Making the only logical choice

“Everything is fucked. Fall back!” an officer ordered to the remaining marines. He led them and Ms. Peel toward the store and brusquely sent a team of scouts into the building to ensure its safety. A few minute later they returned, gave cursory nods and the group went through the doors, which were quickly secured.

The commander put out his hand to Ms. Peel. “Lt. Henderson,” he said. “Any great plans from here?” he asked after they bumped fists in their containment suits.

“How long until we can evacuated out of here? This mission seems to be a bust,” she said.

Henderson swore. “Yeah. I think we’re on our own at this point. You may have more pull than me. Call HQ to see if you can convince them to send another chopper or delay the strike. But …”

A rapid series of taps on the door interrupted his train of thought. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” he said.

At the glass stood a small group of civilians, worried looks on their faces. A college-aged woman in a skirt, some sort of professional in a pantsuit, a thin man in running gear and a sweating balding man in a dress shirt and khakis waved frantically at the soldiers. Making a snap decision, Henderson gave the order to let them in and then resecure the entrance.

“All right, Sanchez and Thomas, you watch the doors. Foster, you come with me. We’ll take another look around to make sure we’re all good.”

“Yes sir,” answered the sergeant, tightening her fingers on her rifle.