“What the hell's going on?” Weathers yelled.
“Damned if I know,” Vasquez said.
“What time is it?”
“About 0300.”
“Oh man, that's cruel,” Weathers groaned. “I was in the middle of a seriously good dream.”
Vasquez heard several other pilots complaining in the background and tuned their voices out. Something had to be wrong for the base alarm to be going off. She immediately ruled out some asshole deciding to do a test of the emergency system. With everything going on with the Reapers, there was no need to test anyone’s level of readiness. Everyone was already on their toes and ready for the fight of their lives.
“All pilots report to your planes,” the PA system interrupted. “This is not a drill. All pilots report to your planes immediately.”
“Dream time is over,” Vasquez quipped. “Looks like our mission just got moved up.” She quickly pulled on her boots and retrieved her pilot survival kit and helmet before heading for the door. If the shit truly did hit the fan, then everything she needed to survive and protect herself was in her kit. As she was approaching the opening, Ace appeared in the hallway, gesturing wildly.
“Double time, people,” Ace yelled. “Base is under attack. They want us to launch now.”
“You were already up?” Vasquez asked.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Ace answered. “I was in the mess when I heard the base alarms go off. Figured the shit had just hit the fan.”
“You figured right,” Vasquez said. “Good hunting, Ace.”
“You too, Vas.”
Vasquez picked up her pace and ran toward where her plane should be waiting for her. As she exited the building, she heard gunfire somewhere in front of her. She saw two separate groups of soldiers near the planes. The men were actively firing at Reapers. Vasquez heard a sound to her left and looked long enough to see more Reapers were attempting to climb the base’s security fence.
“Keep moving,” Ace yelled. “They're buying us time.”
More gunfire erupted around them, and Vasquez opened her stride, picking up her speed until she was in a full sprint for her plane.
She was still fifty yards from her plane and could already see the crew chief motioning for them to hurry up.
A moment later, Vasquez was climbing into her F-35. She turned to the chief and yelled, “Stay safe, Chief. It's been a privilege to work with you.”
“Yeah, you too,” the chief answered. “Now, get out of here, before it’s too late.”
Vasquez threw a quick salute to the crew chief and began her startup sequence. She saw the plane’s canopy begin to close around her, and then a moment later, the plane’s engine came to life. She moved the stick and began to taxi toward the nearest runway. As she did, she saw several soldiers try to hold the line and give her time to take off. Her eyes fell on one soldier a moment before a horde of Reapers overran the man. There was a flurry of arms and legs moving, and she felt a pang of sorry for the soldier who had likely lost his life trying to give her a chance to escape.
Vasquez pushed the throttle forward a bit more and the plane immediately gained more speed. She only needed a few more seconds to reach takeoff speed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a pair of Reapers leap toward her plane. There was a loud thud as something hit her plane and then a low, grinding noise. Vasquez immediately began pulled the control stick back, and the high-performance machine went skyward. The ground quickly disappeared below, and she took her plane up to ten thousand feet.
Ace’s voice came through the comms. “Close call, Green Mountain Boys,” he said. “This is Green Mountain Boy One. I need everybody to call out and let me know if you’re still operational.”
“Green Mountain Boy Seven,” Vasquez replied. “Ready to kick some Reaper ass.”
The rest of her squad sounded out, and Vasquez felt an immediate sense of relief. All of them had somehow managed to escape the base before it was overrun.
“Everybody has their targets,” Ace said. “That hasn’t changed, but our destination has. Hit your targets and then haul ass to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base.”
“Anybody else make it out?” Stormy asked.
“Some,” Ace admitted. “They’re being flown to Scott Air Force Base.”
“Why not Wright-Patterson?” Stormy argued.
“Somebody with more stars on their lapel made that call,” Ace said. “Stormy, you are welcome to ask the brass next time you see them.”
Vasquez chuckled softly. She could only hope Stormy would be foolish enough to openly question the orders that had come from their higher-ups. She quickly entered the changes to her flight plan, and the computer immediately came back with updated metrics. “Ace, my computer is saying we just added two hundred miles to our flight plan,” she said. “Anybody coming up with the same math?”
“Hold on,” Ace answered. “Yeah, same here.”
“D.C. to Wright-Patterson only adds about eighty miles on our last leg,” Conklin sounded out. “Lucky break, I guess.”
“What’s the big deal, Vas?” Stormy called out. “Two hundred miles further is no big deal.”
“Probably,” Vasquez said. “But my fuel is already at 80 percent.”
“Really?” Ace asked. “I’m at 94 percent. Anyone else seeing lower than usual fuel?”
“I’m at 89 percent,” Conklin answered. “Plenty of juice to go purge the capital of Reapers and still be back to base in time for dinner.”
“It’ll be fine, Ace,” Vasquez insisted. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Maybe they didn’t get to finish topping off some of the planes?” Stormy offered. “You know, with the Reapers showing up to crash the party?”
“Yeah, that’s probably it,” Vasquez said. “It’ll be fine.”
“I hope you’re right, Vas, but two of my flight squad have less than 90 percent fuel, and we haven’t been in the air very long,” Ace said. “This might affect how long we can wait to start this mission. Everybody hold position while I call it in. I have a feeling the brass are gonna weigh in on this.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
As Foster stepped into the hallway, he saw Sams waiting for him. The former Ranger was gesturing hurriedly for him to pick up the pace.
“Where's the fire, Army?” Foster quipped.
“Come on, quit dragging your feet,” Sams said as he motioned for Foster to walk faster. “You got to see this.”
As Foster reached Sams, the man turned and headed into the next room. Foster followed him in, and as he did, he saw Walker standing near a table. There was a series of bullets lined up, and Nick was grinning ear to ear.
“You got something,” Foster said.
“Damn straight, he does,” Sams said. “This is a fucking game changer.”
“I wouldn't say that,” Walker said. “Not yet. We haven't tested them.”
“Okay. Why don't we start by you telling me what I’m looking at?”
“All right,” Walker said slowly. “You know how these things get poisoned from silver, right?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. And remember how I made the Reaper bullets?”
“Not really. To be honest, you kind of lost me when you were explaining it, then,” Foster confessed. “The only reason why I used them initially was because I had run out of everything else. I'm just glad they worked when I fired them.”
“Uh-huh, pearls before swine,” Walker said. “I should have known better. These are a much simpler design. I took some hollow point bullets and packed the tips with silver.”
“Huh,” Foster said. “Then how do you keep the silver from falling out? You melt it?”
“Nope,” Walker said. “There's a thin layer of wax holding the silver in place. When the bullet is fired, its velocity causes the wax to begin to melt. By the time the bullet hits the Reaper, the silver is exposed. That’s when the bullet punches the silver into their body.”
“Like stabbing them with a silver-tipped
bullet?” Foster said.
“Yeah, pretty much,” Walker said. “The moment the silver punctures their body, it can begin sending them into anaphylactic shock.”
“Wow. That is something,” Foster said. “What kind of range do these have?”
“Range?” Sams asked. “Why would it change at all?”
“Let me word my question a little differently,” Foster said. “Does the wax coating shorten the bullet’s range at all? You know, before the wax is gone and the silver starts breaking or burning up, too?”
“I have no idea,” Walker admitted. “That's why we need to test them. I'm also hoping that they'll work as intended.”
Foster sighed. “So, we have another weapon that we need to test. What guns did you make them for?”
“The Glocks. I only have hollow points for the nine millimeters.”
“I think that’s a good starting point,” Foster said. “If they work like we think they will, it will give our Glocks one shot, one kill ability against the Reapers. How many bullets did you make?”
“Just what you see there. I didn’t have many to work with.”
“It looks like about a magazine and a half,” Foster said as he eyeballed the table. “That only gives each of us a handful to use.”
“Which is enough, until we know for sure they work correctly,” Walker said. “I figured one of us will field test it. If the first bullet doesn't take them down immediately, then at least shooting it in the head will. I can't count on anybody else in the group staying that calm when a Reaper’s rushing toward them.”
“Even law enforcement and military folks might shit their pants in that situation.”
“Law enforcement might,” Walker quipped. “Rangers would just keep firing until the hostile has been neutralized.”
The three men chuckled, and Foster said, “Okay, I asked for that one.”
“All right, let’s talk about these bullets. The way I see it,” Sam said, “If this test works, Nick is going to need a lot more hollow points and silver. If it doesn't, then we’re still going to need hollow-point ammo for the Glocks.”
“There is no such thing as too much ammunition,” Foster and Walker said together.
The three men laughed aloud again.
“Sounds like another scavenging mission,” Foster said. “Let me ask Gregory for some suggestions on where we should be looking. I prefer some place that isn’t being patrolled by the Disciples.”
“If you don't mind, I'd like to go with you,” Walker said. “There could be other equipment I could use in creating more silver-enhanced weapons or armor, weapons or ammunition.”
“Do we want to take the enhanced bullets with us or do a small controlled test later?” Sams asked.
“My vote is controlled test later,” Walker replied. “We need more hollow-point ammunition, period. I’d rather not take a chance on an untested experimental ammo failing in a serious firefight.”
“I agree,” Sams answered. “We’ll find a few stragglers to test the new ammo on later.”
“Sounds good to me,” Foster said. “Let’s go do some shopping.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
President Vickers was sitting at a desk in her new living quarters, tackling a growing pile of papers that needed her attention. The quarters wouldn't have been her first choice of location or décor, but like everything else that had come about her presidency, it was something forced onto her by the Reapers’ actions. She suspected that she had unknowingly bumped one of the officers of the Eisenhower out of their private space. But so far, no one had fessed up on who the previous occupant had been. Vickers glanced at the office walls. There were several places where the contrast in paint color signaled something else had once hung on the walls. Those spots were now conspicuously bare. Personal photos or maybe some type of awards? I’m definitely going to have to ask Captain Foles, Vickers thought as she continued to scan progress reports.
There was a tap on the door, and Vickers said, “Come in, Agent Nash.”
The Special-Agent-In-Charge looked in sheepishly and said, “It was the knock, right?”
“You have a very distinctive walk, too,” Vickers replied. What can I do for you?”
Nash held a satellite phone out in front of her. “Priority call from General Weindahl.” She began to walk across the room with the phone extended toward the President.
Vickers stood up, accepted the phone, and then sat back down. She held the sat phone up to the side of her face and said, “General, I’m surprised you aren’t talking to me in person. We are on the same ship.”
“Indeed. Unfortunately, there’s too much going on for me to leave the operations center right now.”
“Fair enough. What’s going on Rasheed?”
“Madam President, I regret to inform you that several of our bases have been hit by Reapers.”
“How bad are we talking?”
“Four bases. Two of which were forward operating bases for Operation Flashpoint.”
“Do we need to delay or scrap the mission?”
“I don’t believe so. With both Dover Air Force Base and Burlington Air National Guard Base, we managed to keep casualties to a minimum and get a number pilots out.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“Not exactly. The problem is the planes.”
“What about them?” Vickers asked.
“Fuel. They have a limited time they can stay in the air.”
“Can we refuel in the air?”
“I’m being told we can’t get a tanker to them before the mission is supposed to start.”
“Okay, what about refueling at another base?”
“It's possible, but depending on where they are rerouted to, we might have to delay the start of Operation Flashpoint. It could also mean reassigning targets based on the plane’s new locations, too. But there's another concern.”
“What's that?”
“As you probably already know, military planes are not quiet machines. Their noise profile would likely draw Reapers.”
Vickers scratched her cheek absently. “Let me see if I understand the problem. If we direct the planes to a different base, then landing them or starting them back up will make a lot of noise. Enough noise that it’s like ringing a dinner bell for the Reapers.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Weindahl said.
“Do you have a suggestion, General?”
“We’ve gotten reports on all of the planes’ current fuel levels. Based on that information, I believe our best course of action is to move the start of Operation Flashpoint up. If we wipe out a large portion of the Reapers along the East Coast, it should buy the bases enough time to land the planes and shut them down before the Reapers are alerted of their new locations.”
“How much sooner are we talking?”
“Four hours.”
Vickers felt the breath catch in her chest. “Would we still be able to alert any people in the cities?”
“It might be cutting it close, but we should be able to give an hour’s warning or close to it,” Weindahl said. “I'm told that all currently airborne planes have enough fuel to complete their mission and still land at one of our bases safely.”
“Sounds like the best we can do under the circumstances. Rasheed, let's make it happen.”
“As you command, Madame President.”
“General?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Don't hesitate to call me if you have any more problems.”
“Of course, Madame President,” Weindahl said before disconnecting the call.
Vickers looked up and saw Nash was still standing there. “I need you to pass a message to Captain Flores.”
“Did you want me to get him on the phone? Or maybe bring him to your quarters?”
“Not this time. I really need to get through all of these action reports in the next hour.” Vickers sighed. “Please tell him Operation Flashpoint is being moved up four hours.”
“Yes, Madame President,�
�� Nash replied before she hurried out of the room.
A noise sounded out, and Vasquez’s helmet flashed an incoming message. She began reading it, and her heart immediately jumped into her throat. Operation Flashpoint had just been moved up. In less than one hour, she’d be bombing Philadelphia. The city where she grew up. The place where her family might somehow still be alive inside. Vasquez made a silent prayer that every human still in Philly made it out before they started dropping their bombs.
“Okay, good news,” Ace called out. “We’re going to get to hit the Reapers a lot sooner.”
“Good hunting, everybody,” Vasquez answered in a voice she thought sounded clear and unemotional, even if her own nerves were jangling like crazy. She leaned forward slightly against her seat harness and checked the altimeter before banking her fighter hard and heaving southeast toward Philadelphia.
The F-35 took off like a rocket, and she gradually ascended to above the cloud level before leveling her ascent. Once she reached the city outskirts, she would patrol out of sight until it was time to start her bombing run. She was glad to see the brass were still going to make a last-minute effort to warn any people still in the cities before the bombs began dropping. She didn’t know how many people it would save, but even if it was only a handful, then in her mind it was worth the delay.
Vasquez glanced around the cockpit, rechecked her altimeter, and adjusted the air conditioning. Suddenly, a warning began flashing in her HUD. A second warning tone began, and she glanced outside in time to see a piece of metal sailing away from her plane’s upper fuselage. A new sensor began sounding a moment before the engine cut out, sending her into a descending 360-degree spiral.
Vasquez keyed the mic. “Mayday, mayday. Green Mountain Boy Seven experiencing mechanical failure outside target location.” She fought to pull the plane out of its dive, but the controls weren’t responding. As the plane continued to spiral downward, Vasquez noticed her vision was graying and narrow. It was somewhere during the second spiraling turn that she lost consciousness and everything went dark.
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