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still here. Listen, when do you think you might be able to report back on an extraction? I’m here with a mother and a special needs child. If things go to hell, I’m going to be in a pretty tough spot. Over.”
    “Terminator, Falcon. Roger that, I get what you’re saying. We’re going to do our very best, but for the time being, you’d better just lay low. Over.”
    “Falcon, listen to me. I’ve been in this position just a few hours ago, and we had a fortified location with enough food and water to last for weeks. We had several Special Forces hooahs and troops from the 160 SOAR to keep the goblins at bay, and we still got pushed out. These things, they can bring a hell of a lot of mass to bear. I’m in a fourth floor apartment, man. If these things decide they want to come up and see what’s on the menu, the only thing that’s standing between the stenches and a kid and his mother is me, and I’ve got about ten seconds of combat time before I’m weapons dry. I don’t mean to sound like my mascara is starting to run, but you get what I’m saying here? Over.”
    “Roger that, Terminator. Get what you’re saying a hundred percent. But I’m telling you the truth, we don’t have the assets to get you out just yet. I’ve heard there are some Chinooks spooling up from a Pennsylvania National Guard unit—other ‘Hook units from Connecticut and upstate New York are standing up now. Those are your best shot, but they’re not here yet. As soon as they come in, we’ll send something your way. Even sooner if another unit makes it on site, but for now, you have to wait. Over.” Falcon sounded sincere enough, but Gartrell knew the man was just a public affairs officer. How much horsepower could he possibly have? Even though PAOs were part of the Army structure, Gartrell had very little faith in a media wrangler whose only job was to blow sunshine through innocuous press releases.
    “Falcon, this is Terminator. Roger your last. We’ll keep our heads down and do the best we can until we can get some support. What do you recommend for a contact schedule? Over.”
    “Terminator, Falcon Four. Let’s talk in sixty minutes, hooah?”
    “Roger Falcon, sixty minutes. Terminator Five, out.”
    Gartrell slowly removed his radio headset and rubbed his eyes. Despite having fallen into a dreamless sleep, he still felt exhausted. And his body ached—all his joints were stiff and sore, and his thigh muscles twitched and burned. He forced himself to his feet and walked into the microscopic bathroom that adjoined the bedroom. A shower stall was to his left. To his right was the toilet, and dead ahead was a small sink with a medicine cabinet. He looked at his face in the mirror there, and was surprised to see just how haggard and run-down he looked. His cheeks, chin, and neck were covered with blond-brown razor stubble that was sprinkled liberally with gray. The creases in his forehead and the wrinkles around his dark eyes and mouth seemed as deep as canyons. The skin beneath his eyes was puffy, and dirt marred his features, serving only to exacerbate his overall unhealthy look. He looked at his hands. They were covered with grime, as was his uniform. First Sergeant David Gartrell definitely looked like a troop who had been to hell and back again.
    And to think it’s only starting.
    He opened the medicine cabinet. Inside was a box of cotton balls, rubbing alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, a tiny bottle of Tylenol that expired almost a year ago. He opened it and dry-swallowed two of the caplets inside, then turned to the toilet. After he lifted the lid and undid his trousers, he hesitated for a moment. The water in the toilet bowl was clear and clean. Water might soon become a precious resource. He turned and pissed into the sink instead, and listened to his urine wind its way down the drain. He was certain the lady of the house would disapprove of his measures, but if she ever discovered his transgression and made to complain, he