Apache and Battle Companies were called away on missions. Then Comanche Company got its turn, a solid operation that would take it outside the wire: secure the Crystal Palace hotel. The invasion force was beginning its expansion phase and, besides that, needed the extra housing for troops and refugees.
This is what war looks like to grunts. The grand strategy is sweeping and covers the entire region, but is ultimately comprised of small units capturing small objectives. Being a veteran, Rod understands that these small steps win campaigns. For Company C, the next day of the war will be spent seizing a hotel, searching and destroying.
Rod’s mission is much more personal than recovering Washington, DC, however. He needs to get home to his wife and children.
His marriage with Gabriela started off stormy. They tied the knot while the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were in full swing, and he spent most of those years in the Sandbox. When he came home he was angry, restless, difficult to live with. They foolishly decided having kids would fix things. Oddly, it did. Children changed him. His kids became his center; their chaos gave him a sense of stillness he needed. He wanted a hundred and settled for three: Kristina, age four, Lilia, age three, and Victor, the youngest, still a baby.
Rod cannot imagine what happened to them. He has had no contact with his family for twenty-three days. They lived on base at Fort Benning, Georgia. The base was evacuated, and Rod still has not been able to find out where they went.
If he finds his children okay at the other end of this thing, he will hand in his rifle and become a priest. If not, he will curse God. He does not know what he would do if he lost them. He heard the Infected kill and eat children instead of convert them. He cannot even imagine someone eating his Victor. Just trying would destroy his sanity.
Captain Mack is right. They are going to have to take America back one house, one building, one city at a time. Rod will be there, fighting every step of the way, until he gets home.
♦
The column coils in front of the hotel, the vehicles grunting like giant metal bulls as they nudge into their final positions. Rod closes the hatch and touches his front cargo pocket, where he keeps his mission notes. The boys glance at him with wondering expressions, sweating in their armor and fatigues. It’s still hot as hell today, especially inside this metal box on wheels.
Outside, a voice blaring through a megaphone addresses any locals in the area, competing with the final strains of “Ave Maria.”
Attention! Attention! Military personnel are present in this area.
“All right, listen up,” Rod says. “The hour is at hand. If anyone’s got any last questions, now’s the time.”
The boys stare at him. Half of them are clean shaven. The other half are working on wispy combat mustaches.
Troops are preparing to advance. To avoid injury, please remain in a secure location and wait for further instructions.
Finally, PFC Tanner, a gangly kid from Wisconsin, raises his hand. “Do you think you could see the Washington Monument from the roof? Maybe even the White House?”
The other boys crack grins. They are afraid of Rod. They’re not even sure of his humanity. But they cannot help themselves. Following an unspoken Army tradition, they have to test their sergeant.
Tanner explains, “This is my first time in DC.”
“You’re not a tourist, fuckchop,” Rod says, fixing him with a hard stare. “You’re a soldier. I want you watching your sector, Private, not seeing the sights.”
“Is it true there ain’t gonna be any light inside?” Lynch wants to know. “We’ll be doing this by flashlight with the night vision goggles?”
“You afraid of the dark, Corporal?”
“No, Sergeant. Just what’s in it. Those little jumpers are fast.”
The boys wince. They hate the ugly, whining little hoppers more than anything. They see the stinging as sexual—violent rape by another species.
“We don’t know what we’re going to find in there,” Rod says, acknowledging their feelings. The truth is the hoppers terrify him as well. “But this is what we do. You did this a million times over the past year in Afghanistan. You’re good at this. The stakes may be higher here, but the job is the same.”
The boys glance at each other and nod. The ramp drops, flooding the passenger compartment with gray light.
Do not run at military personnel. Repeat. Do not run at military personnel.
“All right, let’s roll,” Rod tells them.
The squad files out of the vehicle and fans into a circle around it, establishing security. The other squads are also dismounting. The soldiers from the new flamethrower units pull their tanks onto their backs and help each other fasten the belts; these units, along with the Stryker gunners eyeing the street, will provide outside security for the operation. The street is sprinkled with shell casings. It stinks of blood and death here. The Marines and combat engineers have been through this street clearing obstacles, and left them a present: A bulldozer stands next to a large pile of corpses surrounded by a cloud of flies at the bottom of the steps leading up to the hotel doors. Dozens of gray faces and arms and legs clad in the clothes of home: the soldiers crane their necks for a quick look. A few sneak pictures with their cell phones.
Lieutenant Pierce, trailed by Tom Ford, the platoon sergeant, walk away from their huddle with Captain Mack and the other platoon leaders.
Rod jogs forward to join his fellow sergeants gathering around the Lieutenant.
“The OpOrder is the same,” Pierce says. “First Platoon is the designated entry team and will secure the lobby, first floor and maintenance facilities. Third and Fourth will take the second through the fifth. We Hellraisers are going all the way to the top. We’ll be clearing the sixth and seventh floors as well as the roof. Got it?”
“Aieeyah, sir,” says Sergeant Jake Morrow, grinning. Like the other non-commissioned officers, he is sick of the endless PowerPoint presentations, and is feeling gung ho being back outside the wire doing the Lord’s work. Rod and the other men nod.
Pierce unfolds a map, actually a photocopy of an architectural blueprint. The non-coms huddle closer, whistling. It’s a large building. Behind him and Ford, First Platoon rushes up the steps into the hotel, equipment rattling. Rod listens for gunfire but hears nothing.
“Tom and I will take Headquarters and Weapons Squad and establish our base in the elevator lobby here,” the Lieutenant says, pointing to a section of the map. “Jake, you’re going all the way across the floor. I want you to take this hallway and all connecting rooms, and establish security at the opposite stairwell. Rod, you’ll push out from the elevator lobby and take the nearest stretch of hallway and adjoining rooms.” He glances at Navarro. “Joe, you’ll cover this area between them. We’ll be in radio contact at all times. Watch the corners and don’t get bunched up in any fatal funnels. I want good trigger discipline inside. I don’t want any blue on blue. . .”
A wave of horror crosses the young lieutenant’s face, transforming him into a man old and tired long before his time—a man with more ghosts than a haunted house. Only Rod knows the source of the man’s pain. The Lieutenant glances at Rod, who turns away, his face burning. The two men share the same shame, but for different reasons. One fired his weapon, the other didn’t. In doing so, each failed his ideals.
“Remember the rules of engagement,” Ford grates in his gravelly voice. “Yes, we’re in someone’s house here. Specifically, our house. There may be Americans in there. But the ROE is clear: Shoot on sight any individual who’s got the bug. Shoot to kill. If somebody runs at you, assume he’s got the bug. You take no chances. Worry about staying alive now and your conscience later.”