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"There he goes: the Fighting Typist!"

While Goodman and his three pals had a good laugh, Grimes kept right on running. It was hot. It was only six-thirty a.m and it was already so fucking hot that Grimes was sure he could brew coffee by sticking a pot on any one of the rocks he'd passed so far. A lot of rocks. Red rocks and red dirt and the sun like a giant red ball in the goddamn sky.

Be All That You Can Be: Grimes was trying. By an unkind twist of fate (namely a paperwork screw-up), he'd landed up in the office pool instead of a combat unit. It might've had to do with the fact that he'd stupidly listed typing as a skill. So he was stuck typing, and making coffee, and keeping track of every round of whichever caliber, every MRE, and every square of toilet paper used by his entire company. He'd been stuck for several years. Being the XO's office dog did occasionally have its perks, but on the whole it sucked, and was not the kind of suck talked about when guys said, Embrace the suck. This just sucked ass.

"Hey, Grimesy! Ya don't have to kill yourself, bro," Sergeant Eversmann hollered. "Get in under this shade."

"Couple-hundred yards to go," Grimes yelled back, not the least winded.

He allowed himself a smirk when the usual surprised expressions arrived on the faces he passed. Yeah, Grimes mentally snarled. Get it right, assholes: I worked just as hard for my Ranger Tab as you did. He cut the guys a little slack, though. A lot of them were FNGs, mustered in from other companies Stateside.

Filler: Grimes hated that term. Being the office dog had exposed him to the Dark Side of military bureaucracy. Every man was just a number. When the overall numbers didn't please the brass, they ordered a fill-up, and the men and squads that came in were technically termed filler. The Dark Side was really dark, and colder than a whore's hand in January.

Grimes jogged to a halt, the end of his run, and thought about that for a moment. Nope. That prostitute would definitely care more than the goddamn brass. He carefully reminded himself not to use that word 'whore' again. Grimes had learned all about prostitution. The people who should've been called whores were those son'bitch politicians thinking about budgets, and wanting results, while worrying about whether they could coax more money out of their big bucks defense sector sugar daddies.

The Dark Side was really fucking dark.

Grimes collected his weapon and two fresh mags, and reported for some range time. Here no-one ever ragged on him. He took a knee under that shade Eversmann had mentioned. Kneeling, standing, prone– that's how he always used up sixty rounds on semi-auto, and every damn FMJ landed in the X-ring. Here no-one ever dared to rag on him; no-one ever dared to question the ACOG sight on his weapon, an optics system usually reserved for designated marksmen, officers, and SOF guys like the Delta men currently working with Grimes' Ranger company.

"They wastin' you behind that fuckin' computer."

"Am I permitted to agree with you, Colonel?" Grimes asked while cleaning the M16.

Lieutenant Colonel Daniel McKnight gave Grimes a nod. McKnight tended not to waste his breath if he could nod, look at guys like they were bugs, or just get up in someone's face. Grimes had seen McKnight do that with Major-General Garrison just the other day, and Garrison had backed right off. It had been the most awesome thing Grimes had ever seen in his twenty-seven years on this planet. Grimes liked McKnight a whole lot. So did everybody else. No man here was just filler to McKnight.

"Well, if I can agree with you, sir, then yeah, I'm wasted behind a fuckin' computer," Grimes said. "I been wasted behind a computer since Desert Fuckin' Storm, and right through Panama. But it's where I'm at, Colonel. So I'm the best fuckin' typist, and I make the best fuckin' coffee—"

LTC McKnight, SGT Eversmann, and assorted Rangers started to laugh.

"—and despite the typing and coffee, I can run in this fuckin' heat and shoot better than anyone else in my kick-ass company. Sir."

"Hoo-ah!" McKnight and the other guys acknowledged.

Grimes nodded his head a couple times before looking down the barrel of his rifle: clean as a whistle. He reassembled the weapon with hands that worked almost independently of his brain. It didn't look like he was paying attention to anything, but every now and then his eyes darted around: the guys were sure paying attention to that weapon reassembly.

Grimes had been doing everything better since he was eighteen. He had to do everything better than anyone else, or he was never going to get out from behind that fucking computer. Nearly nine years of trying, and he was not about to give up. They'd have to cash him out or plant him in a box before he'd give up that Ranger Tab.

"So guess what? Your wish was granted," Sizemore said. "You're going out today."

"You're fucking me," Grimes mumbled.

Sizemore continued to use a letter opener to scratch under the cast on his hand. He shook his head and looked up.

"You're taking my place, assisting the Sixty gunner. Sar'nt Eversmann said to get your stuff and get ready... It's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"Oh yeah," Grimes said and took a gulp of his famous coffee. "Hell yeah..."

But it had been a while since he'd been out on so much as an exercise. In the hangar, with the other guys, it was suddenly like he'd never even been through basic. The opposite was true. Grimes had to tell himself that several times. He had to forget what the others were saying and go back to what he'd learned years ago.

He took a canteen even though he'd been told he wouldn't need it, and he sure as hell did not listen to that knucklehead Joyce and his crap about not needing the impact plates in his vest. So he'd carry a little heavier. If he got hit, the plates would take it and he'd walk away.

"Grimes, most important thing," Eversmann said. "Remember, when everyone's shooting, shoot in the same direction."

Grimes nodded. Yeah, he could do that.

"Here," Galentine said, offering him a weapon.

"But I got—" Grimes said, holding up his M16.

"Son, unless you're an armorer who can switch that M203 onto your weapon, you're taking this one," Galentine stated. "You can't backup the Pig-man with a standard issue, even with that ACOG sight."

"Right..." Grimes muttered.

He racked his own weapon and went to collect a grenade issue for the M203 launcher on the borrowed rifle. The nerves kicked in about then.

An RPG hit the dirt not ten feet away and busted out a crater. It also nearly busted Grimes. He scrambled to his feet and snatched up his weapon.

"Fuck this!" Grimes yelled and ran across the street.

Around him hell had more than broken loose, it was on the loose, and he was right in the middle of its rampage. He'd originally been with Eversmann's Chalk Four but somehow they'd gotten separated– so much for being backup for the guy on that big M60. Grimes was currently tagging along with a couple squads led by that asshole Captain Steele.

"Just my fuckin' luck..."

But at least they had two Delta fireteams along. They were really handy, not least because they knew what the actual fuck they were doing.

"Grimesy, stay away from the walls!"

"What?" Grimes yelled while pulling the trigger.

An RPG zoomed right by Grimes. It smashed out the pillar he'd been standing behind just seconds ago, and followed through to the doorway he'd ducked into. Grimes coughed and stepped out the doorway. It was now conveniently wider.

"Hey, Grimes? You okay?" Sanderson asked.

"Yeah..." Grimes said and coughed again.

He decided to stick closer to Sanderson. He was Delta and less likely to think of combat as a football game. For some reason that was Steele's favorite analogy. Grimes tended to think that the analogy matched the captain's IQ. Everyone knew that sergeants were the smartest beasts in the military. Sanderson was a sergeant.

Grimes tailed Sanderson, copying him. Run to cover, fire from cover, move. Again and again there were close calls, bullets zipping right past his ears, and yet Grimes felt strangely safe. Or maybe he was just in that surreal zone that some of the guys talked about: it was quiet inside their heads, no matter what shit blew up or hit their cover. It was quiet inside Grimes' head, quiet enough for him to pay attention, shoot that guy before he shot anyone else, follow Sanderson, make the best use of cover. Quiet enough for him to think. He was shit-scared, and yet he was thinking, identifying full defilades as opposed to half-cover that would leave him open in flank. A quick glance up the street was as good as a snapshot. He managed to spot cover for himself, and possible attack points on rooftops, in windows, and beyond those goddamn makeshift roadblocks.

"So totally fuckin' surreal..." Grimes muttered while reloading his weapon.

"What's that?" Sanderson asked.

"All this shit's going on, and my adrenalin's so fuckin' high I shouldn't be able to think, but I am. Like fuckin' crystal, Sar'nt."

"Yeah. Who needs drugs, huh?" Sanderson said, grinning like a maniac.

And he bolted across the street. Grimes followed, slowing and smoothing his stride in order to engage a Somali who'd popped up on a rooftop. The rounds hit, but Grimes didn't tarry. He broke into a sprint and allowed himself to hit a wall, like Sanderson had, and like Sanderson he bounced away a bit and ran again.

They hadn't taught him this stuff in basic, but he was getting the big idea behind the way Sanderson moved, always varying his pace. Anyone training a weapon on them would've expected them to slow before hitting that wall, might've predicted that. Their shots would've gone wide. A little further up the street that exact scenario played out: bullets spattered into mud plaster right behind Grimes. He didn't think about how close, and ducked into cover behind a long, high pile of dirt.

The rest of the guys arrived eventually. The berm was pretty good cover for everyone, more than forty guys. But they were being fired upon here by men in a building to the north. Continuous fire, suppressing fire. Grimes gulped. He didn't like that idea, not one fucking bit. If they were held up here, those Somalis in that building could get reinforcements. The Rangers and Delta guys' position here could be stormed.

"Cap'n Steele," Sanderson said into his radio. "We gotta move, sir, or we're gonna get pinned down."

Right! Grimes almost screamed, but managed to bite his tongue just in time.

"We're moving just as fast as we can," Steele said. "You let me do my job, and you do yours. Over."

"Asshole..." Grimes muttered under his breath. To Russo he said, "What the fuck is it with Steele, man? He's always yelling at guys to be more aggressive, then we get out here and he's a fuckin' pussy."

"Tell me... Fuck!" Russo ducked as an RPG flew in and blew up a wrecked car nearby. "We are so gonna get our asses shot off if we stay here... Let's give those guys in the windows somethin' to chew on, huh?"

"Yeah."

Grimes switched his fire selector lever to burst fire and gave three rounds to one of the Somalis in a high window. He swore about missing and ducked back into cover.

"Aah! Shit!"

"Ruiz! Ruiz—Medic!" Steele yelled.

Grimes glanced to his left and his eyes fixed on the wall at their backs: that was a lot of blood. SGT Ruiz had taken a critical hit.

"Fuck this shit..." Sanderson muttered.

He yelled something into his radio and Grimes pulled his eyes away from the blood on the wall in time to see that Sanderson was several yards away by now. Grimes' gut told him to stay put.

Up ahead, Sanderson yelled for covering fire. Grimes could provide that, and he did, firing three-round bursts one after the other at several windows. Sanderson scrambled up the pile of dirt and lobbed a grenade through a window. After the frag went off, there was a brief lull in the shooting.

"Move out!" Sanderson yelled.

The Delta guys led the way to a building and covered the advance of everyone else. Grimes ducked inside and sat down to take whatever breather he'd be afforded here. He could run in this heat, but ordinarily that was just in pants and boots and a T-shirt; no pack, no weapon, no armor. Not to mention, there usually wasn't anyone shooting at him whenever he took that daily run, never mind a whole fucking city seemingly intent on ending the life of one John Grimes.

An RPG hit the outer wall of the building. Grimes ducked involuntarily. That surreal quiet space inside his head felt like it was getting a bit smaller: not a good feeling.

Sanderson and Steele were having words. Eventually Steele said something about being 'combat ineffective.'

Bullshit! Grimes thought. The hell they were combat ineffective. The only thing truly ineffective right now was Captain Control Freak's micro-management of the situation. Move, reassess, move again, repeat: that's what they'd all been taught in basic. It was something all the guys complained about, that Steele tended to assess, reassess, second-guess, and then rail on guys whenever his own delays caused shit.

"Tommy," Grimes hissed.

"Yeah?" Russo said.

"You seen Steele look at a map even once today?"

"Yeah, back at base," Russo drawled. "This your first time out with him?"

"Uh-huh."

"I got the plan all up here, son," Russo mimicked Steele, tapping the side of his head. "I hardly ever seen him look at a map on-mission. We got maps, he makes us use 'em so when he fucks up, we get the blame. Sonuvabitch..."

Grimes swore under his breath and decided to pay better attention to that door over there. Who knew when someone would come through it.

"Sir, gimme some of your shooters," Sanderson said to Steele. "We'll circle round to the bird."

Oh right. Grimes had almost forgotten about the downed Black Hawk, mostly because he'd been trying to provide covering fire for his buddies while keeping his own hide in one piece.

"Grimes! Grimes!" Steele yelled over incessant gunfire.

"Yeah?"

"You from Chalk Four?"

"Yessir," Grimes said.

"All right. Hook up with Delta, rejoin Sar'nt Eversmann. Rest of you, secure this position, treat the wounded..."

"My guys, let's go!" Sanderson yelled.

Well, that was nothing new: Grimes tagged along right behind Sanderson, yet again.

ThudThudThudThudThud!

"Holy shit, what the fuck is that?" Grimes asked and flattened himself against a wall.

"KPV," said one of the other Delta guys.

"A what?" Grimes said.

"A big fuckin' machine gun, Specialist."

"Ohhh fuck..." said Grimes.

"Amen," Sanderson agreed. "Gates, is that gun mounted on a technical?"

"Yeah."

"Shit."

ThudThudThudThudThud!

Grimes crawled a little way from the wall and dared to raise his head a bit. He got a brief peek at a beat-up pickup with that big fucking MG mounted in the bed. He flattened himself when the gun swung his way. The 14.5mm rounds seemed to just shovel away his cover of brick rubble. Grimes scrambled sideways, back behind the wall.

"That thing's big, but it doesn't look bigger than a fifty," Grimes said. "What's the deal?"

"Round's not much bigger than a fifty cal in diameter," Sanderson said, as if he had all the time in the world to deliver a weapons assessment. "But it's longer'n'heavier, got an armor-piercing point. The powder charge behind it is twice as big as a fifty BMG round. That fourteen-point-five round is designed to put holes in tanks and ships."

"That sounds delightful," Grimes muttered.

"Yep, just dandy," Gates said. "Rips choppers and planes apart, too."

"Ugh," said Grimes. "Any reason why we're just sitting here?"

"Waiting for that belt to run out," Sanderson said calmly. "Gates, draw fire again. When these assholes run outa ammo, you guys cover me."

"Yeah..." Gates said, and fired around the corner.

ThudThudThudThudThud!

Grimes checked the mags in his drop bag and dug deeper in the bag for loose rounds.

ThudThudThudThudThud!

Grimes flinched against the wall, but managed to focus on filling a mag, then another. He replaced the current mag in his weapon with a full one. Sanderson noticed that little operation and gave Grimes an approving nod. Grimes nodded a couple times, and flinched again:

ThudThudThudThudThud!

"Gates, keep it up," Sanderson said.

Gates ducked around the corner and fired.

ThudThudThudThudThud!

"Loadin'!" Gates yelled, but moments later: "Fuck, I'm jammed!"

ThudThudThudThudThud! ThudThudThudThudThud! ThudThudThud—

"They're out!" Gates yelled, struggling with his weapon. "Still fuckin' jammed. Shit!"

Grimes looked around at the other men's weapons. He had the only grenade launcher. He didn't pause. He got up and ran forward.

"I got it!"

"Wait..." Sanderson hollered.

The quiet space in his head was back. As Grimes rounded the corner, he reached forward to the launcher's trigger and sent a grenade towards the parked pickup. It went wide.

Grimes went through the motions of loading another HE grenade into the M203. Everything was so clear. Everything seemed slowed-up, too. The two Somalis on the truck were struggling to fill the feed box on the KPV. That long ammo belt was heavy, unwieldy, and kept twisting, kept slipping out the box.

Grimes racked the launcher tube back again, homing the grenade. He reached forward and pulled the M203's trigger. This time he didn't miss: the truck and its gun were fucked.

"RPG!" Sanderson yelled.

Grimes saw that hissing dragon coming through the smoke over the pickup. He threw himself sideways and hit the deck about the same time that the rocket did. Dirt and chunks of rock showered down around him, but he couldn't hear it. All he could hear was his heartbeat thudding away. Oh, good. I'm still alive, Grimes thought. And bonus: nothing hurt. He felt hands scrabbling, pushing the dirt off him. Grimes opened his eyes and looked up. Sanderson was saying something. Grimes became aware of tinnitus.

"You okay?" Sanderson yelled.

"Yeah. I hear bells ringing..." Grimes said.

Sanderson laughed and hauled Grimes to his feet.

"C'mon! C'mon, let's go," Sanderson said, still laughing.

Grimes allowed himself to be dragged along. His balance wasn't so good, but that seemed to get fixed as the ringing in his ears receded.

"Not wobbly anymore," Grimes informed Sanderson.

The sergeant's only response was to let go of Grimes' vest. Grimes tagged along on his own, ducking behind cover when Sanderson did. He leaned out sideways and looked up the street.

"Quiet," Grimes noted.

"Yeah, and that's never good," Sanderson said. "Better if they're shooting: you know where the fuckers are. Gates, you see anything?"

"Fuck-all. They're regroupin'," Gates muttered. "They know exactly where that bird is... Jeff, you readin' my mind?"

"Yeah," Sanderson said and swigged from his canteen. "We can't go to that crash site directly. They'll be waiting for us somewhere along the way... Shit. Gotta take the scenic route."

"Yay," said Grimes.

"And hooray," Sanderson said wryly. "Let's move out. Gates, you got point."

Gates named three other guys, and the four of them split in twos for cover-and-run. Grimes stuck with Sanderson, and he expected to follow Gates, but instead they ducked into a side street.

"What now?" Grimes asked.

"Spacing," Sanderson reminded.

Grimes let Sanderson get a few paces ahead, then moved out after him. Spacing, idiot, Grimes hammered himself. Too close together and there'd be two of them down instead of just a single, if an RPG or burst of small arms fire was chucked their way. Spacing... Oh.

"So we're watching our spacing from Gates and his guys?"

"Isn't that what I said?" Sanderson asked. He threw a grin back at Grimes. "Always kill two birds with one stone."

"Sar'nt, you're a smart-ass," Grimes said.

"It's the only way to have fun in this man's Army."

"Like that guy clowning around last night," said another Delta man. "What's his name?"

"Pilla. Dom Pilla," Grimes muttered. He swallowed hard and said, "He... He bought it. Came over the radio."

"Fuck..." Sanderson growled. He looked over his shoulder and said, "Speaking of radios... Arrow-man, check on Gates."

"Gates, this is Arrow. What's cookin', buddy?"

"We're still seeing nothin', and I don't like it," Gates' voice sounded in Grimes' earpiece. "Somethin' bad's goin' down, man."

Arrow looked at Sanderson, who bunched his fist, then pointed at the dirt.

"Gates, you guys hold position. Out," Arrow said.

"Get Hoot up," Sanderson said.

"Kilo One-one, Kilo One-two. Hoot, this is Arrow, you read? Over."

There was a delay. Grimes had guessed by now that the channel he'd been told to switch to was independent of the channel the Rangers were using. Grimes hadn't heard CPT Steele's Southern snarl in quite a while. He could get used to that.

"Kilo One-one receiving." A different kind of Southern twang. "We're in Humvees on the way back to you. Over."

"You got any idea what's happening? We're encountering no resistance here, and it don't feel right. Over."

"Got another bird down. Got a lotta Somalis advancin' on that second site. Over."

"Aww, fuck... Okay, Hoot, stay safe and have a good one. Out."

Grimes looked around at the four Delta guys. He wanted to ask what the plan was now, but he kept quiet.

"We haven't been redirected," Arrow said.

"I think they're saving that for Hoot and his guys," Sanderson said. "Those boys are mounted, we're on foot. Possible we're just too fuckin' far away to be any good to the second downed bird."

"Makes sense... Still, I don't like it that we were kept outa that loop."

"Me neither, man." Sanderson tightened the chinstrap on his helmet and looked up between buildings at the sky. He said into his radio: "Sun's going down. None of you guys get careless. Let's move."

It was almost as if the sun had obeyed Sanderson: it started to get darker by the minute, and between these buildings deep shadows were black as midnight in hell. Grimes cussed himself for listening to those guys in the hangar. He should've brought his NVG. At least he was tagging along with these Delta boys who were more than likely night vision-equipped. Even if they weren't, Grimes felt better off with them than some of his cocky Ranger buddies.

It didn't feel right to criticize them, but he had no option. They'd been all-out wrong about 'Back in an hour.'

"Goddamn chain-of-command..." Grimes muttered.

"What was that?" Sanderson asked.

"From the top: 'We'll be back in an hour.' All my pals believed it... I did, too."

"If this thing had gone down spit-polish-perfect, we woulda been back at base in an hour. The plan was good, man. What let us down was forgetting that old rule of war. Tell him, Arrow."

"Never underestimate your enemy," Arrow said. "We sure as fuck did that. Now we're paying for it."

"The holding pattern for the choppers was too low," said another Delta man. "We forgot that these Somalis are as good with crappy ol' RPGs as some of our guys are with a Barrett. Holding pattern was way too fuckin' low."

"And now we've learned," Sanderson said reasonably.

"Yup," his guys agreed.

Grimes didn't comment. He wanted to say a lot, most of it revolving around military bureaucracy, and how many times he'd pushed paper on things that hadn't worked three and four times in a row. But he held his yap. These Delta guys worked on a different plane, to a different scale, and when they wrote up official assessments, their brass took note. Maybe next time, if these same guys were involved, their transport birds would stand off at a higher altitude. Grimes had no hope whatsoever of seeing, or even hearing about that kind of rapid tactical improvement in his branch of the military.

Full dusk now. Grimes squinted towards the end of a block. Something had moved there.

"We got company," Grimes hissed. "One o'clock, about eighty meters, maybe, end of that block by the burned-out car."

"Jones," Sanderson whispered.

Grimes looked that way and saw Jones flip a switch on his weapon's sight: night vision.

"I see an AK barrel poking round that corner. Gotta be someone behind it. Might be several someones behind it... Yep. There goes two of 'em. Who's got a shot?"

The two running men were backlit by the setting sun, which clearly showed that both were armed. Grimes' weapon seemed to follow the men of its own accord; his thumb felt at the fire selector: semi-auto. He held his breath and squeezed the trigger. One of the men dropped in his tracks. The other faltered and looked back, which was the last mistake he ever made. Grimes' second shot dropped him, too.

"What about that corner?" he asked.

"Little movement, then nothing," Jones said. "Mighta lost their nerve."

"Fuck. Two of my pals dropped bang-bang like that?" Arrow said. "I mighta peed my pants."

"We're gonna go find out if they did," Sanderson said. "Gates, this is Sanderson."

"Yeah. Was that you shootin'?"

"Nah. Our Ranger boy," Sanderson said and thumped Grimes' shoulder. "Two fired, two dead. Gates, you and your guys cut in, join onto the street we're on. Just watch out for hostiles directly on your three o'clock."

"Yeah, copy. We're on it."

Sanderson started down the street, hugging the wall. Grimes did the same, occasionally checking over his shoulder. The sixth, maybe the seventh time he did that, his eyes caught movement.

"Shit! Flanking!"

Yells from the end of the street, shots fired. Grimes sprinted to his left, bent a leg and slid in behind a smashed cart and its dead horse. Bullets plowed into wood and dead flesh. Grimes belly-crawled to the edge of the cart, going back the way he'd come. Those bastards down there would probably expect him to pop up on the other side of this cart.

"I ain't that dumb..." Grimes growled.

He got to a knee and glanced over at Sanderson, in a doorway on the other side of the street. Sanderson held up three fingers, then two...

"Now!"

They leaned out from cover together and let go short bursts at whatever they could see. Grimes ducked into cover again, switched the selector to semi-auto. When he leaned out a second time he dared to wait for a muzzle flash, aimed at it, and fired. Whoever had been behind that weapon screeched, but briefly.

Silence.

"Oh, yeah. He's dead," Sanderson said. "And I definitely hit the other one, but not bad, I don't think."

"We still got trouble up this end," Arrow said. He and everyone else ducked as a couple rounds came their way. "Besides that, I keep hearing chatter. They're talking and bunching up again."

"Gates?" Sanderson said into his radio.

"We took the wrong fuckin' turn. Comin' towards the noise now."

"We'll make more noise," Sanderson said. To Grimes: "You wanna move up and let 'em have a couple grenades?"

Grimes' answer was a nod, but his brain was asking him what the fuck he was doing.

"Rangers lead the way..." he muttered under his breath.

He made his way in hunched-over sprints from cover to cover, trusting to the guys behind him to provide covering fire. Some of that went past him, and damn close.

"I swear to God, if they fuckin' shoot me in the ass, I'll commit murder..."

He scrambled through a doorway, turned around, and dropped to a crouch. He moved forward carefully and peeked out. That corner across the street was well-within range of his launcher now. He checked the tube: loaded. Grimes took out another two grenades and laid them ready next to his left knee.

Grimes leaned out and fired toward the corner. The grenade connected the dirt and exploded, taking out a man who'd leaned out to shoot at him. He kept his eyes on the corner and reloaded the M203. There was a lot of fire coming from the Delta guys, clearly trying to suppress and give him a chance to do more damage.

The second grenade lobbed just past the corner, into the black of a shadowed alley. As the grenade blew, the light produced showed Grimes that several men had been hit. He loaded the third grenade, but he waited, watching that corner. No fire came from that direction, and the Delta guys were laying off their triggers.

"Jones?" Grimes yelled.

"Nothing, from either direction."

"Hold your fire, this is Gates! We're about a hundred meters up on your twelve!"

"Stay there!" Sanderson yelled.

"WILCO!"

Grimes switched to the other side of the doorway and waved at Sanderson. He and his men cautiously approached Grimes' position, while Grimes covered their rear. Sanderson came up and gave Grimes a grin before playfully yanking him out of the doorway.

"You did good, man. Let's go."

Grimes righted his helmet and tagged along behind Sanderson, hoping he didn't seem too much like a puppy.

By now it was well beyond dusk. Tonight there'd be no moon, and there were no street lights in this goddamn city. Grimes couldn't see much, which forced him to stick close to whichever of the Delta guys. They were sneaking around now, making as little noise as possible. A little while ago, one of Gates' men had spotted trouble, and they'd all detoured around that group of Somalis rather than face-off. They needed to get to what was being called the Alamo, Eversmann's position.

"Psst! Jeff!" Jones hissed.

"Yeah?" Sanderson whispered.

"Your eleven."

Grimes looked that way and could just make out the shape of an American soldier stationed at the corner of a building. Further over, at about nine o'clock, was the unmistakeable outline of the downed Black Hawk.

"Eversmann, come in," Sanderson said into his radio. "Eversmann."

"Roger, who's this?"

"Sanderson. Do not, I say again, do not fire to the east. We're coming to you."

"Understood..."

Grimes half-listened to the perimeter disposition Eversmann rattled off. That quiet space inside Grimes' head was being bullied aside by thoughts focused on it's-getting-fucking-dark and it's-too-fucking-quiet. Somewhere far off a muezzin had called everyone to prayer, which was the very reasonable reason for all that quiet, but Grimes didn't give a fuck about 'reasonable,' because:

"It's too fuckin' dark," he muttered at Sanderson. "Jumpy as all fuck..."

"You're all right, Grimesy," Sanderson said, preparing to cross the street. He grabbed Grimes' vest and shoved him behind a pillar. "Saw you been limping a bit. Pain's good. Forget it's too fuckin' dark, and get mad at whatever hurts."

"Okay, Sar'nt," Grimes said. He frowned abruptly and snapped, "You bastard. I was limping but until you said it, nothing hurt."

"Are you worried about the dark now?" Sanderson asked, his teeth showing white in a grin.

"Bastard," Grimes repeated.

"Let's go, man," Sanderson said, laughing.

Grimes hobbled after Sanderson and into a building that looked like it had been used for target practice by an Abrams tank. Remarkably, the interior was mostly intact. The northeast corner of the building looked like it had once been a restaurant. There were tables and chairs, and in corners and along the walls, bench seats. Grimes eyes adjusted further and he regarded a long counter. Maybe the place had been a bar. The beam of someone's flashlight reflected off the signature squared shape of a Johnny Walker bottle. Probably a bar, Grimes thought. He hobbled over to the counter and checked. The bottle was empty.

"Fuck..." he muttered.

"One team on lookout, then we switch out," Sanderson said. "One hour on, one off."

"You and your guys take the first hour off," Gates said.

His guys agreed and Sanderson and his men didn't argue. Grimes' foot was hurting pretty bad now. He dared not look at it, he also dared not sit down. He was worried about having to get up again. He took up a position near a window and leaned against the wall.

"Pain's good—my ass," Grimes muttered to himself.

He looked out the window and tried to ignore his throbbing foot. The easiest way to do that was to embrace the suck that was rock-and-hard-place philosophy. Grimes willingly remembered that it was too fucking dark.

Couple hours till dawn, they'd been here all fucking night. There hadn't been much trouble, but Grimes had a really bad feeling about that. Around the corner where the bar was, someone had set up a light. It wasn't much, but even a birthday cake candle in all that dark was something like a holiday from fear.

Earlier Smith had gotten shot, and someone from Eversmann's crew had come over here to report that Smith wasn't going to make it. Grimes had teared up without giving a shit for how that might look. Jamie Smith was too damn sweet of a kid to die out here, but he probably would, and possibly already had.

Grimes leaned against the wall in that weak pool of light, and thought about the other names he'd heard a few hours ago. Joyce was gone, ironically shot in the back, even though he'd said that would never happen. His plate would've protected him, but he'd deliberately removed it from the carrier and had left it at base. Dom Pilla was gone, so were Covaco and Kowalewski. Lorenzo Ruiz was probably not going to make it, either. They'd lost the pilots and crew of two Black Hawks. Grimes sniffed and tried not cry when he remembered Bull Briley telling him, "Hey Grimes– no fear!" Bull had been killed when Super Six-one had crashed. Grimes sucked it up, the fear and the tears. Just a minute ago it had come over the radio that there was hope that maybe Super Six-four's pilot Mike Durant was still alive, captured. Poor bastard, Grimes thought.

He looked over at Sanderson who was huddled in a chair, his head nodding while he dozed. They'd lost Delta men, too. Shughart and Gordon, Fillmore and Busch, all four gone. Griz Martin had lost both his legs and had been taken back to base. He was already on a plane out to Germany. Grimes hoped like hell that he'd make it. He looked carefully at Sanderson's face, and the dirt on it, and the telltale little tracks through that dirt from the corners of his eyes. Earlier his face had been expressionless when he'd heard about Gordy and his other Delta brothers. At some point he'd allowed himself to buckle, just a little: Pain's good... get mad at whatever hurts.

Grimes sniffed and wiped wet off his face with the back of his hand. When he looked up something caught his eye– was that a coffee grinder? He limped behind the bar and cracked a grin: it was a coffee grinder. His grin widened when he picked the thing up and heard something wonderful, the rattle of beans in the chamber. Just sucking on a coffee bean would be good for a java addict like Grimes, but he kicked around and found a pot and a small Primus stove. The only ingredient missing was water. Grimes didn't have any hope of finding anything. After all, this bar had probably been looted as soon as the first window had been broken. He took a knee anyway and felt around on the shelves below the bar counter. Empty bottles... empty... empty... plastic wrap, and there were bottle caps under it. Grimes hauled out his find and grinned at a carton of bottled water. They could all use it, but he was sure no-one would mind him pirating half a bottle for some coffee.

He dusted out the pot and blew in it, then rinsed it with a splash of water. Starting the stove was as easy as lighting a match. Grimes guessed that looters had ignored this humble little paraffin stove in favor of more glamorous items. There was a teapot under the bar, too.

"And where there's a teapot..." Grimes mumbled, feeling around. His hand landed on a tea strainer. "Ha. Now we're in business."

He found a mug, too, before checking the beans in the grinder: plenty. Grimes screwed the top back on, and started to grind them up.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sanderson asked.

"All in the grind, Sar'nt. Can't be too fine, can't be too coarse," Grimes said.

Sanderson shook his head and laughed. Grimes shot him a grin and gave the grinder's handle one last turn. He pulled out the drawer and tipped the grounds into the simmering pot.

"Coffee," Grimes murmured, while stirring the pot with a drinking straw. "Coffee-coffee-coffee..."

He sniffed at the pot. Fuck it. If it wasn't ready, too bad! Grimes poured the liquid through the tea strainer, into the mug. He took a little sip and shut his eyes for a second. It wasn't the best he'd ever made, but right now it tasted like liquid heaven. His eyes snapped open when he heard Sanderson laughing at him.

Grimes shuffled out from behind the bar, limped over to Sanderson.

"Sar'nt, how would you like a nice hot cuppa joe? Gold Coast blend."

"Nah. Thanks, but..." Sanderson looked down at Grimes' boots. "Siddown. Lemme get a look at that foot."

"Oh. No, it's not a problem."

"Siddown," Sanderson insisted.

He switched to another chair, and Grimes did as he'd been told. Sanderson's idea of 'looking' at Grimes' foot involved strapping up his boot with duct tape. Grimes only looked down when he'd finished. That was a lot of tape. Grimes pretended that the dark stuff in gaps between the tape was just dirt. He hadn't dared to look at that boot until now; he wouldn't be looking at it again any time soon.

Sanderson took the mug, sipped, and handed it back.

"So where the hell did they find you?"

"Behind a desk," Grimes said.

Sanderson laughed hard at that.

"No, really. Y'think I'm kidding?"

Before Sanderson could answer, something roared in and hit the building. Grimes got up without thinking about his foot. He bent and put the mug on the floor and snatched up his weapon before lurching over to a solid section of wall next to a window.

"Is anybody hit?" Sanderson hollered.

"We're good!"

"Good over here."

"All right," Sanderson said. "Try spot that artillery piece."

"Y'think they've got a Howitzer?" Grimes asked.

"They got something a shitload bigger than an RPG, I tell ya that," Sanderson said.

ThudThudThudThudThud!

"And that's another KPV, right?" Grimes said, flattening against the wall.

"Yeah," Sanderson muttered. "Welcome to a brand new day, gentlemen."

"At least they're startin' before mornin' prayers," Gates yelled. "Means they gotta take a break... Right?"

"Always worked that way before," Arrow said.

Grimes remembered that hissing roar. He hit the deck just as the second high explosive round hit the building.

"Shit..." Grimes got up on one knee and peeked over the windowsill.

"Did anyone see it?" Sanderson yelled.

"I got a flash, under that arch. KPV's there, too—Fuck! Mortar!"

"Incoming!" Sanderson yelled.

He dropped to the floor and took Grimes down, too. The mortar shell smashed into the wall to their left. No sooner had they gotten up when another HE artillery round flew in, accompanied by those infernal 14.5mm KPV rounds.

"Jeff, these assholes mean business," Gates said. "We gotta do somethin' fast."

"Now-now," Jones said, peering through that night vision sight. "Not to worry, cos I see ol' Hoot sneaking around out there."

"Aww, well..." Sanderson said and grinned. "Whatever the fuck kinda cannon those guys got doesn't matter anymore."

"Looks like an SPG-9," Jones said. "Grimes, before you ask, it's a seventy-three millimeter recoilless gun. But Jeff's right: it don't matter anymore."

Grimes wasn't so sure about that. He made dead-sure of his cover and shook his head vigorously. The ringing in his ears was back.

ThudThudThudThudThud!

Jones leaned out past his cover and fired a burst at something only he could see.

"Mortar crew's down. Cannon crew's about to go the same way."

"Hoot?" Sanderson asked.

"Yeah. Him and his guys are right on top of those bastards... What's the bet he turns that cannon on the KPV crew?"

"C'mon, man," Arrow said. "Which idiot would take a bet like that?"

"Not even me," Grimes said. "Uh-uh."

"Wise, son. Real wise," Jones chuckled. "Cos even as I speak, Hoot's aiming that cannon..."

ThudThudThudThudThud! ThudThudThudThudThud! Thud—BOOM!

Grimes looked over the windowsill in time to see a technical and its gun get blown to kingdom-come. A little later another technical blew up. Grimes guessed that Hoot had tossed a demo charge in the cannon truck's bed.

Elsewhere in the building men were firing on enemies that Grimes couldn't see. Gunfire was an unending rattle, punctuated occasionally by the smash of an RPG.

"Some of us have gotta go help those boys," Sanderson said. "Grimesy?"

"Yeah?"

"You okay to stay here with Gates and Jones and pick off anyone who comes this way?"

"Yeah, I got it," Grimes said, nodding.

"You guys shoot at anything that moves," Sanderson said.

"Roger that," Jones said, his weapon still trained out the window.

"Okay. See ya," Sanderson said. "C'mon, guys."

The other Delta guys followed Sanderson. Gates shifted over so that his cover was the wall on the other side of Grimes' window.

"You spot for us, Jones," Gates said.

"Yep," Jones said around a wad of chewing gum. "Hey Grimes, not hammering on you, but man, how'd a good soldier like you end up being a desk jockey?"

"Desk—What?" Gates squawked. He stared at Grimes and said, "Is he shittin' me?"

"No," Grimes said and looked back out the window. "Shit happens. In the Army, it's really bad shit when it comes to stuff that gets committed to paper. You get paperwork-assigned to anywhere, and even if it could get guys killed, you'll stay there until you either get discharged, or you put in for a discharge. Paperwork fuck-ups have put unqualified men on planes and strapped them into jump lines—"

"Oh yeah," Jones said. "I heard about that one."

"Me, too," Gates said. "Fuckin' crazy that they made that guy jump. He coulda been killed."

"Yeah, well... Anyhow, a paperwork fuck-up put me in the office pool," Grimes muttered. He paused and squinted: "Jones, what's that, there... about ten-thirty."

"I got him," Jones said and popped off a shot. "He's got friends, but they're dragging him away."

"Just keep an eye, man," Gates said. He leaned out the window quickly and looked at the sky. Back inside, he said, "Sun's comin' up."

"Now's the worst time," Grimes said, his eyes scanning left-to-right and back again. "Dawn and dusk, worst times for trying to see anything."

"So how long you been in that office pool?" Gates asked.

"Nearly nine fuckin' years," Grimes said.

"Ho-ly fuck..."

"Gates, I reckon we need to talk to someone about that," Jones said, and he sounded serious.

"Jonesy, I reckon that all we need to do is the usual: write up our reports," Gates said. "If every one of us mentions this guy, someone is gonna take note."

"Gotta point," Jones said. "Y'know, if I was Ranger brass, I'd be mad as hell about this. Sticking Grimes in the office pool is clearly a gross misallocation of combat resources."

"That's a fact, yessir," Gates said with a grin. "Grimesy, you keep doin' a good job at that desk, cos you won't be ridin' it much longer."

Grimes glanced at Gates, who nodded: he meant it. Grimes decided not to say anything, not even 'Thanks,' because he'd gone past the point where he thought that anyone could help him. He kept doing everything better, kept trying to help himself, but that was a different ballgame.

A major had tried to help him once, about four years ago, just before the old guy retired, but that poor guy had soon hit the wall called Military Bureaucracy. He'd gotten as far as being heard by a full-bird colonel, but that man had refused to approach anyone higher. "A waste of my time," the bastard had said. The colonel had been a paper-pushing soldier all his career. Grimes had an idea that he was the type that resented those men who had a tougher job, men who might look down on his career and say that he'd never been a real soldier.

The truth was, guys like Gates and Jones and Sanderson, and SGT Eversmann and Twombly and Yurek, didn't bother to think anything of the kind about men like that colonel. If Grimes managed to ever get away from that desk, he wouldn't bother either. Like those other guys, he'd generally acknowledge the existence of the career paper-pushers, but beyond that he wouldn't think much about them unless and until one or several of them made life harder for him. There were all manner of ways they could do that. The Dark Side was really fucking dark.

Beyond the window, the dark was pulling back: sunrise. Grimes scanned rooftops and the entrances to streets and alleyways. Nothing but fucked up technicals and cars, a few bodies, and some crazy-ass chickens that were pecking around as if there wasn't a small war going on around the corner. The gunfire hadn't stopped.

"If you guys don't manage to get me away from my desk, don't feel bad," Grimes said. "You're up against a machine that's one fifth evil, two fifths lacking in common sense, and the final two fifths stubborn as a fuckin' mule. You reading that?"

"Yeah," Gates said.

"Okay," Jones said. "But we'll try."

"All right," Grimes said.

It was the sentiment that counted, and make no mistake, it meant a lot to just hear these guys say what they had. Grimes focused on that rather than get his hopes up.

"Convoy's here!" Sanderson yelled.

"Yeah, we just saw 'em go round the corner," Jones said. "Fuckin' tanks and UN M113s and APCs... Where the fuck were they all goddamn night?"

"Gen'ral Garrison probably didn't call them till last minute," Grimes said. "I know him: proud as all fuck."

"Does that asshole know we got men dyin' here? Never fuckin' mind..." Gates muttered. To Sanderson: "We rollin' out now?"

"They have to get those KIA pilots out the bird first," Sanderson said. "They're probably gonna have to cut 'em out."

Grimes stood up, and that took effort. He'd been on one knee or the other at that window, hadn't put any weight on his goddamn foot in nearly two hours, and now it didn't want to bear any weight at all.

"I got ya," Sanderson said before the other guys could. He flipped Grimes' arm over his shoulders and gripped him across the back. "Guys, we'll go take posts at windows. If they're gonna cut up that chopper, they'll need our irons trained on those rooftops."

"Yeah," Grimes said. He tried a little weight on his foot. "Better here. I can walk."

"Okay."

Grimes hobbled after Sanderson, with Gates and Jones following. The four of them each found a good spot and started to provide covering fire for the teams working around the Black Hawk.

"Hey Grimesy, that you?"

"Walden?"

"Yeah. Where you been, man? You were s'posed to be backing me up," Walden said, but he was laughing.

"I got dragged around by Cap'n Steele—"

"Dragged real slow by him," Sanderson muttered.

"Yeah," Grimes laughed. "Then I got dragged around some more but a lot faster by these crazy Delta motherfuckers."

"And if it's up to us," Sanderson said, and fired a short burst. "You don't get him back."

"You Rangers put this guy at a desk?" Gates said. "This guy?"

While reloading his M60, Walden shrugged and threw Grimes an apologetic look. Sanderson looked from Walden to Gates to Grimes.

"Grimes, you were really serious about that fuckin' desk?" Sanderson asked, his expression one of total disbelief.

"Yeah..." Grimes said. He took careful aim and a man with an RPG toppled off the edge of a roof. "And y'know what? It's just struck me that if I never get away from that desk, I can always say I did good here."

"I am getting you away from that fuckin' desk," Sanderson stated flatly.

"You're real mad, Sar'nt," Walden noted.

"Because I would never have guessed that Grimesy usually rides a desk," Sanderson muttered. "What a fuckin' waste..."

"I know someone who'll agree with you," Walden said. "His name's Danny McKnight."

"Colonel McKnight?"

"Yeah," Walden said and poked the barrel of the Pig through a crack in a wall. "He told Grimes, with witnesses, that he's wasted behind a fuckin' computer. Go tell him you'll back up his opinion, huh?"

"Soon's I've got a break," Sanderson said.

"McKnight's gonna hear from me, too," Jones said.

"Yeah, and me," Gates said.

Grimes couldn't help but allow those hopes to creep up a little. His foot was killing him, he had a headache from hell, there was something (possibly a piece of rock) embedded under the skin in his neck, and yet he was feeling pretty good right now. All that pain and discomfort, yeah, that was the kind of suck he could definitely embrace. His family would call him nuts—they'd done plenty of that for years, but he didn't give a good goddamn.

"I want out from behind that fuckin' desk," Grimes spoke his mind.

No-one responded, but only because the Somali resistance seemed to have doubled in the last two minutes.

Not much later Eversmann came in and told everyone to mount up. Grimes got to his feet, or rather, his foot.

"Fuckin' hell..."

Sanderson came over to offer his shoulder, but Grimes shook his head.

"It's okay, I wanna walk," Grimes said.

"Yeah, I would, too," Sanderson said. "Guys, let's go!"

Grimes hopped out the building and all the way to a UN APC. Someone helped him up into it and Grimes took a seat. His were two of several pairs of hands that helped to edge a stretchered man in over everyone's knees.

Rounds kept plinking on the carrier's armor. It sounded like they were inside a drum that was being hit by hundreds of angry hornets. One of the guys across from Grimes took off his helmet.

"Put it back on!" Grimes snapped. "Look at the bulkhead behind you and put that fuckin' K-pot back on your head."

"Listen to him: look at the bulkhead."

The man turned and one glance at that bullet-dented steel resulted in him jamming his helmet on and securing the chinstrap.

"These things are fuckin' bullet-magnets," Grimes said. "We gotta move. C'mon, let's go!"

"I go when I'm ordered to, soldier," their Pakistani driver said.

"Sorry, man. Rattled, y'know?" Grimes said.

"All of us are," the Pakistani guy said. "Not an hour ago, the Malaysian fellows lost a man and several wounded, when a bloody RPG hit one of these fucking things! You really think I want to sit here waiting for orders?"

"Five-by-five, dude. Yeah, we all know that song," said Russo.

"Hoo-ah," the other Rangers agreed.

"Roll 'em out! Go, go, go!" McKnight's voice crackled over the radio.

Their driver engaged first gear and jammed his foot on the gas. It seemed like no time at all before that ringing rattle of bullets faded to just one or two, then none. Only minutes later they rolled into the Pakistani Stadium, inside the UN-controlled safe-zone.

Somehow that ride had fucked with Grimes' head. The quiet space that he'd come to really like had just up and deserted him, and in its place were dark, frightening images that left him feeling timid, shaken. Black alleyways lit by muzzle flashes. Blood on a wall. An RPG ripping a swirling eddy as it zipped through smoke. An ammo belt slipping and twisting out of its box—

"Grimes?" Russo said. "Grimesy!"

"Huh?"

Russo winced while being loaded onto a stretcher.

"I can see where your head's at, bro," he said. "You gotta think about right now. Right fuckin' now, hear me?"

"Yeah..."

Grimes sat down with a few other guys against the side of an APC. He tried to refocus his thoughts on his surroundings. That was pretty easy: it was hot in the sun, too goddamn hot. A tray loaded with glasses of water was offered to them. Grimes looked up at someone he could only term a Pakistani gentleman. His neat, greying mustache was waxed and twirled. Grimes had an almost overwhelming urge to salute him, for some reason. He took a glass of water, mumbling thanks, instead.

Just a little way over there, just a few steps away, was a shaded area that had been set up to receive the wounded. That shade looked about as good as that cold water tasted, but right now there were four stretchers there, with medics stabilizing men hurt way worse than Grimes was. Eventually, one-by-one, those men were carried away.

Grimes tried to stand up, but it hurt too much. Even though it was only his foot that was damaged, his whole leg felt like it was ripped open. He wanted under that shade, so he started to crawl.

"Don't let that man crawl!"

The voice was familiar. Grimes looked over and gave a nod to LTC McKnight.

"You don't let him crawl," McKnight said again. "Help him up, move him under that shade."

Two medics snapped to it, with an arm each around Grimes. He was carefully lowered to a fresh stretcher. One of them started to cut away the tape over his boot.

"Grimesy," McKnight said. "You did good."

"Sir," Grimes said. To the medic with the scissors: "Should I ask?"

"I'm still getting your boot off, Specialist... Terry, gimme those tin-snips."

Grimes' eyes felt like they were going to bug right out of his head. The other medic, Terry, gave him a reassuring grin.

"Tin-snips cut through leather and the outsole real quick, so we don't hurt you. Just hauling that boot off would be murder, right?"

"Uh-huh," Grimes said and gulped.

He didn't watch the tin-snips operation. He put his head back and gritted his teeth when, despite the medics being careful, pain shot up his leg. He tried not to flinch away when scissors cut through his sock. At first it was pulled, but whichever medic soon stopped. Something wet was held over the top of his foot, then the sole. The sock came away easy after that. Grimes did not want to think about why, but he just had to remember his mom soaking off bloody denim over a badly grazed knee when he was about six. He bit back nausea and screwed his eyes shut.

"In-and-out... Looks like an AK round got you. You might have a busted bone or two, but the swelling, the bruising doesn't look right for that. Smart, taping your boot like that– kept the bleeding to a minimum; held anything that might be broken in one place."

"I didn't tape it. Sar'nt Sanderson did... I got shot and didn't fuckin' notice..."

"Goes like that," Terry said. "You're sure as shit 'noticing' now, cos all the adrenaline's worn off."

"Oh... I knew that, but why didn't I remember until you told me?" Grimes muttered.

"Same thing: adrenalin's worn off... Triage lines are pretty busy, so we're gonna dress this wound, and give you something for the pain. That'll tide you over till the surgeons can see you. Allergic to anything?"

"No," Grimes said.

"Terry, we dunno how much blood this man's lost. Let's run a saline IV, but scoot the painkiller in first. With this heat, post-trauma, these guys dehydrate for nothing..."

Grimes didn't have a problem watching the needle go into his arm. The reminder about adrenalin, and what happens when it quits pumping, had settled him a little. So did that painkiller. It worked in about five minutes flat.

He wasn't alone under the shade for long. Two medics brought in Goodman.

"Fighting Typist, for real, man!" Goodman said and leaned over to grip Grimes' hand. "Heard you kicked ass half over that city."

"I just threw some lead and grenades," Grimes said and shrugged. To one of Goodman's medics: "I forgot to tell the other guys I got something in my fuckin' neck. Now I'm worried I'll forget until this really nice painkiller wears off."

"Ya don't want that," a medic said with a grin. "We'll get over to you when we finish with this clown."

"I'm a pain in the ass, who got shot in the ass," Goodman said with a truly amused grin. "Perfect! I'll boast about it forev—Owww!"

"Boast about it when you can't feel it, buddy," the senior medic said, shaking his head.

"Is the bullet still in there?" Goodman asked.

"Sorry, your souvenir zoomed by and took a souvenir of its own: a chunk of your right ass-cheek."

"Aww, damn..."

"Goodman, you're fuckin' crazy," Grimes chortled. He gestured at the medic who was charging a syringe. "Here comes freedom from your pain."

"Hey, I got shot in the ass once already. Where's that shot going?"

"Vein in your arm."

Goodman held out his right arm. The medic had no trouble finding that vein.

"Done... Let's get a look at that neck."

Grimes sat up. His H-harness and vest had been removed a while ago. Grimes undid a few buttons on his shirt, and the medic moved his collar down. The man asked for instruments.

"You're gonna feel some of this, but not all," the senior medic said. "Won't say what I'm doing, okay?"

"That's more than okay," Grimes muttered.

"Yeah," Goodman said, grimacing.

Bad enough that they heard metal tinking against something hard, bad enough that whatever it was plinked when it was dropped in a kidney tray.

"Rock?" Grimes asked.

"Nope. Ricochet. You're a lucky guy."

"Hmph. Hey, Goodman. You can have my ricochet as compensation for that mean-spirited bullet that chose not to stay in your ass."

"Thanks, Grimesy," Goodman said with a grin. He looked in the tray and screwed up his nose. "Can you wash those bits of Grimesy off of it?"

"It'll get scrubbed and sterilized, yeah," the medic said.

"Just how often do you do this?" Grimes asked.

"Too often," he said, and walked away.

Goodman looked quizzically at the senior medic.

"It's better when a guy asks for it," he said, while dressing Grimes' neck. "Most of the time... Most of the time we scrub and sterilize metal and other foreign object material that's removed from bodies. They keep records, see. This piece of metal, shaped like this, made that kinda wound. That way the surgeons can just look at a wound, guess what's in there, figure out how to fix it in living patients. It's good science."

"Also fucking heartbreaking science," Goodman said.

"Yeah," the senior medic said. To Grimes: "You're done, but they'll x-ray that area to check if there's shards, and pick 'em out."

"Good. Thanks, man."

"No problem. See ya, guys."

Grimes buttoned his shirt and stole Goodman's smoke for a quick drag. He handed it back before settling down on the stretcher again.

"We lost a lot of our guys, Grimesy," Goodman muttered.

"Yeah. Too many."

Grimes reached for the smoke again. Goodman offered him the pack, and Grimes didn't say no. He didn't want to think about those guys now. He'd done enough thinking about them all through last night. Grimes lit the cigarette and watched smoke curl up. Not a breath of a breeze. It was cooler here than in the sun, but a breeze would've been nice.

"Boys."

Steele. Grimes sat up and Goodman leaned up. CPT Steele didn't suggest that either of them take their ease. Typical, Grimes thought.

"Either of you seen Ruiz?" Steele asked.

"I heard a medic list him as priority, sir," Grimes said. "So he woulda gone straight to the front of the triage line."

Steele gave Grimes a nod and walked off. Grimes looked at Goodman, who shrugged.

"Might it be that the Georgia Bulldawg is feeling a little guilty?" Goodman muttered and lay down. "He kept us out there long enough, like fuckin' sitting ducks... Ruiz wouldn't have gotten hit if we'd kept moving."

"He might've gotten hit while we were moving, too," Grimes said. He took a long drag on the smoke. "I can't remember how many running guys I shot at, and hit."

"You really think there's Somalis who can shoot like you?"

"Wake up!" Grimes snapped, and he didn't know why, but all this had to be said. "We got men dead, we got choppers down, we got Humvees crumpled like fuckin' beer cans. Now who did all that?"

Goodman blinked a few times, and eventually nodded.

"We are not perfect, and we sure as fuck are not invincible," Grimes said. "We'd better remember that, or this shit is gonna go down again, maybe worse."

"Grimesy, I'm gonna remember. Bet your ass I will, but we're better trained—"

"We gotta forget what those assholes like Steele spout off, about us being the best," Grimes insisted. "In war, man, no-one's the best. There's only the ones that walk away alive, and the ones that go home in steel boxes."

"I'm not touching that– I'll never win the point," Goodman said. "So tell me. What's a better philosophy than be-the-best?"

"I think... I think the guys who respect their enemies are the ones that walk away," Grimes said.

"They got no respect for us."

"Are you sure they don't respect us? Sure they don't take us seriously?" Grimes said and laughed a little. "Two Black Hawks down. How many highly trained men are fucking dead or seriously wounded? Now tell me, Goodman, if they don't take us seriously, how in fuck did they manage to do that?"

"He's right, y'know."

Grimes' head snapped round and he grinned at Sanderson.

"How long you been standing there?"

"Enough for this to get cooler," Sanderson said and took a knee next to Grimes' stretcher. He offered Grimes a plastic cup. "Couldn't find any coffee, but I got ya some tea."

"I like tea, too," Grimes said and sipped it. "Good. Thanks."

"Nothin'," Sanderson said. To Goodman he said, "What Grimesy said, he's right. Those Somalis respect our capabilities, and they know us, too. They knew what would happen if they brought those fuckin' birds down. See it?"

"Yeah. I'm scared all over again," Goodman said honestly.

"The right amount of fear is not a bad thing," Sanderson said. "Fear keeps us alive. Before the training, before weapons, it's fear that keeps us alive. All kindsa fear. You weren't just scared for y'self out there, right?"

"Naw. I was scared for everyone," Goodman said.

"And you did your best for every guy, for any guy who was next to you. You can be the best at that, man. But when 'the best' doesn't have a tight definition like that? We're the best soldiers—bullshit. There is no such thing cos we can all die. Dying isn't a fault. Getting someone killed, in whatever way, is a big-ass fault. But we can do the best for our buddies, and know it in our guts, and right there, absolutely anyone—American, Somali, whoever—can be the very best there is... You think about that. Might make you respect that guy on the other side."

Sanderson leaned over and bumped his fist against Goodman's. He gave Grimes a light punch on the arm, and he got up.

"I talked to McKnight, Grimesy," Sanderson said.

"Yeah?" Grimes said apprehensively. His stomach was a knot.

"Yeah," Sanderson said, a little smile playing around the sides of his mouth. "He says, and I quote, 'You tell that man to report directly to me soon as he's declared fit-for-duty.' You got your orders, Grimesy, and after you're declared fighting-fit, I don't think those orders are gonna involve a goddamn desk."

"Thanks, Sar'nt," Grimes said, grinning so hard his face was sore.

"Nearly nine years at that fuckin' desk? No, man. Thank y'self," Sanderson said and put on his shades. He bent and gripped Grimes' hand a moment. "See ya, brother."

"Yeah, you will. Have a good one, and stay safe," Grimes said.