Tooth and Nail (10 page)

The skinny soldier raises his M4 and takes careful aim down its barrel using its iron sights.

Mooney says, “He’s one of us, man.”

Tears are streaming down Wyatt’s face. His eyes are wild.

“I’m just going to put him out of his misery. I knew him, too.”

“Stand down and secure your weapon, Joel.”

“I just want to help him.”

“Put the goddamn gun down.”

Wyatt says, “But he’s already dead.”

He pulls the trigger.

Nothing happens.

His M4 jammed on a double feed. He has two rounds stuck in the firing chamber.

“It’s not fair,” Wyatt says, racking the bolt back.

Down the street, a car alarm blares. Boyd’s head jerks towards the sound. He runs off.

“I guess it’s Rick’s lucky day,” Wyatt adds bitterly.

“Let’s just get back to base,” Mooney tells him, utterly exhausted.

“Before you give me a heart attack.”

He starts thinking about what the Lieutenant said. It was strange: The LT explicitly ordered them to leave behind a member of their unit who is sick and wounded. This offends him but he knows better than to refuse orders or even question their wisdom. Besides, as a grunt, he’s used to receiving orders he thinks don’t make a lick of sense. Something to do with his limited situational awareness, or the incompetence of his superiors, take your pick. This is not what is bothering him. What’s bothering him is the way the LT’s tone got under his skin. The LT sounded worried.

No, scratch that.

The LT actually sounded terrified.

At oh-six-forty-five hours, with the return of daylight, the invisible war slowly resumes, filling the air with scattered booms and popping of gunfire from all directions. In another time, one might mistake the sounds for fireworks. The boys of War Dogs Two-Three huddle around Sergeant Ruiz. Toting an M4 Super 90 shotgun and wearing rows of red shotgun shells across the front of his outer tactical vest, the Sergeant tells Third Squad that they will be leading the platoon to rejoin Charlie Company, and that they are authorized to shoot civilian targets, even those who do not have a weapon.

PFC McLeod considers Ruiz a gung ho mo fo when it comes to God, guns and the Army. It’s not just the man’s freaky black eyes, his intense stare. The man is something of a legend in the Army as a natural born killer. Without his shirt on, the Sergeant’s thickly muscled torso is emblazoned with a large, ornate black cross tattooed on his chest and abdomen.

Once, in Iraq, he surprised an RPG team and when his weapon jammed, he killed the men, by himself, in a struggle lasting fifteen minutes, with his knife.

McLeod often tells people that it is because of psychos like Ruiz that pussies like him can sleep at night no matter how bad things get in the field.

But now the world is turning upside down. In the middle of America’s biggest city, Sergeant Ruiz’s voice shakes with something like fear as he tells them they are authorized to shoot any civilian who makes a threatening gesture towards the unit.

“What if it’s some guy giving me the finger—should I light him up, Sergeant?” McLeod grates. “Hell, this being New York, the whole city is now a free-fire zone.”

“Shut up,” Ruiz says absently, then tells them to deep six any personal effects, which will be stored in the hospital, and otherwise drop anything that is nonessential.

“And dump your Kevlar,” he adds. “It’s staying here, too. We’ll be wearing the caps. Otherwise, bring as much ammo as you can carry. Let’s go, ladies. We’re on the move in ten minutes.”

After Ruiz leaves them, Williams nudges McLeod with his elbow and jerks his head towards the NCOs huddled in an intense pow wow with the LT. “Look at them hashing their shit out over there. No more Kevlar, dawg? Something is definitely up.”

As his fireteam’s grenadier, Williams carries an M4 carbine fitted with an M203A1 grenade launcher under the barrel, which fires forty-millimeter grenades.

“Magilla didn’t even react to my joke,” says McLeod, completely stunned.

“You know all those people we lit up last night? I’m thinking there’s a lot more of them than they’re telling us.”

“By all rights, I should be smoked with push-ups, nailed with extra fatigue or getting my ass chunked, as you so quaintly put it yesterday. But all he did was tell me to shut up. That just ain’t right. My God, man. I think the Sergeant is scared.”

“You’re not listening, Ace,” Williams says. “Let me break it down for you. There is some major shit going down here and we are walking into the middle of it and that’s wacked. You feel me?”

“What I feel is terrified right now,” McLeod tells him, nodding rapidly.

“And we thought the suck was back in Iraq where all you had to worry about was getting your nuts shot off in hundred and thirty degree heat. Gentlemen, welcome to the real suck.”

The remainder of McLeod’s and Williams’ fire team, Corporal Hicks and Hawkeye, join them. Hawkeye begins gathering up their helmets while Hicks calls out to Corporal Wheeler, who leads the squad’s second fireteam, and asks if there is any news about Boyd. Wheeler shakes his head, looking glum.

Wheeler already lost one man back in Iraq to the Lyssa virus, and then Boyd disappeared into thin air on his watch. Still shaking his head, he returns to his pre-combat inspection of Private Johnston, the sole surviving member of his fireteam, who everybody calls “The Newb” because he is only two months out of boot camp.

“What am I going to play drums on without my Kevlar?” says McLeod, but nobody gives him a reaction, making him feel even more agitated.

Ruiz jogs up and tells the squad that he got the OpOrder, and to gather around.

“All right, this is it. We’ll be moving north on First Avenue in close column file on the west side sidewalk with scouts on our three o’clock.” He turns to Hicks. “Ray, you’re going to lead us there. I’d like you second in line. Who do you want on point?”

The soldiers blink and glance at each other. Even with the aggressive ROE, they expected to fall into a standard traveling formation with road guards to help block traffic. Instead, Ruiz is describing an attack formation, essentially a jungle file formation, for their one-mile foot march through the middle of New York City.

“Hawkeye,” says Hicks, recovering quickly. “He’s stashing our Kevlar. I’ll tell him when he gets back, Sarge.”

“Fine.” Ruiz now turns to Wheeler. “Adam, the LT will be right behind you with Headquarters and Weapons Squad. Keep a tight hold on them.”

“Roger that, Sergeant.”

“After Weapons Squad, McGraw and First Squad will bring up the rear. That’s the order of march for our column. We’ll have Lewis’ people moving parallel on our three o’clock for additional security and recon. They’ll be marching down the middle of the Avenue, through the abandoned vehicles that are out there, so they’ll be setting the tempo for the platoon’s movement. Any questions?”

McLeod and the other boys understand the tactics. The LT chose column file as their traveling formation because the street is clogged with vehicles, and moving in single file provides easy communication and mobility. Adding a second column file is ideal for moving fast through dense foliage, hence its nickname “jungle file,” and the LT probably believes it will be just as practical for quick movement through bumper-to-bumper vehicles and rubbish on the road. The second column complicates communication and movement but mitigates the main disadvantages of column file, which are greater vulnerability to a flank attack and inability to deliver much firepower against targets in front of the column.

The question on everybody’s mind is about the big picture.

“We’re treating a short march in Manhattan like a combat patrol,” says Hicks. “Who exactly is the enemy and what is the threat level, Sarge?”

“Civil authority is breaking down,” Ruiz says. “As we saw last night, the police here can’t control the growing number of Mad Dogs. We’re not cops. We don’t have non-lethals. But we have to defend ourselves. We have been cleared to shoot anybody who attacks us even if they are unarmed. If you have time, call in the target. If you don’t, take your shot. We are taking no chances with the Mad Dogs. Understood?”

“Hooah, Sergeant,” says Hicks.

The other boys simply nod sullenly. They’re not buying any of it, but they know better than to ask questions that have too fine a point.

“There’s one more thing I want to tell you before we move out,” Ruiz continues. “LT sent out a scouting party that got back just a little while ago. Word is we may see some horrible things while we’re on the move. I will understand if what you see makes you sad, mad, whatever.” His face darkens. “But if you break discipline and put the rest of the platoon in danger, I will put my boot so far up your ass I will be tying my laces in your mouth. Understood?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” the boys answer.

“Like you mean it, ladies.”

“Yes, Sergeant!” they shout.

“Any other questions?”

McLeod opens his mouth, but says nothing.

“All right then,” Ruiz tells them. “Now fix bayonets.”

The platoon steps off, two column files bristling with bayonets and strung out over sixty meters of ground. The boys are in full battle rattle, each carrying weapon and ammo, body armor, rucksack and two canteens full of New York City drinking water. It is a lot of weight but the boys feel light without their two-and-a-half-pound helmets. The air is muggy and the temperature is climbing in this late, last gasp of summer, making them sweat in their universal camouflage uniforms colored dark tan, light gray and brown in the desert/urban pattern. They move with weapons loaded, safeties off and cleared hot. Each soldier in the main column is spaced about two meters apart. Despite the low-grade racket caused by their clinking and banging gear, the platoon moves relatively quietly, shocked into silence by the scenes of devastation they’d been warned about by their squad leaders.

Behind them, the doctors and nurses who turned out to see them off begin to retreat back into the hospital, looking worried.

“Jesus,” Williams says after several blocks, wagging his head. “This is mad, major-league, mother of all wacked.”

“Are you rapping, Private?”

He glances behind to see McLeod, who grins and waves breezily over his weapon.

“Thought you were all nervous back there. This shit don’t bother you?”

McLeod stares back wearing an innocent expression. “What are you talking about?”

Williams shakes his head in wonder.

The truth is that after nearly a year in Baghdad’s most dangerous neighborhoods, seeing dead bodies and scorched property has become routine for PFC McLeod. The fact that the bodies are now American does not bother him. Instead, he feels annoyed. They offend him. McLeod has gotten through most of his young life using scorn and derision as a way to rationalize his failures, avoid traumatic stress reactions, and generally feel superior to everybody else. Scorn got him through Iraq, for example. He considered the Iraqis to be suicidal for continually taking on the world’s most powerful military, and therefore one couldn’t be blamed for helping by killing them.

And these New Yorkers, well, what we have here is a bunch of rich, successful people who got their comeuppance with a strong lesson in How the World Works. Specifically, that bad things happen to everybody regardless of who you are or what you’ve done, so it doesn’t really matter who you are and what you do.

“When was the last time we were asked to fix bayonets?” Williams wants to know. “Boot camp?”

“What I don’t get is if it’s so bad out here that we can’t walk a mile without a bullet in the chamber and bayonets fixed, then why didn’t we just stay where we were?” McLeod wonders aloud. “It’s like they’re trying to get us killed.”

“All I know is this place gives me the creeps,” says Williams. “There must be hundreds of dead people on First Avenue all the way up to the East River Tunnel. And nobody’s picking them up for burial. For some reason, that’s the worst part of it.”

From the back of the file, they can hear two guys from First Squad sing:

The boys are starting to clown around to get their spirits up. Like McLeod, the other boys of Second Platoon have seen the worst and are already adapting to it, taking it in stride, getting their swagger back while they let their rage build up bit by little bit. Right about now, the new ROE does not sound so shocking to them. If Mad Dogs did this, then the soldiers are itching for some payback.

“Don’t tell me Rollins is trying to rap back there,” Williams adds, disgusted.

McLeod laughs. “Oh, man. It’s even better than that. Him and Carrillo are actually singing that old Blondie song, ‘Military Rap.’ That’s brilliant.”

“Blondie who?”

“Come on, dude. Blondie. Blondie!”

“Like I said. Who?”

“Oh, man, this is really great,” McLeod says with genuine feeling.

“This mission has finally found its rock and roll soundtrack.”

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

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

“Sorry, Sergeant,” Hawkeye responds.