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The grayness.

“Dew,” Perry said. “I think they’re trying to jam me again.”

Before Dew could respond, the Osprey landed hard, throwing men against their seat restraints.

“Get up and move!” Nails screamed. The rear ramp dropped open, and men rushed out. Perry started down the ramp, looking out at what had to be the most surreal thing he’d seen yet.

The open, green expanse of a high-school football field.

“You should feel right at home, Dawsey!” Dew shouted.

Perry hit the green artificial turf and cut left along with the other men. They’d landed almost on the fifty-yard line. He ran across a black circle decorated with the yellow letters MLK, and then he was on the green again.

Somewhere in the back of his head, the ghosts of his past cheered for Scary Perry Dawsey one more time. He was even wearing a helmet.

In front of him, a man’s head snapped to the left. The man stumbled and started to fall. Perry reached out and grabbed his jacket, then flipped the limp body up onto his right shoulder. He never even broke stride.

From far off to his left, a deep stuttering sound, then an explosion. He only semi-heard these things—all he could think of was reaching the empty aluminum stands that stretched out in front of him. Suddenly he was on the red track, heading for the corner of the stands, then curving around them—their bulk s.h.i.+elded him from more bullets. Men surrounded Perry, helping him lower the wounded man. As soon as Perry set him down, it was clear the man wasn’t wounded.

He was dead.

A bullet had hit him on the right cheekbone and gone out the other side, the exit wound much larger than where the bullet had entered.

“Nice try, Perry,” Dew said. “An A-10 went after the snipers on that building. We’re probably okay for now, but we have to move.” Dew checked his watch. “According to you, we’ve got twenty-three minutes—so which way do we go?”

Perry looked away from the dead man. Forty-odd soldiers stared at him. Some were breathing hard. All were waiting.

“Perry,” Dew said. “Now or never.”

Perry closed his eyes and just felt. Without looking, he raised his right hand and pointed. When he opened his eyes, he saw that he was pointing toward the smoking Renaissance Center.

Nails drew in a big breath. “Let’s moooove! Time to get some payback, men. Fall out by squads, and let’s make time!”

The men turned and started to move out by squads.

Perry took one more look at the dead man, then stood and began jogging after the men of Whiskey Company.

1:00 P.M.: The Pythagorean f.u.c.king Theorem

Corporal Kinney Johnson was no Corporal Cope. That was for sure.

“Talk to me,” Ogden said. “This isn’t the Pythagorean f.u.c.king theorem here—just give me a f.u.c.king head count.”

Kinney was on one knee, handset held to his ear, trying to contact the remaining soldiers. He scribbled away on a note pad as he talked.

“Johnson!”