Lee didn’t punt. “Save as many as you can,” he told Wurst. “If you’ve triaged patients and know who can respond to primary care and who can’t, then do what’s necessary. Keep the terminal patients as comfortable as possible, but heal the ones you can save. Including Salvador. Is that enough guidance for you?”
Wurst nodded. “That’ll do it.” He looked at Walker. “You agree?”
Walker looked surprised. He ran a hand over his bristly chin and nodded slightly. “Yeah, Captain. I agree.”
“Can we see Salvador?” Lee asked.
Wurst gestured toward the ambulance behind him. “Sure, he’s not going anywhere. And it’s not like you’re going to make matters any worse. Anything else? I’ve got patients to tend to.”
“Have at it,” Lee said. “Thanks for all your efforts. Seriously.”
Wurst took in a deep breath, and nodded. “Yeah, all right. And thanks for yours. Seriously.” The narrow-shouldered physician hurried off, heading toward the row of litters.
“Let’s get it over with,” Lee said, advancing toward the ambulance. Its diesel engine still ran, clattering away in the morning light.
He pulled open the back door, and climbed inside.
General Salvador on a stretcher on the right side of the ambulance. An enlisted male nurse was tending to him. Salvador wore an oxygen mask connected to a tall, green metal tank in one corner. IV bags hung from the ambulance’s metal overhead. The general’s uniform had been cut away, and his lower body was covered with a blood-dappled sheet. Blood-soaked bandages covered the wound in his upper chest. There was also a larger wound in his stomach, where the tumbling rifle round had managed to exit after tearing its way through his abdomen. His flesh was pale, and his chest rose slowly as he took shallow, laborious breaths. Through half-open eyes, he stared at the ambulance’s overhead.
Lee waved the nurse out. “We need to talk to the general. We’ll call you if we need you.”
The nurse looked down at Salvador. “He’s not really too talkative at the moment, sir.”
“Go,” Salvador said softly behind the oxygen mask. “Leave me… with the liars… and cowards.”
The nurse looked from Salvador to Lee then back again, then he sighed and slipped out of the ambulance. Walker and Turner climbed inside, the latter pulling the door shut behind him. In the cab, a uniformed soldier peered around the bulkhead separating the two compartments. When he saw who had come aboard, he pushed open the driver’s door and got out, leaving the ambulance running.
“Walker,” Salvador whispered.
“Yes, sir. I’m here,” Walker responded.
“You’re… a coward. Get… get out… of my… sight.”
Walker started to protest, but Lee frowned and nodded toward the door. Walker glanced at the dying man, then opened the door and climbed back out. He closed it gently behind him.
“From S-3…to battalion…commander…in a…what? Month? What a… career,” Salvador said, taking harsh breaths between his words. “Hey… Turner…”
“Yes, General?” Turner leaned forward to look down into Salvador’s face.
“Why… you follow… this liar?” Salvador asked. “Why do… you let him… pretend to… be a colonel?”
Turner thought about that for a moment. “Because you’re right. Walker’s a coward and isn’t fit to lead a battalion of lightfighters outside to grab a sundae, much less into combat. Lee, on the other hand, can get things done, sir. He’s proven that to you. And with that, you should probably let the matter rest.”
Salvador grunted. “Huh. Rest. Honor… heritage… code of… conduct… yeah, should… forget about that… right?”
“Deconflict the battlespace, sir. What was important two months ago isn’t really relevant today. We’re here, and we’re going to stay here.”
“You… do that, Sergeant… Major.”
Turner looked at Lee.
Lee bent forward so that Salvador could see him.
“General, where are our dependents? The men need to find their families. Someone told Turner they were sent to Philadelphia. Is this true?”
“Yes. City secure… as of three weeks ago. Lost contact after Drum… overrun. National Guard in… in charge. They were sent there. All… all made it.”
“Tell me about Florida,” Lee said.
Salvador breathed slowly and heavily for a long moment before responding. “Special Operations Command… Central Command… Air Force, Navy… even fucking… Marines… all around Tampa. Forces Command… relocated… too. Bragg’s gone. NCA made… decision… to secure Florida… after lost DC… New York…”
“When did you last communicate with them? Who’s in charge?”
“Last night… SATCOM still up. Merrill,” Salvador said. Lee nodded. General Jackson Merrill was the commanding general of U.S. Army Forces Command, formerly of Fort Bragg, North Carolina. He was one of the oldest general officers left in the Army, and his time in grade alone dictated he be in charge in the event of a contingency situation like the one that currently afflicted America. Lee looked at Turner, and the sergeant major sighed.
“Tampa, by way of Philly,” Turner said. “Hell of a road trip.”
“Lee…” Salvador’s voice was barely a whisper now.
Lee leaned forward. “Yes, sir?”
“Liar,” Salvador sighed, then died.
FORTY-ONE.
Another truck, another road, another day. Muldoon sagged against the side rail, dog-ass tired but unable to sleep as the truck with twenty-five other troops barreled down yet another back country road, just one vehicle in a convoy of over a hundred. They’d been travelling for two days straight, only calling a halt every four hours or so for chow, latrine duty, and to swap out drivers.
Out in the country, the Klowns were fewer but no less dedicated. Twice, they’d been attacked by “country Klowns” driving giant combines and other farm equipment so big that it had taken TOW missiles to stop them. Fortunately, they had a lot of those to go around at the moment. The cavalry motor pool had been pretty well stocked with anti-tank weapons, since those weren’t the handiest implements to use against ground attackers. The battalion had scarfed them up, along with pretty much everything else that wasn’t nailed down, as long as it could fit on a HEMT cargo truck.
All in all, it wasn’t a bad trip. There was still plenty of action to be seen, but they’d only lost two troops and a car full of civilians. The Klowns weren’t very discriminate when it came to attacking, so unarmed women and kids were fair game for them. That kind of pissed off Muldoon. He thought—hoped—that if he ever became a killer clown, he’d at least still be a man about it and go after the guys with the guns.
He closed his eyes and tried to forget about it. He needed sleep, and most of the soldiers in the truck with him were eyes shut, mouths open. Four of them were still manned up in MOPP gear, weapons out, watching the countryside roll by at forty miles per hour as the convoy wound its way down yet another rural road. They were in Pennsylvania, Muldoon’s home state. His parents had left long ago, for Georgia of all places. They’d grown tired of the winters, but Muldoon still loved them. That was one reason he’d joined the Army, so he could get into a unit like the 10th Mountain. Winter was what they lived for, even if it had been in places like Afghanistan as opposed to, say, Aspen, Colorado.
Just the same, in an odd way, it felt good to be closer to where he’d grown up.
“Muldoon… go to sleep, man.”
Rawlings looked at him blearily with bloodshot eyes. She was sitting across from him, her M4 between her legs. She’d been asleep when he’d last looked over at her and had been for a good hour. There was grime all across her face and her uniform, and she didn’t smell very good at the moment. None of them did. The Army wasn’t for body spray addicts—that was why God had created the Air Force. But Muldoon thought that if Rawlings ever had the opportunity to get cleaned up and get those busted teeth taken care of, she might rate a seven or so on the hotness scale.