Rawlings looked at the lightfighters seated across from her on the opposite side of the M925A1’s wide bed. Like her old unit—the 164th Transportation Battalion of the Massachusetts Army National Guard—they were a mix of young and old, a hodgepodge of races and body types. Unlike the Muleskinners, though, the composition of the 1st Battalion, 55th Infantry Regiment was almost entirely male. There were few women amongst the light infantrymen, and most of those were in the unit’s supply company. Rawlings didn’t have to wonder why. Though feminists and liberal-minded do-gooders had finally knocked down all the road blocks that separated women from joining the fighting ranks of The Men’s House, as the Army was occasionally known as, few females had the appetite for actual combat. To find herself floating alone in a sea of testosterone was not unexpected, especially when her new temporary duty station was with the storied 10th Mountain Division (Light Infantry).
Virtually all of the soldiers around her had become combat-proven long before the Boston “peace-making” operation had begun. Rawlings knew that the 10th’s units in Afghanistan had been rotated home just months ago, so the division could rest, refit, and retrain. It was called a “reset” in military parlance, where an over-optimized unit was taken off the line so it could get its collective shit squared away. New faces would fill old spaces, and old faces would rotate out to other units and share their experience or simply leave the service and enter a hopefully safer civilian society. No matter which avenue they took, it was a fool’s errand. The Bug had seen to that.
Gender aside, it was obvious she wasn’t one of them. They all wore multicam combat uniforms issued during Operation ENDURING FREEDOM in Afghanistan: advanced combat helmets, tactical rigs bulging with spare magazines and other gear pulled tight over body armor, CamelBak hydration systems, many with M9 pistols strapped to one thigh, gigantic rucks full of tactical gear, additional ammunition, Meals Ready to Eat, sleeping bags—their usual load-out exceeded a hundred pounds on a given day. Half of them were in MOPP gear, while the others had their protective paraphernalia laid out and ready to be donned in an instant. “Light infantry” had nothing to do with the weight of their equipment. Even though the 10th didn’t have much in the way of tanks or heavy armor, they probably carried more equipment on their persons than their counterparts in the line infantry.
For her part, Rawlings was clad in a filthy Army Combat Uniform and a patrol cap. She had no armor, no hydration system, no MOPP equipment, and no rucksack full of gear. In the pockets of her uniform, she had two energy bars, four spare magazines of 5.56-millimeter full metal jacket ball ammunition, and a tire pressure gauge, the only holdover from her previous occupation as a Heavy Equipment Transportation System driver. And clipped to her waistband beneath her ACU blouse was a sheathed K-Bar knife.
Basically, she was a leaf-eater surrounded by carnivores.
She tried to imagine Scott Wade hanging out with soldiers like the ones she was currently riding with. When she’d found him, he was basically a broken kid, his platoon downed by the Bug and cut off from the rest of his battalion. She’d helped build him back up during their brief time together, and truth be told, he had done the same for her. She’d had maybe six or seven years on him, but in the situation at Harvard Stadium, the age gap didn’t seem to matter. And even though he’d looked like a kid, he’d fought like a man. Then he’d been infected and turned into a Klown. He had charged her, his crazy eyes full of murder, and she’d shot him with her M4 at a range of maybe ten feet—three times, because one hit was usually not enough.
Only death cured the Infected.
“So what’s your story?” someone asked, over the rumble of the truck’s diesel engine.
Rawlings looked up from the floorboard she’d been staring at. The big soldier sitting almost directly across from her had his hands draped around his M4/M203 combo weapon. His posture looked almost casual, but Rawlings doubted that to be the case. She was certain the man could go operational in a second’s notice, swing his rifle around, and zero any Klowns who might want to start something. He wasn’t wearing MOPP gear, but the soldiers on either side of him were. The pattern was that every other soldier was in MOPP IV, so Rawlings was also hemmed in by similarly protected soldiers. She couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses. The nametape on his vest read MULDOON.
“Sorry?”
“I said, what’s your story?”
Rawlings thought about it. The rest of the soldiers were glancing her way, waiting for her response, even though they were all supposed to have eyes out, scanning for threats.
“No story,” Rawlings said finally.
“Really.” Muldoon’s expression didn’t change. “No story, but here you are, a beat-up Nasty Girl hitching a ride with a bunch of lightfighters. Who were you with?”
“The One Sixty-Fourth Transportation Battalion.”
“So you were what? A truck driver?”
Rawlings nodded. “Basically. Yeah.”
“What happened to your unit?”
“Overrun at Harvard Stadium. We were hauling supplies and drove into an ambush. Infected police hit us, along with a few dozen others. As far as I know, the headquarters company is still with the rest of the Guard at Logan.” The National Guard had facilities at Logan International Airport, just across the Callahan Tunnel from downtown Boston.
“And what happened to you?” Muldoon tapped his face, indicating the position of the big bruise that covered Rawling’s cheek.
“I fought my way out. Took a shot to the head.”
“Really.” If he was impressed, Muldoon didn’t allow it to show. “What happened to the dude who tapped you?”
“Shot him through the head. In through the chin, out through the crown.”
Muldoon nodded. “That’s the way to do it. How’d you find your way here?”
“Walked,” she said.
“All the way from Harvard Stadium?”
Rawlings found she didn’t have the will or desire to explain her situation any further. “Yeah. Mostly. Caught a ride with some of your guys. They didn’t make it, and was on foot after that.” She motioned toward the front of the column. “I told your XO all about it.”
“Walker?”
“Yeah.”
Muldoon grunted. “He’s a blue falcon. Stay away from him. You know what that means, Rawlings?”
“Yeah. I know what a buddy fucker is.”
“You go through rifleman training?” Muldoon asked.
“Yes, Sergeant Muldoon. National Guard BCT is the same for us as it was for you.”
Muldoon seemed to glare at her, but she couldn’t be certain because of his sunglasses. “Rawlings, you’re nothing like us. Don’t think that you are.” He looked toward the truck cab. “Well, you might be like Lieutenant Crais.”
“I’m in charge,” several of the other soldiers said in unison.
Muldoon nodded toward a pasty-skinned man in the rear of the truck. “Or maybe like Nutter.”
“Colonel Nutter, sir!” the soldiers chanted, saluting the man Muldoon had pointed out, though the salutes were delivered from crotch level. Definitely atypical, in Rawlings’s experience.
She couldn’t see Nutter’s eyes, as he was turned facing the rear, his M4 held at low ready. But he raised his left hand to acknowledge the salutes with his middle finger. Rawlings figured that was regular occurrence.
“Don’t mean to presume I’m even close to being a lightfighter, Muldoon,” she said. “But we’re all soldiers.”
“Not John Wayne,” said a reedy black lightfighter whose nametape read JOHNSON. He pointed at Muldoon. “He’s not a soldier. He’s a weapon, I’m telling you.”
With effort, Rawlings refrained from rolling her eyes. “I’ll remember that.”
“Good,” Muldoon said. “Keep that in mind. Now, you just sit back and—”
Two Apaches roared past, fast and low, drowning out the rest of his comment. Reading his lips, Rawlings was pretty sure he’d finished with “Let us take care
of you.”
Great. Just great.
SIX.
The road movement was, for the most part, going according to plan.
Lieutenant Colonel Harry Lee kept tabs on the column’s progress as it moved along the turnpike. The next blocking force had already set up, and the scouts had handed off their mission to some of the Apache gunships so the smaller aircraft could head off and refuel.
Lee was a little worried about the scout element. They had a long way to go, and the Kiowa Warriors had short legs, only a little over an hour of station time—less if they had to continually fly and fight as they had been. The Apaches weren’t much better. They could perhaps eke out three hours of flying time, but the aircraft had been running nonstop for well over a week. They would need maintenance, which meant they would have to be pulled off the line, housed somewhere secure, and defended from the Klowns or whatever else God decided to throw their way.
Lee was a lightfighter just like the rest of his men, but he knew the value in having an armed attack battalion on-station to provide close air support when they needed it. He had no idea how many Infected were in Boston, but it had to be well into the hundreds of thousands if not millions. Only a fraction of those were interested in taking out the battalion’s convoy, which was a blessing, though it was equal parts curse. Those that weren’t attacking the battalion were out infecting others, and that was clearly worse for the nation.
And of course, Lee had no idea what lay between his unit and Fort Drum. Their route would take them past several well-populated establishments, but by sticking to the smaller roads, they could avoid the larger cities: Framingham, Worcester, and Springfield, all in Massachusetts. Then on into New York. There, they would bypass Albany, Schenectady, and Utica before rolling upstate toward Watertown, and, just beyond, Fort Drum. Home of the 10th Mountain Division and several other tenant units. All of whom had apparently gone dark.
Lee didn’t know what to make of that. It had been days since he’d heard anything from the Brigade Combat Team’s tactical operations center, and even longer since a divisional command had been in touch. While the battalion had been working out of Boston, the rest of the brigade and the majority of Drum’s infantry and aviation assets had gone farther south to assist in stabilizing New York. If the Big Apple had undergone the same transformation as Boston, then Lee doubted he would hear anything from higher field commands anytime soon.
As in, ever.
He kept track of the column’s progress using both GPS and a handheld map and marking off their phase lines with a grease pencil. The survivors of the Bushmaster element had been recovered, but there were precious few of them. The element had taken ninety percent losses, including Bravo Company’s commander, Captain Marsh. Losing Marsh stung, not because he was a close friend of Lee’s, but because he was a seasoned company grade commander who had led his men in combat in Afghanistan and, briefly, in Iraq. A good deal of tactical capability and knowledge had died with him, and that was what Lee would miss the most. Added to the casualty list were experienced noncommissioned officers and other skilled soldiers, as well as the loss of at least two tactical vehicles. All of that weakened the battalion, making it less capable at dictating the tempo of operations—in other words, its ability to efficiently kill Klowns.
For the twentieth time, Lee reconsidered their route. Taking the Mass Turnpike and then westward seemed to be the most expedient path—better roadways, more lanes, flatter terrain, less opportunity for attack as they moved away from Boston—but they had no real idea of what lay just beyond their previous area of operations. Their unmanned aerial reconnaissance systems were of the battlefield variety, and they had an operational radius of around six miles. The controllers would also have to stop, launch the small airplane-like devices by hand, then monitor their progress. Flying along at around fifty miles per hour and up to an altitude of fifteen thousand feet, the small drones could do much to increase Lee’s local situational awareness, but that would mean having to bring the column of Humvees, trucks, support vehicles, and civilian cars and trucks to a halt. And stopping invited an attack. Since they were deep inside Indian Country, the last thing Lee wanted to do was call the column to a halt just so they could launch some toy airplanes and take a look at what lay a few miles down the road. They had helicopters at their disposal, which could fly higher, move faster, observe with superior optics, and if the need arose, cause more than a little bit of damage to any enemy formations in their path.
As they rolled on, Lee looked out the windows of the Humvee. Apaches orbited overhead. The remainder of Bravo Company had deployed and assumed their blocking positions, and there was no sign of enemy activity—other than the fires, of course. To the column’s right, an office building or a depot of some kind was still smoldering, with only skeletal remains of the structures left. The overpass was pockmarked, and bloated, disfigured corpses hung from the light stanchions. When Lee saw that a couple of them were children, he shuddered slightly. He had seen similar things in Afghanistan, but that had been the mujis committing atrocities against their own people in a bid to win their fear and respect and turn them against the Americans. Lee still had a hard time believing that Americans, infected or not, were capable of such barbarity.
Murphy leaned forward, looking at the swinging corpses. “Just hangin’ around, waiting for something to happen.” If the scene affected him at all, his voice didn’t reveal it.
Lee had no comment and merely returned to his maps and GPS display.
“Pull out of formation on the other side of the bridge.”
“Sir?”
“I want to have a quick huddle with Bravo’s commanding officer,” Lee explained.
“Uh, sure thing,” Murphy said, though he didn’t seem to like the idea much. Lee didn’t care. He reached for the radio handset.
“Wizard Five, this is Six. Over.”
“Six, this is Five. Go ahead. Over,” Major Walker responded. He was several vehicles behind Lee, ensconced in another uparmored Humvee.
Lee informed him that he would be falling out of the formation for a few minutes.
“Uh…Six, why’s that? Over.”
“Just having a quick heart-to-heart with Bravo Company. Over,” Lee said as Murphy pulled the Humvee out of the column.
They rolled to a halt behind the M925A1 truck. The soldiers manned up in MOPP gear looked at the new arrival from behind the lenses of their masks.
“Six, are we halting the column? Over.”
“Negative, Five. Keep moving. We’ll get back in the slot. Over.”
“Roger, Six,” Walker said, but he didn’t sound very happy about it.
Lee didn’t blame him. He wanted to get the hell out of there too, but first things first.
“Hey, what’s up?” Foster asked from the cupola.
“Never mind. Just stay sharp up there.” Lee turned to Murphy. “I’ll be right back.”
“Sienkiewicz, go with him,” Murphy said. Lee was impressed. Most of the troops couldn’t pronounce Sienkiewicz’s name—“Sen-kev-itch,” the tall, skinny corporal had constantly corrected—so they just called him “Witch.”
“Not necessary,” Lee said. He yanked on the Humvee’s door release.
“Absolutely necessary, sir,” Murphy said. “Sienkiewicz, get on it.”
“Hooah,” Sienkiewicz said. He pulled on his MOPP top garment, slipped on his mask, and grabbed his rifle.
Lee didn’t bother with the MOPP gear. He just stepped out and slammed the uparmored door shut behind him. The troops manning the security position stood straighter when they realized the Old Man—who wasn’t so old—was paying them a visit.
“Sir, hold up!” Sienkiewicz yelled.
Lee waved at him over his shoulder and continued walking, his M4 slung across his chest and his right hand on its pistol grip. He looked around, mindful of the civilian traffic in the far lanes and the Army convoy in the closest one. The column zipped by at an even fifty miles per hour. Overhead, Apac
hes orbited in the sky, never staying in one place, always moving in a pattern that kept them from becoming easy targets while allowing their weapons systems as much coverage as possible. On the horizon, smoke rose into the air as downtown Boston continued to burn.
“Where’s your commanding officer?” Lee shouted at the soldiers surrounding the Big Foot truck.
One of them pointed downrange, and Lee took off at a brisk walk, trying not to look too put out at being exposed, though it made his bowels feel as if they might turn into water any second. He puckered up. Now was not the time to explode into Hershey squirts, especially in front of the men.
“Sir, you have to wait for me,” Sienkiewicz said, pulling abreast of Lee. He carried his assault rifle in both hands, the butt of its stock pressed into his right armpit.
“Move faster next time,” Lee said.
“I will, but you should go MOPP too, sir,” Sienkiewicz said. “I mean, you’re the one who ordered all exposed troops to suit up, right?”
“Command prerogative,” Lee said. “Watch the traffic, Corporal.”
“On it, sir.”
They found Bravo Company’s new commanding officer standing next to his Humvee with what Lee presumed to be the company first sergeant. First Lieutenant (Promotable) Cassidy had his back to Lee and didn’t notice his approach. The NCO beside him looked up, and Lee could have sworn he saw the man grimace behind his facemask. Cassidy saw the look, then turned. When he saw Lee, he straightened and saluted. Lee groaned inwardly. Cassidy had just made him a target.
“Sorry to break it to you, Lieutenant Cassidy, but you’re the new commanding officer of what’s left of Bravo Company. I know you’re in the zone for promotion, so you should be ready for it. Understood?”
“Understood, sir. How many are left?”
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