The mud in Maryland was thick, wet, and smelled of manure.
A cold rain fell on the proving grounds.
General Pershing stood under a canvas tent, arms crossed, surrounded by a gaggle of skeptical officers. They wore pristine uniforms and polished boots. They looked at the field with disdain.
"It's a waste of steel," Pershing grumbled to an aide. "You can't replace cavalry with tractors. A horse has instinct. A horse doesn't need a mechanic."
"The President insisted, General," the aide whispered. "Mr. Prentice has... influence."
Across the field, a mechanical roar shattered the silence.
It sounded like a rock crusher.
From the tree line, a metal beast emerged.
It was the Ford 3-Ton Tank.
It wasn't elegant. It was a box of riveted steel plates on caterpillar tracks. It had no windows, just narrow vision slits. Two machine guns stuck out of the front like tusks.
It lurched forward, spewing blue smoke.
Inside the tank, Jason Underwood gripped the control levers.
It was hot. It was loud. The vibration rattled his teeth. The smell of oil and exhaust was suffocating.
"Hold on!" Jason yelled to the mechanic sitting next to him.
"Sir! The mud is too deep!" the mechanic shouted back. "We'll bog down!"
"Push it!" Jason slammed the throttles forward.
The tank surged.
It hit the mud. The tracks churned, throwing clumps of earth ten feet into the air. The engine screamed.
But it didn't stop.
Jason aimed for the obstacle course the Army had built.
First, a barbed-wire entanglement. Three rows of razor-sharp wire strung between wooden posts. A death trap for infantry. A nightmare for horses.
Jason didn't slow down.
CRUNCH.
The tank hit the wire. The steel tracks chewed through the wood and metal like it was paper. The wire snapped with high-pitched pings, tangling harmlessly in the treads before being ripped apart.
"Through!" Jason yelled.
Next, the trench. A six-foot-wide ditch filled with water.
"Brace!"
Jason gunned the engine. The nose of the tank dipped into the trench. Mud splashed over the vision slit.
For a second, they hung there, nose down.
Then the tracks gripped the far side. The tank groaned, tilted up, and clawed its way out of the hole.
It slammed down on the other side, shaking the ground.
Jason wiped sweat from his eyes. He saw the final target. A wooden mock-up of a German machine gun nest.
He pulled the right lever, spinning the tank. He aimed the nose at the bunker.
"Ramming speed!"
The tank accelerated. It hit the wooden structure at ten miles per hour.
SMASH.
The bunker disintegrated. Splinters flew. The tank rolled over the wreckage, crushing it into the mud.
Jason cut the engine.
The silence returned, ringing in his ears.
He popped the top hatch. He climbed out, standing on the roof of the tank.
He was covered in grease and mud. His suit was ruined. He looked wild.
He looked down at General Pershing.
The General's mouth was slightly open. The other officers were silent.
Jason jumped down. He walked over to the tent, wiping his hands on a rag.
"A horse dies in that wire, General," Jason said, his voice raspy from the smoke. "A horse breaks its leg in that trench. This eats it."
Pershing looked at the flattened bunker. He looked at the shredded wire.
He was a stubborn man. But he was a soldier. He knew a weapon when he saw one.
"It's slow," Pershing said.
"It's faster than a dead man," Jason countered.
"How many?" Pershing asked.
"I have five hundred hulls ready in Detroit," Jason lied (they were still being assembled). "Engines are en route from Cleveland. I can have a division on the docks in three weeks."
Pershing nodded slowly.
"Three weeks," Pershing said. "If they're late, Prentice, I'm taking the money out of your hide."
"They won't be late."
Jason turned and walked back to the tank. He patted the hot steel flank.
He had sold the war. Now he just had to survive the peace.
The office in the Munitions Building was quiet at midnight.
The map on the wall was covered in pins. The supply chain was humming. Trains were moving. Ships were sailing. The War Industries Board was a well-oiled machine.
Jason sat at his desk, exhausted.
Junior walked in. He held a stack of manifests.
"The convoy sails at dawn, Ezra," Junior said. "Ten ships. Munitions. Canned beef. Trucks."
He placed the papers on the desk.
"And a letter for you. From France."
Jason froze.
He saw the handwriting. It was sharp, angular.
Sarah.
He hadn't heard from her since the night she left New York.
He picked up the envelope. It was dirty, stained with something that looked like coffee or dried mud.
He opened it.
Jason,
I know you don't read these. I know you burn them. But you need to read this one.
The war is bad. The trenches are hell. But something else is happening.
A sickness. It started in the camps near Étaples. The soldiers call it the grippe. But it's not like any flu I've seen.
It kills the young. The strong. They turn blue. They drown in their own lungs. In the morning, they are fine. By nightfall, they are dead.
It is spreading, Jason. It is moving faster than the army. It is on the ships. It is coming to you.
Stop sending bullets. We have enough bullets. Send masks. Send alcohol. Send morphine. Send oxygen.
The war is ending. The plague is beginning.
- Sarah
Jason stared at the letter.
The Spanish Flu.
He knew it was coming. 1918. It would kill more people than the war. Fifty million dead.
He had been so focused on the tanks, on the U-boats, on the Germans... he had forgotten the biological enemy.
He looked at the manifest for the dawn convoy.
Ship 4: USS Liberty. Cargo: 50,000 rounds .30-06 ammunition. 500 crates artillery shells.
He stood up.
"Junior," Jason said.
"Yeah?"
"Change the manifest for the Liberty."
"Change it? It's already loaded!"
"Unload it," Jason commanded. "Strip the ammo. All of it."
"Are you crazy?" Junior shouted. "That's a million dollars in munitions! The Army is screaming for shells!"
"Replace it with medical supplies," Jason said. "Gauze. Alcohol. Ether. And masks. Cotton masks. Thousands of them."
"Masks?!" Junior laughed. "For a flu? Ezra, soldiers get sick. It happens. We are in the business of killing Germans, not nursing colds! Ammo pays ten times what bandages pay!"
Jason walked around the desk.
He grabbed Junior by the lapels. He slammed him against the map on the wall. Pins rained down.
"Listen to me, you greedy little parasite," Jason hissed.
"Ezra! You're hurting me!"
"Dead men don't buy cars, Junior!" Jason shouted. "Dead men don't buy gas! Dead men don't take out loans!"
He shook him.
"This flu isn't a cold. It's a reaper. It's going to wipe out a generation if we don't slow it down. It will kill our customers. It will kill our workers. It will kill the economy."
He let go. Junior slid down the wall, gasping.
"I don't care about the morality," Jason said, adjusting his cuffs. "I care about the market. A pandemic is bad for business."
He walked back to his desk. He picked up his pen.
He slashed a red line through MUNITIONS. He wrote MEDICAL.
"Send the order to the docks," Jason said. "If the Liberty sails with bullets, I will fire every man on that pier."
Junior scrambled up. He looked terrified of Jason.
"Okay. Okay. Medical supplies."
Junior ran out of the room.
Jason walked to the window. He looked out at the dark streets of Washington.
He felt the cold logic of the algorithm tightening around his heart.
He wasn't saving lives because he was good. He was saving them because they were assets.
"The war is easy," Jason whispered to the glass.
He touched the letter from Sarah.
"The plague is the real enemy."
He thought of Sarah in the mud in France, wearing a mask, watching young men turn blue and die.
He hoped the masks would get there in time.
Not for the soldiers. But for her.
Because if she died... the last part of Jason Underwood died with her.