Chapter 6.

No sign of blue forces Second Platoon, now a wedge made up of three rifle squads in diamond formation with HQ, Weapons Squad and the walking wounded in the center, reaches Samuel J. Tilden International Middle School ten minutes behind schedule. A growing crowd of civilians follows the platoon at a respectful distance, hoping for protection.

The school is a sprawling, three-story building consisting of a central trunk and two wings, accessible via a main entrance and numerous emergency exits. In the early days of the Lyssa epidemic, the City government closed all of the schools to prevent the rapid spread of infection among children, who were then taking the disease home to their parents. As the epidemic continued growing and began overwhelming the hospitals, the government tried to alleviate the pressure by opening Lyssa clinics at sites such as schools, the larger dance clubs and even the subway and train stations.

This school, turned into a Lyssa clinic, was where Quarantine placed the headquarters of Charlie Company, First Battalion, and its First Platoon. Yesterday, it was teeming with patients, medical volunteers and nearly forty soldiers, MPs, engineers and specialists, including at least one squad constantly manning a checkpoint behind a sandbag position constructed around the front doors.

Today, the entrance appears deserted. The street in front of the building is also empty of vehicles, restricted to official traffic only. n.o.body comes out to welcome the boys of Second Platoon.

There are bodies everywhere lying on the street among fluttering papers and loose garbage, already starting to stink in the brisk air of this late September morning. The air is thick with flies.

They died from gunfire.

Second Squad is on point. Sergeant Lewis calls a halt. The LT hustles up, takes out his binoculars and scans the small, neat sandbag fort.

No soldiers are visible.

Bowman turns to Lewis and signals him to move.

The Sergeant whistles softly and Second Squad's fireteams rush across the open s.p.a.ce to the sandbags, carbines held in the firing position.

Behind him, the civilians are getting nervous and asking why the platoon is stopped and they are not entering the refuge. Kemper explains that they must check out the area to make sure it is not dangerous. He tells them to stay out of the way for their own safety.

Second Squad disappears into the building. The scene is quiet except for the intermittent clatter of a machine gun somewhere far to the northeast.

"Every time we stay out of the way, we get slaughtered," one of the civilians complains.

Moments later, Lewis reappears at the sandbags and whistles, waving his hand in front of face to give the signal for all-clear.

"Now we can move," Kemper says to the civilian. "See how this works?"

"I thought how it worked is I pay taxes and you protect me," a woman in the crowd says, just loud enough for him to hear.

Kemper sighs, sorry that he tried.

The platoon moves forward, the civilians following closely.

"What the h.e.l.l happened here?" Sherman wonders. The area in front of the school's doors is carpeted with b.l.o.o.d.y bra.s.s sh.e.l.l casings, the product of hundreds, possibly even thousands, of rounds being fired. The smell of cordite hangs in the air.

"Some kind of war," says Boomer.

"No sign of blue forces, sir," Sergeant Lewis reports to the LT.

The boys shuck their rucksacks in the hallway and take long pulls on their canteens. The civilians file past them, looking sh.e.l.l-shocked.

"Rest up," Bowman says. "We're on the move in five."

How a rifle platoon seizes control of a building

Sergeant Ruiz extends his arm over his head and gives a slight wave. Williams and Hicks get into position on each side of the door and give him a thumbs up.

Ruiz opens the door to the cla.s.sroom and flicks the light switch. Inside, the rows of inst.i.tutional fluorescent lights blink to life instantly.

He steps over the threshold, holding his carbine at shoulder level, ready to fire. Williams follows on his heels and turns left, while Hicks turns right. Behind them, Wheeler and McLeod pull security in the hallway, watching their backs.

The fireteam then loops around until they return to the doorway. "Clear," Williams says.

"Clear," Hicks says.

"Clear," says Ruiz.

They have done this eight times already, and they are exhausted. This is how a rifle platoon seizes control of a building, one room at a time. Once they entered the school, the LT placed his gun team and HQ, along with the wounded and civilians, near the primary doors, plugging the main entrance. This base became their foothold for action inside the building, while denying access to outsiders who might reinforce enemy forces.

This accomplished, the next step is to systematically clear the building. The three squads each entered a separate wing of the building, with the fireteams in each squad alternating as a.s.sault and support forces.

"All right, here's the stairwell leading up to the second floor," the Sergeant says, mopping sweat from his forehead. "Down there is the admin wing, which we got to clear before we can go up. McLeod, I am placing you here with your SAW."

"You're leaving me alone?" says McLeod.

Ruiz sighs loudly through his nose. "The rooms behind you have been cleared. We will be on your left, down that hallway. You lie here and point your weapon at the stairwell until we get back. Think you can manage that?"

"Since you put it like that-"

"Listen to me, dips.h.i.+t."

"Okay, Sergeant."

"You got our backs. Do not screw up or nod off or rub one out or read a good book or whatever it is you do instead of soldiering. If you do, I will not a.s.sign you KP or smoke you with exercise. I will frag you. You will die. Okay? Do we understand each other?"

McLeod nods darkly. "Yes, Sergeant."

"All right, let's do this, ladies. Sooner we clear this building, the sooner we can kick up our feet."

"Roger that, Sarge," says Hicks.

"Take point, Private Williams."

"All right, Sergeant."

Williams turns the corner toward the admin offices and almost walks into the man standing there smiling down at him. A tall, skinny giant of a man, almost six foot five, wearing a neat suit and tie.

"Oh, sorry, sir," Williams says.

He glances up at the face and his bowels turn to water. The man's swollen, bruised throat bulges over the s.h.i.+rt collar, which is soaked with drool and mucus.

"Shoot him, Private!" roars Ruiz.

The man opens his mouth, making a bubbling, percolating sound deep in his throat, and reaches out with his long arms to embrace Williams.

The rifle pops and the man staggers backward, wincing in pain, his dress s.h.i.+rt now soaked red.

Williams blinks in surprise, then fires again as he was trained, putting the second bullet into the man's face, blowing off his jaw and ear. The man spins like a top and eventually falls to the ground with a meaty sound, his hair smoking.

The soldier laughs hysterically.

"Who shot him? Was that me?"

"Give me your weapon, Private."

Ruiz takes the M4 out of his hands, shoulders it and fires rapidly, bang bang bang, dropping three more figures at the end of the hallway.

"I'm going to make a soldier out of you yet, Private Williams," he says, handing him back his carbine and then retrieving his shotgun.

"Roger that, Sergeant," Williams says, blowing air out his cheeks.

"Roger that."

A familiar voice from around the corner: "You guys all right?"

"Shut up and stay in position, Private McLeod," Ruiz yells back.

"Sergeant, look, it's a rifle," says Hicks, stepping forward and picking the weapon off the floor. "It's an M4." He wrestles with the bolt and snorts. "Jammed."

The Sergeant nods. He was afraid that at some point they were going to begin finding the shreds of First Platoon.

"And there's a blood trail. See it?"

The trail of blood droplets leads under a door to an administrative office. The fireteams quickly get into position, ready to take it down. Ruiz peers through the window set in the upper half of the door, which is similarly spotted and streaked with blood. The inside of the office is clean and brightly lit but otherwise appears empty.

He counts down with his fingers, Three, two, one- The doork.n.o.b gives, but the door barely moves. Something's blocking it.

He pushes hard until the obstruction clears.

The soldiers step into the room, clear it, and then converge on its sole occupant.

The corpse lies tangled up in his own limbs. They recognize him as Charlie Company's RTO. He wears a crude tourniquet tied tightly around his leg, which has been mauled savagely below the knee. The top of his skull and brains are splattered up the scorched and splintered door, which he was blocking with his body.

Blocking, apparently, to keep the Mad Dogs out.

"This s.h.i.+t is cold," says Williams.

"He didn't want to become one of them," Ruiz says.

"Sergeant?" says Hicks, puzzled.

"Nothing," says Ruiz. "Just thinking out loud."

The man still clutches the pistol that he used to blow his brains out. As RTOs are not issued sidearms, the pistol is not his, although the soldiers recognize it as an Army-issue nine-millimeter.

The Sergeant crouches down and tears off one of the corpse's oval dog tags, then contacts the LT using his handheld.

"War Dogs Two-Six, this is War Dogs Two-Three, over."

War Dogs Two-Three, this is War Dogs Two actual standing by to copy, over.

"We have cleared most of the first floor of hostiles and have located a member of Charlie Company's headquarters staff in the admin area of the left wing, over."

What's his status, over?

"He's dead, over."

Any sign of War Dogs Six or other elements of his command, over?

"Negative. We have something positive to report, though. The man we found is the company RTO, and he has a working combat net radio. Over."

The boys glance at each other and grin. The man's death is horrible, the more so because this particular death, among so many, is closer to home for them as soldiers. But finding an intact SINCGAR is a stroke of luck. Communications can be as valuable as water and ammunition in the field. With a working field radio, the platoon can easily talk to Battalion. They can get things they need to live and continue functioning as a military unit in the field. Specifically, through direct communication with the chain of command, they can ask for news, orders, reinforcements, evacuation, rescue, air support, food, water, ammunition, equipment and medevac.

Outstanding, Sergeant, says the LT. Can you send it back with a runner? Over.

"Wilco, sir. Sending Private Williams now with the radio, over."

Solid copy, out.

"Collect these weapons and any ammo you can find," Ruiz tells the squad. "As for Doug Price here, we'll pick him up on the way back so he can be buried with respect."

A greater obligation