We reach the Brooklyn Bridge quickly and without incident. On the Manhattan side, the army has set up a heavily armed checkpoint—soldiers packing mounted machine guns watch the streets from behind a blockade of sandbags. Behind them, three rows of tanks are parked six across on the bridge, their turrets armed with surface-to-air missiles and aimed at the sky. Helicopters laden with more missiles patrol the skies and some muscular-looking boats sit ready in the river. If the Mogadorians try to push into Brooklyn, they’ll definitely encounter some resistance.

“Have you had to fight many off?” I ask the soldier driving our Humvee as we’re waved through the security checkpoint and begin slowly weaving through the choke points on the bridge.

“None whatsoever, sir,” he replies. “The hostiles have stuck to Manhattan so far. That big ship flew right over us this morning and didn’t engage. You ask me, they don’t want a piece of us army boys.”

“Sir,” Daniela repeats, raising an eyebrow at me and snickering.

“They’re holding Manhattan,” I say, leaning back and frowning, not understanding why the Mogs haven’t pressed their attack.

“It’s like Setrákus Ra is sending a message,” Sam says quietly. “Look at what I can do.”

“If they come at us, we’ll be ready,” the soldier says, overhearing. Looking out the window, I make out snipers hidden among the bridge’s high struts, watching the Manhattan side of the bridge through their scopes.

I exchange a doubtful look with Sam. I want to believe in this show of force by the army and echo the soldier’s confidence, but I’ve seen what kind of destruction the Mogs are capable of. The only reason this Brooklyn camp is still standing is because Setrákus Ra allowed it.

The soldier parks our Humvee in the middle of a city block that’s been converted into a staging area for the military. There are tents nearby, more Humvees and a lot of anxious-looking soldiers with guns. There’s also a long line of civilians, many of them filthy and superficially injured, clutching their scant possessions as they wait in a haggard line. At the front of the line, some Red Cross volunteers with clipboards take down the exhausted people’s information before waving them onto commandeered city buses.

Our escort notices me watching the slow procession of refugees. “Red Cross is trying to keep track of the displaced,” the soldier explains. “Then we’re evacuating them to Long Island, New Jersey, wherever. Getting them away from the fighting until we can retake New York.”

The soldier sizes up Sam and Daniela, then looks at me again. It suddenly occurs to me that this guy is looking to me for orders.

“Do you want these two evacuated?” the soldier asks, referring to my companions.

“They’re with me,” I tell him, and he nods, accepting that without further question.