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Marine Engineering, the brilliant young man was already credited with two submarine design improvements being readied for the patent application process. The prodigy already had over 50 hours logged in submersibles and was so furious at his home country deserting him in the quarantine that he even volunteered to become a suicide bomber.
    In the end, nine individuals were selected, trained and funded. Each was allowed a few short, nighttime training sessions using the waterways within the wall. All of the candidates were funded with enough cash and credit to purchase airline tickets home – once they had managed to reach Mexico City or New Orleans.  
       

    Captain Norse knew he was still alive because of the pain. Havoc seemed to be resting on her side, the tank’s commander pinned against the hull by the body of one of his crewmen.
    Blood covered the officer’s face, the thick coating of red blocking his vision and adding to his stunned state of confusion.
    Norse tried to push himself free, gingerly testing his legs and flexing against some unknown surface. For a moment, he believed the soldier on top of him was alive. Through the ringing in his ears, the captain thought he heard a moan. It took a few moments before he realized the guttural noise was coming from his own throat.
    With a supreme effort, he finally managed to free himself, the basket’s dark interior and disheveled equipment making the task uncommonly problematic.
    It was a pure stroke of luck that he found the hatch, another agonizing effort required to open the entry.
    A slight breeze helped clear some of his brain-fog… a quick assessment telling Norse that one of his arms was broken, as were at least two of his ribs.
    His next thoughts were of his crew. There was no way he could manage to even check their conditions in his current state. He had to get out of the wounded tank. He had to get help for his men.
    With his one good arm, Norse pulled himself toward the portal-like opening. It was an invigorating accomplishment when his head appeared in the night air.
    Using a shirtsleeve to wipe the blood from his face, the captain took a moment to evaluate the state of his command. Havoc was lying on its side, the monstrous war machine now as helpless as a newborn baby.
    Chunks of concrete and protruding rebar littered the immediate vicinity, a thin layer of white dust giving every surface a haunting, almost ghost-like hue. Norse didn’t smell any smoke, couldn’t see any flames. At least his tank wasn’t burning.
    After bracing himself for another bout of pain, the captain pushed off with his legs. He managed to get his waist clear of Havoc ’s metal shell. Needing a rest, Norse loosed his grip on the hatch’s rim, forgetting that his beast of burden was no longer upright. He fell out of the hatch, landing badly in a heap. The pain nearly made him lose consciousness.
    Despite the blood running from his damaged ears, Norse could hear activity in the distance. Help was nearby.
    He struggled to his feet and scanned the area. Havoc had been tossed like a child’s toy by the explosion, eventually coming to rest 50 meters inside of no-man’s land.
    Norse could identify lights and soldiers on both sides of the now-gaping roadway. The army had sent reinforcements and rescuers. Help was nearby.
    He began stumbling toward the roadway, each step bringing sharp streaks of withering pain. He managed four steps when a stern voice sounded over the loudspeaker. “Attention! Attention! Unknown party approaching the exit four overpass, you are entering a restricted zone. I repeat, you are entering a restricted zone. Turn around immediately, or by order of the president of the United States, we will engage with lethal force. This is your one and only warning.”
    The captain was stunned. He’d made that same announcement so many times. Was he so messed up the men on the freeway didn’t know who he was?
    “This is Captain Norse from the #6 unit,” he did his