Tooth and Nail (33 page)

Petrova says, “Actually, you are both incorrect.”

She hesitates, apparently afraid of offending them.

“In my opinion,” she adds.

“Go on, Doctor,” Bowman says. “You’re the expert here.”

“Viruses are highly proficient at penetrating human cells and inserting DNA,” the virologist tells them. “It is what they do. Because of this, viruses normally thought of as deadly have begun to be used as Trojan Horse delivery systems for genetic material or drugs that can cure other diseases. Before this happened, gene therapy was an exciting area of bio-medicine with tremendous potential.”

For example, she adds, a modified and benign form of HIV, the same virus responsible for AIDS, has been studied as a delivery system for diseases such as hemophilia and Alzheimer’s. Herpes may be proficient for targeting and destroying cancer cells. Even Ebola, one of the world’s deadliest diseases, has been studied as a delivery vehicle for a benevolent retrovirus that can repair cells and help combat diseases such as cystic fibrosis.

“I believe researchers in Asia were working with a modified rabies virus as a new gene therapy asset, and something went wrong, obviously,” Petrova concludes.

“You can say that again,” Kemper says.

“The rogue experimental virus entered the community but quickly mutated into what we call Hong Kong Lyssa—a respiratory disease similar to avian influenza. Perhaps it was accidentally mixed into the experimental vaccine formula. Such mistakes have happened before at biomedical facilities.”

“How could they even tamper with nature like this?” Doc Waters demands, his face reddening. “They basically destroyed civilization.”

“Please,” Petrova says, her nose wrinkling with distaste. “You have medical training, Mr. Waters. Certainly, you can appreciate that the release and spread of the disease is an odd occurrence, a one in a million circumstance, a very small risk for incredible gain for humanity. The world took far greater risks harnessing atomic energy. This was not the product of some sinister plan. The intent was to strip the virus of those attributes that made it deadly and insert benevolent genetic material into the hollow protein shell. The virus is not supposed to replicate or attack cells. It is a very careful process. I cannot imagine what went wrong, although something certainly did go wrong.”

“You can say that again,” Kemper says.

“I can tell you gentlemen one thing positively about the people who did this. The only thing I know for certain about them and what they did. They were trying to cure diseases that claimed millions of lives. They wanted to make a better world.”

“So did Hitler,” Doc Water mutters.

“Oh,” Petrova says, obviously offended.

“It’s a hell of a thing,” Bowman says, preparing to rise. “As far as theories go, I can’t think of a better one.” He does not hold her responsible for what happened. Instead, he admires her strength and intellect. The fact of her survival over the past several days marks her as a remarkably resilient and resourceful woman. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“You said you had two questions for me, Captain.”

“I did, as a matter of fact,” Bowman says, grinning. You’ll probably find the question a little strange, possibly even improper. Aw, hell, I guess I’ll just ask flat out. If we survive this, can I take you to dinner, Dr. Petrova?”

Petrova smiles and displays the gold wedding band on her left hand.

“Captain Bowman, that is a flattering invitation,” she answers, “but as you will observe, I am a happily married woman.”

Bowman smiles and nods.

“That also figures,” he says dryly.

McLeod finds Sergeant Ruiz alone in the elevator lobby, leaning against the wall with his hands deep in the pockets of his BDUs, seemingly lost in thought. The CO has authorized the company to take off the N95 masks until the march, and it is strange to see Ruiz’s face again. Most of the soldiers took advantage of the fact they had to wear masks 24/7 and grew scraggly beards, but not Ruiz; he is clean shaven. A gung ho mo fo, as they say in the ranks.

McLeod says: “You, uh, wanted to see me privately, Sergeant Ruiz?”

The NCO steps away from the wall, the muscles of his bulldog torso straining against his uniform, his eyes intense and staring. As he approaches, McLeod flinches, but holds his ground. This is it, he thinks. The hour of reckoning.

Magilla is finally going to kick my ass.

Ruiz continues until he stands directly in front of McLeod, looking him up and down while the soldier stands at attention.

“Private McLeod, you are one sorry sack of shit,” he says.

“Yes, Sergeant,” McLeod answers, meaning it.

“A big greasy shit stain on my otherwise spotless record of training the world’s finest combat infantry.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“I got one question for you.”

“The question is: Are you ready to man up, son?”

“Sergeant?”

“McLeod, this unit has been in constant danger for the past four days.

Our battalion has lost about two-thirds of its strength during that time. A good number of our casualties were sustained by mobs of people who tore our guys apart with their bare hands. While all this was going on, have you fired your weapon even once?”

“Um,” says McLeod.

“Speak up, son.”

“No, Sergeant,” he says clearly.

“It’s not a test,” Ruiz tells him. “At ease.”

“I said relax, Private. Relax and listen good. I’m trying to teach you something.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” McLeod says, swallowing hard.

“Do you know what time it is, son?”

He answers, “It’s about oh-five-forty-five, Sergeant.”

“That is affirmative. Outstanding, Private. Do you know when the sun rises? I’ll tell you when. Today, the sun will rise around zero-six-twenty. Do you know what that means?”

McLeod chews his lip, sweating.

The Sergeant says, “Don’t hurt yourself, Private. It’s not a trick question. I’ll tell you what it means. It means that even if Immunity were to put birds in the air right now and we left this facility right now to meet them up in Central Park, we still wouldn’t have enough time under darkness to conceal our movements. That means we will be taking some, most or all of this trip in daylight exposed to Maddy. What would you do if you were in command?”

“Me? I guess I’d ask the General to wait until tomorrow night.”

“Outstanding, Private! But the General just told you it’s now or never, do or die. Division is pulling stakes and trucking south. In twenty-four hours, all their birds are going to be far gone, committed to other missions. There’ll be empty sky around here as far as the eye can see. So it looks like we have no choice. We’re moving out, and we’ll be walking in Maddy’s shadow.” Ruiz puts on a sad face. “How does that make you feel, Private?”

“Feel, Sergeant?” McLeod clears his throat. “Well, honestly, it makes me—”

“Do not answer that question, Private.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Get your shit together, son!”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“What’s holding you back from kicking Maddy’s ass? Are you scared?”
I just want

“Yes, Sergeant. I’m scared.”

Ruiz shakes his head, circling McLeod like a shark studying its prey. “You got to man up, son. Fear is your bitch. Do you understand?”
to go to school

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“When Maddy hits you, you got to hit him back tenfold. Hooah?”
and read books

“Hooah, Sergeant.”

“If you survive the next one or two hours, you can survive anything.

You are really and truly the baddest motherfucker in the world. Really and truly the best. Am I right?”
and be left alone.

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Remember son, pain is temporary, but honor is forever. This is about how you see yourself in your old age. What you tell your grandkids about what you were doing during the plague. So are you a warrior? Or are you chickenshit?”

McLeod relaxes his stance and looks his squad leader in the eyes.

Time to be honest with this guy for once.

“Sergeant,” he says, “I never was a warrior and I doubt I’ll ever be one.

You know it and I know it. But I’ll do right by you. You’ve always done right by me. You may not think I think that, but I do. So I’ll do right by you. I’ll kick ass today for the squad.”

Ruiz blinks.

“All right, then,” he says finally. “Just be aggressive with that SAW.”

“Hooah, Sergeant,” McLeod says, coming to attention and saluting.

The NCO shakes his head, regarding McLeod with his intense stare. “You really are a piece of work, Private. Anybody ever tell you that?”

McLeod grins and tells him, “Every day, Sergeant.”

“Be aggressive on this march, McLeod,” Ruiz says darkly. “I’ll be watching. Now get your shit-eating grin out of my sight before I kick your ass all over this building.”

First Squad sprawls on the floor in full battle rattle, wolfing down MREs and catching last-minute smokes but otherwise ready to move. Mooney and Wyatt share the last pack of cupcakes from the rich kids’ lockers. Ratliff is hunched over a boot, finishing his repair of a broken lace. Carrillo pulls the plates out of his body armor, as the boys have been ordered to ditch the extra weight so they can move as fast as possible. Finnegan reloads the last bullets he just cleaned into a magazine, which will improve the odds that his carbine will not jam. Like Sergeant McGraw, who was spotted earlier playing pocket pool with his lucky talismans, the boys have their superstitions: Finnegan kisses the magazine before loading it into his carbine. Rollins runs off to find the chaplain after being told the man is leading a group of soldiers in prayer in another room.

Mooney sits against a wall, his carbine between his knees and his mouth blissfully full of stale cupcake, and listens to the sounds of the boys sharing stories and seeking each other out in fellowship. He is intensely aware of everything around him and his own place among them. Like the other soldiers, he has an innate knowledge that every passing minute is bringing them closer to a confrontation with Maddy in daylight. In just a half an hour, he might be dead, his body torn to shreds by a homicidal mob. Life is particularly precious to the doomed. Every moment that passes, he experiences like a snapshot. And he is filled with intense fraternal love for all of the other soldiers because they might die, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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