proper, but I will admit I’m out of my element. I know how to shoot, and keep out of sight, but I don’t know the city. It’s been… spicier than I expected, but that’s on me. You gentlemen seem like you know what you’re doing, and it appears you’re heading somewhere. I’m thinking I’d like to tag along.” He paused, and smiled. “If it will get me in your good graces, I’ve got twenty pounds of smoked venison in my pack. A doe gave me a headshot shot last week, and I’ve been going through food a lot faster than I have ammo. Luckily I didn’t miss and have to track it through yards.”

“With that rifle? I expect not.”

The man shook his head. “Glock.”

Early looked at the pistol holstered diagonally across the man’s chest. “That muffler homemade or store bought?”

The man glanced down at the sound suppressor screwed onto the muzzle of his Glock 19. He’d had to cut a hole in the bottom of the leather holster to wear the pistol with the suppressor attached, and it wasn’t fast to draw, but having a pistol on him that when fired wasn’t much louder than a hand clap had been very very useful. “Didn’t the government seize all the store-bought ones? I’m pretty sure all the registered suppressors that weren’t turned in when they were banned were seized in the raids that came after.” He shrugged. “But they didn’t close down hardware stores, or seize all the lathes. I could teach a monkey to machine a suppressor in ten minutes.”

Early frowned. “That shot you took on the IMP roof gunner. How far was that?”

“I lased the abandoned car, the one the IMP ran into, at three hundred and forty-four yards. So, three-seventy-five or so.”

“Lased?” Ed asked.

“Laser rangefinder,” Renny told him. “I spotted you guys yesterday morning and decided to follow you for a while, see how you operated. You’re the first ARF I’ve seen. A few hours later the Army showed up. I barely got up into a second-floor window in time, and did not have much of a field of view. I feel bad I wasn’t able to give you any more help, but between the distance and the speed everyone was moving, it was over before I had a third shot. That personnel carrier was rolling, but it was coming straight at me, which made things a lot easier.”

“You former military?” Early asked him.

Renny shook his head. “Just an amateur. With a lot of time behind a rifle, hunting and competition. Before all of that got outlawed.”

“Hmmm.” Ed could tell Early had something on his mind, and let him get to it. “You seem a smart enough fella,” Early said. “But you’re no spring chicken. You just don’t up and join a war ten years in.”

Renny nodded. “I can give you the same excuses I’ve been giving myself, if you want. Too old, not my war, never been in the military, things really aren’t that bad…” He shrugged.

“So what changed?” Ed asked him.

Renny looked off in the distance for a bit. “Cancer,” he said finally. He looked at Ed and Early. “Oh, I look fine, and feel fine. But six months ago I got in for my annual checkup, which now is only every four years or so, and they found some spots in my lungs. Cancer. Barely stage two, which means it’s eminently treatable. And survivable. Or would be, if I wasn’t five years too old to qualify for treatment under our glorious single payer socialized medical system.”

“With no treatment, how long do you have?”

“Oh, at least a year, maybe years. And, as I said,” he assured them, “I feel great. Not a symptom. Not even a cough. I could die of a heart attack or stroke before the cancer kills me. But I’m starting to think about my own mortality and seriously regret the things I should have done. This is something I should have done long ago. Now that I’ve got a death sentence, so to speak, heading into a war zone doesn’t seem so foolhardy.”

“You a smoker?” Early asked out of curiosity.

“Twenty-five years ago.”

“Will you give us a minute?” Ed asked him.

“Absolutely.”

Ed and Early moved through the adjoining backyard and stood between two houses where they could see Renny but not be overheard. “Well, Cap’n?” Early drawled. “What do you think of our war tourist?”

Ed made a face. “I’m not getting any bad vibes off of him. He looks more like an accountant than I do, and I am one. Was.” Actually, Renny looked a lot like that old actor, what was his name? Ed wracked his brain. Gene Hackman, that was it! Not exactly a threatening look to him. “Hell, it’s not our city, he can go wandering off and shooting up anything he wants without our permission. And our sniper tourist accountant is light enough on his feet that he can follow us, apparently, without us spotting him. Even toting that rifle and backpack and cancer cells. Close enough to listen in to us talking. I’m not sure if I’m impressed or pissed off, but I’m leaning toward the latter.” The backpack was big and looked heavy as hell, but the man bore it without complaint. “He’d have already been taking potshots at us if that was his inclination.”

“Man’s a hell of a shot,” Early admitted. “Three seventy-five and he throat-punched that roof gunner? If I hadn’t seen that I might not have believed his twelve-hundred-yard story, but that boom stick he’s got is certainly capable of reaching out that far.”

“Was that what he meant? He shot a guy at twelve hundred yards? What is that, over half a mile? Jeezus.”

“Sounds like it. And was smart enough to go under his armor. Let’s just say I’m glad he’s on our side. Which, if I had to hazard a guess, he is. Even if the Army was going to send some people in to infiltrate, they wouldn’t have liver spots and be carrying a home workshop arts ‘n crafts silencer. Everything about him feels authentic to me, including the cancer story.” He stuck a thumb at the man. “And, Cap’n, who’s to say, we kick him loose, he doesn’t keep following us?”

“You just want him on board because then you wouldn’t be the oldest guy on the squad anymore.”

“You’re not wrong.”

The two men walked back to Renny. “It’s a free city,” Ed told the man. “You can go anywhere you want. But if you want to join up with us, we’re going to need to look through your gear.”

“Not just that,” Early said, almost apologetically. He looked at the older man. “How do you feel about stripping naked in front of strange men?”

The squad’s first RP was halfway to the general store. It was at a long-defunct school on Greenfield, their old friend ‘Leprechaun’, seven miles south of where they’d crossed the road in the suburbs. The FOR SALE sign in front of the school was so faded it was hard to read, and apparently no one had been interested in the 17 acre site with its 74,000 square foot building before the war erupted.

Ed, Early, and Renny came in from the northwest, through the overgrown lot and past the cracked running track, the parking lot that was nothing but heaved dining room table-sized sections of asphalt split by knee-high weeds.

“This city doesn’t get any prettier, does it,” Renny said, staring at the back of the school. It had been vandalized often over the past decade. There were only a few shards of glass left in the window frames. The graffiti on the brick façade was so old and faded it seemed tired.

They were the last to arrive, and Quentin was on lookout at the rear of the building. “I was wondering if you guys got lost. Who the fuck’s this?” he asked, looking Renny up and down.

“Apparently Theodore is having open tryouts this week,” Ed said, a bemused expression on his face.

Mark was watching out the front windows of the school, and Early relieved Quentin at his spot, eyeballing the parking lot and overgrown field to the rear. The rest of the squad gathered in one of the classrooms in the middle of the long, low building. “This is Renny. He’s been following us for a couple of days now wanted to tag along. He took out the roof gunner on the IMP.”

“You mean this is the motherfucker that nearly got us all killed?” Weasel demanded, jumping up from his seat. He glared at Renny, who looked to Ed.

“You want to join the party, you’re going to have to work this out with them,” Ed told him pointedly.

While the rest of the squad began to have a loud conversation with Renny Ed took George aside and got him up to speed on the new face. “He doesn’t feel wrong to me at all,” he finished, “or Early, but I’m open to counterargument.”

George shook his head and eyed Renny, who wasn’t bowing under Weasel’s anger or Quentin’s dark-browed suspicion. “I trust your judgement. He’s not exactly a teenager, is he? So out of the eight of us, five are too old to be fighting, and Jason’s too young. Christ.”

“Hell, you’re the only one on the squad with any prior experience,” Ed reminded him, “but we’ve done pretty well for ourselves.”

“SWAT team doesn’t exactly count toward military experience,” George said, making a face.

“It’s more pertinent job experience than being an accountant, or comptroller,” Ed pointed out. That had been his last job before this one. He pointed at Quentin. “Truck driver. Mark was an insurance investigator. Early was a plumber. You fight a war with the people and gear you’ve got, not the ones you want,” he said, repeating something he’d heard a military veteran once say. “A ‘well-regulated militia’? You’re fucking looking at it. We’re all soldiers now.”

“They were seconds from spotting you. I took the shot when I had it,” the two men heard Renny say, his voice loud. He sounded exasperated.

“Yeah? Well, we’re going to have to agree to fucking disagree,” Weasel spat back. He stomped away from the man, toward Ed and George. “You make sure Quigley Down Under knows when to stay off the trigger,” he said in passing, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.

They crossed Greenfield and moved behind the small, one-story retail shops lining the east side of the street. The gravel alley was narrow and overgrown with trees, running south between the commercial buildings and the back yards of neighborhood houses.

Not quite half a mile down they met a set of railroad tracks arrowing southeast toward the heart of the city, and turned to follow them. They were at the extreme southwestern border of the city, but there was no visible change as they moved from the city into the adjacent suburb. The streets were thick with houses to either side, but Ed knew their limited view from the tracks was misleading. He wouldn’t take his squad much more than half a mile southwest of the tracks unless they were actively trying to break contact under fire.

Once combat began in earnest, even though war was never officially declared, the agreed-upon construct called civilization was thrown out the window in most of the cities around the country. Shortly into the war anarchy turned into near-apocalypse as every person or group who had grievances, large or small, current or historical, felt free to act on them, and this was especially true in this suburb variously nicknamed Mecca or Shariatown or Thunderdome, depending on who you were talking to.

Thunderdome was famous for being predominantly Muslim before the war, and had been the site of some of the most furious house-to-house fighting and brutal combat seen anywhere in the country. Ed knew it hadn’t been the military versus ARF or even dogsoldiers, even though that was the official story plastered all over the state-controlled media. Whether it had been good ol’ American race riots, internecine warfare, or Sunni and Shi’a taking the opportunity of the war to participate in some long-hoped-for ethnic cleansing he had no idea, but there’d been huge surging riots in the streets, Molotov cocktails by the hundreds, running gun battles, group executions, and honest-to-God stonings and beheadings. Large swaths of neighborhoods had been burned down in what the government at the time had described as “arson riots”, whatever the hell that meant. Ten years gone, it was even worse. Everyone but the few hardy or crazy souls still living there avoided it day and night. Hell, even the Tabs avoided Thunderdome.

The men moved in two columns, keeping to the grass on either side of the double set of tracks, ready to take cover in the nearby houses and buildings at any second if necessary. Five minutes after starting along the tracks they passed a dead-end residential street to the left where two children were kicking a soccer ball back and forth. The boy waved at them, and Mark waved back, smiling. The girl stood in the middle of the street, frowning at them until they’d moved out of sight.

After walking along the tracks for almost exactly a mile, they passed a spur line heading directly north. There were huge asphalt parking lots to either side of the spur. The one on the west side was filled with hundreds of rusting semi trailers, the one on the east with dozens of flat-tired school buses

George, in the lead, struck off directly east through the bus lot, weaving through the listing hulks. Their paint jobs had faded to a pastel lemon after a decade of sun and wind. On the far side of the parking lot were neighborhood streets thick with homes, but at the start of the war a savage fire had devastated more than half a square mile of streets lined with small two-story houses. The houses were blackened hulks, most collapsed, resembling rotted splintered teeth jabbing up at the sky. None had escaped the inferno. After eight years weeds and saplings had begun to grow through the moldering walls and floors.

They walked down the middle of the street in what had once been a lively, thriving community. It was eerily quiet as, unlike most of the city, absolutely no one lived there. Here and there they passed cars which had burned and melted in the blaze. Their steps echoed off the heat-blistered pavement. Even now, years later, everything smelled of ash.

Four hundred yards into the burnt wasteland they passed the reason for the firestorm; two bomb craters. The blasts had leveled half a block. The craters were overgrown with weeds, with standing water at the bottom, but there was no mistaking what they were. Officially no bombs had been dropped in the city, much less the surrounding suburbs, but the resulting fire had stretched for nearly half a mile east, blown by the strong winds that day. No one knew how many residents had been killed in the fire; at that point in the war local law enforcement had nearly disintegrated and the military was too busy fighting to investigate something that, officially, had nothing to do with them. The suspicion was that the military had bombed the headquarters of one of the instigators of the ethnic cleansing going on in Thunderdome but just didn’t want to admit it, especially after the fire had erupted and spread out of control.

Even nearly ten years later there was very little wildlife in the area. No birds, no small game, nothing but the smell and taste of smoke and charcoal and burnt plastic which coated their tongues and nasal passages with gray-black slime. After another ten minutes they reached the far edge of the burned wasteland which someone long ago had dubbed the Fire Nation. The fire, helped by the wind, had jumped across a number of residential streets in its passage east, but a wider four-lane road running north-south had been enough of a fire break that the flames continued spreading north and south but stopped their eastward progress.

Fear that the military would drop more bombs and cause more fires had driven many of the residents living in surrounding homes undamaged by the fire to leave, so the adjoining neighborhood, even though it was unburnt, was more thinly populated than the number of homes would suggest. Plus, the proximity to the continuing craziness in Thunderdome drove away all but the most stubborn.

The squad stopped and stared across the four-lane road at the undamaged houses on the far side. Ed pointed. “Check it out,” he murmured to Quentin and Mark, and Mark nodded.

The two men jogged across the street. They knew Ed had pointed not at the first house on the corner beyond the border of the fire zone, but instead the one behind it. The residence he’d indicated was a tall two-story cube clad in red and brown brick. It was a duplex, with great views out the windows in every direction, and they’d used it before.

The rest of the squad hunkered in the shell of a house. The second story had collapsed into the first, and if they brushed anything their hands or clothing came away black. They tried not to touch anything.

Ed had his binoculars in hand, and watched Quentin and Mark move the hundred or so yards to the house in question. He raised the binoculars as the men disappeared around the corner. After perhaps ninety seconds, Mark appeared in one of the second-floor windows and gave a wave.

“Looks like it’s still open for business,” George said ten minutes later, using the binoculars to stare out an east-facing window of the duplex. “I see foot traffic. Not a lot, but then again we’re coming in the back way.”

“Where are we?” Jason asked.

“The general store’s about a quarter mile east of here,” Mark said. “It’s a big market in a warehouse. Fruits, vegetables, sometimes meat, gas generators, appliances, anything and everything. Stuff grown here, stuff funneled in here, stuff liberated from the Army stores like antibiotics, stuff looted out of empty houses. It’s a combination farmer’s market, flea market, and garage sale.”

“And whorehouse,” Weasel added with a smile.

“There is that. We’re coming in the back way, almost in what you’d call a blind spot. Everyone avoids Thunderdome and there’s nothing in the Fire Nation but charcoal. Most of their customers come from the east or north and go in the front door, on the other side of the building. You been here before?” he asked Renny.

“Never made it this far south,” the older sniper said. “What’s Thunderdome?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Mark said to him.

“Well, we go in covert, concealed handguns only, no rifles, nothing that looks like military clothing. There’s nothing illegal about the market being there and occasionally they’ve got a military presence hanging around. They drive through, or stop and harass people, or maybe just buy a few things. Visit the hookers. Sometimes sell the stuff they steal from their own warehouses or each other. Sometimes seize contraband, which could be illegal stuff, or could just be something that they want and don’t want to pay for. Point is to not get noticed by the soldiers or, more importantly, shot.”

“I’ll head in with Weasel and Quentin,” Ed said. “Any more than three and it’ll draw attention. If the crusty bastard is still running the joint, we’ll see if he’s got anything interesting to trade.”

“I’d like to see this place,” Renny said. He spread his hands and gestured at himself. “I don’t exactly look threatening.”

Ed nodded his head once. “And I’d like for you to see it. Some day. But the truth is, fancy rifle or no, until I actually see you kill someone or commit a war crime I don’t trust you.”

Renny pursed his lips together, blinked twice slowly, then nodded. “Fair enough.”

“How many magazines and grenades can we afford to part with?” Ed said to George. He started stripping off his armor.

“What is he going to have that’s more valuable than grenades and ammo?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? I guess we’ll find out. How many?”

“We’ve been short on ammo for so long I hate to trade any of it, but we’ve got ninety thirty-round AR mags, and only four of us are using ARs,” George observed. “I’d say we could part with ten without blinking. Maybe as many as thirty, and a handful of frags. But just thirty loaded AR mags should put us in hookers and blow for a week, forget the grenades.”

Ed nodded. “I’m aware.”

“I’ve got a big wad of cash I looted from the bodies,” Weasel admitted.

“You did?”

“Where do you think I got the cigarettes?’

“Unless you filled a wheelbarrow with the stuff I don’t know how valuable it is with the hyperinflation we’ve got going on,” George observed. “It’s good for starting fires, I guess.”

“With all the ammo we’ve got to trade I doubt we’ll need that cash, but that’s good to know,” Ed told him.

“Don’t spend it in the whorehouse,” Mark admonished Weasel, with a grin.

Weasel flashed a grin, then it died. An image of Sheila popped into his head. The two of them in that upstairs bathroom overlooking the Ditch… then her body, burning and popping inside the engulfed Toyota on the overpass. He swallowed, muscling the grief and tears down, and forced a fake laugh. “You’re not my real dad,” he told Mark, who snorted.

“Hey,” Mark said suddenly. “You see some boots in there, or some gently used cross-trainers or whatnot, you want to grab me a pair?” He lifted his foot up. There was a hole in the top of his right boot, and the sole was nearly worn through. “Size fourteen.”

“Fourteen?” Weasel said dubiously.

“Don’t be jealous. I didn’t do anything to earn it, I was just born this way.”

“What way?”

Mark shrugged. “It says right in the Bible that guys with big feet have huge dicks.”

“The Bible?” Ed questioned.

“Bullshit,” Weasel called out.

“It’s in the book of Leviticus. Or maybe it’s Phallus.” Mark kept a completely straight face. Weasel frowned at him.

“We wagerin’ on willies?” Early said. “I’ll jump in. What’s up for grabs? Food, cash?”

Weasel looked at the older man. He wasn’t quite as tall as Mark but he was over six feet, with a big head and huge hands. “Seriously, you too?”

“Nobody’s pulling their dicks out,” Ed said, raising his voice. “Jesus. Okay, everyone that’s staying here, keep an eye out.” Ed had pulled a fresh set of clothes out of his backpack and now wore a wrinkled gray button-down shirt over stained navy blue trousers, both of which he kept at the bottom of his pack for circumstances just like these. Weasel and Quentin did the same.

The three men exited the house together and walked eastward on the same side street they’d taken out of the burned zone. As they did George turned to Jason.

“Okay, we’ve got a chance to continue your military education. Unload your rifle, and I’ll have you practice positional shooting for a bit.” While he was doing that… “Do you know the difference between cover and concealment?”

“Ummmm…”

“How about defilade? Know what that is?”

Jason frowned. “That sounds like a fancy French dessert.” He looked around at the other members of the squad with a smile, looking to see who else liked his joke. Then he gasped and doubled over when George punched him in the side.

“So you survived your first gunfight, congratulations.” George’s low tone was acid. “It means you’re not totally worthless. But you’ve still got just about everything to learn, and no time to do it. We could run into another patrol three hours from now, and until I’m convinced you won’t do something stupid that will get us killed, or get you killed, I’m going to teach you, and you’re going to learn. Understand?” he growled.

Jason blinked the tears out of his eyes and straightened up. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the rest of the squad moving away. Not one of them would look meet his gaze. He was angry and hurt and embarrassed, his mind racing, but he looked back to George and nodded.

Ed, Weasel and Quentin walked leisurely down the sidewalk. To their left the neighborhood continued, mostly bungalows clad in red brick and white siding. On their right they passed two low warehouses which been empty and for lease before the war. The realtor’s sign in front of the second building, whose windows had been destroyed years before, shouted PRICE REDUCED! The men walked slowly, in no hurry, slouching and bent as if worn down by life, but their eyes ran over the fronts of the commercial buildings on their right and the homes on their left.

Past the warehouses were a small one-story office building, then a large parking lot, then several one- and two-story red brick commercial buildings. The street stretched before them for hundreds of yards before taking a ninety-degree turn to the north.

Weasel looked down the wide open street ahead of them. “This is such a kill zone,” he murmured, making a face.

“That’s the point, isn’t it?”

On the far side of the street, after it made its turn to the north, behind a tall chain link fence, was a huge low building, white with blue trim. That was their destination. Before the war it had been the distribution center for a chain of drug stores. There were offices, roll-up overhead doors for semis to back up to and get loaded, even secure fenced-off areas inside where the prescription drugs for the pharmacies had been kept.

They passed one final commercial building on their right. It was a two-story brown brick cube, the windows and doors on the first floor boarded over, as were the narrow basement windows. The second-floor windows were intact except for one cracked corner pane which had taken a hit from a rock some years back.

There was no one to be seen as they approached their destination. They could hear a low murmur emanating from the vast building ahead of them. Ed led the way, opening the gate in the chain link fence behind the white-sided warehouse. Ahead of them was a pedestrian door next to a double-wide roll-up door that was so rusty it seemed apparent its rolling days were long over. Ed banged on the pedestrian door with the heel of his palm, and after a few seconds it opened.

One of the men who worked security at the site peered out at them. He was big, and well fed. His hands were empty, but they knew there would be a weapon, probably a shotgun, concealed nearby.

The guard looked them over, then scanned the street behind them. Ed thought he looked vaguely familiar, but he was bad with faces. If the guard recognized them he gave no indication. He stood aside and the men of Theodore walked inside.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The general store covered nearly three acres. The building was in fact three separate structures that had been connected by the original owners of the property before the war. As Ed, Quentin, and Weasel entered it took their eyes a few moments to get used to the dim light. There were a few skylights in the building, and directly across from them was the main entrance and its twenty-foot-wide opening, but that hadn’t been enough with the death of electricity in the city, so windows had been cut into the siding high up on the walls, with rebar grilles welded over them to prevent thievery. In the winter months there were burn barrels going inside the building for warmth, and the window squares cut into the walls provided enough ventilation no one choked on the smoke.

It was far from the only such market in the city, just the largest one. Still, the men were surprised at how crowded it was. The murmur of conversation filled the air inside the large building, as did the smell of unwashed bodies, animals, smoke from cooking fires, and fresh produce.

“Wow. You ever seen it so crowded?” Weasel asked. He looked around. There had to be a hundred people inside the market, maybe a third of them vendors or security. The people bringing goods to sell at the market gave the “building manager”, as he liked to be called, a cut up front.

Both Ed and Quentin shook their heads. “I wonder if it’s because of that trouble we heard about at the government distribution center,” Ed said quietly. He gestured at the rows of goods on display and for sale. “Wander around, see what they’ve got. See what you hear. Ten, fifteen minutes, meet me over in the corner, and we can check out what they have that’s not on display.”

“Gotcha boss,” Weasel said and wandered off. Quentin nodded and headed down a different aisle.

They tried to keep things organized. Those vendors selling repaired appliances or tools, items salvaged from houses like shoes and clothing, were at the south end of the building. Fruit and vegetable growers were in the middle of the building, and anything and everything that could be grown in the climate, from raspberries to marijuana, was offered for sale. Almost all of it was seasonal, and the offerings changed from week to week depending on who the vendors were and what they’d planted in their gardens. Anyone selling meat or live animals were next to the produce salesmen and -women. At the far north end of the building partitions had been constructed for privacy, and there women—and a few men—engaged in the oldest profession. Next to the “Pleasure Palace”, as the bare-walled stalls were jokingly referred to, was an attraction just as popular as sex—barrels of water heated over carefully tended fires. For a not-insubstantial fee, you could have a hot bath or shower. They even had soap—for a price, of course.

Ed remained in place for a while, looking over the market, his eyes landing on various displays and following different people. After a few minutes he moved away from the back wall and wandered toward the animal pens. As the weather was nice, everyone grilling meat was doing it in front of the building, out from under the roof. He paused between a pen full of playing, barking puppies and one cage holding a few squawking chickens.

“Busy day today,” the man behind the animals said happily to Ed. “You lookin’ to buy? What do you have to trade?”

“Just window shopping right now.” Ed cooled the salesman down with a smile and a shrug. The man shrugged back and went back to digging through a box.

A figure ambled up and stood beside Ed, staring at the animals. “Ed.”

The corner of his mouth curled up just a tiny bit. “Rochelle,” he replied.

“Goddamn, it’s Shelly, I told you I hate that name,” she growled.

Ed’s grin grew wider and he turned to look at her. A stout black woman his age, Shelly had frizzy hair pulled back off her face with a headband and was wearing a green button-down shirt that on him would have looked like a military uniform but on her was a fashion statement. She was just over five-and-a-half feet tall, and he looked over her head to the nearby aisles. “I see a few familiar faces,” he said quietly. The noise of the animals masked their muted conversation. “How is Mickey doing? Or is it Michaela now?”

“Mickey do just fine,” she said with a snort. “What about Theodore? I saw Weasel weaselin’ around a few minutes ago.”

“We’ve had a few downs and ups, but we’re still here. Mostly.”

She nodded, not looking at him. “Same.”

Neither ARF nor the ARF Irregulars turned anyone away, and Sheila in Franklin had been far from the only female dogsoldier. Mickey was a bit unusual in that a majority of squad members were women, or at least had been the last time Theodore had run into them. However, they weren’t out in the field very often. Ed was under the impression they gathered intelligence for ARF much more often than they were tasked with pulling triggers. Rumor was at least one of the women on the squad was getting intelligence from an Army officer she was sleeping with, but whether he was giving it knowingly Ed didn’t know. And wouldn’t ask. He’d also heard rumors that at least one of the girls working in the Pleasure Palace was passing on info from her military clients to Mickey. He didn’t want to know any information that could compromise another squad or their mission. The squads were compartmentalized for a reason.

“Franklin’s gone,” he told her quietly.

She turned to him, eyes wide. “Oh, no. All of them?”

He nodded. “Kestrel. Although they took it down.”

She hissed. “Doesn’t make it any better.”

“Doesn’t make it worse.” They moved casually down the aisle. Ed glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. “Before I head into the back room and start dealing, are you short on anything? Little blue pills?” It was her nickname for bullets if he remembered correctly.

“We’re always short on those. And, um, I have the feeling they might come in handy soon.” That was as close as she would get to telling him she’d gotten a message from Uncle Charlie, maybe the same one as Theodore, but he wouldn’t ask. “Why?”

“We had a good day. Got some extra AR mags, fully stuffed. Interested?”

“Shit yeah, how many you got?”

He stopped his slow stroll and turned fully to her. The smile split his face. “How many do you need?”

“Need, or want? Honestly, we need at least five, we’re a little thin. Ten would be a hell of a lot better.”

“I can get you what you need. Actually, I can get you what you want. And maybe a little more.”

“Yeah? No shit? What do you want for ‘em?”

He shook his head. “We’re on the same team. Let’s call it paying it forward.”

“Screw that. Ten mags, three hundred rounds of ammo? How about a case of energy bars? Fresh from the guv’mint warehouse. Least I could do. Don’t tell me you don’t need the calories, you’re skinnier every time I see you.”

“You’ve got a deal.”

She turned, and Ed followed her gaze. She was looking at the livestock dealer, or more specifically at the puppies he was selling for meat. “I fucking hate to see that,” she said through her teeth. “I want to rip that cage open, let them all loose, and stab him in the fuckin’ eyes. Nobody should be eating dogs. Nobody should have to eat dog.” She sighed and shook her head, then looked at him. “I’m so ready for this thing to be over. Too much damn death already, people living like animals. They need to figure out a way to end it,” she growled. She looked at Ed. “You think they can?”

He shrugged. He didn’t have an answer.

They both looked over toward the main entrance at the sound of engines. Growlers, Ed’s educated ears told him. Two of them. He fought back the instinct to run. The sound grew louder, and then the engines cut off one at a time. People near the large open main entrance pretended to ignore the six soldiers that sauntered in, and the soldiers, for their part, pretended to not notice. Which told Ed that these troops were there to shop as opposed to being on the hunt for anything illegal. When ordered to search through the vendor stalls for illegal or “gray market” items, the soldiers were anything but subtle or friendly.

“I’ll send Quentin over,” Ed said quietly

“Go with God,” Shelly murmured to Ed, moving away from him.

“If he’ll have me,” Ed responded, which got a snort out of her.

Moving unhurriedly, Ed made his way toward the back of the building. He didn’t ignore the soldiers but he didn’t stare at them either. They had their rifles slung over their shoulders and for the most part looked young and inexperienced. There was, however, one crusty NCO who stood back and eyeballed everything and everyone. Adult supervision, perhaps. The corner of Ed’s mouth twitched at that thought.

The soldiers wandered down several different aisles, looking at the wares, talking amongst themselves, but after a few minutes, perhaps long enough for them to gather their courage, all of them were headed north through the building, the NCO trailing in their wake. The unoccupied women loitering outside the Pleasure Palace perked up as they saw incoming customers.

With the attention of the soldiers firmly affixed on the flesh ahead of them, Ed moved to the south end of the building. Weasel and Quentin sidled up behind him. “Q, go talk to Shelly,” Ed said over his shoulder, and Quentin peeled off.

The southwest corner of the building was all former offices. The man who ran the place had an office there, with BUILDING MANAGER on the door. Two very large men stood out front, hands clasped in front of them. They appeared unarmed, but even if they were Ed knew there had to be guns within reach. There were boxes and barrels stuffed with random items nearby.

“Looking to talk to Curly, do a little private business,” Ed told the guards. He was sure they recognized him, but gave no sign of it. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Quentin heading out of the building with a gray-haired black woman in her fifties, one of the members of Mickey. Barb looked like the grandma that she was, but Ed knew she was as hard-hearted as they came. One guard put up his hand for them to wait while the other opened the office door and went in. He reappeared a few seconds later and waved them inside.

There were two more guards just inside the door, but unlike the men outside the office, these two made Ed nervous. The pit bulls looked enough alike to be brothers, and had to weigh close to a hundred pounds each. Their heads were enormous. The man behind the desk had a huge head as well, although his was bald.

Ed had a pistol, but he knew he wasn’t very good with it. He’d only ever used it to kill a few wounded soldiers. Weasel, on the other hand, was a hell of a pistol shot, and fast. He’d been really good when he’d joined the squad, and after training with George for a few years he was amazing. How well handguns would work on dogs that size Ed hoped he’d never find out. His gaze wandered from the dogs to the man with his feet up on the desk.

The three men stared at each other for a few seconds. Curly, for his part, knew they were dogsoldiers. Even if the goods they bought or traded in didn’t mark them as such, over the past few years he’d gotten very good at spotting the type. He knew dogsoldiers frequented his establishment, and he did business with them. Not because of patriotism or loyalty. He wasn’t on their side. He wasn’t on anybody’s side but his own. Hell, the government still offered a reward for information on “anti-government activity” as well as “terrorists”, but with the super- and hyperinflation over the past few years, those reward dollars weren’t anywhere what they used to be. But that didn’t really matter. What mattered was that while he could identify a good number of customers as “terrorists” to the Army, for a substantial reward, he couldn’t identify them all. And if he ratted out a single dogsoldier, he knew his business would be on fire and he’d be dead with a bullet in his head before the week’s end. He’d also figured out if the war continued to drag on, the military would be too busy to bother shutting down local entrepreneurs such as himself. All he could hope for was that the Army officers he bribed to reduce the hassling he received would manage to avoid being killed by the ARF for as long as possible.

“I thought you got killed,” he finally said to Ed. “Something involving a Toad.” He frowned and cocked his head.

“If this is heaven I’m sorely disappointed,” Ed said drily, not surprised at how well-informed the man was.

“You look tired,” Curly said cheerfully. “And old.”

“I am old and tired,” Ed agreed. “Been a long week. Been a long couple of weeks.”

Curly grunted. “It’s the busy season. You keeping up on your news?”

Ed shook his head. “I barely know what I’m doing half the time. And I’ve been a little too short of bandwidth to surf the web, if you know what I mean. Why, something happen?”

Curly checked the time on his big watch, light glinting off the brown dome of his skull. “Six hours ago, word came down the ARF liberated one of the big detention centers. Not sure which one, that’s a little fuzzy, I heard ‘Kankakee’, whatever or wherever the fuck that is, but I’m hearing hundreds, maybe thousands of POWs were released.”

“Holy shit,” Weasel said, stunned.

“Rioters,” Ed corrected him, mind racing. “Terrorists. Collaborators. Climate change deniers. Gun criminals. We’re not officially at war, remember? So they can’t be POWs.”

“Whatever, who the fuck cares? They weren’t calling it a gulag or re-education camp, either, but that’s what it was.” He shrugged. “Thought you’d be interested. So,” he said, taking his feet off the scarred wooden desk and standing up, “I’m guessing you need some shit, that’s why we’re all here. What do you need, and what do you have to trade?”

“We need fresh batteries that haven’t been charged a thousand times. New filters for water purifiers. Food. Water. Vitamins. Antibiotics. Clean socks. Underwear. NVGs. A good pair of binoculars, as we’re down to one. Freedom, cold beer, hot dogs, apple pie, and peace on Earth. Pretty much what we always need, except for ammo. That we’re good on. That’s what we’ve got to trade. Five-five-six. Pre-loaded in magazines.”

Curly’s thick eyebrows crawled up his head. He could do the math. This had to be the squad who’d ambushed that patrol. One of the things he traded in was information, and he liked to think he was the most well-informed man in the city. According to his sources the Army had lost a Growler and an IMP and over a dozen troops in a single ambush. Including the Kestrel they’d lost in the Ditch, and the three other soldiers who’d been killed in firefights, the Army was having a surprisingly bad week. Then again, he’d heard of two ARF squads being wiped out, so maybe the Army was in the lead, or at least tied. The amount of activity in the city was unusual. He wondered if it meant something big was going on. “How much?”

“Enough,” Ed said flatly. “Not on us, but close. Some cash, too, if you’re interested. Not sure how much it’s worth this week, I haven’t been paying attention to the stock market. You could use it as wallpaper in here, I guess. What about you?” Curly was the closest thing to organized crime in the city, at least that Ed was familiar with. The man was only interested in profit, which meant he was predictable. Ed liked predictable.

Curly grunted. “Step into my office.” He looked past them. “Kobe, Kanye, stay.”

There was a second door at the back of his office, and Curly went through that and led them into the vacant office space. Most of the rooms were being used for storage of rare and/or valuable items he didn’t want out on the floor, and if the Tabs ever wanted to search them, it would take them hours if not days and they’d never find any contraband. Not that that was any guarantee he wouldn’t get arrested if they felt like it….

The room in the very back corner was dark and cluttered with objects vaguely glimpsed. At the rear was a narrow closet, and Curly stooped to remove a soggy cardboard box filled with CDs and a milk crate stuffed to overflow with dirty toys. Then he grabbed a hidden handle and lifted up the trap door. The hole beneath it was obsidian.

Curly turned on a small flashlight and went down the ladder first. A hole had been pickaxed and sledgehammered through the concrete flooring, but below that the dirt and clay had been dug by hand with shovels. Ed had no idea how long the work had taken, but guessed weeks.

They went down ten feet, then followed a low narrow tunnel directly west. The roof and walls had been reinforced with lumber, but still Ed felt claustrophobic and worried the soil would fall in and crush him. The tunnel ran for seventy feet or so but felt longer because it was so cramped.

At the far end Curly climbed another homemade wooden ladder and banged on a second trap door. Ed noted that he pounded his fist against it five times—every day Curly had a different knock. Still, just to be sure, when the trapdoor was unbolted and raised the men found themselves staring into two flashlights clamped onto the ends of rifles.

Curly just grunted, and the guards moved out of the way and let them climb up the ladder. They came out in the basement of the two-story brown building they’d walked past just to the west of the market, the one with its narrow basement and ground floor windows all boarded up. Behind the plywood sheets were metal reinforcements, and the metal doors were in fact welded shut. Even driving a vehicle into the building to gain access was no sure thing—the first floor was three feet above ground level, and any vehicle would hit the side of the I-beam reinforced concrete floor.

Curly actually had electricity. Ed wasn’t sure how the man had managed that, considering how power seemed to be shut off to the entire city outside of the Blue Zone, but the lights in the basement were on, and he didn’t hear the sound of a generator. One of Curly’s men was in the corner loading 5.56 rifle ammunition on a Dillon press. The rifle brass was mostly scrounged by local kids from sites of firefights, and the Army practice range downtown. Curly paid by the piece. Where the man obtained the bullets, powder, or primers was anyone’s guess. Still, he never had enough to meet demand, and factory-loaded ammunition was always held in higher regard than his handloaded stuff—unless it was his pistol ammo. He sold nine millimeter ammo loaded with lathe-turned, pointed, copper solid bullets which would go through soft body armor.

On the bench behind the man an ancient tube TV was tuned to the local state-controlled channel. The broadcast facility was located in a high-rise in the Blue Zone, one TV and one radio station offering all the news the government approved for public consumption. The broadcast signal was picked up by old-fashioned rabbit ears atop the unit, but the image was still filled with static. Onscreen a talking head was moving his mouth, but the sound on the set was turned down to a murmur.

“Why do you even bother?” Weasel said with a frown, staring at the TV. “You know it’s all lies and bullshit and fake news.”

“If you pay attention to not just what they say but what they don’t,” Curly told him, “especially when you know what’s really going on, you can learn a few things about what they’re really thinking and really worried about.”

On the ground floor, above their heads, Ed knew there were numerous floor- and gun safes filled with various items including guns. Ed had only been up on the second floor once. There were private quarters up there, maybe Curly’s, as well as two belt-fed machineguns set up to cover every approach to the building. Those guns were invisible behind the tinted window glass and reportedly always manned, and they’d walked right under them, through their kill zone, to enter the market. Ed knew Curly wasn’t dumb enough to think those guns would hold off a serious assault by Army troops. More likely they’d be used to buy time to escape.

Moving to a large steel door behind him, Curly produced a big key ring and opened the hefty padlock. It was just one of several storerooms in the building, but the only one Ed had been inside.

“Look around, see if you see anything you like, and maybe we can make a deal.”

Ed paused outside the small storeroom and looked around at the barricaded basement windows, then lifted his head to stare at the ceiling. He made a face, and turned to Curly. “We never talk about security, but all these boards and bars and welds that keep people out are going to do a good job of keeping you in, if you’re in here when the Army finds the other end of that tunnel,” he told the man pointedly.

At first Curly wasn’t sure what angle Ed was trying to work, then he realized, seeing the earnest look on the man’s face, that he was actually concerned for his safety. Curly pursed his lips, then a corner of his mouth ticked up slightly. He nodded at the trap door through which they’d entered, now closed and bolted. “You think there’s only one way in and out of here short of jumpin’ out the windows? That’d be dumb. I strike you as dumb?”

“I told you this was a bad idea, boss.” Harris popped the gum in his mouth and glanced at the leader of Flash. The two men were looking out a second-floor window, above a barbershop that hadn’t been open for business in roughly fifteen years. There was no glass in any of the frames, and they stood well back from the jagged openings.

Bill Condon, aka BabyThor, or just Thor for short (never just Baby), lowered the binoculars and glanced at his second in command. “You’re popping gum and saying ‘I told you so’? You’re allowed one, or the other, not both.” Harris, and the rest of the squad standing behind them, could tell from his tone he was serious.

“Sorry. But, well, shit.”

“Yeah.” Thor lifted the binos again and looked north on Springwells. Beneath them was his magnificent golden beard, which rested on his broad chest. It was just starting to show a little gray, as was the mane of hair on his head. The other part of his nickname had to do with his height, just five foot seven.

Four hundred feet ahead of them Springwells ran into Vernor Highway in a T intersection. The intersection in all three directions was obstructed by disabled vehicles, and Thor could see at least four men wearing gang colors manning the roadblock. He immediately spotted one AK leaning against one of the cars, and knew there would be a lot more. Parked on a sidewalk nearby was a big Harley. He moved a few feet closer to the windows and looked left and right. All the side streets he could see had been blocked to vehicular traffic with burned out car wrecks, overturned dumpsters, curbside mail boxes, and other assorted urban detritus. Anyone moving through the neighborhood was funneled directly to the roadblock.

“This area’s totally run by gangs,” Fast Eddie said behind them. “I’m pretty sure this turf right here is run by the Springwells Saints. Biker gang. I heard they’re affiliated with La Eme.”

“The Mexican Mafia?” Thor asked.

“Yeah. I know they spotted us walking in, I’m actually surprised nobody’s rolled on us.”

“We’ve all got fucking rifles,” Harris pointed out. “They can see we’re doggies, I bet they’re hoping we just go away and do our thing, so they can keep on doing their thing.”

“Raping, robbing, and terrorizing the locals,” Thor said with a frown.

“Well, yeah.” But Harris knew what that tone meant. They all did. He sighed. Loudly.

“We’ve got somewhere to be tomorrow,” Splatter reminded his squad leader. “And we’ve still got, what, five miles to go? Uncle Charlie—”

“Uncle Charlie may or may not have a thing going on tomorrow for us. Sounded big, but who the fuck knows? We might get there and find nothing. Or it could just be a water drop, remember last year when he directed us to that cache of water bottles and Gatorade mix? Not that I couldn’t use some fresh water about now, much less some electrolytes, but asshole criminals,” he nodded in the direction of the roadblock, “are just as bad as the Tabs.”

Thor studied the church on the other side of the side street ironically named Senator. Divinity Ev Lutheran Church he could just read on the stone set into the bricks beside the front door. There was a date also but it had been defaced. Maybe 1917? Brick and stone, solidly built. The doors and windows were boarded up and looked like they had been for decades. Gang signs had been painted all over the exterior of the church. “What is that, three stories?” He peered out the other windows. “That’s about the tallest thing around. I bet we could get a good view of that roadblock from the top of that tower.”

He turned around. “Eddie, Max, Chaco, you guys stay here. The rest of you, come with me, and we’ll see what we see from that church. I decide to take a shot, you guys staying here, you watch our backs and take out any inbound assholes. I’m not worried, and you shouldn’t be either. These fuckers might be professional shitheads, but I bet none of them can shoot worth shit, and it doesn’t look like they’re wearing armor either.”

Thor and three of his men exited the rear of the building into the alley. They walked across Senator to the rear of the church, where there was a narrow boarded-up door, covered with graffiti. It didn’t take them much effort to get inside.

With all the windows covered by plywood they had to turn on their flashlights to see. There were signs and sounds of rodents all around them, scurrying for cover. It took them ten minutes of poking around before they discovered the only place on the north side of the church from which they could see anything was a narrow vertical vent in the attic.

“I want one of you guys at the back door, and somebody else pry some wood off a window so you can see west,” he told his men. “If the other guys start shooting, I want you to be able to see what they’re shooting at.”

Thor slowly and as quietly as possible pried the old wooden slats out of the attic vent, eventually opening a rectangle six inches wide by sixteen tall. He set his backpack down and went prone behind it. The pack made a good rest for his rifle.

His Bravo Company Recce-16 was topped with a Trijicon 1-8X AccuPower rifle scope. There was a SureFire SOCOM suppressor attached to his muzzle which he’d liberated after a firefight several years earlier. He cranked the magnification on his scope all the way up, settled behind the rifle, and studied the roadblock. The tip of his suppressor was a foot back from the narrow opening, but still he had a more than wide-enough view to see all of the intersection. From his new perch he could see even more of it than he’d been able to from above the barbershop. Harris was squatting directly behind him, peering through the 10X binos.

“What is that, a hundred and fifty yards?” Thor said quietly, his cheek pressed against the stock of his rifle. His rifle and scope were zeroed at one hundred yards. Drop from there to 150 should be an inch or so, if he remembered his ballistics, not much more than margin of error. The church attic was hot and stuffy, and he could feel sweat dripping off his nose.

“If that. I count four, no five guys, all wearing colors. No armor plates, if they’ve got any armor on it’s the soft stuff, and I’d bet money against that, it’s too hot. I see at least two AKs. What is it with assholes and AKs?”

“Like flies to shit. Uhhh, what is this?”

A middle-aged woman was navigating her way through the roadblock carrying a canvas bag. Several of the men seemed to be shouting at her, and laughing. One man jumped down and strode cockily over to her. He looked inside her bag, reached in, and withdrew an apple. He tossed it to one of the other gang members, grabbed another apple out of her bag, then waved her on.

“Tribute?” Thor muttered.

“Road toll,” Harris announced. The woman kept her face blank as she walked down Springwells away from the men. After a block she turned aside and disappeared into the neighborhood. He paused. “Live and let live?”

“Fuck no,” Thor said, wiggling in tight behind the rifle. “Fuck that.” It was hard to get into a comfortable prone position on plywood while wearing hard body armor. “Fuck those guys.”

“Roger that,” Harris said, unsurprised. Thor had a zero-tolerance policy for bad guys. He turned and announced, “Going loud,” in a voice loud enough for the other men in the church with them to hear. Community outreach commencing in 3… 2… 1….

Thor had a clean backdrop, just a row of busted storefronts. With five unarmored targets he decided speed was more important than precision. He centered the reticle of his scope on the chest of the most visible man at the roadblock, sitting on the hood of a wheel-less Buick, and began squeezing the trigger of his carbine. The rifle bucked, the supersonic crack of the bullet loud, but the suppressor absorbed most of the blast.

Between the weight of the scope and the suppressor the BCM Recce barely recoiled and Thor saw the impact. As the man, seemingly in slow motion, began to topple backward, he moved the reticle to the next closest gang member and broke the trigger quickly.

The three remaining gang members finally realized they were taking fire and dove for cover. However, because of the suppressor and the way sound echoed in the urban environment, while they heard the crack of the shots the men weren’t sure where they were coming from. Thor shot the third man as he crouched beside an overturned and fire-gutted Ford Bronco, looking in the wrong direction. The remaining two opened up with their AKs on full auto, spraying bullets everywhere.

One of the men finished emptying his thirty-round magazine. He was mostly out of sight behind the vehicles, but Thor aimed at what he could see, a shoulder, and scored a hit. Even four hundred feet away he could hear the man’s screams. The lone uninjured man must have done a reload, because he popped up and fired another thirty-round magazine—once again, in the wrong direction. Thor shot him in the neck and the man grabbed at his throat and dropped to the ground, flopping. Thor shot him again in the chest and the man stopped moving.

The screaming faded away, but whether that was because the shoulder-hit man had died or lost consciousness or some other reason was impossible to determine. Thor scanned the intersection through his scope. He couldn’t see anyone moving, then suddenly one of the gang members, maybe the screamer, was struggling atop the Harley. Apparently his plan was to start the motorcycle and drive away? Thor shot him in the side of his chest and the man fell backward, the Harley going down on top of him.

“Like I said, fuck those guys,” Thor said with some venom. “What I want to know is, where the fuck did they find full-auto AKs?”

“Conversions?” Harris opined, looking through the binoculars.

“Those guys don’t look like they could convert beer to piss. I’d like to take a look at those guns, see where they’re from. See if those rumors we’ve heard about China and Russia helping out the Tabs are true.”

The two dogsoldiers heard an incoming rumble, growing louder. Motorcycles. A lot of them.

“I think you may have to wait a bit on that, boss.”

“What part of the city you grow up in?” Barb asked Quentin. They were walking back toward the general store after dropping off the case of energy bars with the rest of Theodore. Barb had ten loaded magazines weighing down her shoulder bag, but she wasn’t complaining. They were sharing an energy bar and a bottle of water.

“I didn’t.”

“Oh? I thought you were a local.”

“Grew up in Toledo. Only came here a couple years after the fighting started, once I started thinking for myself and figured out who the bad guys really were. Which… feels like my whole life.”

“I hear that.”

Quentin glanced at her. Barb had a lot of gray hair. “You’ve got kids, right?”

She nodded. “Grandkids.”

“In the city?”

“No, they went south. Begged me to go too, when all this craziness started, but I guess I’m stupid and crazy. Least that’s what my girl Jackie told me. This is my city, so I’m going to stick by it.” She shrugged. “I never thought I was political, but after working two jobs and raising four kids to always do the right thing, a government shutting down websites and putting people in jail just for criticizing it was enough to get my back up, and that was before they doubled my taxes to pay for all the new government programs, gave the right to vote to illegals and unending free shit to lazy asses who don’t do nothing but vote for more free shit for theyselves.”

Quentin snorted. “You sound like my uncle.”

They reached the last house before the market. It was almost directly across the street from the boarded-up two story brown brick building where Curly kept all the good stuff, and Quentin guessed Ed and Weasel were inside there now. He glanced over at the building, but couldn’t see anything on the second floor through the reflective tint on the windows.

“I’m gonna hang here, wait for Ed and Weez to finish their business,” Quentin told Barb. He didn’t want to hang around inside the market, not with half a dozen soldiers there.

“You mind some company?”

“No ma’am.”

“Don’t you do that. Don’t you dare. I already feel old enough. You call me ma’am again and I’ll kick your ass. And don’t call me auntie, I hate that shit too.”

They were both laughing as they moved into the shade of the front porch. Quentin sat down on one of two chairs that somehow hadn’t been stolen or vandalized. Barb stepped up to the front door and knocked, getting a surprised look from her companion.

“Plenty ‘a houses in this city look abandoned, but ain’t,” she told him. “Doesn’t pay to advertise you might have stuff to steal. But if we’re going to sit on their porch, it’s only polite to ask permission first if someone’s here.”

No one responded to her knock, and after peering through one of the grimy windows, she took the chair opposite Quentin. They sat for a while on the porch, staring off in the distance, lost in their own thoughts.

“It’s going to come back.”

“What?” Quentin looked up. “What is?”

“The city,” she told him. “It’s been going downhill since I was a girl. The riots, white flight, black flight, Murder Capital, Devil’s Night fires, corrupt hip hop mayors, worthless city councils… the war’s just the latest thing, you know? But you look at what’s going on in there,” she gestured at the hulk of the market, “and the rest of the city. Folks making it, putting in the work that needs to be done. It’s the people that make a city. A city ain’t the houses or the streets or the sidewalks, it’s the people who live there. The people who are here, who are still here after all this, they know how to put in the work. Are putting in the work, in spite of everything.”

“A city may be people, but you still need roads and houses. How much of the city is even standing?” he wondered.

“You’d be surprised. It won’t be the same,” she agreed. “More garden and farmland inside the city limits than since the French and British were fightin’ each other ‘round here. Or was it the French and Indians? Don’t matter. What matters is that the people who are still here are stubborn, and they know how to work. If they didn’t know, they learned. I think, probably, that the same is true for the people all over this country. The war didn’t get rid of all the lazy weak people, but it sure thinned the herd, you know? Once we get through this, it’ll be an uphill road, but it’ll be a better country. Maybe not for us, but for my grandbabies.”

“I never took you for an optimist.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Is that what I am? I think it’s more nature than anything else. Nature moves in cycles. Things have been so bad for so long here, I think it has to get better, to balance everything out.”

Quentin just grunted. He didn’t know what he believed any more.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Everyone clear on the next RP?” Ed asked. “We’ve got a couple hours before dark, but the move is only a mile and a half or so. No need to hurry. We’ve got a lot of houses in this area but not many people, so there are plenty of bolt-holes if you need them. I want big intervals and multiple routes of travel, so anyone paying attention, even an eye in the sky, won’t be sure we’re all together. And don’t be obvious with your rifles, if possible. What’d we codename this one, Happy Indian?” He looked around the table. The house they were heading to was on Cheyenne just south of Joy Road—their codenames were simple so they were easy to remember.

“Yeah,” Mark told him.

There was a safe house operated by the “underground railroad” less than half a mile from Happy Indian, but Ed didn’t want to use it. Didn’t even want to go near it. It was known, and used, by a number of dogsoldiers, and he wanted Theodore to keep as low a profile as possible before arriving at Uncle Charlie’s rendezvous. That included avoiding other squads.

“We’re only four miles from where this “family reunion” is happening, and we’ve got a couple of days to get there. The closer we get to Uncle Charlie’s meeting time the more careful I want to be. I’ve got a feeling, I think this is big. Franklin got the word, and I don’t know if Mickey is going but they obviously knew about it as well.”

The squad was standing around the kitchen table where he’d spread out his deteriorating map. The mood was good as everyone was full up on energy bars, fresh water, and some of Renny’s venison jerky, plus Ed had acquired a surprising number of much-needed items. A dozen new-in-the-packaging rechargeable lithium batteries, twenty bottles of water now distributed among their packs, six military MREs, half a bottle of children’s gummi multi-vitamins, a fifty-round box of Curly’s specialty 9mm ammo for Weasel, one bottle of amoxicillin, a Survivor Filter water bottle, and an honest-to-God mini drone. It was a commercial product and seemed almost new, and Curly had both the controller and owner’s manual. The squad hadn’t had a working drone in forever. For all of that Ed had traded Curly a total of twenty-five loaded magazines and two grenades, but even after donating an additional ten magazines to Mickey every AR carrier in Theodore had nearly fifteen 30-round magazines.

Uncle Charlie’s rendezvous spot was almost four miles directly north of their current location, but Ed didn’t want to head straight in. The squad would be heading north and a bit west to a house they’d laid up in before. It had several rain traps, and a few engineered leaks in the roof to keep two mattresses and several blankets wet to provide cover from the thermal imagers on the Kestrels.

“You think it’s somehow related to that detention center raid?” Weasel asked. They’d spread the word about that to the rest of the squad.

Ed looked at George, then Early, and all three men shook their heads in agreement. “I don’t see how it could be,” Ed said. “Not directly.”

George added, “There are no detention centers within five hundred miles of here. That we’ve heard about, at least, but definitely not in the metro area. Just the jail the Tabs are running downtown, and I don’t know how many people are even in that. And if that’s what someone at the ARF brain trust has in mind for us, raiding that, we might all have to think about doing a hard pass. Place is a fortress, and every Toad they’ve got is two minutes away. It’d be suicide.”

“You hear anything at the general store, people you overheard, or from Mickey or talking to Curly? Any sense that something unusual’s going on?”

Ed shook his head. “No. Mickey might have intel, but if they’ve got it and we’re not cleared we’ll never know about it. Shelly makes me look like a neighborhood gossip. She probably knows where Hoffa’s buried and who really shot JFK.”

“Those chicks are tight with operational security,” Weasel agreed.

“Barb’d carve you like a turkey if she heard you call her a chick,” Mark scolded him. That every woman on Mickey carried a hidden knife in addition to whatever guns they might have was an unverified rumor everyone believed. The rumor implied it was a result of rapes, or attempted rapes, back when the war was new, which was completely plausible. The city was hellishly dangerous for anyone, but especially women, and the city was Disneyland for women compared to Thunderdome.

“What’s Hoffa?” Jason asked.

“Sweet Jesus, son, you make me feel old,” Early said to him, frowning.

Since he was already irritating the man with questions, Jason decided on one more. “Why do we call them Tabs?”

Early blinked. “I guess I don’t know.”

“I do,” George said. He fixed Jason with a stare, and as he told the story the rest of the squad listened in, as only a few had ever heard it before. “Early on at the beginning of all this shit, before the shooting really started, a TV news crew got invited to tag along with a federal tactical unit that was doing a raid on a house. Nice house, in the suburbs somewhere. The raid team is all in black, body armor, rifles, helmets, balaclavas, the whole tactical ninja look. If I remember correctly they’d gotten a tip that the homeowner had some banned guns he hadn’t turned in for destruction. Knocked down the front door with a ram, came in shouting, whole shock and awe thing, but all they did was scare the crap out of the guy and his family who were watching TV. Kept him in handcuffs and the wife and kids at gunpoint while they searched the place. They didn’t find any banned guns, just a couple of bolt action .22 rifles that you’d use for plinking or shooting squirrels. This was after they outlawed all the scary evil black guns, but before they banned all firearms.

“But, see, they weren’t happy about that, they wanted to look like heroes in front of the cameras. So, when they found some leftover PVC pipe in his basement that he’d used to repair one of his sinks they arrested him for constructive intent to build silencers. Which is a federal felony. Multiple federal felonies, one for every piece of plastic tubing. So they tell him this, guys in body armor and helmets yanking him up, telling him he’s going to federal prison for a couple decades, right in front of his little girls who are terrified and his wife is crying. The guy is completely in shock, because he’s not a criminal, he doesn’t know shit about silencers, doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong, hell, he hasn’t done anything wrong, and he keeps saying they’ve got the wrong guy, that there’s been a mistake. He keeps saying over and over again that they’re making a mistake. And the head SWAT guy is playing it up for the cameras, being a smartass, and says, laughing it up, ‘Like I haven’t heard that before. Put it on my tab.’ That video got shown on the evening news, and it didn’t get much attention, at least not until the guy got shanked in jail later that week and died. Then it exploded all over social media. He became a martyr for the cause, shall we say. And right about then is when a lot of people decided to take a stand and shit went seriously sideways.”

“I never heard that before,” Renny admitted.

“I have,” Weasel said bitterly. He frowned at George. “That happen before or after you took out that fed raid team?”

“It happened two weeks after I went on the run,” George said. “Helped me confirm I’d made the right decision. Time to go. Christ,” he muttered, shouldering his pack. He shook his head and gave Ed a wry smile. “I suppose I shouldn’t complain since the weight is all water and ammo.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Ed cocked his head at Jason, who was looking a little unsure at the thought of a solo patrol. “Kid, you wandered around the city for a week looking for us. Now you’ve got a better gun, armor, grenades, and half a dozen guys who’ll come running in your direction if they hear anything. You’ll be fine.”

The houses were mostly two-story duplexes with red brick and white siding, nearly all the streets running due north/south and east/west. There were few trees, at least at first, and the men of Theodore felt very exposed, which is exactly why Ed had them stagger their departures and routes so much, so they looked anything like a military unit on the move. Mark and Weasel walked west into the Fire Nation before turning north. Jason had instructions to move a block or two east before turning north, and George was five minutes behind him. Renny headed directly north, Quentin followed ten minutes after him, and Ed ambled after him a few minutes later. Early was the last person to leave the house.

Jason had been told to not be in any hurry, that stealth was more important than speed. Still, he had to fight the urge to move fast. The yards were mostly overgrown, but there were occasional signs of habitation or people passing through the area. He walked slowly through the grass close to the residences, pausing frequently to look around and listen, ready to duck between houses if he heard vehicles or aircraft.

After a quarter mile the two-story duplexes shrank to small brick bungalows. He passed several diamond-shaped orange signs warning of road construction ahead. After ten years in the sun and wind their orange had faded to a pale peach. He never saw any evidence of actual construction.

The new rifle still felt strange in his hand, but he was getting used to the armor plates squeezing his chest and back. His backpack was heavy with ammo and water, but for once he didn’t mind. He took a brief pause after moving a third of a mile or so. The houses here were stacked close together, separated only by the width of their driveways, and he stood in the shadow between two houses, sipping a bottle of water, watching and listening. Nearly every house had a detached one- or two-car garage in back, some of them in very poor condition. All of the back yards were fenced as well, which would have made travel through them slow and noisy.

Most of the houses had their first floors four feet or so above ground level, and their covered porches were six steps off the front sidewalk. When moving through neighborhoods Jason always felt there were dozens of eyes following him, but knew this was probably his imagination. Probably.

He relieved himself against the side of the house, put the half-empty bottle of water into a side pocket of his pack, and moved out again. On the next block he passed behind the hulk of an elementary school. It was an old building, with an ornate brick chimney. The building itself seemed undamaged, but it was dark and quiet.

A few hundred yards farther up was a major cross-street, Warren Avenue, code-named Pocahontas by the dogsoldiers for some unknown reason, eventually shortened to Poke. There were one-story businesses lining either side of the road, which was two lanes in each direction.

He crossed an alley. There was a bakery on the right and the fire-scarred shell of a strip mall on the left. Across Poke was a large gray building that looked like a warehouse and from the signage used to be a wholesale distributor. Of what, he had no idea.

Jason stepped through a hole in the cinderblock wall and stood inside the end store of the destroyed strip mall. He moved through the debris toward the front of the store and looked out at the street, craning his head to peer as far as he could in both directions, east and west. He’d traveled half a mile in not much more than twenty minutes, so he had plenty of time.

A shirtless man rode a bicycle down the middle of Pocahontas, his chain squeaking. The squeaking brought three dogs out of the ruined door of the bakery. They stared after the bicyclist and sniffed the air. One was a cute black and white collie, the other a huge brindle boxer, and the third a short-haired white terrier who couldn’t have weighed fifteen pounds. After a few seconds of indecision they headed south, retracing Jason’s route, trotting along the sidewalk.

Several hundred yards west in the middle of Pocahontas was something large and dark. It rose from the center of the street and from his vantage point it looked like a big piece of furniture sitting in a sinkhole, but Jason knew that couldn’t be right. Stretching out behind it, running down the street past him and heading east into the distance were two wide marks on the pavement he couldn’t quite understand.

As he tried to figure out what he was looking at, his mind wandered. Joining up with ARF… it wasn’t what he’d thought it would be. He’d thought he’d get a uniform and be with a bunch of other guys his age, marching and training and then fighting. He realized now that was totally idiotic. That’s not what the war was, at least not here, and maybe not anywhere.

The men of Theodore weren’t what he was expecting either. Then again… they were. Ed looked like an accountant, but he had the confidence and ease of command and carried himself like the experienced veteran he was. George seemed the closest thing to a professional soldier of anyone in the squad and had cut the throats of two downed soldiers so emotionlessly it had chilled Jason to the bone. Early appeared to be just a dumb redneck, but for a big man with a big gun he could move without making a sound and was far smarter than he first seemed. Quentin, Weasel, Mark… none of them were who or what he’d pictured when he’d thought of dogsoldiers. And yet that’s exactly who they were. What they were. None of them had been professional soldiers, they were just ordinary people who’d been forced, or chosen, to become soldiers. Like himself, he supposed.

And here he was, on his own, trusted, wearing armor and carrying a full-auto military rifle, inside the infamous city itself, heading to some sort of secret rendezvous. Truthfully he felt like a fraud, still only playing at being a soldier, but vowed to live up to the expectations of everyone else in Theodore.

The unplanned ambush of the Army column… he still had nightmares and flashbacks of that, and the rocket destroying the pickup containing all of Franklin. But he’d gotten up, kept moving. Kept shooting. He’d been in a gunfight with soldiers. Killed two, even.

He’d been so mad, for so long. The first soldier he’d killed, running away… the man hadn’t specifically been an employee of the horrific government healthcare system whose policies had killed Jason’s mother, but he’d been fighting for those same people. The soldier defended them, supported them, and went after those people who just wanted to be free, and left alone. Just the thought of how his mother had suffered, how much pain she’d been in… she’d looked like a skeleton there at the end. The rage flared in Jason, making his face hot, and he muscled it back down as he’d been doing ever since she’d died. Swallowed the tears that wanted to come out, and gripped his rifle tighter.

Taking one last look around just to make sure, Jason took a deep breath, then stepped out of the cover of the store and walked down the front of the strip mall, rifle held inconspicuously underneath his arm. His eyes were up, scanning the street ahead of and behind him, the doorways of the businesses, the windows, anywhere and everywhere. After all his time looking for the dogsoldiers, and moving through the city, scanning the area around him had become automatic.

The strip mall ended. He strode quickly through the adjacent parking lot, crossed a side street, and moved to the front of a two-story commercial building. He stepped into a doorway and took a minute to study the road in both directions. He heard laughing somewhere distant, and spotted two seagulls wheeling through the air, but that was it. Finally, assured there were no immediate threats, he walked out into the middle of Pocahontas.

It was the back end of a tank jutting out of a gigantic hole in the middle of the four-lane road. A Toad, he assumed, but he didn’t know anything about tanks. He moved gingerly to the edge of the hole and looked down. The tank was nose down in the hole, its main gun wedged deeply into the damp earth at the bottom of the pit, which had to be ten feet deep. The tank itself was huge; he’d had no idea the machines were so large, he’d assumed they were the size of minivans or something, but the Toad was massive—eight feet tall, seemingly wider than a traffic lane, and as long as two small cars bumper to bumper. Then again, the IMP had been huge too, especially with that big cage welded around it. Unlike most cars whose metalwork seemed just barely strong enough to hold itself together, the Toad was constructed of massive slabs of steel that seemed impenetrable. He couldn’t even imagine facing one of them in battle. And yet… this Toad had been destroyed.

It had been burned, and there was significant damage from explosions. The hatch on the turret was open, and there was a large hole just behind the turret. Was that where the engine was? He wasn’t sure, but that seemed likely, he didn’t see anything else that looked like a likely spot for it. Whatever had been on the other side of the metal cover had been shredded. The Toad had clearly been in the hole a long time. It must have been so severely damaged that the Army had just left it.

The two wide stripes running down the street behind it were pavement, or at least had been before the tank’s treads had chewed it up and spit it out. He could only imagine how heavy the tank was with all that armor. Even though the bottom of the tank treads were flat and maybe six inches front to back, with all that weight pressing down on them they’d chewed into the asphalt like a dull chainsaw.

Jason walked all the way around the vanquished tank, staring at it from every angle. Finally satisfied, he jogged to the far curb. On the north side he moved into the overgrown grass of the neighborhood and quickly disappeared from sight.

Early was the last member of the squad to arrive at Happy Indian, appearing silently in the long grass in front of the small concrete pad that served as a porch as the stars began appearing in the darkening sky. He walked around the side of the house and entered through the door there.

“House still good?” he asked George, meaning the water traps and deliberately soggy mattresses used to defeat thermal cameras.

“Yeah. But Ed didn’t want us all bunched up here, and I don’t know that he’s wrong. Quentin and Jason are right across the street with him. Head over there.”

Early peered out the front windows of the house, which were intact. He looked up and down the street, then headed over.

The house directly across the narrow asphalt street was nearly identical to Happy Indian. Both were two-story cubes, the second floor clad in white siding, the first in red brick, with detached two car garages to the rear. On the north side of both houses were vacant lots where, once, houses had stood, but they’d been torn down long ago. The former residents of the house now known to the dogsoldiers as Happy Indian had claimed the lot next to their house as their own, landscaped the yard, even extended their fence to enclose it. Past the vacant lots was the alley behind the businesses on Joy Road. Or, at least, what had once been an alley.

The alley had been so overgrown for so long it had nearly completely reverted to nature and was almost unrecognizable as having once been a street. Small chunks of heaved and cracked asphalt peeked from between patches of grass, tangled tufts of weed, and were shadowed by bushes and trees leaning over the alley from either side. The residents treated the alley like an extension of their yards and had for years before the war.

An hour after sunset Mark was on watch on the second floor of the house, his SAW set up nearby on a desk, the squad’s binoculars hanging around his neck. There wasn’t a lot to see out of the windows, but they were all thrown wide open, as listening was often as important as seeing. The squads tended to prefer two story structures as safehouses for a number of reasons. The taller buildings gave them better visibility, and the additional floor provided more clutter to confuse a Kestrel’s thermal imager. Also, technically, you could jump out of a second-floor window in an emergency, although just the thought of doing that while wearing forty-plus pounds of gear made Mark think warmly back to the days when filing work comp claims was a thing.

He paused, blinked, and then cocked his head. He moved to one of the windows and took a couple of breaths, then strode to the upstairs hallway and looked down the stairs. Just as he got there, George appeared at the bottom of the stairs on the first floor.

“You smell that?” George asked him quietly.

“Yeah, I was just gonna ask you,” Mark said. Somebody was cooking over a fire. Somewhere close.

“I’ll check it out. Stay here,” George said to Weasel. He found Renny in the front room. “Let’s go meet the neighbors,” he told the newest member of the squad with a jerk of his head. Any activity that close to where the squad wanted to bed down for the night had to be investigated, and he also wanted to see how the man performed. Renny looked at his big rifle leaning against the wall next to his backpack and decided to leave them both there. He followed George out the side door.

George moved a few steps away from the house and stood in the cool night air for a few moments. The smell of cooking meat was stronger outside. He turned his head this way and that, finally determining that the light breeze was coming in from the northwest.

His eyes were mostly adjusted to the dark but the moon wasn’t up yet. AR on its sling across his chest he moved slowly across the lawn of the house. He didn’t want to trip on an unseen obstacle or otherwise injure himself by being in a hurry when he didn’t need to be.

He found the chain link fence bordering the yard by sense more than anything else. It was only waist high and he climbed it carefully and quietly. He moved forward into the next vacant yard, hearing Renny moving over the fence behind him.

Another thirty feet and he saw the flickering orange of flames. George looked around, getting his bearings, and realized the fire had to be deep in the alley on the block just west of Happy Indian. He moved silently across the lawn then veered left so that when he crossed the street he wouldn’t be on a direct line towards the fire.

As he drew close he moved ever slower, not knowing how many people were at the cooking fire or who they were. When he was twenty feet away, a thick row of overgrown bushes between him and the fire, he heard muttering. George stopped and listened. He could hear someone moving around, and occasional mumbled words. Then the man passed between the fire and George, clearly silhouetted for a brief moment. One person. Maybe there were more, but he didn’t think so.

Easing forward, George slid between two bushes, then came out on the far side. He pushed through the branches until he was fully revealed by the firelight. “Evening,” he said quietly, holding his left hand up, palm out

The muttering man was on the far side of the fire and jumped up at George’s words. He spun around, a long knife gleaming in his hand. He’d built a small fire on the ground and over it, supported by several cinder blocks, was a large pot. From the sound it was nearly on the boil. The man was bone skinny, his cheekbones hard corners on his skull. His stained clothes hung off him, and it was hard to tell in the dancing orange light if he had brown skin or was just very dirty. “You!” he said, jabbing the knife at George. “You don’t get none! Mine. My meat! No thieves. Thieves get cut!” He shook the knife at George again.

The man was a dozen feet away and George had one hand on the pistol grip of his AR, and was still wearing his hard armor plates, so he wasn’t too worried about the man’s knife. If he had a gun it was hidden.

“No, it’s your meat. I’m not a thief. I just smelled the fire and thought I’d come over and say hello.” His eyes darted left and right but he wasn’t sure where Renny was. “I was just passing through the neighborhood. You live here?”

“Not answering your questions. Don’t have to answer your questions!” the man said, shaking the knife at George again, making odd twitches with his head.

“No, you don’t,” George said placatingly, pretty sure the man was suffering from some sort of mental illness. Not too surprising or unusual, actually, with the city in the condition it was. Most of the sane people were long gone. “I’ve got an energy bar, would you maybe want to trade for a little meat?”

The man peered at him suspiciously, and Renny appeared silently on the edge of the firelight on the far side of the small clearing, almost behind the man. He’d circled around, just in case. George slowly pulled the energy bar out of the cargo pocket of his pants. “Trade?” the man said dubiously, his lips pulling back from his teeth. If it was supposed to be a smile it was frightening.

“Sure. If you want.” George shrugged. “If not, I’ll leave you alone.” The man definitely seemed to be alone, and not quite right in the head. A 10-96, using the official designation from his previous life. A wing nut, to use the much more common cop slang.

The man took a few steps toward George around the fire. The knife was still in his hand but looked forgotten. George kept his eyes on the man but Renny was in his peripheral vision. Renny took two steps further into the light and glanced down at the fire. He blinked, stared hard at the fire a few long seconds, then grabbed the Glock holstered across his chest and without hesitation shot the emaciated man in the back of the head. With the suppressor threaded onto the end of the barrel the gunshot was just a loud pop.

“What the fuck!” George shouted, his AR coming up to point at Renny even before the strange man’s body had hit the ground.

“Look in the pot! Look in the pot!” Renny yelled to George, pointing his shaking Glock at the still form on the ground.

AR up and still pointed at Renny, George moved close to the fire and looked to see what Renny was upset about. After a few seconds the AR fell out of his hands and bounced on its sling. George bent down closer, he couldn’t help himself, then suddenly spun and dashed away from the boiling pot. His vomiting was surprisingly loud in the dark.

“Jesus Christ,” George said, finally staggering back into view, wiping a hand across his mouth, staring at the pot and what was on the ground behind the fire. “I almost traded him.” The cooking meat had smelled so good… the thought of what he’d nearly eaten almost made him throw up again. The memory of the tasty smell made his stomach churn. He wrapped an arm around his face in an attempt to cover his nose and block the smell. He blinked away tears, whose very presence unnerved him. He told himself it was the woodsmoke.

“Yeah.” Renny stared at the pot and the badly butchered chunks on the ground next to the fire. “Should we… should we bury her? What’s left of her?”

George’s sigh was long. What he really wanted to do was run away. Screaming. Maybe crying. Instead he said, “Yeah. I suppose we should.” His hand moved up to the handle of his knife. “Do you have a knife?”

“For digging? I’ve got a knife, but I’ve actually got a folding shovel in my pack. I kept thinking I should ditch it, but never did. Want me to get that?”

“Yeah, that’d be better. Is he dead?”

Renny looked over at the unmoving form facedown on the ground, then quickly strode over to the man and shot him twice more in the back of the head, the suppressed gunshots loud in the quiet. “He is now.” He paused. “I’m not burying him,” he said with sudden vitriol.

George nodded. “No, neither am I. Fuck that guy. Leave him for the dogs.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“So what do we know?” Ed asked.

He’d sent Quentin and Weasel out to recon the rendezvous location indicated by Uncle Charlie. On his map it was just a featureless green square, a thousand feet on a side, the “Adams-Butzel Recreation Complex”, and they needed more information. The two men had ditched their rifles and armor before heading out.

The squad had approached from the south late the day before and holed up in just about the only suitable building anywhere near the site, an auto repair shop to the southwest. Technically it wasn’t a two-story business, but it had a very high ceiling and there were glass block windows up near the roof. Empty metal racks probably meant for tires provided easy access to the damaged windows. Both Ed and George had spent time looking through the fractured glass block windows with binoculars, but couldn’t see much of anything. A lot of trees, and maybe in the distance a brown roof. Quentin and Weasel had headed out in the morning and immediately separated. Both had been gone over four hours, but returned within minutes of each other.

“I circled counter-clockwise, Q went clockwise,” Weasel said as they stood around a desk in the office of the auto repair shop. They’d found some paper and a grease pencil for notes. “You’ve got the pencil, you go first,” he told Quentin, who nodded. Jason was up on the roof on watch, having climbed a pile of tires behind the building.

“Okay, basically you’ve got a big square,” Quentin said, drawing one on the back of a parts order form. “Quarter mile on a side or so. We’re just off the southwest corner.” He pointed. “The only buildings are at the southeast corner. The rest of the land is for sports. Was. Tennis courts, baseball diamond, probably other stuff I couldn’t see because the grass was two feet tall. Doesn’t look like any of it’s being used. There’s tracks through the grass from people walking, but it looks like locals, one guy here, two people there.” He made a few marks on the paper. “On the west side here, across Meyers, it’s all businesses. Industrial stuff, machine shops or whatever, small, one-story buildings and big vacant lots full of weeds. But you can’t see into or out of them because there’s a six-foot fence running along the sidewalk.” He drew a solid line. “Corduroy aluminum or whatever the hell you call it. Can’t see through it, and climbing it would be a bitch. I’m guessing it was meant to keep the kids at the sports complex from getting into trouble if they wanted to bail out of practice early.”

“North side of the square is all neighborhood. There are half a dozen streets that head down south and then dead-end at the property line, like,” he gestured with his hand, fingers splayed downward, “the teeth of a comb. You can walk down them. Once you reach the dead end there are hundreds of yards of open field before you get to the complex buildings on the south side. Wide open. If we took a house there, we’d be a hair closer, but we’d be looking at the side or back of the complex, and there’s nothing to see. The east side of the property is a residential street. Houses back up to the complex property. You can’t really see shit from over there between the houses and the garages. Then, once you turn the corner on Lyndon and start heading back this way along the south side, the sports complex buildings are right there. Or maybe it’s just one building, I couldn’t tell if they were connected. Different height roofs, looks like a school.” He shrugged. “I saw a few people on foot in the neighborhoods, but didn’t see anything at the big building itself. No sign of life.” He paused. “Don’t know if that’s good or bad. Metal doors all around the building, but they’re all closed, and I’d bet locked. Only sure way in looks like the front door. Glass and windows there, couldn’t really see how much of it was busted.”

“Hmm.” Ed stared at the hand-drawn map, and then at the blank green square on his city map that was the site. “Weasel?”

“South side of the property is Lyndon. Along Lyndon, for pretty much the entire length, is a junk yard. Well, junk yard, tow lot, auto repair, maybe something having to do with construction or the cement business, there was a mountain of busted concrete, but the thing is the place is giant, and there’s that same kind of fence Q was talking about running all along the sidewalk on Lyndon. There are no slits in the slats,” he blinked at the sound of that, then continued, “so you can’t easily see into the yard. Or out. The office of the junk yard, though, is almost directly across the street from the sports complex building where we’re supposed to go. And there’s no fence blocking the view there. We could slide through the gap in that fence right next door and we’re in the junk yard. Far side of it is the office, and from there we’re practically on top of that place, we could set up there and see anybody and everybody coming and going. It’s really the only place we could position ourselves anywhere near it, and the only place where you can see shit unless you want to loiter on the sidewalk.”

“You go in there? The junk yard?”

Weasel shook his head. “I just wandered around, trying to look harmless and homeless.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I bet Jason can see into it halfway decent. There are a few trees in the way, but with binos you’ll probably get a pretty good eyeball on the whole place including the office all the way across the lot, I don’t think there’s anything tall in there except for those concrete mountains, and they’re in the back.”

“So the sports complex buildings, or building, is huge, and right out in the open, surrounded by open fields, but because of all the fences and how the neighborhood is set up you can’t set up to watch the front door except from one spot, unless you want to stand out in the open?” Early said. He looked at Ed and George. “You think that’s an accident?”

“I doubt it,” George said.

“I think I saw a running track on the north side of the building,” Weasel added. “overgrown to shit, just like everything else. And I think it’s just one building, all connected. But Q’s right, it’s the size of a school. There could be a thousand people packed in there. Or nobody. I didn’t see anybody go in or out of the front doors at all. There is one vehicle in the parking lot, but it’s sitting on rims, all the windows busted out.”

Ed looked around the squad. “Well, we’re still technically a day early. Think we should head to the junk yard office, get a closer look?”

“I think we have to,” Mark said. “Although… if it is a trap, we’ll probably never see it coming.”

“We’re all going into this with our eyes open,” Ed said. “If it is a trap, they probably know we’re here right now. If they’re waiting to jump us at the school, hopefully if we’re smart they shouldn’t be able to get all of us.” He shrugged. “Or, if they do, that we give as good as we got. Should we risk a drone flyover? We’ve got the thing now, we should use it.”

“I can’t think of any reason not to,” George said. “I’ll get it spun up.”

“Assuming we don’t see anything with the drone that we didn’t see walking around the place, head out now?” Weasel asked. “Once we’re inside that junkyard fence, we’re pretty much gonna be invisible to everybody but the eye in the sky. And if he’s already peering down at this little patch of nothing special, four miles from the Blue Zone, we’re fucked anyway.”

“Let’s see what we see with the drone. And I think I want to wait until dark before moving out,” Ed said after thinking on it a bit. “Just to be on the safe side. Renny?”

“Yeah?”

“Think you can get up on the roof with that rifle while we do this drone flyby? That scope’s more powerful than these binoculars, maybe you can see something I don’t. And I’m curious if you can get eyes on that junk yard office from up there.”

Renny looked up at the high ceiling and thought of the way the tire stack had swayed and wiggled while Jason had climbed it. “‘What’d you do in the war, dad?’ ‘Well, son, I broke a hip’,” he muttered, shaking his head, then looked at Ed and said heartily with a big fake smile, “Sure, what could go wrong?”

The rest of the squad broke out in laughter. The old man with the big rifle was still the new man on the squad, but after hearing from George how the bland-faced senior had reflexively executed the cannibal with a shot to the back of the head, followed by two more just to make sure, their comfort and trust levels had gone way up.

Parker stood in the middle of his operations center, hands on his hips, staring up at the display on the big board. His people had plotted all of the significant confirmed and suspected enemy activity in the metropolitan area for the past two weeks up on the large illuminated map. His S3, Major Mike Chamberlain, stood on one side of him, his S2 Major Paul Cooper on the other. Captain Jessie Green, his S7, was standing in the background, just observing as she usually did. That was something new for this war that nobody talked about, the S7 position—Political Officer. Green spent most of her time approving broadcast content for the Voice of the People, censoring whatever needed censoring. She also had access to all electronic communications so she could monitor them for any anti-government sentiment. It was an unpleasant job, so it was no surprise Green was an unpleasant person, but she was very efficient. Around them the soldiers assigned to the OpCenter worked at their stations, staring into widescreen computer monitors.

“If there’s a pattern here, I’m not seeing it,” Parker said.

“Maybe it’s the increased activity itself that’s the red flag,” Cooper replied.

“Hmmm. I’m not sure that it is increased activity,” Parker mused. “Compare it to last summer at this time. Things always pick up this time of year and drop close to zero in the middle of winter, could just be a coincidence that we’ve had so many things happen in such a short period of time.” He turned his head and saw the look on the Major’s face. “I know, probably not,” he said, “playing a little Devil’s Advocate, but I’ll be damned if I see anything here that looks connected or a concerted effort. It’s scattershot. Mike, clear the map, and then bring up everything we’ve had in the past two weeks, in order. I want to go through these all again, see if anything jumps out.”

His S3 cleared the map, then started. “I’ll do sniper activity separately afterward, as so many of those are individuals or one-offs.” He clicked, and a red icon popped up on the city’s northeast side. “August first, a patrol ambushed. Small arms fire. We suffered four dead and a handful wounded. No clue as to enemy strength or numbers or casualties.”

He clicked, and a red icon appeared on the east side of the city. “August third, a checkpoint came under fire. Rifles and one RPG round fired. We went after them, but they disappeared into the city, as usual. We suffered one dead, four wounded. They suffered two EKIA, unknown if any of them were wounded. From the way it went down, that one RPG round they fired was probably the only one they had.”

“I’m surprised they had any, at this late date, to be honest, but they must be getting smuggled in somehow,” Parker observed.

Another click, this icon north of the city, in one of the adjoining suburbs. “Nothing further until the tenth, when Kilo One-Three engaged two vehicles on a bridge over the Ditch. Eight confirmed enemy casualties, but we lost Kilo One-Three and the two aircrew.” He nodded at the Colonel. “RPG, launcher recovered at the scene. We suspect there were more terrorists in the area. Later that night ground forces and Kilo One-Eight engaged what we think were terrorists in the two apartment high-rises here.” He clicked, and a red icon appeared two kilometers directly southwest of where the Kestrel had gone down. “Six confirmed dead, but not sure how many of them were terrorists or just residents. Two enemy weapons were recovered.”

He clicked, and a red dot appeared on the south side of the city. “Next day, August eleventh, patrol takes fire here. Nobody hurt, they just scratched the paint on a few vehicles. Our men never saw who did the shooting, and I’m only including it here because they say they were fired upon by at least two or three people based on the amount of incoming. Later that day,” he clicked and a red dot appeared half a mile east of the previous one, “a truck ran one of our checkpoints. It got shot up pretty bad. Took us an hour, but we found it inside a warehouse. Empty, when we found it. I’m only including this because the troops manning the checkpoint said it looked like the driver and passenger were masked and wearing armor.”

“August twelfth,” he clicked, and a red dot appeared on the city’s west side. “Patrol ambushed, and they booby-trapped an ammo box for the QRF, which should have fucking known better. Sorry, sir.” He also slid a glance at the taciturn Political Officer, but she had no comment. “Fourteen dead, six injured, an IMP and Growler destroyed. Goddamn waste.”

“Next day, a mile plus to the east, a patrol still looking for the group that ambushed the patrol heard some shots and rolled right up on an ARF squad. Took them by surprise. Seven terrorists confirmed dead, we suffered one dead and three badly wounded from a grenade. Unknown if they’re the same squad which ambushed the patrol the day before, but it seems likely, they used grenades there as well. An hour or two later, at the very south end of the city, there was a big turf war between some motorcycle gangs, or at least that’s what we were told by the locals. We had troops in the area that responded to the gunfire, but it was over before they got there. At least ten civilians dead. Not ARF involved, I don’t think, we don’t believe the ARF works with any of the gangs, but still, that’s a big dustup, which is why I’ve got it plotted. And that gets us current.”

Parker frowned as he stared at the map. “Okay, so what about losses to snipers?”

Chamberlain hit several buttons. The map widened to show the entire territory the Army was tasked with controlling. Yellow lights appeared all over the map, in and around the city as well as out in the rural countryside. “Eighteen sniper attacks, which resulted in twelve dead and two wounded. Only one of the snipers was killed. I can scroll through them chronologically, but the pattern seems totally random. This group here,” he reached up and moved his finger down a series of icons stretching from the suburbs into the city, “might be the work of the same sniper, but patrols turned up nothing. Of course, they were all buttoned up, so he had nothing to shoot at, but….”

“What about our SF sniper teams?” Parker asked. “Isn’t one of their responsibilities doing surveillance and acting as scouts? Calling out enemy movements? What the hell are they reporting?”

“Yes,” his S2 told him, “I’ve been in regular radio communication with them. Only one of the teams reported seeing any confirmed enemy movement. They scored two KIA on an ARF squad. They searched the bodies, but no intelligence was recovered. Those four sniper teams, since they’ve been operating in the city, have reported fifty-nine KIA.”

“Fifty-nine?” Parker said incredulously. “Fifty-nine in four days and that’s not major enemy activity? Why wasn’t I told about this?”

“Um, sir,” Cooper said, “only those two that I just mentioned are confirmed enemy combatants. The rest were just citizens spotted with guns or body armor. Mostly guns. And curfew violators. In fact, the majority of their kills were residents ignoring the curfew.”

“Jesus Christ!” Parker threw his hands up. He was shouting. “We’ve got four SF scout/sniper teams out there and all they’re doing is popping idiots with guns and people out after dark?”

His Political Officer cleared her throat. “Possession of firearms and body armor is illegal,” his S7 reminded him. “Under martial law we have the legal right to shoot violators on sight. Same with people violating the curfew. Or looters. Or rioters. Not only is it legal, it seems to me to be a moral imperative, to reinforce proper obedience to the laws of the state.”

“I know that. You don’t think I fucking know that?” Parker paused, took a deep breath, and tried to calm down. “Sorry. And I’m not saying they shouldn’t. But I wanted them here, in the city, to actually hunt down and shoot the goddamn enemy soldiers who have been running around the city killing my men. And I told Barnson exactly that.”

“From what I’ve gleaned talking to those teams, Sir,” Chamberlain told him, “it seems that General Barnson impressed upon them he wanted more of a scorched earth approach. Take out anyone with anything that even looks like a weapon. Enforce the curfew. Put the fear of the God, and the Army, back into the city.”

“Well, while they’ve been terrorizing the locals with their Saturday Night Specials, the ARF has been chewing the shit out of us.” He did the math in his head. “We’ve lost thirty-three people, but almost half of those were in that one ambush. Confirmed terrorist kills twenty-five, if we count everybody in that apartment tower and our two measly sniper kills.” He wasn’t counting the rest of the sniper team kills, shooting people in the city who had guns or were out after dark seemed more like culling the herd of the stupidest animals than actual combat. “That’s high, even for this time of year. I don’t like those numbers one fucking bit. Gentlemen?” He looked around the room.

“I don’t know if this uptick portends some major offensive or not, or if this is some kind of slapdick ARF offensive, but I want random patrols doubled. Night patrols, too. If they’re out there, up to something, I want to flush them out, and hit them hard. You stay on top of things, and if anything happens, any sniper shots, any confirmed enemy contact, some three-legged stray mangy dog barking arf arf arf, I want to be made aware of it immediately. Am I clear?”

The sun was down and the sky filling with stars when most of the squad left the safety of the building and slipped through the gap in the metal fence. Renny was still up on the roof with Jason. Once the man had clambered up there with his powerful rifle and glassed the giant junk yard, he’d crawled across the roof to one of the metal vents and found, as he suspected, that he could talk to Ed inside without having to raise his voice.

“I can see most of one side of that junk yard office,” he told Ed, his hands and stomach burning on the hot tarpaper covering the roof, nose against the metal vent. “A few windows and doors, but nothing moving, there or anywhere else in the lot. Rangefinder says it’s almost three hundred yards exactly, which is nothing for this scope.” Or his rifle, for that matter.

“How well does it work in the dark?” Ed’s voice was faint, but clear.

“Not bad, actually.” On lower magnification it could actually gather light, and he could see more with it than he could his naked eye.

“You stay up there, I want you to cover our asses when we walk over. And Jason can cover your ass. You see something you don’t like, you let us know somehow, I don’t care if you have to put a shot over our heads or between us.”

“Gotcha.”

George had spun the drone in circles five hundred feet over the area, close enough to see all the detail possible but high enough its rotors wouldn’t be heard. Neither he nor the other people watching the drone camera’s feed on the provided tablet had spotted anything of concern. So, when the sun set, the men had checked their gear and headed out.

Directly on the other side of the metal fence were several relatively ordered rows of cars, packed so closely together the men could barely fit between them. Ed used hand signals to spread the squad out to either side, and they moved cautiously forward.

Past the orderly, rusting hulks the yard opened up. There were random heaps of debris, everything from sand to chunks of asphalt to slabs of concrete. The junkyard itself was paved in asphalt, or at least had been, once. Now, nature was slowly reclaiming it, and patches of waist-high weeds and grass poked through frequently, with the occasional sapling.

The moon wasn’t up yet, which was both good and bad. After another hundred yards the random piles ended and there were abandoned semi-trailers without cabs, scattered with no apparent pattern, left to slowly collapse atop their rotting tires. The squad moved through the trailers slowly, listening, checking underneath them, in no hurry.

Less than one hundred feet past the last trailer was the junk yard office. It was a squat, one-story building, white with fading red trim. They could see a closed rolling metal door and one pedestrian door flanked by windows, most of which seemed broken.

The men of Theodore paused in the shelter of the trailers, using their wheels as cover, and stared at the building. Ed pulled out his binoculars and glassed the front of the building, but didn’t immediately see anything. He was keenly aware of Renny, three hundred yards behind him, looking through the scope of his powerful rifle.

He was just about to signal the men to approach when Early, on one knee beside him, tapped Ed’s leg, and pointed at the building. Ed squinted. There was some sort of moving orange glow inside.

The glow resolved itself into the wavering flame of a candle being carried by a man. In the dark, with their eyes adjusted to the night, the flickering sphere of light from the candle was bright enough for them to see the man clearly as he walked to the side door of the building and opened it. He had no visible weapon, and nothing in his hands but the candle, although there were binoculars hanging from his neck. Ed raised his rifle and braced it against the side of the trailer, putting the glowing reticle on the man’s chest as he stood in the open doorway, staring in their direction.

Ed was sure the man couldn’t see them—it was too dark, and they were in dark clothes and mostly hidden behind the big tires of the trailers. And yet the man lifted a hand and waved them in. “Come on in and get a roof over your heads,” he said, loudly enough for them to hear him clearly. He took one step backward so the candle was not beyond the roof line, and waited.

Ed growled in his throat. “Stay here,” he murmured so quietly only Early could hear him, and the man nodded behind his M1A, which was trained on the candle bearer.

Using hand signals to direct his men, Ed and the remainder of the squad slowly approached the building from three sides. Ed didn’t recognize the man when he drew close. He was in a plaid shirt and blue jeans and if he was carrying a weapon it was concealed.

The man waved them on again and backed a few steps into the building, then turned and walked away from them, unconcernedly turning his back on half a dozen armed men. Quentin was in the lead and followed the bobbing light from the candle, which did a decent job of illuminating the nearly empty building. George was behind him, grunted “Fuck this,” and turned on the light mounted on the handguard of his carbine. The 600-lumen beam seemed as bright as a nuclear blast inside the building, and as he swung it about he was able to quickly scan the big repair bay. He kept the beam low so he didn’t shine it out the front windows.

The candlebearer led them around a corner, and there in a smaller room, formerly an office, was another man sitting on a folding lawn chair, a second candle at his elbow. The second man was in a t-shirt and jeans, no weapons visible, and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of George’s weapon-mounted light.

“Jesus, there goes the night vision,” he said cordially. He did his best to look past his hand at the members of Theodore crowding the doorway. “You guys looking for the family reunion?” he asked.

“Who are you?” Quentin asked.

“The welcome wagon. You want to shut that off? Maybe use a handheld or something that’s not quite as bright as the sun?”

Ed produced a small handheld tactical flashlight and clicked it on as he nodded to George. The 25 lumens of his handheld seemed pitiful illumination after George extinguished his light, but it was still more light than the two candles were putting out, and after waiting a few seconds for their eyes to adjust, the room still seemed reasonably well lit.

“There some reason you’re sitting in here?” Ed asked the two men, neither of whom he recognized. Both of them were in their early thirties and seemed in good shape.

“It’s the only spot with a view,” the man in the chair said pointedly. “The thinking was most if not all of the invited guests would take a look around the neighborhood first and stop by here before heading in, see what they could see. And that’s pretty much been the case.” He peered at their faces. “Nobody was due tonight. Are you early, or late? No, wait, don’t tell me. Early. You seem the cautious type.”

“You don’t,” George said. “You don’t know who we are, and you’re sitting here with no weapons.”

“Looking innocent as the wind driven snow,” the man agreed. “No guns, no armor, just the sweet love of Jesus in my pretty blue eyes.”

“Aardvark,” Ed said abruptly.

The man in the chair smiled. “Buckaroo,” he responded. Ed relaxed significantly at the correct codeword response, and nodded. “We’re all friends here, Bill,” the man in the chair called out loudly.

“Roger that,” the men of Theodore heard from somewhere behind them. A few turned to look, but saw nothing.

“I’m Conrad. This is Seattle,” the main the lawn chair said, indicating his partner. “Bill’s our guardian angel, back there behind some tires, just in case you weren’t dogsoldiers but rather miscreants. He has both armor and a gun, but a sweet disposition.”

“Miscreants?” Quentin said.

“Ne’er do wells?” Conrad tried. “Blackguards? Hooligans? How about rapscallions, that’s a good one.”

“Fucking English teachers, I swear,” the man known as Seattle said. “How about I take you to see Uncle Charlie?”

Both Ed and George jerked at his comment. “He’s here?” Ed said in surprise. Nearly five years decoding messages from the man but he’d never actually met him. Ed, in fact, suspected that “Uncle Charlie” was several people, just a code name for some intelligence cell inside ARF command.

“This is all hands on deck,” Seattle told them. “You’ll see.”

“We just gonna walk across the street?” Weasel said.

Seattle wiggled his eyebrows at them and moved to the rear of the small room behind Conrad and his lawn chair. He pulled a section of dirty rug and a warped sheet of stained plywood off to the side, revealing a hole in the concrete floor. “Not exactly,” he said.

The men of Theodore stared at the rough-edged black oval in the floor. “There’s a ladder,” Seattle assured them.

“I’ll go,” Ed announced. He turned to George. “Pull Early in and post him at the door where Renny can see him.”

“You had a sniper covering your approach? Excellent!” Conrad exclaimed.

Ed carefully followed Seattle down the ladder and disappeared from sight.

“Villains!” Conrad said cheerfully. “I’ve always loved that word. Sounds better with a British accent, though. Ooh, how about knave?”

“Let me guess, you taught English lit,” George said drily.

Conrad bowed his head. “Hence my assumption of this nom de guerre,” he told George. “Always loved teaching Heart of Darkness. Never thought I’d actually be living it.”

Ed returned fifteen minutes later, poking his head out of the hole. His eyes were wide, and his face was flushed. “Somebody go grab Renny and Jason.” A huge smile split his face. “You’re not going to believe this.”

PART III

HAVE A PLAN TO KILL EVERYONE YOU MEET

It (violence) solves almost everything. It’s why we arm the police, and it’s why we still have wars.

Roses Are Dead

Loren D. Estleman

The only true war crime is losing.

Testimony

Scott Turow

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The tunnel led to the basement of the sports complex across the street. The men of Theodore weren’t surprised there was a basketball court, indoor hockey rink, or swimming pool in the large complex of buildings; they were surprised by the light, the crowd of people, and the unexpected plenty in the sizable basement. There were crates of canned food nearby, cases of water and power bars, fresh batteries, even new boots, socks and underwear. A dozen battery-powered LED lanterns kept the space bright.

The man who identified himself as Uncle Charlie was in his late forties, with a compact build and a balding head, his graying hair trimmed to stubble. He wore a plaid shirt over khaki cargo pants. He shook hands all around, then regarded the men of Theodore.

“I appreciate that you’re early, but it complicates things,” he told them, flashing a quick smile. “Well, not complicates, exactly, but we need to wait to see who else shows up. How many bodies we have will directly impact the plan, and the mission.”

“So what’s the mission?” Mark asked.

Charlie shook his head. “I don’t want to go into details yet. Let’s just say it’s high risk, for very high reward.”

“High risk is just walking around outside,” Weasel told him.

“Yeah, you’re not wrong. I thought the stories I heard about the city were exaggerated. This is as bad as I’ve seen it anywhere.”

“Where’d you come in from?” Quentin asked him.

Charlie gave him a flat stare. “Somewhere else.” Then he relented. “Look, I know you’re probably tired. We’ve got food and water and more. Get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow, after everyone else shows up, we’ll have a briefing. Trust me, it’ll be worth your wait.” He reached down to a nearby stack of boxes and tossed one to Mark. “Brought these as well. Thought they might be appreciated.”

Mark looked down at the container in his hands, then up at Uncle Charlie, then back down. It was an unopened box of unscented baby wipes. “How many can I use?”

“As many as you want,” Charlie told him. “We brought a couple cases, so there’s a box for everyone. And we’ve got packages of new socks over there too, if you need them.”

Mark looked around at the squad. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m going to go have a religious experience,” he announced, and left with the baby wipes.

“We haven’t had showers in forever,” George said with a laugh.

“I’m aware,” Uncle Charlie said pointedly, but without any malice.

The five men and one woman who seemed to be Uncle Charlie’s staff all looked competent. They also looked bathed and well fed, and wore clean clothes. Ed thought he and his squad looked like heavily-armed homeless people next to them. They were all still carrying their rifles.

“Everybody, get something to eat and drink,” Ed told his crew. “And clean up, too, as best you can, we smell like that sewer pipe.”

“Using the sewers to travel?” Charlie inquired, as the squad wandered off. Ed and George remained in place. On a table behind him was a small crank-operated radio softly playing music, which meant it had to be tuned to the local state-run station, as there were no other stations broadcasting.

“When we can. Which isn’t very often. Only a certain percentage of the pipes are big enough to fit through, and the Army blocked most of them off years ago.”

“How many are you expecting?” George asked.

“Irregulars? Well, I staggered the dates. You’re with the second group. Another six squads. Well, five with Franklin gone.” They’d given him that news.

“How many are operating in the city?” Ed didn’t really expect an answer, and didn’t get one.

“I called in everyone, so I guess you’ll see. Get some rest, you look like you’ve earned it. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Ed glanced at George, then back. “We’ll get our people squared away and cleaned up, then give you two bodies to share the watch.”

“My people can handle that.”

Ed glanced at George again, letting him know to take the lead, and George smiled at Uncle Charlie. There was no warmth in it. “Sorry, but just because your men knew the code words and you say you’re Uncle Charlie doesn’t mean shit. We don’t know you or your fucking people, and if you hadn’t taken a sip out of that water bottle I pulled at random out of that case and handed to you we wouldn’t be drinking or eating anything you’ve brought, either. We’re all assuming this is a potential ambush or Tab intelligence false flag op and are wondering when the shooting’s going to start. Until it doesn’t. So we’re going to stay hot, and our people will assist with perimeter security.” Then he recited one of his favorite quotes, words he lived by. “Be polite, be professional, but have a plan to kill everyone you meet.”

Uncle Charlie paused briefly before responding. “Roger that. We’re happy for the help.” Then he smiled, and it was warm and genuine. “Glad you made it. You’ll be glad too.” Then he moved off.

The men of Theodore slept in shifts, but nothing of note happened until just after dawn, when the next squad came crabwalking through the tunnel.

They emerged slowly, blinking in the bright LED light, looking around uncertainly. Four men and two women. “Barker! That you? You growing that ‘fro out so you look taller?” they all heard, and turned. Weasel was sitting on top of some horizontal six-inch pipes that fed the cold boiler, his MP5 across his knees and a Power Bar in his hand. He’d barely stopped eating since they’d arrived.

A squat black man long overdue for a haircut squinted in his direction. “That you, Gopher?”

Weasel snorted and jumped down from the pipes as Barker stepped closer. “You with a new squad?” Weasel asked him, looking over the short man’s shoulder. He didn’t recognize any of Barker’s squadmates. One of them was a short, skinny redhead who looked like she wanted to kill everyone.

Barker glanced behind him, and when he turned back around his expression was dark. “No, I’m just the only one left from Kermit. Walked into an ambush last year, lost five people, and after that two more said fuck it, they’d had enough. Rizzo was in a safehouse last fall and apparently got ratted out. They got rocketed by two Kestrels, killed everybody in the squad but two people, and they were injured and out of the fight for a few months. I wrapped them into Kermit and recruited a few new faces over the winter. And then we fucking lose two to a sniper on the way in. This better be fucking worth it.” He paused. “It worth it?”

Weasel shrugged, noticing the dried bloodstains on Barker’s sleeves. “Remains to be seen. But there’s water and food and enough baby wipes to make even you smell tolerable.” He nodded past the new arrivals. “Go check in with Chuckles over there, and I’ll talk to you later.” He smiled at the murderous redhead. “How you doin’?”

Barker looked to see who Weasel was talking to. “Petal, Weasel. She was in Rizzo. Petal, since you’ve got a heartbeat, that means he wants to fuck you.”

Petal scowled at Weasel from underneath her unevenly cut bangs. “How would that make him different from everybody else?”

Early had his big hands in his pockets and was leaning his shoulder against the wall. The hallway corridor was wide, the walls basic cinderblock but covered with so many thick layers of paint it looked—and felt—like plastic. Just like the high school he’d gone to, all those eons ago, in Decatur, Georgia. They were positioned just back from the lobby of the complex. Through the tall windows—nearly all intact, which itself seemed a minor miracle—they could see the parking lot and beyond that a sea of tall grass waving in a light breeze.

“So what’s your story, young lady? What was it, Sarah?”

He turned his head. On the other side of the corridor was the lone female member of Uncle Charlie’s team. She looked to be in her twenties, although Early had observed that the older he got the less accurate he was estimating ages of youngsters like her. She was short and stocky, with blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. As he studied her he realized the thickness came from muscles. She was a serious weight lifter. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d exercised just for the sake of exercise. It had probably been before she kissed her first boy. He eyed her thick arms. Or girl. Whoever.

“Mission support staff. Logistics,” she said tersely.

“I weren’t after your name, rank, and serial number, or even your favorite color, I was mostly jes’ interested in how you came to find yourself in our urban paradise.” He waved a hand.

For appearances, to anyone who peered through the windows or wandered into the lobby, his M1A was leaning out of sight in a doorway a few feet behind him, as was his plate carrier. He was wearing the suppressed .22 in a shoulder rig, but to see that someone would have to be inside the building, and by then he would know whether or not he needed to grab his rifle. Sarah had some sort of fancy suppressed short-barreled carbine, the magazine pouches on her vest stuffed with spares, and she’d set all of it in an alcove six feet to her rear.

“Just lucky, I guess.” She gave him an intense once-over and he didn’t shy away from her gaze. Instead, his eyebrows crept up his tanned forehead and he waited, expectantly. He had a big frame and wide shoulders, and in another life might have been fat, but like almost every Irregular she’d seen so far he looked half-starved. It was hard to doubt their motivation when it seemed they had to struggle just to feed themselves. Not that the rest of the country wasn’t having a rough time of it, but still. “You mind me asking you some questions?”

Early shrugged expansively. “Ask away.”

“I’m surprised at how old some of you are. War is a young person’s business.”

Early smiled. “That’s not much of a question, but I get ya. And you’re right, it certainly is. Every aching inch of my old body agrees with you. But I like to think we bring some perspective to this thing. We can remember better than most, certainly better than anyone your age, what it was like before things all turned to shit. So, hopefully, when this is all over, we can find our way back.”

“How long have you been fighting?”

“When they declared martial law, started shutting down media groups for broadcasting the truth, arrestin’ folks who dared to criticize politicians and asking cops to kick down doors looking for stuff that had been legal the month before, that’s when I knew it was serious. But I thought it would blow over, bunch of fatmouth politicians making wind as usual, things would go back to the way they’d always been. But they didn’t. They got worse. Still, I always had faith things would work out, that even the idiot politicians would figure it out, if we all raised our voices enough. There was a civil rights rally at the local state house. A peaceful protest, with a lot of families, wanting their voices to be heard.” He shook his head. “The police fired tear gas and waded in with batons. Then somebody fired a shot, no one will ever know who, and the cops mowed down a couple dozen people before cooler heads prevailed. The rest got thrown in jail, no bail, charges of terrorism and incitement to riot, just for being there and wanting to exercise freedom of speech.” He sighed. “That was when I realized I’d been lyin’ to myself how bad it really was, and that it was time for the fourth box.”

“Fourth box?”

“You’ve got four boxes to defend your country from within, darlin’. Soap, ballot, jury, and ammo, in that order. You can debate, vote, and go to court to right wrongs, and you pray to God you can fix everything that way, because once you go ammo box, there’s no going back, there’s just going through.”

Sarah thought for a while on that. “You’re right, I don’t really remember what it was like before. The war started when I was in junior high school. I was raised in Wyoming and taught right from wrong, and I could see that what they’re doing was wrong. That what we’re fighting for is right. We’re fighting for freedom, and justice. Not just for us, but for everyone. That’s why I joined up, as soon as I got out of high school.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Someone your age—no offense—you should be home, playing with your grandchildren, not having to fight a war.”

Early nodded. “I don’t disagree, Miss, but my only baby girl died on those capitol steps before she could bring anyone into the world.” He licked his thin lips. “So there’s that.”

Yosemite arrived mid-day, one of the squad in severe pain from injuries he’d suffered two days before. He’d fallen through some rotted stairs inside a house, and been stabbed in the thigh and forearm by splintery shards of wood. The bleeding had stopped but the wounds were warm and probably infected, and the squad was out of medical supplies. One of Uncle Charlie’s people was a medic and professionally cleaned the wounds, stitched and redressed them, and gave him some antibiotics.

Flintstone arrived in early afternoon. They came in through the tunnel, six men, everyone in the squad sweating from heat and apprehension. They were surprised at the crowd inside.

An hour later Early was back at his post in the main corridor when a busty woman about fifty appeared, wading through the thick grass in front of the building. She strode confidently across the parking lot to the front door, then, after peering through the glass for a bit, tried the handle.

“Out taking an afternoon stroll?” Early drawled leisurely, back to leaning against the wall. “It’s a hot one, but the breeze helps a bit.”

She was in a blue and white plaid shirt with large checks over tan slacks, and no visible weapons. The front of the shirt was unbuttoned down to her impressive cleavage and her sleeves rolled up to combat the heat. Her long brown hair was pulled pack and tied with a piece of 550 cord. The woman looked from Early to Sarah and back again.

“She’s too young for you, the two of you’ll never make it work,” the woman announced.

Early glanced at Sarah, who blinked in confusion.

“Maybe I’m jes’ arm candy. One a them trophy husbands,” Early opined. “Only kept around for their glorious body and oversize romantic talents.”

The newcomer snorted. “How would I know whether or not that’s a damned lie, I’ve been trying, unsuccessfully, to get you naked for years.”

Early nodded. “That you have. Consider me one of your few failed missions.” He jabbed a thumb. “Sarah, Brookelynne, Brookelynne, Sarah.” He studied Brookelynne as the woman walked up to them. “Just out wandering through the city at random?”

Brookelynne looked Sarah up and down, then cocked her head at Early. “Aardvark,” she said.

Early nodded. “Buckaroo. You alone?”

She shook her head. “No, the others are covering the front, waiting for a wave.” She looked between the two of them, then past them down the empty hallway. “It just you?” She sounded disappointed.

“Negatory. Big crowd downstairs, waiting for stragglers. You still running with Sylvester?”

“Hell, I’m running Sylvester, Larry caught a round in the mouth last month.”

“Sorry to hear that. Why don’t you reel them in, we’ve got food and water and baby wipes galore downstairs. Toilet paper, and a place to use it. Then we’ll find out what this shindig is all about.”

“You still haven’t been briefed?”

Early shrugged. “Only wanted to do it once, I suppose.”

“Hmm. Well, this should be fun.” She looked Sarah up and down once again, meeting her gaze, a small smile twitching the corner of her mouth.

“You look… healthy. In from out of town?”

Sarah swallowed. “Um, yeah.”

“Welcome to the D,” Brookelynne said, then headed for the front door. She opened it wide and gave a big wave, then stepped back and closed the door. She waited, nearly hidden from anyone outside watching by the glare off the glass.

“She seems, um, friendly,” Sarah said.

Early snorted. “Brooke is what you’d call a libertarian. She likes everyone. And from what I hear, everything.”

“I think you mean libertine.”

“Well, I never did go to college,” Early admitted, “but in this case I reckon we’re both right.”

Uncle Charlie stood in front of the assembled group. “Gentlemen, ladies, glad to see your smiling faces. I wanted to address all of you before I pulled your squad leaders aside and briefed them on your specific missions. My name is Lieutenant Colonel Michael Morris. I’ve been communicating with you dogsoldiers for over two years now, and I have to say it is an honor to finally meet you in person. I,” he waved a hand at the people he’d brought with him, who were flanking him, “we’ve all heard about the conditions inside this city, but I have to say stories and even the pictures didn’t prepare me for it. It’s worse than Los Angeles, and the fact that you continue to not just live here but fight, and fight well, with, I will admit, far too little direct support from us, is mindboggling.”

“Two years? I’ve been dealing with Uncle Charlie for four years,” someone said.

Morris nodded. He was expecting a few interruptions. He tried to keep his face neutral as he gazed out over the audience. The long-suffering dogsoldiers of this city didn’t look like soldiers, they look like half-starved refugees. Refugees geared up for war. He’d heard a term, once, that seemed appropriate, what was it? Murder hobos, that was it. Most of them, he knew, had no prior military experience, and didn’t seem to even know much less use half the lingo the military favored, but apparently combat and wretched conditions combined to weed out the less skilled and motivated, as most of the dogs he’d seen had decent trigger finger discipline and muzzle awareness. At least as good as regular Army troops. While braving hardships far worse than what was seen in most of the country.

He had to admit, it was the weirdest and most irregular Army he’d ever seen or heard of, probably that the country had seen since the Revolutionary War. Nobody was in a uniform or even camouflage, and everybody was using a different rifle. And, unlike the regular army where usually only officers and Special Forces carried handguns, just about every one of the dogsoldiers was sporting a pistol. It seemed to be a symbol of pride or independence or just a flying middle finger toward the government forces that wanted to disarm them.

“Prior to my consolidating the position, ‘Uncle Charlie’ was several different people in our intelligence unit. Our unit’s job has been to do everything we can to track and coordinate resistance efforts in this region, everything within a couple hundred miles of here. We’ve spent a lot of time and energy on the city, as it’s been a conundrum. The military has been undermanned here for years, and it’s only getting worse. It’s practically a skeleton crew, and from what intel we’ve gathered about their current commander, he’s little better than a placeholder. Ineffectual. In fact, we’ve had several opportunities to take him out and I made the call not to, as whoever replaced him would most likely do a better job. I’ll be brutally honest with you though, the problem has always been getting anybody at headquarters to care about any of this.” He gestured at the men, and beyond them. “You’re stretched just as thin, and there’s fuck-all in this city to fight over. Other than the city itself,” he said quickly, raising a hand, “I know it’s home to you, and the Tabs are fucking it up like they’ve been doing for decades. What I mean is there’s no strategic value to controlling it. It would be a moral victory, maybe, but we’re so far behind the lines it wouldn’t be that much of a PR victory.” He paused. “Now, there are some advantages to being forgotten about. From what I hear, none of the IMPs you’re going up against have remote-controlled roof guns, they’ve got to be operated by hand. And you haven’t had to deal with MURVs.”

“Mobile unmanned reconnaissance vehicles,” one of Morris’ people explained when it was obvious a lot of them had never heard the term. “Basically mini tanks driven by remote, size of small cars, nothing but armor and guns. Hard as hell to destroy. Those things killed a lot of good people.”

Morris nodded at the explanation, then looked out over the crowd. “Things, however, have changed. You’re here because we have a plan. This plan has been in the works for over a year. We’ve been laying the groundwork for it, in the city, since last spring. Work crews, combat engineers I guess you could say, doing recon and then earthworks projects that we’ve kept secret, even from you, until now. People inside the wire, in the Blue Zone, providing us detailed intelligence. We had the rough idea of a plan to shake the military’s hold on this city, but we needed not just the right moment, but the right reason. This, this is that right moment. And we have one hell of a reason. In case you haven’t heard, the two sides are going to be sitting down in a few days.”

There was an outburst of noise—exclamations, questions, excited conversation. It went on until George turned around at the front of the crowd and glared them into silence. Then he turned back around and nodded at the light colonel.

Morris continued. “You’re far enough behind the lines that maybe you’re not getting much news, or at least truth. The truth is we’ve been steadily kicking their asses for two years, pushing them back, grinding them down, but they refuse to see the reality of the situation on the ground.”

“Well, hell, hasn’t that been their whole problem from the get-go?” someone asked. That got a few snorts.

“You’re not wrong,” Morris said, “but specifically this war has been dragging on far longer than anyone could have ever envisioned. Or wanted. When the war started they assumed they would just walk all over us, as they thought they had all the entire government backing them including the unquestioned loyalty of the military. Turns out that wasn’t the case, but we did take quite a pounding for a couple of years. Since then we’ve been clawing at each other’s throats. We’ve always had the benefit of numbers, whereas they’ve had the gear; more tanks, more drones, you name it.”

“Really? We hadn’t noticed,” someone felt obliged to add, which got a few laughs.

“You mentioned Los Angeles,” Ed said. “We’ve been seriously short on real news for years. What can you tell us of the rest of the country? We’ve heard crazy rumors about California.”

“California was a failed state over $1.5 trillion in debt before the war ever broke out,” Morris told them. “Only tax revenue from the other states were keeping it in business and once the war broke out that federal tax money dried up to nothing. They were flooded with illegal immigrants who weren’t paying any taxes but were being provided social services free of charge, not to mention the sixty-plus thousand homeless people just in the city of Los Angeles. There weren’t many people working, and when the war broke out a significant chunk of those decided to move elsewhere. So the state was left with a whole bunch of people whose lives revolved around government handouts, what we like to call the FSA, the Free Shit Army. When the free shit stopped they lost their collective minds and went on the march.”

Morris looked over the crowd. “Even though there was never any actual combat between the Tabs and the ARF in LA, the riots and civil unrest in both San Francisco and Los Angeles lasted for most of a year. Big chunks went up in flames, and large areas look like this city.”

“And then Mexico moved in?” somebody asked.

“Not Mexico per se,” Morris told them, “but the cartels which are pretty much running the country. Now they run everything in coastal California from Los Angeles south. If this war against the Tabs ever ends we’re then going to have to go over there and clean that mess up before we can be a whole country again.”

Morris took a breath and continued. “As for the rest of the country, for most of the past year the fronts, such as they are, have been very stable. We control a lot more territory than they do, but they’ve consolidated their forces in large cities and urban areas, those areas of the country that have always embraced government overreach as long as they were getting the bread and circuses they were voting for. What’s the phrase, you can vote your way into communism, but you have to shoot your way out? The thinking high up is that the only way we are really going to retake those cities is by going in and rooting them out. It would require the worst kind of door-to-door and block-to-block fighting you can imagine, like what we all saw at the start of the war. Honestly, nobody wants that, it’d be a meatgrinder, a modern Stalingrad. We’d lose huge numbers of people even if we won, so we’re hoping we can convince them their position is untenable. We control almost all the farmland, and have cut off most of their food supplies.”

“A medieval-style siege?” someone said. “How long will that take?” He sounded dubious.

“Too long,” Morris agreed. “China, Russia, every communist or left-leaning country has been donating what resources they can to the Tabs in hopes of getting their claws into this country once the war ends. Food, fuel, ammo, whatever. Because they’re assuming we are going to lose. Because with their worldview they cannot envision us winning. We don’t know how many supplies they’re getting, or what their reserves are, but intelligence tells us it’s barely enough, and that’s in addition to getting pushed back in the field. They’re in a bad spot and they know it, which is why they’ve agreed to that sit-down just a few days from now.”

That caused another burst of excited noise from the assembled fighters, with dozens of shouted questions. Morris waved them down.

“The two sides are going to be sitting down across from each other in just a day or two, that’s the information that I was given. And that’s about all the detailed information I was given about that meet, I don’t even know where it is. But, if you haven’t heard, two days ago the ARF liberated a detention center and freed over two thousand people the government had there. Consider that a test run, to see if the Tabs would get so pissed off they’d walk away from the meeting. The meeting has not been cancelled, so we still have our green light for this mission. It showed them we’re still strong. And it shows us how desperate they are.”

“Are they going to surrender?” somebody asked, which got a lot of laughs. Very few of the dogsoldiers there could envision the Tabs surrendering.

“I didn’t think we were anywhere close to them surrendering,” someone else said over the noise of the crowd.

“This will never be over until one side gets defeated,” Morris heard.

Barker was right in front of Morris and growled, “There’s no way to peacefully coexist with a side that for generations has been trying to restrict your freedom, control everything you do, and put you in jail for exercising your God-given rights and daring to question the all-knowing and all-powerful government. The shooting just made this official, we had a cold war in this country between the two sides for decades before that.”

Morris nodded and pointed at the man. “While I will agree that as a general rule all politicians suck, at least the ones on our side know there’s no compromise with the other side. Compromise is what got us into trouble in the first place. As for the ones on the other side…” He gave an expansive shrug. “Most all of them were assassinated in the first few years. A lot of judges, too, back when the powers-that-be were still calling this ‘widespread civil unrest’ instead of the war it was. But there’s always more where they came from. So that’s where you guys come in.” He looked around at all their excited faces. “Officially the two sides are coming together simply for talks, but the Tabs are really hurting, we know it, and they know we know it even though they won’t admit it. There’s very little armor left. We’ve barely got any in the heavy combat areas and we’ve got more than the Tabs. Only reason there’s still tanks in this city is because the CO here is protecting them. And because they barely have enough fuel to run patrols. As for the rest of the country, they keep losing people, they keep losing territory, and us liberating that re-education camp a hundred miles behind their lines is, hopefully, just a taste. The thinking, the hope is that if we can hit them far harder than they expect in places that they don’t think we should even have a presence, we can use it to get them contemplating, maybe even talking about surrender.”

“You mean a ceasefire?”

Morris answered the faceless question. “No, not just a ceasefire, an actual surrender.”

“I just don’t think that will happen as long as any politicians on the other side are sucking air,” Brookelynne said loudly.

“It ain’t the politicians who are pulling the triggers and fighting on the line,” somebody else observed.

“You’re right,” Morris said. “They really don’t want to give up. They’re led by a number of true believers, the same kind of people who got us into this mess in the first place, who didn’t care that socialism and communism had never worked, ever, anywhere, they were sure this time would be different, if they just raised taxes high enough, jailed or executed enough of the right people…” His face grew dark, but he shook off the anger. “We’re hoping we can get some of the people over there, particularly their military leaders, to see the light. We want to show them that they are in a far worse position than they thought. That’s why I’m here. We want to initiate a number of big strikes deep inside enemy lines, in areas that aren’t really contested, or haven’t been since the beginning of the war. Not just this city but in a number of them around the country, places they’ve controlled for years. We want to turn their world upside down.”

“So what’s the objective?” someone impatiently asked.

“The object is to hit them hard. Hit them so hard that their losses compromise their position in this city, and completely shake their perceptions. A city way behind enemy lines, a city where the war, except for a few snipers and malcontents, is supposed to be over. And this city is far from the only place this is happening. We want to show them that we don’t give a fuck that it’s been ten years, we’ve only begun to fight. When you’re sitting down to a negotiation, you want as much leverage as you can possibly get. You want to negotiate from a position of strength, and if everywhere they thought they were safe is on fire…”

The Lieutenant Colonel moved his gaze around the room and smiled thinly. “Maybe you feel like you haven’t been doing your part, that everyone else has been doing the heavy lifting. Maybe you feel that you’ve been abandoned by the ARF, barely getting any support or supplies to support your fight. Maybe you’re running out of hope because nothing in the city seems worth fighting for. All of that ends now.” His voice grew firm. “We have a chance not just to do some serious damage, maybe cripple their forces stationed here, but to use those gains as leverage to force them into considering an armistice or complete surrender.”

“To do that… I’m going to need you to pick a fight that you can’t win,” he told them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Morris had the leaders from the five squads present for the detailed mission briefing—Ed from Theodore, Brookelynne from Sylvester, Barker from Kermit, Chan from Yosemite, and Hannibal from Flintstone. All together the five squads contained thirty-two dogsoldiers, twenty-nine men and three women. Not nearly as many as the LTC would have liked, but you worked with what you had.

The Irregulars were just that in every way, operating behind the lines and, usually, without direct support, but that didn’t mean they were a wholly autonomous unit. ARF Command did what it could to support and administrate them, and Morris, as Uncle Charlie, did his best to get to know not just how many people were in the squads but the men commanding them. Ed, commanding Theodore, had the most seniority of any of the squad leaders, and was a Captain in the ARF, although his rank was a secret known only to a few.

There was a large map of the city’s entire downtown area including the Blue Zone laid out before them.

“We know their satellite coverage of the city,” he began. “While they can adjust their observation windows slightly—very slightly—we know when they have eyes available in orbit and when they don’t. And we’re going to use that to our advantage.”

“You know their satellite flyover schedule?” Brookelynne said with a frown. “We could have used that information, I don’t know, fucking years ago. Might have saved a few lives. What, you only care about us when you want to use us?”

Morris fixed her with a stare, then dug a folded piece of paper out of one of his pockets. When he unfolded it they saw dense columns of numbers. “The five recon satellites they have left that cover this city have very different orbital tracks. One orbits the Earth every ninety-seven point three minutes and can go eyes on above us for seven minutes or so, although half that time it’s at a serious angle. The second is in a higher Earth orbit and takes one hundred and two minutes to transit the globe, and can eyeball this patch of dirt for nine minutes. The third is similar to the first but is on a polar orbit, not east-west. Do I need to keep going? Depending on the day and the time, none of them could be overhead or all five could be. These gazillion figures I’ve got here,” he shook the paper at them, “only cover the exposure windows for the next three days. By the time you decoded them in a transmission from ‘Uncle Charlie’ your three days would be up. And,” he said, staring them down, “if I transmitted a math program to you so you could compute the dates and times yourself, after the Tabs didn’t see anything moving on the ground for weeks, how long do you think it would be before they began to suspect something and adjusted the orbits, making our little math program worthless? We felt it was better to wait to use this advantage for something big.”

“Like the allies deciding what Enigma information to act on in World War Two,” Hannibal said, nodding. To the questioning looks from the other squad leaders he explained, “The Nazis had this fancy code machine, the Enigma. Encrypted all of their communication. Thing was, the Brits broke the code way back at the start of the war and could read all of their Top Secret messages. However, they kept that a secret, and only acted on some of that intelligence.”

“Because if they acted on everything, the Nazis would know their code was blown,” Ed finished, nodding.

“Still doesn’t mean I have to fucking like it,” Brooke snapped.

“Understood,” Morris said. “For this mission I’ll be equipping all of you with the latest-gen encrypted radios, as you’ll need to coordinate your movement under fire,” Morris continued. He pointed to a stack of a three large hardcases, and one of the Lt. Colonel’s people flipped open a lid to show the assembled dogsoldiers the small radio units inside. “We’ll get you spun up on how to use them, they’re pretty simple.”

Ed looked at the radios dubiously. “I’ve used things like those before,” he told the LTC. “They almost got me killed.”

“You don’t think I don’t know that? I’m the guy who sends you messages in backwards Sanskrit hieroglyphics. Seriously, naming the squads after cartoon and comic book characters and that four-part encryption system we use to pass messages is literally so Godawful stupid and simple and complicated all at the same time, high tech and low tech, that I’m guessing no one on the other side could even imagine we’d do something so dumb.”

“It’s not stupid if it works,” Chan said.

Morris nodded. “Right. Three years later the Tabs still don’t even know to monitor that message board, or the two alternates, much less have spotted our communications. As for these radios, they won’t be able to decipher your transmissions, but you’re right, Captain, they will be able to triangulate your position if they have enough time. In this case, that doesn’t matter. You’re to be radio silent until you’re engaging the Tabs, and then it won’t matter if you’re on the radios because they will know exactly where you are.”

He took a deep breath. “I am deliberately not going to give you every single detail of every working part of this thing, as I don’t want assets compromised if one of you gets captured. You can’t talk about what you don’t know. That’s how you’ve been fighting this whole war, right? But I will tell you that this is the second such briefing I’ve given for this mission. The first was yesterday, at another location, to four other squads.”

“Which ones?”

“Joker, Donald, Flash, and Mickey. Between them they have twenty-nine bodies, which makes sixty-one total including your squads here today. With me and my people that brings the total up to seventy-five, not counting a few… let’s call them agents-in-place, that you’ll be working with at the objective. So, we’ve got an oversize platoon or an understrength company to work with which, I have to say, is less than I’d hoped but more than I was expecting.”

“You’re coming with us?” Chan asked. He had a green-stocked Steyr AUG A3 slung over his shoulder, the only such rifle any of the dogsoldiers had actually seen in person during the war. Chan was the youngest squad leader there, barely thirty, tall and handsome. He’d had the command of Yosemite for eight months. Just looking at him made Ed feel old. Hannibal, on the other hand, was younger than Ed, but he’d gone prematurely gray. He had a tattoo on his left forearm of a Roman numeral 3 surrounded by thirteen stars.

Morris smiled thinly. “I didn’t come all this way and spend close to two damn years planning this op to sit on the sidelines,” he said forcefully. “So yes, I will be in the field, doing what I can. I’ll spread my people out among your squads so you all have at least one extra body. Four of my people headed out with the squads yesterday.”

“Sixty-one, not including your people, seventy-five with. What’s the minimum number of bodies you figured you’d need to pull this off?” Brooke asked him.

“Fifty,” Morris said, “we figured fifty was the bare minimum to do it right, although miracles do happen. Personally I was hoping for triple digits. You know, the number of actual active IRA members in Ireland causing all those problems for the Brits, for decades, never really numbered more than a couple hundred. It really is the size of the fight in the dog. But….” He sighed. “Before I get into the details of the mission, I know I told you I wanted you to come in quiet, and I assume you did your best, but we still lost two squads on the way down. Franklin and Wolverine. We’re not sure what happened to Wolverine.”

“Chick was as hard as they come,” Hannibal told Morris flatly. “If Wolverine’s not here it’s because they’re all dead.”

It was far from the first time a squad had simply disappeared. Everyone assumed those squads had been killed in some ambush or betrayal involving the supporting citizenry, but no one knew for sure. While Ed supposed a few squads had simply dissolved and faded away, he thought destruction a far more likely option than capture. The hate was too strong with the No-quarter-asked-and-none-given dogsoldiers. Many, if not most (by this late date) of the Tab footsoldiers had been drafted. Every single dogsoldier, on the other hand, was a volunteer.

Morris dipped his head in acknowledgement. “We do know Franklin ran into a Kestrel.”

“Which they took out,” Ed felt obliged to add in their defense.

“Yes, they did,” the light colonel agreed, “and I know some other squads saw a little action on the way down. Kermit lost two to a sniper.” He nodded at Barker. “Theodore walked into a full patrol, and while normally fourteen enemy dead and six wounded with zero friendly casualties would be a cause for celebration, in this case it’s just more attention that we don’t need. And Flash decided to get into a goddamn running gun battle with a motorcycle gang. No friendly casualties, but still.”

Chan snorted. “BabyThor and his anger issues,” he said quietly, with a smile.

Morris shot them all a dark look. “This plan depends on you and your squads being able to get into position unnoticed. So at the risk of sounding insulting I want to repeat very carefully that fucking stealth and fucking surprise are fucking required for this fucking plan, which I and hundreds of other people worked on for over a fucking year, to work.” He stared at each of them in turn.

Ed blinked. Morris seemed pretty certain of those casualty numbers from Theodore’s ambush, numbers that seemed to include the damage done by Weasel’s booby trap, which Ed could only guess at. Which made him assume Uncle Charlie had an inside source. “Understood,” Ed said, on behalf of the group. The rest of them nodded.

“Those four squads yesterday are Alpha detachment, and their mission objective is code-named Freebird.” He pointed at a spot on the map. “They’ve got roughly the same distance to travel, but their route is a bit more difficult, so they’re already on the move. You five are Bravo, and your mission objective is code-named Nakatomi.” Ed looked at where the man’s finger touched the map of the city and a laugh erupted from him. Chan had a big smile on his face as well.

Morris frowned. “Okay,” the Lieutenant Colonel said, “what’s the deal? One of my people came up with that code name for your objective and I’ve been getting chuckles and smiles every time I say it. Why?”

“You don’t watch a lot of movies, do you?”

“I’ve been a little too busy the past few years to watch movies,” Morris said with a dirty look.

“Welcome to the party, pal,” Hannibal replied, and at that all the male squad leaders erupted in laughter.

“Die Hard, it’s a Die Hard reference,” Brooke said, giving everyone a dirty look. “You fucking guys, I swear.”

“Oh! Right, I get it now,” Morris said. “Okay, anyway, you’ll each have your own objectives, but the plan is for Alpha, if possible, to displace to your location after they’ve hit their target.” Morris began his actual briefing, pointing out where he needed each squad to be and the timetable for their movement after giving them a general overview of the plan, which was breathtakingly audacious. And dangerous. Barker let him go for five minutes, then held up a hand when he couldn’t take it anymore. Morris kept pointing here and there on his map, inside the Blue Zone, like it was a college campus.

“Not to shit in your sandwich,” Barker told the man, “but if we push that deep into the Blue, no matter how ninja fucking stealthy quiet you’d like us to be, there’s a good chance we’re going to be not just blown but chewed up and out of ammo and most likely hamburger in Toad treads by the time we even make it to that first pre-objective rally point. I don’t see how in the hell we’re going to have any element of surprise. There are people everywhere during the day, and soldiers posted all around twenty-four-seven.”

Morris looked at Barker, then at the rest of the squad leaders. His big smile was genuine. “Did I mention how I had people inside the city busting ass for over a year, working on this? Let me tell you what they’ve been doing. First, let me tell you how this started. You’d be amazed what you can still find online….”

Uncle Charlie had said that this mission had been in the works for a year, and as he started to go into detail with the squad leaders any doubt they’d had about his or the ARF’s commitment to this mission was put to rest. The amount of work that had been undertaken in the city, much less the hardware he revealed to the men and women, sold them on the plan.

The briefing, including every question the dogsoldiers could think to ask, took just over two hours. When it was finally over Morris looked at his watch.

“You need to be in place and ready to go hot at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow, and not one minute later. That gives you sixteen hours and change to brief your people, get them trained up on all of the new hardware you’re going to be using for the mission, and get in position. I know what your main gear concern will be and my people have been running yours through the deployment procedures using spent tubes while we’ve been here doing this brief, and they’ll continue to do so until you all can work this new gear in your sleep. Trust me, it’s pretty simple, these things are designed to be easy to use by stupid people in stressful situations.”

“From your lips to God’s ear,” Brooke told the man.

Morris smiled and nodded. “In a direct line your objective rally point is about five miles from here, but the route you’ve got to take is eight miles or so, some of it easy, some of it definitely not, with a fair amount probably downright miserable. I’m sure I’ll find out, as I’ll be coming with. While some of the gear you’ll need has been pre-positioned by our assets on the inside, you’ll be carrying most of it with you, which will slow you down. So as soon as you think you’re good to go on the new equipment, I suggest moving out.”

“We normally don’t move at night,” Barker reminded the man.

Morris nodded. “I know. Heat signature, and lack of night vision capability. I swear to God, I don’t know how you people do it.” He knew of at least one Special Forces mission that was called off simply because they lost their GPS signal, and these people were practically fighting with spears and torches. “But that’s not going to be as much of an issue this time, is it? And we don’t have much of a choice. However, their air capabilities have seriously degraded over the past few years. They’ve got no fixed-wing assets stationed here, and they haven’t had more than two helos up in the air after dark for routine patrol in six months. They just don’t have that many birds, and they’re hurting for spare parts, and as short as they are on parts they’re in even worse shape when it comes to fuel. My sources tell me they haven’t had more than a three-day fuel reserve in a year.” Morris had informed them that in addition to the sigint (signals intelligence) he’d been provided by the people monitoring the Tabs’ communication channels, he’d had the military base under near-constant physical surveillance for eight months from high-rise buildings surrounding the base, with his people logging troop numbers, armor assets, patrol schedules, and aircraft movements. That was just one of his big news items, and perhaps the least impressive. Even before he mentioned his “asset” on the inside it was clear he was getting intelligence from someone either in the Army or with access to their data. Maybe more than just one person.

He heaved a big sigh. “Like I said, this mission is high risk, but very high reward. If everything goes right, there’s a chance that we can damage the military in this city so badly they won’t have the resources left to secure their own base, much less the region. Hell, even if only half the squads make it into position for the fight, the damage we’ll be able to inflict should go a long way toward that leverage I was talking about, convincing the Tabs’ political overlords that even the ‘secure’ parts of their territory are anything but.” He looked around at the assembled faces. “Trust me, nobody wants a war to end more than the people losing it. Let’s help them make up their minds.”

The squad leaders looked at each other. After the briefing, the one common expression in all their faces was hope. After a decade a chance, finally, for peace, maybe even victory? Morris had been right, even though it was high risk, what they might be able to achieve….

“Even if everything goes right we’re going to lose men. Maybe a lot of men,” Hannibal said, staring down at the map. “But I think it’s worth it. Now I just have to sell it to my people.” He looked up and saw the faint confusion on Morris’ face. They all did.

“You see any uniforms out there?” Brookelynne asked the Lieutenant Colonel, jerking her thumb over her shoulder at the door. “Any rank or insignia, other than the occasional flag patch? We’re in blue jeans and Reeboks. The underwires in my bra are starting to rust it’s so old. We’re as Irregular as it gets, an honest-to-God citizen militia, a few of us still using guns we bought, back when that was legal.”

“Even if you gave us rank, we’re all volunteers. They’re all volunteers,” Ed reminded Morris. “Free to come and go. And a lot have, over the years. Some discovered that fighting was not for them after that first bullet whipped by their head, and some good brave men just tired of the thankless grind. The ones I’ve got now, they’re all fighters. And, dangerous as it is, this is a solid plan. I think you might lose a couple of our people off the top, when we lay it all out for them, maybe, but we definitely won’t be anywhere near your go/no-go of fifty.”

“Well shit, let’s hope so,” Morris said with a frown.

Julius was polite, professional, and very serious about his job as he trained the men of Theodore. “The AT5, otherwise known as a Spike, is basically an improved version of the AT4,” he told them, hoisting an inert launch tube. “More accurate, more powerful warhead, but now also modular, and scalable. What we have are the basic models, without optics or heat-seeking warheads, which is both good and bad. Good because they’re lighter and more compact, and bad because they’re harder to aim effectively, and only go where you aim, they won’t track.”

Julius was a light-skinned black man with a faint Texas accent, and at first glance appeared slender until you saw how the sleeves bunched up around his upper arms whenever he moved. “Going from having it safe and slung over your shoulder to deployed, aimed, and ready to fire is simple and shouldn’t take you much more than thirty seconds even if you’re scared shitless and fumble-fucking around.”

“How much punch does it have?” George asked, which was the important question.

Morris’ man nodded. He’d been expecting the question. “These warheads will penetrate the doors of an up-armored Growler easy. On an IMP it’ll penetrate everywhere, and so will an RPG, which is why you see that standoff slat armor on them. How many of the IMPs have that up-armoring here?”

“All of them,” George told him. “At least after the first couple years of war. All we see are grocery carts.”

Julius nodded. “That’s what we call them too. Well, with that slatting all around the sides, about all you can do is blow the shit out of the wheels if you’re aiming for the sides. And, as you know, that’s not the plan. That said, they can still move as long as they have two wheels, one on each side. If you disable all four wheels on one side, they’re kinda fucked. That takes explosives, though, bullets and Molotovs alone won’t do the job.”

“Why don’t they ever armor the underside of Growlers?” Quentin asked. “They slap all this armor on the doors and windows, but don’t do shit about the undercarriage. Roll one grenade under one and everyone inside is fucked.”

“No room with the drivetrain and everything else, I believe. It’s just meant to be a passenger vehicle that is protected against small arms fire. The thinking was if you actually need something more than that you’d head out in an IMP. Between the hull and the slat armor IMPs can handle IEDs and even some EFPs, depending.”

“What’s an EFP?” Jason asked.

“Explosively formed penetrator. IEDs are just homemade or repurposed bombs that damage or kill by an explosion, blast, and maybe shrapnel. With an EFP that explosion is contained, usually in a metal pipe, behind a circular dome of metal. The explosion turns that dome into a big powerful bullet that goes through a lot of armor. EFPs have limited use, but what they do they do very well.”

“What about Toads?” Mark said.

“You guys have been fighting probably longer than I have, so it shouldn’t surprise you that mostly what I have for you is bad news. Main battle tanks have the thickest armor of anything out there. Their job is to take the hit and keep on coming. They weigh sixty tons, which is why their treads chew up the roads, and why simple tank traps work. Dig out a paved road and it’ll last under standard traffic for quite some time, most cars and light delivery trucks don’t weigh more than five tons. Get a tank to drive over that unsupported concrete, and the bottom falls out. Of course, the work required to dig out one of those, deep enough that the tank can’t crawl out of it, is immense.”

“A Spike won’t do shit against the armor a Toad has on the front and sides of the body, or all around the turret. You’ll get a nice explosion from the reactive armor, but there won’t even be a dent. It’ll take out a tread, but even with both treads gone the tank is still somewhat mobile and, of course, fully able to fire. They aim using their ISU, Integrated Sighting Unit, which is on the front of the turret. There are armored doors which close over the top of it, but if you hit it with an RPG, or grenade, or even rifle fire when those doors are open you’ll take it out, and then they’ve got to go to their backup, and you can take out that with aimed rifle fire. You take out both the ISU and the backup sighting system and they’re blind. They can still drive and shoot, they just can’t see unless they pop a hatch and stick their heads out. But taking out both sighting systems without getting blasted is tough as shit.”

“Now, most of the time when they’re driving around the tank Commander has his head out of the top hatch because he can see so much better. They only use the ISU when they have to, or at night, because it’s got FLIR. As soon as anything pops off he’ll duck down and close the hatch, but if you’re sniping and happen to be in the right place at the right time you might not be able to touch the tank, but you can take out the CO.”

“We’re well aware,” George told the man.

“Roadside IEDs won’t do shit unless you’re talking hundreds of pounds of explosive or more. Any IED or EFP powerful enough to defeat the armor on a Toad wouldn’t be man-portable. The only real weak spots on a Toad are on the top—the top of the turret and on the back deck. An RPG with an AP warhead or these Spikes will penetrate both. The turret is a juicier target, you hit that and you’re pretty much guaranteed to take out the crew. The back deck behind the turret is a viable target as well, but you’re not guaranteed a kill on the tank if you hit it there. Main gun rounds are stored back there, and even if you can get a secondary detonation there is an armored door between the ammo and the crew compartment to keep the blast from killing them. The engine cover is back there, but even if you score a direct hit on the engine the Toad has its EPU, Emergency Power Unit, which will run for a while, and while it’s running the tank can drive and shoot. Still, you kill the engine on a Toad, they’re not getting any replacements. Even if it can still continue to fight right then, once the EPU is out of juice that Toad is out of the war.”

He smiled. “So, back deck good, top of the turret even better. The only problem is hitting those vulnerable spots. You can’t see the top of the Toad from the ground, and no good commander should send tanks into a city without shitloads of infantry support in Growlers, IMPs, whatever, so before you can even deal with the Toads you’ve got to take out everything and everyone else first. Unless you can somehow sneak in behind it. On that note, the main gun of a Toad can angle upwards thirty-one degrees…”

As he spoke Julius looked at the men before him. He hadn’t been quite sure what to expect out of the infamous dogsoldiers, but this wasn’t it. One kid, and half of the others too old for fighting. These men didn’t look like soldiers, they looked like people who’d already lost a war. Except… they didn’t act like it. They might have been dirty and tired and stank, and wore dirty jeans and tennis shoes and baseball caps that Julius would throw into a burn barrel if they’d belonged to him, but none of the men, or women, were spent or broken. Far from it. They seemed to have good weapons discipline, but whether or not they’d stand and fight when things got really really bad… that was something he’d have to wait to find out. Then again, who’s to say they hadn’t already seen worse?

Julius gestured at the big SAW gunner with the tattooed arms, wearing shorts and a fucking Hawaiian shirt of all things. “Mark, was it? Step on up, let me run you through this. We’ll go slow at first, until you think you’ve got it, then at speed.”

“If you haven’t met her yet, this is Sergeant Sarah Weaver,” Morris told the men of Theodore. “She’ll be accompanying you on the mission. Another two of my people will be with Flintstone, so with nine apiece your two squads will number eighteen.”

“Gentlemen,” she said, looking around the room. She nodded at Early, who smiled back at her.

“Hmm,” Ed said, staring at Morris, who didn’t quite understand the look, or the questioning sound.

“You an intelligence wonk?” George asked her pointedly. “You ever been in the field? Ever fired a gun?”

“Mostly I’m logistics,” she told him. She’d been expecting the question for some time. “Support. Infrastructure for cells such as yours. And I’m good at it. But I was in the wrong place at the right time and fought in the Battle of Beech Grove last spring. I was only there to set up contact protocols for some of our cells left behind when the ARF pulled back. Then the local ARF commander surprised us by rolling right back in in an attempt to retake the city, and the Tabs did a counter-offensive and tried to crush them. I was right in the middle of that.”

“Armor and infantry?” Mark asked her. Everyone in the city had heard of that battle, as that was the closest the “real war” had ever gotten to the city. 250 miles away in a straight line. Rumor was the Tabs had gotten their asses kicked. The state-controlled media outlets crowed about how the Army had routed the “terrorist instigators” with minimal casualties.

“Some armor, mostly Growlers and technicals,” she said, meaning commercial vehicles mounting larger belt-fed weapons. “None of the vehicles lasted through the third day,” she said, her voice flat. “Then it was back and forth for another two days through the neighborhoods and that giant ass railroad yard, slowly pushing north. Mortars and RPGs and house-to-house fighting. By the end of the week we’d moved five miles north into downtown Indy, fighting for every block. I think I slept six hours total. Two thousand dead on our side, almost seven thousand on theirs before they retreated to the Lafayette line.”

“I didn’t bring anybody who hasn’t pulled a trigger in combat,” Morris told the squad.

“I never wanted to go through that again,” Weaver told all of Theodore, “but I think this is worth it, so when the Colonel asked for volunteers….” She shrugged.

“Welcome to the squad,” Ed told her.

Morris gestured at the two stacks of ammo cans before them. “All piled up together like this, it doesn’t look like much. I wish we could have brought in more, but smuggling things into the city, in bulk, are a logistical nightmare. Our main concern were the Spikes, of course, everything else was secondary. But hopefully that’ll help.”

“I don’t think you realize how short we are on ammo most of the time,” Quentin said. He cracked open the nearest can and saw it was full of loaded AR magazines—brand new Magpul Gen M5 windowed PMags in MUG, Medium Urban Gray. He then looked at the rest of the ammo cans and did a little math in his head. “You’ve got at least a thousand rounds of 5.56 here.”

Morris nodded. “All 62-grain Mk318 Mod 3 Optimized made by Black Hills, which should work well no matter what length barrel you’re shooting it out of. If I was going to go to all the trouble to bring it in, I wanted to bring in the good stuff. We had more at the secondary location where I met up with the squads of Alpha yesterday, so this is all for you guys. Well, what’s left, it looks like locusts have been through here. I think you’re one of the last squads to grab your share. But I don’t want any of it left, it doesn’t do anybody good sitting here.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” Ed assured him.

Morris rubbed his chin as he stared at the pallets of ammunition and supplies filling the room, which they’d snuck into the city on trucks or backs over a three month period when there were no Tab-controlled satellites over the city. “It’s interesting. With the war, the Tabs are not getting any new tanks or tank parts. Aircraft or parts. They’re hardly getting any new guns. You want to know why? Before the shooting actually started there was a culture war going on. They were doing everything they could to drive not just gun owners but actual guns out of their states. For the decade or so prior to the war just about every firearms or ammunition manufacturer was forced to relocate out of those freedom-hostile states, from New York and Massachusetts, say, to Texas and North Carolina. As a result, pretty much all of the gun and ammo manufacturers ended up being inside the territory we control. While of course there are wartime deprivations, we have continued to make guns and ammo… and other more interesting and powerful munitions.” He gestured at the third pallet against the wall. “The Tabs, on the other hand, have pretty much been stuck with what they had on hand when they started the war. Now, that included a lot of the military bases and their extensive armories, but they’re not really making any more, and while they’re getting some from their communist ally states, we hear it’s all small arms stuff, rifle rounds and grenades, and not enough of that.”

Weasel moved to the second stack of cans and popped the top. It was filled with rectangular brown boxes. “What the hell’s ‘M1153 EBR’?” he asked the Lieutenant Colonel, reading one of the boxes.

“Nine-millimeter Enhanced Barrier Round. I wasn’t sure how many of you might have pistols, but I brought a little of that stuff just in case. Armor piercing,” he explained, “but it also expands when it hits flesh, which most AP ammo won’t do. It will only go through soft body armor, of course, not the plates, and you don’t see much of that, but it also does pretty well against unarmored vehicles and the like.” He eyed the MP5 slung at Weasel’s side. “Looks like you might be in the market.”

“Oh fuck yeah. Um, sir.”

“Take as much as you can carry. If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ve got to make the rounds. Sergeant.”

“Sir,” Weaver said, saluting Morris as he left.

Ed watched Morris head out, and turned to George. He’d spent quite a long time briefing the men of Theodore on the mission, and their part of it. Everyone was in, although not without reservations. George gestured at the pile of ordnance. “The more ammo we have, the better chance this plan has of working.” He wasn’t wrong.

“Grab as much as you can carry, and then grab some more,” Ed told them. He checked his watch. “We’re wheels up in one hour fifteen. Chug water until you feel like puking, eat all the Power Bars and beef jerky you can, then chug some more water. Sounds like the move is going to be all sorts of miserable, but at least we know it won’t last forever.”

He turned to Renny. “How many rounds do you have for your rifle?”

Renny was chewing at his lip. “I loaded one hundred, and fired five to confirm my zero. Came into the city with ninety-five. Left? Eighty-two, if I remember correctly. Which seemed like a ridiculous amount until I heard this plan.”

“Well, there’s no place in the city for you to get a resupply on your fancy caliber I’ve never even heard of, so eighty-two’ll have to do. At least you can grab some of that nine-millimeter for your pistol.” Renny grunted, back to chewing his lip.

Ed looked around, frowning. “Anyone seen Jason?”

Ten minutes later Ed Found Jason in a ground floor hallway of the complex. He was red-faced and looked guilty when he saw Ed. “Your gear squared away?” Ed asked him. “I didn’t think so. Go downstairs, get with Weasel or Quentin, and make sure you’re stocked up on everything you’re going to need. This is probably going to be the most dangerous thing we ever fucking do, and some people are going to die, maybe even you, so get your shit together, and your head on straight, or it’ll be the last thing you fucking do. You understand me?”

Jason swallowed. “Yes, sir.” He headed downstairs.

Ed turned to look at Brooke, who was just finishing buttoning up her blouse. She and Jason had just exited one of the rooms down the hall when Ed had spotted them. “Really?”

She shrugged and smiled. “Boy’s old enough pick up a gun and fight for his country, maybe die, seems only fair he should have a full and complete idea of what that freedom tastes like.” She had a glint in her eye. “Feels like.”

“Christ.” Ed sighed and shook his head and checked his watch. “When are you heading out?” Morris had the squads staggering their departure times.

Brooke checked her own watch. “Forty minutes. My guys are good to go, and all I’ve got to do is throw on my vest and pack. Which I’m not looking forward to, I think it weighs more than I do. And you’re leaving after us, right? So we had plenty of time. Hell, a jackrabbit his age, exploring new territory, I figured we had time to go twice.” She threw him a smile and headed for the stairs. “Turns out I was wrong,” she said, without looking back. She started down the stairs. “Boy was good for a hat trick,” he heard her say, voice echoing up the stairs and, behind it, her delighted laugh.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“Oh dear God,” Ed wheezed as he stood up under the weight of his backpack after climbing down the ladder. Between his backpack and body armor and rifle he normally carried forty to fifty pounds of gear, depending on how low the squad was on ammo and water. As he stood there it felt like his boots were sinking into the concrete beneath him, and he guessed his current load was pushing ninety pounds. Everyone on the squad was at least as heavily laden as he was, including the new addition to their squad. Sergeant Sarah Weaver certainly didn’t seem to be enjoying the weight on her muscled shoulders, but she bore it without complaint. He could see she was nervous, even though she hid it well.

The eighteen dogsoldiers of Theodore and Flintstone (including Morris’ loaners) stood at the bottom of a dry swimming pool at the other end of the sports complex from where Morris had done his briefing. The two squads would be making the move together, as the plan called for them to be working in tandem once they arrived at the objective.

“We took a week to travel twelve miles and now we’re supposed to do eight miles in as many hours, and none of this shit is going to get any lighter,” Weasel said, bowed under the weight of his backpack. As far as he was concerned it was piss poor planning. “Are we going or what?”

Morris had climbed down the ladder with them to see them off, as he had the three squads who’d departed before them. “I’ll be heading out with the remainder of my people in a couple hours,” he told them. “And I hope to hear from you soon.”

Ed gave the nod to Quentin, who would be on point for the first leg of the trip. Q turned on his handheld Surefire flashlight on its lowest setting, just five lumens, and moved out. At that output the batteries were supposed to last thirty hours, and the five lumens should be more than enough. If the batteries gave out early he had spares. They all did.

As they passed him, Morris shook each man’s hand, and gave Sarah a smile and a pat on the shoulder. George had more combat experience and seniority than anyone in Flintstone, and waved both squads past him before taking up position at the rear of the column. He watched as Hannibal ducked to walk inside the hole dug into the side of the pool. It was not quite six feet in diameter, hacked into the concrete wall of the pool with sledgehammers.

The men of Theodore and Flintstone had watched Sylvester disappear into the dark hole not quite half an hour earlier, then carefully lowered their gear into the pool. Then they double- and triple-checked their gear nervously while waiting to go.

“Good luck,” Morris told George.

“We’ll see,” George said through gritted teeth. He was carrying just over a hundred pounds of gear, but luckily didn’t have to stoop to fit through the hole. At its low setting his Streamlight flashlight put out ten lumens with a fifty-hour run time. The wide beam clearly illuminated the jagged edges of concrete as they gave way to the earth and clay beyond. Dug by hand, with pick and shovel.

The crude tunnel curved downward and to the left, heading northwest. Here and there it was reinforced with planking. The narrow shaft echoed with the muted sounds of heavily laden men moving as quickly as they could, the glow from several lights swinging back and forth as the men shuffled forward. George saw silhouettes of bodies in front of him as the smell of dirt filled his nostrils.

Forty feet in there was a sharp kink in the tunnel as it bent around a concrete pipe two and a half feet in diameter. Thirty feet past that there was a traffic jam as the men paused and very carefully stepped through the hole pounded through the huge reinforced concrete sewer pipe running directly north/south.

“We found an amazing amount of data online,” Morris had told the squad leaders during his briefing. “Maps of the entire water and sewer system. The first trunk line you’ll be using to travel, we knew within thirty feet or so where it was located, but weirdly enough none of the resources we found gave it a name. It is possibly the Hubbell-Southfield trunk line. The good news is that it’s twelve feet in diameter, and there’s only a small amount of gunk in the bottom of the pipe. The bad news is that if you want to stay out of sight as much as humanly possible, and trust me, you do, you’re going to be taking it in the wrong direction. North.”

Once through the four-foot-wide hole in the side of the pipe the men straightened up under their burdens. Quentin moved forward and waited while everyone made it through the hole into the sewer pipe. Ahead of him the pipe stretched straight and true, fading black beyond the beam of his flashlight.

The air in the pipe was stale, and Morris had told them breathable air had been a concern, but in addition to opening up the pipes to foot traffic—where possible—his engineers had made sure there were enough openings in the sewer lines to produce sufficient air flow.

“Smells more like dirt than shit,” Quentin said softly, playing his flashlight beam over the two-foot-wide stripe of organic material at the bottom of the big pipe. His voice, soft as it was, echoed ahead of him eerily.

“One turns into the other, give it enough time,” Sarah whispered. She was second in line. She’d spent some time in the pipes and knew what to expect, so was there to help the point man if necessary.

“Last man in,” Q heard George say some distance behind him, his voice rolling down the concrete.

The men of Theodore soon discovered that walking in the sewer pipe wasn’t nearly as easy as they’d thought it would be. The sludge at the bottom of the pipe wasn’t all mud, but it did suck at their boots with nearly every step. The sludge strip was so wide they couldn’t spread their legs apart far enough to avoid it entirely, not with the loads they were carrying. A few tried to walk to one side or another, but walking on an angled concrete surface soon had their ankles screaming.

After ten minutes everyone in the column was sweating and wondering just how much farther they had to go. The sewer pipe stretched out ahead of them into the dark, straight as a ruler. Mark was directly behind Jason, and in the strobing light of the low-beam flashlights he could see the young man trudging slowly through the muck, and hear his panting. And swearing.

“One foot in front of the other,” he called out softly. “One step at a time. One step, then the next, then the next. Don’t think about how far you have to go. Just worry about that next step.”

“For fuck’s sake, shut up,” someone behind them growled. Which for some reason made both Jason and Mark break out in giggles they had a hard time controlling.

Not quite ten minutes later they reached the end of the line. Or rather, the beginning of it, where several smaller pipes emptied out into the large one they’d just walked up. Water was trickling out of a few.

There was a huge hole in one wall that had been created with a shaped charge. Past the large crater was a narrower path dug upward through the earth. Twenty-five feet forward and up they shut off their flashlights and came out into the open air between two houses, just as they’d been told they would. They spread out in a defensive perimeter and waited until everyone was out of the sewer. It took some time. Between the moon reflecting off a few clouds and the stars above them, the night sky seemed incredibly bright compared to the lightless sewer pipe.

“Last man out,” George said quietly to Hannibal, panting under his load. The leader of Flintstone turned and gave a thumbs up to Ed, who was standing at the corner of the house. Ed checked the time on his watch, then doublechecked the columns on the paper in his hand, which he could barely see in the moonlight. They had an eighteen-minute window when no satellites would be above them. He waved a hand and the two squads slowly moved out, heading directly north.

They kept good spacing and moved around the last two houses on the street. Then they reached Puritan, a larger east-west surface street with two lanes in each direction. Two hundred feet to their east was Slash, the sunken freeway heading northwest/southeast. Theodore crossed to the north side of Puritan and the squads moved in two parallel columns down the street and over the bridge spanning the freeway.

Once over it the squads turned directly north again on the first side street. A very old commercial building built of red brick sat on the corner, then it was all houses to either side of them, compact two-story homes of red brick and white siding.

The men walked through the front yards, the grass swishing against their pantlegs. A dog barked, and faint talking carried on the soft breeze. They saw candle light in the window of one home, and heard laughing. Many of the homes seemed to have collapsed in upon themselves.

The two squads traversed one block, then a second, then a third, and found themselves at an alley. On the far side of the alley were the commercial buildings lining McNichols. The street was two lanes in each direction plus curbside parking.

Quentin, still in the lead, pointed questioningly and Sarah nodded. They led the squads through the alley eastbound for one block, then with four minutes to spare before the next satellite appeared in the sky above them, entered the back door of what, years ago, had been a small church wedged between a car wash and a tax service. Now all the modest commercial buildings in this area were long abandoned, half of them destroyed by fire.

In a city that had seen ten years of war, which was constantly shadowed by a haze of smoke from fires, the occasional muffled explosion was of no interest. Morris’ engineers had used charges to blow a hole twenty feet down past the foundation of the church, then, worried about sympathetic cave-ins, dug the rest of the way to the Six Mile Relief sewer line using shovels. They’d used a very small shaped charge to cut a circular hole in the reinforced concrete of the pipe, which they’d then widened with sledge hammers.

“This is a trunk line, a big one,” Morris had told them in the briefing, his finger tracing its route on the map. “It was first constructed in 1958. Where you’ll be inside it the pipe is between eleven and fourteen feet in diameter and twenty-two to forty-eight feet underground, depending, so you’ll never have to worry about banging your heads, or making noise. But I still wouldn’t be loud. Once you enter it here, inside this church, you’ll take it two and a half miles directly east.”

“There are giant sewer lines under the city, ‘interceptors’, big enough to drive an IMP through, but unfortunately none of them are where we need to go. When it comes to the trunk lines, the next size down, what my engineers did was figure out where they weren’t passable and devise workarounds. Most of the places they were blocked were impossible to dig out, but when the Army went after them they were lazy, or maybe in a hurry. They demolished this or that sewer line or junction, and then a quarter or half a mile down set additional charges and blew that site. Another half a mile or a mile further on they might have blown another junction, but probably not. They didn’t have the time or the inclination to collapse whole lengths of the sewer, they just blew spots here and there as blocks, and it worked for them. Until now. My men found that nearly half of the collapsed areas were really easy to get around with just a bit of digging and exploration. You might have to crawl up to the surface and walk fifty or a hundred feet, but then you can go right back down. The pipe heading directly north from here will be an easy traverse. On the other hand, numerous sections of the Six Mile Relief are blocked, either blown by the Army in the past or simply collapsed, so you’ll have to exit and walk above ground half a dozen times. Still, though, you’ll be underground for over two-thirds of that two and a half miles.”

Unlike the first sewer pipe they’d traversed, they found this one had running water in the bottom. The slow-moving fetid stream was less than a foot wide, however, and there was almost no mud in it, so instead of taking a break to rest their backs as planned, Hannibal and Ed agreed to push on.

Not quite a mile ahead the pipe was ruptured. A slope of mud and chunks of concrete stretched upward, but a trench had been dug through the debris. Ed moved to the base of the slope and peered up. He could see an oval of sky through the breach in the pipe, at the end of the chute dug and clawed by Morris’ engineers.

Ed stepped back and murmured to the first man, “Fifteen minute rest.” The word passed among them back down the pipe. Carefully the men set down their burdens and wormed their way out from under their heavy backpacks.

Ed met with Hannibal, George, and Sarah in the middle of the two squads, and they bent their heads together. “We’ve gone two and a half miles, total, since leaving?” he asked, peering at his folded map.

“That’s about what I’m guessing,” Hannibal said. He checked his watch, which had luminous hands. “In under two hours. We’ve got almost ten hours to make our rendezvous.”

“I’d rather get there four hours early than one minute late,” George said, and not for the first time.

“From what I was told climbing in and out of this pipe is going to be a pain,” Sarah told them.

“Still better than walking around outside the whole time,” Hannibal said. “And thank God we haven’t had any rain, can you imagine walking through knee deep water in here? Be a fucking horror show. I’m actually shocked we haven’t run into any mutant alligators.” He checked his watch and then squinted at the satellite windows on the sheet in his hand. “In sixteen minutes we’re going to have a four minute blackout window. I think that’ll be barely long enough just to get all of us out of this hole. Then there’s a bird above us for seven minutes, and a twelve minute blackout window. What do we have, about a quarter mile above ground to the next hole?”

Sarah was consulting her map and satellite data as well. “Yeah.”

“So do we wait until the longer window before popping our heads out like gophers?” Ed asked the group.

“This is going to get fucking old quick,” George said.

Jason realized Weasel was next to him in the dark as they sat down at their next rest break. Carrying the equivalent weight of a fourth-grader on their backs was just as tiring as they’d expected. “You were right about the rats,” he whispered. He could feel the sweat dripping off his nose.

“What?”

“You said we were like rats scurrying around and biting people, and here we are in a sewer.” Strangely enough, while at first he’d been terrified trudging through the seemingly unending, pitch black pipes, now it didn’t bother him. Probably because he was too tired.

“Shut the fuck up,” Weasel said tiredly. He was trying to nap before they had to move out again. He opened his eyes, closed them, opened them. There was hardly any difference. He turned his head toward Jason. “Hopefully when we get to where we’re going we do more than bite a few ankles.” He sighed, then added, “I can’t believe you got with Brooke. Asshole.”

“Ummm.” Was Weasel dating Brooke? He didn’t think so. He still couldn’t quite believe what had happened. It had all been so fast. One minute he’d been walking down a hallway, then the next the big woman had grabbed him and pulled him upstairs, he’d had no idea why. And before he’d figured out what was going on she was out of her pants and pulling off his. He hadn’t had time to be nervous. At least the first time. He shook his head in the dark. A month ago he’d still been on the farm, getting yelled at by his dad. Now he was fighting in a war. Had killed at least one man. And then Brooke…. It seemed like all these things were happening to someone else, and he was just spectating.

“I’ve been trying to jump on that for two years,” Weasel said wistfully. “Those titties, Jesus. Were they—never mind, how would you even know? Fucking virgin.”

“Not any more,” Jason said softly, and even in the dark you could hear his smile. Weasel snorted.

“I read, years ago,” Ed whispered, leaning against his backpack as he sat on the floor of the sewer pipe, “a Navy SEAL wrote that by the time they got to where they needed to go on a mission they were so tired and pissed off and angry that they needed to kill someone. Like it was therapy.” He was trying hard not to wheeze. It felt like his entire body underneath his clothes was slick with sweat. “I understand what he meant, now.”

Mark, sitting next to him, just grunted. Ed dug out a bottle of water and chugged it straight down. He felt better immediately. “Drink some water,” he told Mark.

They’d traveled just over a mile in a little more than an hour, but it had been a grueling go. They’d been in and out of the sewer line three times, crawling up weed-choked slopes of mud and down through broken chunks of concrete, splashing through ankle-deep water that smelled of death. While carrying eighty-plus pounds of gear each.

One of Hannibal’s people had gotten sliced pretty badly by a piece of rebar jutting out of a jagged slab of concrete, and Quentin had nearly sprained his ankle in a short fall, but otherwise they were doing well. No other injuries, just growing exhaustion. But the excitement at the thought of what was ahead of them tempered their resolve.

To his left was a member of Flintstone. They’d only been stopped a few minutes and already the man was asleep. Which, Ed had to admit, was probably a smart move. Ed looked to his right, past Mark. The flashlights had been off long enough his eyes were starting to adjust. Just visible forty feet away in the glow of the moon was the next collapsed section of the tunnel and the base of the slope up. Once they clambered up they’d have the longest above-ground trek of the night, nearly half a mile, before they could get back down into the sewer line. Then it was a full uninterrupted mile underground, straight east.

He checked his watch again. They had eleven more minutes before there were no satellites overhead, then had a forty-one minute window to cover that half a mile. Provided nothing unexpected happened, that should be two or three times as much time as they needed.

They’d worked out the best way for climbing up into the world. Two men would drop their packs and scramble up. They’d set up on either side of the opening, or the building if it came up inside one, and provide security while everyone else, laden down with all their own gear plus the first men’s two packs, struggled out of the pipe which, most of the time, was a significant distance underground. It was all done in silence, other than grunts and the occasional muffled curse.

When it was time they crawled up inside a low-ceilinged commercial building. Ed was the fourth man up. He had to go on all fours and drag his pack behind him because of the low roof in the hand-dug tunnel. He took a few seconds to catch his breath, then shrugged on his backpack and stood up with a grunt. His hands and clothes were caked with mud and he had abrasions all over his arms and legs from climbing over and around concrete puzzle pieces for hours. The tunnel mouth was near the rear of the building and he stepped through the splintered hole where the back door should have been. Before him was an alley.

Mill, from Flintstone—Ed wondered if was short for Milton or Miller, but knew better than to ask the young man—was in the alley, rifle in hand, providing security. Ed breathed the night air for a bit, then leaned in and told him, “I’m going to scout a bit ahead.” He patted him on the shoulder and moved down the alley east. He stopped at the first cross street. While the light from the moon was starting to fade as it sunk in the sky, he could see the alley appeared clear of obstructions for at least the next hundred yards. That was only a fraction of the distance they had to travel aboveground, but it was a start.

He heard the soft hush of a breeze, and some crickets, but that was it. Ed strode across and stopped on the sidewalk on the far side of the street, at the mouth of the alley. He looked back the way he’d come and saw Hannibal walking toward him, his thick gray hair reflecting the moonlight like dirty snow. Under the weight of his gear the leader of Flintstone moved like an old man.

Hannibal stopped beside him and the two men looked around, north toward McNichols, south along the dark street, east down the alley, and back toward the building they’d just exited. A handful of dogsoldiers were now visible in the alley, black silhouettes against charcoal gray. Several started moving toward the squad leaders. Suddenly Hannibal shot his fist up into the air, and everyone stopped.

Ed cranked his head around. He’d heard it too, somewhere behind him, east. A low voice, and then a metallic sound, possibly a weapon. Not right on top of them, but close enough. Quiet, but loud enough to be heard…. He moved away from Hannibal and brought the butt of his carbine against his shoulder. Hannibal signaled for two of the men to come, but slowly. When the four of them were together, they moved out, trying to find the source of the sound. It was probably nothing, just a local denizen, but they had to check.

Moving at a creep, the men moved through the alley, into the backyard of a bungalow facing away from them. The rear wall of the house had crumbled into a pile of bricks, making an easy exit for a quick getaway. Or an easy way to get into the house without having to open a door. There was a soft sound from inside the house. Ed waved two of the men around the side of the house and then went through the hole in the wall, Hannibal at his side.

“I can’t believe it’s this fucking humid up here,” a male voice said, not much more than a murmur. There was the faint glow of a light. A flashlight, turned down low.

Ed took three very slow, careful steps, paused, then pushed around the corner, rifle up, Hannibal right there at his elbow. Two men sat on ratty furniture in the main room of the house, their heads leaned together. Ed lowered the muzzle of his rifle an inch as his eyes took in the men before him, then brought it back up. “Hey,” he said quietly.

The two men, engrossed in the map before them, physically jumped in surprise. They instinctively looked for their rifles, which Ed could see leaning against the wall behind them, perhaps six feet away. “Don’t move,” he growled, and Hannibal was beside him, rifle up. Then Sarah and Jason were coming in the front door, carbines up and aimed. The two men before them froze, looking back and forth between the dogsoldiers. If they’d wanted to try something their chances of success had dropped toward zero with the appearance of two more people toting rifles. Ed and Hannibal were on one side of the room, twelve feet away from Jason and Sarah.

“You guys with a squad?” Ed asked. Sylvester had been the last squad to leave ahead of Theodore, but they shouldn’t have caught up to them already. Plus, Ed didn’t recognize either of these guys, and he was pretty sure he knew everybody in Sylvester, from Brooke on down. The men were in their early thirties, with beards, wearing civilian clothes, and solid with muscle.

The two men exchanged a look. “Um, no,” the taller of the two said. He was wearing a khaki button-down shirt over blue jeans. He glanced again at the gear on the floor behind him. There was a plate carrier with pouches, a big backpack, and a suppressed sniper rifle.

“Hands on your heads!” Hannibal barked, his rifle up, safety off, and finger on the trigger. “Hands on your fucking heads!” He took a step closer. To his left Sarah raised her suppressed short-barreled carbine as well.

“Whoa, relax, easy,” the shorter of the two men said. “Relax, we’re on your side.” They both had pistols on their hips, but when confronted by four people with rifles up and ready they laced their fingers atop their heads, eyes dancing from face to face.

“Golf ball,” Ed challenged them.

“What?”

“Golf ball,” he said, even louder. The agreed-upon codeword response, given to every member of every team by LTC Morris for this mission, was ‘Felix’. He became aware of growing sounds behind him, but didn’t take his eyes off the men.

“Look, I don’t, we don’t know what that means. We’re just on our own, in the city to shoot some of those Army assholes,” one of the men with his hands on this head said rapidly. His eyes darted left and right as the sounds Ed had been hearing to his rear seemed to flow around the house. Two dogsoldiers stepped in the front door behind Sarah and Jason, and the head of a third appeared through the empty window frame to one side of the men. He was standing in the front yard, dimly illuminated by the numerous flashlights now on inside the house. Ed felt the floor under him move as more men entered the structure.

“I’m not going to take your pistols,” Ed said evenly, “but I am going to ask you to get down on your knees and keep your hands on your heads. That way we can all relax and have some polite conversation, get this sorted out.”

After a three-heartbeat pause, and a shared look, the men did as they were asked. They weren’t happy about it, but the number of heavily-armed dogsoldiers in the house had swelled to a dozen. Their eyes darted all around, wondering just what the hell was going on, why the house was suddenly filled with guerrillas.

“You got this?” Ed heard softly in his ear.

“Yeah,” he told George, without taking his eyes off the duo. “Leave me half and get going. We’ll meet you there.”

“We’re on a clock,” George reminded him unnecessarily.

Thirty seconds later half the contingent had moved off, leaving six dogsoldiers inside the house and three outside on watch. Verifying that others had their carbines still trained on the men Sarah slung her SBR and walked behind them. She walked out from behind the moldy couch carrying the suppressed M5 carbine she and Hannibal had spotted. She hoisted it for the two men on their knees to see, a dubious expression on her face.

“I dug the chip out of it,” the smaller of the two men said quickly.

“Yeah?” Deftly and with a few sure movements Sarah unloaded the rifle and separated the polymer stock from the metal components. She peered inside, then dropped the barreled receiver to the floor with a loud thump and dug out her flashlight. She shone it inside the stock, then turned it so everyone in the room could see. There was a divot cut out of the polymer in the center of the handguard.

“See?” the man said.

“How long have you been using that?” Ed asked.

“A couple of weeks. We ran into a couple of Army guys, killed them and took their gear. But we’d been told about the chip, so I dug that out.”

Sarah’s face got hard. “Yeah?” she said derisively. She walked back over to where she’d grabbed the rifle and picked up a Kevlar helmet with night vision goggles attached. “They tell you about the chips in the helmets, too?” She set the helmet down and shook the camo carbine stock at them. “They tell you about the second chip in the stock, the one in the middle of the butt, that you can’t dig out without destroying the stock, or at least making the rifle unshootable?” Her voice rose in volume until she was almost shouting. “Apparently your commanding officer didn’t tell you everything you needed to know for your mission. Because if you were who you say you are, after just one week of carrying this shit around you’d be fucking dead.”

She dropped the M5 stock, grabbed the pistol grip of her SBR, and pressed the muzzle of the weapon against the side of the man’s head. “Name, rank, and goddamn serial number,” she growled. Behind her, Jason’s eyes grew wide.

“Look, okay, he’s full of shit, we just grabbed that stuff the day before yesterday,” the other man said quickly, his eyes darting around the room. “And we didn’t even kill anybody, we found a patrol that had been ambushed, or something, and took their stuff.”

Sarah made a sound and moved behind the two men again. She began to dig through one of the backpacks.

“So who the fuck are you? You just wander into the city?” Hannibal made a face.

“We came up from Columbus. There was nothing happening there and we wanted to see some action.”

“War tourist?” one of the dogsoldiers from Flintstone said dubiously. Sarah moved from the first backpack to the second. She wasn’t delicate, she opened the top and dumped it out on the floor.

“We don’t know our way around here, how things are set up. Is this your territory? We can leave if you want, we didn’t know. Are you guys ARF? You’re ARF, right?” His eyes moved back and forth between the dogsoldiers. None of their gear matched, and they were all covered in mud and smelled like actual shit for some reason, but they were all fully kitted-out and behaving in a professional manner, so it was a good bet. Hell, they weren’t just kitted out, they were buried under gear, bulging backpacks and magazine pouches and olive drab tubes, the very sight of which surprised him.

Sarah made a sound, and turned around. In each hand she held a top-of-the-line military-grade radio. The two men on their knees looked over their shoulders at her.

“Radios?” she said, the look on her face like she’d eaten something sour.

“Yeah, we took them off the bodies too. We’ve just been using them to talk to each other when we split up.”

“That’s encrypted, they can’t track it,” the other man said.

“Are you lying to us, thinking we’ll still buy your line of shit? Or is that what they told you? Because while they can’t understand what you’re saying, yes, they can track it. Or at least triangulate it. Man, did they screw you on your mission briefing.” Sarah could see it in their eyes. “I’m almost embarrassed for you.” She looked at Ed and Hannibal. “Not a doubt in my mind,” she told the two squad leaders, her voice flat.

“Yep,” Hannibal.

“Maybe they’re half-assing it because that’s all they think they need to do,” Ed said. “Should I be insulted? I feel insulted.”

“Look, I don’t know who or what you think we are,” the bigger guy said, now getting a little nervous, “but we’re here to fight the Army. The Tabs. Fuck those guys if they think they can take our guns, right? A few common sense laws are fine, right, to keep the wrong kind of guns away from the wrong kind of people, but banning everything for everyone? So I can’t even defend myself against criminals? No fucking way. They went too far. So fuck those guys. That’s why we’re here. That’s why we’re all here, right?” He looked around the room, looking for support and sympathetic faces.

Ed shook his head. “You need to just stop.”

Hannibal just sighed. He was so tired. “It’s not about guns,” he told the two men on their knees. “That’s like saying wars are about flags. It’s never been about guns, it’s about freedom. It’s always been freedom. Guns have just been the bellwether, the canary in the coal mine. Governments always want to control you, and bad governments want to enslave you. They can’t do that if you have guns, so the first thing any government which has evil intentions needs to do is take away the ability of its citizens to defend themselves. That’s World History 101.” He treated the men to a dirty look. “But the gun bans were the very last straw, not the first or only, that’s what you fuckers just don’t seem to get. The last straw from a government that had spent decades attempting to control every aspect of its citizens’ lives, what they could eat, drink, drive, own. What kind of toilets they had to use, what kind of lightbulbs they had to buy. Guns were just the final line in the sand, and we finally said this far, and no further. And if you were fighting on our side, you’d know that. The only people who still think this war simply started because ‘crazy’ people wouldn’t give up their guns are the other side, your side, the same people lying to themselves about the reasons for the war, who have always had a problem seeing the reality in front of them, and who love to rewrite history.”

The bigger of the two looked back and forth between Ed and Hannibal, his eyes finally resting on Ed. “You,” he said. “You look reasonable. What are you doing? This is treason! You’re fighting against your own government. Your own people.”

Ed cocked his head. “So because they are the government, our government, that automatically makes them the good guys? Are you that blind? That ignorant of history? You’re okay with whatever you’re told to do, simply because it came from the people that are in charge? Soldiers have a duty to disobey orders they know are illegal. Doesn’t your oath of enlistment state that you’re supposed to protect the country from all enemies foreign and domestic?”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Maybe you just don’t care. Is that it? You’re just happy to pull the trigger for whoever is signing the check? Might makes right?”

“Screw you. I love my country.”

“No, you love your government. If you loved your country you’d be fighting against your government, which has turned totalitarian and fascist and is everything our Founding Fathers went to war against in the first place. And more, actually.”

The man on his knees was shaking his head. “You’ve actually convinced yourself of that crap?”

Ed’s face flooded with heat. “The Bill of Rights,” he growled, “the entire Bill of Rights, was a complete ‘Fuck You’ to the idea of trust in government. An insurance policy. The people who wrote it had just fought off a tyrannical government—their own. Not just the Second Amendment, every amendment in there from the First to the Tenth enumerated the inherent rights of individuals, above those of government. The Bill of Rights doesn’t grant us rights or privileges, it lists the ones we have as human beings that the government has no right to take away. It flat out states the government has no authority to infringe our rights, and the Second Amendment is just there to guarantee the other nine. It’s not there so you can go duck hunting, or even so you can defend yourself against criminals—that was assumed. It’s there so that people like us don’t get ground under the bootheel of tyrants, or at least have a fighting chance, because there always have been tyrants. Always will be. Most of the Constitution is written in very plain language, but ‘shall not be infringed’ is about as plain as it gets, and only people with evil intentions could even attempt to start arguing it doesn’t mean what it says. Free men own guns, slaves don’t, it’s as simple as that. You’re fighting for a government that is trying to argue we should have no rights except for what they grant us. Besides plain unConstitutional that’s evil, pure and simple. And, if you actually took a look at the conditions that caused the colonists in America to revolt against the British back in the 1700s, those laws and regulations are nothing compared to the outrages citizens were having to endure prior to this war.”

“They didn’t even have cartridges back when the Second Amendment was written. The rifles were all muzzleloaders. And you think it gives you the right to own a machine gun?” The shorter of the two men scoffed.

“They didn’t have radio, TV, or the internet, but you folks seemed to think the First Amendment applied to those as well as pen, ink, and parchment,” Ed shot back. “At least, until you shut down the press because it was saying things you didn’t like. If you knew anything about history you’d know George Washington borrowed privately-owned cannon to equip his army to fight the Revolutionary War. Not machine guns, privately-owned cannons. That answer your question, sport?”

“This is ridiculous. And a waste of time,” the short one said, glaring.

The taller of the two nodded. “Hulce, Terrance,” he said finally, staring straight ahead. “Staff Sergeant. 732-54-5221.”

“Keeley, Robert, Captain, 689-77-4423,” the other man said. He looked at Sarah, who still stood close to them. “I’m guessing we’d be pretty valuable in a prisoner exchange.”

“You’re right about this being a waste of time,” Sarah said, and then shot both men in the head with her suppressed carbine, quick enough for the second man, Keeley, to not even have time to react. She felt speckles of blood hit her face.

Jason gave a little shout of surprise and stared at the two men on the floor, blood pouring out of their heads. One of them kicked once, then was still. The other lay where he fell.

“Molon fucking labe,” one of the dogsoldiers in the room spat at the dead men. Then actually spit on the bodies. He looked up at Sarah and gave her a nod. None of the other dogsoldiers had much of a reaction.

“Anything in their gear we can use?” Hannibal asked her.

“I don’t think so, but I’ll double check,” she said, nudging the bodies with her toe just to make sure.

“Do it yesterday, I want to get the fuck away from those radios and those tracking chips,” Ed said to her. “Any other day I’d be happy to grab their pistols and that sniper rifle and all their ammo, but the thought of picking up anything else makes me want to throw up.” All the weight on his back made it seem like he was on an alien planet with extra gravity.

He looked at Jason, who was still openmouthed at what seemed to be a cold-blooded execution, nearly at his feet. “They were the traitors, son. Enemies of us, and the country, and people who just want to be free. Live free. These two blindly obedient men just following orders might have been competent soldiers, but what they were doing made them honest-to-God bad guys. They didn’t think so, they thought they were patriots. And they’d never be convinced otherwise, even if the end of the war saw them packing us all into boxcars heading toward a reeducation camp, or worse, for our own good. That’s why we’re fighting a war. The polite disagreements ended a decade ago. There’s nothing less civil than a civil war. One minute,” he called out just loud enough to be heard by the men outside the home. He checked his watch. They should have plenty of time to make the tunnel before the next satellite flew overhead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Lydia walked through the tunnel. Occasionally she wore skirts to work, even high heels, and when she would walk through the tunnel wearing those her steps would echo off the brick walls in front and behind her, making it sound like she was part of a crowd. Most often, though, she wore slacks and comfortable shoes. Today she was in jeans and running shoes, the one pair she had still in good shape. Not only was it casual Friday but wartime deprivations often made simply washing her clothes a trial. She really couldn’t afford a new pair of shoes of any sort; no one inside the city could. She checked her phone. She was on time, or at least not running late.

She entered the Concourse of the Fisher Building, a name which she’d always found confusing. Concourses in her mind should be above ground; this Concourse, on the other hand, was immediately below ground level. In fact, she’d heard once that the tunnel she’d walked through was officially an “underground pedestrian concourse”. It was a freaking tunnel, and the Concourse level of the building should be called the First Basement or some such, something not confusing to people. Wasn’t it in Europe somewhere where they called the first floor the ground floor, and the second floor the first floor? Idiots.

She continued north through the empty and echoing Concourse, vacant offices and long-defunct retail stores to either side. The staircase was on the left, wide and shallow stone steps. She took it up to the lobby and glanced to the right. There, by the old security desk near the south entrance were two soldiers. They weren’t paying attention to anything. They rarely did.

Lydia moved left, to the coffee shop. There was a short line, and she looked around while she waited. She hated to spend the money on coffee, but it was a loitering excuse and a prop both at the same time, in addition, of course, to being coffee. Once she got her cup she stood in the lobby for a bit, sipping it, then headed out through the east entrance, past the bank of elevators.

Outside, the pedestrian walkway to the New Center One building was right over her head. With Lothrop barricaded off at the end of the block the overhead walkway wasn’t really necessary to avoid traffic, but people still used it, especially in winter. She walked down to the corner of the building and casually looked around, sipping at her coffee. A Growler was parked about twenty feet away, at least one solider in it. Across the street, in front of Cadillac Place, where she worked, was another Growler. She’d seen four soldiers there earlier. There were maybe fifteen people on foot within two hundred yards of her, people who worked in the area. Mostly government employees, she assumed.

She walked west on West Grand, across the front of the Fisher Building, sipping at her coffee. She glanced into the Growler as she passed. Two soldiers. She was pretty sure they were checking out her ass as she walked away.

Once around the corner she headed north, and entered the building through the west entrance. The lobby there was three stories, with beautiful murals on the ceiling and large tile mosaics on the walls. Most of the stores on the ground floor were shuttered, but a few were open.

She checked the time on her phone, just to make sure, and casually made her way back to the staircase, and down to the Concourse level. The building’s maintenance office was up ahead on the right. The old wooden door was propped open and she knocked on it. There were two men inside.

“Hey Ricky,” she said to the skinny black man who was just putting on his tool belt.

“Hey there,” he said to her with an impossibly deep voice. Everyone always told him he should have been in radio with that voice. His eyes darted from Lydia to the other man present and back. A smile grew on his face. “I’m just heading out,” he said.

“We’re just friends!” the other man said loudly, the exasperation clear in his voice.

“Whatever man,” Ricky said with a smile. He grabbed a large metal toolbox and Lydia stepped aside as he headed out the door. “Don’t disappear all morning, Tom,” he called back over his shoulder to his co-worker.

He was pretty sure Tom and Lydia were a thing. She’d been coming by at odd hours off-and-on for months and then sometimes the two of them would disappear, sometimes for five minutes, sometimes for an hour. Ricky knew what that meant, but it was none of his business, really. Tom wasn’t married and Lydia was smoking hot, so he was more jealous than anything else. And as long as none of the tenants were complaining, their supervisor Eddie didn’t give a shit whether or not they were doing the work. Everybody got paid regardless. Not well, but some was better than none.

Lydia and Tom listened to Ricky’s steps growing fainter and then the slow thumps of his boots heading up the stairs for the main lobby. Tom took a deep breath. He looked nervous and worried. “You ready to do this?” she asked him. She was just as nervous, she just hid it better. She’d been in deep for the better part of two years, but today was going to be a hell of a lot more than just sneaking around and keeping her eyes and ears open and using dead drops.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. He had his tool belt around his hips and he grabbed a two-foot-long crowbar off one of the benches.

Lydia followed him out of the maintenance office and into the north corridor. Not too far up, the hallway ended in a set of four glass doors. Tom pulled out his big key ring, found the appropriate one, and unlocked one of the doors. He stepped through, Lydia behind him. She let the door close behind her because the glass was tinted and it shielded them from immediate casual observation. Three feet in front of them should have been another set of doors and beyond them a second subterranean tunnel heading northeast to the Albert Kahn building. Instead of doors they were face to face with sheets of plywood screwed into the door frames.

The tunnel heading north had been closed for well over a decade. It hadn’t been open since before the war. Lydia checked over her shoulder; she didn’t see anyone in the hallway or the Concourse lobby beyond it. She turned back around and looked at the plywood sheets.

Tom was standing directly in front of one and a quick glance showed her that most of the screws holding the plywood to the frame had been already been removed. Tom had been taking out one at a time over the past month and now there were just two screws at the top and two screws at the bottom holding that one plywood sheet in place.

“We’re clear,” Lydia told him. Now was the moment of truth. She stepped up next to him and knocked on the plywood four times, her heart hammering in her chest, sweat breaking out across her forehead.

There was a two-second pause, just long enough for her to start worrying, then an answering knock. Four taps. Lydia checked over her shoulder once again; still nothing to see. “Do it,” she told him.

Tom wedged the nose of the pry bar between the plywood and the frame near the floor and pushed. The screw popped out of the frame easily. He then did the same at the top near the ceiling and handed the crowbar to Lydia. He didn’t bother with the screws on the other side of the plywood sheet, he just grabbed the freed edge of the plywood and wrenched it open. The wood around the screws still in the door frame cracked and the big sheet came free. He set it aside and took a step back.

At least a dozen faces were visible in the light spilling through the opening Tom had made. Sweaty, dirty men, all of them pointing rifles at the two of them.

“Golf ball,” the man closest to her said.

“And you’d be Felix,” Lydia responded. She handed Tom his crowbar. “I need a pistol.”

One of the soldiers handed a pistol forward without question or complaint while the first man produced a small radio with an illuminated digital readout. “Jackrabbit, jackrabbit, jackrabbit,” he said quietly into the radio.

As she stuffed the pistol into the waistband of her jeans she told them, “As of three minutes ago, you’ve got two Tabs in the south lobby, and two in a Growler outside the front door. There’s a Growler and four soldiers at the Cadillac building across the street. One on foot down near the Saint Regis. Not sure where the rest are in the area, but I’m sure they’ll find you. Fastest way up is the main stairs about halfway down on the right.” Which she figured they already knew, but it didn’t hurt to be sure.

“Roger that. Go,” the only man she’d heard speak said, waving the men behind him forward.

She and Tom moved to the side as the soldiers pushed through the narrow opening one at a time, moving as quickly as they could under their burdens. She counted eighteen and then the column ended. The air was a swirl of odors that nearly made her gag—wet mud, sewage, and body odor. The door swung closed behind the last one. For just a second she watched the men jogging down the hall through the tinted glass, then turned back to the group still in the tunnel. Roughly half the dogsoldiers remained.

“You’re the teams going straight across? I’m going ahead of you,” she told them. “You need someone with a key card. Give me a thirty-second head start.”

She jumped as the gunfire and screaming began upstairs, and was about to dart away and head for the tunnel south when a hand gripped her forearm firmly. Lydia looked up and was surprised to see the soldier was a woman, a short, whipcord thin redhead. She was shaking her head. She looked down at her watch, then back up at Lydia.

“Twenty seconds, then you go,” Petal said definitively. “We want them distracted.” Her nostrils flared. The classy-looking young woman in front of her smelled amazing. Perfume! She couldn’t remember the last time she’d smelled perfume. It made her realize just how much the war had cost her, that the simple smell of perfume now seemed alien to her.

Morris had very detailed maps of the entire city, but the one he’d spread out before the five squad leaders just covered the center of the city—the Blue Zone.

“Right at the north end,” he’d told them at the start of their briefing, “is what is called the New Center area. I’m sure you know, you’ve been here fighting for years and I’m the visitor, but humor me. West Grand Boulevard runs right through the middle of it, east-west. The Tabs have code-named it Washboard. Right here,” his thick index finger touched the map, “is the Fisher Building. Thirty stories, an old-school art deco skyscraper. The local propaganda mills broadcast out of there, the TV and radio station are on the seventh and eighth floor. Actually, they’ve got offices on several floors, but they broadcast out of the eighth. That’s really the only potential military or strategic target in the area. A lot of people work in that building. Right next to the Fisher Building,” he moved his fingertip to the right, “is New Center One. Offices, retail space, college classrooms. It’s eight stories. Half empty, but that means half not. They are bordered to the north by Lothrop Street. That’s the northern edge of the Blue Zone, and there are concrete barriers shutting off most of the north/south streets right there to vehicles. Fisher Building and New Center One sit on the north side of West Grand Boulevard. Directly across from them is Cadillac Place.” He moved his finger to the south side of West Grand.

“Cadillac Place originally was the GM Headquarters, and it’s huge. It’s only fifteen stories, but it stretches all the way from Cass on the east to 2nd Avenue on the west, from West Grand to West Milwaukee on the south side. It’s an entire city block. Right now it’s eighty percent empty, which is great for us. The only thing in there are city government offices, taking up most of the second and third floors. Let me draw you a mental image. Let’s say this whole area is a face.” He waved his hand over the map. “Think of the Fisher Building and New Center One as eyes, and Cadillac Place as the mouth, right? To the left, west of the Fisher Building, is an attached ten-story parking garage. Left of that is an overflow parking lot, then 3rd Avenue, then a newer six-story condo or apartment building. We’ll call that the left ear of that face.”

“To the right of New Center One, that right eye as you’re looking at it, is the St. Regis, a hotel that’s sort of become apartments for the people that live in the area. Call it the right ear. It’s connected to New Center One with a second-floor walkway. Those walkways are everywhere. Across Cass from Cadillac Place, just on the right side of the smile, is a four-story parking garage. We’ll call it the right cheek. There’s a walkway that goes from the roof to the fourth floor of Cadillac Place”

Morris moved his finger again. “Just below, just south of the mouth is the Alfred Taubman building. Eleven stories, and from there you get a great, unobstructed view in every direction but north, because Cadillac Place is taller and in the way. That’s the chin. Above the eyes,” he pointed, “you’ve got the Albert Kahn building. The forehead. Now technically the forehead is outside of the Blue Zone, on the other side of those barriers running along Lothrop, and it is completely abandoned and has been for years, but because it’s right there and big, it’s ten stories, people tend to keep an eye on it.”

He spread his hand and waved it above the map. “You’ve got as many skyscrapers, high-rises, whatever you want to call them, right here on top of one another inside a quarter mile radius as you do anywhere else in the city. Pretty much all of them are connected, either by pedestrian walkways above the streets or tunnels beneath. They’ve got water and power and you’ll see some vehicles on the roads, although gas is hard to find even if you can afford it. A lot of people work here, so there is a pretty constant military presence. More soldiers are regularly stationed here than anywhere else in the city outside of their base. Twenty to thirty troops, with a Growler or three, and maybe an IMP. They might be in the building lobbies, in their vehicles outside, or wandering around the sidewalks, there’s no way to know for sure. Which is why, I assume, you’ve never really gone after them here. Two or three dozen troops that wander around, with armor and buildings for cover.”

“Lot of people who aren’t Tabs walking around, too,” Chan added. “High probability of collateral damage. Plus, there’s no way to get anywhere close without being spotted. Normally.”

Morris nodded. “That too. Well, hopefully the civilians won’t get it too hard, but for this plan to work we need as many of those people in and around Nakatomi as panicked and scared as possible—when the time is right.” He frowned at the map, then shrugged and looked around at the squad leaders. “At least on this op, for once, you’ll be able to use battlefield pickups.”

The last three hundred yards had been a nightmare. The sewer pipe had been less than three feet in diameter. They’d had to take off their backpacks and drag them behind as they went, hands and feet getting bruised and scraped on the cement. It was either that or do the trek aboveground which, while quicker, would have gotten them spotted almost immediately. Weasel, Renny, and a young man whose name Ed couldn’t remember were the only ones able to avoid the crawl, and waved the rest of the men on.

Ed was in the middle of the squad, and it seemed to take an eternity of crawling—drag pack, move hands, knees, drag pack, repeat forever—until the pipe before him suddenly opened into a large earthen hole filled with jagged pipes and chunks of concrete. He blinked at the light and looked up to see several people staring down at him. Chan stepped halfway down the steep slope and offered Ed his hand. Ed was too tired to even thank the man, he just took the hand.

It took five minutes for the rest of the squads to crawl out of the pipe and be helped out of the hole. They found themselves in a large concrete-walled storage area lit by several bare bulbs. The space was filled with bodies, as Theodore and Flintstone had finally rendezvoused with Kermit, Yosemite, and Sylvester. Ed looked around at the exhausted faces of his men, then checked his watch. They’d made it with nearly three hours to spare.

“Everyone get something to eat, and drink, and then get some rest. You’re going to need it.”

After checking on all his people and conferring with the other squad leaders, Ed sat down to doublecheck his gear. He woke up with Chan shaking his shoulder. “Forty-five minutes,” Chan told him. Ed sat blinking for a few seconds, trying to clear his head.

Chan and his squad had arrived two hours before Theodore. They’d come in a completely different route, as had Kermit and Sylvester, just in case. Physically their route had been less taxing, but Yosemite’s last two hundred yards had been above-ground. Luckily they’d done it before four a.m., and not been spotted in the dark. Ed went to stand up and his mouth opened in pain.

“Shouldn’t have sat down and stopped moving?” Chan asked him, recognizing the look.

“Shouldn’t have sat down and stopped moving,” Ed agreed. His whole body ached and was stiff, like he’d been in a high-speed car wreck. His clothing had stuck to raw spots of skin but peeled off when he’d moved, like ripping off a scab. Scabs. Once again Chan held out his hand and helped Ed to his feet.

Brooke and Barker were talking to a man Ed didn’t recognize, and he walked over to them, glad to be, at least temporarily, free of the weight of his pack. The man was in a security uniform, with a pistol on his hip. The nametag on his breast read RICO.

“Right now everything’s locked up,” the man was saying, “but I can get you from here to where you need to be in about two minutes.”

“We’re going to be carrying a lot of gear,” Barker told him. “Moving slow.”

“Two and a half minutes, then.” Rico had a head shaved to stubble, his skin the color of milk chocolate. He flashed a bright smile. “Tunnel’s on this level. Second floor walkway to New Center One is up some stairs and down a hall.”

“I’m not convinced the radio will reach from the end of that tunnel across the street all the way to where you planned on staging,” Ed told Brooke. “Underground, then up three stories through a building?”

“Good point.” She thought for a second. “How about I leave a guy at this end of the tunnel, as a runner? When you transmit, he’ll get it, then run up to us. With no backpack, it shouldn’t take him more than thirty seconds?” She looked to the guard for confirmation.

“Right,” Rico said.

“What’s your plan after you let us through?” Barker asked him.

The guard stuck a thumb at the crater in the basement floor. “A hole this big, they’re going to know I knew about it. I’m getting the fuck out of the city. I’ve got family down south, I’m going to try to get there.

“We could always use another man,” Brooke said.

The guard shook his head. “I did my part. I wish ya’ll the best, but I’m not a soldier. I haven’t had to kill anybody yet, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Fair enough, this’ll have to do,” Ed said. Brooke had a sour expression on her face and gave Ed a dirty look, but he just shrugged.

Ed wasn’t aware of a man or woman in the five squads who wasn’t a combat veteran, but as he walked around the big room the stress and worry and fear was visible on their faces, even if they tried to hide it with smiles or anger or blankness. Some just sat there looking at nothing, alone with their thoughts, some joked, others compulsively cleaned their weapons a fourth time. He squeezed a shoulder here, gave a nod there, a small smile, a thumbs up, exchanged a few meaningless words of small talk, whatever it took.

When the time came the men grudgingly shrugged on their heavy backpacks and shouldered their other gear, then trudged out of the basement storage room. Rico led them down a short corridor, then used a key to open some glass doors. Just past them sheets of plywood had been nailed up, but Rico had removed two of them just the day before.

“Nothing in there but dust and mold,” Rico said as one of the men shone his flashlight inside. “Tunnel’s about fifty yards long. There’s a right turn, then a left near the far end.” He waved at the doors in front of them. “Got the same setup on the other side. I checked yesterday, and all the wood on the other side is still up, but one of the sheets seemed real loose.”

Ed nodded, and checked his watch. Five minutes. He turned to all the expectant faces behind him, and pointed through the doors. “You all know the plan. Theodore, Flintstone, Kermit and Chan into the tunnel. You can use lights, but quiet as fucking mice.” Chan was right there beside him, and the two men turned to Brooke, who was nearby with her squad. Ed held out his hand. “See you when I see you,” he told her.

She snorted, ignored the hand, and came in for a hug, first with him, then Chan. The fact all of them were wearing armored plate carriers and festooned with pouches stuffed with heavy and angular gear made it the least intimate hug Ed had ever gotten, which made him smile.

The four squads, twenty-nine men and three women, made their way into the dark tunnel, their feet kicking up thick dust. Brooke stationed her youngest (and presumably fastest) squad member at the mouth of the tunnel, divvying up his gear with the rest of the squad, leaving him just his rifle and his body armor. “All right, get us to that walkway,” she told Rico the guard.

Ed walked slowly through the tunnel, stifling a sneeze from the dust. He wasn’t using a light—he didn’t need to, as seemingly half the people clustered ahead of him were using theirs.

“Shut those goddamn lights off,” he hissed, wading his way between the men toward the far end of the tunnel. He stopped an arm’s length away from the wood, and as the last flashlight beam flicked off he could see an dim outline of light around the sheets of plywood in front of him. He couldn’t see the men around and behind him, but he could hear them breathing. And smell them. He sighed and tried to calm his heartbeat. All four squads, clustered together like that… the tunnel would be a death trap for them, if something went wrong, if there’d been a betrayal. Three grenades and a long burst of automatic weapons fire would kill them all.

After an agonizing several minutes he heard a faint sound close on the other side of the plywood. A soft voice, the words murmured so low he couldn’t make them out. Then four knocks against the wood. He knocked back four times.

Ten seconds later the sheet of plywood was peeled away, and a man and a woman were standing before him.

“Golf ball,” Ed challenged her, probably unnecessarily, blinking in the light.

“And you’d be Felix, the pretty young woman said. “I need a pistol.” Her voice was firm, without a hint of hesitation. The hallway behind her, through the tint of glass doors, was empty.

Someone passed up a handgun, a ghost Glock, as Ed raised the radio to his lips. “Jackrabbit, jackrabbit, jackrabbit,” he said, and heard a double-click in response.

She told them, “As of three minutes ago, you’ve got two Tabs in the south lobby, and two in a Growler outside the front door. There’s a Growler and four soldiers at the Cadillac building. One on foot down near the Saint Regis. Not sure where the rest are in the area, but I’m sure they’ll find you. Fastest way up is the main stairs about halfway down on the right.”

She was everything he’d been hoping for from Morris’ “agents in place”, professional and focused on the mission. Ed stuffed the radio back in a pocket and took a step to the side, out of the way. “Roger that. Go,” he said, waving the men forward.

Colonel Parker was in his office with his S2, Major Cooper, going over the morning reports, when the phone on his desk rang. Cooper answered it. “Major Cooper for Colonel Parker.” He stood there and listened for a few short seconds. “We’ll be right down.”

“Operations?”

Cooper nodded. “Reports of an ARF attack in the Blue Zone.” The two men headed toward the stairs.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“North end.” Parker nodded. That would put the action two, maybe two and a half miles away.

They were down in the command center two minutes later, and from the noise and activity it was obvious something big was happening. “Major?” Parker called out.

Mike Chamberlain, his S3, held up a hand, said something into a radio, then turned to his commander while handing the radio handpiece to a subordinate. “Sir, looks like we’ve got that attack you were worried about. Our forces on Washboard are being engaged.” He turned to the big digital map and ran his finger along West Grand Boulevard in the New Center area. “The Lieutenant I just spoke to said the ARF hit them in several places at the same time, in a coordinated attack, and maybe as many as half our forces there are already KIA, and they’re still taking a lot of fire. Rifles and grenades. Unknown numbers, but at least a dozen, maybe twice that. They were all on foot, and he said they seemed to be focused on this building, where VOP broadcasts from.” He tapped the map, then gestured to a nearby monitor which was currently just displaying static. “I turned this on, and Voice of the People was there, but two seconds before you walked in it went to static.”

“Seizing the broadcast facilities?”

“It’d be a great propaganda victory for them, if nothing else,” Cooper observed, frowning. “But then what? They’re stuck there.”

“I’ve got ground units en route,” the S3 said.

“Do we have satellite coverage?” Parker asked.

A Sergeant standing nearby was expecting the question, and she had the printout in her hands. “Sir, we will in two minutes. Nearly continuous coverage for twenty-two minutes, then nothing for eighteen, then coverage for twenty-four.”

“What about drones?”

“I’ve got one en route already, and there should be another one ready to go in just a few minutes.”

“What kind of drones?”

“Recon. Unarmed, mid-size, about two feet across, we can get two hours of flight time.”

Just then the static on the monitor disappeared, and they were rewarded with a view of the VOP newsroom backdrop. A man they didn’t recognize, obviously an enemy soldier from his body armor and magazine pouches, was sitting behind the desk. He was looking to the side. A battered rifle lay on the desk next to him. “Is it on? Are we on?” He looked around and found the live camera. “My fellow Americans,” he said, “you’ve been lied to for too long. Voice of the People does nothing but spew hate and lies. You need to rise up and fight with us, this is not just—” The screen went to static again.

“Did we lose it? Or is that on their end?” Parker asked.

“Their end, I think,” the S3 said. The ARF soldier had been skinny and sweaty. He’d also looked tired and old, and his rifle looked like an antique, all of which made the Colonel inordinately happy.

They stood and stared at the monitor, waiting to see what would happen. After a short time the static flickered, then disappeared. The ARF soldier was back, half out of his seat, looking off-camera. “Are we back? What happened?” He glanced at the cameras, then back to the side, visibly angry. They heard shouting in the background. “Lock down what’s causing that. You said you knew what you were doing, how their system worked. I’ve got—” the feed cut to static again.

“Morons. What reinforcements have you sent?” Parker wanted to know.

“I’ve got a full platoon heading that way. Six Growlers and two IMPs, forty men. If they’re not already rolling they will be within minutes. I’ve got two Kestrels rolling out of the barn. Ten or fifteen minutes ‘til they’re overhead.”

“Sir, I’ve lost contact with the Lieutenant, and haven’t been able to raise any of the others on Washboard,” the soldier manning the radio announced.

“How many were stationed there this morning?” Parker wanted to know.

Chamberlain pulled up the duty roster. “Twenty-two. And I’ve got two vehicles assigned out, both Growlers. They were probably parked on Washboard for visibility.”

“Surround the building and wait ‘em out? Even if the ARF only has a dozen people, our troops could take serious casualties trying to assault up staircases and elevators,” Major Cooper warned.

The Colonel knew that, but he also knew that ARF broadcasting from the local Voice of the People TV station would be very bad on a number of levels, including for him, professionally. “Send another platoon,” he told his S3. “And two Toads. Surround that place but do not enter. I don’t want to take any chances. Once they’re on site, and we get a sitrep, then I’ll decide further. If these bastards are actually, finally, going to take a stand, let’s do everything we can to take advantage of their mistake.”

“Yes sir.”

“Um, sir?” The tentative words came from the soldier manning the radio hub.

“Yes Corporal.”

“All units were ordered to switch over to the alternate frequency as soon as we lost contact with Washboard.” The soldier swallowed. “But I’m getting something on the original channel.”

Chamberlain frowned. “Getting what? From our men?”

“I don’t think so sir.”

“What is it?”

“Music, sir.”

“Music?” Chamberlain and Parker exchanged a confused look. The S3 told the radioman, “Pull it up, let us hear it.”

The Corporal flipped three switches, and then loud rock ‘n roll blasted out of the speakers. He hurriedly reached for the volume knob and turned it down. “I don’t think it’s us, sir,” the Corporal said.

“What is that?” Parker asked. It sounded very familiar.

Major Cooper had a bemused expression on his face. “Led Zeppelin,” he announced.

“Is it supposed to mean something?” Parker asked. Just then the windows outside the command center rattled from a staccato burst of explosions nearby. “What the fuck was that?” Parker wanted to know, his eyes going to the monitors showing feeds from the numerous security cameras mounted around the building. Then he saw the flowering blooms of fire at the aircraft hangars.

PART IV

BOOGALOO

Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.

The Declaration of Independence

And you will hear of wars and rumors of wars. See that you are not alarmed, for this must take place, but the end is not yet.

Matthew 24:6

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“Thor, we’ve got to go.”

Thor was on his hands and knees, panting harshly, his eyes stinging from sweat. “I know,” he gasped.

Harris’ breath was harsh in the narrow tunnel. He was ten feet back. They’d been told that was far enough. “I mean now, boss, shit’s probably already popping off.”

“Fuck, I know,” Thor growled. He staggered to his feet. He could sense the bodies stacked up behind him. “Give me some more light up here.”

The tunnel was four feet tall and three wide and had been hacked through the earth by hand with shovels and picks. It stretched for fifty-seven feet from the sewer trunk line to the wall of concrete before him. Four holes had been drilled in the concrete, two high and two low, stuffed with explosive, and sealed over. Wires trailed from all four charges to the switch in the center.

Morris’ people had dug the tunnel, drilled the holes, and set the charges, the last done two days earlier, so the moisture in the tunnel wouldn’t have enough time to affect the wiring or small charges of C4. That just left the four squads of Alpha to get to the tunnel at their appointed time, blow the wall, and get to work.

But nothing had gone right in the move into the city. One section of sewer line that was supposed to be open had collapsed since the last time Morris’ people had checked it. As a result they’d had to do an extra three-quarters of a mile above-ground they hadn’t been planning on, and that had taken them over two hours as they’d had to go to ground to hide from a random patrol that seemed to be circling.

Then, not long after getting back down into the sewer, they’d walked right into an encampment of rag-clad crazy people, apparently, as they’d attacked the lead element of Alpha on sight. Joker was in the lead, and two of the squad’s dogsoldiers had been stabbed in the close-quarters struggle.

One man had died almost immediately, and they’d spent over fifteen minutes trying to save the second, but he finally bled out. They’d nearly killed themselves doing the last two miles at a jog, laboring under sixty and sometimes in excess of ninety pounds of gear each.

Thor had to blink several times to get the sweat out of his eyes. “All the wiring looks good,” he gasped. He carefully grabbed the detonator switch, which was on the dirt tunnel’s floor beside the wall, and began backing up. The wires only stretched ten feet, which didn’t seem nearly enough, no matter what Morris had said. Harris was right behind him, and the remaining twenty-nine members of Flash, Joker, Donald, and Mickey, including Morris’ four loaners, were packed in tight to his rear.

“Fire in the hole, fire in the hole, fire in the hole,” Thor said, but not loudly. Even though he was about to touch off an explosion he didn’t want to give away their position, not that anybody should be able to hear him. “Everybody cover your ears.” He looked at Harris. “I hope to God this doesn’t kill me. You’re up if it does.” He was serious, and Harris knew it. He stuck one thumb in his ear, turned his back to the wall and the charges planted there, looked at the switch, closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and hit it.

The muffled crump behind him barely made his ears ring. At first he thought there’d been some sort of misfire, but when he looked over his shoulder he saw there was now a rough rectangular hole in the concrete wall, the air thick with dust. “Shit, that was it? That wasn’t that bad.”

Rifle up he hurried through the tunnel and jumped down, his boots landing square in the middle of an unoccupied parking space. His weaponlight illuminated a small underground parking garage for the residents of the apartment building. There were only a few vehicles in the garage, which was well lit. He scanned the area and spotted the vehicle ramp angling up, and the pedestrian door for the stairs. He moved in that direction and covered the door as the four squads exited the tunnel one at a time, led by Harris carrying his gear and Thor’s backpack.

Thor grabbed his backpack and lifted it onto the hood of the closest car as the remaining dogsoldiers exited the fresh hold in the wall. “Is that it? Last man? That’s it!” he called out to the other squad leaders. He turned around and fought his way into his backpack, then stood up under the weight. It felt like lifting a small car.

“Go, go, go!” Sanders, leader of Donald, shouted.

The dogsoldiers surged forward, and up. They poured into the narrow lobby in a wave of bodies. There was one soldier in the lobby, late heading to his office post in nearby Echo. He was unarmed, without armor, and the burst of rifle fire that sent him to the floor caused the other residents to scream and scatter.

Thor was one of the last to pile into the lobby. He heard the thud of boots heading up the stairs, and saw heads bobbing down a side hallway as two-thirds of Alpha detachment headed toward the parking garage next door. His back was killing him, he was pretty sure he’d shredded a disc jogging nearly two miles while carrying eighty pounds, and he felt nauseous as he eyed the stairwell door. Then a polite ‘ping!’ grabbed his attention and he looked over to see an elevator door opening. The elderly woman who exited nearly skidded to a stop in her heels as she saw the dogsoldiers before her.

“What are you doing!” she demanded, glaring at them. She was well into her seventies and skinny as a rail, clad in a very classy, well-maintained dress that had to be thirty years old. Thor had no idea if she had mistaken them for Army troops, but he shoved past her into the small elevator.

“You coming?” he asked the three dogsoldiers who hadn’t yet charged up the stairs. “Work smarter, not harder.”

Randa, the number two in Mickey, eyed the small elevator dubiously, then shrugged her shoulders. “Sure, what the fuck.”

As the remainder of the dogsoldiers packed the elevator, Thor looked past a shoulder at the elderly female resident, who appeared very confused. “Making the world a better place, ma’am,” he assured her.

The elevator was not fast, but still they arrived on the seventh floor before the soldiers working their way up the stairs under their heavy loads. The hallway was carpeted, and narrow, and ended in a short T intersection. A gray-haired woman appeared at the end of the hallway as they drew close, rifles up. She stood in the open doorway of the apartment to the right. She had one hand up, and empty. There was a pistol in her other hand, held down along her leg.

“You’re late!” she snapped at them, looking nervous and angry. She was dressed in a uniform shirt and pants—apartment building maintenance.

“Yeah, yeah,” Thor panted.

She pointed at the doors in front of them. “Those are already unlocked.”

“Go!” Thor said, pointing. Everyone knew their place, and men poured past him, two and three per apartment. Thor strode past the woman to find a dead man on the floor of the apartment. He was in an Army uniform, and his throat had been cut. He looked surprised.

“He’s too heavy for me, you’re going to have to drag him out of the way,” she told them. “I cleaned up the blood a little so you didn’t slip.” She looked past Thor. “Randa.”

“Hey Barb,” Randa replied, panting. She unslung her backpack once again.

“Plan B’s good to go,” Barb told them.

“Right, thanks,” Thor said. “Things are going to get real loud real quick,” he warned her, dumping his backpack on the wood laminate flooring.

“These open?” Randa asked her, tossing furniture out of the way to get at the windows.

“No. I got to go, I got more shit to do for this thing.” Barb stuffed the pistol into her waistband.

“Shit. Shit! SHIT!” Randa exclaimed, looking out the window, as Barb disappeared through the open door. “Thor!”

“Yeah, yeah, coming.” The AT5 Spike was strapped to the outside of his pack. Once he had the straps undone he was heading to the window with the rocket launcher in his arms, muttering the deployment steps even as he did them. “Pull the safety pin, shoulder stop to the shoulder, grab the front sling strap with your left hand and pull back, pop the covers on the iron sights….” As he did the last, and the sights of the weapon popped up, he got to the window and looked out. “Jesus Christ.”

“I know, right?” Randa said.

They were in the Town Residences apartment building in the middle of the Blue Zone, looking across one of the narrow surface streets to the two aircraft hangars. The hangars were fifty yards apart, their main doors facing each other. Past the hangars, to the north and northeast, were the helipads. To the northwest, barely two hundred yards away, was Echo Base, the Tabs’ headquarters.

“We’re fucking right on top of them.”

The hangars were seventy-five yards away from the apartment building, and frantic with activity. Air crew were running this way and that. One Kestrel had been towed out of the hangar on the right and was just starting to head toward a helipad, and a second Kestrel was emerging from the other hangar. Thor’s eyes went wide. He’d never been this close to this many enemy soldiers before. Even though the plan had been for them to pop up right in the middle of the Blue Zone, hell, right in the middle of the Army base, it had seemed somehow less than real to him. Now, looking down at the hangars and helicopters and Tabs running around the concrete in the bright morning sun, it was very, very real.

“Cock it,” Thor said to himself, working the cocking lever on the rocket launch tube. “Depress the safety. Fire.” As the iron sights danced over the moving Kestrel his thumb found the button… then he paused.

Idiot. He only had one chance to do this right. Lives, his life and the lives of his men, depended on him not fucking everything up.

He took a breath, paused, locked the rocket tube down tight against his shoulder, lined up the iron sights as perfectly as he could, depressed the big safety button with his two middle fingers, then gently pressed the trigger with his thumb.

There was a giant hissing explosion, some angry cross between a gunshot and a grenade, and the pane of glass in front of him disintegrated as the rocket shot from the tube. Thor was buffeted by the exhaust gases ricocheting around the apartment, which filled with plaster dust blown off the walls and ceiling. The Kestrel was eighty-two yards away as the rocket streaked toward it. Thor missed his mark, by two feet, but the rocket still struck the helicopter at the rear of the fuselage, just forward of the tail. The explosion spun the Kestrel sideways and smoke began pouring from the hole.

“Fuck yeah!” Randa shouted as Thor tossed the empty tube aside.

There was a boom and a cloud of glass as the team in the apartment next to them fired an RPG at the second Kestrel, now fully out from the hangar. The rocket missed the helicopter by three inches, skimming over its nose and exploding on the concrete just past it. The helicopter rocked but appeared undamaged.

“Dammit,” Randa shouted. She flipped the selector on her M4 to full-auto and loosed a burst to blast out the window in front of her, then took aim at the Kestrel. She guessed the distance, adjusted her aim, and then pulled the trigger on the M203 underbarrel 40mm grenade launcher. She was aiming for the engine mounted high up on the side of the bird, just below the main rotor. The helicopter was angled away from him, and she jerked the trigger, so instead of hitting the engine the grenade flew through the open rear co-pilot’s access door and exploded inside the cockpit, shredding most of the electronics.

The third team fired a Spike through the roof of the close aircraft hangar. Whether the rocket detonated on the thin aluminum roof or inside the structure and the resulting blast opened a rent, the end result was a ragged gaping hole in the roof directly in front of them. Randa loaded another grenade and fired it toward the hole in the roof, as did another of the dogsoldiers in the next apartment. Randa had eight grenades for her M203 and was eager to use them all. They heard the explosions inside the hangar but couldn’t see what damage they were doing.

Thor had an angle inside the left hangar. Its main door was open and he could see perhaps a third of the darker interior, including a portion of another helicopter. He heard grenade launchers firing with loud THOOMPS and grenades exploding in the distance as he unhooked the second Spike from his pack—each one weighed eighteen pounds, no wonder his back was toast—and went through the firing procedures quickly. He stepped to the side a bit, carefully lined up his sights on the open hangar door, and fired the rocket. It streaked to and through the open hangar door in a second, exploding inside, but he couldn’t see what damage it made.

The aircrew in and around the hangars were running and taking cover. The two Kestrels were the only visible aircraft, and they were now both disabled. He grabbed his radio. “Eagle Eye to RoadRunner, Eagle Eye to RoadRunner, go, go, GO! All Eagle Eyes, provide covering fire.”

The apartment building had begun to take incoming rounds from soldiers inside the base. Thor looked across at the Tabs’ headquarters, Echo, and saw figures streaming from the building, heading in their direction. There were soldiers everywhere, like ants.

“Suppress Echo, suppress Echo!” he said into the radio. “Randa, send some forties over there.” He grabbed his rifle, used the window frame to brace, and began firing aimed shots at the soldiers in the distance. Randa and two of the other dogsoldiers in adjacent apartments fired grenades at the distant building, and Thor watched the first volley of grenades arc through the air; one fell short, the others exploded directly in front of the office building. Bodies were flung aside, and the glass in the front doors shattered. Then he saw movement, and looked down to see every one of the dogsoldiers not up on the seventh floor, all twenty-four of them, charging across the street toward the hangars.

Thor braced his support hand on the window frame and took aim at the soldiers around the electric building, firing in their direction. He fired a few shots, then cranked the magnification lever on his Trijicon scope all the way to 8X. He looked back through the scope. Much better.

He fired quick, aimed shots. He was trying to hit the soldiers, but he was also trying to keep them pinned down until RoadRunner could accomplish their objective. He burned through one magazine, then another, not trying to conserve ammo, hearing the other members of Eagle Eye doing the same. The SAW gunner two apartments over was loosing continuous short bursts.

Thor did another reload, then looked down to his right. The Leland hotel was barely one hundred yards away, and he saw a small group of soldiers clustered by its front entrance. They couldn’t get a good angle on him or his men, but as he watched they took off at a run, headed in his direction. Most were armed with handguns.

“Oh shit.” He grabbed a grenade off his vest, pulled the pin, leaned out the window, and heaved it in their direction. He watched it arcing down toward them, but pulled his head back before it blew so he didn’t get hit with shrapnel. The grenade detonated behind the group, and two went down. He stuck his head back out in time to see the rest of the group make it past the corner, out of his sight. “We’re going to have company,” he yelled toward the open apartment door behind him. “Somebody cover the hallway!” Then he looked down toward the hangars.

They’d dropped their backpacks inside the parking garage so they could move faster. The dogsoldiers of RoadRunner fired their rifles as they ran, more to clear the way before them than trying to actually hit anything. A few slowed down to aim and fired grenades at the open doors of the hangars. There were concrete barriers along Bagley Street to prevent anyone from accidentally wandering on foot or by vehicle into the hangar/helipad area. The dogsoldiers climbed and hopped over the waist-high barriers and charged toward the hangars, splitting into two groups, one for each hangar.

Harris was at the front of the left group, running toward the side of the hangar. He drew close to the corner, and one of the dogsoldiers with him popped out and fired a 40mm grenade through the big hangar door. Harris pulled the pin on a hand grenade, let the lever fly, then charged forward and tossed it inside. The second group was doing the same at the other hangar. Most of the air crew were unarmed, and unarmored, and had run for cover either north, away from the hangars, or gone to ground inside the hangars.

As soon as the grenade exploded Harris waved the SAW gunner forward and the man spun around the corner and let loose. A full fifty-round burst, spraying left and right, as the squad spread out behind him in the open door. Harris could see figures moving around at the back of the hangar and heard rounds cracking by his head. The man next to him knelt down and took aim with his Spike. He forgot to check over his shoulder to made sure no one was in the backblast area before firing the rocket, and one dogsoldier was spun to the side by the gases and fell to the concrete, stunned and burned. The rocket hit the side of a Kestrel in the back of the hangar and the bird exploded.

Every dogsoldier armed with a grenade launcher was firing them at the helicopters inside the big hangars. Harris heard rockets firing behind him, at the other hangar. “Go, GO!” he shouted, waving everyone forward. They charged between the helicopters, firing at anyone they saw, until they found themselves at the rear of the hangar. There’d barely been a dozen soldiers inside the hangar, mostly mechanics and air crew, and what few had been armed mostly sported pistols. Harris checked to make sure they were all dead, then turned to the reason they were there. Most of the helicopters appeared to be damaged by explosions, but not all.

“Who’s got hand grenades? Everybody else out to the door, cover us. Grenades, one per bird, pick a spot, inside the cockpit if it’s open, if not inside an engine or whatever. Don’t forget to pull your fucking pin.” The grenade currently in his hand he’d picked up off the floor. Whoever had thrown it had forgotten to pull the pin. “I’ll go first, when I run by you pull your pin and do yours, then follow me. Ready?” He lifted his grenade high, then pulled the pin and finger-rolled it into the open cockpit of the cargo helicopter in front of him. Then he began running toward the open hangar door. The other men did the same. They’d almost reached the door when the grenades began exploding, and he dove around the corner of the building as a grenade caused some sort of sympathetic detonation in one of the Kestrels. The blast sent fire out the open door and forced a rent in the roof.

He looked across the concrete and saw the other group at the second hangar. He waved to get their attention just as he saw them beginning to run away from their target. The crump and flash of grenades inside the far hangar made him smile. He did a quick count. It looked like they were down at least one man.

“Let’s go! Get the fuck out of here!” he shouted, but it was unnecessary, everyone in RoadRunner was heading back south toward the apartment building. He became aware of bullet cracks above his heads, rounds whipping back and forth between the soldiers behind him and Eagle Eye ahead of them, providing covering fire. Most of RoadRunner was over the barriers and across the street when the Toad rounded the corner at the end of the block.

“Contact right!” Harris screamed.

The M240B belt-fed machine gun atop the tank opened up on them, and the dogsoldier in front of Harris stumbled as he was hit. Harris grabbed him and dove into the entrance ramp of the parking garage, temporarily out of sight of the tank, blocked by the thick concrete walls.

Someone inside the tank got excited, and the main gun fired. The 120mm shell passed between two running men and exploded fifty feet beyond them. The blast was enough to knock them down, and the recoil from the main gun caused the next burst from the M240B to go high. By the time the tank settled the last of RoadRunner was disappearing into the gray parking garage.

The tank swung out wide, the turret rotated, and when the main gun was reloaded the tank fired. The 120mm HEAT (high explosive anti-tank) round impacted the front of the parking garage, which erupted with a roar, then collapsed.

The Toad could not fit inside the parking garage or climb over the pile of rubble, and buttoned-up inside the sixty-ton beast, looking at viewscreens better suited to long-distance engagements, neither the gunner nor the commander of the tank could see well into the dimness of the dust-filled parking garage. The M240B raked back and forth, the bullets bouncing around the interior of the concrete structure. Then the tank suddenly reversed, backing rapidly up the road, chewing stripes into the concrete. One IMP and two Growlers roared up toward the corners of the apartment building and began directing fire toward the seventh floor.

When the Toad had retreated a sufficient distance to get the proper elevation, the main gun tilted up and swung over. The window frames devoid of glass made it easy to spot the correct floor.

The Toad rocked, and the brick exterior of the apartment building burst outward in smoke and a flash, the center unit on the seventh floor totally erased.

“Get a drone over there!” Parker shouted, staring at the firefight at the hangars in the feed from one of the security cameras mounted on the outside of Echo. The hangars were too far away, and the resolution too grainy, for him to make out enough details. Figures running, and explosions. The guerrillas seemed to be firing from the nearby apartment building. “How the hell did they get inside the perimeter without getting spotted?” No one had an answer for him. There’d been no alarms or alerts, no vehicles running the checkpoints, so they somehow must have infiltrated on foot.

“Drone up!” one of the operators called out, and everyone moved toward her, eyes on her screen.

The drone was two hundred feet above the ground, swooping toward the action from the northeast, and its wide-angle HD camera provided them a full-color hi-res picture of the action on the ground. Parker saw flame and towering columns of smoke pouring from between the two hangars. Behind him he heard his S3 on the radio, ordering troops to the area. The command center was a maelstrom of figures running back and forth and loud radio traffic.

“There!” Parker said, pointing. He’d spotted a group of dogsoldiers between the hangars. As the drone flew through thick black smoke and out the other side he lost sight of the men for a second, but then they were back. Running now, heading south, toward the nearby parking garage. Next to it was an apartment building, and halfway up the building he saw missing windows, and muzzle flashes.

“They’re retreating there,” Parker said. “Get some troops to surround those buildings. And get me a flight status on my aircraft!”

“Yes sir.”

As he watched he saw a Toad roaring in from the west and begin engaging the retreating guerrillas, and an IMP and several Growlers approaching from the east side at speed. The guerrillas weren’t getting away, that much seemed clear. He watched the Toad fire its main gun almost point-blank into the parking garage, and then spray the collapsing rubble with its machine gun. The dogsoldiers who’d somehow penetrated his base would all be dead very soon, of that he had no doubt. His concern now was how much damage they’d done to his small fleet of helicopters. None of them had been in the air at the time of the attack.

“I’ve got a second drone on station in five seconds!” another operator called out.

Parker turned and saw the feed on the man’s monitor. Having just taken off from the roof of the building behind Echo, the drone was coming in from the northwest, gradually gaining speed and altitude.

“Show me the other side of that apartment building!” the S3 ordered the operator.

“Yes sir.”

The camera showed the drone flying south, then turn east and head toward the low parking garage, and the apartment building beyond. When it was still several hundred yards away the observers saw two vehicles exit the west side of the parking garage. They swerved through a parking lot, bounced across Michigan, and raced south on a narrow side street.

“Send some troops in pursuit of those vehicles, but concentrate on that building,” Parker directed. “There are still a lot of terrorists inside there.” He’d seen at least fifteen and probably more enemy troops on the ground by the hangars. Less than half that many could fit inside two vehicles, and they had no easy way out of the base. “And what’s going on at Washboard?”

“The two platoons are en route right now sir. ETA five minutes or so. Do you perhaps want to pull them back…?”

“No, the terrorists here are trapped in that building, and I don’t want the ones at VOP to get away. I want that building surrounded ASAP.”

“Gogogogo!” someone was shouting.

Harris rolled over the injured man he’d tackled into the parking garage. It had been a race against time. They’d known they would only have a short window—a very short window—to do all the damage they could to the aircraft in the hangars before armor rolled up, and they’d almost made it. “Grab your packs!” he shouted needlessly, as all of RoadRunner was doing just that.

Dogsoldiers snagged their heavy packs on the run and headed toward the door in the side of the apartment building. Harris spotted his pack and had just laid a hand on it when he realized the man he’d tackled hadn’t gotten up. The man was facedown on the concrete, lying angled across one of the yellow parking spot lines.

Harris dragged his pack over to the man and knelt down. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and flipped him over, only to see staring dead eyes. “Shit.” Less than half the group, the slower-moving doggies, were still in the parking garage. He was in the process of standing up when the garage exploded around him.

He lost consciousness for a second and then came to, covered in dust, a chunk of concrete the size of a football on his chest. He could taste blood, but couldn’t hear anything other than a whine. He blinked once, twice, then there was a weird staccato thumping he could feel in his chest more than hear. Harris looked over to see the top of the Toad past a pile of collapsed cement and rebar, firing its belt-fed over his head into the garage beyond in one long burst. Then it reversed, he wasn’t sure why.

Coughing, he rolled over and got to his hands and knees. There were several other dogsoldiers nearby, some moving, a few clearly dead from the blast.

“Let’s go, let’s go!” he shouted, getting to his feet. He grabbed and kicked and punched those still alive, getting them to their feet. He grabbed his backpack, pulled it out from under a piece of concrete the size of a card table, turned—and saw the door leading back into the apartment building was blocked by rubble.

“Eagle Eye, Eagle Eye,” he shouted into his radio, not really able to hear his own voice, and then the tank fired its main gun again. He flinched, and started jogging into the parking garage, waving the others to follow. “All elements of RoadRunner that can make it to you are en route. Don’t wait for us. Repeat, DO NOT WAIT. It’s Plan B for us.”

Thor burned through another magazine, trying to keep the troops near Echo pinned, and then glanced down. Smoke was pouring out of both hangars. The troops of RoadRunner were massed in the center and then started running back toward the apartment building.

“They’re coming back. Covering fire,” Thor said into his radio. The SAW, silent for a time as the gunner loaded it with a fresh belt, opened up again. Thor got a new magazine into his rifle, let the bolt fly, and fired a few rounds over the heads of the dogsoldiers on the ground as they ran toward him. There were maybe two dozen bodies scattered on the ground between the hangars and Echo, but most of the Tabs had taken cover inside the building and were firing from there. Most of the soldiers working at Echo were officers, not combat troops, which meant they hadn’t been wearing armor. “Eagle Eye, get ready to displace.” Bullets from the soldiers returning fire were hitting the bricks of the apartment building like raindrops, but few of them seemed well-aimed.

As the last of RoadRunner began crossing the street Thor heard the huge whine of a turbo diesel and, probably unwisely, stuck his head out of the window frame to look left. “Shit. Toad! Toad!” he shouted, then got on the radio. “Eagle Eye, displace. Displace!”

He heard a heavy machine gun open up below them, then the tank’s main gun fired and the whole building trembled. Grabbing his pack off the floor—it was a lot lighter without the two Spikes—Thor shouldered it as he headed out of the apartment. A dogsoldier was halfway down the hallway at the stairwell. “I think we’ve got Tabs down there,” the man said worriedly.

“Well, we’re not taking the elevator,” Thor barked. He paused and moved to the side and counted the bodies moving past him. “Go, go,” he spat when the last man passed him. He charged forward, only to see the half-dozen men paused on the first flight down.

“What are you doing?”

“There are Tabs down there,” he was told.

“Well no shit.” Rifle up he charged down the stairs, going around and around, two stories, three, then he ducked back as a hail of what sounded like pistol fire bounced off the ceiling near his head. The men pounding down the stairs behind him skidded to a stop.

“Told you,” he heard. Then there was a huge explosion above them. The Toad had just taken out the rooms they’d occupied with its main gun. The men looked up, then back down at Thor.

“Violence, Speed, Momentum!” Thor shouted over his shoulder, then plucked a grenade off his chest. He pulled the pin, let the lever fly, counted to two, then leaned around the next corner and heaved the grenade. He heard two dull thuds as it bounced off the cement walls, then the entire concrete stairwell shook as it exploded. He charged down the stairs, rifle up. One and a half floors down he found two men dead from the blast, but when he went to step past them rifle fire from below whanged off the walls and steel railings. Thor stuck his rifle around the corner and fired a few quick shots

“Eagle Eye, Eagle Eye,” he heard over the radio. “All elements of RoadRunner that can make it to you are en route. Don’t wait for us. Repeat, DO NOT WAIT. It’s Plan B for us.”

“Shit,” someone said.

“We can’t stay here, we need to fucking go.”

There was a fusillade of gunfire below them, individual shots and full-auto bursts, rifle and pistol fire and shouts. Then, nothing. At least, from inside the building. Outside he could hear steady fire, perhaps still directed up at their perch on the seventh floor.

“Eagle Eye, you up there?” someone shouted up to them. “Stairway’s clear.”

“Golf ball?” Thor yelled, nearly deaf from the gunfire.

“Fucking Felix!” the person yelled back. “Fucking move your ass!”

“Good enough for me.” They pounded down the stairs to see the first floor stairwell covered in Tab bodies and two-thirds of RoadRunner in a defensive perimeter at the rear of the lobby. “Down down down, go!” Thor yelled, stabbing his hand like a spear.

He followed a line of backs as the dogsoldiers headed down the stairs into the parking garage. It was clear, for the moment, and they made a beeline for the hole in the wall. They could only enter the narrow tunnel one at the time and had to take off their packs to do it. Thor and the other soldiers kept their rifles trained on the door they’d entered. It seemed like it was taking forever. The gunfire outside was decreasing. He was guessing the military would be doing a dynamic entry into the building, in force, at any second.

Finally, there were only a few dogsoldiers left. Thor slowly backed up to the tunnel, then turned around, shrugged out of his pack, and handed it up. Then he was offered a hand and was pulled up into the hole by Randa.

“Go, don’t wait for me,” Thor said. He scooted backward, rifle in one hand, dragging his pack behind him with the other. The tunnel slowly curved until finally the opening into the parking garage was out of sight. It seemed an eternity before his boots hit the edge of the trunk line.

Thor dropped his pack down. From the far end of the earthen tunnel he could hear shouts and the pounding of boots on pavement. He pulled the pin on the grenade he was holding and tossed it as far down the tunnel as he could. Then he jumped down into the sewer line and dragged his pack off to the side before the grenade detonated. Dirt flew past him. He used his flashlight, but there was too much dust in the air, diffusing the beam, to tell how fully the tunnel had been collapsed. He grabbed a second grenade and threw it after the first, just in case, then stood to the side with his fingers in his ears as it detonated.

He shouldered his pack with a grunt. Between the two Spikes, and the five magazines he’d burned through his load felt decidedly lighter. He dug out a canteen and began walking north, following the bobbing lights of the dogsoldiers ahead of him. He could only hope the grenades had collapsed the tunnel enough that the obstruction couldn’t be removed easily, he really didn’t have the energy for a running gun battle in the sewer.

Harris and six other soldiers jogged through the parking garage, heading for the south side. Heavy full-auto fire erupted behind them, making them flinch and drop and dive for cover, but none of it was directed their way. At the southwest corner of the parking garage, on ground level, they found the two vehicles they’d been told were there—a full-size Tahoe SUV, and a mid-size pickup. Old, dusty, and battered, but in one piece, and none of the tires were flat. The keys were right where they were supposed to be, inside the rear bumpers.

“Anybody that’s got a grenade launcher or a Spike, sit where you can use it!” Harris shouted. He had neither, and got behind the wheel of the pickup. His hearing was starting to return. He heard roaring engines and saw IMPs and Growlers race by the parking garage on either side, backing up the Toad. “Hang the fuck on.”

He backed the truck up, then headed west, toward the closest exit. The Tahoe was right on his bumper. They roared through the exit and into the adjacent parking lot, which was encircled by a tall steel fence. Harris cut the wheel left, angling for the driveway out. He never got off the gas, and the pickup went briefly airborne as he flew across the seven lanes of Michigan Avenue. Four hundred feet to the left was one of the checkpoints leading into the base, and a quick glance showed him it was manned by an IMP, two Growlers, and a lot of soldiers. Heavy weapons opened up on their two vehicles, but he didn’t slow down, he just sailed across Michigan, the gas pedal floored, and slammed into the chain link fence on the far side.

The fence was flung away, and the pickup fishtailed briefly in the gravel lot beyond. Harris kept it under control, kept his speed up, and slammed into the identical fence on the far side. It went up and over the hood, spider-webbing the windshield and spraying him with small particles of glass. The pickup bounced over the curb and he yanked the wheel left. They were southbound in the northbound lanes of 3rd Avenue, out of view of the checkpoint troops still firing at them. Harris checked his side mirror—the Tahoe was still back there. He didn’t need to check his rearview to see if the doggie was still in the bed of the bucking pickup, the man was motherfucking him at full volume.

The city’s Public Safety Headquarters was on their right, but it was barely occupied, and most of the military troops were stationed on the north half of the base. Harris flipped it off anyway. He pushed the pickup as hard as he could for a block and a half, then stood on the brakes and took a wide right turn onto Howard Street, which ran behind the huge parking garage servicing the PSH. Three hundred feet ahead of them the street ended in a wall of jersey barriers, dragon teeth, and concertina wire.

Engines straining, the two vehicles raced to a stop fifty feet from the barricade which encircled the military base. For the moment, they were completely hidden from view, but Army troops had to be on their way. Harris doubted they had more than a minute.

“Somebody tell me we still have some fucking explosives left!” Harris shouted out the open windows of the pickup.

Two dogsoldiers got out of the SUV and fired their grenade launchers at the obstacle in front of them. Two of the jersey barriers were blasted into pieces and flung into a tangle of concertina. Then the man in the back of the pickup let loose an RPG, and the explosion flung puzzle pieces of concrete and threads of razor wire into the air.

“That’ll have to do. We’re going off-roading!” Harris shouted. “Hang on.” He floored the pickup, then slowed down as he approached the debris field. The pickup bounced violently up and down as he crawled over the remnants of concrete barriers and through shredded concertina wire. One strand wrapped itself around his rear axle and he could hear the shrieking of metal, but ignored it.

He turned right, onto the service drive behind the parking garage, and waited for the SUV to catch up. It had a more difficult time traversing the jumbled concrete blocks, and for a second appeared to be high-centered, but then it tilted forward and they were clear.

Harris grabbed his radio and changed frequencies. “Almighty, Almighty, and everybody else out there, elements of RoadRunner oscar mike to your AO, ETA five.” He paused. “Alpha mission at least ninety percent accomplished, repeat ninety percent.” He was pretty sure it was one hundred percent, but just in case….

Harris punched it, and almost immediately the entangled razor wire cut through his right rear tire. He didn’t slow down—if they had to ride on rims, so be it. Three hundred feet ahead was a ramp off to the left, angling downward, and the two vehicles accelerated toward it.

Three seconds later they roared down the on-ramp on the Lodge Freeway, one of the approved travel corridors through the city, kept clear of debris, the driving surface decently maintained. In that area it was below ground level, and they were instantly out of sight of any troops inside the military base.

Not quite three miles ahead was the exit for West Grand Boulevard.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

By the time Ed made it up the wide stone steps to the lobby the two soldiers by the southern entrance were dead, mown down in a burst of fire from the charging dogsoldiers. Half the group was taking cover by the main door there, the remainder spreading out through the lobby, checking the other entrances. A few of the people who’d been in the lobby had screamed or shouted, but then they’d just run away.

As Ed passed one of the circular green marble columns, heading toward the south entrance, a double blast shattered all the glass in the entranceway. The men had tossed two grenades under the Growler idling right outside, and the Tabs inside had died before understanding exactly what was happening.

Ed waved at the dogsoldiers and pointed out the doors. “Get their attention!” he shouted. They knew exactly what he meant. Several of the men pushed through the doors and, using the destroyed Growler as cover, began engaging the soldiers on the far side of West Grand Boulevard in front of Cadillac Place. Some Tabs the far Growler as cover, and at least one soldier began firing at them from the lobby of the distant building.

Lydia flinched again at the crump of the explosion upstairs, then the scrawny woman let go of her arm. Petal’s eyes had been on her watch the whole time, but they flicked upward. “Now you can go.”

Lydia took a deep breath and nodded. “Give me thirty seconds,” she repeated to the crowd of dogsoldiers still crouched in the gloom of the tunnel, then turned, pushed open the glass door, and strode through the Concourse.

Her neck muscles felt like vibrating wire, and she kept wanting to break out in a run, but forced herself to maintain a steady walking stride—not rushing, but also not moving slow.

On the far side of the Concourse she pushed through the glass doors and entered the tunnel heading southeast toward the Cadillac Place building. It curved gently to the left, and she was halfway through it before the doors at the far end slid into view.

She fought a renewed impulse to break into a run and tried to keep her stride steady, her face neutral. As she neared the bank of doors she didn’t immediately see anyone, but there was a lot of glare off the glass. She could hear gunfire, but it was distant.

The doors into the underground level of the Cadillac Place building were secure. She grabbed the ID badge on the lanyard hanging from her belt and briefly panicked, wondering if the soldiers might have disabled the locks once the shooting started. But when she held the card against the reader the lock buzzed, and she pushed the door open.

She paused in the open door and looked around the space. Sometimes there was a soldier stationed—or hiding out from his superiors—in the lower level, but the subterranean lobby had been clear of them on her way over, and it was clear upon her return. She pulled the pistol from her waistband and held it down along her leg in a sweaty hand, hearing impossibly loud gunfire upstairs.

Lydia had walked down the tunnel; the men of Kermit and Yosemite had jogged as fast as they’d been able under their burdens, and she’d been standing there just ten seconds with the pistol in her hand when they appeared in the tunnel behind her. She waved them on, and when the first soldier reached the door she was holding open she moved to a second locked door and opened that, then a third, so the men could flood out of the tunnel more quickly.

“Give us a minute, we’ll call you up,” Barker told her, panting from the stress and exertion. Lydia nodded.

The men of Kermit and Yosemite pushed up the stairs toward the ground-floor lobby of the Cadillac Place building. The gunfire grew louder as they did. They came up behind and to the side of the four soldiers stationed in the building as they fired across West Grand Boulevard at the dogsoldiers in the Fisher Building. The soldiers’ shooting had scared away any civilians, so there was no one to warn them. The four Tabs fell where they stood, only one of them reacting fast enough to even turn toward the guerrillas coming up behind them.

“Theretherethere!” Barker shouted. He’d spotted a Tab on the far side of the boulevard, hunkered down behind a jersey barrier, hidden from the Fisher Building but completely exposed to their position. One of his men with a scope on his rifle steadied it against a door frame and took the man down with one sixty-four-yard headshot.

Barker and Chan scanned the boulevard left and right but didn’t see any other Army soldiers, and the immediate lobby of their building appeared to be clear, at least for the moment. The lobby around them was an exquisite display of neoclassical architecture, a fact which was wasted on every man there.

“Grab that chick!” Barker shouted to one of his men, pointing down the stairs, then got on the radio. “Nakatomi, Nakatomi, this is SkyBox. Your front door is clear, at least for right now.”

“Nakatomi, Nakatomi, this is Cambridge,” Brooke’s voice over the radio was clear. “We are in position east and west. Go do your thing. Shit—!” The radio transmission cut off, but not before they heard a burst of automatic fire. Barker and Chan exchanged worried looks.

Brooke nodded to young Robbie and left him at the mouth of the tunnel, then followed Rico with the rest of Sylvester to a nearby stairwell. They trudged up from the basement to the second floor, the long-vacant building dusty and echoing and dim, then moved down a short hallway. They stopped at a set of glass doors, on the far side of which were more plywood panels screwed into place. On the far side was the pedestrian walkway leading to the New Center One building.

“It’s all ready to go,” Rico said, gesturing at the wood panels. “You can rip two of them off real easy, they’re barely held on.”

“What about at the other end?” someone asked.

“Same thing. Just kick ‘em and they’ll pop right off, the two on the right. But then you’ve got the whole building to cut across. There’s usually at least one soldier wandering around either the first or second floor, sometimes a lot more. And there’s gonna be a lot of people.”

“Right.”

Brooke was as tense as she’d ever gotten, her stomach cramping. So much was riding on this, it wasn’t just a simple assault on a building. She checked her watch. “Any minute now.” The rest of their squad checked their weapons for the twentieth time and shuffled nervously.

They all paused as they heard static erupt from their radios. Brooke cocked her head, listening intently, and just a few seconds later heard a double click.

“That’s Robbie, he’s on the way. They’re on the way!” she said, a little too loudly. She nodded at the plywood sheets. “Pull those fucking things off.”

By the time Sylvester’s young runner arrived from the tunnel mouth the plywood sheets were on the floor. One of the men helped him into his backpack, then the squad was surging into the walkway. They jogged over Lothrop Street, nothing moving and nobody visible on the street beneath them, and stacked up on the far side. Rico had stayed behind and disappeared from view.

The squad stacked up on the sheets of plywood, and with two kicks each they went down. Brooke figured they wouldn’t have to go looking for the Tabs, and she was right—not fifty feet into the New Center One building they were spotted by a woman, and she screamed. It was followed up with more screams, shouts, people running, falling down.

The building was constructed like a number 8, with two open atriums divided by walkways on each floor. There were more shouts, then gunfire off to her left. She jerked her head around and saw a soldier on the far side of the atrium, on the same floor, staring at them in shock. He shot again, then went down under a barrage of return fire.

“All the way across!” Brooke shouted. She waved her men on and kept her carbine pointed over the railing at the lobby one floor down. A soldier came running into the lobby from a hallway, responding to the gunfire. Brooke saw his camouflage clad legs first, and by the time he’d moved into the lobby far enough to spot her and the squad she was firing, aiming at his unarmored thighs as they were the biggest target. He went down, screaming. From the immediate and voluminous outpouring of blood she could tell she’d hit his femoral artery. She left him to bleed out in front of a giant steel sculpture of a bicycle or farm implement or something, Brooke wasn’t sure.

She followed the squad across the building, all of their rifles up and ready, scanning their surroundings, and they instinctively ducked as they took incoming rounds. The two dogsoldiers in the lead dove to the floor, and the two behind them, disregarding all safety, leaned over the railing and hammered bullets at the two soldiers down below. The Tabs had taken cover—but poorly—behind the corner of a bakery sticking out into the lobby, and after firing ducked behind the wall. The dogsoldiers fired blindly into the wall, which was more decorative than anything else, and the two soldiers fell in a bloody heap.

“Anyone else? You guys see anyone else?” Brooke shouted, spinning in a circle, rifle up. The building still echoed with screams, and people ran here and there, but indoors the camouflage uniforms of the Tabs made them stick out, and for the moment Sylvester seemed free of enemy combatants. “You okay?” she asked Robbie. The side of the young man’s neck was bloody.

“Yeah, it’s just a scratch I think,” he said, touching it.

“Then let’s go. Everybody haul ass,” she yelled, pointing. “You four, head for the hotel.” Sylvester split up—half the squad including one of Morris’ loaners headed for the walkway leading to the adjacent St. Regis hotel, and the other half made for a stairwell.

She grabbed Robbie by the shoulder and had him cover their rear as they advanced up the stairs all the way to the top floor of the building. It took them a while under their loads, and by the time they reached it they were all panting heavily.

They stood in the eighth-floor hallway. Through the open door to her right was a small meeting room, and outside its windows she could see both the Fisher Building and the west end of Cadillac Place. She heard four clicks on her radio, that meant that the rest of the squad had made it to their spot on the top floor of the hotel, at the east corner.

Her radio jumped to life. “Nakatomi, Nakatomi, this is SkyBox. Your front door is clear, at least for right now.” She recognized Barker’s voice.

She grabbed her radio. “Nakatomi, Nakatomi, this is Cambridge,” she said, still breathing hard from trudging up six flights of stairs carrying close to seventy-five pounds of gear. “We are in position east and west. Go do your thing. Shit!” She’d spotted the glass-walled elevator on the far side of the atrium rising into view. Three soldiers were inside it.

Brooke and the three men with her opened up on them, killing one man before he could get out of the small car. Another went down and crawled out of sight. The third found some cover and popped out to fire at them. The third time he popped out from cover in the exact same place he was hit in the face and neck and went down.

She signaled and two of her men moved forward, around the curving walkway, to check to make sure all three soldiers were dead. After a few seconds they signaled all clear.

“I don’t want that fucking happening again,” Brooke spat, her ears ringing from the gunfire. She was unimpressed with the Tabs’ tactics, it was like they didn’t know how to fight if they weren’t buttoned-up in armor. “I want somebody out here, eyes, watching our backs. I want to know if the Tabs are coming before they actually get here.” She pointed. “Robbie.”

“You got it.”

She grabbed the radio. “Nakatomi, Cambridge. Sorry for the interruption. We are in position.” She and the remaining two squad members moved into the nearby meeting room. It was at the southwest corner of the building, and she had a great view. The Growler in front of the Fisher Building was smoking, and a camouflage uniform-clad body was just visible on the ground behind the second Growler parked in front of Cadillac Place.

“Nakatomi reads you,” Ed’s steady voice responded. “Heading up.”

“SkyBox, Cambridge East,” Brooke heard over the radio, the tense voice coming from one of her men positioned at the far end of the hotel. “You’ve got a squad of Tabs on foot heading to your building from the east. Five, maybe six, ETA about ten seconds.”

Brooke peered to the left out her windows, but didn’t have eyes on the call out. Maybe the pedestrian walkway six stories below her, running from the east end of New Center One to the central tower of the Cadillac Place, was blocking her view of the soldiers.

“SkyBox copies.”

Barker quickly gestured to the men around him but they’d heard the exchange on their radios. The building was so big it had several lobbies connected by a wide hallway, the floors gray marble which had seen better times. Long-defunct stores lined the hallway, which had an arched roof and gold-leaf detailing. They’d studied the floor plans of the building and knew the Tabs had several routes they could take into and through the building to get to their position, but the simplest and quickest was the hallway running from one side of the building to the other between Cass and 2nd Avenue.

The Tabs weren’t yet in sight. Some of the men took up defensive positions in the lobby and in the doorways lining the hallway, facing east. Others moved toward the alternate avenues of approach and covered them. Lydia had just come upstairs and Chan waved her back down.

“If they come this way, wait for me to fire,” Hannibal hissed, hiding behind a column to peer down the hallway. He could see daylight at the far end.

There had been a long enough lull in the shooting that several of the building occupants stuck their heads out of doorways where they’d been hiding. As soon as they saw the guerrillas they darted back out of sight, one woman with a terrified scream that made Hannibal roll his eyes, but at the scream he saw movement at the far end of the hall. He pulled back behind the marble column and signaled for the men to stay hidden.

Hannibal waited until he could hear the thud of running boots before popping out from cover. Three Tabs were jogging down the middle of the hallway and Hannibal opened up on them. Almost immediately all of the men around him did the same, and the Tabs fell to sliding stops on the floor before they could return fire.

But there’d been only three soldiers. “SkyBox, three Tabs down over here, look out for the rest,” Hannibal said into the radio. He’d barely finished speaking when he heard gunfire deeper in the building. There was a narrow corridor there. He left half the men to cover the main hallway and pushed toward the fighting with the rest of them. They approached cautiously, weapons up, but before they got close enough to see anything there was a loud blast from a grenade, some fierce screaming, a second grenade detonation, and then the shooting and screaming stopped as if someone had thrown a switch.

“SkyBox is clear, we got the other three over here,” they heard over their radios, Chan’s voice breathless but recognizable. “We’ve got one man down,” he spat. “All SkyBox to the rally point,” he ordered flatly. “And somebody get that lady, bring her back up.”

The building had thirty-one elevators, but they’d been told only one bank was working, and it not very reliably. That was why nobody in the building was working above the fourth floor. However, the elevator they were interested in was the freight elevator, set off alone and apart from the others. It continued to function.

Lydia led the men to the freight elevator, but large as it was only eight of the fourteen remaining members of Kermit and Yosemite (plus Morris’ loaners and Lydia) could fit into it. “Go, and send her back down ASAP,” Hannibal told Chan. The two squad leaders shared a look, then Chan nodded.

“Defensive perimeter,” Hannibal said. The freight elevator was in a back hall, and hopefully, after all the gunfire, nobody would come exploring and find them there before the elevator returned. Their plan was to disappear, at least for the moment. It seemed to take forever, but finally they heard the big metal box descending toward them. Lydia was alone in it.

The men backed into the freight elevator, packing it, and waited for the doors to close. No one appeared in the hallway before them. Then the elevator began its slow trek upward, creaking constantly.

Ed wasn’t alone in not wanting to climb eight flights of stairs, but if there were any soldiers stationed at the VOP broadcast offices upstairs when the elevator doors opened it would become a kill box. Still, the elevator would be much quicker, and they could get attacked climbing the stairs by soldiers above them just as easily as they could trying to exit the elevators. So he split the men, sending more than half up the stairs, and the rest up in two elevators, leaving six to cover the lobby.

He rode up in the elevator with Weasel, Mark, and one of Hannibal’s men. When the elevator reached the eighth floor they all had their rifles up, fingers tense on triggers as they hugged the walls. The doors slid open, and… nothing.

The lobby was small and at one point had been nicely decorated, but the furniture was aging badly. They pushed out and cleared the corners. Not just lights, but lights and the faint coolness of air conditioning on their cheeks was a bit disconcerting. And, above their heads from hidden speakers, was faint music. Ed couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard music. It had been months.

On the far side of the lobby was one receptionist and a secure door. The slender young man stared at them with an open mouth and wide eyes. The second elevator dinged and four dogsoldiers piled out, ready for killing. They stopped abruptly, seeing everything was under control.

Ed walked up to the receptionist and leaned against the counter. “Hi,” he said with a smile. “We’re here to interrupt your regularly scheduled programming.”

“What?”

“Open the fucking door and take us back,” Hannibal growled over Ed’s shoulder.

“There any Tabs back there?” Mark asked the receptionist.

“What?”

“Soldiers! Are there any soldiers stationed back there to watch the broadcast?”

“Oh. No.”

One of Hannibal’s men grabbed the terrified receptionist and pulled him out of the way. They waited. Mark walked over to the stairs and opened the door. “Hurry up you fat bastards,” he called out cheerfully. Fifteen seconds later the men who’d taken the harder route up appeared, sweating and blowing hard. They did not find Mark amusing.

Ed found the button beside the desk to open the door heading into the back, looked around to make sure everyone was ready, and then hit it.

It was all rather anticlimactic. Two minutes later Ed was standing with George and Hannibal in the broadcast booth as the dogsoldiers who’d climbed the stairs up to the eighth floor stood around panting and waiting for their heartbeats to slow. Two broadcast producers were sitting before a dozen screens. Some showed the newsroom set just on the other side of the soundproof wall, others were paused to display video ready to be played at the touch of a button. The control panel in front of them looked more complicated than the cockpit of an airliner. Several of the squad members were on the set, looking very out of place with their armor and rifles, making sure the cameramen stayed where they were. The male and female “anchors” had been removed from the set after the live feed had been killed from the booth. The two talking heads seemed to be having nervous breakdowns and were hugging each other in a nearby dressing room, under guard.

“You’re good? You know what I want?” Ed said.

“Yeah, yeah,” George said, waving him on.

Ed moved onto the news room set and sat behind the desk. George moved where Ed could see him. Hannibal stood behind the two producers in the broadcast booth. “Which is the feed that shows what’s going out?” he asked the two very nervous men. They weren’t used to having enemy soldiers with rifles standing behind them.

“Right there,” one said, pointing at a screen showing nothing but static.

“Right. Okay, you get a camera on him, and when I tell you to, you put that feed out on the air. And when I tell you to cut it, I want it back to static. Immediately. Got it?”

The men nodded. One said into his headset, “Mike, center up on him there.” The producer pointed at the resulting image on one of the monitors. “Is that okay?”

Hannibal nodded. “That’s fine. Everybody be cool and calm and nobody will need to get shot. You guys ready?” he called to George through the open door. George looked at Ed, who was waiting patiently, and gave a thumbs up.

“Waitwaitwait,” George said. He strode out of the booth and over to Jason, who was looking around the studio with wide eyes. “Kid, gimme your… no, wait, never mind, you don’t have your lever action any more. Early!”

“Yeah boss,” he said laconically.

“Give Ed your rifle.”

“And I’d be doing this why?” he asked, even as he strode across the studio floor.

“Because it looks like a piece of shit if all you know is ARs. But the Captain’s suppressed carbine looks high speed. We are not trying to look high speed.”

“Gotcha.” Ed tucked his Geissele behind the desk, and laid Early’s giant wood-stocked M1A across it.

“Okay, now we’re good,” George said, with a thumbs up to the booth.

“All right, on my count, you put that out live,” Hannibal said, pointing at the image of Ed. “Five,” he said loudly. “Four, three,” and then he pointed to George, who pointed to Ed.

Ed looked off to the side, waited several seconds, then said in a confused tone, “Is it on? Are we on?” He turned and seemingly with some difficulty found the live camera. “My fellow Americans,” he began, “you’ve been lied to for too long. Voice of the People does nothing but spew hate and lies. You need to rise up and fight with us…”

“Cut it,” Hannibal said.

“What?”

“Cut it!” he growled, and the image of Ed disappeared into static as he was in mid-sentence.

Hannibal nodded to George. “Okay, they’ve cut it,” George said, as Ed continued talking. “How long do you want to give it?”

Ed glanced at his watch. “Thirty seconds should sell it.”

Hannibal bent down until his head was between the two men seated at the control panel. “Do I need to reiterate what ‘cut it’ means?” he asked quietly.

“No,” the nervous producer said, “it’s just, I wasn’t expecting you to… never mind. We’re good.”

“You guys ready for the sing along?” Ed said. The set lights were bright and the cameras and the people behind them were just faint shapes to him.

“Yeah, we’re good,” George said.

“Then let’s count it down.”

George looked at Hannibal, who nodded and said, “Okay, I’m going to count down again. Let’s start from five, and when I fucking say ‘cut it’, cut it. Five,” he said loudly, “four, three, two…” He pointed at George, who pointed at Ed.

Ed rose half out of his seat, looked off-camera in a different direction, waited half a second, then demanded angrily, “Are we back? What happened?” He glanced at the cameras, then back to the side.

George pointed at the two dogsoldiers with him and they started shouting angrily in the background as Ed said, “Lock down what’s causing that. You said you knew what you were doing, how their system worked.”

“Cut it,” Hannibal said quietly.

“I’ve got—” Ed was saying when the feed cut to static again.

“And we’re good,” Hannibal said, stepping halfway out of the booth.

“How was that?” Ed asked, stepping out from behind the desk. “Think that sold it?”

“You’re a regular Robert DeNiro,” George assured him drily.

“Is he that guy who played the same character in eighty-seven different movies and then went crazy?” Hannibal said. He looked at Ed. “I totally bought you as a clueless idiot.”

Ed made a face. “Thanks, I think.” He pointed. “Now let’s get all these people out of here. It’s gonna get spicy real quick.” He grabbed the M1A and held it out. “Early, your howitzer.”

“I’ma try and do a thing, first,” George said, striding into the broadcast booth. On the control panel in front of one of the men was a phone, presumably his. George grabbed it and began thumbing through it. The man opened his mouth but then thought better of complaining.

After about thirty seconds of quick finger work on the touch screen George smiled and nodded. Then, from his vest, he produced a radio he’d taken off a soldier downstairs. He pointed to the input jacks. “Can you plug your phone into this radio, get it to play the music directly?”

“Umm…” The man was about to ask why, but decided not to. He peered at the radio. “Yeah. I just need…” He dug around in a nearby drawer and after a second pulled out a cable. George set the radio down and gestured at the man. He only needed a few seconds.

“So if I hit Play, that’s going out over the channel? Do I need to keep holding down the transmit button?”

“Not when you’re running an aux feed like this,” the broadcast engineer said. “Once you hit Play, provided no one else is actually broadcasting on the channel, the song will go out.”

“Cool,” George said. He tapped the arrow-shaped Play icon, then chose ‘Repeat’. The phone’s battery charge was at 67%, so it should last for a good long time. He made sure the volume was at max.

“What are you doing?” Ed asked, walking up.

“Serenading the Tabs,” George said with a smile. “Go on, get out of here,” he told the two broadcast engineers. “You don’t want to be anywhere near here.” The two men traded a look, and the phone’s owner looked at it wistfully, but they headed out without another word.

Ed leaned over the control panel and looked at the phone. “‘When the Levee Breaks’?” he asked.

“Always loved that song,” George agreed. He twisted his head to the side, and his neck popped loudly. “Let’s go stack some bodies. Everybody bailing from this position, get the fuck out, double-time. And fill your canteens real quick if you can. They’ve got running water here, remember? We’ll see you when we see you. Suicide Squad, form up on me!”

Mark shot him a dark look. “That’s not funny.”

George shrugged. “It is what it is. How long do you think it’ll take the Tab cavalry to arrive?”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Staff Sergeant Wayne Dietz was the ranking NCO in the assault force, and the commander of KICKASS, one of the two Toads roaring north up Cass Avenue in the middle of the platoon, heading toward the TV station under siege by the terrorists. Ahead and behind him were four IMPs and fourteen Growlers, most of them up-armored. With the two Toads that was twenty vehicles and upwards of ninety men, the biggest assault force he’d seen in years, and nearly half of the immediately available fighting force on the base. Colonel Parker had finally, finally, let go of their leash. It pissed him off that so many of the Growlers didn’t have any armor at all, but the up-armored ones kept blowing their trannies, and there were no replacement armored windows available..

Dietz flipped the channel to talk to just his crew. “Slow down Richards, I don’t want you running over any of our own guys.” All of his guys were excited, and scared. They’d been stationed in the city for months or years, depending, and taken incoming fire on their infrequent patrols, perhaps lit up a few rebels when they were dumb enough to stand and fight, but this looked to be the best chance for serious combat most of them had ever seen. Richards, his driver, was somewhat new, only having been in the city six months. He was replacing Dietz’ previous driver Kirby who’d killed himself. Just about all the soldiers around him were draftees, but Kirby had hated the city, hated the Army, and hated himself. Dietz was just glad Kirby hadn’t taken anybody with him when he’d decided to check out.

His gunner, Kirkland, had been on the crew for eight months, replacing Jensen who had just disappeared one day. Dietz suspected Jensen had deserted, but he hadn’t left a note, and was never captured or found dead as far as he knew, so that was just a guess. Jensen hadn’t been happy and had been very vocal about his unhappiness, but very few of the draftee soldiers were actually happy. The city was a shithole, and what made it worse was the boredom—they were a tank crew, but they were always so short of fuel and ammo, and the CO so terrified of losing another tank (not that that was likely to happen), that they rarely left the base more than once a week to patrol.

Shit, eight months as gunner and Kirkland had only ever fired training rounds out of the main gun prior to the dust up several weeks earlier where he’d banged a round at fleeing guerrillas. He or the green loader, Wilson, had somehow accidentally loaded a depleted uranium sabot round instead of HE, so rather than racking up some easy kills on the guerrilla dismounts all they’d done was scare that crap out of them. Dietz was still pissed about that. He’d made his crew run laps until they’d thrown up and then run some more. Then he’d run them through drills until they hated him even more than usual.

None of them had ex-wives, they had no idea what real hate was like.

At least he didn’t have to deal with elective gender pronouns anymore. Dietz snorted at the memory of that debacle.

For the first year or two of the war (depending on when you believed it started) the Army was kicking the enemy’s ass. Then things started to go… not so good, to put it mildly, and the government reinstituted the draft. They were, of course, only drafting men. The problem with that? The law was, at the time, you could be whatever gender you wanted, and overnight a huge chunk of the draft-age males in the country (some said it was as high as twenty-five or even fifty percent) declared they were now “female”. Almost as quickly the government decreed that your gender was determined by the reproductive organs you had at birth—ovaries meant you were female, and testes meant you were male, and they ignored the outrage and screams of “genderqueer hate”, “transphobia”, “intersex denial”, and everything else. The Army had been a shitshow for a year or two after that, but what army filled with fresh draftees wasn’t?

There was nothing like actual combat experience to get men tuned up, so he was glad for this opportunity. He wasn’t worried about the guerrillas. There was no risk of them digging tank traps along Washboard, and they’d be unarmored and on foot, probably hiding inside the buildings. The closest thing to armor he’d ever seen the guerrillas fielding was a tow truck with steel plates welded around the cab. That was early on in the war, and one hit from his main gun had turned it to airborne scrap. He still smiled at that memory.

Dietz was standing up in the open hatch, helmet and goggles on and electronic muffs over his ears, listening to the excited radio chatter. There was an M240B machine gun right in front of him if he needed it. He preferred to have his head out of the hatch. While staying buttoned up inside the tank kept you alive, you couldn’t see shit through the ISU, at least not in comparison to the standard Mark 1 eyeball. If they started taking some serious incoming fire he’d button up, but he didn’t think that was likely. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that the doggies generally didn’t want to tangle with tanks. Maybe at the start of the war, but they’d learned better. Now, they ran whenever a Toad showed up. They didn’t have anything which could even dent its armor.

“Seriously, Richards, slow the fuck down. My only real worry is that the assholes are going to realize they screwed themselves, and take off before we get there and have a chance to fuck them up, but if you even scratch the paint on that Growler I will kick your ass.”

He heard Richards’ gulp over the radio. “Yes Sergeant.”

Strangely, Toads used up nearly as much diesel per hour just idling as they did roaring down the road. In fact, even though it weighed over sixty tons a Toad could keep up with an IMP. However, because they were a mixed troop of vehicles the ranking officer, Major Keira Lunis in the lead IMP, was having them keep their speed under thirty miles an hour.

Lunis was on the radio, communicating with the two troop leaders, S/Sgt. Dietz in KICKASS and Sergeant Major Nichols in CHAOS, the other Toad, callsign Foxtrot One-One. “I want elements of Charlie to break off at Amsterdam and advance north up 2nd Avenue,” she told them. “Three Growlers and an IMP. They’ll be heading right toward the Fisher Building and should get us early eyes on. I want the rest of Charlie to circle around to the west, take up a position a couple hundred yards west and north of the target building. I want eyeballs on all sides of that building, I don’t want them escaping out the back door.”

“Charlie One-One to Foxtrot Actual, where do you want us?” Dietz asked the Major. He had a tablet out and was studying the digital map as they powered up Cass Avenue. All of this should have been planned out before they left the base, but none of them wanted to miss the opportunity to trap the guerrillas in the Fisher Building. Seizing the TV broadcast facility might be a great PR stunt, but if they were still in there when the Army rolled up in force it would mean they would be trapped. That building was so easy to surround.

“Charlie One-One, how about you stage at 2nd and Baltimore. You can provide overwatch for those advance units.” Dietz checked his map. Baltimore was two blocks south of Washboard, and he’d have a direct line-of-sight to the Fisher Building less than a quarter mile away.

“Charlie One-One is a roger on that.”

“Foxtrot units One, Two, Three, and Four, position yourselves at Cass and Washboard. I want two Foxtrot units to circle around to the east and sit on the northeast side of that building.”

“Foxtrot One-One to Foxtrot Actual, Lothrop Street there is the border of the Blue Zone and blocked off to vehicle traffic. Those units will have to go out wide if they head to that side.”

“Shit, roger that. Okay, I want Foxtrot units at Washboard and Cass, Washboard and Woodward, and… Woodward and Bethune, just north of the Blue Zone border. We’ve lost contact with all friendlies on Washboard, so keep your eyes open. Be advised command is reporting enemy radio traffic at that location. Encrypted.”

The armored force, spread from one side of Cass Avenue to the other, proceeded north across the bridge over the I-94 freeway and began to slow down. Washboard was just half a mile ahead.

The advance force of three Growlers and an IMP increased their speed and raced ahead. Dietz could see them in the distance as they turned left on Amsterdam Street. “Charlie One-Four can see the target building,” everyone heard over the radio. “Can see a smoke column. Moving to position. Will advise.”

The four vehicles roared down the narrow street, old brick industrial buildings to either side. 2nd Avenue at Amsterdam was wide, with a small grassy median. The four vehicles made the turn and rolled north, passing under a double railroad bridge. As soon as they were through the Fisher Building was directly in front of them.

“Charlie One-Four is eyes on and approaching,” the IMP Commander called out. He’d been standing in the roof gunner’s spot, behind the Mk19 grenade launcher, but decided discretion was the better part of valor—he ducked in and closed the hatch. Beside the vehicle gunner and driver there were six soldiers in the back of the APC, geared up and ready to fight. The vehicles slowed down as they drew close, finally stopping, four abreast, on 2nd Avenue just short of Washboard.

“Charlie One-Four, Foxtrot Actual, be advised we are in position at Second and Washboard with eyes on. There is a disabled Growler on the north side of Washboard, and another on the south side. We see several friendly KIA.” He looked out through the blocks that made up the IMPs narrow windshield, then moved close and peered upward. Where was the TV station, was it the eighth floor? His eyes ran up the building. He didn’t see any freshly broken windows, although there were a few covered with plywood. He clicked his radio. “No visible enemy movement, although I’ve got a lot of civilians running around.”

Suddenly the IMP rang with the sound of metal rain. He looked around and spotted muzzle flashes from the lobby of the Fisher Building. One of the men with him yelped from nerves, but the Commander remained calm. The personnel carrier was armored for this very reason, and the rifle fire wasn’t much of a threat to the up-armored Growlers either. “Charlie One-Four has enemy contact,” he said calmly into the radio, excited but not scared. “Taking small arms fire from the ground floor of target building, unknown number of hostiles.” The number of incoming rounds doubled in number, and he peered upward through the driver’s view slot. “Also, taking incoming fire from...” he counted with his finger. “Looks like the eighth floor.” He glanced up at the closed gunner’s hatch, thinking of the grenade launcher up there. “Permission to return fire? We’ve got a Mk19 ready to go, over.”

“Foxtrot Actual, all units. Remaining Charlie and Foxtrot units moving into position, thirty seconds out,” he heard Major Lunis say over the radio. “Charlie One-Four detachment, maintain your position and remain eyes on, give us call outs on the tangos. Stand by, but do not return fire, I don’t want them scared away just yet.”

“Charlie One-Four is roger that, command,” the IMP Commander said, staring out and up at the building. “Be advised—” His next words were cut off as there was a giant roar outside the vehicle. The entire IMP rocked and the driver instinctively ducked.

“What the fuck was that?” somebody yelled.

“Grenade,” the Commander said, not scared, not yet, but slightly more concerned. “We can be eyes on from a little farther back. Bobby, back us up.”

The driver had time to put the IMP into reverse, then there was an incandescent flash and roar inside the vehicle. The IMP rocked on its wheels, then settled, rolling ever so slowly backward. From the outside it appeared nearly undamaged, just a narrow spiral of smoke trailing from the top deck, but every man inside it was dead.

“High-rises suck for combat,” Morris had told the squad leaders bluntly during the mission briefing. “‘Death trap’ I think is an apt word. First you’ve got to assault up them. Trust me, I could teach you four excellent ways to proceed tactically up a stairwell and all of them suck if there’s a Tab at the top with a gun. You’re going to lose people even if you do everything right. And then, once you’re up there, you can either wait for them to come kill you, and eventually they will, or you head downstairs, where they’ll be waiting for you. But high-rises have certain advantages, which I hope to make great use of. I also want to give you every advantage I can, which means not putting everyone in the same goddamn building waiting to be surrounded. Surprise and stealth, remember? But not necessarily in that order.”

He stabbed down at the map, at the cluster of buildings in the New Center Area. “All things being equal no good commander who has any sort of experience leading armor should get anywhere near buildings, tall or short, without having them be completely cleared by infantry. However…” He smiled. “We are not in a fresh clean war, are we? Correct me if I’m wrong, but you gentlemen have barely had any RPGs or rockets in this war, and for the last few years you’ve had just about zero.”

“Just a few RPGs,” Ed admitted. “And 40mm grenades, when we’re lucky, but those don’t do shit against armor, just Growlers. I don’t think I’ve seen a rocket in six or seven years.”

“Right,” Morris went on, “so they are not going to expect any sort of capable or concerted anti-tank response. And having you seen as seizing the broadcast facilities, perhaps over reaching, they may take this as an opportunity to crush you. Up here, you haven’t had armor since the start of the war. Most of the time you haven’t had any weapons which will do more than scrape the paint off a Toad, so other than a tank trap, which at this late date are very rare, they haven’t had much to worry about. The current Tab commander is paranoid about losing what few tanks he has, though, which is why he doesn’t roll them out on you more often. That, and a lack of fuel. We’re hoping this will seem juicy enough he’ll send them out, and those Toad commanders, they’re not used to backing off. They should roll right up on you. Or close enough. Along with, hopefully, a lot of IMPs and Growlers. We’re hoping their overconfidence will provide what we like to call a target-rich environment.”

“That’s military slang for being outnumbered,” Ed pointed out.

Morris nodded. “You’re not wrong. We will kill some of them, we will definitely take out some of their vehicles and armor, the only question is, how many? It depends on how hungry and overconfident we can make them. That is where the stealth and surprise come in. The goal is to make them think all of your forces are in Nakatomi here, the Fisher Building. They’ll come roaring in and set up a perimeter while they decide whether or not to go in on foot or just wait you out. Because of all the tall buildings they’re going to have to be somewhat close enough to see what’s going on and, at some point, assault the ground floor. Hopefully whatever perimeter they set up will be right around or even, God willing, underneath where most of your troops actually will be.”

“And then? Brooke asked.

“And then,” Morris replied with a mean smile, “cry ‘Havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war.”

Morris was thinking of this exchange as he stared out the south-facing windows of the A. Alfred Taubman building, otherwise known as the chin in the New Center Area face. Positioned on the eleventh floor he had great visibility south along both Cass and 2nd Avenue. He wasn’t alone, he had three of his men with him—Conrad, Bill, and Seattle as they’d chosen to be known for this mission, the three men who’d been manning the doorway of the sports complex, waiting for the dogsoldiers to arrive.

Conrad and Bill were positioned at the southeast corner of the building and had the best view up and down Cass. Morris and Seattle were on the west side of the building, looking down 2nd Avenue.

“I’ve got a big smoke column down south, sir, you catching this? Over.” Conrad said. They were using a separate channel to communicate while still monitoring the other units. They’d heard every word in the exchange between Eagle Eye and RoadRunner, including the fateful last message one minute earlier, “Eagle Eye. Eagle Eye. All elements of RoadRunner that can make it to you are en route. Don’t wait for us. Repeat, DO NOT WAIT. It’s Plan B for us.”

Morris lowered his binoculars and raised his radio. “Roger that. Seattle, you keep an eye west. Just because I think they’ll come up Cass or Woodward doesn’t mean they won’t surprise us. And stay back from the windows, all of you,” he said for the third time, “I don’t want us spotted. Over.” He’d found himself crowding the glass, so he knew his men had to be doing the same thing. Seattle was at the northwest corner of the building, which had been abandoned years before.

“Yes sir.” There was a pause. “You think they’re going to wait to head up here until they clean up their mess down there? Over.”

Morris shook his head, even though no one could see it. “Whatever happened with Alpha is over,” he said curtly. “I can’t see Parker missing out on the chance to trap our people in Nakatomi.”

A minute later the radio crackled again, and he looked down to see it was the general channel audible to all elements of the assault force. “Almighty, Almighty, and everybody else out there, elements of RoadRunner Oscar Mike to your AO, ETA five. Alpha mission at least ninety percent accomplished, repeat ninety percent.”

“Fuck yeah!” Morris heard Seattle shout, his voice echoing down the empty hallway between the offices they occupied. Morris couldn’t help but smile. Ninety percent meant—probably, hopefully—that all but one or two of the aircraft in the hangars had been disabled or destroyed.

A minute later Conrad jumped on the radio, using the main channel. “All Bravo units, this is Almighty. Enemy units spotted south of your position, heading northbound on Cass, about one minute out. Growlers, IMPs, and at least one Toad. Will advise number and call out location when possible.” Morris couldn’t see them from where he was. There was a pause of a few seconds, then Conrad got back on the radio. “Advance armor elements breaking off, heading west, remainder slowing down. Stand by.”

Morris felt his heartrate jump up twenty percent as he stared south through the dirty pane of glass. The hike through the sewer lines had shown him just how physically unfit he actually was, but he’d made it, they’d made it, he’d heard all the Bravo squads call out they were in place, after a brief fight with the few soldiers stationed in the area. Now it was time for them to go to work.

He didn’t need his binoculars; when the Growlers and the IMP turned the corner onto 2nd Avenue they seemed remarkably close, bright and crisp in the morning sun. “Bravo units, this is Almighty Actual,” he said into the radio. “Three Growlers and an IMP northbound on 2nd Avenue. They appear to be scouts.” He paused. “Nakatomi, this is your show now. Over.”

The plan was to make the Tabs focus on the Fisher Building and to think, for as long as possible, all the dogsoldiers in the area were inside it, and act accordingly. To do this required two things—troops on the ground floor of the building to fight off the initial attempts to enter it, and men up on the eighth floor, where the Voice of the People was situated, to convince the Tabs they were still concerned with sending a guerrilla broadcast out over the airwaves.

The ground floor of the Fisher Building was a sieve—there were four main entrances, two tunnels, a second-story walkway, and then there were myriad windows and doors at sidewalk level leading into the now-closed ground floor stores. They knew they wouldn’t be able to hold the building for very long at all, once the Tabs decided to assault it in numbers, with or without armor support. But that wasn’t the plan. The building wasn’t the objective.

It was the bait.

George stared out through the eighth-floor windows. He was standing in the office of some sort of VOP executive and even though he was sweating under his armor he could feel there was actually, unbelievably, air conditioning operating in the building. Small offices lined the front of the building, connected by a hallway. George was in the center office with Kelly, one of Flintstone’s people, who was armed with an M4/203, a full-auto military carbine with underbarrel grenade launcher. Mark was in the office to their right, Quentin in a small conference room to their left. Their windows looked south, across West Grand Boulevard and down the length of 2nd Avenue past the Cadillac Place building. If they needed to, they could run to either end of the hallway and look east and west down West Grand, but George had a hunch at least some of the Tabs wouldn’t be able to resist driving straight up 2nd toward the old skyscraper.

George’s radio sprang to life. “Almighty, Almighty, and everybody else out there, elements of RoadRunner Oscar Mike to your AO, ETA five. Alpha mission at least ninety percent accomplished, repeat ninety percent.”

“Out-fucking-standing!” Mark shouted, his voice echoing down the hall. George was nervous—hell, they were all scared as hell, he hadn’t nicknamed their all-volunteer group the Suicide Squad for nothing—but hearing that the mission against the Tab’s airfield had been a solid success put a smile on his face.

George took a few deep breaths and wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs. “How long you been with Flintstone?” he asked Kelly, just to say something. Kelly was blonde and looked about twenty. Just a baby-faced kid, from George’s perspective.

“About a year and a half.”

George nodded. Long enough.

“You’re Bodycount, right?”

George made a face. “I hate that fucking name.”

The radio chirped to life again. “All Bravo units, this is Almighty. Enemy units spotted south of your position, heading northbound on Cass, about one minute out. Growlers, IMPs, and at least one Toad. Will advise number when possible.”

George moved up close to the glass and peered to his left, toward Cass. He couldn’t see it. Whatever was happening was out of view on the other side of the bulk of the Cadillac Place building.

“Advance armor elements breaking off, heading west, remainder slowing down. Stand by.”

“They’re cutting over to Second!” George shouted, loud enough for Mark and Quentin to hear him. “Back up from the windows and wait for my signal.” He knew he was repeating something they already knew, but he couldn’t help himself.

A few seconds later Morris himself got on the radio. “Bravo units, this is Almighty Actual. Three Growlers and an IMP northbound on 2nd Avenue. They appear to be scouts.” He paused. “Nakatomi, this is your show now. Over.”

From his excellent vantage point George had spotted the vehicles before Morris was done talking. He took a deep breath and watched the IMP and Growlers roll slowly up 2nd Avenue, straight toward him. It was unnerving, seeing enemy armor coming straight for him and not running for cover. Or shooting. They paused just a few feet short of West Grand, and remained there, four vehicles abreast.

George grabbed his radio. “Nakatomi Ground, this is Tower. Time to chum the water a bit. Please get their attention.”

In the lobby, using one of the thick columns for cover, staring out the south doors at the IMP and Growler far too fucking close for comfort, Ed keyed his radio. “Roger that. Chumming.” Like every veteran dogsoldier he had a natural and well-earned fear of enemy armor, and every cell in his body was screaming at the thought of deliberately provoking an IMP. He was accompanied by four dogsoldiers including Early and Jason, all of whom were using the marble walls to shield themselves from view out the busted doors. He stabbed his hand toward the vehicles. “Light ‘em up! Aim for tires and windshields.”

Using the columns, the security desk, and the wall for cover the men around him opened fire on the vehicles on the far side of the street.

Up on the eighth floor George could hear the gunfire through the glass, echoing off the face of the buildings opposing him. He saw a few sparks as bullets glanced off the front of the IMP, but neither it nor the Growlers responded to the gunfire by advancing closer to the building.

“Tower, engage!” George shouted, not bothering with the radio. He gestured at the window in front of him, and Kelly blew it out with a long full-auto burst with his M4/203. Mark had his SAW set up on a desk, and began firing short bursts down at the vehicles. Quentin, in the conference room, began working the trigger of his S&W AR-15, watching the red dot bounce over the Growlers down below.

The vehicles were not quite two hundred feet from the front of the Fisher Building, and eight stories down, and weren’t moving, either forward or back. “Not getting any closer.” Which had been the hope. “I guess we do it from here,” George said to Kelly. He took a deep breath, adjusted his Springfield AR slung over his back, then looked down at the unfamiliar weapon in his hands.

“I don’t know what that is, but I want it,” George had said not long after Julius had brought them into what everyone called the Guns and Ammo room at the sports complex the day before. And he’d greedily grabbed the item in question.

“That is a Milkor M32A1,” Julius told him. “That thing is almost fifty years old,” he’d said, gesturing at the six-shot grenade launcher in George’s hands. It was, in effect, a giant revolver with a stock and a very short barrel, topped with a pivoting red dot optic.

“It looks new,” George said.

“Well, that one is. I mean the design is old, and proven. What’s new, or newer I guess, are the improved munitions we’ve got for them. Initial versions of what we brought came out over twenty years ago. The original designs were announced and had very cool names, Hellhound and Draco I think, but they never went anywhere, the military never adopted them even though they offered actual armor penetration, something the standard 40mm grenade generally doesn’t do. We found samples, and the schematics, a few years ago, and our engineers developed an even better version—which is what you’ve got there, a dedicated light-armor piercing thermobaric 40mm round.”

“How much armor?”

“Not a Toad, there’s just not enough space in the round. A standard 40mm HE round will take out a Growler, but won’t do anything to an IMP. These rounds, on the other hand, will penetrate the armor on an IMP. Sometimes. Depending.”

“Sometimes? Depending?”

Julius shrugged. “I’m not going to lie to you. It still won’t do anything against the slat armor on the sides, that stuff defeats this just as well as it does everything else. You need to hit bare hull, and the closer to a perpendicular impact the better. If you hit it on a sharp angle, or the IMP has extra bolt-on armor plates on the top, reactive or not, it won’t penetrate. But the great thing, at least from your perspective, is that these grenades have a rainbow trajectory, and you’re going to be firing them from an elevated position. So having them impacting at a solid downward angle against the top deck is a pretty good bet. Upon impact there’s an internal firing pin which hits a detonator that ignites an advanced explosive, and that sends an armor-piercing jet of molten metal into and hopefully through the armor. If it does, there’s a good chance you’ll kill or at least temporarily disable everyone inside that vehicle. It kills with heat and overpressure, generally, as opposed to shrapnel. Unfortunately, there’s no such thing as a free lunch—because it’s a shaped charge, when you’re shooting at targets in the open, it has a slightly reduced kill radius.” He gestured at the pallet. “We brought quite a bit of it. Maybe more than you’ll be able to carry.

“It have the same drop as a standard forty?” George asked

Julius nodded. “And I sighted in all these myself, at one hundred yards. You see the yardage markings there on the side of the optic, from fifty yards out to three-seventy-five, in twenty-five-yard increments? Those work damn well. Trigger pull’s heavy, but it’s two stage, so you can prep the trigger, get settled, then break the shot clean. If you’ve got the range right and you don’t jerk the trigger, that grenade will drop right where the dot is, they’re surprisingly accurate.”

“You’re definitely the man for that,” Ed said to George. To Julius’ questioning look, he said, “I think the last time George got rattled under fire was before the war.”

“I get rattled all the time,” George said absently, trying to figure out how to swing out the cylinder of the grenade launcher. “I just don’t let it keep me from hitting what I’m aiming at

Julius told them, “About two months ago one of our combat engineers wandered around the Blue Zone, especially the area you’ll be heading, for the better part of a day, measuring distances. He was happy to get out of tunnel digging duty. You’ve got copies of that diagram, and it should be accurate to within plus or minus five yards.” He nodded at the grenade launcher. “Should help a lot with that.”

Staring down at the IMP and Growlers George thought they were closer to seventy-five yards away than fifty, and adjusted the optic’s elevation. He’d dry-fired the weapon until his finger was sore, but he was pretty sure he’d mastered the trigger pull.

George took a step closer to the empty window frame, shouldered the MGL, and put the red dot on the center of the IMP’s top deck. He pulled the heavy trigger almost to the breaking point, took half a second to steady his aim, then pulled the trigger through. The weapon fired with a loud THOOMPF!

The MGL was big and heavy but it bucked vigorously in his hands. George was back on the trigger, getting the dot back on the IMP even as he saw an explosion on its top deck. He couldn’t tell if it had been a good hit or not, so he fired a second time at the IMP, then a third, one corner of his mind aware Kelly had fired his grenade launcher beside him. George moved his aim over and began engaging the Growlers—one round per. Six seconds after firing his first shot, he was empty. Kelly was just firing his second grenade, the single shot M203 much slower to reload. Eight grenades fired in as many seconds.

George let the MGL drop to its sling and grabbed his Springfield. There were Tabs on foot around the now burning and disabled vehicles, using them for cover. A few made a break for the Cadillac Place building. He fired careful, aimed shots, hearing Mark firing bursts with the SAW. A running Tab fell. One of the Growlers was reversing at speed back down 2nd Avenue. The IMP appeared to be dead, one Growler was on fire, and the remaining one had lost a wheel. There were a few bodies on the street between the vehicles.

He grabbed his radio and said evenly, “Skybox, Tower. I think a few made it into your lobby. Three out of those four vehicles are down.” Then he leaned forward and, looking at the burning vehicles across the street, shouted as loud as he could, “Get off my lawn!”

Dietz was just rolling up to the intersection of 2nd Avenue and Baltimore in KICKASS the Toad when Charlie One-Four got on the radio again. “Charlie One-Four is roger that, command,” the IMP Commander said. “Be advised—” Then the transmission stopped.

“Charlie One-Four, repeat your last, you cut out,” Major Lunis said over the comm after waiting about ten seconds.

There was no response, then there was a loud burst of static, then incoherent words. Maybe screaming. “Charlie One-Four? Charlie One-Four, or anyone in that detachment, what is your status, over?” There was no response. “Can anyone get me a sitrep on Charlie One-Four?”

At the moment Dietz couldn’t see shit, because there was a big office building blocking his view. “Go! Around the corner,” Dietz told his driver. They were practically on top of Charlie One-Four’s last known position, just two small city blocks away.

The turbo diesel whined and roared and the tank lurched around the corner and headed north. Dietz stood in his hatch, one hand on the M240B, squinting at the vehicles in the distance. “Charlie One-One is eyes on One-Four detachment,” he announced. “They’ve got at least two vehicles disabled and seem to be taking heavy fire from target building. We are moving to assist.” He could see soldiers hunkering down behind the IMP and one of the Growlers, using the vehicles for cover. “Richards, get us the fuck up there, we need to provide some covering fire. Pull up even with the IMP.”

“You got it, Sergeant.” The Toad surged forward, the engine noise deafening. The troops crouched behind their smoking vehicles heard them coming. The one Growler still mobile roared past them in reverse, its front right tire shredded and flapping noisily. He thought it might regroup behind them, but it kept on going. The soldiers inside were panicked.

“Kirkland! You see those windows blown out of that building in front of us, about ten stories up?”

His gunner took a second to spot them. “Yeah?”

“Put an HE round up there right now!” Dietz had spotted obvious tangos up there, firing down at his men. There was a round already loaded in the main gun.

Firing accurately while moving was actually easy for the tank’s fire control system, but it took a bit longer than when standing still. That said, it was only a few seconds before Kirkland said, “Firing,” and the main gun erupted with a roar and a tongue of flame. Kirkland hit his mark and the face of the building ruptured with a flash and a cloud of glittering dust. The façade of the high rise around the crater seemed to sag. He didn’t see anything moving.

“Right on the fucking money! Excellent! Richards, get us in there.” As the IMP roared up Dietz began firing the belt-fed over the heads of the troopers in front of him, directly into the lobby of the building across the street, trying to keep the terrorists there pinned down.

“We can’t stay here,” Dietz shouted down at the few men still on the street, some of whom looked like they wanted to use the Toad for cover. He fired another burst, then pointed at the Cadillac Place building on their right. “Get inside, under cover.”

Seattle was on the northwest corner of the building and saw the Toad rolling up on the burning vehicles. He didn’t call it out, he knew Nakatomi Tower had a better view on the oncoming tank than he did. But then the tank fired its main gun and the face of the Fisher Building erupted, a thousand shards of glass catching the light as they fell to the street, along with chunks of concrete and pieces of steel.

“Shit,” he swore. Ignoring Morris’ instructions to stay back from the window he pressed his nose to the glass and looked down. The Toad was firing its belt-fed across the street, attempting a rescue of the few men still trapped by the burning vehicles. The gunfire was echoing off the buildings in all directions. He grabbed his radio. “Skybox West, Skybox West, this is Almighty. You have a Toad right underneath you. I repeat, you have a Toad right underneath you on the street, right now, over.”

“Skybox East, this is Almighty East,” he heard without a second’s pause. “You’ve got a whole traffic jam underneath you right now. Go loud, do not wait, I repeat go loud, it’s never going to get better, give ‘em everything you’ve got.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Kermit, led by Barker, was on the west end of the tenth floor of the Cadillac Place building. They’d watched the battle between the Nakatomi Tower group led by George and the Tab ground units, noses pressed against the windows like kids, frustrated at having to sit it out.

They’d heard the Toad roaring up 2nd Avenue right before they’d spotted it, and that was a second before its main gun had fired, blowing a hole in the front of the building right where George and the rest of Tower had been standing.

“Toad! Toad!” Barker shouted, his forehead pressed against the window pane. He and the rest of Kermit looked from the tank to the front of the Fisher Building, which was now enveloped in a cloud of smoke. The tank rolled to a stop next to the IMP. Which was almost directly underneath them.

“Smash out that fucking window,” Barker shouted to his squad, pointing, as he ran back to grab a Spike. He heard glass breaking from the vigorous application of rifle butts as he grabbed the rocket launcher and began getting it ready to fire. He’d practiced deploying it the day before until he was ready to punch someone, but the repetitions helped as his hands moved over the tube seemingly of their own accord, pulling out the safety pin and flipping up the sights.

“Skybox West, Skybox West, this is Almighty. You have a Toad right underneath you. I repeat, you have a Toad right underneath you on the street, right now, over.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Barker muttered. The windows were narrow, with black aluminum frames. His people had busted out the top half and Barker stuck his head out. There, right below him, was the Toad. Ten stories down. What was that, fifty yards? Not even. He hoisted the Spike and pressed it against his shoulder, then leaned forward, feeling the window frame against his waist. Distantly he heard Almighty talking to the squad on the other side of the same building, telling them to break cover as well.

“Somebody grab my belt. And watch out for the backblast, it’s gonna be nasty!”

Barker felt hands on him, and he leaned out even further, hearing the window frame creak. He lined up the rocket’s iron sights on the center of the tank’s turret, and saw the top of a helmet. He depressed the red safety lever with his two middle fingers. His thumb found the trigger. Behind him, Petal had two hands on his plate carrier and one foot braced against the wall. She turned her head away from the rocket launcher and hunched, hoping the rocket exhaust wouldn’t cook both of them.

Dietz yanked down at the back of the M240B to get its nose up and fired a long burst at the eighth floor of the Fisher Building, even though he didn’t see any movement where the tank’s HE round had impacted. The exterior wall of the skyscraper had ruptured along with every window in a thirty-foot radius, and he could see into what appeared to be offices. Then he swung the gun down and put another burst into the ground-floor lobby. Bullets were still bouncing off the front of KICKASS from the tangos in the lobby, and it was pissing him off

“Kirkland!”

“Yeah!”

“You get another round loaded?”

“Loaded!”

“Put a round into that lobby in front of us, right through those doors.” The Major had said to wait for her call before engaging the target building, but fuck that. Twice.

As the main gun slewed over and started to drop, glass bounced off the top of the turret in front of him. Glass? Dietz blinked, then looked up. There, way high up on the high-rise, what the hell was that? It looked like a guy, hanging on the side of the building like Spider-Man. And then there was a brief flash.

Barker pressed the trigger and the office around him seemed to explode as the rocket’s exhaust disintegrated the suspended ceiling of off-white acoustic tiles. He fell back from the window, coughing and waving his hands in front of his face, the rest of the squad doing the same. The air around him seemed filled with flour.

“Shit, did I hit it?” He rushed back to the window and looked down through the dust pouring out the gaping window frame. The Toad was still there below him, and at first it appeared no different. Then he saw the smoke pouring out of the hatch, and saw the Tab who’d been standing inside it was now halfway down the side of the tank, hanging headfirst from the hatch by one boot. The Spike had shot straight down into the open hatch, killing the entire crew.

Barker grabbed his rifle and began firing at the few Tabs still in the street. The rest of his squad moved to adjoining windows and did the same, but after seeing the Toad get taken out the Tabs decided to abandon their idea of using it for cover and ran underneath him, into the Cadillac Place building.

“Skybox West, all squads. Got fucking guys in my lobby,” Barker spat. “But the Toad’s dead.”

“Oh Jesus, oh Jesus,” Lydia said, staring at the parade of armored vehicles rolling up Cass Avenue toward them. She had both her palms and her forehead pressed against the glass.

“Get away from the window,” Chan told her. He glanced around. He had all of Yosemite plus Morris’ loaner with him. So far they hadn’t done anything since reaching the tenth floor of the Cadillac Place building but listen to other squads on the radio. All the fighting was on the opposite side of the building. But the Tabs’ main armored column was moving up to support the advance force. They were still over a block away, and moving slow, but they kept coming, straight up Cass. Straight toward him.

The radio lit up again. “Skybox, Tower. I think a few made it into your lobby. Three out of those four vehicles are down.” Chan could only hear the gunfire and explosions as faint echoes through the glass.

The convoy was rolling two abreast up Cass. There was an IMP and Growler in the lead followed by four more Growlers, another IMP, two Growlers, and, finally, a Toad. Ten vehicles. “Fuck,” Chan muttered under his breath. He hadn’t seen that much enemy armor together… ever. It reminded him of the stories he’d heard about the intense battles at the start of the war.

“Skybox West, Skybox West, this is Almighty. You have a Toad right underneath you. I repeat, you have a Toad right underneath you on the street, right now, over.”

The column of vehicles was barely a block away now, coming close to rolling underneath Yosemite’s position. “Everybody grab your shit!” Chan shouted. He moved a step closer to the window, to get a better viewing angle. One IMP and three Growlers broke off and headed east on a side street. The two lead vehicles in the now-shortened column had paused half a block back from West Grand Boulevard, as it kept them out of sight of the Fisher Building, ostensibly behind cover.

They were right underneath Yosemite.

As Chan stared down at the IMP, Toad, and four Growlers, Morris’ overwatch team jumped back on the radio. “Skybox East, this is Almighty East. You’ve got a whole traffic jam underneath you right now. Go loud, do not wait, I repeat go loud, it’s never going to get better, give ‘em everything you’ve got.”

Chan had made the same decision a quarter-second earlier. “Let’s light ‘em up!” he shouted. He looked at Lydia as the sound of multiple windows being broken echoed around the empty offices. “Make it rain, right here,” he told her, pointing at the lighter in her hand. Then he grabbed a Spike. Two windows down his second-in-command was leaning out the window and firing the fancy new six-shot grenade launcher straight downward. He heard the hissing roar of a Spike being fired from the next office over and a white dust cloud shot out the office doorway into the hallway.

Chan flipped the sights on the rocket up and was pressing the safety lever down as he leaned out one of the freshly broken windows. One of the Growlers was already burning. Chan focused on the Toad, which lurched and then began moving backward.

Oh no you don’t, he thought. He aimed the sights at the leading edge of the tank but then had to pause as it passed underneath the fourth-floor walkway between the building and the adjacent parking garage. As it reappeared he pressed the trigger, but just as he fired the tank slewed sideways, intending to reverse into the closest side street. The rocket missed the body of the tank entirely and hit the treads. The impact rocked the tank, which accelerated off to the side. Chan saw the massive vehicle had rolled out of its right-side track and left it on the street like a discarded snake-skin, but it still seemed able to move. Then it was gone, out of sight behind the parking garage. “Shit!”

Lydia was working like a madwoman next to him, lighting the fabric wicks of Molotov cocktails and frantically tossing them out the closest window in every direction. There had to be thirty of them in various sized glass bottles, stored in two milk crates and secreted up here, by her, over the past six months, one bottle at a time. They were filled with whatever flammable liquid she or Tom in the Fisher Building’s maintenance department could get their hands on—rubbing alcohol, paint thinner, acetone, nail polish remover, even a little bit of gel hand sanitizer—basically everything but gasoline, as that was too valuable. There were two additional crates on the opposite side of the building too, and one crate in a maintenance closet on the sixth floor of the Fisher Building.

“Just toss ‘em!” Chan shouted at her. He grabbed two bottles in each hand and threw them out as far as he could. You only had to light the first few; as long as the rest impacted an area on fire, they would ignite as well. And the entire street below them seemed to be on fire, Lydia had already thrown a dozen bottles out the window. One of the Growlers had broken away and was racing north up Cass along the sidewalk, one of its wheels on fire. The IMP wasn’t moving, it had been hit by a Spike, and a Tab, after realizing he couldn’t angle the roof gun up enough to engage them, was crawling out of the upper hatch and across the top of the vehicle. Another man was below him in the vehicle, which was bracketed by flame. One of the Growlers was split open like a burst tin can from a grenade hit. As Chan watched he saw the doors of a disabled Growler engulfed in flames open, and the two Tabs inside came stumbling out, trying to make it through the flames to the safety of the building. The soldiers made it across the street and out of sight, but before they’d disappeared from view they’d all been aflame. He could hear at least one man screaming horrifically.

There was rifle fire to either side of him, but after scanning the street he didn’t see anything left to shoot at, the soldiers were either dead and burning or had made it to cover. One IMP and three Growlers were disabled. The Toad, of course, had lost a tread but managed to escape. That tank’s crew would be worried about anti-tank rockets, but the range of the Spikes was far less than that of the Toad’s main gun, which could accurately target vehicles out beyond two miles, if Chan remembered correctly.

“Grab your shit! We need to displace before that Toad finds a spot to snipe us!” he shouted to his squad.

Lydia was looking at him wild-eyed. “Did they work?” she asked, panting. She had a Molotov in each hand. There were only a few left in each milk crate. She’d been too busy throwing to look out the window.

“Perfect,” he told her. “There’s a sea of fucking fire down there. But we gotta go.”

“Cambridge East has vehicles circling around to the north of our position,” they heard over the radio. “Engaging.”

Charlie One-Six, -Seven, and -Eight, one IMP and two Growlers, had broken off from the rest of the assault force early, as ordered, and swung west on Amsterdam, moving more slowly than the advance force. They’d driven several blocks west to 3rd Avenue, then turned north.

The railroad bridge over 3rd was actually down, and had been for some time, but none of the men in the vehicles were aware of it. They came to a brief stop, then drove up the embankment to the left, and slowly across the four sets of train tracks. They rolled through a vacant lot and turned left, then almost immediately turned right on the service drive to the Lodge Freeway. As they did two vehicles appeared directly in front of them, rising into view as they took the freeway exit for West Grand Boulevard.

“Oh Jesus Fuck, Tabs!” Harris screamed from behind the wheel of the pickup as the IMP appeared right next to them. They were so close Harris felt like he could reach out and touch the massive vehicle. He stomped on the accelerator. He wasn’t even sure the driver of the IMP had seen him yet out of the narrow port that served as his windshield, but the Tabs in the two Growlers behind it sure had.

A dogsoldier in the Tahoe behind the pickup fired his grenade launcher and took out the trailing, unarmored Growler. It veered off and crashed into the side of a building. The roof gunner on the IMP swung his .50 belt fed over and let loose a long loud burst, stitching the SUV from the engine compartment all the way to the rear bumper. Doing that distracted him long enough for Harris’ passenger to get his carbine out the window of the pickup and fire ten rounds at the roof gunner as fast as he could pull the trigger, killing the soldier.

The Tahoe behind them slowed and drifted away, every man inside it killed by the deadly burst of the heavy roof gun. Even with its flat tire Harris’ pickup accelerated away from the heavy armored IMP and the one Growler still behind it as the Tabs inside the personnel carrier were distracted, wrestling with the body of their dead comrade, trying to clear him from behind the roof gun.

Outnumbered two to one Harris knew they had to get away from the other vehicles, and even though Growlers weren’t fast he couldn’t outrun one driving a pickup with a flat tire and a man in the bed hanging on for dear life. Besides, the man in back had an RPG, and he wouldn’t be able to get it back into play while being bounced around in a car chase.

“Hold on!” he shouted, loud enough for the man in back to hear, and took a sharp right turn, then punched the gas pedal again. He heard the IMP’s engine roar behind him as the driver accelerated to pursue.

Harris looked around and suddenly realized he was on West Grand Boulevard. The Fisher Building and Cadillac Place a quarter mile ahead of him, rising up into the sky. He knew exactly where he was, and knew that meant he was racing right toward more Tabs, and had only a second to make a decision.

“You’re not going to like this!” he yelled. The Tabs had an advantage in numbers and armor. He couldn’t do anything about their numbers, but there was one sure way to negate the effectiveness of their vehicles.

Harris cut the wheel left and the pickup bounced across the grassy median between two small trees, straight for the front of an apartment building.

“What the fuck?” his passenger in the front seat had time to say before the pickup plowed through the glass front of the ground-floor business. Tables and chairs flew in every direction and the pickup clipped the corner of a counter before slamming into the far wall with a resounding crunch. Harris bounced off the steering wheel, smashing his nose, but the dash airbag deployed for his front-seat passenger.

“Un-ass the vehicle!” Harris shouted, kicking open his door. He looked past the bed of the pickup, through the wake of destruction they’d made through the former smoothie shop, and saw the IMP on the far side of the street, the Growler pulling up behind it. Harris caught the RPG launcher tossed to him from the man in the pickup bed and then flinched as the .50 atop the IMP opened up on them. The soldier climbing down from the pickup fell onto Harris and they both landed on the tile floor.

The first burst from the roof-mounted .50 went wide, thudding into the counter and walls. Harris and the two soldiers scrambled around the pickup and through the hole it had made in the inside wall. They found themselves in a short hallway and charged down it only to discover the formerly picturesque interior courtyard of the apartment building. There were raised concrete planters, most of the decorative perennials inside them grown wild. They ran across the courtyard, kicked in a door, and rushed through a small apartment that smelled of rotting food. Harris opened the apartment door, looked left and right down the hallway, then pointed. “Stairs!” His nose was broken, and all he could taste was blood.

The Boulevard had been a trendy, upscale apartment building, constructed not too long before the war, with retail spaces on the ground floor and five floors of studio, one-, and two-bedroom apartments above that. The three men pounded up the stairs, carrying their guns and gear. Third floor, fourth, fifth, then the sixth as they came around the corner. The stairs continued above them, heading for the roof. The door to the sixth-floor corridor was open, and there was someone standing there, gun in hand, an ugly look on his face.

“Who the fuck are you guys?” Weasel demanded.

“RoadRunner,” Harris panted. He staggered up the last flight of stairs and fell into the hallway. He looked up at Weasel. “You Quigley?”

Weasel frowned at him and his two companions. “Part of it, anyway. Grab that RPG, maybe we can put it where it will do some good, and we all won’t die here. Fuckers.” But then he smiled.

They followed Weasel down the hallway and where it turned right there was an open door on the left. As they passed they looked in, and Renny was there in a corner apartment. Beyond him, through the open window, stretched West Grand.

“Nobody’s exited the IMP yet,” Renny called out to them as they passed. “IMP’s still in the same place, Growler circled around somewhere west, lost sight of it.”

There had been some long discussions as to where Renny and his rifle should be situated. He would have the most targets of opportunity, with the best visibility, looking down West Grand Boulevard. To the east there wasn’t really a good spot to situate him. To the west, however, one spot stuck out to everyone looking at the map—the six-story apartment building on West Grand west of the Fisher Building parking garage. Located on its top floor on the southeast corner he would have an elevated position looking east down West Grand while still being able to keep an eye on the Lodge Freeway offramps, one of the routes it was suspected troops might take up from the Army base. It wasn’t perfect, but it seemed better than anything else and would have to do. The position wouldn’t exactly call for distance shooting, at least as Renny saw it—from his proposed perch to the intersection of West Grand and Cass Avenue, where they expected a lot of action to take place, was barely four hundred yards. Weasel and a young soldier from Flintstone named Carrells were providing security for the sniper.

Weasel kicked open a door halfway down the hall and moved across the apartment. West Grand Boulevard was right on the other side of it, six floors down. And on the far side of the street sat the IMP, half-hidden from view by the short boulevard trees. “Probably can’t decide whether or not to waste time with you or go to the rescue,” Weasel said. The radio had been busy with chatter, Tower taking out the IMP and Almighty calling down both ends of Skybox on the Tabs below. He pointed at the IMP. “Take that fucker out.” He ran back to the hallway. “Carrells!”

“Yeah?” The other soldier popped his head out of the apartment where Renny had set up.

“Cover that stairwell, call out if the Tabs show up on foot. There’s a Growler out there somewhere.” The young man didn’t bother responding, he just jogged off toward the stairwell Harris and his few remaining men had climbed. Weasel ran down the hallway in the other direction and pushed open the stairwell door to listen. He couldn’t hear anyone coming up the stairs, but he could hear the newcomers in the apartment nearby.

“Backblast area clear! Ears!” someone shouted, then the RPG fired.

“I can’t see, these fucking trees. That go over the slats? It’s not moving. Hit him again, just to make sure. You’ve only got one left.”

“There’s guys bailing out of the back! Fire! Fire!”

The roar of a second RPG being touched off shook the building, and Weasel heard the explosion outside. There was coughing inside the room, and the dust which filled it rolled out into the hallway.

“It’s dead, IMP’s dead, but we’ve got Tabs on foot, in the building and across the street. Don’t see the Growler. We’re out of rockets.”

Weasel was in the front stairwell which had a glass wall looking out on West Grand. It was very exposed, but he liked being able to see, and if the Tabs came up the back stairway they’d have to run by him to get at Renny or the other soldiers. The IMP was just out of view to the left.

He stared down the stairwell and flipped the selector on his MP5 to full auto. “Fucking finally,” he said quietly, with a smile. He hadn’t been happy at all, being stuck far from where he expected the action to take place. Even though sniper support and security was a serious responsibility, and Weasel’s MP5 was perfectly suited to close-in work, he was pretty sure he’d been stuck guarding the old man with the big gun specifically because he’d been pissed at the guy for taking the shot on the convoy and nearly getting them all killed. Whatever the reason, Weasel had just nodded and done what he’d been told, because the Captain was the Captain, and he hadn’t made a bad call yet.

Now, the chance for Renny to take a few shots and slip quietly from his perch were over, and Weasel couldn’t have been happier. This was the kind of shit he lived for. One-on-one with Tabs, inside a building, loaded down with more ammo and grenades than he’d ever had in this war? Thank you Jesus. He turned his head and shouted, “I need you guys to help secure these stairwells and help repel fucking boarders. Don’t worry about the elevators, they don’t work.”

“A tunnel?” Parker said dubiously, standing in the center of his operations center, which was a madhouse. His troops had entered the apartment building just south of the aircraft hangars a few minutes before, only to find it empty of terrorists. They’d found a handful of bodies in the attached parking garage, but that was it.

“Yes. They collapsed it behind them.”

“Where does it go? Sewers?”

Cooper responded. “That’d be my guess.” At least they knew how the tangos had breached the perimeter.

“I thought we demolished all of those,” Parker said. “Didn’t General Block do that early on?”

Cooper shrugged. “I know he bombed or collapsed certain sections of it. I don’t think you can render an entire city sewer system inaccessible.”

“Apparently fucking not.”

“Colonel, I’ve got word from the hangars,” Chamberlain called out.

Parker was pretty sure he didn’t want to hear the news, but instead spat out, “Tell me.”

“We’ve got one Kestrel that looks like it is airworthy. All the rest are damaged or destroyed. However, the functional bird is at the back of the hangar, blocked in. It’ll take some time to drag the others out of the way to get it out, and in the air.”

“Well, don’t waste time then, do it.”

As he’d been having that conversation the radio traffic exploded. He listened in, but it was hard to understand exactly what was happening on the ground. Cooper moved over to stand by the communications officer, and conferred with two Sergeants as he listened in on the chatter. Parker waited, as the radio traffic flew back and forth, many of the soldiers stepping on each other’s transmissions. Finally, Parker heard a broadcast in the clear, and it made him sick.

“Foxtrot One-One to Command, Foxtrot One-One to Command, Foxtrot Actual is down. Repeat, Foxtrot Actual is KIA, as is that vehicle. Taking heavy fire from surrounding buildings, grenades and RPGs and Molotovs. We’ve lost a track but are still mobile and combat effective. Three additional Growlers from our detachment down.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Cooper moved over to the illustrated map, zoomed in on Washboard.

“It was an ambush,” he said bitterly. “They suckered us right in.” He pointed to 2nd Avenue at Washboard, and moved his finger as he moved around the map. “From all reports we’ve got an IMP, a Toad, and several Growlers destroyed here, and on the far side of the building an IMP and several more Growlers out of commission. Our troops are now on foot inside this building, Cadillac Place, rooting out the terrorists. We still have tangos in the target building but who knows how many, it’s obvious now they were just the bait. Elements of Charlie are in contact with tangos here, an apartment building, on the west end of Washboard, asking for reinforcements. Unknown numbers inside. Elements of Foxtrot are circling around to the north from the east side. From their GPS Foxtrot One-One is here, on a side street off to the east.” He looked at Parker. “Rough guess? We’ve lost almost half our vehicles, and maybe as many men.”

Parker was chewing at his lip. “We all should have known better,” he admitted. “Couldn’t take our eyes off the TV station, and they pulled us in too close and RPG’ed us from the rooftops. Fuck.”

“Sir, there were some reports the guerrillas weren’t just using RPGs, they had rockets of some kind.”

“I doubt that, not that it matters. And I can’t imagine they have too many RPGs left, I bet they’ve blown their load.” He pointed at the map. “We seem to have them boxed in. South, west, north, east. But we’re stretched thin, real thin.” He looked at Cooper, and Chamberlain. “Send in two more platoons.”

“Sir,” Cooper said, cautioning.

“What, you want them here, pulling security? Didn’t seem to make much of a difference here, the fucking ARF grounded my whole air wing minus one. I can walk on dead soldiers from this building to the hangars. And then they just sneak out a tunnel like the Viet Cong? Leave two tanks here, send the rest, and every IMP we’ve got not pulling guard duty at a gate, and at least ten more Growlers full of troops. We’ve got that many left, right? They want a fight, let’s give it to them. We know where they are, that they’re in the buildings.” He stabbed at the map with his finger. “Let’s surround them, and kill them. I don’t care if you have to level every building there, I want to wipe out these vermin for once and for all.”

His S2 and S3 exchanged a look. “Yes sir.”

“And get that goddamned Kestrel in the air!” he roared.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

George spotted the Toad as it emerged from the railroad tunnel on 2nd Avenue. It was roaring up the incline, straight at them, and he only had eyes for its huge main gun. “Oh shit. Toad! Displace, displace, displace!” He ran out of the office and hooked right, heading down the hallway at a full sprint, Kelly right behind him, both of them passing Quentin as he charged out the doorway of his conference room.

The building exploded around them and George found himself on the carpeted floor, coughing in the dust-laden air. He’d run nearly to the end of the hallway, where he’d told the men to stash their heavy packs. Quentin was on top of Kelly and rolled off, spitting and groaning.

George got to his feet and investigated to see if he was bleeding anywhere, then checked on his men. “You alive? Everybody got all their limbs?” They were safe where they were, probably, and George took his time checking for wounds and catching his breath. Satisfied they were whole George walked past them and stopped. Twenty feet further the outside hallway wall was sagging, and past that, out toward the street, appeared to be… nothing. No office. No more desk, or chairs, or windows, and half the office floor was gone. He could see down into the floor below and the office there. George stayed back in the hallway, behind cover, so he wasn’t visible to the Toad.

In the center of the blast damage the hallway floor tilted downward. Mark was in the hallway on the far side of the blast zone. He’d been a little slower carrying the SAW, and George saw one of his legs below the shorts was bloody. He was standing, but seemed to be favoring the leg.

“Is it bad?” George called out through the swirling dust.

“I’ll live,” the big man shouted back. He pointed at the listing floor between them. “I don’t trust that.”

“Right. Meet you down on six. Move before that fucker decides to fire another round up here.” George turned and ran back to Quentin and Kelly, who’d gotten to their feet. “Grab your packs and let’s go. Where’s the nearest stairs?” He grabbed his bouncing radio as he jogged down the carpeted hallway. “Tower is displacing, heading down to six.”

“Holy shit, Tower is still alive?” Seattle said in wonder at the transmission, staring at the big crater in the face of the Fisher Building. Morris joined him in his corner of the building, and looked down at the burning and wrecked vehicles on the west side of Cadillac Place. “Sir? Is it time?” he asked the Colonel.

“Looks like it,” Morris said. “Follow me.” He jogged to the other end of the building. Bill was at the northeast corner. From that position Morris believed he could see all the vehicles on Cass Avenue Skybox East had destroyed except for the IMP, which was out of sight beyond the corner of the building. Everything he could see was on fire, the street was still a kaleidoscope of flame, with the vehicles merrily ablaze. The burning tires were sending columns of coal black smoke high into the air.

“Secondary?” Bill asked. He traded a look with Seattle. They’d worked together as a scout/sniper team for two years assigned to Morris’ unit. That meant, more often than not, infiltration and clandestine intelligence gathering, but when they had to pull the trigger they were damn good at it. This mission had promised to be a little bit of everything.

Morris nodded. “Secondary. Good luck, gentlemen. Call out when you’re in place.” Bill shrugged into his pack, grabbed his long rifle, and then headed for the stairs with Seattle at a fast walk.

“All Skybox units, all Skybox units, this is Almighty Actual,” Morris said into his radio, staring at Cadillac Place. “You’re blown, your position is blown, displace to your fallback positions if possible.” He paused, then added. “Good work. All units, all units, we are putting up eyes in the sky. Repeat, we are putting up the eyes in the sky, and will keep you updated on any enemy reinforcements spotted.”

Morris jogged through the building to the southeast corner. Conrad was there. “I heard you,” he said to his CO. He had the controllers for the two drones booted up and began punching in commands. The drones were on the roof, having been placed there before the party started, but Morris hadn’t wanted to put them airborne until the fighting commenced. Even though their feeds were encrypted, they were still detectable by the Army. At this point, though, that hardly mattered. “You send them out to the secondary?”

“Yeah.”

Conrad finished punching in the coordinates and hit the Auto-Pilot. The drones took off within a few seconds of each other and proceeded to their preprogrammed coordinates. One headed half a mile southwest, one half a mile southeast, and they both climbed to one thousand feet. It took them just over a minute to get into position. Between their positions and their elevation, they should spot any incoming military vehicles within a mile of the New Center area. The drones would stay on station, using their GPS for positioning, until given new commands or until their batteries died, which shouldn’t be for at least ninety minutes.

Morris pointed at the tablet, which currently showed a splitscreen view of the feeds from both drones. The 1080p image-stabilized cameras had more than enough resolution for their needs. “That’s your job, right there, you’re early warning. Call out anything you see.”

“You think Parker’s going to send more troops? We kicked his fucking ass.”

Morris nodded. With most of the Army’s helicopters and half this initial ground force destroyed, the mission was already a qualified success, but Morris firmly believed in kicking a man when he was down. Besides, even with their immediate losses, the Tabs still had enough armor and men to run the city, and the war wouldn’t be over until the enemy was defeated or destroyed, everywhere. “That’s exactly why he will. And it’s not like he can let us be and give up the only part of this city that doesn’t look like it’s been nuked. But he’s not going to let the next wave of armor get anywhere near buildings that haven’t been cleared. His drones are probably already overhead.”

Conrad shrugged. “We’re in the buildings, which they already knew. So they’ve got to drive in close to drop soldiers off to clear the buildings. Or they drop them off a quarter mile out and they advance on foot. Either way sucks for them if we’re still above them.”

“My guess is they’re going to stand off a quarter mile or so and pound every likely spot in every building around here with grenades and main gun rounds from Toads and belt-feds while the troops advance on foot. It’s what I’d do.”

Conrad looked up at him. “So… time to get away from the windows?” They knew it was likely to happen sooner or later.

“Yeah. Center of the building. Will you still be able to communicate with the drones?”

“They’re programmed to stay on station even if they lose communication with the base.” He grabbed his pack with one hand and carried the combination drone controller/viewscreen with the other, and followed the Lieutenant Colonel down the hallway and into an interior office. “Little static, but not bad.” He pointed at the screen. “Look.” There, on the screen, were two very small figures. Bill and Seattle, exiting the south side of the building and heading southeast.

The endemic military was sure to have at least one drone overhead already. He didn’t feel like pulling out the sheet with the satellite coverage, but most likely there was a camera bird overhead as well. So he had to assume Bill and Seattle had been spotted, but hopefully two men alone wouldn’t merit much attention. Maybe the drone operators would even suspect the two men were bailing from the fight, retreating while they had the chance. As long as they didn’t look too closely at the rifles the men were carrying.

Even though he was supposed to be on the lookout for additional incoming military, Conrad kept one of the drone’s cameras trained on Bill and Seattle as they made their way a quarter mile south, eventually entering a six-story office building on Cass avenue. A minute later, Bill’s panting voice came over the radio. “Almighty, Outlier is in position, over.” Which meant they were on the sixth floor of the building, looking south.

“Almighty is roger on that, Outlier. We’ve got eyes in the sky, but keep us updated. Fireworks are your call.”

“Outlier copies, over.”

Conrad looked up at Morris. “Travelling by those tunnels seemed to work great. I guess now we find out if the combat engineers earned the rest of their money.”

Morris pointed at the drone camera feed. “Swing that one over farther to the west. That freeway there is practically a tunnel and I don’t want to miss any vehicles using it.”

“I thought we had the best seat in the house but all we’ve been doing is sitting out the war,” Brooke growled. From their perch in the New Center One building, all Cambridge West had done was listen to the combat unfolding as the Tab cavalry arrived. Other than the nose of the first IMP destroyed on 2nd Avenue they hadn’t even been able to see any of it. They were in the center of everything, but all the action was happening around the periphery.

“You want to move?” Robbie asked her dubiously. “Where? There’s probably more Tabs coming.”

“You bet your ass there are,” she told him, “but they’re not going to roll up on us here.” Still, she chewed her lip, until the radio lit up again with a breathless voice.

“Cambridge East has Tabs in the building. Cambridge East has Tabs in the building.”

“Let’s go,” Brooke said. She called out to the three men with her, “We’re backing them up, sounds like they’re having problems.” She pointed. “Stairs. Walkway over to the hotel is on the second floor.” The dogsoldiers grabbed their gear and charged for the nearby stairwell. She grabbed her radio. “Cambridge West is on the move to you. Hold on.”

Ed was in the center of the Fisher Building lobby talking to Hannibal. They were standing on the first step down to the lower level, using the marble walls for cover. They’d both heard Brooke’s call out.

“Should we back her up? Send some guys?” Hannibal wondered.

Ed chewed his lip for a bit, then shook his head. “Let’s wait a bit. We bitchslapped them, but there’s still Tabs all around. I don’t want to pull guys out of here just yet.”

“If they push through Cambridge….” Hannibal said warningly.

Ed nodded. “You have at least one guy on the second floor, watching the walkway to New Center One?”

“Yeah. And on the ground floor. And you put one of your guys down below, making sure none of those guys who made it into Skybox are sneaking over through the tunnel?”

“Yeah.”

Hannibal had been in charge of holding the north and east sides of the Fisher Building. So far, his men had done nothing but nervously listen to others fighting. He looked all around the beautiful lobby. “I thought they were going to push harder on this building.”

“Be careful what you wish for.”

“No shit. If they’d come in from the west, like half of us were expecting, this place would be a ruin. But I’m wondering if we should displace to our secondary, or even just call it, all of us, get the fuck out while we can. We did a hell of a lot of damage, kicked their ass harder than it’s been kicked since the start of the war, and whatever they do next, we’re not going to be able to sucker them like we just did.”

There was a shout from the north end of the lobby. Both men turned their heads in time to see the north entrance explode and the men there thrown to the floor in a maelstrom of flying glass and twisted metal. Hannibal took off in a run as shouts and screams filled the air, and the radio. “IMP on the north side, IMP on the north side of Nakatomi!” he was finally able to make out.

One dogsoldier had grabbed one of his fallen comrades and was dragging him to safety when another grenade exploded a few feet inside the entrance and they were flung across the floor.

“Two of you!” Ed shouted to the group of his men guarding the south entrance. He pointed north across the lobby. “Go back them up!”

Early grabbed Jason. “Come on, Junior, time to nut up.” They ran across the long lobby as the remaining soldiers near the north end began firing.

“IMP’s across a parking lot, couple hundred yards away. Grenade launcher,” they all heard over the radio. “We need rockets or those AT grenades over here!” Another grenade exploded, just outside the entrance on the sidewalk, and gravel shrapnel zinged through the lobby, rattling off the walls.

George ran through the hallways, listening to the call-outs on the radio. The ground floor of the building was getting pounded by the IMP with its grenade launcher. He and his crew had just moved down to the sixth-floor of the thirty-story tower when the attack started, but running to the north side of the tower showed him his view was blocked north by additional sections of the building that were twelve and fifteen stories tall. They’d had to head east to a connecting hallway and then run north through the other sections of the building. Insanely there were still a few workers in their offices, hunkered down, at least until they saw the dogsoldiers. Then they ran for the stairs, some of them screaming.

“Here!” George said, skidding to a stop. He stuck his head around the door frame and looked into the office. There were windows on the far wall, looking north. Finally. “Stay here, out of sight,” he said to Mark, Quentin, and Kelly.

George dropped to his knees and crawled across the office floor, covered with a nice Persian-style rug, then stood up behind a two-foot-wide section of concrete between windows. He edged his eye out and looked, then pulled back and grabbed his radio.

“Tower to all squads. IMP is two streets north of the building. Still buttoned up, don’t see anyone on foot, just the roof gunner. Growler with it, behind cover.” He’d almost missed the Growler, but spotted its nose edged out past the corner of a building near the IMP. He suspected the Tabs who had been in it were spread out behind the building. He looked down at his six-shot grenade launcher, realizing he’d yet to reload it. “Will be engaging in one mike. Over.” He took another peek. How far was that, about one hundred and fifty yards? Maybe a little less.

George cracked open the Milkor and began reloading it as he issued orders. “Kelly, you’ve got the only other grenade launcher, move down a couple offices so one grenade can’t take us both out. Mark, you pick another office for your SAW, and focus your fire on the roof gunner, that Mk19 is the only real threat right now.”

“Roger that.” Mark’s right leg below the knee was slick with blood, and it was soaking into his boot, but they had no time to attend to the cut.

“Quentin, I want you here. On my signal, you blow out this window, then you get on the roof gunner too. Thank God they never upgraded those things for remote use.”

He finished dumping out the empty hulls and loading the cylinder with fresh armor-piercing grenades, then closed it and adjusted the optic for 150 yards. “Stand by!” he called out, loud enough for Mark and Kelly to hear. Then he took a deep breath, nodded to Quentin, and said, “Go!”

Quentin shouldered his rifle and blew out the window next to George, who turned his head to avoid getting any glass in his face. Before all the shards had even hit the floor George was spinning, putting the stock of the stubby grenade launcher against his shoulder. He leaned his left forearm against the window frame to steady his aim, put the reticle on the center of the IMP, and fired his first shot. He heard Mark open up with the SAW and heard the giant crashing chime of breaking glass.

The first grenade went high, passing over the IMP and detonating inside some decorative shrubs grown wild. George mentally swore, but he’d specifically waited to see where the first one hit before firing a second time. As the IMP jerked forward to evade, and the roof gunner spun his grenade launcher toward the threat, George aimed lower and toward the front of the moving vehicle. He fired again and again until his launcher was empty.

The explosion on the roof of the IMP from his second-to-last grenade was huge—he’d hit the belt of grenades feeding the Mk19, and the entire box had blown skyward. “IMP is down! IMP is down!” he shouted over the sound of Quentin firing right next to him. “Tabs on foot to the north.”

“Weasel!”

Weasel turned from where he was guarding the stairwell. They knew there were Tab soldiers in and around the building, but so far they hadn’t tried assaulting up the stairs. “Yeah?”

Renny was in the doorway of the corner apartment. “I can’t see any of that from here, but I think if I get up to the roof and go to the northeast corner I can do some good.” They’d all been listening to the firefight on the radio.

Weasel nodded. “On me!” He ran down the hall past the old man and toward the other stairwell, the one with roof access. “Carrells, you got anything?”

The young man was posted on the sixth-floor landing. He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“We’re heading up.”

They rushed by him. The stairwell accessing the roof was near the northeast corner. Renny followed Weasel out the door onto the gray roof and looked around, then saw his spot.

“You’re my spotter,” he told Weasel, handing him the Gen 3 Ventus. The Trijicon optic was a combination range-finder and wind reader, but it also had a 10X optical magnification, and Weasel could use them as binoculars.

Renny hooked to the right and dropped prone near the edge of the roof. The end of his rifle barrel was two feet from the roof edge. “There, you see ‘em?” Renny said, pointing, then flipped the legs of his bipod open. For under the rifle’s butt he had a black sock filled with plastic pellets—almost as good as a sandbag, but one-quarter of the weight. He’d grabbed nothing but the rifle, the sock, and extra ammo, one plastic box the size of a paperback book stuffed with twenty additional rounds.

He could hear the gunfire echoing around the city, but what caught Weasel’s eye was the narrow column of black smoke. Following it down he spotted the IMP on a residential street several hundred yards north of the Fisher Building. His eyes were good, but still he had to squint to make out the figures crouching behind it. He knelt on the roof behind Renny. He lifted the fancy Star Wars binos or whatever they were to his eyes. “How far is that?”

“Two-hundred fifty, maybe. You tell me, hit the button on the top, close right, while you’re looking through them at the IMP.”

Weasel peered at the top of the gadget, found the button marked RANGE. Then he put his finger on it, looked through the lenses again at the vehicle, and pressed the button. “Two twenty-seven,” he read. Renny grunted.

In his former spot inside the apartment, the hulk of the Fisher Building parking garage had blocked his view of anything north of Nakatomi. Moving to the northeast corner of his building had done the trick. He still couldn’t see the area immediately north of the Fisher Building, but that didn’t matter since the Tabs were two streets away. He had rubber plugs half inserted in his ears and shoved them the rest of the way in, then settled behind the rifle. He was zeroed at two hundred yards; at 227 his bullets would hit maybe an inch low, which was more or less margin of error for him at that distance, under field conditions. “Ears,” he said quietly, trying to settle his heartbeat and his breathing. He cranked the magnification up to about 15X, which gave him a good balance between zoom and field of view.

He flicked off the safety and squeezed the bag under the butt to raise it. He watched the center of the reticle drop right to where it needed to be, then it rose and fell slightly with his breathing. There were at least two Tabs behind the disabled IMP, firing intermittently at the Fisher Building. Bursts of suppressive fire from Mark’s SAW kept them there.

Renny paused his breathing and gently pressed the trigger, the center of the reticle steady on the lead soldier’s neck, willing his body to stone. The rifle bucked and he automatically worked the bolt. The reticle settled and he saw the man was down, legs kicking. The soldier next to him grabbed him by his webgear and pulled him farther behind the IMP, not knowing from where the shot had been fired.

The second soldier looked panicked, then pressed his hands against the side of the downed man’s neck. They were immediately covered in blood, bright even at that distance. Renny stilled himself and broke another shot. It felt clean. The round took the kneeling soldier where his neck met his shoulder, inside the collar of his armor, angling downward into his body. He fell backward, dead instantly.

“Damn,” Weasel said. There was a third man behind the IMP, but the body of the vehicle mostly blocked him from view. Weasel panned the binos around. “To the right. There’s a Growler. Guy in front of it, behind a wall.” He shook his head, then grabbed earplugs he had in a pocket and shoved them into place. That big rifle was fucking LOUD with that muzzle brake, Jesus. It was like being next to a grenade going off.

“On him,” Renny said quietly. Two seconds later the rifle barked loudly. The soldier fell, thrashing and screaming loudly enough for his cries to carry all the way to their roof.

“You pulled it low,” Weasel said, as Renny worked the bolt.

“Nope,” Renny murmured, not taking his eye from the scope. A soldier ran up to his injured screaming squadmate and knelt down, thinking he was safe as they were both behind the wall and out of view from the Fisher Building. It still hadn’t registered to the men they were being shot at by someone else, somewhere else. Renny fired and the 250-grain A-Tip bullet took the man under his arm, just above his armor. It traversed both lungs and his heart and exited his lower back, the exit wound the size of a baseball. The hydrostatic shock of the bullet’s passing through the man at nearly twenty-five hundred feet per second ruptured nearly every organ in his chest. He fell atop his injured compatriot with his eyes open, dead.

Weasel glanced at Renny. He realized the senior citizen had coldly and deliberately injured the one man to sucker in another. And he’d just gone four for four.

“Okay, now they’ve figured it out,” Weasel said, as he and Renny began to take incoming fire. He hunkered down a little behind the roof edge, their height and the angle providing some protection, but the return fire wasn’t very accurate. It rarely was. He grabbed his radio. “Quigley has engaged troops north side of Nakatomi. Four down, still at least four to six out there.” Something occurred to him. “Hey, you want to put a round through that Growler’s radiator?”

Renny didn’t respond, he just shifted his aim, and fired a second later. They could hear the metal THUNK as the bullet impacted the vehicle. “And I’m out,” he said, leaving his bolt open. He scooted backward on the roof several feet, just to be sure he was under cover and out of sight, then removed the magazine from his rifle and began reloading it.

“That was some fucking good shooting,” Weasel said, having moved back with the man.

There was a burst of full-auto fire nearby, and both men jerked. “Weasel!” Carrells shouted from the stairwell, his voice cracking.

“Stay here,” Weasel told Renny, MP5 in hand. Before he’d taken two steps there was a roar of gunfire, multiple weapons firing on full auto, and then someone screaming.

Weasel came in through the roof door with the MP5 stock to his shoulder, pointed downward. He saw Carrells on the landing below him, face down and unmoving, with a pool of blood under his head, large and getting larger. There was the rush of boots on the stairs and bullets whined past Weasel’s ear. He jerked back, but not before he felt something warm on the side of his head. He grabbed a hand grenade off the front of his carrier and yanked the pin, then let the lever fly.

Even with earplugs in he swore he could hear the swish as the lever flipped through the air, and he counted to three Mississippi before under-handing the grenade in a gentle toss over the metal stair railing toward the sound of pounding boots. As he moved away from the door he grabbed a second grenade off his carrier and was pulling the pin before the first grenade detonated with a thundering roar he felt in his feet. He let the lever fly, yelled “Kobe!”, then hurled the second grenade through the open doorway at an angle. He heard it bounce off two of the cement walls, then start thudding down the stairs.

The grenade exploded, shrapnel clattering off the walls, and then Weasel was charging down the stairs, MP5 up. Past Carrells’ body two Tabs were dead on the stairs. Below them another was crawling slowly. Weasel put a burst into the back of the soldier’s neck, dropping him, but didn’t slow in his headlong rush down the stairs. He charged around another corner, then another, and found himself face-to-face with two young soldiers on the fourth-floor landing. Weasel shot them in their faces as one of the soldiers fired, and his momentum carried Weasel into them. They bounced off the open doorway and fell into a heap.

Weasel shoved himself upright, but even as he brought his MP5 to bear on the men on the floor he saw they were dead. He looked down and saw the rifle burst had stitched across his chest plate, destroying one spare MP5 magazine, but missed his flesh. He reached up and felt his neck. It was wet with blood, but the ricochet off the steel railing had done little more than graze his skin.

“I’m just better!” he shouted into the dead men’s faces, half deaf. Above him he heard the thunder from Renny’s big rifle as the man fired again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Cambridge West ran through the second-floor pedestrian tunnel connecting the New Center One building to the Hotel Saint Regis. Brooke was at the rear, on the radio. “Cambridge East, what’s your location, over? Cambridge East, do you copy?” There was no response.

Cambridge East had been on the sixth floor all the way at the east end of the long hotel but there was no way to know if they still were. “Shit,” Brooke spat. “Up,” she called out to her three squadmates. “We’ll head up to six, then all the way across, and see if we can find them. If they’re not up there we’ll work our way down.” She paused. “Quiet. And ID your targets before you shoot, I don’t want to waste any friendlies.”

They moved up the nearest stairwell, trying to do it quietly but quickly, listening closely. They hadn’t heard anything by the time they got up to the sixth-floor door. Brooke paused, listening, then tried the radio again. “Cambridge East, do you copy?” she said quietly. She waited ten seconds, then shook her head, opened the door, and waved them through.

The hallway was narrow, the carpet busily patterned. The color scheme of the old hotel seemed to be white and black—not her style at all, but it seemed to work. The hallway ran quite a long way in front of them, making it seem even narrower than it was.

They crept down either side of the hallway, rifles up. There was only a hint of movement at the far end before the rifles opened up, the bullets hitting all around them. The man in front of her went down as Brooke flung herself against the closest hotel room door, flattening her back against it. It was recessed slightly from the hallway proper, giving her six inches of cover. She shoved her rifle out and fired half a dozen times blindly. Incoming bullets bounced and whined around them, chunks of plaster and wood flying around her. Robbie was directly across the hall from her, back against another door, trying to suck in his chest.

Brooke swung her rifle toward him, causing his eyes to fly open even wider, but it was just so she could put four rounds into the doorframe right beside him, destroying the frame around the bolt. Then she charged across the hallway, bullets whipping by her, and bodyslammed the door. It opened and she fell into the room. Robbie was in right behind her and yanked her up.

She took half a second to look around the small hotel room. They had cover from the hallway now, but were trapped. She popped out to fire a few rounds down the hallway, to keep the Tabs honest, then pulled back.

“You got a grenade launcher?” she asked Robbie. “Shit,” she said, as she saw he didn’t. She moved close and looked out into the hallway at an angle. Doug and Jester were dead on the hallway floor, peppered with rifle rounds. Jester had a single shot grenade launcher attached to his carbine, but it was trapped under his body.

Braving another peek down the hallway Brooke saw two, maybe three soldiers had taken the far end, using the turn in the hallway for cover. She pulled her head back, and two bullets cracked by where her face had been just half a second earlier.

“Well, this sucks,” she said to Robbie. She stared at the two men on the floor just outside the door. Whether she wanted to attempt first aid or grab the grenade launcher, they might as well be on the moon.

“Can you radio for help?”

Before she could answer their radios exploded in noise, static and screams of pain, but she was able to understand the shout. “IMP on the north side, IMP on the north side of Nakatomi!”

She looked at Robbie’s young face. “Nope. This is on us, junior, they’ve got their own problems.”

He swallowed nervously. “Can’t you use your rocket? Or is it only for outdoors?”

She frowned at him, not comprehending his comment for a second, than whipped her head around to look over her shoulder. “I’m such a dumb bitch,” she swore. She had a Spike strapped to the outside of her pack, but had forgotten all about it. “Listen, make sure they’re not running up here, or getting close enough to chuck ‘nades.” She dumped her pack on the floor and unstrapped the rocket.

She got it ready to fire, then paused. “Question is, once I touch this off, do we head for the stairs and get the fuck out, or do we follow it down the hallway and fight it out? Rocket might kill them all, but it might not.” The Tabs were fifty, maybe sixty feet down the hallway, which with no cover might as well have been a mile. Charging down the hallway, if any of them were still in shape to shoot back, would be close to suicide.

Robbie swallowed again. “You think the rest of the squad is dead?” he asked, his face pale.

“Yeah, I do.”

He scrunched his face up into a red ball. “You shoot, and I’ll run down the hall first. I can run faster than you.” His eyes dipped down to her big chest and back up.

She wasn’t offended. The boy spoke the truth. “Fuck yeah you can. Let’s do this.”

Should she pop her head out once, just to take another look? Probably not, whenever she did that they always fired a few rounds, and probably sat there waiting for her to reappear. Best to catch them by surprise.

Brooke took a deep breath, then another, then told Robbie, “Watch your eyes and ears, this might be messy.” The rocket tube was too long to fit through the door frame sideways, she’d either have to lead with the nose or point it downward as she moved through and then jerk it back up. She depressed the safety, took half a step toward the doorway until her elbow was right there on the threshold, took another breath, then stepped out into the hallway with one foot, raised the rocket, pulled it tight against her shoulder, centered the sights in the middle of the end of the hallway, and pressed the trigger as the Tabs at the end of the hall began firing at her.

The rocket jumped from the launcher with a whooshing clap and the air around her filled with dust and smoke as the end of the hallway convulsed in cloud and fire. She fell on her ass in the middle of the hallway, out of the way, and Robbie came charging through the doorway.

Brooke struggled to her feet, grabbed her rifle, and took off after Robbie as fast as she could. She heard a few shots. By the time she reached the L-corner at the end of the hall Robbie was standing uncontested amidst four bodies and chunks of the wall destroyed by the rocket. She spotted another four Tabs in the side hallway, apparent victims of a firefight with Cambridge East.

“We need to find East, see if they’re still alive,” she panted.

“Yeah,” Robbie said, hoarse and wide-eyed. He then noticed her left arm. “Hey, you okay?”

“I’ve felt better,” she groaned. She leaned against the wall, then slid down it until she was sitting on the floor. She glanced at her arm. The rifle bullet had hit her just above the elbow and nearly ripped her lower arm off. It didn’t really hurt yet, which was the weird part. Blood was pouring out of the ghastly wound. “Do you have a tourniquet? I think I’ve got one in my pack somewhere. Probably need it to keep from dying.”

The wound didn’t hurt at all until he tightened down on the tourniquet, but then it hurt so much she screamed, and passed out.

“Fucking hold them!” Barker shouted down the third-floor hallway. Half his squad was near the middle of the huge building, fighting back Tabs who had tried to sneak up one of those stairways. He and Petal and Bruce were holding the westernmost stairwell. He wasn’t sure how many soldiers were below them, but every time he tried to peek over the railing they blew half a magazine at him on full auto, the bullets bouncing everywhere. Both his arms were bleeding from ricochets, and Petal had a nasty cut on her temple. He’d tossed two grenades down the stairs, without effect. Or maybe they’d done a lot of good, but there were too many Tabs below them holding the second floor. So far Kermit had lost one soldier in the melee, and Barker didn’t want to lose any more.

“How many Goddamn stairwells does this building have?” he swore. It was mostly a rhetorical question; he vaguely remembered from the briefing there were ten. Or maybe it was twelve.

“Too fucking many,” Bruce said, as they heard more shots from the dogsoldiers trying to hold the middle of the building.

“Chan, Chan, where the fuck are you?” Barker spat into his radio. “We’re stuck on three. Repeat, we’re stuck on three.” He waited, but there was no response. They could hear faint shooting from the other end of the building, though, which meant Yosemite was still fighting.

“The longer this takes, the worse it is for us,” Petal growled. Her hair was matted with blood.

“You know they gotta be sending for fucking reinforcements,” Bruce added.

“I know, I know, shit.”

“Should we give up one stairwell and just push down the other in force?” Bruce wondered. “Grenades, whatever? Dropping bombs on ‘em from the rooftops is one thing, but I don’t want to be fighting Toads and IMPs on the street.”

Barker didn’t disagree. Suddenly he spun to the two of them. “Hold these stairs. I just got a really stupid idea.” Then he ran off down the hall toward the center of the building. Petal and Bruce exchanged a look.

Bill and Seattle had personally scouted the building out three weeks previous, during ‘Uncle Charlie’s’ final frantic preparations for the mission. After having spent years working sniper and counter-sniper insurgent operations, neither man could believe the building had actually been left standing. It was too choice of a location for surveillance or sniping, but perhaps because it was in the middle of the supposedly secure ‘Blue Zone’ no one had apparently worried about its potential use by dogsoldiers.

Built in 1920 as the Cadillac LaSalle Sales and Service center, the six-story cube-shaped building was cement and stone, with subdued art deco styling. It sat two blocks north of the I-94 freeway where it cut east-west through the middle of the city. It was the tallest building heading south until you crossed over I-94, and as a result from the sixth floor there was an unobstructed view southwest to almost directly east, to the bridges over the freeway and beyond. They could see every surface street crossing the below-ground I-94 between I-75 and I-10, the Lodge Freeway. Seven streets, seven bridges, from 3rd Avenue to the west to Beaubien to the east, roughly three-quarters of a mile. From west to east—Beaubien, Brush, John R, Woodward, Cass, 2nd Avenue and, finally, 3rd Avenue. They’d memorized the maps, had images of the entire area in their heads.

Cass was the most direct route from the gate of the military base to the New Center area, but Woodward was the widest street. The first force had driven straight up Cass. The next wave of Tabs—and they were all betting there would be, another one—could roll north up any one of those streets, or the Lodge, or all of them all at once, as they all ran straight to West Grand Boulevard and beyond.

There were enough broken windows in the vacant and graffitied office/retail building during that initial scouting trip that busting a few more on the top floor in the middle of the night—part of their prep work for the mission—didn’t draw any unwanted attention. They’d dragged a second desk into the large office which occupied the center of the south side of the building as well.

The two of them entered the building with their handguns out and very cautiously worked their way up to the top floor, but the building still seemed to be empty. After calling out to Morris they sat their gear down by the desks and then quickly boobytrapped all the stairwell doors so no one could approach them without getting a nasty surprise.

The desks were ten feet apart, and set back from the windows, and the men set up their rifles on them angling outward. They’d been trained as snipers first and observers second, and old habits died hard. For this mission they were running DMRs, Designated Marksman Rifles, in this case Lanxang Tactical Cas-22s. While they used the same operating system as an AR-15, these were hand-built and hand-fitted precision battle rifles with stainless fluted 18-inch Lothar Walther barrels that would do groups far better than an inch at one hundred yards. They were tipped with SIG suppressors to help keep their position hidden for as long as possible if they had to shoot.

But… if they did have to shoot, they’d lased all seven bridges and knew exactly how far away they were. The opposite side of the Cass Avenue bridge, directly south of them, was just two hundred yards away. The 3rd Avenue bridge, farthest to the west, was a hair over five hundred yards. The furthest bridge was Beaubien, over seven hundred and fifty yards away. All their magazines were loaded with Black Hills’ specialty Mk 262 Mod 4 ammo, a 5.56 load featuring 77-grain TMK bullets optimized for performance at distance. The rifles were topped with Vortex Razor HD Gen III scopes. Their 1-10X magnification range was a good compromise and allowed the rifles to be used at close range if they had to fight their way clear.

“Bipod or backpack?” Seattle mused aloud.

“Backpack,” Bill said without hesitation. “You might have to do a lot of lateral movement.” From the Beaubien to the 3rd Avenue bridge was over 120 degrees of swing.

Seattle just grunted, then looked down at the electronic device on the desk. It, not the rifles, was their primary weapon. It was why they were in that building.

The two men stood two yards apart, behind the desks, binoculars up to their eyes, scanning each intersection in turn.

“Soon?” Seattle wondered.

Bill shrugged behind his binos. “Could be thirty seconds, could be twenty minutes. I don’t think it’ll be longer than that, if they’re hoping to catch us in those buildings.”

Their radios were clipped to their chests, and they clicked to life. “Almighty to all squads, Almighty to all squads. Eye in the sky shows enemy reinforcements en route. Four columns, proceeding north up the Lodge, Cass, Woodward, and John R. They’re moving cautiously. Total of at least thirty vehicles. ETA three, possibly five mikes. Over.”

Bill and Seattle looked at each other, then at the building around them. “Well fuck, I guess we guessed right,” Bill said.

Seattle looked at the encrypted multi-channel wireless detonator sitting on the table. “Jesus, I’m glad we thought to label the frequencies, this could get hairy.” His heart was hammering in his chest, and fresh sweat broke out all over his body. He looked from the detonator to his partner. “You want the honors? You’ve got rank.”

“Yeah.” Bill wiped his sweaty hands on his thighs and busied himself with the detonator, flipping it on and making sure it had power and signal. They’d stuck strips of tape all down the side of it, with the list of pre-set frequencies and the streets to which they corresponded. “They could veer off onto another street and the drone might not see it in time, so keep your eyes open.”

“Roger that.”

The two men, binoculars glued to their faces, swung left and right like metronomes.

“Enemy spotted!” Bill shouted suddenly. “Cass. Maybe a couple blocks south of I-94, heading this way.”

Seattle swung his binoculars left and right, checking the other streets. The other Tab elements weren’t in sight yet. “Nothing else in view.”

Bill grabbed the detonator and clicked it to the frequency pre-set labeled “Cass”. He held it in one hand while using the other to hold the binoculars up to his eyes. The column of vehicles on Cass Avenue was moving slowly, tentatively. Bill flipped off the safety and waited. “Come on baby, come to Papa,” he murmured.

Seattle was looking left and right. “Still nothing elsewhere.”

The armored column was barely one hundred yards south of the bridge over I-94. An IMP and a Growler were in the lead, followed by at least four more Growlers, an IMP, and at the rear of the column Bill saw the squat shape of a Toad.

As the armored force crawled north at slightly better than walking speed, on their right was a four-story office building, part of a local university. On the left was a six-story parking garage. The roof gunners on the IMPs were slewing their weapons back and forth, checking every window and shadow. The street was one lane in each direction, with parking on both sides. There were a few vehicles parked or abandoned on the street, but not many.

Past the office building on the right was a tavern, then a Carhartt retail outlet, then the bridge, which was very exposed.

From his perch on the sixth floor of the old Cadillac LaSalle building Bill watched the lead vehicles pass the rusted white van parked on the street just before the tavern. He waited until the second pair of vehicles, two Growlers, were abreast of the van, then hit the switch.

The scene through his binoculars disappeared as the four hundred pounds of C4 packed into the body panels of the rattle-trap minivan exploded. Every window still in a frame within two hundred yards was blown out, and the glass in the office windows near Bill and Seattle cracked as the huge blast wave hit their building a fraction of a second after detonation. They felt it in their chests, and their feet.

“Jesus,” Seattle said. There was now a huge cloud expanding where the convoy had been. They’d positioned the van so the blast would reflect off the faces of the office building on one side and the parking garage on the other. They caught just a glimpse of the lead IMP on its side and a Growler on its roof before the cloud of dust and smoke covered them. Movement caught his eye and he looked over, then jerked his binoculars up to his eyes. “John R!” he shouted excitedly. “John R!”

Bill switched the detonator over before looking up. The column on John R street had just appeared south of the bridge when the explosion occurred two blocks from them. They paused in shock, then they accelerated, the hope being that speed would carry them through any danger zones. Bill watched four Growlers followed by an IMP racing across the open bridge to the near side of the freeway.

“They’re racing up Woodward too!” Seattle called out. Assuming they were also targets of IEDs the other convoys were racing to get out of what they suspected were kill zones.

Bill didn’t let himself get distracted. On the northeast corner of John R and the service drive was a long two-story apartment building. It was old and constructed of crumbling red brick. A pile of rusted metal in front of it once had been a compact car. There was also a big roll-away Dumpster on the street before it, full of lumber and crumbling drywall, broken glass and plastic bags. After ten years of sitting out in the weather it was so badly rusted it was falling apart. Bill waited until the middle of the racing convoy was passing the dumpster, then hit the button on the detonator. The 110 pounds of C4 in a shaped charge inside the Dumpster blew outward in a fan-shaped explosion. Three Growlers were immediately destroyed, and all of the IMP’s wheels facing the Dumpster were shredded.

Bill didn’t have time to admire his handiwork—he switched the transmitter over to the Woodward setting and looked up. The third convoy was already racing across the bridge, IMPs and Growlers and two Toads. The Woodward Avenue bridge over I-94 was six lanes wide, and the vehicles were using every lane.

On the northeast corner of the bridge was an overturned car which had been there for years. It was collapsing with rust, and two-foot-long stalks of grass were growing up through its body. Combat engineers had managed to secrete ninety-two pounds of C4 inside it and Bill blew it without hesitation. The blast completely destroyed two Growlers, killing the Tabs inside, and flipped two others, but the remaining vehicles avoided immediate destruction because of their distance.

The Woodward IED was actually the closest to their hide, and it shattered their cracked office windows, the glass hitting the floor and the desks in front of Bill and Seattle. They watched the remainder of the Woodward column assume a defensive perimeter and Tabs bailed out of the IMPs and Growlers to tend to their wounded. Many of the soldiers seemed to be stunned by the blast.

Seattle swung his binoculars over to John R. The severely damaged IMP was limping along and had turned west, hoping to hook up with the Woodward detachment for security. The Growlers behind it remained where they’d rolled after the blast, the men inside dead.

He then checked Cass. The cloud over Cass was thinning. The front of the office building was crumpled and cracked. Growlers were mangled and flipped, and one of the IMPs had toppled over onto its side. The Toad at the rear of the column appeared undamaged, as did the IMP that had been traveling with it. The IMP moved forward to the north end of the scene to provide security, and the Toad set up at the south end. Shapes could be seen staggering around the street. That column was no longer combat effective, they’d be taking care of their wounded for quite some time.

The two men exchanged a look. They’d inflicted a lot of hurt on three out of the four Tab detachments, but there were still a lot of men and vehicles heading toward the dogsoldiers. Even more as soon as the Woodward group collected their injured. It was too bad the Tabs hadn’t split up into seven columns, and used every bridge… there’d been surprises waiting for them on six of the seven. The combat engineers had smuggled half a ton of C4 into the city for this party. Seemed a shame not to use it all.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Barker pounded down the hallway and grabbed Miller’s loaner—he couldn’t remember the man’s name—and shouted, “On me!”

The man had been trained well; he’d been assigned to Kermit, and Barker was in charge of the squad, so he immediately peeled away from the stairwell door he’d been guarding with three other men and followed the short squad leader.

Barker ran down the hall, around a corner, and then stopped and hit a button. “What are we—” the man behind him said, then blinked. They were back at the freight elevator. He gave Barker a look.

“They’re fucking us on the stairs. Everyone knows you don’t take the elevator when there’s a fire or a gunfight, so maybe this is so stupid it’s smart.”

“Or maybe they’ll be waiting at the bottom for us.”

“It’s not stupid if it works.”

“Yes it is. Stupid is stupid.”

Barker shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.”

Both men had their rifles up as the freight car wheezed its way to the third floor and the doors clanked open. It was empty.

“Two?” the man asked Barker.

“One. I want to make sure we get under them.”

The big metal-walled elevator seemed to take forever to descend to the first floor. “What the fuck’s your name?” Barker asked.

“Royce.”

Barker nodded. “We’ll head across to the bottom of the stairs you were at, it’s closest.”

Not only was the freight elevator slow, it seemed as loud as a slow-motion car crash to the two men, but finally it came to rest and the doors eased open. Barker and Royce were in opposite corners, crouched, rifles up, but no one was immediately visible in the hall.

Barker scooted out, rifle up, but the hallway was clear. He signaled to Royce and they moved down the hallway carefully. Barker quick-peeked the corner but didn’t see anyone. They headed down the main corridor to the stairway entrance. No one was initially visible, but they could hear shouts, and the occasional gunshot. The Tabs seemed at least one floor up, but that was just a guess.

The two men staged on either side of the stairway door. Barker used hand signals, telling Royce what he wanted to do, and the man nodded. Royce pushed the door open as smoothly and quietly as he could. The first flight of stairs was clear. Rifles up, the two men slowly advanced up the stairs, shoulder to shoulder, trying to make no noise. There was a turn halfway to the second floor and they paused just before it. They could hear several Tabs above them, talking loudly because their hearing had been destroyed by the gunfire. The stairwell smelled of sweat and blood.

Barker traded a look with Royce, then they pushed forward and around the corner. Four Tab soldiers were clustered on the second-floor landing and in the open doorway leading into the hallway, all of them looking upward. Barker and Royce started firing, pulling their triggers as fast as they could, ejected cases from their rifles bouncing off the walls and blood flying from their hits. The four men died before they had a chance to return fire.

Royce jumped over a body into the second-floor hallway and immediately came under fire from the other stairway at the end of the building, from the Tabs underneath Petal. Morris’ man dove across the hallway into an office as Barker leaned out of the doorway and fired down the hall. One of the Tabs fell and the other men with him pulled him back into the stairway, out of sight.

“Kermit, you up there?” Barker called up his stairwell.

“That you Barker?”

“Yeah. Go back up Petal, I’m doing an end run.”

Barker pulled a grenade off his chest. He looked across the second-floor hallway at Royce. He gestured he was going to head back down to the first floor and circle around. “Keep ‘em busy,” he told the man, then pulled the pin on the grenade and let the lever fly.

“One Mississippi… and the horse you rode in on!” Barker shouted, and heaved the grenade down the hall. Maybe it would have more effect than the two he’d tossed down the same stairwell. He turned and headed down without waiting to see if the grenade made it all the way to the stairwell door. It blew right before he hit the ground floor.

Back on the first floor he moved down the main hallway to the next stairwell while reloading, sticking his partially spent magazine behind a full one in a pouch on his chest. He still had plenty of loaded magazines, which was a nice change.

He listened at the door to the stairs. If there was anybody right on the other side, they weren’t making any noise. Barker gritted his teeth, then pushed the door open, leading with his rifle.

Nobody. But somebody very close above him on the stairs was swearing up a storm. There were thin trails of smoke in the air, presumably from the grenade.

Barker edged up, one step at a time, rifle shouldered and his red dot optic aimed at the landing above him, just waiting for someone to pop into view. He reached the landing mid-floor and heard shooting directly overhead, someone (probably Royce) firing in the distance and the Tabs just above him returning fire. Empty cases bounced down the stairs around him. The echoing noise in the enclosed space was deafening.

Barker used the distraction to move up the rest of the way. There were two soldiers, one on either side of the second-floor landing, eyeing the open doorway, with two bloody bodies on the floor before them. They had their backs to Barker.

He was below them and between their helmets and body armor he had no angle on their heads or necks. He coldly shot the men in the base of their spines, below their body armor, and as they fell to the floor, screaming, he shot them in their faces.

“Clear!” he shouted. “Petal! Kermit! On me!”

Royce appeared in the open doorway. Petal popped her head out around the corner above him on the stairs, rifle up just in case it was a trick. She lowered her muzzle and then eyed the bodies on the floor. “We need to help Chan and the rest of those fuckers,” he told the remaining members of his squad. “Down to one and then cut across. Quiet. Hopefully we can come up behind them again. But let’s try to be quick, I think we’re going to have company real soon.”

Chan and his people had run into the Tabs halfway down to the ground floor and gotten into a messy firefight. The Tabs had retreated, then tried a blitz, heading up four stairways at once. It hadn’t quite worked, but then it hadn’t quite not. Currently it was a stalemate. Yosemite was currently holding four stairwells by the skin of their teeth, but couldn’t move down, and the Tabs didn’t seem to have the manpower or the balls—or both—to try another assault.

The Tabs had all the time in the world, with reinforcements incoming. The dogsoldiers, on the other hand, did not.

Chan and Lydia were holding the easternmost stairwell, posted on the fourth floor. A bullet had taken a chunk out of Chan’s left palm and gone through his radio before burying itself in the armor plate over his chest. His hand hurt like hell, and was still bleeding slowly, but the injury wasn’t life threatening. Not being able to get the hell out of the building, however, that was life threatening.

Lydia had a rifle she’d grabbed off one of the Tabs they’d killed, the donated Glock still stuck in her waistband. She kept an eye on the stairwell while Chan peeked down the fourth floor hallway. Only one man from Yosemite stood guard at the closest stairwell. There were too many stairwells, and they were spread too thin.

The Tabs below them sounded like they were getting antsy, and Lydia stuck her liberated, camouflage-stocked M5A3 out and fired a few shots, hoping to get them to ricochet off the walls and into the Tabs. No such luck. The gunfire was so loud she was flinching even before she pulled the trigger.

“Come on down, we give up!” one of the Tabs shouted from below, followed by laughter.

“We promise not to shoot,” another voice called out.

“Fuck this,” Chan muttered under his breath. They’d been static for far too long. He leaned close, his lips almost touching Lydia’s ear, and spoke quietly. She nodded, slung the rifle over her shoulder, and headed up the stairs as fast as she could.

“We’re surrendering, come on up!” Chan shouted back to the soldiers.

“You’re dead, you’re all fucking dead,” one of the Tabs yelled, voice bitter. Apparently he’d tired of the banter. “We’re going to tear this building out from under you.” Faintly they could hear gunfire in a distant section of the building, then the crump of a grenade.

“When you don’t have armor to hide behind you’re a bunch of pussies,” Chan called out. He was trying to goad them into doing something stupid. “And you can’t shoot for shit.” He was angled out and had his Steyr AUG shouldered, waiting for a Tab to sneak up the stairs and poke his head out.

No such luck.

He heard Lydia before she appeared, although she was trying to be quiet. She had a plastic milk crate in her hands, and the few remaining Molotovs were in it. She set it down on the landing. Chan bent to her and whispered in her ear, and she nodded.

Lydia unslung her carbine as Chan took the lighter. She moved down the stairs to the next corner as silently as she could. Chan stepped down behind her. They traded a look, then she stuck her carbine around the corner and fired a long burst on full auto, much of it into the ceiling as the awkwardly held gun recoiled in her hands.

She pulled back and return fire filled the air with dust and chips of concrete. By the time the Tabs stopped firing Chan had the wick of the Molotov lit, moved up to the corner, stuck his arm out, and heaved it downward. They heard the crash as the glass bottle broke on the cement, and the WHOOMPF! as the fluid ignited. There was an immediate shout, then a scream. Chan grabbed a second bottle and heaved it after the first, not bothering to light it. It crashed and added to the flames, which filled the stairwell with flickering orange light and horrific screams.

Chan paused for a five-count, and the heat even around the corner began to grow uncomfortable. Then he popped around the corner, but the three men writhing on the landing were in the last throes of death, and he didn’t waste any ammo on them.

“Next one,” Chan said, coughing from the smoke and the smell of burning flesh. “Grab the box.” They had three more Molotovs. He realized they’d work great for temporarily blocking stairs as well.

With a loud whine the turbodiesel in the Toad kicked in as the tank headed north on Woodward. The Tabs hadn’t taken long to clear out their wounded and get them loaded into the back of the IMPs. Bill and Seattle had watched, hoping the Woodward Avenue column would turn around and head back south, either to the military base or to the force on Cass Avenue which had been badly damaged by the truck bomb, to render aid. Nope.

“Well, shit,” Seattle said succinctly. The armored vehicles on Woodward were directly east of them, heading north up toward the dogsoldiers still engaged with the remnants of the first Tab armored group. “Looks like there’s nothing more we can do here.”

Bill rubbed his chin. “I don’t know that’s true.” He looked at their rifles, then out the window toward the convoy on Cass. “We start popping melons over there, maybe that column on Woodward turns around. Or maybe slows down. The cans’ll buy us a little bit of time at least before they figure out where we are.” He meant the sound suppressors mounted on their rifle barrels.

“Not much. We’re in the tallest building around, and there’s busted windows. I give them ten, maybe fifteen seconds before that tank swings its gun over and pops a round in here just in case.”

“I think it’ll be more like thirty. So we take out the tank commander and the roof gunner on the IMP, then whoever else we can, keep shooting only as long as it takes to blow through one magazine, then we get the fuck out. They’re fucking bivouacked in the middle of the street, doing triage, we can’t pass this up.” He frowned. “I don’t think we can hook up with Morris, that area’s going to be too hot, so we’ll have to head northwest to the closest sewer access.

“Fuck.” Seattle knew his partner was right, but he didn’t have to like it. “Pack everything up but the rifles, we need to grab and go.”

It took only a matter of seconds to get their packs ready, then the men settled down behind their respective rifles. The Tabs had circled their wagons, so to speak, using their undamaged armored vehicles as barriers on the north and south ends of the bomb blast zone. Bill quickly used his laser rangefinder. “The two IMPs closest to us are two-eighty. That Toad on the far side is… three forty-six. Dial it up. You’re a better shot than me, and that Toad commander is turned sideways, so he’s yours. I’ll wait for your shot. You work back to front, I’ll work front to back.”

“Roger that.”

Bill grabbed his radio. “Outlier will be going loud, then displacing from this position, over.”

The radio immediately sprung to life with Morris’ voice, as if he’d been waiting. “Almighty copies on that, Outlier. Almighty to all squads, be advised enemy ground units three hundred meters east our position, approaching on foot while armor is in overwatch. Repeat, enemy dismounts numbering approximately eighty, three hundred meters east our position and approaching our location and SkyBox under cover of armor. Large enemy armor column also now at West Grand and the Lodge Freeway near Quigley. Repeat, large enemy armor presence just west of Quigley. They do not seem to be approaching as yet, have assumed a defensive position.” There was a pause, then the Lieutenant Colonel said, “You’ve all done a hell of a job, but I’m calling it. Virginia, Virginia, Virginia. Good luck, and God speed. Almighty is displacing. Over and out.”

‘Virginia’ was their code-word to cease operations in the area and retreat or escape via any means possible. Upon hearing it, Bill and Seattle exchanged a look.

They cranked their Vortex scopes up to 10X and dialed in the elevation, which wasn’t much. Bill popped his neck and then set himself behind the glass. He placed the center dot of the reticle on the nose of the soldier behind the Mk19 of the IMP. It was parked, nose out, next to the other IMP which had been flipped over in the blast. Behind it a number of soldiers were visible, the wounded and those tending to them. Bill spotted someone who had to be an officer, waving his arm as he talked on a radio.

“I’m up, ready on your go,” Bill said. He flipped off his safety, and took up the slack on his Geissele SSA trigger. It would take less than three additional pounds of pressure to break the shot.

Seattle fired, his rifle making a hissing crack that sounded as much like Indiana Jones’ bullwhip as a gunshot. Trigger prepped, Bill fired half a second later. His scope moved, but he saw his bullet impact, an inch to the right of where he was aiming, hitting the soldier in his cheek instead of his nose. The soldier’s head snapped back as the bullet blew through the man’s skull and hit the inside of his helmet sideways.

As Seattle fired beside him, and fired again, Bill moved his reticle down to the presumed officer behind and to the side of the IMP. He was sideways, gesturing once again, having missed both the sound of the gunshot and the impact, and Bill took him under his arm. Then he began firing at the numerous Tabs visible tending to wounded. Between the weight of the rifle itself, and the suppressor, and the well-tuned gas system, his rifle had very little recoil. It took another two seconds before the Tabs on the ground figured out what was happening, then they all ran for cover. However, because of the noise of the idling diesel engines and the echoing nature of the buildings surrounding them, they had no idea from which direction the shots were coming.

Bill shot a soldier crouching beside a twisted Growler in the thigh, the man next to him in the upper arm. A row of wounded Tabs was sitting on the pavement inside the vehicle perimeter, and they were too slow. He shot a head here, a leg there, an arm, a foot, a hand, a running Tab in the legs, several men in the face as they popped up to fire in his general direction and didn’t duck down fast enough.

He didn’t know if the row of bodies on the pavement in the center of the encampment were dead or just seriously wounded, but he fired his last five shots at them. “I’m out!” he shouted, jumping out of his chair. Seattle fired one last shot and then he was dry as well.

The two men shrugged on their backpacks, grabbed their rifles, then headed for the stairwell on the north side of the building. Bill knelt down with a grunt and grabbed the grenade with which they’d boobytrapped the door to the stairs. He was just hooking the handle onto his vest when the Toad fired its 120mm main gun. The high-explosive round was angling up and detonated in the middle of the ceiling behind them, the blast wave throwing both men through the open stairwell door.

“You’ve gotta keep moving or we’re going to die,” Robbie gasped. He had Brooke’s good arm around his shoulders and was half carrying her. She was weaving and nearly incoherent, but she was still on her feet. Even if she hadn’t been wearing fifty pounds of gear Robbie knew he wasn’t strong enough to carry her more than fifty or one hundred feet, and they had a lot further to go than that. Through the entire length of the hotel, then across New Center One.

He was pretty sure he’d put the tourniquet on right, but she was such a mess it was hard to tell. Her skin was deathly white where it wasn’t smeared with half-dried blood. The lower half of her left arm hung useless, only a few strips of skin and sinew connecting it.

Luckily the walkway from the New Center One building was on the same level as the walkway connecting the hotel, so he didn’t have to worry about climbing any steps with her. He struggled along with Brooke, both of them gasping. One foot in front of the other, one step, then another, then another, that’s all he could focus on. Then he heard a shout and looked up blearily, wondering if Tabs were about to shoot him, and saw a dogsoldier running to help him.

Barker actually fell backward onto his ass in surprise as the soldier burst through the doorway in front of him, screaming and on fire. Petal and Royce downed the man with a volley of shots.

“Motherfucker,” Barker swore.

There was a pause, then a shout down the stairwell. “Barker?”

“Chan, you fucker, you weren’t supposed to set this building on fire,” Barker shouted back from the floor. He struggled to his feet. The air inside the big office building had been starting to haze with smoke even before the Human Torch had made an appearance.

Chan appeared above them on the stairs, rifle up, just in case. Then he moved down the stairs, the remaining members of Yosemite behind him. “It seemed the thing to do at the time,” he panted, and the sweaty men smiled at each other.

There was chatter on the radio, and then the men heard, “Virginia, Virginia, Virginia.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Chan said.

Barker nodded. “Down!” he called out to everyone there. He did a quick head count. Kermit and Yosemite had suffered twenty-five percent casualties. “To the tunnel. We’re heading back, getting the fuck out of here while the getting’s still good.” He waved his people past him and they began stampeding down the stairs.

“Let’s hope the Tabs clear the building one floor at a time up to the roof before they head through the tunnel,” Chan said.

“After the beating we just gave them they should be moving slow and careful, but who knows?” Barker replied. He nodded after Lydia who passed them heading down the stairs. She smelled of smoke and blood. “Go, I’ll be rear security.” He grabbed his radio. “All squads, SkyBox is abandoning ship, heading to Nakatomi. Repeat, SkyBox en route to Nakatomi underground. Don’t shoot us.”

“They’re not stupid. They’re going to hide out there and wait for their reinforcements,” Hannibal said, peering out the north entrance of the Fisher Building. Whatever Tabs were left after the IMP had been taken out and Quigley chewed them up had found good cover to hide behind. They weren’t moving on Nakatomi, but they weren’t leaving, either.

“Yeah,” Ed muttered.

The radio lit up with chatter between the IED team south of their position and Almighty, then Morris gave them an update on the enemy. “Almighty to all squads, be advised enemy ground units three hundred meters east our position, approaching on foot while armor is in overwatch. Repeat, enemy dismounts numbering approximately eighty, three hundred meters east our position and approaching our location and SkyBox under cover of armor. Large enemy armor column also now at West Grand and the Lodge Freeway near Quigley. Repeat, large enemy armor presence just west of Quigley. They do not seem to be approaching as yet, have assumed a defensive position.” There was a pause, then the Lieutenant Colonel said, “You’ve all done a hell of a job, but I’m calling it. Virginia, Virginia, Virginia. Good luck, and God speed. Almighty is displacing. Over and out.”

“Time to go,” Hannibal said. He looked at Ed. “I can’t believe this worked as well as it did. Not that we did much of anything other than distract them.”

Ed shrugged. “Suckering them in was the important part.

Barker’s voice popped over the radio. “All squads, SkyBox is abandoning ship, heading to Nakatomi. Repeat, SkyBox en route to Nakatomi underground. Don’t shoot us.”

Hannibal smiled. “Excellent.” He grabbed his radio. “Nakatomi, time to go. Make your way back to the tunnel.” He checked his watch. “You have ten minutes, that is one-zero minutes, then we are blowing the end and you’ve got to find your own way home.” That had been the agreed-upon plan.

The radio clicked to life again. “Quigley to all squads, do not wait for us. Repeat, do not wait. We’re currently blocked from our exfil route. Good luck, it’s been fun.” Ed recognized the voice of Harris, who’d driven up from the aircraft hangar attack.

“What do they have, a hundred feet to cover to the sewer opening?” Hannibal asked. “If that?” Instead of crawling three hundred yards through the narrow pipe with everyone else, Weasel, Renny, and Carrells had exited the large trunk line, crawling up a short dirt ramp to find themselves north of the apartment building, just off the service drive of the Lodge. The opening was concealed by a bush, and had worked just fine for them in the dark when no satellites were overhead.

“Yeah, but it’s open, it’s daylight, it would be running toward the Tab column, and plus they’ve got soldiers inside their building between them and the ground floor. Even if they make it to the sewer, the Tabs will see their bolt hole and come into the sewers after them. Shit, they’ll be right on top of us right where we’re coming out of the narrow pipe, and there’s no cover down there. Quigley can’t get out, not that way, not when there’s anyone around to spot them, unless they want to kill us all.”

“Shit.”

“Nakatomi Tower to Ground, switch over to alternate.”

Ed changed the frequency on his radio. “Yeah George, go.”

“If we move over to the parking garage we’ll be a lot closer to that armor element by Quigley. I’ve still got a few grenades, and we’ve got two Spikes.”

Ed tried to pull the map of the area up in his head. “You’ll still be stretching it, that’s a Hail Mary for a Spike.”

“Well, from the parking garage to their apartment building is maybe a hundred yards, and I think their building will block us from view of the Tabs, as they’re on the far side.”

“You want to run it?” Ed asked. Hannibal, listening in, blinked his eyes at that.

Ed could almost hear George’s shrug. “Or you could run it while we cover. You’ve got Spikes left, right?”

“It’s a wide-open parking lot? Between the two buildings?”

“And a street,” George agreed.

“He can’t be serious,” Hannibal said in disbelief.

“You go,” Ed told Hannibal.

“What?”

“Tunnel. Head to the tunnel with your people. We’ll figure this out, but you need to get everybody else out of here.”

“Seriously?”

“They’re my guys, I’m not leaving them.”

“I get that, but… fuck. Shit. Dammit.” He sighed. “Go with God.” He slapped Ed on the shoulder. “Flintstone, on me!” he called out loudly, his voice echoing around the marble lobby, striding toward his men. He pointed at Brooke, who was on her back on the floor. His men had been working on her. “Can she travel?”

His medic turned to him, and Hannibal knew what he was going to say before the words came. “She’s dead.”

“Shit.” He pointed at Robbie, who was blinking and blank-faced and splashed with her blood. “This is not on you. You did your best. Nobody could have done better, and with all that blood there was no way to know she was gut-shot. But grieve later, we’ve got to go now. Flintstone! We’re heading down, NOW!”

“Theodore!” Ed waved. Jason, Early, and Morris’ loaner Sergeant Sarah Weaver were the only members of Theodore still in the lobby. “Over here.” He grabbed his radio. “Stand by,” he told George. He flipped back to the main frequency. “Almighty, do you copy? Almighty, do you copy, over?”

“Go for Almighty.” Morris sounded like he was moving fast.

“Do you still have eyes in the sky? Over.”

“Roger that.”

“This is Nakatomi Ground. I need to rendezvous with you and get that controller, I need those eyes.”

“Currently departing SkyBox, be there presently. Over.”

The three members of Theodore jogged across the huge echoing lobby, turning their heads to watch the rest of the dogsoldiers heading for the stairs down to the lower level. Ed eyed the trio. Relatively fresh, having only fired a few magazines at Tabs and their vehicles. And, and perhaps most importantly, between the three of them they had four Spikes.

“’Sup, Cap’n?” Early drawled. Jason looked back and forth between them.

“You want the good news or the bad news?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

At some point early in the anarchy a vehicle had crashed into the concrete wall enclosing the ground level of the Fisher Building parking garage. The vehicle was gone, but the rupture in the wall remained, and it was wide enough to admit a person. George slipped through it, having studied the open parking lot on the far side for a bit.

Per one of Almighty’s drones the freshly-arrived armor convoy was staged on the far side of the Lodge Freeway from one side of West Grand Boulevard to the other, but from his position on the ground the only Tab vehicle George could see was the IMP on West Grand in front of the apartment building. Weasel had indicated it was disabled by an RPG, and it certainly seemed inert, but Weasel had let them know there’d been Tabs on foot near the vehicle giving them harassing fire recently. George could only hope the soldiers had moved west to join up with the column when it had arrived.

“Fifty-foot intervals,” he said quietly, then moved away from the garage as fast as he could under his gear.

If the parking lot he was cutting across had been littered with vehicles that would have been something, a little cover, provided some security either real or perceived, but there were only a few abandoned and desiccated hulks in the lot and they were nowhere near the path he had to travel. The asphalt lot was wide open, and (as usual) he feared the worst… but he crossed it without incident, hopped the curbstones, jogged across the narrow street, and reached the cover of the far apartment building without receiving incoming fire. He stepped through an empty floor-to-ceiling window frame into what had been a bank lobby.

George cleared his surroundings then turned and covered the approach of the rest of the squad; Jason, followed by Early, Sarah, Mark, Quentin, then Ed. Kelly had peeled off from George’s group to rejoin Flintstone, not wanting to join in on their “Fucking stupid-ass suicide mission,” as he called it.

They moved into the building silently, not sure how close any Tabs might be, and took up defensive positions. When Ed was halfway across the lot something caught George’s eye. He squinted and saw a moving dot high in the air north of the Fisher Building. A drone, and not one belonging to Almighty.

Someone to the south on the ground opened up on full-auto when Quentin and Ed were still in the open, but didn’t hit anything but pavement and parked cars. It was an M5, George’s seasoned ears told him, and they were tough to control on semi-, much less full-auto. Still, both men sprinted all out, then checked themselves for hits after they made it into the building.

“Quigley, Theodore’s in your building, on the east side,” Ed said quietly into his radio, still panting. “You want to talk us into your position? We just took some fire from south of the building.”

There was a long pause. “Seriously?” Weasel sounded incredulous. “You were supposed to bail.”

“We’re not heading into the tunnels with all these Spikes,” Ed said firmly. “Not when there’s something to shoot them at right here. You’ve got Tabs in the building?”

“Yeah, yeah. Maybe. Not sure where, now. Watch your ass. We’re all up on six. There’s a stairwell at the northeast corner, take that up. Morons. Over.” Despite his casual insult he sounded delighted they were there.

Jason was behind Ed and Early as the squad moved slowly and quietly into the building, down a hallway, and began climbing the stairwell. The day before, after Morris’ briefing, Jason had been charged with adrenaline; it seemed he had joined the war effort at just the right time. Here he was with less than a week under his belt and he’d be involved in the largest offensive in the city since the start of the war. But… ever since that afternoon briefing his life has been nothing but a mixture of boredom and misery. Or misery and exhaustion.

The trek to get to the skyscraper codenamed Nakatomi under eighty pounds of gear had been the most horrific thing he’d ever done in his life, especially crawling the last 300 yards through a narrow pipe, which if anyone had asked he would have guessed at half a mile or a mile in length, it had seemed so long and painful on his hands and knees. Then he’d been with the group which had staked out the lobby. The few Army soldiers stationed inside it had been gunned down by the running men ahead of him so quickly he hadn’t seen them fall, and then… Nothing. Nothing until the enemy armor showed up across the street and he, like everyone else with him, shot at it, not with any hope of doing damage, but rather as a distraction. The IMP grenading the north entrance had been exciting and loud but not dangerous to him at all. In fact, it all still seemed a bit surreal to him. He’d been more scared during the ambush of the Army patrol, which now seemed like it had happened weeks ago. Now they were in yet another building, but at least he hadn’t had to crawl through a tunnel to get there.

The fifth- and sixth-floor landings were covered with Tab bodies, and the air was thick with the smell of blood. Weasel met them on the sixth floor, beaming. “You guys are fucking nuts, I love it. Come on up.” His face and webgear were splashed with generous amounts of dried blood, none of which seemed to belong to him.

“It’s your house, were do you need us?” Ed asked.

“There’s four stairwells, one on each corner, plus a fancy one on the front—the south side. We don’t really have enough bodies to cover them all, so I’d like one guy here…”

“Quentin,” Ed said.

“Got it,” Quentin said, posting himself at the top of the stairs as Weasel led the squad down the hallway and turned a corner.

“’Nother guy here,” Weasel said, pointing at a stairwell door.

“Early.”

“Yeah boss, on it.”

Weasel pointed at a nearby open doorway. “Renny was in there, but then we went up on the roof for a bit. Dude can fucking shoot, I’ll give him that. Now we’re all hunkering down inside, you’ll see why. C’mon.” He led the way west down the long side of the building.

“Most of the apartments seemed empty, but any people still here have to be long gone now after all the shooting,” Weasel said. He gestured to their left, where closed doors lined the hallway. “Those open onto the south-side apartments, which look out onto West Grand. Killed an IMP out there with an RPG, but we’re all out of ammo for it. Got a few Tabs on foot out there still, somewhere.”

“One of them fired at us running over. How many doggies you have here?” George asked him.

“Left, after the Tabs pushed in and up the stairs? Me, Old Man Quigley, and two of the guys from RoadRunner. That’s it. We lost two, but we made ‘em pay. You think that stairwell you came up is bad with bodies, you should see the northwest one, got blood running down four floors like a horror movie. Assholes.” He flashed a mean grin and gestured to the left. “Got a fancy open staircase here, lots of glass. No way to cover it without exposing yourself to the street outside, so we’ve got it trip-wired with grenades on the second-floor landing. Better to dart across than drag ass.”

The building was a giant rectangle, and the west and east side corridors were shorter. Around the corner to the hallway accessing the west-facing apartments the squad reunited with Renny, as well as Harris and one of his men. All of them were crouched in the hallway, away from a nearby open doorway. Renny gave the men of Theodore a nod.

“Appreciate the moral support, but I’m not sure what else you’re going to be able to do here,” Harris said. Although the sight of all the slung Spikes lifted his spirits.

“Take a look,” Weasel told Ed, nodding at the open doorway.

“Carefully,” Renny added, his big rifle resting on its butt beside him.

Ed slid up to the open doorway and edged his eye past the frame. Beyond was a small but nicely appointed studio apartment. Against the left wall were cabinets above and below a stove and dishwasher. To the right was an open-air bedroom. Directly across from the door was the double window.

“Jesus,” Ed breathed. The drone’s video feed hadn’t really done the scene justice. He pulled back, grabbed his binoculars, then held them vertically and peeked past the doorframe again, looking through just one lens. He looked back and forth a bit, ducked down to cross to the other side of the open doorway, then looked some more from that angle. “Take a look,” he told George, handing him the binos.

The west side of the apartment building was just over one hundred yards from the near service drive of the Lodge Freeway. The far service drive was perhaps an additional seventy-five yards further away.

The Tab forces were arrayed along the far service drive as if it was the parking lot after a rock concert, with most of the vehicles turned to face toward the threat. Two Toads, two IMPs, and what had to be ten Growlers. A few Growlers were positioned a quarter-mile north, and one was equidistant south, but the majority of the vehicles were spread across West Grand in a skirmish line.

The Tabs were all buttoned up inside their vehicles. They seemed to be waiting for some signal before proceeding. Maybe they’d been instructed to stand back until the other forces approaching from the south could gather some intelligence on the dogsoldiers still in the area.

Ed frowned. The Tabs had to know there were dogsoldiers in the apartment building not too far from their front, heck there was a disabled IMP on West Grand right in front of it, but they seemed unconcerned. Maybe they thought their numbers provided some measure of protection. Maybe they suspected the dog soldiers were all out of armor-piercing weapons.

Ed pulled back and studied the squad filling the hallway before him. He counted. “Six Spikes left, total?” He looked at George.

“And I’ve got eight AP rounds for this thing,” George said, hefting the six-shot grenade launcher.

“They won’t do shit against a Toad,” Ed told him. He chewed his lip. “As for the Spikes, yeah we’re up six floors, but they’re way out there. I’m worried that we won’t have enough of a down angle to penetrate the armor, if we do manage to hit what we’re aiming at.”

“You can get up on the roof for a little more height, but you’re exposed as shit up there,” Weasel said helpfully.

George scratched his head. “We have to assume as soon as we try anything they’re going to blow the shit out of this entire building.”

“Sarah, you back up?”

She had the controller and viewscreen for Almighty’s drones, but had packed it away for the move across the open parking lot. She’d pulled it out of her pack as soon as they’d reached the sixth floor. “Yeah,” she said distractedly. The drone was one thousand feet up, directly over their building. “There’s a Growler on the north side here, parked close, but I don’t see any movement.” She and Ed had met up with her commanding officer as Morris and Conrad had come jogging into the Concourse beneath the Fisher Building. He’d left it up to her whether she would escape with him into the sewer tunnels or join with Ed and the others on their more-than-risky mission to back up Quigley and inflict additional damage on the Tabs. It hadn’t been a hard decision for her.

“I think that belonged to the dead guys in the stairwell,” Weasel said. “Came with the IMP we killed.”

“Tabs have a drone up as well in the area,” Ed told them. “I don’t feel like pulling out the satellite window sheet at the moment, so let’s just assume they’ve got satellite coverage as well.”

“If you can hit the front of the Toad’s turret with the Spike you won’t disable it, but there’s a good chance you’ll blind it so they can’t use the main gun,” Sarah reminded Ed and George.

Weasel eyed the drone controller in Sarah’s hands. “You talk to Morris? How’d we do?” he asked Ed.

Ed looked at Harris. “Sounds like all the Kestrels they had are done.”

“Everything in my hangar was toast, and the other hangar was blown to shit too,” Harris said.

“From what Morris told me and what I’ve seen from the drone, including Outlier’s IEDs, sounds like we killed one Toad and damaged another. Took out at least five IMPs and maybe a dozen Growlers. So that’s their whole air wing and at least a third, maybe half their vehicles, not counting Toads. Killed forty, maybe fifty Tabs in addition to whoever died inside the vehicles. So what is that, eighty to one hundred enemy KIA total? Morris was very happy.”

“They had their asses well and truly kicked,” George agreed. Hopefully their success was being repeated in all the other cities behind enemy lines where the ARF had planned similar operations.

“How bad is it for us?”

Ed shook his head. “At least twenty dead, probably more.” The dogsoldiers didn’t count wounded as casualties, not when you could still fight. “Maybe a lot more if Eagle Eye got hit hard. They’re underground so they’re out of radio range. Hell, they’ve probably dumped their radios so they can’t be tracked. RoadRunner got pretty banged up, and SkyBox had a bit of a fight getting back down to the lobby. That IMP took out four of Flintstone’s people when it grenaded the north side of Nakatomi. And we lost everybody in Sylvester but one. Cambridge East and West were wiped out.”

“Brooke?” Jason blurted before he could stop himself

Ed shook his head. “Dead.” He looked around at the faces surrounding him. “Right now we’re about the only squad that hasn’t lost anybody.”

“Not for lack of fucking trying,” Mark growled. His leg still hadn’t stopped bleeding from the office furniture shrapnel thrown around by the Toad’s main gun, but it had slowed to a throbbing ooze.

Ed peered at the feed on the tablet in Sarah’s hands, then went back and peered out past the door frame again. “What’s that building right next to us? I can’t even see it from here, it’s too short.”

“McDonald’s. At least, it used to be,” Weasel told him. “And next to that is the old Third Precinct headquarters of the po-lice. Three stories. Looks like there was a serious battle there at some point, a vehicle drove through the back wall, there’s bullet hits all over the front by the door, and half the windows have black smudges on the outside, looks like the inside must have burned. It sits right on the near-side service drive.”

“You haven’t been inside it? Or the McDonald’s?” Weasel shook his head.

“That police building isn’t as tall, but it’s a lot closer,” Ed observed. George was at his shoulder.

“Same firing angle,” George agreed. “But half the distance. So anyone there should be able to aim a little better.”

“As soon as their drone spots you going into that building those Toads are going to level it,” Sarah said. “Take about six main gun rounds to turn it into rubble.”

“Don’t you have a drone jammer?” Jason asked. He’d barely been able to pay attention to the conversation, all he’d been thinking about was Brooke. Dead. He’d been hoping after all this that the two of them would get some more time together. Now that was never going to happen. He found himself fighting back tears, and wiped at his face angrily.

George shook his head. “It’s designed more for the small infiltrators. Bug and bird size. It won’t work on the ones they’re using, they’re probably a thousand feet up, like ours.” He paused, and looked at the ARF Sergeant. “Right?”

Sarah blinked. “Unless it’s the size and weight of a small child, it won’t do anything against what they’re using.”

“They know there’s a group of us here, and even if those fuckers on the service drive leave us alone those other assholes clearing the New Center buildings are eventually going to head this way, and we’ll get pinched,” Weasel observed. “Shit, they’ve got enough vehicles over there already to surround this building. I’m guessing they think we’re just one random squad and all the other doggies are hunkered down at Nakatomi, which is why they’re ignoring us. For now. But we’re dead if we stay here, and we’re dead if we try to make a run for the tunnel mouth. Or we’ll get there and they’ll pour in after us and kill us and then everybody else. Probably have flamethrowers on standby just for such an occasion. The only way to attack them is across that bridge, which is a total killing ground. We’re pretty much fucked.” He didn’t seem too upset about the pronouncement.

“Not with half a dozen Spikes and eight armor-piercing grenades we’re not,” Ed said confidently. “They’re sitting there like they’re untouchable, like they’re on the moon or something. They’re two hundred yards away. They think just because they can’t shoot worth a shit that nobody else can either. They haven’t had to deal with serious anti-armor weapons in so long they’ve gotten out of the habit of fearing what we can do, even after the ass-kicking we gave them this morning.” He looked around at all the faces turned to him and gave them an evil grin. “We’re going to show them the error of their ways. Hell, d’you see? Half those Growlers out there don’t have any armor, maybe they’ve run out of the up-armored ones. We can mess them up bad.” He shook his head. “But it’s not going to be quick or easy, I’ll tell you that.” Ed looked around the crowded hallway at the faces peering at him. “I need a count of how many hand grenades we have as well as standard forty-millimeter rounds. We’ve got to make something happen,” he announced.

“Cowabunga it is,” Harris said heartily, but his face was pale.

Master Sergeant Donald Logan sat in his idling Toad named CLEAVE and listened to the radio traffic as Echo element pushed up on foot along Cass and Woodward and entered the first of the skyscrapers known to contain enemy combatants. They were in no hurry; they were pretty sure they had the enemy surrounded. There were Army troops encircling the entire New Center area, although they were admittedly a little thin on the north and east. But they had multiple drones up to spot anyone attempting to sneak away. Now it was just a matter of rooting them out.

Hotel element—of which he had command—had pushed north along the Lodge Freeway in force and positioned themselves at the West Grand Boulevard intersection. He knew he had a few guerrillas in the large apartment building east of his position; command had radioed that their drones had spotted a squad moving into the building, and a portion of Charlie had engaged with them earlier. That group had lost an IMP but one of the troopers told Logan they’d killed at least ten guerrillas in addition to destroying one of their vehicles and ramming the other through the front of the building.

Logan was perfectly happy to let the guerrillas hide out in the apartment building. He was in no hurry to send his men in there. Door-to-door fighting was a sucker bet and chewed through people no matter how good they were. And his men weren’t that good. This late into the war the draftees he was getting were disgruntled, barely trained, and often borderline malnourished. He had the advantage of armor, and was going to use it.

The guerrillas reportedly had used some anti-tank weapons against Charlie and Foxtrot elements earlier, RPGs and grenades and Molotovs, so he was not going to go anywhere near tall buildings until they’d been cleared by dismounted soldiers bottom to top. And that was why his hatch was closed. Command reported their drone revealed the turret hatch of Charlie element’s destroyed Toad was open, indicating it was most likely the rebels’ good luck which had killed that tank crew. One hand grenade through the Commander’s hatch could incapacitate an entire crew.

“Hotel One-One to One-Two,” he said into the radio.

“Go for One-Two,” the commander of the other Toad replied.

“What’s your fuel status, over.”

There was a bit of a pause before Carter in the other tank replied. “Six and a half, maybe seven hours if we’re just going to sit here idling.”

“Roger that, we’re about the same.”

Suddenly their tank shuddered and boomed as if it was a bell struck by a giant hammer. There were more explosions all around them, too many to count. Logan grabbed hold of the bulkhead to keep from being flung to the floor.

“I’ve lost the ISU, I’ve lost the ISU!” his gunner shouted. “Backup’s out too. I think we were hit by an RPG.”

“Make that two,” Logan muttered. There was garbled screaming over the radio. Logan clicked to transmit. “Hotel One-One to Hotel element, anybody got eyes on? We’ve lost our ISU.” He got no coherent response and tried it again. There was more shouting over the radio but he couldn’t make it out.

“Anyone get that?” he asked his men. Nobody had. “Goddamnit,” he swore. He knew what he had to do, but that didn’t mean he liked it. “I’m going up,” he called out to his crew, and opened his hatch.

Hotel One-Two was fifty feet away with smoke jetting out of a black-edged hole in the top of the turret. Logan immediately recognized it for what it was, a rocket or RPG round had breached the hull. Most likely everybody inside Hotel One-Two was dead but he still had to check, once he was clear. Behind the tank an IMP was slewed at an angle, and as he watched the back hatch was slowly coming down, gray haze pouring out of the interior. There were strange impact marks across the top of the APC’s hull, and smoke trailed from two of them. As he watched two bloodied soldiers crawled out of the vehicle and huddled behind cover. No others followed.

Logan grabbed the paddle grips of the M240 and surveyed his front. He didn’t see any guerrillas or immediate threats but he noticed that a substantial number of windows on the top floor of the apartment building were now blown out. He fired his machine gun, working it across the face of the apartment building from one side to the other, burning through more than half the 200-round belt of ammo. He had no idea if he hit anyone but he was hoping to keep their heads down, and he heard others to his flanks firing as well. Most of the windows in the apartment building’s fifth and sixth floors disintegrated under the hail of bullets. He looked around again. One IMP was still undamaged, as were most of the Growlers, although he saw windows on the non-armored ones spiderwebbing from incoming enemy rifle fire.

“Lewis!” he called to his gunner.

“Sergeant?”

“Traverse left ten degrees and fire!”

“I’m blind down here.”

“I fucking know that!”

The turret rotated left and then the whole tank rocked as the main gun fired. The top right corner of the apartment building erupted in a flash, metal and glass and drywall forming a cloud which began drifting downward.

“Down five degrees, left five degrees and fire again!” Logan called out. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t “aim” the main gun when they was shooting at a huge fucking building right in front of them. He’d walk the rounds in. He heard the impact of incoming rounds as the guerrillas in the building continued to fire. He even caught a glimpse of some muzzle flashes, but none of the bullets seemed to be hitting near him.

“Roger that.” The turret rotated, and the gun dipped a bit. Then the cannon roared again. The face of the apartment building ruptured outward as the high explosive round impacted between the fifth and sixth floors, but in the fraction of a second between the firing of his main gun and the impact, there was some sort of flare in one of the darkened apartments, and Logan had just enough time to recognize the incoming rocket for what it was.

“We’re blowing the bolt hole in one minute,” Barker’s voice came over the radio. “Anybody that’s not here who wants to leave this way needs to get their ass here now.”

Ed knew the man was talking about closing off the mouth of the narrow sewer pipe through which they’d be leaving the area. The Tabs, once they made it into the Albert Khan building and found the crater in the floor, would probably be able to figure out there was a sewer pipe down there through which the dogsoldiers had arrived and departed, but deducing exactly which direction it headed and where it might exit, much less digging it out enough to follow them, would take them a substantial amount of time. Enough time for the dogsoldiers to make it to the much-larger trunk line and begin heading north, where they had plans to disburse in small groups throughout the city.

“Quigley,” Barker said, “good luck. We’ll see you when we see you.”

Ed smiled. “Everybody ready?” He shouted up and down the hallway. “Yell out if you’re not.” He waited for a five count but still heard nothing. “Sergeant Weaver, on you,” he called out to her.

Knocking out the two Toads as well as the two IMPs wasn’t just a worthy goal, it was pretty damn necessary if the squad wanted to get out of there alive. Sarah and Harris from Roadrunner were in the corner apartment with two Spikes each. Ed moved on his knees from the hallway into the adjacent apartment next to George. The two apartments on the southwest corner of the building were the closest to the Tab armor elements on the Lodge service drive.

Ed had two spikes, and George had his MGL loaded up with six of the light armor-piercing grenade rounds. Both Ed and George were crouched down in the middle of the apartment. Ed peered over the window sill at the armored vehicles in the distance. Toads were huge vehicles compared to a Toyota or Ford, but 175 yards out it seemed a tiny target try to hit with a rocket.

Ed had the Spike ready to go: sights up, safety pin out, all he had to do was depress the safety lever with his fingers and press the trigger with his thumb. He was sweating profusely and his heart was hammering in his chest. He exchanged a look with George but neither of them had to say a word. They’d been fighting alongside one another for so long no words were necessary, they each knew what the other was thinking.

There was a whooshing crack of a roar and Ed’s eyes were just able to track the path of the Spike as the rocket sped from the adjacent apartment towards the tank squatting in the middle of the distant intersection.

He stood up, George rising beside him, and lined the sights on the tank to the right even as he saw an explosion batter the tank to the left. George fired the grenade launcher beside him, the THOOMPF loud in the room, the windows before them shattering with a crescendo. As planned George was taking aim at one of the IMPs. Ed depressed the safety on the rocket launcher with his two middle fingers, checked his sights were on the tank’s turret just above the main gun, and smoothly pressed the trigger with his thumb. He was so focused on his task the sound of the rocket roaring out of the tube on his shoulder seemed quiet.

Ed tossed the empty launch tube to the side and grabbed the second Spike sitting ready beside him on the arms of a chair. It had already been prepped with the safety pin pulled and the sights deployed. He pressed it hard against his shoulder, depressed the red safety lever with his two middle fingers, and only as he was aiming at the Toad did he take a fraction of a second to eye the tank. He could see scorch marks on the turret, so he’d scored a hit, but whether he’d destroyed the sighting unit or managed to puncture the armor on the top of the turret, or both, or neither, he had no idea. He aimed at the same place, the top of the turret just above the main gun, and carefully pressed the trigger with his thumb.

This time the rocket seemed louder and he was aware of just how much dust filled the air of the apartment around him as the rocket’s exhaust, as it leapt from the tube, battered the walls. He dropped the spent tube to the floor and kicked it away, then grabbed his rifle hanging across his chest by its sling. Beside him George had fired all six grenades, and was busy reloading with his last two AP rounds. He also had two standard HE rounds. Ed had heard additional rockets being fired from the apartment next door but he’d been too focused on his task to count, so he didn’t know if they’d fired every rocket yet. They’d allocated three Spikes per tank, and George had been tasked with the IMPs, four AP grenades each.

Over the top of his rifle Ed eyed the tanks. There was smoke shooting out of the top of the tank on the right, the one at which he’d fired his rockets. It was too far away to tell for sure, but he thought he saw a hole in the top of the turret. As for the tank on the left… he saw a hatch pop open and a helmeted man stick his head and shoulders out. The Tab put his hands on the big belt-fed machine gun in front of him.

“Contact front!” Ed shouted, hopefully loud enough for his voice to carry up and down the hallway. “Machine gun!” Before he’d finished shouting his warning the man in the tank had begun firing. Ed dove to the ground to the floor pulling George down with him.

The bullets thudded into the walls behind them, the sounds of the bullets impacting drywall and wood seemingly as loud as the distant gun firing. More of the Tab soldiers opened up, the chattering of their weapons accompanied by the sound of bullets hitting around him and smacking the front of the building.

Lying on his side on the floor George finished reloading the grenade launcher. Ed rose up onto one knee and peered out the window. As he did, he saw the main gun on the still-functioning tank swing over toward him.

“Incoming!” he screamed. He grabbed George by the collar and gave him a yank as he rose to his feet and lunged toward the door. As he reached the doorway the entire building shuddered as the high-explosive tank round hit somewhere close. He fell to his knees but was back up instantly as dust fell from the ceiling. “Where’d that hit?” he started to say.

George hurled himself through the doorway and body slammed Ed into the wall as Sarah and Harris bailed out of their apartment as well. As he bounced off the wall and fell to his knees Ed saw Harris had a Spike tube in his hands.

“That thing still hot?” Ed asked him.

“Yeah,” Harris replied, “I wasn’t fast enough on the trigger.”

“No time like the fucking present,” George growled at him.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Harris said. “Backblast!” he called out, running into the apartment he’d just vacated. As Harris shouldered the rocket launcher Sarah looked past him through the open doorway. She saw the main gun of the Toad traversing once again, seemingly swinging over to point directly at them.

“Displace!” she screamed, running left, away from the men and around the corner. Ed and George had just turned to run in the opposite direction when the BANGWHOOSH of Harris’s Spike roasted the drywall and filled the air with fresh particles, the sound followed almost immediately by a huge explosion that tossed them to the floor and covered them with debris.

“You can see the difference between the up-armored and the regular Growlers,” Mark told Jason as they waited for the signal, crouched in the dim apartment. He pointed out the windows, the two of them keeping back from the glass and being very careful to stay down and move slowly. The last thing they needed was to get spotted by the Tab forces not quite two hundred yards away.

“Yeah,” Jason said, squinting. The windows on the up-armored Growlers looked like glass boxes clamped to the doors.

“Looks like about half those Growlers aren’t armored,” Mark said. “When the shooting starts you hammer them,” he told the teenager. “As fast as you can, put rounds into the passenger compartment, front seat, back seat, whatever, they’re probably full of troops. Once the action starts the vehicles might take off, or the soldiers may bail out of the vehicles. You shoot, and you just keep shooting,” Mark told him. “How many magazines do you have?”

“Six here,” Jason said, gesturing at his at the mag pouches across his chest, “and at least as many in my pack. Plus the one in the gun.”

Mark nodded approvingly. “Well you just keep shooting until I tell you otherwise, or there’s nothing left to shoot at.”

“What are you going to do about the armored Growlers?”

“The passenger compartments are armored. And the underside, against bombs. But there’s no armor on the sides or front of the engine compartment, and the tires are just tires. They used to be fitted with run-flat tires at the start of the war, but we trashed all of those. You’ve got to park that thing sometime, right? Well, you pour gas on ‘em, run-flats burn just as well as regular tires. Now, maybe only one in four tires on a Growler has that run-flat insert. So I can’t kill the guys in them… but I’m going to kill the shit out of the vehicles.”

When the lady Sergeant fired the first rocket Jason heard the noise more behind him echoing down the hall then he did outside through the glass. Almost immediately Mark began firing his belt-fed SAW, the gun set up on a counter in the middle of the studio apartment. Jason fired a few times, but the red dot of his optic was bouncing around so much he didn’t think he was hitting anything. He backed up to the open doorway of the apartment and braced his left forearm against the door frame. That steadied him greatly and he was able to direct his fire much more accurately at the Growlers on the far side of the freeway.

Between his carbine and Mark’s belt-fed the noise was incredible. He couldn’t tell if his rounds were having any effect at first. He fired about a dozen times at one Growler turned broadside to his position, peppering the front and rear side door windows with bullets. He then swung over two vehicles, to the next unarmored Growler, and began putting rounds through its windshield. Compared to his Marlin lever action the military carbine barely had any recoil. He saw movement inside the vehicle and it started to roll. He directed his fire more carefully toward the driver as the Growler accelerated north up the southbound service drive. His bolt locked back on an empty magazine but the vehicle continued north, still accelerating.

Jason heard an explosion and felt the floor shake under him. When he got a fresh magazine inserted and closed the bolt he looked over to see the hallway filled with people. Then he realized someone had shouted “Displace” over the sound of Mark’s SAW, but it wasn’t until afterward that the words registered on his brain. There was another explosion, this one much closer, and the entire apartment rumbled around them and the hallway was filled with clattering debris.

\Set up in the northwest corner apartment Renny fired and worked the bolt. He knew he’d broken the trigger cleanly but he didn’t know what kind of deflection the window glass would cause to the bullet, if any. As soon as he worked the bolt he was back focused through his scope, looking at the IMP’s roof gunner. The man was still there and just starting to fire the big fifty-caliber machine gun atop the armored personnel carrier. Renny unfocused his vision enough around his rifle scope to see that the big Hornady bullet had blown a foot-wide hole through both panes of the double window, so he no longer had to worry about glass deflection, at least in that direction.

He settled back behind the gun, got the crosshairs steady on the gunner’s neck, and pulled the trigger once again. He worked the bolt smoothly and was back on the gun almost before it was done recoiling. He saw the soldier was now slumped over the big machine gun, bright red blood everywhere.

Renny swung his rifle over to the first unarmored Growler he saw. The vehicle was facing him but at an angle. Renny fired and the remainder of the window glass in front of him blasted away. Through the scope he saw the window glass had deflected his bullet and it had hit two feet to the left near the edge of the Growler’s windshield. He was back on target in an instant, tried to quiet his body, and stroked the trigger. The big gun bucked and a white spot appeared in the glass right in front of the Growler’s driver.

Renny worked the bolt and swung back to the IMP. There was a Tab atop it trying to wrestle the body of his fallen comrade out from behind the fifty cal. Renny’s shot took him below his armor through his hips and the man fell back atop the big vehicle screaming.

Renny pulled the bolt to the rear, dropped his spent magazine, and grabbed a fresh one. It was only then that he became aware of all of the incoming fire. Tabs had bailed out of the other IMP and several of the Growlers and were firing in his direction. Then there was a massive explosion nearby and shouts to displace. He recognized Ed’s voice.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Ed struggled to his hands and knees, hearing the chatter of Mark’s SAW as the man fired short controlled bursts from the nearby apartment. The other members of his squad were firing rapid semi-auto shots, and the noise was tremendous. He looked over his shoulder through the debris-laden air. The apartment where Harris had been standing when he fired the Spike was simply gone.

Even though he knew he should have gotten the hell out of there Ed grabbed his binoculars and quickly scanned the distant intersection. Harris must have hit his mark because the tank which had fired at them was slowly rolling off at an angle. Not only wasn’t the presumed commander visible in the open hatch, both he and the machine gun he’d been firing were simply… gone. The open hatch was both blackened and spattered with something gooey. Ed suppressed a shudder. Both tanks seemed to be out of commission and one of the IMPs was very visibly damaged. The other had two bodies draped over the roof gun. The Growlers were being soundly chewed up by small arms fire. A few seem to be disabled and several had their windows shot out; the remainder were scrambling, some racing north and some south. It seemed the perfect time to get the hell out of Dodge before the enemy regrouped.

“Toads down, IMPs down, let’s get the fuck out of here!” Ed shouted, glancing once more at the gaping wound in the face of the building where an apartment used to be. He saw dark speckles on the walls that might have been Harris. “Go go go!” he yelled down the hall where he could see Early and Sarah. She’d run halfway down the building to get away from the incoming Toad shell. “Grab Quentin,” he shouted at Early and the man gave him a thumbs up. “Let’s go,” Ed told George and Weasel and they ran down the hallway.

Ed saw Jason, braced against the doorway for shooting but looking their direction. Ed grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him down the hallway. “We’re leaving,” he told the young man. Then he looked into the apartment. “Let’s get while the getting’s good,” he shouted to Mark.

“I heard that.”

George ran to the last apartment. “Time to move,” he told Renny.

The men pounded down the northwest stairwell, guns up, but reached the ground floor without incident. Right outside the stairwell entrance on the north side of the building was a Growler. Weasel checked it—not only were the doors open, but the keys were in the vehicle.

“Can we all fit in?” Ed asked. Just then they all heard a sound, and looked up.

“Motherfucker,” Weasel spat.

“Mark, on me!” George shouted. The grizzled veteran pointed at the remainder of the squad, his face stony. “You stay here.” Then he took off at a run, Mark on his heels.

Early and Sarah ran to Quentin and they went down the stairwell together. Quentin was in the lead, bouncing down the dimly-lit stairs, and as he came around a corner a soldier in camouflage fatigues popped out of the third-floor door and fired a burst at nearly point-blank range. Quentin went down with a yell.

Early, coming around the corner right behind him, fired four rounds from the hip and the soldier flipped backwards through the doorway, his face suddenly gone.

“Oh no, no, no,” Early said, kneeling down beside Quentin. Sarah knelt on the other side of them.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Quentin said wheezing, but the spreading red on the concrete floor underneath him told a different story. His skin already looked ashy from blood loss.

“Let’s go, let’s get him up,” Early said, and started to lift him.

Sarah stopped him. “No, I’ve got to bandage this here,” she said, and her tone stopped Early. He held Quentin’s quivering hand as she pulled out a packet of gauze and fought to pack his wound under his armor plates and webgear. The bullet had gone in at an angle by his left shoulder, just missing the edge of his armor. She checked, but there was no exit wound. She grabbed a compress and pressed it down over the packed wound, which was still bleeding heavily.

“Do what you can, darlin’, but we’ve got to move,” Early said softly.

“Leave me,” Quentin said through gritted teeth.

“You shut up, you,” Early told him.

Sarah realized there wasn’t much more she could do, not in a dim stairwell. His body armor would help hold the compress in place, and that would have to do. Together she and Early dragged Quentin to his feet and started moving down the stairs once again, holding the wounded man up by his shoulders. They reached the ground floor and roughly shoved through the exterior door, looking around wildly. They saw a Growler by the far corner of the building and the other members of the squad were between it and the building. Early saw the Growler’s door was open and just from the body language of the men by it, the men he’d fought alongside for so many years, he knew that it was drivable.

“This way,” he told Sarah. “Wounded get to ride in luxury.” They were halfway to the vehicle, struggling to hold up Quentin who seemed to be fading fast, when Early saw his squadmates scatter, most heading back inside. A familiar sound echoed off the parking lot asphalt. He traded a frowning glance with Sarah.

“Kestrel,” she grunted unhappily.

“What happened?” Weasel asked from behind the wheel of the Growler as they arrived.

“He fucking got shot,” Sarah snapped at him.

“Well, get him in the back,” Weasel said, not perturbed at all by being yelled at. He looked out the windshield. There were slopes on both sides of the freeway from the service drives down to the freeway itself and they were wildly overgrown with grass, shrubs, and trees. At ground level the far service drive, and the Tab vehicles there, weren’t visible at all. Which meant the Tabs couldn’t see the Growler he was sitting in, although Weasel was well aware of their drone above his head. He spotted the Kestrel to the west, doing a loop high above the damaged Toads and IMPs. He was torn between driving away—where he’d be sure to be targeted by the helicopter—and running back into the building, cornered once again. A glance at the door showed him the rest of his squad hunkered down in the stairwell, Ed looking as indecisive as he felt.

The interior of the police station smelled like a mildewy barbecue pit. The fire which had roared through it at some point in the past had seriously damaged the building. Most of the interior seem to be shades of grey.

“Where the fuck are the stairs?” Ed said, looking around.

“Over there,” Mark said, pointing.

As they reached the third floor the noise of the Kestrel was briefly loud above them as it made a pass right over the building. As they reached an office on the west side of the former police precinct they saw the Kestrel hovering five hundred feet above the damaged Tab column. It rotated in their direction and immediately fired two rockets. Both men threw themselves to the floor as the rockets headed straight toward them.

The rockets passed over the police station and exploded against the sixth floor of the apartment building they’d just vacated. The Kestrel wasn’t hovering in one place, the pilot didn’t want to make a target of himself or his aircraft, it was moving back and forth, side to side, and doing small circles, almost like an impatient man pacing.

Both men on their knees, Mark looked at George, and then down at the grenade launcher in his hands. “You really think you can hit that bird with that?” he said dubiously.

“I’ve got to try,” George responded. He looked out and saw the far service drive was busy with activity now that the Tabs had air cover. Bodies were being pulled out of vehicles, and the wounded were being treated and placed into the back of one IMP. Several Growlers had laagered up around it.

There was a huge roar like a giant zipper and both men looked to see the Kestrel firing its mini-gun. The thirty-caliber bullets chewed up the apartment building behind them at fifty rounds a second. Every fifth round was a tracer so it looked as if there was a laser beam extending from the helicopter over their heads.

“I wish it was closer,” George admitted.

“I don’t,” Mark shot back.

“I mean so I can hit it,” George growled. He wondered if there was some way to sucker the helicopter in closer to them, but this pilot seemed a bit too cautious for that, he was hammering the apartment building from hundreds of yards away, at least five hundred feet in the air, while keeping the bird more or less constantly moving.

The men didn’t know it but what they were looking at was the only functioning Kestrel left in the city, all the others had been successfully destroyed, and the pilot had no wish for his aircraft to join the disabled list.

“Do you have a full belt in there?” George asked.

Mark shook his head. “No, but I can swap it out.” And he proceeded to do just that. “What’s the plan?”

“The plan is none of us are getting away from here alive while that bird’s still in the air. I know it’s hardened against small arms fire but between the four grenades I’ve got and a full two-hundred-round belt from you I’m hoping we can scare it away or damage it enough to put it on the ground. But the longer we take to do it,” he said, pointing out at the Tab’s ground forces, “the better chance they’ll have of getting their act together and coming over here and kicking our ass.”

George grabbed his radio. “Theodore, give us one minute, we’re going to try to down the bird.”

“Copy,” Ed responded.

George stared out at the bobbing and weaving helicopter as Mark fed the SAW a fresh belt. Any one of the four grenades in his launcher was more than powerful enough to down the bird… if he could just hit it. The problem was the rounds were relatively slow, at least compared to bullets, and had very curving trajectories. Hitting a moving target whose distance could only be guessed at would be hard as hell, maybe as much a matter of luck as skill. He eyed the maneuvering aircraft. While it never stopped moving, the pilot seemed to be swooping back and forth in the same pattern. He squinted and tried to do the math in his head—the Kestrel was roughly five hundred feet in the air and maybe two hundred yards out, so what would be the distance to it? After a moment of indecision he adjusted the optic on his grenade launcher for 275 yards. And the flight time would be two, maybe even three seconds. How far would the helicopter move in that amount of time?

“We don’t down it fast, it’s going to eat our lunch,” Mark warned. There was a loud metal slap. “I’m good to go.” He was set up on an overturned desk.

George looked at the big man beside him in his shorts and glorious middle-finger-to-fashion Hawaiian shirt and gave him a nod and a smile. “Then go fast, and don’t suck.” He took a deep breath. “On my go. Burn out that fucking barrel. And don’t forget to lead that bird.” He suddenly looked around, and scrambled backward to a second desk. On his knees behind it he braced the elbow of his support hand atop the desk and aimed out the empty window frame. Much steadier. Still, the distant helicopter looked small as a sparrow.

George picked a spot in the air, took up most of the weight in the trigger, and waited for the right moment. When it came he broke the trigger and the stubby grenade launcher bucked in his hands. Mark let loose with the SAW, the full-auto roar deafening in the small room. George didn’t wait, he found his spot and fired again, and again, and again, while Mark never let up off the trigger.

As he dropped the launcher from his shoulder it seemed to George that he could see his last two grenades arcing through the air, they were so slow, rising up, then dropping toward the distant helicopter. The first two had clearly already missed, and the third one dropped through the air fifty feet from the Kestrel, which abruptly jerked as the pilot reacted to Mark’s incoming fire. The helicopter slid sideways through the air… right into the last grenade, which exploded against the side of the fuselage with a huge flash. The bird went spinning sideways, trailing a thick cloud of smoke, and went down in the middle of the Lodge freeway.

“Fuck yeah!” Mark shouted, exultant.

George blinked. He was shocked that it had worked.

Then the Tab who had just finished removing the bodies of his dead comrades from around the fifty-caliber machine gun on the roof of the IMP, jumped behind the gun and opened up on the top floor of the police station.

The massive bullets slammed through the walls in a hail of metal. George made to dive out the open doorway but an impact flipped him sideways and as he spun around and hit the floor he saw Mark falling backward, the air between them filled with flying debris.

Ed had taken a knee just inside the door and was staring out at the Growler as they waited. Sarah was with Quentin in the back seat of the vehicle working on his wound. Her hands were bright red with blood.

Inside the apartment building they couldn’t hear the grenade launcher, but the ripping sound of Mark’s SAW was unmistakable. He got on the trigger and didn’t let up until he’d fired at least a hundred rounds.

George came over the radio. “Bird is down,” he said, coughing, his voice weak. “Go.”

“What’s your ETA?”

“Don’t wait for us,” George responded.

“Fuck that,” Ed said, but not over the radio. He stood up and pushed through the doorway. He started barking orders. “Renny, get in there,” he said, pointing at the front seat of the Growler. “Weasel, you get the fuck out of here. See if you can get Quentin up to the hospital on One Way, then scatter. Early, Jason, on me, we’re getting George and Mark. Nobody fucking gets left behind. Ditch your radios so they can’t track you.”

“See you when I see you,” Weasel said, then slammed the driver’s door. Renny jogged around the back of the Growler and tried to figure out how to fit himself and his big rifle inside the vehicle.

“You hang in there,” Early called out to Quentin, traded a look with Sarah, then shut the back door on them. The Growler took off with a start and headed north through the parking lot.

Ed had ditched his single-shot grenade launcher when he’d given the last of his rounds to George. He felt unburdened and fast on his feet as he ran behind the McDonald’s and through the rear door of the police precinct. “Mark! George!” he called out, but heard no response.

“Gotta be up,” Early said.

Ed nodded and they found the stairs in short order. It made sense that the two men would be on the top floor and as they reached that hallway Ed heard a cough. “Theodore, coming in,” he called out.

“Stay low,” somebody croaked.

They found the two men in an office that appeared to have been fed through a wood chipper. Mark was sitting on the floor, back propped against a wall, a pained look on his face. When Ed started toward him Mark waved him off and pointed to George.

George was on his back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. His intestines had been blown sideways out of his body and stretched ropily across six feet of floor. But, somehow, he was still alive. Ed knelt down beside him. Behind them Jason’s eyes were wide, his face green. Early’s face was expressionless.

George’s eyes slid over to look at Ed. Then he rolled his eyes. “You never did listen,” he said, his voice little better than a croak.

“Who gives the orders here?” Ed said, trying to smile, but it died on his face.

George saw the effort. “Had a good run,” he croaked. “Been fighting… since day one. Did… my best.”

“You did,” Ed agreed, nodding.

“I’m sorry… I…,” George said, and then was gone, eyes forever fixed at something far ahead.

“Fuck,” Ed sobbed, tears dropping onto George’s body. He sucked the snot back into his nose and wiped his face, blinked his eyes to clear them. He turned to Mark. “You hit?”

Mark made a face. His one leg was covered in blood below the knee, but it was dried blood. And there didn’t seem to be any other blood on him, although the Hawaiian shirt didn’t make it easy to spot stains. “Well, yes and no. Fifty, right in the edge of my plate. Bent it like it was tinfoil, think I’ve got a couple broken ribs. Was trying to catch my breath. Pretty sure I can walk.” He looked to his SAW, the barrel still smoking. “SAW’s done for. Took a round in the feed tray.”

Ed nodded, and coughed to clear his grief-constricted throat. “Take George’s carbine, he loved that thing. And some mags.” He began going through George’s pockets and the pouches on this gear, looking for whatever they didn’t want the Tabs to have. He unstrapped the sling from George’s Springfield AR and slid it across the floor, following it with half a dozen magazines.

Early was well back from the frame and kept to the shadows as he peered out the window toward the vehicles on the bridge. While they were hiding behind their vehicles, there were still a lot of soldiers out there. He sunk back down. “Cap’n, we need to go. And… not that way.”

Ed looked at Early, and the window, and nodded. “We’ll head south,” he said after some deliberation.

“South side’s pretty open, ain’t it, Cap’n?”

“Crossing the road it is, but then we’ve got a lot of buildings for cover,” Ed told him. “Why?” He detected a note in Early’s voice.

“We’ve got us an eager beaver over there on a roof gun,” Early told them.

“Think you can take care of that while I get Mark down to the ground floor?” Ed asked him. “Then you can join us for our dash?”

Early edged his eye past the window frame again and studied the scene. What was that, two hundred yards or so? He looked down at the M1A National Match in his hands. “Give me just a minute,” he said.

Ed looked down at George’s still face one last time, then patted the man’s chest. “Let’s go. Jason, help me grab this fashion tragedy.”

The two men grabbed Mark’s shoulder straps and dragged him out of the room with much groaning, then lifted the man to his feet in the hallway beyond. Jason went back into the room for George’s short-barrel carbine and magazines. A tumult of emotions raged through his body as he knelt by the man who had spent the most time trying to teach him what he’d need to know to survive.

“Jason?”

“Yeah, coming.” He had to put the sling over Mark’s shoulder, the man couldn’t lift his arm high enough to do it himself.

Early heard them go. He’d shot an M1A out to six hundred yards in High Power competition, but the farthest he’d ever shot this rifle in combat was maybe two hundred and fifty yards, and that was at scrambling targets of opportunity. This would be a precision shot. He huffed. Well, then, it was a good thing he’d been shooting a rifle since he was six.

Being careful not to make a target of himself Early looked around the shredded room but didn’t see anything the proper height on which he could rest his rifle. There was always the window frame, but he was not about to go forward and stick the end of his rifle out the window—might as well stick an I’M WITH STUPID bumper sticker on your forehead if you were going to do something dumb like that.

He backed up out of the room, pressed his left palm against the metal door frame, thumb out into the opening, and shouldered the big rifle. He cradled the scarred walnut forend between his index finger and thumb. He flicked off the safety with his fingertip and fought to get the narrow front sight in crisp focus through the rear aperture. His eyes weren’t near what they used to be… but they’d have to do.

Early would have preferred to be shooting prone or off a bench, but standing supported, especially supported against something immovable like a metal door frame, wasn’t too bad. In this position it wasn’t his heartbeat that was the major issue. It was his breathing.

He centered his front sight on the distant man’s head, which was no wider than his front sight, took a deep breath, and let half of it out, willing himself to stillness. He took up the slack on the trigger and watched his sights. There, there was the heartbeat making his sights twitch. His heartbeat was causing the front sight to bob high right, then dip low left, high right, then low left, and after every beat it would pause and re-center.

No need to rush. He took several more easy breaths, trying to slow his heart rate even further, then held his breath, pressed his finger against the trigger, adding about a pound of pressure, waited for the exact moment, and then pulled through the final pound of trigger weight in-between heartbeats.

The big rifle bucked in his hands, the empty case bouncing off the opposite side of the door frame, but his sight picture had been perfect, the trigger had broke clean—he knew it was a good hit even before he looked across the street and saw the speck of a man slumped face down behind the belt-fed.

Early didn’t have time to admire his work, but even so he was truly delighted with the shot, and scampered down the stairs like a much younger man. He was surprised there was no return fire. Perhaps, because it was just a single shot, they weren’t sure from where it had been fired.

“We good to go?” Ed asked as Early reached them. Mark was standing on his own but the pain was causing him to make faces.

“For the moment,” Early said. “They’ll probably want to stick somebody else up on that gun but we’ve got a tiny bit of free time.”

“We’ll go across the road two-by-two,” Ed told them, “and then bounding overwatch on the far side between the buildings.” He nodded at Mark. “I’ve got him, you two go first.”

Jason and Early were crouched low running across the narrow grassy median when a few wild shots cracked above their heads from the cluster of Tab vehicles. Jason hunched lower and ran faster, but the gunshots caused something unexpected.

Right in front of them was a low wall enclosing a parking lot and right before they reached it the Tab who’d taken cover behind it since his nearby IMP had been destroyed stood up, leveling his rifle in their direction. Whether he’d been hiding there, scared, or looking to ambush someone would forever be the question, but as he fired a quick burst past Jason’s ear the teenager on the run shoved his carbine at the man and fired four shots. Two hit their mark and the man went down backwards, arms akimbo.

Jason was too busy to be scared at how close he’d come to dying. He and Early took cover behind the same low wall, their eyes toward the congregation of Tab vehicles. There was no more shooting, and no one came running or driving their way. After a pause of about a minute, Ed and Mark dashed across the road as fast as they could. The gamut of expressions dancing across Mark’s face made it clear how much pain he was in, but he kept up with Ed. As soon as they were across the road Jason and Early pulled back and the foursome took cover in the alley between two buildings.

“Why aren’t they coming after us?” Jason asked as they waited for Mark to catch his breath. He’d peered around the corner but saw no sign of pursuit.

“Maybe they’ve decided to sit out the rest of the war,” Early drawled.

“They’ve got a lot of wounded to deal with,” Ed said. He nodded at Jason and Early to head out.

They jogged down the alley and took up positions on the far side. Beyond it was a big parking lot, then a lot full of collapsed, heavily vandalized U-Haul trucks, then a series of low attached buildings. They made it to the buildings without incident. Early shoved open a splintered door and they entered a tan brick edifice that appeared to have been used for light industrial machining back in the day. They were peering out the grimy front windows when someone called out behind them.

“Golf ball.”

The four men spun around and saw a figure silhouetted in the back door, hands up and empty.

“Who the fuck are you?” Jason said.

“Outlier,” Seattle replied. “What’s left of it.” He had a long suppressed rifle slung across his chest. “Why are you heading this way?” He’d been working his way north and west.

“Because north is out,” Ed replied. “Lot of pissed off people. We need to cross over the freeway without any more drama and disappear.” He pointed out the dirty window. Across the street was an old office building dating from the 1930s, a cube of red brick. “Far side of that building, isn’t there railroad tracks, and a bridge over the freeway?”

“Yeah, but they’ve got drones up,” the man told them.

Ed didn’t think they had a lot of options. “They can’t be everywhere at once, and I don’t know how long they want to follow us. I’m thinking instead of wasting their time following a handful of guys they’ll keep their eyes on those tall buildings until they make sure that there aren’t more of us hiding in them. If we can get far enough away I want to head north and jump back in that Six Mile Relief sewer line, then the drone won’t matter.”

Seattle shrugged. “Better than my plan.”

“What’s your plan?” Jason asked him.

“Try not to get shot.”

“That’s a good plan too,” Mark said, listing slightly. “Wish I’d thought of that.”

Weasel wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and the Tabs they’d so violently molested, as quickly as possible, so he considered jumping on the Lodge Freeway and taking it north. However, he had concerns. The first was he knew the freeway was an “approved travel corridor” through the city. While that meant it would be relatively clear of debris and abandoned vehicles, it also meant they’d have a much higher chance of encountering additional Tab forces in their own vehicles, which was the last thing he wanted. The second was that it angled too far to the west.

As he floored the Growler and it took off through the parking lot he tried to pull up the map of the city he had in his head after years of crawling around its ruins. The hospital was on One Way, Woodward Avenue, maybe ten miles north of where he was, and Woodward was just a quarter mile or so to his east, but he wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to take that street all the way up. It was wide open. He knew if there were any Tab forces in the area, or if there were any more surprise Kestrels in the air, that they’d be a juicy target roaring up Woodward.

Before he’d cleared the parking lot he decided to head north on the service drive to the next major north-south street, and take that up until it hit either the city limits or it ran into Woodward. “How’s he doing?” he shouted over his shoulder.

“I gave him a shot for pain but he’s still bleeding badly,” Sarah told him. “I’m afraid that if I don’t do something, go in there and try to stop the bleeding, that he’s going to die before we can get him to the hospital. How long will it take us to get there?”

Weasel barked with a bitter laugh. “Theoretically? Theoretically only ten or fifteen minutes, but who the fuck knows, we’ve got the whole city after us. I thought RoadRunner took out all the Kestrels, so I’m afraid of what we’re going to run into around the next corner, you know?”

Diesel engine of the Growler roaring loudly, Weasel swerved around potholes and random piles of rubble in the street. Sarah was still atop Quentin trying to tend to his wounds and was being tossed around the back seat.

“Can you drive any smoother?” she yelled at him as Weasel veered widely around a twelve-foot motor boat upside down in the middle of the street.

He turned his head to stare at the boat as it went by then shook his head. “This fucking city, man,” he mumbled. “Yeah, I’ll try,” he called back to her. Out the windshield maybe a quarter mile up there was an intersection with dark traffic lights hanging inert above it. He wasn’t positive but he thought he’d be able to turn right on that street and take it north almost as far as he needed to go. And it was a much more minor road than Woodward, so maybe they’d avoid detection.

“Tabs!” Renny suddenly shouted, pointing across Weasel’s chest.

Weasel looked out his side window and saw another Growler pacing them on the opposite service drive. “He’s driving the wrong way,” Weasel said. “He’s gonna get a ticket.”

He stomped the accelerator harder, hoping that he could somehow outrun the other Growler. Everyone in the vehicle had eyes on the vehicle across the freeway, which is why they didn’t see another Growler race up behind them. They didn’t hear its roaring engine until it was nearly on top of them, and then it rammed them in an attempt to make them crash.

“Shit!” Weasel shouted as the wheel twisted in his hands, but he kept control of the vehicle. “Shoot those fuckers!” he shouted, looking at Renny, but Renny was at a loss. He wouldn’t be able to bring his big rifle into play unless he opened his door. It stretched from the floor to the roof.

“Give me your subgun,” Renny said, reaching out for it.

“It’s on a sling,” Weasel told him.

“Sarah,” Renny said, fumbling with the MP5, trying to figure out how to unhook the complicated sling, “keep them busy.” The Growler shuttered under another impact and went briefly up on two wheels. Renny bounced away from Weasel against his door.

“Shit,” she swore, but stopped trying to tend to Quentin and grabbed her suppressed SBR with blood-slick hands. The Growler was right behind them, racing up to ram them once again. Sarah flipped her selector to auto and did a full mag dump into the windshield of the pursuing Growler. The Growler was armored, but her accurate fire so unnerved the driver that he swung the wheel to the side in a blind panic, barely able to see out of the spider-webbed armored glass in front of him.

In his panic the soldier was able to do accidentally what he’d been trying to do on purpose—the front bumper of his vehicle clipped the rear of the vehicle in front of him. The back wheels of Weasel’s Growler lost their grip. The Growler swung into a long sideways slide, the tires shrieking. Just as it seemed the Growler was going to come to a stop the tires hooked on the edge of a pothole and the vehicle flipped, almost in slow motion, landing heavily on its roof.

For all of its faults, and all the complaints the soldiers voiced about it, the Growler was a robust vehicle and the roof did not collapse. It was, however, deformed and all of the windows cracked. The pursuing vehicle skidded to a stop, then the driver threw it in reverse and backed up fifty feet. He opened the door and got out because he couldn’t see anything through his bullet-pocked windshield. He grabbed his rifle, shouldered it, and emptied a magazine on full auto into the side and undercarriage of the flipped Growler.

“Fucking traitor bitches!” he swore as the two other soldiers in his Growler got out, their rifles ready.

There was no movement in the flipped Growler and as the soldier walked toward it he grabbed at a fresh magazine for his rifle.

“Don’t get too close, jackass,” one of his companions told him.

The soldier, after fumbling about a bit, got the fresh magazine into the magazine well of his rifle, and looked over his shoulder at the other two men. “Fuck off, Willie. You haven’t seen shit, you just got to this damn city.”

He hit the release and the bolt slammed forward with a manly authoritative thunk. The soldier turned back to the flipped vehicle with the intention of putting another magazine into it, then he all at once screamed, dropped his rifle, and fell to the ground, clutching at his ankle, which was now a mass of bone splinters and blood. The other two soldiers hadn’t heard anything and they looked at each other and back at the screaming third of their group in confusion. That gave Renny enough time to line up his sights through the fractured rear side window at another of the soldiers. He fired his Glock three times. The broken glass of the window door deflected his first bullet but the other two found their mark. The soldier fell to the ground dead. The third man fired a wild burst at the overturned Growler as he dove behind his own vehicle.

The Growler which had been paralleling Weasel on the far side of the freeway finally raced up, having discovered the first overpass where they’d tried to cross blocked by wrecked vehicles. It stopped fifty feet on the opposite side of the overturned vehicle.

As the second Growler was pulling up Weasel was finally able to extricate himself from the steering wheel. After three savage kicks he managed to force open his door far enough to wriggle his way out on his back. Bleeding from cuts on his face and hands, and confident he had several broken ribs and maybe a fractured bone in his left arm, Weasel extended the stock of his MP5 with a yank as he got to his feet.

His thumb flipped down the selector level lever as his sights cleared the top of the overturned vehicle. The Growler which had just arrived, he was glad to see, was not armored, and he emptied his entire magazine into the windshield, working it from one side to the other. Then he ducked down as the remaining man of the trio which had flipped his vehicle popped up to fire at him.

As he deftly reloaded his MP5 Weasel said to Renny, “Can you get out of there?”

“I’m trying,” the old man said, but he was wedged between the seat and the door by his rifle. Weasel didn’t have time to look in the back seat to check the status of Sarah or Quentin, but neither of them was making any noise.

Fresh mag in his subgun Weasel crabwalked four feet to the side before popping up again and firing a long burst before even looking to see where the Tabs might be. His first long burst had killed the driver, so the vehicle hadn’t moved. One of the other soldiers was trying to wrestle his companion from behind the wheel. Weasel swung his submachine gun over and emptied the remainder of the magazine into the man through the door. The armor-piercing ammo did its job and the young soldier fell to the ground, screaming.

Weasel ducked back down, reloading once again. “Weaver!” he shouted. “Sergeant Sarah Weaver, what the fuck are you doing?” His shouting was rewarded with a low groan. Bullets spanged off the Growler above his head as at least two of the soldiers fired at him.

Still crouched down behind his overturned vehicle he fired blindly over the top at the two other Growlers, short bursts to keep their heads down. Then he heard a loud thud seemingly inches from his head. He straightened up enough to see over the top of the Growler and there, sitting on the vehicle’s frame inches from his face, was a grenade. Without thinking he reflexively grabbed it and threw it at the Growler which had flipped them over.

It seemed he’d barely ducked back behind his cover before the grenade exploded. Weasel instinctively charged toward that Growler, knowing that by using his overturned vehicle for cover he was just drawing more incoming fire toward the wounded people inside it. The Tabs behind him fired at his fleeing form, and he heard the bullets whipping past his head but he didn’t slow down. He didn’t see the soldier on the far side of the Growler he was running toward, so he hoped that it was mutual and the soldier hadn’t seen him leave his cover either.

Weasel ran around the back of the vehicle, using it to shield himself from the other soldiers and came around the back of it with his MP5 up. The soldier was just turning toward him, having heard something. Weasel fired a burst into the man’s groin and as he collapsed to the ground screaming he finished him off with a two-round burst to the face.

He now had some distance from the other combatants, and better cover, as this Growler, sitting on its wheels, stood higher off the ground. At that thought his eyes opened wide and a half second later he had dropped to his stomach on the pavement behind the boxy vehicle. Growlers were designed to go anywhere. That meant not only were they four-wheel drive, but they had excellent ground clearance.

Weasel could see underneath his vehicle, across sixty feet of cracked asphalt, and underneath the other vehicle where he saw the two soldiers’ boots. The MP5’s magazine was too long to use from a traditional prone position, as Weasel had learned long ago while trying to hide behind a curb from incoming fire. He rolled over onto his side, pulled the MP5 tight against his shoulder, laid the front sight on the leftmost leg that he saw, and pulled the trigger. The remaining twenty-four rounds in the magazine sprayed out of the gun on full auto and he used the recoil to work the muzzle across the underside of the far Growler.

The two soldiers fell to the ground screaming but Weasel found himself with an empty submachine gun and in an awkward position from which to try and reload it. He rolled to one side, grabbed his M&P out of its holster, punched out in a two-handed grip underneath the Growler, and started pulling the trigger as fast as he could at the two thrashing men. By the time the slide locked back on an empty magazine the men had stopped moving.

Weasel reloaded both his weapons behind cover then advanced to the far vehicle in a dash. As he suspected both the soldiers there were dead. By the time he got back to his vehicle Renny had managed to untangle himself from his big rifle and crawled out Weasel’s door. He pulled his rifle out after him while Weasel wrestled with the rear door of the vehicle, finally scraping it open against the pavement.

Sergeant Sarah Weaver was alive, but he still got a fright because she was covered in blood. A quick check showed him that it wasn’t her blood. Quentin, the man with whom Weasel had shared maybe a thousand days under fire, was dead, his skin nearly gray from blood loss. “Dammit, Q,” Weasel swore. Biting back the sadness and anger he checked what pockets he could reach for personal items.

Sarah had taken a bad hit to her head and was disoriented. It took Weasel a good minute to get her out of the back seat while Renny covered them with his rifle. Weasel half-carried the muscular woman to the late-arriving Growler. He wrestled her into the back seat, then pulled the driver he’d killed out from behind the wheel.

The windshield in front of him was mostly shot out but the vehicle was otherwise undamaged. Weasel took a sharp U-turn and headed north on the service drive, then cut west across the first open overpass, more intent than ever to get the hell away from the area. A corner of his mind had registered Quentin’s death, but he didn’t have time to grieve for the man now, that would have to come later.

“There’s another Growler back there,” Renny said, looking out the back window.

“What?” Weasel’s hearing was mostly blown out from shooting underneath the Growler. Everything was ringing.

“Growler!” Renny shouted.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Weasel spat. He already had the Growler at an unsafe speed whipping through the debris-filled streets of the city. “See if you can grab her rifle, yours is useless in this car.” Weasel quickly glanced at Renny and caught the man’s eye. “Nice work with that Glock,” he told the man. “You saved our asses.”

Renny just grunted as he bent over the seats and tried to figure out how to unhook Sarah’s suppressed carbine from the sling around her body.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

They’d made it to the railroad tracks, used them to cross the freeway, and jogged nearly a mile northwest. They’d moved out of the commercial zone and into a residential area with abundant tree cover and very few houses left standing, so Ed thought they were in the clear. Then he heard the roar of multiple engines. Ahead and behind them.

“Contact front!” Early yelled as a Growler stopped in the intersection ahead of them, a four-way stop in the middle of a neighborhood half-consumed by nature. The Growler was up-armored. From the sound of the other vehicles coming up behind them they were trying to box in the dogsoldiers. Early took cover behind a brick porch and began firing, his big rifle barking loudly. He’d fired ten well-aimed rounds before the soldiers inside the vehicle realized what he was doing. By the time the driver threw the vehicle into reverse Early had shredded the two tires facing him, and he moved his sights upward. Armored windows degraded from UV light, and this late in the war sometimes they got lucky. None of Early’s bullets penetrated the driver’s door window, but he got the Growler to reverse out of sight as fast as it had arrived.

Jason saw Tabs on foot behind them, the soldiers having bailed from pursuing Growlers. The camouflage-clad men were utilizing the half-collapsed homes for cover as they moved up. Using the brick corner of a house for protection he fired at them when he could see them, but they kept darting from cover to cover.

“Come on, move!” Ed shouted at him, grabbing at his arm. “We can’t stand and fight.” He fired as Jason ran past him. They were outnumbered, facing at least three vehicles by the sound of it, plus who knew how many Tabs on foot. The only chance they had was to keep running and gunning, and hopefully break contact.

Early and Mark were on the far side of the street, running north. One would stop and fire at targets of opportunity as the other darted for the next cover—house, tree, car, whatever would stop a bullet. Seattle was somewhere ahead of them, out of sight.

Jason was kneeling behind a pile of bricks that used to be a porch as Ed ran past him. Jason fired left and right, at enemy soldiers moving through houses and behind them through the overgrown yards. He heard another Growler—it seemed to be on the next street over, paralleling them.

On the north side of the few houses still left standing on the block were overgrown lots that had been vacant for decades. Early and Mark ran blindly into a patch of urban forest, hearing the Tabs firing perhaps a hundred yards behind them. They put on as much speed as they could, trying to increase distance, branches and leaves whipping their faces.

Ed glanced up into the sky, gasping for breath. The Tabs must have a drone up there, and were calling out their movements. But there had to be some transmission delay from the drone operator to the troops on the ground. As he Ed ran up to Jason, who was crouched against a small apartment building using a rusty Pontiac for cover, he didn’t go flying by him as usual. He grabbed Jason’s shoulder and pointed. The two of them ran behind the apartment building, across a completely overgrown alley, and into the narrow gap between two houses.

As they neared the front of the houses the sound of the Growler paralleling them grew loud. Ed peered around the corner and through a wildly overgrown privet bush caught glimpses of the Growler in the middle of the street sixty feet away, rolling straight toward them.

Ed frantically motioned to Jason and flattened his back against the side of the house. Jason pulled back against the opposite house, maybe six feet away. Ed’s eyes shot upward. There was a narrow slot of sky above him, but he didn’t see the drone, and even if it was up there they were in deep shadow.

“Grenade!” Ed hissed at Jason, pointing, then waved his hand. “I’m gonna do a thing, stay with me.” Jason grabbed the grenade hanging off the front of his webgear and tossed it over. Ed caught it, pulled the pin while keeping the lever depressed, and looked around the side of the house again. Then he spun out, let the lever fly, and tossed the grenade underhand.

It arced lazily through the air, bounced off the curb, then rolled out into the middle of the street, eight feet in front of the moving Growler. The engine block was directly over the grenade as it detonated, and the front of the vehicle jumped a foot from the blast. Ed charged out, Jason right on his heels.

As Ed tore across the lawn he saw the silhouettes of the men in the vehicle. They were stunned by the blast, but moving. The driver opened his door, retching, smoke pouring out. Ed shoved the muzzle of his rifle into the vehicle and emptied an entire magazine on full auto. Blood sprayed him in the face. Jason was beside him, firing into the back seat as fast as he could pull the trigger, not aware he was shouting. Then both men ducked reflexively as bullets whizzed by their heads. They looked and there were Tabs on foot at the end of the block south of them.

“Move!” Ed barked, and they ran back between the houses.

It was a good thing Weasel was already deaf from shooting underneath the car, because between the roaring diesel engine and the flat tire at the right rear going FLAPFLAPFLAP and Sarah shooting out the back window and the pursuing Tabs firing at them the noise was deafening.

“Are you firing blanks?” Weasel shouted.

“Fuck you, Gopher,” Sarah shot back as she dropped a spent magazine and reached for a fresh one. She was still a little groggy from the rollover, but the adrenaline seemed to be clearing that up quickly. “One of them’s armored.” And two Tabs were hanging from the open back windows of the other unarmored Growler, firing wildly at them. Weasel had to keep the vehicle swerving constantly to avoid the incoming fire.

“Go for the tires.”

“No shit.” She slapped the bolt release and got back up on her knees, aiming out the back window, which had mostly been blown out. She fired twice, the ejected cases bouncing off the ceiling and landing on the back seat, which was layered with spent cases. The Growler bounced angrily and she lost her balance. Then she was back up in the window, firing.

Weasel had taken so many corners he had no idea where he was. He’d been heading into a neighborhood when a second Growler had shown up and smashed into them, and he’d had to cut across a vacant lot, the vehicle bouncing so hard he hit his head on the roof. Now there were skyscrapers out the windshield and tall commercial buildings flying by to either side, which meant he was heading back toward downtown—the exact wrong fucking direction. He peered at the green and white street signs sliding by. Shit, was he on Woodward? How the hell did that happen?

Incoming fire thudded against their Growler. The other rear tire blew with a loud bang. “Fuck!” Weasel shouted in response. The vehicle slowed down even though he didn’t let off the accelerator.

“Sarah, you gotta make something happen!” he shouted. There was no response.

Renny, braced against the door and dash, looked over his shoulder. Sarah had tumbled up against one of the back doors, a dull look on her face, a hole in the middle of her forehead. “She’s down,” Renny told Weasel, his voice flat.

“What?” Weasel looked over his shoulder, but he couldn’t see her. “How bad is she?”

“She’s dead.”

The pursuing Growlers were right on his ass. His one tire had completely shredded itself and now the gunfire was accompanied by the shrieking sound of a wheel rim grinding against the cement.

“Dammit dammit dammit! Fuck! Can you get her gun?”

“She’s on top of it. It’ll take me five minutes crawling over the seats and bouncing around.”

“Fuck!” Weasel shouted again, pounding the steering wheel. He looked at Renny. “We gotta stop and make a stand, they’re just gonna keep chewing us up doing this.” Almost as if in response to his statement more bullets thudded into the passenger side of the Growler.

Renny grunted, and nodded. “I’m with you.”

Weasel studied the street ahead of them as he raced along. “When I stop you bail out your side and try to get to her rifle,” Weasel told him. “I’ll keep them busy. You got a knife? Might be quicker just to cut the sling to get it off her.”

There was a big building up ahead, two stories, which looked like an elementary school. Mark and Early broke from the tree line and ran toward it. Their panting was harsh. The grass in the playground was knee high and slowed them down. They were horribly exposed but had no other options—the Tabs were pushing up behind them through the small patch of wildlands, they’d lost sight of the rest of their squad, and weren’t about to take on an unknown-size force of Tabs with just the two of them and no cover but the narrow trunks of trees which probably wouldn’t stop the incoming rifle bullets anyway.

The two men were through the grass and running across the parking lot when bullets started whipping past their heads. They ducked and then dove behind a tan Toyota Tercel that seemed to be melting into the gravel lot. More bullets hit around them and they heard shouting.

Early was gasping for air and Mark was so out of breath he was seeing spots. They sucked in huge lungfuls of air, traded a look, then got up on their knees behind the car. A half dozen or more soldiers were spread out in a skirmish line, just exiting the trees, jogging their way. They seemed confident that they had the numbers, and they were right. Mark shouldered George’s little carbine and began firing shots, the red dot bouncing with each pull of the trigger. Beside him, Early’s big rifle boomed. Two of the soldiers dropped prone and began firing rapid semi-auto shots, two took their knees and used full-auto suppressive fire, and the remaining men sprinted for the cover of the playground equipment, closing the distance. Mark and Early ducked back behind the car as bullets hit all around them.

They traded another look. Mark was in too much pain from his ribs, too tired, and too out of breath to swear. He swung back around and fired rapidly at one of the kneeling soldiers forty yards away. He scored a hit and the man fell to the ground. Early was up, pounding rounds through his M1A. The two runners made it to the long grass of the playground and dove out of sight.

Suddenly there were whipping cracks above their head, but they sounded wrong. Mark and Early ducked back down, and looked behind them, at the school. “Move!” Seattle shouted from one of the second-floor windows, his voice echoing across the parking lot. He shouldered his scoped DMR and fired again at the soldiers, swinging his muzzle back and forth.

Thankful for the covering fire, Mark and Early got up and ran in a crouch to the back of the school, diving through the open doorway there as Seattle burned through the last of his magazine and dropped back from the window. He’d hit one, maybe two of the Tabs, which meant there were several more out there, close, and who knew how many in the block beyond.

Weasel roared up, then at the last minute stomped on the brakes. The Growler wanted to skid sideways but he fought the wheel. They were almost stopped when the grille crunched against the corner of a building, the vehicle blocking the mouth of an alley. Renny bailed out of his door into the alley, and Weasel jumped out his door onto the sidewalk. As the pursuing Tabs raced up he ran forward and took cover in the doorway of a commercial building.

Not much more than his eye and his MP5 were exposed as he fired bursts at the lead Growler, which was armored. It slid to a stop on the far side of the street as the second Growler stopped a hundred feet further back. The soldiers hanging out of their windows fired at him and Weasel jerked out of sight. Bullets smacked against the cement all around him.

He’d been all out of grenades… but Quentin had had one left. Weasel pulled the pin, let the lever fly, counted to two, then heaved it around the corner at the armored Growler, which was still sitting there in front of an ancient church. He had no idea what they thought they were doing just sitting there. The men hanging out of the other Growler fired at him and Weasel grunted, then folded back out of sight.

The driver of the armored Growler saw the grenade coming but couldn’t put it into reverse fast enough. The grenade exploded four feet in front of the vehicle, blowing off one of the front wheels. The men inside it shoved open their doors and jumped out, firing madly at Weasel, who was pinned in the front entranceway of the building.

Renny finally got Sarah’s suppressed carbine off of her and fired at the soldiers over the hood of the Growler. They were barely fifty feet away and completely exposed. He dropped two of them, and the rest ran inside the church, which with its arched doorways, impossibly whole stained-glass windows (apparently there was something to be said for living in the Blue Zone), and ornate brickwork looked like it had been constructed for King Arthur’s court.

Out of sight inside the darkened church the men fired at Renny and Weasel. Weasel looked behind him, then kicked at a door and forced it open. He staggered inside the building.

Ed stumbled through the door and fell to the floor, scattering years of debris. Jason grabbed him and dragged him inside a few feet, into cover, then stepped over him to fire a few shots. Return fire thudded into the walls behind them.

Wheezing and hacking as he lay on the floor, Ed felt like he was dying. In all his years of fighting, he’d never seen anything like it. Tabs came at you in vehicles, behind armor, and only got out on foot to search buildings. But these soldiers today, they only had a few Growlers, and everyone else seemed to be on foot. He’d rarely seen so many Tabs on foot, and no matter how many they’d killed they kept coming. And coming. It had been a fighting retreat that had lasted… forever. Shoot and move, shoot and move, covering fire, short rushes between cover, zig-zagging through the neighborhoods, in-between houses, running through waist-high grass and over piles of bricks and wood that used to be homes, unable to breathe, legs leaden with exhaustion, eyes burning from sweat…

Ed rolled over onto his hands and knees and threw up for the third time, but there was nothing left in his stomach. Sweat was pouring off of him like he’d left a faucet on somewhere inside his armor.

Jason fired twice more and then there was a loud crash. Ed looked over to see Mark on the floor next to him, his face red and shiny. He looked like Ed felt. “I can’t… I can’t…” Mark gasped. His chest bucked as he fought for air like a fish out of water.

Ed staggered to his feet and joined Jason in the doorway, using the exterior bricks for cover. The street they’d been running down had ended here, in a T-intersection. The street stretching away from them was two lanes in each direction, low commercial buildings lining each side of the road past the cement sidewalks. There was a Growler less two hundred yards down, and Tabs on both sides of the street ahead of it, advancing in quick rushes, using the building doorways for cover. Ed saw at least ten soldiers on foot, plus however many were in the Growler.

He braced against the door frame and fired two shots at a distant running soldier, then his bolt locked back on an empty magazine. He moved back behind cover reflexively. With a grunt he dropped the magazine and reached down to his chest for a fresh one—and saw it was the last one left. He shoved it into place, hit the bolt release on his Geissele, then backed into the building and dumped his pack on the floor, then knelt next to it. He had several loaded thirty-round magazines—four, five? he couldn’t remember—in the top of his pack. And if he needed them that meant he’d already gone through ten magazines since entering Nakatomi that morning. Had it been just that morning? It felt like weeks ago. He grabbed the magazines and stuffed them into the pouches on his chest, then thought to look around. To his surprise he discovered he was in the lobby of a McDonald’s restaurant. He realized he could smell the grease from the French fries. Maybe it had soaked into the walls.

“I’m whipped,” Mark wheezed. Running hadn’t done his fractured ribs any good, and he pulled his blood-soaked shorts up his left thigh. There was a bullet wound in his leg. The bullet had gone in the back and out the front, on the outside of his leg. Both entry and exit wounds were bleeding steadily but there was no spurting, which meant it hadn’t hit an artery. And he was able to walk on it, which meant it hadn’t hit his femur.

Ed nodded. He could barely walk in a straight line, much less run any further. He was pretty sure he’d broken his foot about a quarter mile back jumping onto a pile of broken bricks. “Making a… stand here,” he panted. “You need to bandage that up.”

Jason fired again as counterpoint. The side of his head was covered in blood from a near miss that had embedded chunks of brick in his scalp.

“How… many… mags you got?” Mark panted. “Last one’s in… my gun.”

Ed slid a magazine over to him. He coughed, and spit a wad of vomitous phlegm on the floor. “Jason, how many mags you got left?”

The boy pulled back behind the wall and checked the pouches on his chest. “One… one and a half. Plus… five, no, six in my pack.” Rifles cracked down the street and they could hear bullets hitting the bricks outside.

Ed gestured as he got back to his feet. “Give Mark two. We’re taking a stand.” He gestured at the restaurant around them. “This is the Alamo.”

“You get that fucking reference, kid?” Mark growled.

Jason gulped, and nodded. He shrugged his pack off and set it on the floor.

“You’ve got two good legs,” Ed told Jason. “You grab what you need out of it but leave your pack, pretty sure you can outrun the Tabs, get out of here, live to fight another day.”

Jason blinked and frowned. “And leave you?”

“We’re not running anywhere.”

Jason was visibly angry at the suggestion. “Fuck that,” he nearly shouted. He stared at Ed. “And fuck you, for making it. Sir.”

“That’s the spirit,” Mark said. “You stay there, keep an eye, I’ll grab the mags,” he said, crawling across the floor. Jason edged out, fired a shot, then ducked back.

“Make your shots count, because we’re not getting any more ammo,” Ed said. He kept low and moved to the far side of the restaurant, every step agony. It felt like someone was shoving a red-hot knife into the top of his foot. He peered out the window frames which hadn’t held glass in nearly a decade. He blinked his burning eyes and focused on the street signs at the nearby corner, then referenced his mental map of the city. Holy shit, no wonder they were exhausted, the Tabs had chased them for three miles. Three miles of short sprints, wearing armor and a pack, shooting and moving and trying not to die. He was somewhat shocked he hadn’t had a heart attack. Ed ducked back down and a quick volley of incoming fire chewed into the walls around him.

Ed pointed. “Check the back door,” he told Mark. “See if it’s even there.”

Mark finished stuffing magazines into his chest pouches and got to his feet with a grunt. He swayed, almost blacking out, then headed behind the counter into the kitchen. Ed stared at the counter and would have snorted if he’d had the energy. It was lined with the self-serve computerized ordering kiosks that had replaced every human cashier in every fast-food restaurant when the government raised the minimum wage to $20 an hour, costing tens of thousands of people their jobs. Anyone who was economically literate foresaw that happening, but then again economically literate people knew socialism was only good for spreading misery and death. Although, he supposed, they could be economically literate and just plain evil.

“Stick those mags on your body,” Ed told Jason, and nodded at his pack which was sitting beside him with its top open. “And drink some water, we’re all dehydrated.”

“They’re getting closer…” the boy warned. He couldn’t believe how calm Ed was.

“They close enough to throw grenades? No? Good. Then drink some water.” He grabbed a bottle of Gatorade out of his pack, courtesy of Uncle Charlie, and downed half of it in one swallow. Then he threw it to Jason. “Here.”

“There’s a door. Won’t hold for long, but it’s there,” Mark said, limping back into the lobby.

Ed tossed him an unopened bottle of Gatorade. “Drink that and properly pack and wrap that wound before you bleed out. I’ll take the eye,” he told Jason, limping up to take his place. He edged his eye out past the metal window frame and bricks, then pulled back. “‘Bout a hundred yards out,” he announced calmly. “Both sides of the street. I count… nine? At least, maybe more coming up behind those businesses in the alleys.” He squatted down before peeking out again from a different spot, jerked his rifle to his shoulder, and fired a shot at a soldier sprinting for cover about eighty yards out, but missed. He pulled back before he ate an incoming bullet. “Find some cover to shoot from, see if you can start tagging them. If they had any forty-millimeters we’d already be eating them, so it looks like this is just rifle on rifle. Tabs never could shoot for shit, but remember we don’t have ammo to waste. Find targets of opportunity.”

Mark moved to the far side of the dining area, so one grenade wouldn’t kill them all, and dug a bandage out of his pack. “They never should have gotten rid of those apple turnovers,” he said wistfully, staring back at the kitchen as he wrapped his crimson thigh.

Ed looked back and forth between the dark McDonald’s kitchen and Mark. “That’s what you’re thinking about?”

“Best dessert in the history of fast food,” Mark said. “And don’t get me started on their French fries. When they stopped frying them in beef fat America became a darker place.” He looked at Jason. “Kid, you just don’t know.”

Ed wiped a sleeve across his sweaty forehead. “Just how fat were you before the war?”

Weasel almost shot Renny as he rounded a corner and saw him standing just inside the back door of the building. He opened his mouth but the older man shushed him with a hand wave and pointed outside. Immediately outside the door was the alley which ran along the back of the building. Weasel edged close and looked out at an angle. The building across the alley had its cinderblock wall painted black. It ended maybe twenty feet to the left. Weasel still didn’t see anything… but then he heard something. Past the corner, out of sight.

He raised his MP5 and stepped back from the door. Renny had Sarah’s suppressed SBR in his hands and he moved back silently, raising the weapon. The two men were ten feet back, hugging the walls, when the two Tab soldiers they’d heard whispering decided to make their move.

The soldiers took the corner with a crunch of boots and rushed down the alley to the glass back door. As they put their hands on the handles Weasel and Renny shot them through the glass.

Weasel gestured and Renny followed him deeper into the building. “How many more are out there?” Weasel said, grunting more than talking.

“At least four.” Renny saw the blood running down Weasel’s side, soaking his pantleg. “You got hit?”

Weasel didn’t answer and instead pointed at Renny’s abdomen, which was bloody. “You got hit?”

Renny shrugged, and Weasel shook his head. “Well, we’re in sorry fucking shape,” he said, but he was smiling. “But I can’t think of any place I’d rather be.” Renny snorted. “You want to see if we can get some more of these assholes, then get the fuck out of here before we bleed out?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Out-fucking-standing.”

Ed fired twice and saw chunks of concrete fly right next to the soldier’s head. The Tab ducked back behind the building. “Dammit!” he swore.

The enemy soldiers had worked their way steadily closer. The man he’d just missed was maybe forty yards away. The Tabs had lost three men working their way up the street, but Ed had caught glimpses of at least five more soldiers out there, not including whoever was in the Growler, if anyone was, which was tucked in-between two buildings maybe a hundred yards out.

“Jason!” Ed called out. When the boy looked over Ed pointed at the far side of the restaurant. None of them had checked that side recently.

Jason crouched and ran to the far side of the dining area and popped his head up. He didn’t see anyone. Just to be sure, he made for the kitchen, to check the back door.

He’d just entered the kitchen when he heard a sound, off to the side. Jason shouldered his rifle and moved forward, frowning. Where he’d thought he’d heard something, the kitchen was empty. But then he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and looked over and out the drive-thru window. There were two soldiers creeping along the building. He lunged forward and fired a volley of shots. The two men went down, one instantly dead, the other kicking wildly, blood spraying from his neck in crimson jets. Jason forced himself away from the carnage and went to check the back door. With all of the shooting he was nearly deaf, they all were, and someone could have forced it open without them noticing. But it was still secure.

There was shooting, a lot of shooting, very close by, but none of it was at them. Early moved slowly up the alley behind the building, rifle up, and paused before the corner. It wasn’t the shooting he was most interested in, it was the low rumble of the idling Growler. From the sound, it had to be right around the corner. Then he heard talking, and static. Someone was using a radio.

He pulled his long rifle back, tucked it against his body, and slowly peeked his head around the cinderblock wall of the building. Early took in the sights for two seconds, then pulled his head back just as slowly.

Making a decision, he bent down and leaned his rifle against the building, then pulled the suppressed .22 pistol from the shoulder holster across his chest. He looked over his shoulder and signaled Seattle to cover him. Seattle nodded.

Early counted down with his fingers, 3, 2, 1, and then went around the corner smooth and low, pistol up in a two-handed grip. The Growler was parked between one-story commercial buildings, nose out. The driver’s door was open, and the man behind the wheel had a radio microphone in his hand.

Early moved to the rear of the idling vehicle, then rushed forward. The soldier heard his boots on the gravel and turned. Early shot him in the eye four times before the man had time to react, then transitioned over to the soldier in the passenger seat and emptied the rest of the magazine into his surprised face.

The suppressed gunshots were impossible to hear over the Growler’s rumbling exhaust echoing off the buildings and the near constant gunfire beyond. Early was hidden from view on three sides by the building, vehicle, and the open door. Crouched low, he looked out at the street but didn’t see anything. The shooting, the intensity of which seemed to ebb and flow, was further down the street near the end of the block. There was a distant explosion, then a flurry of gunfire, which ended suddenly. He backed up and went around the rear of the vehicle to the passenger side, staying low. Then he peeked over the tall hood, up the street.

Early ducked back down, turned, and gestured to Seattle. The man scurried to his side and Early pointed up the street. One look was all it took. Seattle raised his suppressed DMR and laid it across the hood of the Growler. The running engine provided a slight vibration which would have been unwanted if he’d had to do any real precision shooting, but the three soldiers he saw, crouching down behind cover, their backs to him, were just seventy-five yards away or less.

Early had loose .22 rounds in a pocket with which he could reload his pistol magazine, but didn’t have the time. He stuffed it back in the holster as he ran back around the corner, grabbed his M1A, and continued down the alley, hoping to flank the Tabs. He had a pretty good idea who they were shooting at. He’d moved thirty feet when he heard the first hissing crack of Seattle’s rifle.

Weasel fired several aimed shots on semi-auto at the Tab who’d circled around the far side of the building somehow without getting spotted. The soldier was in the doorway of a small burned-out restaurant, across a parking lot. The Tab responded by firing another burst, and Weasel ducked as shards of glass pelted him. “Fuck this guy!” he spat, shaking glass out of his hair.

“I think I can get an angle on him,” Renny said. He jogged, wincing, down the hall further into the building, then through a door into what had been a coffee shop. He was peering around a display board, trying to decide if he needed to climb onto a counter, when there was a huge volume of full-auto fire seemingly right on top of him, and screaming.

Renny ran for the door, pain forgotten, flipping the selector on Sarah’s SBR to full-auto. He barreled through the doorway into the corridor and found himself behind three Tabs, two of whom were advancing on Weasel. His eyes took the scene in at a glance—one of the Tabs was down on a knee, blood pouring out of him. Weasel was on his back, scrambling backward, MP5 nowhere to be found, eyes wide, blood all over the wall behind him.

With a wordless shout Renny opened up on the two soldiers from six feet away. They spun as the bullets hit their armor and helmets, necks and shoulders, one man falling away, the other firing a wild burst even as he went down. Renny slipped on spent cases and fell to the marble floor, landing hard.

He saw stars and fought to sit up. As he did he raised his weapon and tried to fire at the soldiers but nothing happened. Renny looked stupidly at his rifle, after a few seconds realizing he’d emptied the magazine. With a grunt he pulled his Glock, shot the one thrashing soldier, then swung his gun over to the man Weasel had injured and put a round in the back of his neck. He heard pounding feet and twisted his body to see a Tab soldier come running around a corner into the corridor, his rifle up. The man Weasel had been shooting at outside.

The man’s rifle actually blocked his view of Renny on the floor, just for a fraction of a second, but that was enough for Renny to start firing his Glock. He hit the man three times in the thighs and the soldier fell and skidded across the slick marble floor. Renny stuck his gun out and, one-handed, the muzzle of his suppressor four inches from the man’s face, emptied the rest of the magazine.

With a groan Renny got to his knees and crawled past the men, leaving Sarah’s rifle, empty Glock still in hand. He found Weasel backed up into a corner, panting rapidly. His hands were grasping.

Renny grabbed the MP5 and dragged it over to Weasel, who clutched it to his chest. His face was pale.

“Where the fuck did those guys come from?” Weasel gasped.

Renny looked over his shoulder at the bodies, then past them down the hallway. “The church, I think.”

Weasel blinked. “So did we get all of them?”

Renny nodded. “I think so.”

Weasel coughed. “Finally,” he sighed. “Fucking Detroit, seriously, I hate this city,” he said softly with a smile, and died.

Renny closed his eyes and said a little prayer for the man, then said another for himself. Then he fought to stand up, a girlish whine escaping from his mouth. He looked down. He’d been hit again, the rifle bullet going right underneath his vest. Afraid of what he’d find, he reached down and carefully felt around. There was an exit wound in his back, just above his hip bone. His hand came away slick with blood. Dripping with it.

He stood there, breathing slowly and shallowly, as every breath hurt. Renny looked from Weasel to the four soldiers sprawled in a pile, then, very carefully, walked into the corridor and stepped past the dead men. He’d gone twenty feet before he realized his Glock was still in his hand, slide locked back. He didn’t have the energy or the inclination to reload it, and just stuck it in the holster across his chest as is.

Pushing out the door into the alley, stepping over the bodies of the two Tabs he and Weasel had killed earlier, he half-expected to die in a hail of gunfire, but they had, in fact, seemed to have killed all the men pursuing them. Every step pain, Renny made his way to their Growler. His door was still hanging open. His pack was on the floor, and he stared at it for a long time. Could he lift it? Put it on?

“Do it,” he growled at himself. “Do it.”

Both bullet wounds he’d suffered were soft tissue injuries. No support structures—bones, ligaments, etc.—had been hit. No muscles had been severed, just punctured. So, physically, he could pick up the pack. It would just hurt. A lot. He stared at it, working hard to come up with excuses as to why he couldn’t, or shouldn’t. Renny looked across the vehicle at the steering wheel. He supposed he could simply drive away. He just… didn’t feel like it. He’d had enough running for one day.

His yell turned into a sharp scream as he lifted the pack, but he got the straps over his shoulders. Then he reached for his rifle. He wasn’t sure how long it took him to gather his pack and rifle—it could have been thirty seconds or three minutes. Between the pain and the blood loss he was finding it hard to focus.

Rifle in both hands he turned and looked up. His eyes moved back and forth, then he nodded. He slowly made his way back into the building, through the corridors toward the front of the place. The small lobby looked out on a small park across the street that, strangely enough, seemed well maintained.

Renny admired the bushes and trimmed grass across the street for a while, then turned and shuffled to the elevators. While the commercial building seemed uninhabited, the power was on. God Bless the Blue Zone. He pressed the UP button, and if he hadn’t been so tired he would have looked surprised when the elevator doors opened right in front of him with a cheery ping.

Mark fired at a dashing soldier and the man fell to the sidewalk, grabbing his leg and shouting. Two other soldiers darted from nearby cover and grabbed the man, some thirty yards distant from the McDonald’s. Ed braced his Geissele against the window frame, ignoring the intense shooting from the other Tabs providing covering fire, flipped the selector forward, and emptied the magazine at the three men as the two tried to pull the third to safety. The two men standing fell down, and only one got back up, crawling out of sight behind a car wash, his shoulder soaking red. The soldier with the leg injury reached a shaky arm out to him, beseeching, and Mark fired again. The man’s arm dropped and he was still.

“Reloading!” Ed shouted, ducking down. He stuffed a fresh mag into his gun, slapped the bolt release, then looked down at his chest. Two mags left. Plus the one in the gun. Well, at least they weren’t going to die for a lack of shooting back. They’d been giving the Tabs hell for ten minutes and had killed at least five, maybe ten, but there were still more out there. “Jason!” he shouted. “Keep an eye on that drive-thru!” He didn’t want another repeat of earlier.

“Yeah,” the kid shouted back from behind the counter.

“How you doing for ammo?” Ed shouted at Mark. The big man checked, then held up two fingers. Ed nodded.

Suddenly there was an explosion from the rear of the building, followed by shouting and shooting. Ed pushed off from the wall and charged into the kitchen, which was hazy with smoke. He didn’t see Jason at first, just the bright rectangle of sunlight where the rear door used to be. A silhouette appeared in the doorway and Ed dumped half his magazine on full-auto into the soldier. The man let out a strangled cry and staggered away. Ed reached the doorway and took cover to one side. He peered out and saw the soldier crawling across the gravel just outside the door.

Ed shot him four times in his back just below his vest, then turned. At first, all he saw were bodies in camouflage fatigues. Then he saw Jason, on the floor underneath one of the men. Ed heaved the corpse off the boy, who was covered in blood, but his eyes were open and blinking.

“Jason! Jason!”

“I’m okay!” Jason shouted. “But I can’t hear, it’s just ringing. They blew the door with a grenade.”

Ed laughed and pulled him to his feet, then waved him toward the dining area. He took up a spot near the door and quickpeeked. He couldn’t see anyone, but their position was getting infinitely more precarious. The Tabs were closer and trying to surround them. He jogged back to the front, the pain in his foot a distant annoyance. “Things are getting spicy!” he called to Mark.

“Good,” Mark shot back. The bandage around his thigh was heavy with blood. “I was getting bored.” His head jerked up at a hissing crack down the street, and he looked at Ed. It was a suppressed rifle… but none of the Tabs had been using suppressors.

Ed lunged toward the wall and peeked out just as another mild crack echoed down the street, then a third. A soldier fell bonelessly across the sidewalk, obviously dead. Ed had time to blink, then there was a volley of loud booming shots that rolled up and down the street like thunder. The Tab with the shoulder injury who’d crawled to safety suddenly appeared, backpedaling across the sidewalk and into the street. Another loud boom and he dropped, missing his helmet and half his head.

“The fuck?” Mark wondered.

Ed didn’t have to wonder. He knew. He recognized the sound of that rifle, and when Early stepped out from behind the car wash and waved at them Ed wasn’t surprised at all.

Mark blinked. “So it appears we’re not going to die in a McDonald’s.” He looked from Ed to Jason and back. “To be honest, I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

Parker had made two calls to Lydia, but they’d gone unanswered. She worked right downtown in the Cadillac Place building, and that’s exactly where the guerrillas had attacked. He wouldn’t say he was worried, not yet, but he was very definitely concerned. However, he had far more pressing concerns on his mind right now, and did not have the manpower to send anyone to check on her.

“I’m going up,” he announced, staring at the screens of his operations center.

“Sir?” His S3 looked at him.

“Washboard. I need to see it. Get me a vehicle.”

“Sir, I don’t—” his S3 started to say.

“I don’t want to hear it, Mike,” Parker spat. “It’s all over, they’re long gone, and I want to see just how bad it is. You told me your men have cleared all the buildings up there.”

“Yes sir,” Chamberlain said, nodding curtly, “but we’ve got to get you some plates and something more than a Growler to get you up there.” He bent over and got on the radio. The mood in the OC was somber. While there were still a few scattered elements in contact with the enemy around the city, most of the fighting was over. Washboard had been cleared. And… it was bad.

Five minutes later Chamberlain straightened up from the comms center. “Sir, we’ve got your escort. You’ll be riding in an IMP.”

“So we still have one left?” Parker said bitterly. “Good to know.”

Fifteen minutes later Parker was sitting in the back of what he all too painfully knew was one of but three undamaged IMPs in the city. Three. He had just four undamaged Toads, and surmised the only reason he had that many was because those four had never left the base. The armor plates on his chest and back were uncomfortable, and while not unfamiliar, it had been a while since he’d needed to wear armor. It was another reminder of how things had fallen apart.

He glanced around the cramped passenger compartment of the IMP. Three troops in full armor with M5 carbines were his security detail. Chamberlain was with him, as was his Political Officer. As the bad news kept coming Captain Green had said very little as the attack progressed through the morning, which concerned and unnerved Parker, but he did his best to remain stoic. His S2, Major Cooper, remained at the Ops Center, coordinating what forces they had left. The troops stationed at the roadblocks and checkpoints and food distribution centers around the city had all been pulled back to Echo Base.

The IMP was accompanied by a Growler front and rear and the short column was very carefully proceeding north toward where everything had started. Where the guerrillas had suckered him in.

Parker had his convoy stop at what his people now told him they believed to be the site of a truck bomb on Cass, just south of the New Center area. As he and his security detail got out of the armored personnel carrier, Parker looked over in time to see his people uprighting an IMP that it been flipped over by the blast. The vehicle itself appeared whole, but he was told that most of the men inside it suffered serious head trauma and two had died from the impact force. They’d already been attacked by snipers at this location so they were very paranoid, with men on lookout everywhere, rifles up, and several soldiers manning the roof guns of vehicles. A Toad sat in the middle of the road, main gun pointed outward ominously.

Parker moved among his men, exchanging a few comforting words with the wounded, assuring the angry that “We’re going to get these fuckers”, but his heart wasn’t in it. They’d suffered a huge loss. All of his aircraft, more than half of his armored vehicles. He wouldn’t be surprised if when he made his after action report to General Barnson he’d be relieved of command.

But that was in the future; now he had to see to his men, see if there was anything else he should have done, or could still do.

“Okay,” he told Chamberlain, “run me up there.”

“Washboard?” his S3 asked. “TV station?”

“Yeah,” Parker said tiredly.

“Sir, I’m still not sure…”

He glared at his S3. “Mike…” he said.

Chamberlain didn’t relent. “Sir, it’s just that we’ve cleared all the buildings, and didn’t find any guerrillas—” his eyes shot to the Political Officer, “traitors left alive, but there are so many rooms, so many corners, that its possible there are some still hiding out in the area.”

Parker rolled his eyes. “You know as well as I do that they’re all gone. Do we know, do we have any idea how they did that? Where they went? We’ve got units chasing a few stragglers down, but those drones and satellites never spotted much more than a squad’s worth leaving the area.”

“Yes sir,” his S3 told him, “we think we’ve found where they went, how they got in and out of the area undetected.”

“Don’t tell me it’s another fucking tunnel,” Parker said. From the expression on his man’s face he knew he’d guessed correctly. “Goddamnit,” he swore. He thought for a bit. “All right,” he said fatalistically, “take me up there.”

What he knew he needed to do, he realized as he climbed back into the IMP, was submit his resignation. He didn’t know if it would be accepted, they were too short on bodies, but he’d obviously seriously failed his country and his commanding officers by failing to predict, defend against, and properly respond to this enemy attack.

Several minutes later the driver of the vehicle called back to him. “Sir, did you want to check out Foxtrot element here?”

Parker stood up and moved forward. He peered out the narrow block windows. They were on Cass Avenue just south of West Grand Boulevard and he could see the remnants of the Foxtrot armor element on the street before him. They’d been hit by explosives and a hail of Molotov cocktails and all of the vehicles were black and half-melted. One tank had evaded the attack, at the cost of one tread, but if he remembered correctly everyone else in the column had been killed. He’d already seen video of this site from the drones when he’d had them do a low-altitude street-level fly-by. It had looked nightmarish through the drone’s camera and it looked even worse in person. “Negative,” Parker told the driver, “just take me to the broadcast facility.”

“Yes sir.” He drove down West Grand, and Parker peered out the slot windows as well as he could. The buildings to either side showed some damage, but it wasn’t as bad as he feared.

The soldier parked the IMP directly in front of the main entrance to the Fisher Building. Three minutes later Parker, Chamberlain, Green, and the protective detail of soldiers were on the eighth floor inspecting the broadcast facilities. There was the smell of ozone and burning plastic in the air. The control boards were just a mess. “Did they shoot it?” Major Green asked Parker.

He nodded. “Quite a bit. Looks like they had a lot of fun.”

Chamberlain walked in from the other room. “They shot the shit out of the cameras as well.” He stared down at the trashed control boards and made a face.

“How long will it take to get this repaired, and the cameras replaced, and the Voice of the People back on the air?” Green asked.

Parker and his S3 exchanged a look. Chamberlain told the Political Officer, “They might have a few spare cameras, but this board… they’ll have to rebuild it. Even if they have or can find all the parts they need, and we can find someone with the electrical engineering skills, it could be a week. If we don’t have the parts….”

“That’s unacceptable! The people need guidance! We need to manage information and opinion about what happened today.”

“Are you an electrical engineer?” Chamberlain asked her.

“Well… no,” she said, vaguely offended by the question. She had a dual degree in sociology and gender studies. Only stupid people worked with their hands.

Chamberlain gestured curtly at the bullet-ridden control boards. “Umbrage won’t fix these,” he told her, ready to lose his temper. They’d lost a lot of good men, and this pudgy, lazy, condescending… he took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a three count, then looked at the Political Officer and smiled. “We’ll do our very best,” he assured her.

“I would expect nothing less,” she shot back.

Parker sighed. “Let’s head back over to the hangars.” He looked at his S3. “I want someone posted here. I don’t want this place trashed any more than it already is. Don’t want any cameras or parts walking off.”

“Of course, Sir.”

Parker stared unseeing at the bulkhead of the IMP as they traveled south to the aircraft hangars. The IMP parked just north of the hangars on one of the helipads. Parker jumped out of the back of the IMP and stomped over between the two hangars.

He stared furiously at the burning, mangled carcasses of what used to be his air assets. Chamberlain saw the dark look on his face and knew better than to comment. He simply stood nearby, waiting for questions or commands.

Abruptly Parker strode toward the street bordering the hangars on the south and grabbed the Commander of a Toad sitting nearby, securing the area. For whatever good that did. What was the phrase, closing the barn door after the cow had already escaped? He had the man show him the tunnel in the parking garage of the adjacent apartment building.

The narrow tunnel didn’t extend very far into the earth, six feet in he could see the wall of dirt where it had been collapsed by explosives. “You said you got some?” Parker asked the Toad Commander, still staring at the tunnel entrance with his hands on his hips.

“Yes sir,” the Commander replied. “In the parking garage next door. Four dead. Well, three, but the one still alive, I doubt he’s going to make it.”

When he emerged from the building he saw his S2, Major Paul Cooper, had walked over from the nearby Ops Center and joined the rest of his command staff in front of the IMP. Cooper looked like he’d eaten something sour. He had a tablet in his hands.

“What is it, Coop?”

“I’ve got the initial casualty reports, Sir, if you’d care to hear them.” Parker, in fact, didn’t want to hear them at all, but instead he nodded.

“Well,” Cooper began, but then there was pain and the ground wheeling around to hit him, the taste of blood, distance, echoes, light ebbing and flowing like a tide, and, very distantly, a woman screaming.

Renny cycled the bolt. He’d lazed the distance exactly—524 yards down from his perch on the 20th floor of the building across to the hangars. His Ventus doohickey had done the math for him and told him to dial in his elevation for 507 yards to adjust for the down angle, but it was the wind which was always the worry. He was inside an office, sheltered from the wind, so any device he had to measure it was useless. Luckily smoke was pouring heavily out of both hangars, and it told him both wind direction and speed. Five, maybe eight miles an hour, but at an angle, so it was only half value. Reading the wind was as much art as science, but as he got back on target he saw his aim had been true. The big 250-grain A-Tip had taken the taller officer through the neck and gone on to hit the other command officer, the one with the tablet but no body armor, somewhere in the upper chest. Both men were down.

A woman was standing there, hands to her face. Maybe screaming? He wasn’t sure, but what was clear to him was her uniform. She wasn’t just a Tab soldier, she was an officer. Not wearing armor, apparently, either. He fired his second shot less than four seconds after the first. The bullet took just over half a second to travel the distance from his muzzle to the woman’s upper back, entering at an angle. She spun around and hit the concrete with her arms spread and legs crossed and didn’t move.

The soldiers on the ground nearby were now running in all directions, diving behind cover. “Sniper!” he was sure they were yelling, but whether they had guessed his direction or even heard his shots was the question. He’d reloaded his suppressed Glock and blown out the window prior to getting on his rifle, but twenty floors up the noise hadn’t been loud. He’d been worried about the glass giving him away when it hit the ground far below, but no one, apparently, had heard it.

He peered back through the scope. Soldiers were crouched down behind the IMP, looking around, trying to spot him. But they were on the side of the vehicle facing him, so apparently they had no idea where he was. Not yet.

He fired again, worked the bolt, looked through the scope. Another hit.

Lots of soldiers down there. He could see everything between the apartment building where Eagle Eye had positioned themselves to the Army headquarters building and everything in-between, including the hangars and helipads. The only question was whether he would run out of ammo or die from blood loss before they pinpointed his position and rode up in the elevators to kill him.

Ed stared at the city sliding by outside the windows of the Growler. He hadn’t looked at the city through the window of a moving car since the start of the war, and it made him feel very odd. It took him a while to identify the sensation, but he finally had it—nostalgia. But there was something else, and that took him even longer to pin down.

Hope.

He studied the printout of satellite exposure times provided by LTC Morris, then looked at his watch. They were in blackout for another eight minutes. He peered out the windshield. Early was deftly maneuvering the Growler around massive potholes, windswept piles of garbage, and rusting vehicle hulks. The few noncombatants they saw scurried away at the sight of the Army vehicle. Early barely touched the brake, and inside the big vehicle they swayed from side to side.

“There!” Ed said, pointing. “Under there.” He checked his watch again. Seven more minutes of blackout.

Early slowed down and checked both directions out of lifelong habit, then powered across the intersection and into the gas station parking lot. He pulled between the pairs of vandalized pumps and the five men climbed out, guns up. Two people were walking along the street in the distance, but nothing else was moving.

Ed took the time to study the men with him. They’d automatically assumed a defensive perimeter around the vehicle. Early and Mark, while a bit battered and bloody, were as solid as they’d ever been. Seattle, Morris’ man, had proven himself time and again on the run north. And Jason… Jason… after a week with the dogsoldiers, patrolling and fighting behind enemy lines, he’d shown himself to be brave, smart, and motivated. The teen was covering his sector automatically, M4 shouldered, bloodied head scanning back and forth, hearing finally coming back. He’d fought as hard and as well as any of them. Ed knew he mostly had George to thank for that.

Ed looked up at the aluminum roof above their heads. It would hide the Growler from any satellite. “Leave the doors open, keys in it,” he told Early. With any luck the vehicle would be stolen by a local. He knew it was equipped with GPS, so it wouldn’t go missing for long. He hadn’t seen any sign of a drone since they’d holed up in the McDonald’s, but even if it was still up there, the Tabs didn’t seem to have any more forces available to send their way.

“How are we on time?” Mark asked, glancing at the paper in Ed’s hand.

“Five minutes, plus or minus.” He folded the paper and put it away.

“You need help?”

“I’ll let you know.” And with that Ed set off quickly, limping badly, the stabbing pain in his foot making his heart race and sending flares of heat throughout his body now that the adrenaline of the not-quite-last-stand had worn off. Mark was at his side, his gait just as compromised. They made for the alley behind the gas station and spread out in patrol formation, Jason automatically taking point. Seattle and Early covered their rear, even walking backward able to easily keep up with Ed and Mark.

After a few minutes Ed began to grow worried they were running out of time, but he just didn’t have the energy to do more than a fast hobble-hop-step that had him gasping. Mark wasn’t doing much better.

“There, is that it?” Jason said.

Ed paused and it took him a few seconds to push through the pain and focus on the building. At first he didn’t recognize it, because the last time he’d seen it the sun hadn’t been up. But then he nodded. He recognized the splintered door frame opening onto the alley.

Early and Seattle jogged ahead and checked the building. Early reappeared in the empty door frame as Ed limped up. “It’s clear.”

“Use a flashlight, check the tunnel opening for any tripwires.” The Tabs should have been too busy in the Blue Zone to bother with anything out near Six Mile, but Ed didn’t want to take any chances. Early nodded and disappeared into the gloom again.

They’d take the tunnel west to the end of the section cleared by Morris’ men. By the time they crawled back up to the surface it would be dark. They’d have a long painful walk north to get out of the city, but they had Morris’ schedule to avoid the satellites, and Ed was pretty sure the Tabs no longer had the manpower to support random patrols of the city. They knew a doctor who worked with the ARF Underground Railroad who would patch up Mark’s wounds, and maybe could do a walking cast for Ed’s foot.

Jason stood next to Ed, his face streaked with sweat and blood, eyes moving constantly, scanning back the way they’d come for threats, carbine held casually in his hands. He looked old beyond his years. He looked like a veteran dogsoldier which, after the week they’d all had, he was.

“I hate running away,” Jason said, staring down the alley.

“We’re not running away,” Ed assured him with a smile and a squeeze of his shoulder. “We’re not retreating. We’re just regrouping to get patched up and grab some more ammo.” Ed took one last look around. “Don’t worry,” he said confidently, to Jason, to himself, and to the city, “we’ll be back to finish the job.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The idea and reality of civil war.

It is, in the final equation, just the matter of a little math and a basic grasp of history.

The History part of the equation is this: every country, every empire, every nation-state or other government entity in the history of the world has, sooner or later, come to an end. It is both wishful thinking and a rejection of reality to think that, at some point, the same fate won’t befall the United States. We’ve had a great run, but it won’t last forever.

The three most common causes of a nation/country/empire coming to an end are 1. Invasion/conquest 2. Civil war and/or sociocultural collapse, and 3. Pandemic.

A civil war, in our modern era, could very well be that thing which ends our country. It would be catastrophic.

As for the chances of us experiencing a civil war, many people like to say “That could never happen here,” conveniently forgetting the fact that it has. Twice. The Revolutionary War (1775–1783) could be argued to be our nation’s first civil war as we were fighting our own government and many of our fellow citizens (the Tories). The American Civil War (1861–1865) was very much a conflict between two very different cultures, and slavery was just one of those differences. In many ways our country is just as divided—culturally, socially, religiously, politically—now as we were when the southern states tried to break off and form the Confederate States of America. The Civil War resulted in an estimated 750,000 Americans dead, more than all our other wars combined.

As for the chances of us experiencing another civil war? That’s just math, and somebody’s already done those calculations for you. That somebody is B. J. Campbell, who in 2018 worked out the figures in an article entitled The Surprisingly Solid Mathematical Case of the Tin Foil Hat Prepper at Medium.com. According to Mr. Campbell:

The average year for American colony establishment is 1678. If you factor in the two qualifying revolutionary events (Revolutionary War, Civil War) and the average life expectancy of the modern American, he found that there is a 37% chance that any American of average life expectancy will experience a nationwide violent revolution.

Thirty-seven percent.

Those are better odds than you get in half the casino games in Las Vegas. And yet everybody acts like it could never happen.

Hoping and wishing something won’t happen has no bearing on the chances that it might, or could. Considering how Orwellian our government has become in its power and desire to control every aspect of our lives, and how fractured modern American society is, I think the chance of some sort of civil war is higher now than it has been in quite some time.

If it does happen, I suspect the horrors it will visit upon this nation will make the events of this book pale in comparison.

Now, as for Detroit…

At one point the population of the city of Detroit was near two million, but it was dropping even before the famous 1967 riots. After decades of first “white flight” and then everyone else bailing from the city into the surrounding suburbs and states, the population dropped to below 700,000, a loss of two-thirds of its residents over a period of time when the population of every other large city in the country was growing, some hugely.

Many of these departing residents were renters, and the property owners could not find new tenants, and just left the houses/apartments vacant because of the plummeting property values in the city. The number of empty homes in the city was staggering, and they became home to all sorts of criminal activity.

Because of the Devil’s Night Fires in the 1980s where hundreds of vacant homes were set fire the night before Halloween (On Devil’s Night 1984 there were 810 fires in Detroit), the city made a huge push to tear down any and all abandoned and vacant structures in the city. As a result, by 2019 over half the land inside the city limits of Detroit was vacant, and the city could not afford to mow much of it. This was far from the only problem Detroit was having. Estimates put the number of wild dogs roaming the streets of the city at 10,000.

As I write this there are many areas of Detroit that look like it has endured a zombie apocalypse, and this is peace time, with a functioning economy. Imagine what Detroit would look like after a decade of civil war, and you’ll see I didn’t exaggerate anything.

I adhered exactly to actual Detroit geography, history, and the downtown buildings, except in the few places where I didn’t. I changed a few things to better suit the story. That’s called artistic license. As for the Detroit sewers… they are, for the most part, as I have described them. I know retired Detroit cops who went into the sewers during the ’67 riots, chasing after people.

I had a few technical advisors who helped me immeasurably with this book.

I write for a number of national magazines, and Harper Collins published my second book which did so well I found myself in the position to accidentally piss off John Stossel in the green room of The O’Reilly Factor (long story), but I have never had a better editor of my work than my son Barrett who, as I write this, is still a teenager. Whether it was spotting a missing period or a missing motivation for a character, Barrett, as usual, was on top of things. You may not be shocked to learn that he is also a bit of a smart-ass, as evidenced by his comment on something I wrote in my rough draft: “This sentence hurts to read. It may be broken.”

Yehuda Remer (The Pew Pew Jew) helped to school me on all things Jewish, and his contributions made this a better, more interesting novel. David Fortier made me think about the motivations for some of my characters, and gave me a quick primer on High Power shooting, as well as his colorful opinion of the M1A.

Dillard ‘CJ’ Johnson, whose autobiography Carnivore I helped write, did one tour in Kosovo, two tours in Iraq as the Commander of a Bradley Fighting Vehicle, then worked as a private contractor for six years. He’s seen more combat than most of the other combat vets I know put together. CJ educated me (or tried to) on modern armor, guerrilla combat tactics when dealing with tanks, the horrors of war, and many other things. He is one of those vets who feels the experience of the infantryman in combat has never been accurately captured in a book or on film, and I’m sure this novel won’t change his mind on that, but I did my best.

As for “immediate-future” small arms, armored vehicles, and explosive munitions, I haven’t stretched reality at all when you know what’s out there and what next-gen weapons and grenades are likely to be capable of. How many people know that there is already airburst 40mm ammunition out there specifically designed to take down drones?

A former Green Beret I know likes to use the term Free Shit Army, and I stole it from him for this book. A wonderful gentleman I know who between the Navy SEALs and the CIA spent thirty years serving his country educated me on tricks the Taliban use to avoid FLIR.

And a quick aside on that—I’ve had many ignorant people tell me that “rednecks with their AR-15s” could never withstand the might of the U.S. military with all its drones and satellites and aircraft. The people who fight and train insurgents for a living will tell you a different tale. In Afghanistan we’ve spent twenty years fighting people living in caves, most of whom have never used toilet paper, armed with fifty-year-old rifles.

That knitted, heat-reflective material originally meant to wrap steam pipes I had the dogsoldiers using to hide themselves from the helicopters with thermal sensors? It exists, but its ability to defeat thermal scopes is just now being tested. I know somebody looking into patents for that usage, so I didn’t want to go into too much detail. But it looks like tightly-knit polyester burlap and if you take a 3000-degree torch to it… the material discolors, slightly. That’s it.

Consider for a moment how many different experiences there were of World War II. Depending on whether you fought in the Pacific or Italy, Germany or North Africa, were stateside doing support work or in England doing intelligence work, there is no single story of that war. Michener’s Tales of the South Pacific is as accurate a portrayal of what he experienced in the Pacific as The Young Lions is of what Irwin Shaw saw in the Army in England and Europe, but the two stories couldn’t be more different. Which leads me to this point—

If a civil war starts in America, there is no way to guess what will spark it, and as for what it will be like, all we can do is make educated guesses. I don’t think any of us can wrap our heads completely around that nightmare scenario. Even if that war becomes a reality, your story will be different than mine, even if we are fighting side by side. The scope of a modern American civil war would be massive, and the death toll horrific, easily into the millions. Because of that unimagined breadth of conflict I deliberately made the focus of this novel somewhat narrow. I have concocted what I think is a realistic scenario for what we’d see if such a modern civil war dragged on as long as the Revolutionary War did, told from the point of view of a small group of partisans, set in a city which would almost certainly see combat.

Trust me, it is the cities where most of the combat in America would occur.

Even before I finished this book I had people telling me how the next civil war would be, and that this or that idea I had was wrong. I honestly hope I never know. And this novel was written as 95% entertainment and only 5% warning. That said….

At least to me, a war would be preferable to losing our country. Our Founding Fathers and Abraham Lincoln felt the same way. Living in an Orwellian state where the government controls every aspect of the lives of its disarmed subjects is a prospect I, and millions of other Americans, find unacceptable. And yet many members of our government seem to be working hard to make that country a reality, with throngs of our fellow citizens, dazzled by the prospect of free bread and circuses, blindly cheering them on.

Let us all together do what we can so we are not forced to choose that fourth box of liberty to secure our freedom.

About the Author

James Tarr is a regular contributor to numerous outdoor publications and has appeared on or hosted numerous shows on The Sportsman Channel cable network. He is also the author of several books, including Failure Drill, Whorl, Bestiarii, Waiting For The Kick, Splashback, and Carnivore (with Dillard Johnson), which was featured on The O’Reilly Factor. He lives in Michigan with his fiancée, two sons, and two dogs.

Praise for Tarr’s previous novels:

Bestiarii—

“Grab a handful of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Lost World, stir in a generous helping of Jurassic Park, and season with a sprig of fresh Tom Clancy and you have the makings of Bestiarii. James Tarr takes the reader on a heart-pounding trip through a dystopian landscape, where human enemies are the least of our concerns. Bringing his encyclopedic knowledge of the firearms world to bear, the author grips his audience with finely-observed technical details and highly relatable characters.”

—Iain Harrison

Editor, Recoil magazine

Season One winner of the History Channel TV series Top Shot

“I love this book… a cross between Zero Dark Thirty and Jurassic Park. A wonderful romp.”

—Michael Bane

Whorl—

“From the first chapter until the last graf, I was intrigued by the plot, engaged by the characters, and surprised by (Tarr’s) breadth of knowledge. In fact, when I finished ‘Whorl’ I complained to Tarr about his leaving me wanting more. Get your own. You can’t borrow mine.”

—The Outdoor Wire

“Engaging… well paced… impossible to put down.”

—American Rifleman

“This book is filled with memorable characters—including the city of Detroit, which serves as more than a backdrop and takes on a character of its own. Whorl is gritty, action packed… and once the story starts to unfold, you’ll find yourself engrossed in a web of treachery and intrigue. Whorl is definitely one of those books that is hard to put down.”

—Gun World

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

DOGSOLDIERS

First publication: March 2020

Copyright 2020 by James Tarr

All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission

Cover design by Damonza

ISBN: 979-8616570864

Printed in the United States of America

Content

James Tarr
DOGSOLDIERS

PART I RATS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

PART II THE CITY

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

PART III HAVE A PLAN TO KILL EVERYONE YOU MEET

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

PART IV BOOGALOO

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

AUTHOR’S NOTE

About the Author

Praise for Tarr’s previous novels:

Copyright