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.
Then a man shouts down at them from an open fourth floor window, “Hey, Army!”
The soldiers of Third Squad look up at him.
The man is young, with swarthy skin, long black hair and heavily muscled arms.
“There are these two guys banging on my door trying to get in and I have to go out and pick up my insulin,” he says. “Can you help me out here?”
Negative , Ruiz hears over his handset.
“Keep it moving,” he tells his squad.
“The screaming is coming from these buildings,” Williams says. “Hardcore, dawg.”
“Hey, Army! Can you hear me down there?”
Williams glances up and sees people leaning out of other windows.
“Are you going to do something about these homicidal maniacs?” an old woman shouts down at them, immediately joined by a chorus of others.
“Isn’t there anything we can do for these people, Sarge?” says Williams.
“Keep moving,” Ruiz says.
The falling girl strikes the blue Toyota Camry on McLeod’s right with a heart-stopping crash, her face plunging through the windshield in a spray of blood and hair. The car sags for a moment at the impact, setting off its grating car alarm.
“Christ!” McLeod shrieks, almost dropping his SAW.
Three of Lewis’ boys open up on the fourth floor window, making the swarthy man flinch and duck back inside.
“Cease fire, cease fire!” Lewis is shouting. “What are you shooting at, dumbass?”
Kemper’s voice grates over the radio: War Dogs Two-Five to all War Dogs Two squads, cease fire, over.
“Hold your fire,” Ruiz tells his squad. “Keep your cool.”
The squad is gathering around the corpse.
Keep it moving, out.
“Her freaking leg’s twitching,” McLeod says. “Oh, God.”
“LT says, keep moving,” Ruiz tells them, raising his voice to be heard over the car alarm. “There’s nothing we can do here.”
“LT’s got no heart,” Williams says, shaking his head. “That shit is ice cold.”
“She’s dead, Private,” the Sergeant says. “And we’re not. Let’s go. Now.”
Williams is starting to get a bad feeling about this mission, and his hunches are usually correct. He can feel the boys around him tense up, mad and powerless and itching to fire their weapons at something. He has a feeling that once they start shooting, they will all cross a threshold, and they may not like what they find on the other side.
“War Dogs Two-Three to War Dogs Two-Six. Coming up on Second Avenue now, over.”
Proceed north on Second Avenue, over.
“Affirmative. Turn onto Second Avenue, out.”
A moment later, Ruiz gets back on the commo.
“War Dogs Two-Six, this is War Dogs Two-Three. You better get up here, over.”
I see them. On my way, out.
The intersection of Forty-Second Street and Second Avenue is dense with people fighting each other around a line of cop cars set up to block off access to Forty-Second. Several food delivery trucks are parked beyond, half unloaded.
There appears to be a pitched battle in progress.
Not here to reenact My Lai or Custer’s Last Stand
The LT has called together the NCOs into a close
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.
Then a man shouts down at them from an open fourth floor window, “Hey, Army!”
The soldiers of Third Squad look up at him.
The man is young, with swarthy skin, long black hair and heavily muscled arms.
“There are these two guys banging on my door trying to get in and I have to go out and pick up my insulin,” he says. “Can you help me out here?”
Negative , Ruiz hears over his handset.
“Keep it moving,” he tells his squad.
“The screaming is coming from these buildings,” Williams says. “Hardcore, dawg.”
“Hey, Army! Can you hear me down there?”
Williams glances up and sees people leaning out of other windows.
“Are you going to do something about these homicidal maniacs?” an old woman shouts down at them, immediately joined by a chorus of others.
“Isn’t there anything we can do for these people, Sarge?” says Williams.
“Keep moving,” Ruiz says.
The falling girl strikes the blue Toyota Camry on McLeod’s right with a heart-stopping crash, her face plunging through the windshield in a spray of blood and hair. The car sags for a moment at the impact, setting off its grating car alarm.
“Christ!” McLeod shrieks, almost dropping his SAW.
Three of Lewis’ boys open up on the fourth floor window, making the swarthy man flinch and duck back inside.
“Cease fire, cease fire!” Lewis is shouting. “What are you shooting at, dumbass?”
Kemper’s voice grates over the radio: War Dogs Two-Five to all War Dogs Two squads, cease fire, over.
“Hold your fire,” Ruiz tells his squad. “Keep your cool.”
The squad is gathering around the corpse.
Keep it moving, out.
“Her freaking leg’s twitching,” McLeod says. “Oh, God.”
“LT says, keep moving,” Ruiz tells them, raising his voice to be heard over the car alarm. “There’s nothing we can do here.”
“LT’s got no heart,” Williams says, shaking his head. “That shit is ice cold.”
“She’s dead, Private,” the Sergeant says. “And we’re not. Let’s go. Now.”
Williams is starting to get a bad feeling about this mission, and his hunches are usually correct. He can feel the boys around him tense up, mad and powerless and itching to fire their weapons at something. He has a feeling that once they start shooting, they will all cross a threshold, and they may not like what they find on the other side.
“War Dogs Two-Three to War Dogs Two-Six. Coming up on Second Avenue now, over.”
Proceed north on Second Avenue, over.
“Affirmative. Turn onto Second Avenue, out.”
A moment later, Ruiz gets back on the commo.
“War Dogs Two-Six, this is War Dogs Two-Three. You better get up here, over.”
I see them. On my way, out.
The intersection of Forty-Second Street and Second Avenue is dense with people fighting each other around a line of cop cars set up to block off access to Forty-Second. Several food delivery trucks are parked beyond, half unloaded.
There appears to be a pitched battle in progress.
Not here to reenact My Lai or Custer’s Last Stand
The LT has called together the NCOs into a close
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