Just a couple of quick strafing runs.
Then she could climb out and get some air underneath her.
* * *
Drake was down in CIC in less than a minute.
“Okay. Give it to me, and fast. What the hell is going on?”
Lt. Campbell faced him, and pointed at the big screen overhead. “We have a pilot who ignored her recall instruction, isn’t responding to hails – and seems to be providing air support to a group of civilians on the ground.”
Drake looked startled, even for him, even in the middle of everything else. “What? Supporting who? Give me the nose-cone video.”
Campbell waved at an ensign, and the overhead screen came up with the feed – just in time to catch a strafing run of the bridge.
“Jesus Christ…” Drake muttered.
“That’s nothing,” Campbell said. “Watch this.” She pushed the ensign away from his station and dragged back the slider on the recorded video. When she’d gone back a minute, she froze it on some kind of yacht on the inlet. Then she zoomed in, the high-resolution video resolving and the detail coming out. Two of the men on the deck of the boat were in U.S. Naval Security Forces uniforms. Their own shore patrolmen.
“What the hell?” Drake said. Then he squinted at a man beside those two, who wasn’t in a Navy uniform. Son of a bitch… “That’s the Brit, and his team of shore patrolmen. They were reported KIA. But who the hell are the rest of those people? They’re not ours.”
Campbell shrugged. “We were told there were no friendlies anywhere still out on the ground. The one survivor from that team reported them wiped out. Then this pilot, Wells, spotted a vehicle running ahead of the storm, but we didn’t know who it was, and she was being recalled anyway. Basically… Wells seems to have gone rogue. She blasted the bridge with a Hellfire, and has been hammering it with cannon fire for the last few minutes.”
Drake shook his head, and considered his options.
“We don’t have time for this. I’ve got 2,400 souls on this ship to think about. Hail her one more time, then shut it down.”
* * *
The mysterious fighter plane shot back up into the darkening clouds over Wesley and the others – and this time, instead of heading back along the beach front and making another thunderous run at the bridge, it banked and climbed sharply, rising toward the thunderheads above. The unexpected love from above, it seemed, was at an end.
Wesley got to his feet, hands still gripping the railing, and stared around at the sheer devastation that one aircraft could wreak in just a few minutes. They hadn’t even heard it coming. A flash across the sky, and an explosion somewhere along the street leading up to the bridge, and then a sonic boom had announced the arrival of the plane, and its intent.
A cloud of gray-black smoke had erupted from the foot of the bridge, and debris began to fall. Everyone aboard the yacht, now fifty yards from the bridge, had dove for cover as shards of concrete and God knows what other shrapnel smacked into the deck. The dark smoke spilled across the bridge and then spread across the lake, obscuring any view of that end of the structure.
Less than thirty seconds later, and just as the smoke was clearing, the plane returned – but this time from the other direction, its giant underslung machine gun unleashing a devastating hail of destruction. From his hiding place near the cabin entrance, Wesley had watched as streams of explosive shells plowed across the bridge, tearing cars to pieces and shredding the runners that streamed around them.
Three times the plane had blasted over them, and three times it let its gun rip. It wasn’t until it banked and headed out to sea that Wesley noticed the absence of movement under the bridge.
The dead weren’t falling anymore.
For a moment he was confused, thinking that even the devastating attack by the plane would only reduce the numbers temporarily. But as he scanned across the full panorama, he saw that the foot of the bridge, near where the main street rose up, was now a twisted mass of broken concrete and steel, and the runners were still coming – but not onto the bridge. There was no longer any way for them to get up there, so instead they ran straight toward the water.
And this meant that there would be no more dead dropping down on their heads.
“Burns!” he shouted, but then nearly fell over as the yacht lurched forward, the engine already burbling.
“I’m on it!” bellowed Burns, from inside the wheelhouse.
The yacht sped toward the bridge, gaining speed rapidly. Wesley’s stomach started to churn as they powered across the open stretch of water. As they approached the shadow of the bridge, Wesley saw just one runner drop from the side and splash in, and he drew his pistol, getting ready. Over near the stern, Browning and Melvin were already aiming their rifles to the sky, preparing to defend the boat.
The seconds ticked by, and it all seemed to take too long. Even the powerful yacht wasn’t moving as quickly as Wesley wanted it to. But then they were beneath the shadow of the bridge, and then out the other side, speeding onto open water. A cry of relief spread across the boat, and for the first time in a while, Wesley smiled.
Then he saw the massive horde of dead that were surging across the beach and out to sea, and his smile faded.
* * *
Hailey smiled contentedly as she hauled on her yoke and climbed out of there. Her little rogue mission might well mean the end of her flying career – the loss of her wings. But maybe it was worth it. She had definitely done her good deed for the year. And it felt great to have helped those people down below. To have made a real difference.
Maybe this is what a whole career comes down to, she thought, or even a whole life—
And then her air-collision radar went absolutely ape-shit.
As the blood drained from her face, and she banked the plane for everything it was worth, the g-forces tried to pull her very brain to the right side of her head…
And then an even louder alarm sounded.
Her engine had just flamed out.
No Fear
On Board Chuckie, Over Virginia
Up on the flight deck, Handon tried to give Fick the empty co-pilot’s seat, due to him being wounded and old and everything. But Fick wasn’t having it. He correctly assessed that Handon and his people had been going non-stop for about thirty hours longer than he had with his. And he also sensed that Alpha was running on fumes at this point – even if their stoic acting commander never let it show. So Handon sat.
Though he didn’t much like the view the seat afforded.
The sky around them was a malevolent, oppressive gray in every direction – but even more so straight ahead. They were flying directly at, and very quickly into, the thunderstorm coming in off the North Atlantic. Sheets of aerial lightning ripped through the thick clouds way out ahead of them and to their left. And smaller static-driven flashes flitted around closer in, like killer wraiths of the sky.
Very soon, heavy and fast-moving rain started slashing down on the cockpit glass – and wicked, needle-like drops zipped inside, through the hole the Canadian sniper had made back over Beaver Island. More water also came in through the spiderwebs created by the rampaging, flaming, undead machine gunner on the ground. And all of that cold, high-altitude water started to dribble into Handon’s assault suit, chilling his skin.
He twisted his neck and looked back at Fick, who suddenly looked pretty smart for giving up the seat. But it wasn’t a bait and switch – Fick really had thought Handon could use the rest. He was actually pretty sure Handon could use sixteen hours of uninterrupted sleep. But he wasn’t going to get it.
Like all of them, he was either going to keep going for a while longer; or else drop off into a sleep that would outlast eternity.
Fick recalled the old slogan from the No Fear T-shirt: “It’s not that life’s so short. It’s just that you’re dead for so long.” He pulled a camo handkerchief from his pocket and stuffed it in the big bullet hole in the glass. Most of the deluge on Handon stopped.
The pilot ignored this little moment of humanity, and instead carried on trying to keep the plane in the air and on course, while also trying to raise the JFK. “Tugboat Jack,” he said into his hand mic, using the JFK’s radio call sign, which was a reference to the young John Kennedy’s heroism in towing a badly wounded member of his crew to an island by swimming with the man’s life-jacket strap in his teeth. “Tugboat Jack, Charles Zero One air mission, over.”
After a few too many seconds, a response came back – but slightly broken up by static, probably due to the storm. “Charles Zero One, Tugboat Jack receiving. This is PriFly, we have you on the big board, but no final flight plan filed. What’s your intent, over.”
A look of relief washed over the pilot’s face. They were now showing up on radar on the carrier – and with comms established, they’d also have guidance as they flew into this double death-zone of overlapping storms. “Tugboat Jack, we are approx ten miles north-northwest, inbound for air drop, requesting carrier flight ops and airspace advisory and approach instructions. Repeat, urgently request airspace advisory and approach instructions. Over.”
“Charles Zero One, Tugboat Jack. We are conducting cyclic air recovery ops. Repeat, air recovery ops in progress now. Airspace deconfliction critical. Break.”
Fick and Handon watched the pilot square his jaw. They knew he was a naval aviator, and specifically trained for this.
“Also be advised that strike group vessels are conducting ground fires. This is a shore bombardment. Repeat, shoreward ground fires inbound. How copy, over?”
The pilot pressed the bar on his hand mic while his left hand tried to hold the control yoke steady, as it shook increasingly violently from the storm. “Charles Zero One copies all. Repeat, copy all, over.”
“Charles Zero One, be advised. Final approach instruction as follows: turn on heading one-seven-five and descend to forty-seven-hundred, maintaining current airspeed of one-six-zero knots… proceed four minutes on that course, heading, and speed. Then turn on heading nine-five for approach flyover and air drop. Readback, over.”
“Tugboat Jack, Charles Zero One. Turning on heading 175, descending to 4,700, airspeed 160. Four minutes, then turn on 95 for approach. Over.”
“Charles Zero One, affirmative. Repeat, that is all a-ffirm, over.”
In the ensuing few seconds of silence, or rather the noise of the engines and the storm, Handon cast his eye over the flight deck controls. Something was bothering him. Then it hit him. There was no radar console. He looked at the pilot. “No radar on this thing?”
The pilot shook his head. “This is one of the later B-17s that did get an early version of the British H2X radar. But the readout is down at the bombardier’s station. And it’s ground radar only, which wouldn’t be hugely helpful anyway. Hang on.”
Handon didn’t much like the fact that they were flying blind through this soup. He squinted out into the increasingly violent storm, as the pilot worked the radio.
“Tugboat Jack, Charles Zero One, interrogative: is airspace deconflicted on our path below 4,700? I’d like some latitude to dodge the worst of this storm, over.”
“Charles Zero One, wait out.” There was a pause, filled only by the ballpeen hammering of the bomber’s aluminum skin by the lashing rain, and the distant thunder. “Charles Zero One, you are clear down to the deck on your approach. But be advised – do not otherwise deviate from your approach instructions. There are heavy flight and combat operations all over our airspace. Deviate at your own peril. Over.”
“Tugboat Jack, that is all received with thanks. Out.”
The pilot replaced the mic, and got both hands back on the yoke. Then he began to slowly press it forward.
“Hey,” Fick said, leaning forward himself. “Are we losing altitude?”
“That’s affirmative. I’m bleeding off a couple thousand feet. If we can get below some of this electrical activity, that will reduce our chances of a lightning strike.”
“Would that be a problem?”
“Not on a modern aircraft, which has shielding and surge suppressors. But on this museum piece, I’m slightly worried about shorting out all the electrics. Or having a fuel tank explode.”
Fick leaned back and quietly whistled.
Handon just looked forward and squinted out at the fury of the storm. In a few seconds, he was going to have to go and make ready for them all to jump out into it.
* * *
Back in the main compartment, everyone was geared up and into their parachute rigs, double- and triple-checking the straps and seals of their neighbors. The operators were also brass-checking what weapons they still had, and passing around ammunition – selflessly.
By the time they’d all got away from that airfield together, one group having gone into harm’s way to bring back the other, they had became brothers. The operators of Alpha knew the Marines had dared and sacrificed much to get them out safely. And the Marines, having pulled Alpha out of the fire, sure as hell weren’t going to let them get killed now.
It would be as brothers that they jumped out into this storm – out into both of them.
Ali, designated babysitter for the jump, stood with Emily and Park just ahead of the tail turret, by the emergency hatch on the starboard side. These three would be first out the door. Ali was giving them last-minute instructions, and much-needed moral support. The worsening storm outside wasn’t reassuring the two civilians any.
Emily asked, “Is this safe?”
Ali looked her in the eye. “Yes. It’s going to be scary. But it’s going to be a lot safer than most of the things we’ve done in the past thirty-six hours. And it’s going to be okay.”
She squeezed Park’s upper arm with one hand, and brushed Emily’s bangs out of her eyes with the other. She knew that parachuting was never without risk – and that jumping out of an airplane for the first time was always terrifying. Doing it over open water, in a thunderstorm, and nearby to a county-sized herd of undead… well, fear should be the worst of their problems.
Because Ali knew deep down that this wasn’t going to be anything like safe. She felt reasonably confident that she could shepherd these two through it. But the dice were always rolling, and the world was a very strange place – seemingly stranger by the minute. And nobody could begin to relax until they had solid ground, or at least ship’s deck, under their feet. And perhaps not even then. Even their safe return to Fortress Britain might only be another reprieve.
But for today, for now at least, they were still alive.
And Ali, understanding the dangers, made every preparation to keep them that way.
* * *
Handon held on to the edge of his seat as Chuckie began to rumble and judder like a jalopy on a technical downhill single-track. The storm continued to worsen as they turned and descended, and was now nearly as bad as the one they’d jumped into over Chicago. But that had at least been out of a reasonably modern aircraft, actively maintained, and with all its engines still working.
This thing was a relic – a badly damaged one, with only three engines turning over.
Handon was reminded of the paratroopers of the 86th and 101st jumping over Normandy on Operation Overlord, on D-Day minus one, many of them getting shot out of the sky before they could even get clear of their planes – or else tumbling out of jump doors, already burning, after their aircraft got hit…
Well, he thought, at least there won’t be ground fire on this one.
Also, last time they had jumped with their own chutes – Para-Flite MC-5 SOF tactical canopy systems – which had been packed, stored, maintained, and transported by them. Today it would be whatever was in the back of the plane, which the Marines had probably dug out of some warehouse in the Philippines. It was nothing against the MARSOC guys, who Handon knew were jump trained, as were virtually all special operators. They’d all done their five jumps at the Airborne School at Fort Benning, and all had their jump wings – some even had stars on them for combat jumps.
In any case, the spec-ops mindset told him that even a parachute failure was just another hurdle to be negotiated. Parachute didn’t open? Tough shit. Adapt and overcome. As the old saying had it, you’ve got the whole rest of your life to try to get your chute to deploy.
Handon granted himself another few seconds of monitoring the storm as they flew into the teeth of it. On any other day, they’d cut a wide berth around this or try to get over it. But not today. The only easy day was yesterday.
He felt Fick’s hand on his shoulder. “Time to stack ’em up, Sarge.”
“Yes,” agreed the pilot. “Five-minute warning! You’re at five minutes. Go!”
Handon stood up from the co-pilot’s seat.
He turned to step around it, to exit the flight deck.
Something loomed in his peripheral vision, snapping his head back toward the front. It grew to fill the cockpit glass in fractions of a second. The pilot shouted, “FUUCCKKK…!” and the plane around them tilted wildly on its axis, rotating 45 degrees and lurching with a violence that was heart-stopping.
Handon was thrown on top of Fick, who was thrown up against the left bulkhead behind the pilot. Neither could move from the g-forces. Then the bomber came level again, and the artificial gravity released them, dropping them in a tangle to the floor.
Handon steeled his muscles and started to pull himself to his feet. Underneath him, Fick muttered, “What the fuck was that?”
Arisen, Book Five - EXODUS Page 16