Part 4 (1/2)
The street karma is constantly s.h.i.+fting, but Bowman, brand new to the country and command, is not prepared for how much hate he has to eat here on a daily basis. The walls of the high-rise apartment buildings, pockmarked with bullet holes from years of strife, radiate it. The very streets cry infidel. The very bricks want him dead.
”Contact, right!”
The RPG zips across the front of his Humvee and strikes a parked minivan, which explodes and rockets a spinning blur of metal against his winds.h.i.+eld, where it bounces with a heart-stopping smash and leaves a spider web of cracks. Kemper, driving the rig, whistles through his teeth but otherwise barely even flinches at the impact.
They did not prepare Bowman for this in ROTC.
The air hums and snaps with small arms fire while the fifty-cals on the Humvees chew up the walls of nearby buildings. Tracers flicker and zip through the air. The top of a palm tree explodes, scattering burning leaves and blistering their winds.h.i.+eld with pieces of shrapnel.
Bowman, wide-eyed and shouting himself hoa.r.s.e, forces himself to calm down. His men are counting on him to lead them, and he doesn't't want to let them down on his first mission. They need to stop and start directing aimed fire at the insurgent positions. In an ambush, if you can't't withdraw, you a.s.sault.
He starts to key his handset, but Kemper turns, winking, and tells him that things will be just fine, sir, if we keep right on moving.
The cops aren't answering the phone
Bowman's eyes flutter open and he looks around the facility manager's office with a flash of panic. Had he been dreaming? For a moment, he'd thought. . . . Then he'd heard a noise. A knock? He listens to the hum of machinery in the hospital bas.e.m.e.nt.
Somebody is muttering outside his door.
”Come in,” he says.
Kemper enters the room, dimly lighted by a single desk lamp, followed by the squad leaders. Bowman is expecting them. He requested a squad leader meeting. The room's smells of sweat, stale coffee and lived-in gear grows stronger.
”Pull up a chair, gentlemen,” says the LT, rubbing his eyes. ”Yeah, Pete, just push that aside. Ah, coffee's not fresh but it is hot if you want some.”
Ruiz stands, grinning, and heads for the pot. ”Don't mind if I do, sir.” His squad will be manning the wire for the rest of the night until relieved at oh-six hundred.
Bowman clears his throat and says, ”Gentlemen, the situation has changed. Again. In fact, it's become fluid.”
Puzzled expressions behind their masks. ”Sir?”
”About thirty minutes ago, the RTO came to see me,” Bowman tells them. ”He shared with me some interesting information about messages he's been intercepting on the net. Gentlemen, there are units in our area of operations that are under attack by civilians.”
The sergeants are squinting in disbelief.
”Confirmed, sir?”
”Captain West confirmed it.”
”Coordinated?”
”No,” Bowman answers. ”The attacks are entirely random.”
”Just what do they hope to gain from doing that?” says Sergeant McGraw. ”Are they looking for food, vaccine or are they, you know, las.h.i.+ng out at the government?”
Bowman looks him square in the eye. ”We were one of the units that was attacked.”
The men gasp. These are men not easily surprised. But they have just learned the attacks are being made by Lyssa victims suffering from Mad Dog syndrome, and it floors them.
”We were attacked,” McGraw says slowly.
”Yes, Sergeant. We were attacked.”
”By unarmed Americans. American civilians. Sick people.”
Bowman turns to the other sergeants. ”As I said, the situation is changing.”
McGraw shakes his head. ”Sir. . . .”
”Pete, you may feel that your men have something to atone for after what happened on the wire today. I don't. Captain West agrees with my view on this. Whatever your feelings are, you're going to have to get yourself squared away on this.”
McGraw chews on his mustache and mutters, ”Yes, sir.”
”Well, this makes sense,” Ruiz says. ”We've been turning away a lot of people who caught the bug, but also a lot of people asking for help controlling a Mad Dog, or saying a neighbor's gone Mad Dog and attacking people. More than we should be hearing about.”
”What do you say to them?” Sergeant Lewis asks. He is a giant of a man, nearly six feet and four inches tall, and was once considered the unit's finest athlete. Back then, the soldiers called him Achilles behind his back, with admiration, but not anymore, not for some time. After his son was born and he quit smoking, he got a little soft and put on some weight. It did not dampen his natural aggression, though. If anything, he has only grown more aggressive over time. He adds, ”What do you tell them to do?”
Ruiz shrugs. ”To go back home and call the cops.”
”And is that all right for them?”
”They, um, say the cops aren't answering the phone.”
Lewis gestures with his large hands and says, ”We got to get out there and start helping these people.”
”Negative,” says the LT, shaking his head for emphasis.
”It's why we're here, ain't it, sir?”
”It's a no go. It's not our mission. The Army is a weapon of last resort in civil disturbance situations. We're not cops. We trained with the non-lethals but we don't have any. We go out there, and we'll end up in situations like today where civilians get killed.”
”Sounds like people are getting killed all over, and we're sitting with our a.s.ses in the wind,” Lewis says bitterly. ”What's the Army for if not protecting the people here?”
”I don't have the answers you'd like me to have,” Bowman tells him.
”What matters is our position here. Our orders are the same. Keep this facility safe. Out there, we'd only do more harm than good.”
Kemper nods. It makes sense. You can't kill a fly with a hammer.