“Can they fire those guns from the ground!” yelled David.
“No idea!” yelled someone.
They closed the distance significantly during the slow turn, but the aircraft didn’t wait once it lined up with the runway. The HUMVEE pitched forward, Chapman flooring the accelerator. They’d closed to roughly one hundred yards when the AC-130 started rolling down the runway. It was now or never. David nestled into the M240’s stock and placed his eye against the 3.4X optic, adjusting the reticle picture with the thumb controller. When the reticle was centered on the dark outline of the aircraft’s tail, he pressed the trigger. Nothing happened.
Hoping nobody had seen his rookie error, he flipped the safety to fire and charged the machine gun, chambering a round. When he pressed the trigger again, a long burst of tightly spaced gunfire left the barrel, mixed with red tracers. The burst appeared to hit the tail, but it was impossible to tell in the darkness. He was essentially firing at a shadow. He fired again, showering the turret with hot shells, hoping he was making a difference.
“Hang on!” he heard before the HUMVEE screeched to a halt.
David continued to fire tight bursts into the tail’s horizontal and vertical stabilizers while Sergeant Rudolph and Gary Hoenig huddled together with the AT4. From a kneeling position, Sergeant Rudolph steadied the launcher as the AC-130 picked up speed.
“Any time now,” he muttered.
Gary turned his head and yelled, “Back blast area clear.”
Before David could fire another burst, a pressurized blast wave rattled him, quickly subsiding. Ahead of the HUMVEE, a bright red point of light literally rocketed toward the AC-130, missing the right horizontal stabilizer by mere feet, its red-hot exhaust illuminating the tail as it sailed by. His mind formed an obscenity, but he never got to verbally express it. The rocket struck the far end of the right wing, detonating with a flash and a slightly delayed boom. The aircraft slowed to a stop, a third of its right wing hanging downward at an obscene angle. The AC-130 was grounded.
David stood up all the way, hollering and cheering like he was at a high school football game. Sergeant Rudolph and Hoenig high-fived each other, picking themselves up off the ground. Their celebration lasted about five seconds before the AC-130 started to slowly turn left. There was no reason for it to maneuver like that—the runway wasn’t wide enough for it to turn around.
“Rudolph! Gary!” said David. “It’s going to use those guns on us!”
The two raced back to the HUMVEE, jumping inside.
“Turn right and drive as fast as you can!” said David. “We might be able to stay ahead of its line of fire.”
Chapman floored the HUMVEE, spinning its wheels until they took purchase, launching them forward into a sharp turn. David briefly considered firing long bursts at the fuselage, where the primary weapons systems were located, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was one thing disabling the aircraft. Killing the U.S. servicemembers on board was another. Like all of these soldiers, they were just pawns in this wretched conspiracy.
“Chapman, turn right a little more and head for that dip we hit earlier. We might be able to get some defilade with that!” said David.
Rudolph was on the command net, passing along a frantic report, when the first volley of 40mm cannon shells passed well behind them, pounding the ground fifty yards toward the fence. The area where they struck disappeared in a shower of dirt and debris. One burst from those and they were done.
David could see the dip ahead. It looked like part of the old Cold War base. Possibly a network of earthen revetments for moving aircraft out of the spying eyes of ground observers. Whatever it was, they needed to get there fast. The AC-130 was spinning faster than he originally thought possible. He looked ahead and then glanced at the aircraft. They weren’t going to make it.
“We need to abandon this thing right now!” said David, ducking into the cabin. “Do you have smoke grenades?”
“Two,” said Rudolph.
“Drop them behind us and slow the HUMVEE,” said David.
“Chapman, slow down so we can bail out,” said Rudolph, scrambling to prepare the grenades. “The last thing you do is hit the accelerator before you roll out.”
The HUMVEE slowed considerably; David opened his door and looked at the ground passing by. Better than being torn to shreds by a 40mm cannon, he thought, hurling himself into the darkness. He hit the ground hard and tumbled, coming to a stop in a rapidly expanding cloud of smoke. Three more figures stirred and moaned, quickly activating as the HUMVEE rolled onward. David oriented himself with the road and pulled Hoenig toward the earthen revetment a short distance away.
Several tightly spaced zips screamed past them, the HUMVEE exploding moments later. They ran for safety as the flaming vehicle continued forward. Another burst of 40mm cannon fire wailed by, striking the already crippled HUMVEE, flipping it on its side. David and the rest of them dove into the revetment and rolled until it flattened out, as a burst of cannon fire passed directly overhead and struck the opposite side of the dip, over fifty yards away. They were safe for now.
Chapter 34
Warren Cooper stood in front of the three curved LED monitors that comprised his command and control station, switching between different data feeds and the cameras situated throughout the Ajax facility. He didn’t like what he was seeing—more precisely, what he wasn’t seeing. Drone feeds. Things were tense enough in the two cities surrounding his headquarters; he didn’t need a problem right at his doorstep. He was in charge of six incident zones spread between Indiana, Ohio and Michigan—all running smoothly until last night.
“What are we looking at, Raymond?” said Cooper, turning to his second in command and chief of security, who stood in front of a similar monitor array.
Five additional stations ringed the operations center, all serving different purposes. Communications. Logistics and supply. Quarantine management. Dedicated asset management. Outside asset control. From this room, they monitored and directed the efforts of incident zone commanders, quarantine camp wardens and covert assets.
“Both drones went off-line almost simultaneously,” said Raymond Harris. “Lookouts reported two distant fireballs around the same time. Ground explosions.”
“Were they shot down?” said Cooper. “Kind of odd they hit the ground with their fuel intact.”
“Unknown at this point,” said Harris. “The drone control unit isn’t responding.”
“Then fucking send someone out to their container!” said Cooper. “I want to know what’s happening with my drones.”
“I sent a team about a minute ago,” said Harris. “They haven’t reported.”
A distant explosion rattled the building. Nothing huge from the sound of it, but certainly not normal. Something was up.
“Find out what the fuck just blew up, and get in touch with the drone operators,” said Cooper. “If the drones are gone, I’m keeping the AC-130 overhead. Cincinnati can wait.”
Harris touched his earpiece, an indication that someone was talking to him over the net. He turned to the station controlling outside assets. The woman standing in front of those screens looked back at Harris and shook her head, speaking into her headset.
“What?” said Cooper.
“We have a big problem,” said Harris. “The AC-130 was just attacked. One of its wings was severely damaged by a rocket. It’s not going anywhere.”
“A rocket? From where?” said Cooper.
“A HUMVEE,” said Harris. “They don’t know where it came from. One second they were taxiing for takeoff, the next they were under machine-gun and rocket fire.”
“Are they still under attack?”
Harris turned to the staff officer talking to the flight crew, who answered.
“Negative. The gunship crew managed to take out the HUMVEE from the runway,” said the man. “Some of the soldiers escaped, but there’s been no return fire. Almost like a one-off kind of thing. A rogue group.”
“I don’t think so,” said Cooper. “Can you raise the team sent to check on the drone pilots?”
Harris clicked the mouse in front of his station and requested that the team check in. A few seconds later, he shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Cameras out back?” said Cooper.
“Everything looks normal behind the building,” said Harris, staring at the screen. “Shit.”
“What?”
“The timer is frozen,” he said.
“Meaning?”
“The feed is hacked,” said Harris. “How the fuck?”
Something was really wrong. The drones were down, and his AC-130 was grounded. His air cover was gone. That could only mean one thing.
“Raymond, prep my jet. We’re out of here,” he said. “Order a general evacuation. All air assets. All vehicles. Everyone and everything. I want this place vacated in ten minutes.”
“All of this?” said Harris.
“Shut it down,” said Cooper. “Grab and go.”
“I wonder if we shouldn’t throw the computers in the bin and thermite them right now,” said Harris. “Same with your CTAB.”
Cooper didn’t like what he was suggesting. The only reason they’d “burn” it all down right now was if they were at risk of capture. They had over a hundred Ajax contractors at the facility, most of them military-grade mercenary types. It would take an entire battalion to capture him.
“No. That won’t be necessary. Send a squad to secure the rear of the building. If the rear security feeds are frozen, that means we can expect trouble from that direction.”
Harris stared at his monitors, furiously clicking his mouse. “I think all of the camera feeds are frozen.”
“Grab all of the computers,” said Cooper. “I want that jet airborne in five.”
“Copy that,” said Harris, starting to move, but suddenly pausing to listen to his headset.
This couldn’t be good.
“Now what?”
“Sentries along the northern perimeter are reporting armored vehicles headed in their direction,” said Harris. “They’ll be able to sweep the main tarmac if they reach the fence line.”
“Send everything we have to reinforce that side of the perimeter,” said Cooper.
“Colonel?” said the woman seated at the outside asset management station.
Annoyed at the interruption, he snapped at her, “Tell the AC-130 crew to sit tight! We have bigger problems!”
“Sir!” she insisted. “The air traffic control tower is reporting a dozen or so vehicles headed up the main taxiway, from the southwest end of the runway.”
“Thank you,” he said, shaking his head. “Harris?”
“Sir?”
“Burn the computers,” said Cooper.
“And your tablet?”
Cooper produced a small roll of green duct tape from one of his pockets. “Get me a thermite grenade,” he said. “And get me the fuck out of here.”
“Right away, sir,” said Harris.
“And, Harris? Turn that AC-130 on those approaching vehicles.”
“On it.”
Cooper activated the CTAB sitting on the desk and navigated to a screen requiring an eight-character password. He quickly typed the code and opened a window he’d never thought he’d have to use. Another passcode activated the window. He pressed his thumb against FIRESTORM and waited for the biometric scanner to once again confirm his identity before entering the individual passcodes for the quarantine camps fed by Fort Wayne and Indianapolis. It was overkill, but there was a good reason. He’d just initiated a five-minute countdown to terminating every Class Alpha and Bravo quarantine detainee within those incident zones.
Chapter 35
Major Smith watched the aircraft at the opposite end of the runway through a magnified night-vision scope. It looked like the behemoth was trying to straighten out on the runway, though it certainly wasn’t going anywhere. Sergeant Rudolph’s AT4 shot had guaranteed that. The AC-130 didn’t stop turning when it was pointed directly down the runway. Alpha group was in trouble. His formation of ten HUMVEEs still had another one thousand feet to cover before they reached the entrance to the Ajax compound.
“Alpha Two, this is Alpha Actual,” said Smith.
“This is Alpha Two,” said Second Lieutenant Feltzer.
“Adam, I need to distract that AC-130, or none of us are going to make it to the end of the taxiway. You’re going to lead the compound assault. Spread out, but protect the electronics van. They need to arrive at the compound intact.”
“This is Alpha Two. Understood.”
“Alpha Group, this is Alpha Actual. Command of the assault team has been transferred to Alpha Two. No need to reply. Just follow Lieutenant Feltzer in and kick some ass,” said Smith. “Alpha Four?”
“Figured you’d be calling,” said Staff Sergeant Vaughn. “Pulling out of formation now.”
Staff Sergeant Vaughn had never backed down from a challenge. She’d always had his back when he was a company commander, and had kicked ass nonstop over the past forty-eight hours. Smith almost felt guilty asking her to do this, because he knew she wouldn’t back down.
“Follow close behind me for now until I get this figured out,” said Smith, turning to Sergeant Breene. “Take us wide to the right.”
“Yep,” said Breene, pulling the HUMVEE out of formation and driving it off the taxiway.
“Roth, start firing short bursts at the AC-130. Focus on the cockpit,” said Smith. “I want to get their attention.”
“It’s way outside max effective range, sir,” said Private First Class Roth.
“Use the tracers to get some rounds out there,” said Smith. “High arc. The bullets can go that far. I’m going to get us closer.”
“Closer? Fuck,” muttered Corporal Mayer from the backseat.
A dozen flashes erupted from the AC-130’s rear fuselage, sending the first barrage of 40mm high-explosive rounds in their direction. Smith had no idea if the rounds had been aimed at the main assault force or his diversion. He found out less than a second later. An explosive blast illuminated the nine vehicles spread in a wedge on the taxiway, the flaming wreckage of a HUMVEE immediately dropping behind the formation. Rich’s hacker van veered out of its way, speeding up to tuck in closely behind another HUMVEE.
Roth’s M240 roared, sending a bright red arc of tracers toward the AC-130. Alpha Four’s gunner sent an even longer burst. The 40mm cannon flashed again, its salvo enveloping one of the lead HUMVEEs in a series of mini-detonations that left the vehicle intact, but sent it veering left, trailing thick smoke. Roth and the other gunner fired another long burst at the killer aircraft ahead of them.
“Breene, you see those flashes again,” said Smith, “you maneuver the fuck out of this thing. Got it?”
“Way ahead of you, sir,” said Breene.
“Alpha Four, you see flashes, you take evasive action,” he said over the net.
“Give me some credit, sir,” replied Staff Sergeant Vaughn.
“Just making sure,” said Smith, returning to the night-vision scope.
He did his best to keep the scope steady while Breene drove them over the uneven stretch of grass between the taxiway and main runway. It looked like the AC-130 had taken the bait and was continuing to turn right. A line of bright tracers bounced off the runway about twenty-five meters in front of the aircraft, some of them skipping into the nose of the aircraft.
“Add fifty, Roth!” he said, guessing the adjustment would land rounds on the AC-130.
“Got it!” she replied, firing a long burst.
“Flashes!” yelled Breene, turning the HUMVEE sharply to the right.
A rapid string of air-sucking zips passed to their left, followed by several small explosions behind them.
“Jesus. That was close,” said Roth.
“Keep firing!” he said, searching for the main assault force.
He found the seven-vehicle formation three-quarters of the way up the taxiway. The
AC-130 couldn’t possibly stop them from reaching the compound at this point—he hoped. Smith needed to continue their diversion until he was certain.
“Flashes!” said Breene, and the HUMVEE jerked right.
The 40mm salvo snapped by them, exploding against metal a fraction of a second later. Breene turned them back on course, facing the AC-130. Through his open window, Smith caught a glimpse of a flipped, but mostly intact HUMVEE. Alpha Four had been hit.
“Alpha Four, this is Alpha Actual,” he said, getting no immediate reply. “Roth! Alpha Four!”
“Not a direct hit! Caught the front of Vaughn’s HUMVEE and tossed it,” she said before firing another long burst from the M240.
The front? Shit. The AC-130 gunners were anticipating their evasive maneuvers.
“They anticipated Alpha Four’s maneuver,” said Smith.
“I’ve gone right two times in a row,” said Breene. “What’s your bet this time?”
He didn’t have a lot of time to game this in his head.
“Left,” he said as the AC-130’s twin guns flashed.
Smith closed his eyes instinctively as the round passed harmlessly to their right. The HUMVEE now pointed directly at the runway, giving him a clear view of the Alpha assault group. The vehicles had just made the turn off the taxiway, heading straight for the compound.
“Cease fire, Roth!” said Smith, grabbing Breene’s arm. “Turn us around. We’re going back for Alpha Four.”
Breene started to turn the HUMVEE right, but Smith stopped him. The AC-130 was turning again, but not in a direction that would threaten either the assault force or their small cluster of HUMVEEs. A few tracers skipped off the runway, flying under the aircraft’s nose, originating from the other side. Rudolph’s HUMVEE was still in the fight somehow. He released the wheel and nodded.
The Zulu Virus Chronicles Boxset (Books 1-3) Page 77