Mr. Peron laughed and scratched his head. “Well, if the line breaks then I’d guess our collective pooch is screwed. We’ll begin the evacuation if it gets much worse. But right now we’re still waiting for convoys of wounded to get back through the lines.” He gestured out at the considerable amount of fenced-off open space in the firebase. “This whole place is about to be a big open-air hospital.” He gave Reggie a severe look. “I won’t tell you not to record them, because quite frankly everyone here is too busy to police that. But I will ask that you show tact and respect in your documentation.”

“Of course,” said Reggie, with enough sincerity that Manny believed him.

“Alright,” he clapped Manny on the shoulder and, after a second’s pause, embraced him. “Hold on out here for a while. I’ll try to send some food in a little bit.”

Manny and Reggie both thanked Major Peron, and he trundled off into the old Top Golf building to do his part in coordinating the defense.

“So what now?” Reggie asked.

“We wait,” said Manny.

Three hours passed. More and more wounded men streamed into the base, carried on stretchers and in ambulances and, in several cases, stacked like firewood on flatbed trucks. The wounded were set up on cots and piles of blankets in the grass and, wherever possible, in paved sections of the driving range’s old parking lot. Medics, far too few medics, hustled from soldier to soldier at a frantic, manic, unsustainable pace.

For a while, there was nothing to do but follow Reggie around while he interviewed the wounded men and women who were stable enough to talk. They all reported shock at the speed and ferocity of the attack. Their testimonies drove home the fact that this was something new. Tendrils of fear crept up Manny’s spine. It was all he could do to keep moving with his journalist.

“Hey man,” Reggie said, “look at that fellow.” He pointed to a soldier with the top half of his head wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. Something about the man’s broad and square chin looked familiar.

“Isn’t that one of the men we met yesterday?” Reggie asked. “The Major?”

Holy shit. Reggie was right. That had to be DeShawn Clark. Manny ran over to him. As he drew closer it became clear that DeShawn was in even worse shape than he’d looked at a distance. His shirt had been ripped open, exposing a muscular chest drenched in blood. Three white plugs of hardened celox wound spray were visible across his abdomen. He’d been shot repeatedly and had what looked like a shrapnel wound on the side of his head. At least he’s breathing, Manny thought.

“Major Clark?” he said, and, to Manny’s surprise, the warrior poet stirred.

“…Manny? Sweet Jesus, is that you?” DeShawn asked in a slurred voice.

“Yes sir,” Manny said.