“Hoowah!” Shane yelled back. “Don’t let ’em get away, First Sergeant!”

He closed his door just as a round bounced off it, then felt the vehicle shake from a series of impacts; someone was trying to track in on the running NCO.

“Gotta lead him more,” he muttered to no one in particular as the armor on his window spalled from a direct hit, leaving the deformed 7.62 round stuck in the thick plexiglass about five inches from his head. “Missed me, missed me, now you gotta kiss me…”

First Sergeant Cady rounded the corner of the building and got to the side door while third platoon’s point, Specialist Charles Walters, was still kicking at the door with his boot.

“Scat,” Cady said, slapping the specialist on the shoulder while his foot was in midair preparing for another kick. The slap sent the specialist stumbling to the side four feet and onto his back, but if he noticed, it wasn’t apparent; he was up on his feet again before Top had gotten in his first kick.

It only took a single kick from one of Top’s size sixteens, though, for the light wooden door to open, splintering away from its hinges and onto the floor.

“Stack up!” Sergeant Gregory shouted. The squad leader of second squad, third herd, Gregory was a relative newbie in Iraq and still worked “by the book.” The book said that the point took the door down, then the remainder of the squad “stacked,” closed up with each other to enter the room with each member of the squad having a particular area to cover on entry.

He’d never actually been in an entry with the Gazelle and wasn’t prepared for the actions of the massive first sergeant, who blocked the squad, then tossed a frag through the door.

“Back,” Cady said, waving the stack back along the left wall. He’d tossed the grenade well back and to the right, so the fragments were unlikely to penetrate the left wall. But frags were tricky; you never knew how they’d bounce. He crouched by the door with his left shoulder leaned towards it, weapon at tactical, and depended on taking any bouncers on his armor.