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:
Study up on weaponry,
The M16, the M15,
Sammy knows the enemy,
Flim flam, big slam, tell the Major what you see.
Hut, hut, hut, hut!
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.
“Right now you are the eyes of this platoon and you are looking at everything except the street. What’s the problem, son?”
“Well, I never been to New York before, Sergeant,” Hawkeye says shyly.
“What’s that, Private?”
“Somebody told me the United Nations was around here somewheres.”
“You were sightseeing,” Ruiz says in disbelief.
“Yes, Sergeant. Like I said before, I am sorry about it.”
“Get a good look before it’s gone, Hawkeye,” says McLeod.
The squad leader shakes his head, darkening with barely controlled rage. “Stay sharp and keep it zipped, ladies!” He turns around and sees Corporal Hicks trailing him, looking pale. “Corporal, I could use your help keeping this freakshow in line.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Ruiz lowers his voice. “You all right, Ray?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Hicks says. “I just saw. . .she looked like my. . . . Never mind, Sergeant. It doesn’t matter.” He looks dazed.
“Put it out of your mind, whatever it is,” Ruiz growls. “We got a job to do.”
“Roger that, Sarge,” says Hicks.
Hawkeye suddenly turns and extends his flattened palm for all to see.
Immediately, the column stops.
Security halt
The boys get behind the nearest cover and crouch, continuing to scan their sectors and provide three hundred sixty-degree security around the platoon. Within moments, Lewis’ column on their right also scatters behind cover and stops.
Hawkeye makes a throat-cutting gesture, indicating danger ahead, and then taps his chest twice, asking for the squad leader to come forward.
Keeping low to the ground, Sergeant Ruiz scurries to join Hawkeye.
“What you got?”
“Not sure, exactly. But listen, Sergeant.”
Ruiz closes his eyes. He can’t hear anything. He wonders if maybe the platoon should do a listening halt, where they all get comfortable and settle into a complete silence. Finally, he says, “I don’t hear—”
Hawkeye raises his hand, silencing him. Ruiz raises his fist for the platoon to see, telling them to freeze. Don’t move an inch.
The screams become audible, carried on the shifting breeze on an east-west street ahead of them, barely penetrating the background hum of New York City.
“Some kind of trouble up there, seems to me,” says Hawkeye. “Kind of sounds like a girl screaming for help.”
“Like a lot of people screaming,” Ruiz says. “Screaming bloody murder.”
He keys his handset and softly relays what he has learned to the LT.
Bowman, about forty feet behind him, replies on the commo.
Is the sound coming from Thirty-Eighth or Thirty-Ninth Street, over?
“We think it’s Thirty-Ninth Street, over,” says Ruiz, glancing at Hawkeye, who nods.
War Dogs Two actual to all War Dogs Two squads: Fragmentation order follows, break. We will take an alternate route to the objective, break. Turn left here at Thirty-Eighth Street and proceed west, over.
“Turn on Thirty-Eighth. That’s a solid copy, out.”
Hawkeye looks down at his rifle wearing a sour expression. There are American civilians up ahead in trouble and the LT has ordered the platoon to march the other way.
Ruiz nudges him. “We’re not police, Hawkeye,” he says. “There’s danger all around us here. LT’s intent is to get the platoon to the objective on time and in one piece. It makes sense.”
“I guess so, Sergeant,” says Hawkeye. “I mean, it’s not my place to say.”
The Sergeant’s eyebrows lift in surprise. He has never seen his boys so uncertain and sour about a mission. “You heard the LT. Go on, then. Lead us out of here, Private.”
“Roger that, Sergeant.”
Ruiz stands and moves his arm in a wide forward-wave, giving the signal to advance.
Hey, Army! Can you hear me?
The platoon hauls itself back onto its feet, grunting at the weight of rucksacks and armor and weapons and water, and trails after Hawkeye, making the turn onto Thirty-Eighth Street. Soon, they cross Tunnel Approach Street, where they weave their way through a pile-up of cars that crashed into each other during the night and became hopelessly ensnarled in a massive sculpture of chewed-up metal. Nearby, an ambulance is parked, its doors open and its lights still eerily flashing, a dead man lying on a gurney outside atop a glittering carpet of broken glass. His throat has been torn out.
They are moving into a residential neighborhood. As they approach the middle of the block, they hear the screams.
The cries appear to come from all around them, as if a crowd of howling ghosts were passing through them, making them shiver.