Three days later, the screamers rose from their beds.
Many soldiers could not fire on their comrades. They tried everything to subdue them without using lethal force. They wrestled and clubbed them and shot at their legs and gradually became infected themselves. Rod knows soldiers ultimately fight and die for the guy next to them. Why else would they do it? Death is final, and it is eternal. Looking death in the eye, country and apple pie and bringing democracy to the Middle East don’t seem as important as they did at the enlistment office. So they do it for the other guys in their foxhole. It is a brotherhood bred not from the rigors of war, but from facing death together—a will to survive demanding mutual support and sacrifice.
The Infected left their beds and attacked their comrades.
Many of the soldiers could not shoot.
Rod’s old squad had revered him back in Kandahar, calling him Cool Rod for his icy calm in a fight. But when his boys came running at him, he had not been able to shoot them. The entire platoon had been infected, along with a number of support personnel, and they ran at him and the Lieutenant in a wave. The young officer shot them down, killing thirty-one uniformed men and women, a heroic act in a battle where heroes eventually became despised. The Infected could not be subdued. They had to be killed. It was a horrible necessity, and anyone who pulled the trigger had blood on their hands. These boys see him as a monster.
Rod claimed the kills and Pierce did not contradict him. Pierce thought Rod was protecting him, but he was really protecting himself. If he admitted he froze, he could no longer lead men into battle. He would rather his new squad see him as a devil than a coward.
The boys glance at Rod with distrust, wondering if he would sacrifice them, if they got infected, as readily as he did his entire platoon.
Devil or coward. Soon he will be confirmed as one or the other. Because the Hellraisers are going to shoot American civilians today, and he will be asked to pull the trigger.
♦
Rod opens the hatch over his head and takes a look outside. The Stryker column snakes along the road at a reserved thirty miles an hour. They are in no hurry. Ten feet both high and wide and nearly twenty-five feet long, the squat metal titans look like ungainly boats on eight giant rubber wheels. Most are still clad in cages of slat armor to protect them against rocket-propelled grenades and piled with gear, making them look like something from The Road Warrior. The commander of the next vehicle in line grins at Rod under his Ray-Bans and spreads his arms as if to say, Look at all this. Can you believe this shit?
The combat engineers spent two days clearing a twelve-foot-wide path through what was a bumper-to-bumper traffic jam of abandoned cars and trucks choking Crystal Drive all the way to their objective. Judging from the scattered luggage, these folks were probably trying to get to the airport, which had already been shut down. The vehicles, stripped of gas and useful parts, are now piled along the sides of the road awaiting towing. It is like driving through a junkyard. Rod scans the wreckage for improvised explosives out of habit. Bodies are entombed in some of the cars. Loose trash floats and rustles on the breeze.
The plaintive notes of a religious song fall on his ears from one of the lead vehicles. It’s “Ave Maria,” Rod realizes with a frown. Christ, what a downer. And yet it fits.
Ave Maria, gratia plena.
Hail Mary, full of grace. Roger that.
The Strykers ahead disappear into a wall of black smoke billowing from a distant hill of burning corpses, and Rod follows, emerging coughing on the other side. The entire city is shrouded in haze, ashes of torched people floating on currents of hot air. An automatic cannon booms in the distance, drowning out the crackle of small arms fire that is so omnipresent it is only noticeable when it stops. Fighter jets roar through the distant murk, barely visible in this false twilight at nine hundred hours. One of the fighters breaks formation, veering toward the earth like a bird of prey to fire a missile at a target on the ground. Light flashes on the horizon. BOOM.
The battle for the capital is in full swing.
On his right, C130 cargo planes drop from the sky in a steady stream of screaming metal and disappear behind Terminal B of the airport, where they will land and disgorge even more troops and equipment. Rod’s regiment has been bivouacked in Terminal A for the past few days, one of the first units to arrive, and it is already getting crowded. The troops swarmed Washington’s key facilities and most defendable and sparsely populated patches of ground—Reagan Airport, East Potomac Park, Theodore Roosevelt Island. The engineers began the herculean task of clearing the major arteries. This beachhead secure, the invasion force now needs to expand to make room for more troops as well as civilian refugees starting to trickle in.
Something about the whole operation still smacks of a massive Army foul-up. Oops, we invaded ourselves by accident. Nice going, General Stupidity, you’re relieved. General Chaos will take it from here.
He can’t get used to it.
A foghorn booms in the west, answered by another in the south. Rod knows they are not real foghorns. They are giant monsters browsing their way through the city. He can’t get used to that either. An MH60 Blackhawk gunship catches up to the column and paces it, the thumping of its rotors drowning out even the foghorns. It will provide top cover for the rest of the trip.
It’s good to be back in the USA one way or the other. They all feel this way. They are back on sacred ground, that much closer to the people who matter most to them. They are home. When they captured the airport, a grizzled veteran dropped to his knees and kissed the tarmac. Mecca’s the other way, Sergeant, one of the boys said, slurring the word as Sarrunt as so many of them did, but nobody laughed. Rod nearly kissed the ground as well. Leading his squad across the tarmac, he half expected to see the Washington Monument wrapped in monstrous tentacles or the Lincoln Memorial covered in vines or half buried in apocalyptic sands. Instead, he saw a typical airport with stately jumbo jets at rest among fuel trucks, water trucks, ramps, hoses and other white utility vehicles. Some scattered luggage offered the only clue something was wrong. That, and the total absence of people. Everything was abandoned. The city appeared to have been converted into a massive, derelict parking lot.
The column winds through an artificial canyon formed by rows of boxy office buildings, street-level retail stores and the ever-present piles of cars pushed to the side of the road. One of the buildings boasts in large letter signage that it is the corporate home of general dynamics. Rod grins. They’re the company that makes the Stryker. The vehicles pass their maker. Minutes later, the column grinds to a halt in front of another large building and sits idling.
This is their objective. Seven floors. Three hundred and forty rooms.
The Crystal Palace Hotel.
♦
The plan is to unfuck America, starting with Washington, DC, their new area of operations. That is how Captain Mack, call sign Outlaw, put it during the mission briefing back in Germany. The Brass dubbed the invasion Operation Yellow Ribbon, but the grunts call it simply the Home Front. It is the largest and most complex military operation in America’s history, involving units staging from around the world, and thrown together in less than a month.
Rod considers liberating Washington to be a symbolic gesture. There is nothing special about the city itself. No weapons manufacturing, food production, vital scientific facilities. The scuttlebutt is the Brass did not want to do it. The generals wanted to fight a campaign somewhere else with less risk to gain a secure foothold on the mainland and gain experience fighting this new enemy. The President, however, wanted something big and decisive to raise morale.
“We’re going to take it back,” Captain Mack told them.
Washington. Rod can feel the raw power in the air, even with the city fallen to the Wildfire Agent. Talk about symbols and myths. Washington was where taxes came from. Where the establishment ran the country. Where politicians clowned and fought in neverending political theater. It was a bag of dicks, in Army
parlance, even before Wildfire. Some guys Rod served with over the years considered Washington a foreign power. For his part, he cannot help but feel massive anger and pride actually being here. Anger at seeing his capital in the hands of the enemy. Pride at being part of a massive invasion force that will take it back.
This is the first army in the history of the world, Rod muses, called to war to fight a virus. A war fought not over religion or resources or territory, but pure survival.
Mack said the Regiment would be fighting within miles of Arlington Cemetery, where thousands lie buried having died fighting for freedom. Let’s do America proud, he told them. Let’s do the Army proud. Our families are back there. Our homeland is under siege. It’s time to take it back.
Standing at attention on the tarmac, the boys roared the regimental war cry.
AIEEYAH!
An hour later, they filed onto Russian-made AN-124 cargo planes for the long flight to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland. After refueling, they hopped to Ronald Reagan National Airport ready to fight, crossing a Potomac swarming with Coast Guard cutters and supply ships, only to find the facility already secured by a unit of Marines and combat engineers, now banging away at Infected on the roads and clearing the traffic jams.
The Dragoons found themselves with nothing to do. Hurry up and wait, as usual. Welcome back to the Suck.
The EUCOM, CENTCOM, AFRICOM, PACOM and SOUTHCOM strategic commands were all heading home to be folded into NORTHCOM headquartered at Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado. From all over South America, Europe, Africa and the Middle East, troops poured into Andrews and were then flown to Reagan, while troops flying home from Pacific Command established a bridgehead on the other side of the country in Santa Barbara, California. Chinook helicopters filled the sky over Washington day and night, ferrying troops to bivouacs established on Theodore Roosevelt Island and East Potomac Park. The grand strategy was to expand these pockets to link up with Bolling Air Force Base, Fort Myer and the Pentagon, creating a secure zone supported by other installations in the region such as Quantico, Fort Belvoir, Andrews, Dahlgren and Indian Head. From this expanded beachhead, the invasion force would cross the Potomac and drive east through the Mall to secure the White House and the Capitol.
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 an
d 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.
The Killing Floor Page 5
