Contagious Page 127

f.u.c.k. Dew shoved the satphone into his flak jacket, then thumbed the transmit b.u.t.ton on his helmet mike. “Nails, Nails, come in, over.”

Dew heard the response in his helmet’s earphones. “Nails here. What are your orders?”

“Building at the corner of Orleans and At.w.a.ter,” Dew said. “That’s the target. Get in there right now, kill everything that moves. We have four minutes to secure that building or they’re going to drop a bomb that will level about five square blocks.”

“Yessir!”

Dew looked at Perry. “Well, kid, you ready?”

“No,” Perry said. “Not even close.”

Dew slapped him on the shoulder. “Tell you what. We go out there, we get this bulls.h.i.+t done, and then tomorrow you and I go fis.h.i.+ng. How about that?”

Perry stared at him for a second, then nodded. “Okay.”

Maybe Dew’s daughter wouldn’t go fis.h.i.+ng, but Perry was probably the closest thing he’d ever have to a son.

1:11 P.M.: Hostages

Following the three gunmen turned out to be much easier than Margaret had thought possible, for a very disturbing reason. They had run back to the eight-laned Jefferson Avenue, turned west and started collecting hostages. Herding them along at gunpoint, like cattle. Sixteen so far. Women, children, a few men. Some people had resisted—and had been gunned down instantly. A few had shot back, men in their twenties and thirties, firing handguns and even one shotgun. g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers, maybe. They didn’t stand a chance. The body-armor-clad soldiers worked as a team, moved as a unit and gunned down any resistance. They even collected the resisters’ weapons, leaving nothing behind.

Margaret and Clarence followed at a distance, staying out of sight, feeling completely helpless. Clarence kept cursing in a low growl. He wanted to kill those men. So did Margaret, but Clarence still had only one bullet.

Attacking the gunmen would be suicide, plain and simple. There was nothing he could do but wait for an opportunity. So he followed, and Margaret stayed by his side.

1:12 P.M.: . . . and Fire

Perry didn’t know jack s.h.i.+t about military tactics, but as a football player he knew great team play when he saw it. Right before Dew called in the attack on the old factory building, Perry could spot maybe four Whiskey Company soldiers. They popped up, shot, dropped back down, moved from one spot of cover to the next. They grabbed wounded comrades and civilians alike, dragging them to safety. Fifteen seconds after Dew’s call to Nails, Perry saw at least two dozen soldiers. They seemed to materialize out of nowhere, charging forward, shooting at the Globe building’s boarded-up windows. The building grew hazy as bullets pounded bricks into little puffy tan clouds. Perry’s helmet radio buzzed with the excited talk of soldiers on the attack.

“Sniper, third floor!”

“Got him!”

“Keep that fire on the second-floor windows. They’re chucking grenades!”

Dew stood, groaning a bit as he did, then scooted around the front of the Ford and ran toward the building.

Perry drew his .45 and followed. This was insanity. But if Dew was going, Perry was going with him.

Dew’s sprint wasn’t much of a sprint at all. Mentally, maybe the guy had shed twenty years, but physically, not so much. Soldiers raced across the empty lot on either side, pa.s.sing Perry and Dew as if they were standing still. Each step felt like it took five minutes, five minutes during which a bullet might connect at any second.

Yet no fire came his way.

Perry saw only one enemy gunman. Didn’t actually see him, really, just four or five muzzle flashes from behind a cracked piece of plywood covering a third-floor window. About two seconds after that shot, the plywood disintegrated thanks to a ma.s.sive concentration of fire that kicked out a rain of splinters and paint chips. The gunman didn’t fire again.

Dew followed a dozen soldiers toward a rusted roll-up garage door that was closed only a quarter of the way. A battered plywood wall blocked the rest of the opening. Perry heard a whoosh from behind and instinctively ducked. A rocket shot past, at least twenty feet to his right. It hit the plywood wall and erupted in a cloud of fire and wooden shrapnel.

Nail’s voice in his helmet speakers. “Take that building!”

Perry moved forward, still right behind Dew. Whiskey Company soldiers were thirty yards ahead of them, rus.h.i.+ng toward the now-gaping door. For what must have been the hundredth time in the past hour, Perry tried to comprehend the bravery of a soldier, someone who chose to rush headlong into enemy fire.

The first soldiers reached the open door. One tossed in a grenade. Like an optical illusion, someone from inside the building tossed out a grenade at the same time. The two devices actually pa.s.sed by each other, going opposite ways. The charging Whiskey Company men scattered and dove for cover. Two didn’t make it far enough. The grenade exploded. No fireball like in the movies, just a h.e.l.lacious bang, an instant cloud of smoke and a fist-hard hit of air. The two men were standing one second, falling the next. One hit the ground face-first and didn’t move. The other turned as he fell, landing on his right side, hands reaching behind his back and grabbing madly as if his clothes were on fire.

Automatic gunfire erupted from the boarded-up second-floor windows, one gunman on either side of the roll-up garage door. Another Whiskey Company soldier went down, screaming, grabbing at a thigh instantly soaked with blood.

Dew kept running forward.

Perry stayed on his heels.

Dew raised his M4 and fired. Perry pointed his .45 at one of the windows and emptied the magazine. Plywood splintered where he shot. Behind him, to the right, he heard a whuff, then a second later a heavy crunch as something ripped through the plywood window right before a concussive bang blasted it outward in a fiery cloud of pulverized brick and wooden splinters. Perry reloaded, debris raining down on him and Dew as they followed soldiers beneath the roll-up garage door.