“We’ll lower Buckey in with a cutting torch. He’ll remove one of the fans and enter the facility here, in the power plant. Once inside, he’ll navigate the plant, traverse along the West Tunnel, and open the West Entrance.”
“Where the rest of us will be waiting,” added Morant.
“Correct.”
“No disrespect, sir,” said the man in the front row, “but that still leaves a hundred and twelve thousand square feet to search and clear. Even with forty of us, that’s going to take a full day to do right.”
“Which is why we’re going to gas them.”
“Sir?”
“We will deploy the payload from an Mk-116 Weteye.”
“Sarin? That’s some bad shit, sir.”
Murmurs broke out as soldiers discussed the risks of a chemical attack.
“I’m assuming you want us to place it in the intake system,” said Morant.
“That’s right.”
“So, why take the risk of breaching the fans? Can’t we simply deploy the gas in the shaft and let it be sucked in? Once it has time to do its thing, we can go in and clean the place out. Simple and efficient.”
General Hood nodded, “We could if it weren’t for one complication.”
“Which is?”
“The facility’s air handling system is configured with NBC filters.”
Morant nodded. “The filters would absorb the sarin.”
“Correct.”
“Where are they located?”
General Hood turned back to the screen.
“There are six filters in total,” he said, using the dowel to point each of them out. “Three are on the upper level. The first is in the power plant ducting, which is the easiest of the six to take care of. The second is above the cafeteria, and the third is in the medical facility. The other three are located on the lower level. To get to those requires entering the Senate Leadership Room, one of the many records room, and a large dormitory area here.” He tapped the screen.
Morant thought for a moment, playing it all out.
“We’ll need six teams in play, plus a seventh to keep the exit clear.”
Hood nodded. “Forty men, minus the helicopter crews, leaves us with seven teams of five inside the bunker, each working to accomplish an integral part of the mission.”
“That’s a hell of a lot of moving pieces, and communications are going to be shit inside the bunker.”
“Which is why I got these.” Hood bent over and unzipped his duffel. When he straightened, he was holding a small handheld radio. “Not only do they broadcast at much higher peak power levels, they also incorporate the latest in ultra wideband technology. Their spread spectrum operation will have much better penetration than conventional radios.”
“You’re telling us that those little spook radios are going to reach through a mountain of steel and concrete?” Morant looked skeptical.
“Perhaps not from end to end, but they should at least allow adjacent teams to communicate. That in turn will enable us to pass information along like links in a chain. Not ideal, perhaps, but it should work.”
“As long as the chain doesn’t get broken.”
“I don’t think a handful of politicians possess the skills necessary to disrupt a team of forty of the finest soldiers in the world. Do you?”
Morant pressed his lips together but said nothing.
Hood continued. “Once the filters are removed, we’ll evacuate, all except for a few soldiers who will stay behind to deploy the sarin.”
“They’ll need full NBC gear.”
He nodded. “Of course. After the gas has had time to dissipate, the rest of the team will re-enter to remove the bodies and all related personal effects.”
“What’s the disposal plan?” asked the man in the front row.
“We’ll transport the bodies via helicopter to a staging ground outside of the small town of Eagle Rock. There, they will be burned and buried.”
General Hood took a moment to study the soldiers while they weighed his plan. Clearly, they had reservations about working with sarin, which was understandable—they’d be fools not to. Also, as Morant had pointed out, the operation required lots of moving pieces. Even so, in Hood’s assessment, the risk of failure remained low.
In thirty-six hours, the burned remains of Rosalyn Glass and her supporters would be safely interned in shallow pits. It was dangerous to underestimate the difficulty of any mission, but looking out at the weathered faces of forty of the hardest men in the world, he couldn’t imagine a scenario in which they would fail.
Chapter 11
With the gang of Ravagers now scattered to the four winds, Mason and Leila were free to put a few miles behind them. They crossed into Virginia, passing through the small towns of Mouth of Wilson, Independence, and Wytheville, none of which introduced any new delays or dangers.
As they entered the town of Dublin, Virginia, Mason saw a sign for the Radford Army Ammunition Plant, some ten miles off to the east.
“What do you think?” he said, glancing over at Leila. “Is it worth a quick detour?”
“Do we need additional ammunition?”
“We do for the Browning. Besides, there’s a good chance that we might find some grenades or C-4.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Are you planning on starting a war?”
“No. I’m planning on ending one.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Then I suppose we should go and see what weaponry we can find.”
Mason turned right onto Lee Highway, quickly passing through the town of Fairlawn. The main drag consisted of a Family Dollar, Advance Auto Parts, and Grime Fighters Car Wash, all of which looked abandoned. Almost as soon as they exited the town, the entrance to the Radford Army Ammunition Plant came into view. It was marked with a brick sign and a replica of a military rocket that towered fifteen feet into the air.
As they approached the entrance, the road split. A small service road trailed off to the left, blocked by a line of blue barrels. A guard booth sat along its shoulder, but not surprisingly, it was empty. The road to the right was larger, passing in front of a visitor’s center. That building, too, looked dark and vacant.
Not seeing a good reason to drag heavy barrels out of the road, Mason turned right, passing the visitor’s center without incident. After a couple of hundred yards, they came to another guard station, this one centered between the incoming and outgoing lanes. A faded green Army pickup truck sat parked behind the booth.
As they approached, a young man stepped from the guard station, wearing a uniform that consisted of a white service cap, long-sleeved blue jacket, white pants, and a matching white belt that crisscrossed his chest. To their surprise, the teen’s only weapon appeared to be a decorative saber hanging at his waist.
Mason stopped the truck about thirty yards away and considered his options.
“My goodness,” said Leila. “He’s just a boy.”
“And getting ready to go to a military formal by the looks of it. Definitely not regular army.”
“I don’t see any weapons on him, other than the sword.”
“Which probably isn’t even sharp.” Mason opened the door. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Be careful. It could be a trap.”
He smiled. “If it is, you and Bowie can come rescue me.”
Hearing his name, Bowie leaned around from the bed and whined loudly.
“Unh-unh. You got into enough trouble last time.”
Bowie danced around but didn’t hop down.
As Mason approached the guard station, he parted his jacket so that his badge and pistol were both visible.
When he was ten yards out, the boy held up a hand and called out.
“Hold!”
He stopped.
“Please state your business.” Despite his direct tone, the young man couldn’t hide the nervous rattle in his voice.
“I’m a deputy marshal looking for ammunition to be used for official government b
usiness.” Mason inched forward a few more steps as he spoke. It was as much to test the boy’s training as anything else. And by allowing the advance, that training was clearly lacking.
“Sir, you’ll have to turn back. The plant is closed.”
By the time Mason stopped, he was barely ten feet away. He studied the boy’s uniform, spotting a name tag that read “Potter.”
“What unit are you with, Potter? You’re certainly not regular army.”
“Sir, I’m Cadet Private First Class Potter, with the Virginia Tech Corps of Cadets.”
“University cadets?”
“Yes, sir.”
That, thought Mason, explained a lot.
“What’s a cadet doing guarding an Army depot?”
“Sir, I can’t really say. I would ask that you please return to your vehicle and leave the premises immediately.”
Mason noticed that PFC Potter was starting to sweat. He could ask nicely only so many times, and he was undoubtedly considering how other options might unfold.
“Who’s your commanding officer?”
“Commandant Franks, sir.”
“And where’s he at?”
Potter swallowed hard. “Missing.”
Mason tipped his head sideways.
“Missing how?”
“Sir, I can’t really say.”
“Well, someone’s in charge.”
“Yes, sir. Cadet Captain Artz is currently the ranking officer.”
“All right then. I need for you to take us to Captain Artz.”
“But sir—”
“No buts. Either you take us to see your captain, or we’re going in to find him ourselves. As you undoubtedly know, a deputy marshal has the authority to proceed unannounced onto any military installation.” The assertion was completely bogus, of course, but Mason suspected that an Army cadet wouldn’t know enough to question it.
The boy chewed his lower lip, staring down at Mason’s badge.
“Yes, sir,” he said with a reluctant nod. “Follow me, and I’ll escort you in.”
Mason followed PFC Potter’s truck along Constitution Road. They passed through a vehicle checkpoint station, now unmanned, and slowed as they approached a huge cinder block building. The lot out front had perhaps thirty or forty vehicles, all of them carefully parked next to the main entrance. A few dozen cadets, men and women, mingled around a cafeteria truck idling at the curb. Most held bags of chips and bottles of water. When they saw the trucks approaching, nearly everyone turned to look.
Potter parked at the curb, hopped out of his truck, and hurried past two sentries standing guard. One of the men carried a bolt-action Remington 700 hunting rifle, and the other a Heckler & Koch MP5K submachine gun. As soon as Mason shut off the F150, they started toward him. Never one wanting to be caught in a vehicle with armed men approaching, Mason slid out, followed almost immediately by Leila and Bowie.
He parted his jacket, this time resting his hand on the grip of the Supergrade.
“I’ll trust you men to keep those weapons pointed in a safe direction.”
The guards seemed surprised by his directness, but both cadets tipped their muzzles toward the ground. One man’s nametag read “Cobb” and the other “Rodriguez.”
“Sir, we’ll have to ask you to surrender your weapons,” Cobb said, eyeing his pistol.
“Not gonna happen.”
“It’s not a request,” said Rodriguez, his hand closing tighter over the HK. “It’s an order.”
“I don’t take orders from cadets. And I don’t give up my weapons to anyone.”
The MP5k slowly started to swing up.
“Please,” said Leila, stepping between them. “This isn’t necessary. We aren’t your enemy.”
Rodriguez studied her. “Maybe not, but your friend here needs to learn some manners.”
She smiled. “Perhaps, but it’s not worth anyone getting shot over.”
Before anything more could be said, another cadet, this one with three silver disks adorning his shoulder bars, hurried out of the building. PFC Potter followed on his heels. As the officer approached, both guards saluted, and he quickly returned the gesture.
“Sir, the visitors refuse to surrender their weapons,” Rodriguez explained, cutting his eyes toward Mason.
“Thank you, Corporal Rodriguez. I’ll handle it from here. You and Cobb can return to your post.”
Rodriguez hesitated.
“Was I unclear about something?” the officer said, raising his voice.
“No, sir.” Rodriguez and Cobb turned and walked back to the front of the building, grumbling quietly to one another.
The officer turned to PFC Potter.
“You can go too, Potter.”
“Yes, sir.” He turned and hurried back to his truck.
After he had driven away, the young officer stepped closer and extended his hand, first to Mason and then to Leila.
“I’m Trenton Artz, Captain in the Virginia Tech Corps of Cadets. Potter told me you’re a deputy marshal.”
“That’s right,” said Mason. “We’re on our way to The Greenbrier.”
“The resort?”
He nodded.
“On official business?”
“Yes.”
Artz paused to see if Mason might offer more.
He didn’t.
“All right. How can the Corps of Cadets be of service?”
“We’re in need of ammunition. Preferably strings of fifty-caliber BMG for use in an M2 heavy-barrel machine gun.”
Captain Artz slowly shook his head.
“I can see why you might expect to find something like that here, but I’m afraid we don’t have access to any spare ammunition. The little that we have is barely enough to keep a few rifles in play.”
Mason looked around at the couple of dozen cadets who had gathered to watch their interaction. While there were a few firearms spread among them, most of the cadets were either unarmed, carrying knives, or displaying the same type of decorative saber that PFC Potter wore.
“Mind if I ask what you’re doing at an ammunition depot?”
“When the virus hit, we were attending Virginia Tech, over in Blacksburg. At first, we stepped in to help the university, shuttling around medical supplies and even providing a little campus security.” He shook his head. “In the end, it didn’t really make much difference. People began to die. Friends. Teachers. Administrators. It was horrible.” He took a moment to collect himself. “Commandant Franks was the last of the staff, and he realized that if we stayed at the university, we’d all die. He brought what remained of the Corps together, and we fled here.”
“But why here?” asked Leila. “It’s terribly isolated.”
“That was the point. We figured that this place was safe from criminals as well as infected survivors. It’s still close enough to make occasional runs into nearby towns for food and water.” He pointed toward the cafeteria truck. “A few of my men brought that back yesterday. We’ve already been here for several weeks and we’ll probably stay until we run out of supplies.”
“How many of you are there?” she asked.
“Only forty three of us remain.”
“And Franks?” asked Mason. “What happened to him?”
Captain Artz’s face turned pale.
“How do you know—”
“Potter told me.”
Artz nodded. “The commandant and four others were lost.”
“Lost? As in killed?”
He shook his head. “We don’t know that.” The words sounded like the kind of denial that people latch onto when they don’t want to admit something.
“What happened?”
“Two days ago, he led a small team into the igloos, looking for weapons and ammunition.”
“Igloos?” said Leila. “Like in the snow?”
He smiled. “No, ma’am. Igloos are what we call the white concrete structures scattered all over this depot. The commandant said that records show that rifles, ammu
nition, and explosives are all stored there. He was hoping to find enough to arm the Corps.”
“How many of these igloos are there?” asked Mason.
“More than two hundred.”
“So, Franks and a few others went out searching for munitions?”
“That’s right.”
“But they didn’t come back.”
He shook his head. “When they hadn’t returned by nightfall, we knew something had gone wrong. Now that a second day has passed, we’re more certain than ever that they’re in serious trouble.”
“Did you hear gunfire?”
“No. Whatever happened must have taken them by surprise.”
Mason rubbed his chin, playing out possible scenarios.
“Any ideas about what they might have run into?”
“We assume it was the infected.”
He cocked an eye. “There are infected living here in the depot?”
“Oh, yes, hundreds of them. They come out every night to search the buildings for supplies.”
“And they don’t attack you?”
“Not so far they haven’t.” He glanced back at the building. “Keep in mind that it’s a huge compound with more than a thousand buildings spread across four thousand acres. We chose this particular structure as our headquarters because it’s large enough to house everyone while still being relatively defensible.”
Mason took a moment to study the building. While it was made from cinder block and concrete, there were at least a dozen easily accessible windows and two sets of double doors.
“Not with a handful of rifles it isn’t.”
Artz seemed ready to argue the point.
“Are you speaking as a soldier?”
“Army Ranger.”
“Then I defer to your judgment.” He stepped a little closer. “I would, however, ask that you not voice your doubt around the other cadets. We’re doing the best we can, given the circumstances.”
“Understood. But as the officer in charge, you should realize that it’s a disservice to everyone to pretend that you’re safe. It’s always better to face the reality of your situation.”
Captain Artz pressed his lips together and nodded.
Leila reached out and touched Mason’s shoulder.
Finest Hour Page 13