What the heck, it’s only for a couple of hours, he thought to himself as the suburban Nashville countryside began to roll by. The colonel let himself take a break and sat heavily back in his seat. Each bump reminded him of his age.
It will all be over soon enough, he thought with a grateful sigh.
CHAPTER 16
SCOTT AIR FORCE BASE
SOUTHERN ILLINOIS
502D AIR WING
WHILE COLONEL COOPER WAS PULLING out of the Smyrna National Guard front gates, a pair of Air Force officers sat at their respective terminals in one of six mobile ground control stations at Scott Air Force base in southern Illinois. The GCS looked like a metal refrigeration unit you might find attached to the back of a restaurant, only these containers were covered in duct work and electronic cabling. Umbilical cords connected each unit to a fiber optic cable where instant communications with their Washington controllers was performed at the speed of light. Almost two hundred gigabits of data per second were now bouncing between the GCS and the Pentagon’s war room.
Flying the Predator, a remote piloted aircraft, requires the work of two airmen. One to pilot the craft, using controls not unlike game console paddles and sticks, while the other operates the craft’s various cameras and sensors, helping the pilot designate their target.
“Vector south, cross winds at eleven knots,” the sensor operator barked. “Holding pattern in two mikes.”
“Two mikes, roger that,” the pilot confirmed.
The sensor operator monitored multiple consoles, swinging the on-board cameras left and right, then switching to infrared and back to visible light. Tapping a keyboard mounted vertically on the wall next to his right shoulder, the drone received data and instructions for the final leg of their mission.
“All systems nominal,” he reported to his superiors over his headset.
“Proceed to target,” came the cryptic command.
Although the pilot and sensor operator has mirror image screens, the pilot was concentrating on flying the unmanned craft while the sensor operator fiddled and adjusted the flight controllers like a kid with ADHD playing with a Gameboy. While one was steady and deliberate, the other was a blur of motion.
“Approaching designated coordinates,” the sensor operator announced.
“Put the bird in a holding configuration. Five-mile racetrack pattern.”
“Roger that,” the sensor operator said.
“Roger,” the Air Force pilot replied as he tapped on his console, putting the Predator into a five-mile-wide circular flight pattern over the northwest Tennessee countryside.
A set of computer commands appeared on their monitors. They were temporarily relieved of their duties and would be replaced by DHS agents.
Both of the officers took off their headsets, exited the large metal box, and walked away.
“Damn spooks,” the sensor operator mumbled. “Just once I’d like to know what they’re doing.”
“It’s getting old. I’m tired of this Bravo Sierra.”
“Let’s quit and go to fly drones for Amazon, delivering dog food and cookies,” the sensor operator said sarcastically.
“Point taken.”
Once they had exited the large hanger where the multiple control stations were situated, two more officers, this time from DHS, entered and took their places in front of the screens.
“Matterhorn on station,” one of the men said into his headphone.
“Good to hear from you,” the Pentagon replied. “We’re about an hour from contact.”
“Roger that. Standing by.”
Over the next hour, the two agents flew the Predator across the Nashville metropolitan area. Finally, the sensor operator spoke into his headset and microphone unit.
“Target identified. Travelling on Highway 24. Coordinates are as follows.”
The DHS agent typed the information into his keyboard and sent it to Washington. With the speed and location of the convoy confirmed, their job was done.
“Good job, Matterhorn. Return the bird to its nest.”
“Returning to base, confirmed. Matterhorn, out.”
The pilot hit a switch, sending the UAV a command to return to “home.”
The unmanned craft slowly turned toward Scott Field, automatically following its designated flight path back to its southern Illinois base.
CHAPTER 17
HIGHWAY 24
21 MILES NORTHWEST OF NASHVILLE
DIXON PULLED OFF ONTO THE berm of the two-lane highway. One of the HUMVEEs had broken down and been moved to the side of the road. Dixon, pulling rear guard duty, stopped to repair the vehicle.
“Karma! What a bitch,” Dixon said laughingly as he came up to a frustrated Lieutenant Cooper. The driver for the lieutenant had already opened the front hood, staring at the engine like he was studying an alien lifeform for the first time.
“Figures,” Cooper said. “The day was going way too well.”
“So what happened?” Dixon asked the driver.
“It just died.”
“Let me take a look.”
Cooper stared down the highway and watched the last of the vehicles disappeared over the crest of a hill. Almost a hundred buses, trucks, and HUMVEEs had made it to within thirty miles of their destination, and his vehicle had to be the one to break down.
Noticing the lieutenant’s gaze, Dixon put his head back under the hood and commented. “Don’t worry, L.T. The colonel will take care of your family.”
Cooper grunted and craned his neck to stare over the sergeant’s shoulders. “So, what’s wrong?”
“Don’t know yet, Lieutenant. It could be electric short, or possibly a clogged fuel line. When one of these beasts just quits, you look at what feeds it,” Dixon said as he lifted some tubes and cords. Searching through the HUMVEE’s wiring, he gave a grunt. “Looks like a loose cable. Let me tighten it a bit.”
“Will that fix it?” the impatient lieutenant asked.
“I’ll know in just a…hey! What’s that sound?”
A low rumble, almost imperceptible at first but rapidly building in volume, was coming from behind them. All four men turned and stared.
Sims pointed into the sky and gasped. “Is that a BUFF?”
“That’s an affirmative,” Cooper replied as all four men stood and stared at the giant flying fortress.
Hugging the rolling terrain, the bomber jumped up and down, its frame buffeted by thermal drafts. Sims was fascinated by the wings as they flexed up and down with the shifts in the atmosphere while the aircraft’s tubular body held a steadier course. It almost looked like the wings were flapping, just like a flying bird.
A growing sense of unease hit Dixon, and he turned to look at Cooper. Seeing a similar look of dread, they wordlessly scrambled into wrecker’s cabin.
As Dixon started the repair vehicle, Sims and Cooper’s driver stood frozen. They were snapped out of their trance when multiple explosions sounded up the road. The ground began to shake—the mammoth bomber was actually moving the earth under their feet. The sound of the engines pushing the B-52 through the air was deafening as it passed overhead, forcing the two men to cover their ears. Crossing in front of the late afternoon sun, an elongated shadow fell over the men, casting them into a temporary twilight.
The experience of being under the wings of a low-level B-52 flight would stay with the men for the rest of their lives. But what happened next would scar them forever.
B-52H
NORTHWEST TENNESSEE
As the Predator returned home, C-Mat received a final computer message. The onboard system updated the BUFF’s flight path, sending the bomber toward the outskirts of Nashville.
“Twenty minutes to target,” the weapon’s control officer said.
The bomber began to descend, its speed automatically decreasing and its altitude dropping as the computer determined their proper flight path.
“Looks like we’ll be making a low-level run,” the navigator said.
�
�Love those,” C-Mat said. “Make sure you’re strapped in.”
“One minute to target,” the weapon’s officer said.
“Thirty seconds to release.” He stated as they approached their target.
The on-board computer sent a message back to base asking for any changes in their orders. An instant later, the mission was confirmed.
Meanwhile, their companion bomber was ahead of them and at a higher altitude. C-Mat watched as that Stratofortress released its sixteen cluster bombs from four hard points on their bomber’s wings. The CBU-105 Sensor Fuzed Weapons dropped free, and parachutes deployed from each one, bringing the bombs into a nose-down position. As they approached the ground, C-Mat lost sight of them. Even without seeing the explosives’ final moments, he knew that right now the enemy convoy was being riddled with death and destruction.
It was time for the coup de grace.
Less than a minute behind the first Stratofortress, C-Mat’s bomber was now flying at five hundred feet, well below normal altitude. The ship was on autopilot and bouncing up and down like some demented carnival ride. Riding thermal waves of air, sometimes jumping almost ten feet at a time, caused the crew’s safety harnesses to dig into their groins and legs.
About a mile from their target, the convoy of vehicles disappeared under the front nose of the jet. C-Mat struggled to see what and who he was killing, but the turbulence from the low-level run wouldn’t allow him to sit high enough to see down to the ground.
“Command confirmed.” C-Mat said to his weapon’s officer. “On my mark.”
Staring at the computer, the Captain Mathers finally saw the green words flash on his screen, confirming the crew’s final orders.
“Release! Release! Release!” he barked.
All of their ordinance spilled out of the machine’s belly. Travelling at almost four hundred knots, the bombs were spread down a line of destruction over a mile in length. The enemy convoy was going to feel the wrath of the United States Air Force as over fifty thousand pounds of explosives landed on their heads, effectively pulverizing the enemy vehicles that the first bomber had disabled as well as vaporizing the enemy soldiers that had dared to set foot on this great nation’s soil.
As the Stratofortress lifted with the abrupt loss of all of their bombs’ weight, C-Mat smiled and took control of the BUFF once again, steering their enormous aircraft back home.
He crowed into his headset, “Great job, boys. I’m buying the first round tonight!”
278TH ARMORED REGIMENT—FAMILY CONVOY
HIGHWAY 24
22 MILES NORTHWEST OF NASHVILLE
Nan Cooper sat in the back of the bus while her son settled into the window seat to her left. Marky had been amazingly quiet during the ride, and she was grateful for that. Several other families had lost control of their own children. She couldn’t really blame the kids—their world had been torn from them months ago, and now they were being hauled off to yet another new home.
Their bus suddenly slowed down, and then it picked up speed once again. A few moments later, Nan saw her husband’s HUMVEE, which had pulled off to the side of the road, and felt a pang of concern. He saw her and waved, a grumpy expression on her face. It must not be anything too bad—just a delay.
“That’s Daddy!”
“Yes, it is daddy,” she said with a smile. “And daddy’s not going to be too happy when we get to our new home before him.”
Marky, clutching his blue doll, smiled back at his mother. All was quiet. The only sound they heard was the low growl of the school bus’s diesel engine. Then the little boy pointed up in the sky and gasped.
“Look, Mommy! Balloons!”
Nan Cooper leaned over her son and stared up into the afternoon sky.
“Those aren’t balloons,” she said. “They look like parachutes!”
She made out a tubular shape dangling underneath the half-deployed nylon chutes. Suddenly, the tubes dropped free, and a small explosion erupted inside of them. The tube fragmented into multiple smaller shapes, and each one of the ejected alien objects began to spin as tiny jets ignited, scattering them into the clear blue sky. Then, without warning, the hockey puck-like discs stopped their climb, and thrusters pushed the canisters straight down into the mass of vehicles below.
Nan realized what the objects must be, but her brain couldn’t accept the information her eyes were relaying. “Oh no!” was all that the pregnant mother could say, as the first explosions detonated.
The line of vehicles was decimated as molten copper thrust through every engine—as well as many of the convoy’s passenger compartments. Those skeets that couldn’t find a target exploded in a final failsafe, sending shrapnel into their surroundings. It was like a fourth of July fireworks finale’, only this one destroyed nearly everything it touched.
Nan quickly regained her senses, only to find the front of her bus ripped open, its engine torn and burning. She searched for her son, grateful to find him alive under the seat in front of her. Marky was beginning to cry. The sound of people calling for help began to filter through the ringing in her ears. Through the front of the now-destroyed bus, she watched her father-in-law crawl out of the back of his decimated HUMVEE. She waved to him as he frantically scanned her vehicle, a momentary look of relief coming to his face. But then the rumbling began, and Nan’s heart dropped.
She struggled out of her seat, ignoring the pleas of a family behind her, and looked through the rear door’s window, back down the road. The frame of the destroyed bus began to shake and the pained screams of the people around her quickly became shouts of fear as a massive jet rumbled towards them.
“Don’t look, baby,” she said, holding her son tight. “Mommy loves you.”
As Nan clenched her boy against her swollen belly, the shadow of jet passed overhead, blocking out the sun. She turned her head and locked eyes with Colonel Cooper, who was on his knees, an expression of horror and sorrow on his face.
She gave him one final sorrowful look and received a regretful stare back from the defeated man. Then, in a flash of light, over a thousand souls disappeared from the earth as over a mile of road became a pulverized piece of hell. Within just a few seconds, the families of the Tennessee Cavalry’s 278th Armored Regiment were gone.
***
Sims was sprawled on the pavement, the wrecker he had been clinging to smashed against a tree in the median between the north and southbound lanes. He staggered to the vehicle, looking for the lieutenant and SSgt. Dixon, when he noticed the lieutenant’s driver crushed under one of the wheels. A quick check for a pulse confirmed the man’s death.
Hearing movement in the cab, he rushed to the driver’s side door and flung it open. The windshield of the wrecker had been blown into the cab. Its bulletproof glass prevented it from shattering, but the entire window slammed into both Dixon and Cooper, stunning them into semi-consciousness.
Sims pushed the shattered windshield up and out of the front of the truck and helped Dixon stagger to the ground. He jumped back up to retrieve Lt. Cooper, but the man pushed him away, staring up the road. Sims followed his gaze and saw the plumes of smoke rising over the crest of a hill about a half a mile ahead.
With a savage cry, the lieutenant kicked his door open and jumped down. As soon as his boots hit the dirt, he began to sprint up the road towards the devastation.
Sims began to triage SSgt. Dixon. He checked for breathing, bleeding and shock. Finding Dixon free of these immediate life-threatening symptoms, he helped the man get to his feet.
“You alright, Sarge?”
“Shit,” Dixon replied, wiping his face and shaking his head. “What the hell happened?”
“We were bombed.”
They heard Cooper yelling as he ran, drawing the two men’s attention up the road where the lieutenant disappeared over the crest of the ridge.
“Let’s move.” Dixon stumbled, and Sims grabbed him around the waist, bringing him down on the ground.
“Not yet, sir. You need to
rest.”
“Just give me a minute.” Dixon put his head between his legs, then rolled over and vomited. “My head. It feels like it’s gonna explode.”
Dixon sat back and took a deep breath. Looking over, he saw the driver’s legs under the wrecker.
“Did you check him?”
“Yes sir. He’s gone.”
Sims left Dixon on the berm and checked the wrecker. The engine was still running, but it refused to shift into gear. The transmission was shot. After about five minutes, Dixon was able to get up and they began walking up the slope toward the smoke. With each stride, Dixon took control of his body, and by the time they made it to the top of the rise, he was walking strongly on his own. That is, until they made it over the crest of the hill and saw the devastation below.
Neither man had family in the convoy, but that didn’t lessen the horror. The scene could only be described as apocalyptic. Massive craters, some over thirty feet deep and a hundred feet across, marred the highway. In fact, there was no more highway. Any sign of asphalt, signs or guardrails were gone. The convoy, for all intents and purposes, was nowhere to be seen. The field of devastation looked like the moon, other than the massive trees upended with their root balls sticking up in the air. A couple of HUMVEEs were still standing, their windows blown in and the metal frames compressed like someone had taken a vice and squeezed the jaws together.
Sims saw movement ahead, bringing fleeting hope that someone had survived, but it turned out to be Lieutenant Cooper. Scurrying out of one of the massive holes, he ran and called out his wife’s name over and over again.
“Come on,” Dixon sighed. “Let’s help the lieutenant find his family.”
The look on the sergeant’s face told Sims that he didn’t expect to find anyone alive, but they crawled down into the first crater anyway. Their brother needed them, and that was all the reason they needed to enter hell.
Ten minutes of crawling up and down the cratered road brought them within sight of the lieutenant, who was standing in the middle of the devastated highway. As they approached him, Dixon pointed to the side of the road where a HUMVEE had been flung against the trees. Two soldiers were lying on the grass outside the vehicle, while a dead man hung from the driver’s side window.
Charlie's Requiem: Resistance Page 16