by Dirk Patton
When Irina headed for the plane, Rachel fell against me, wrapping her arms around my waist and burying her face in my chest. She was crying and didn’t want to let go. I wished there was something I could say that would comfort her, and me, but nothing came to mind. All I could do was hold her tight and try to control my own emotions at the sense of loss.
When the Black Hawk crew chief shouted that the aircraft was ready to go, I had to gently pry Rachel’s arms from around me. I took half a step back, maintaining my grip on her upper arms so she didn’t try to wrap me up again.
“I hope you find Katie and she can be saved,” Rachel said, sniffing back tears. “I’ll be waiting for you. Or both of you. Just be safe.”
I looked into her red rimmed eyes, fighting to maintain my composure. Leaning forward I kissed her on the lips, softly, letting it linger for a moment.
“Thank you for everything,” I said when I broke the kiss.
Rachel looked at me for a beat, fresh tears flowing, then turned and began walking towards the C-130. After only a few steps she broke into a run. I would have stood there watching until she was on board, but the crew chief shouted again. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I jogged to the helicopter and jumped aboard.
Finding some open space on the floor, I sat down and stared at my boots as the pilot lifted off. Distressed. Heart broken. Emotionally wrung out. Those were all the things I was at the moment, and that wasn’t good. I needed my head in the game or the already slim odds of pulling this off would drop to about zero.
I was making this trip on a wing and a prayer. No one outside of Pearl Harbor knew anything about whatever type of weapon or defensive system this was. Not that I blamed them. Too much information had already been slipped to the Russians. There was no point in widening the circle of people that knew the secret. I didn’t need to know anything more than what I already knew to complete my job.
My body was tired, wanting sleep, but my mind was racing with concern for Katie and angst over sending Rachel away. How the hell had I managed to fall in love with two women? Before Katie there had been plenty, but they hadn’t been anything more than a momentary distraction. For not the first time, I reminded myself of how much alike they were, trying to salve my guilt for having feelings for a woman other than my wife.
“You OK, Major?”
It was Dutch, sitting a few feet away and staring at me with a concerned look on his face. I met his eyes, forcing down my feelings, and nodded.
“Just fucking great,” I growled.
I was in no mood to discuss my situation, and didn’t like the fact that I’d let the façade crack open far enough for someone else to see my pain. But he was right to ask. His ass was on the line, just like the rest of the men coming with me. If one of us was distracted, it could mean failure which would mean death.
Looking around, I mentally ticked off each man that was in the helicopter with me. I’d had about half an hour with them before leaving the front. All but one were Rangers, so I knew they’d had the training and experience to do the job we were going to do. But I didn’t know the men. Each would have unique strengths and weaknesses, and what makes a team truly effective is when the leader knows the capabilities of the men under his command.
To achieve that requires lots of time spent together. Training. Fighting. Bonding. We hadn’t had that, and I was as unknown to them as they were to me. But it was what it was. Not only do you fight with what you have, you fight with whom you have, I reminded myself.
In addition to Dutch, there were three more Rangers sitting on the deck of the helicopter, two Sergeants and a Staff Sergeant. Farthest from me was the Staff Sergeant. He was a huge, blocky blonde guy from Minnesota named Brooks. He reminded me of a young Dolph Lundgren. I guess I wasn’t the first to think that as everyone called him Drago, after the Russian fighter played by Lundgren in one of the Rocky movies.
To his right, Sergeant Rodriguez from Miami. Chico. A first generation American and the only son of Cuban refugees. Short, big shoulders and hands that looked like they could crush anything they grasped into pulp. His arms were covered in tattoos that almost disappeared against his bronze skin. He was already asleep, head back as he snored loud enough to be heard over the Black Hawk in flight.
Finally, there was Tayvon James. TJ. He was a tall, almost painfully thin black man from Houston. He had played college basketball for Rice University and had been drafted by the Miami Heat. He turned them down and joined the Army instead.
His story bothered me at first. Turning down a multi million-dollar contract with an NBA team to earn a few hundred dollars a month wasn’t something you heard about every day. The last thing I wanted was to have someone along who was looking to prove themselves. I needed confident, motivated warriors.
Dutch had allayed my concerns when he explained that TJ’s father had been killed in the opening days of the first Iraq war. His mother found out she was pregnant with him the same day his father died.
One man was along for the ride that wasn’t a Ranger. He was a young Air Force Lieutenant named Edwards. Short, thin and soft looking, he was our nerd and would handle the computers and comm gear once we got inside the building. He sat a little to the side, by himself, eyes closed. Nervous sweat stained his shirt.
He was about as far from his comfort zone as he could be. He lived in big, dark, air conditioned rooms full of computers, staring at monitors. I doubted he saw the light of day often, unless it was time for him to pass his physical testing or certify on the firing range. We’d let him have a pistol, without a round in the chamber, and Drago was assigned to stick with him and ensure his safety. And make sure he kept up.
Then there was Dutch. A First Sergeant. The same in rank as a Master Sergeant, but a step up in responsibility and authority. He was from a large family of Polish immigrants and had grown up in Chicago. He had been in and out of the Middle East almost his entire career and had a total of seven tours between Afghanistan and Iraq. The way the world was headed before the attacks, he’d probably have gotten to visit Iran and Syria before he reached retirement.
Satisfied I had a good team going in with me, I changed mental gears and began replaying the briefing I had received before leaving the front. The Department of Defense contractor was called RWA Systems. I’d never heard of them, but then I’d had other things to worry about in life than staying current on DOD contractors and what they did. They were located near Interstate 15, a few miles north of downtown Salt Lake City in a very large, very secure facility surrounded by acres of asphalt parking lots.
“Here’s what I’ve been able to find out,” the Captain who prepped me had said, clicking a button on the laptop to display a series of satellite photos. “Two story building. Total of just over forty thousand square feet. Entrances here, here and here. Interior stair wells here, here, here and here.”
With each “here”, he pointed at a spot on the overhead shot of the facility. I leaned in for a better view, memorizing each location and going back over it a couple of times before nodding for him to continue.
“First order of business is to restore power,” he said, clicking to a new photo. “There are two large, diesel generators here on the north side of the building. They appear undamaged and are likely only out of fuel. Once they are running and supplying power, the computer systems have to be restarted, and comms restored.”
He brought up another overhead photo, zoomed onto a section of the roof. Several thousand square feet of space was devoted to an array of satellite dishes, microwave radomes and UHF antennas.
“You know I have no fucking clue how to do any of that,” I said.
“Yes, sir. The Colonel informed me you might be technically deficient. I am sending Lieutenant Edwards with you. He works for me and is an IT specialist. You just have to get the power on and get him into the server room. He’ll take it from there.”
“Do we know where in that monster the server room is?” I asked, looking back at the image on the laptop sc
reen.
“No, sir. You’ll have to locate it once you’re inside.”
“OK,” I grumbled, not really surprised at the answer. “Sit tight. I’m going to grab the rest of the team and have you start over from the beginning.”
Once I had Dutch and the others gathered, the briefing lasted for another forty minutes. There really wasn’t that much the Captain was able to tell us. We were limited to exterior photos of the building. Pre-attack he would have been able to access floor plans and a few thousand other details online, but… Well, that just wasn’t an option now.
I spent the rest of the flight thinking about anything other than Katie or Rachel or what would happen when the Russians got their hands on me. Instead I focused on the loss of Crawford, Martinez and Scott. Their deaths had hit me hard, Martinez more so. Crawford was my CO and to a degree my friend. Scott was a fellow warrior that I would have done anything to save. But Martinez was family.
“Would you look at that shit!”
I looked up when TJ spoke. He was leaned sideways, peering at the ground below us through night vision goggles. The rest of the men crowded around him, quiet curses being mumbled as they saw what was below us. I stayed where I was. I didn’t need to look. I’d seen more herds of infected than I cared to think about.
32
The pilot came in low and fast. We streaked over the heads of a sea of infected, our speed making the writhing bodies blur together in our night vision. A second Black Hawk carrying a fuel bladder of diesel for the generators was two miles behind us. Our pilot would flare into a hover a couple of feet over the rooftop helipad at the RWA building and we’d all pile out and he’d be back in motion instantly.
We would have just enough time to make sure the roof was clear of threats and form a perimeter before the second helicopter arrived. This one would actually land, the crew unloading the fuel, some hoses and other equipment while my team provided security. Assuming everything went according to plan, we’d be pulling lines and getting the generators operating within minutes of setting foot on the roof.
Unless we had a problem, like the generators had sucked their tanks dry and wouldn’t start because there was air in the lines. Or if they were damaged. Or any of a dozen other things that could go wrong. I was hoping Mr. Murphy of Murphy’s Law fame wasn’t along for the ride, but the sadistic fucker was probably already planning how to screw with my night.
“One minute,” the pilot called over the intercom.
Dutch and I were wearing headsets and he looked around the noisy cabin and shouted the message to the team, holding his index finger straight up in the air. Both side doors were open, cold air flowing in and swirling through the aircraft. I was glad for the layers of fabric protecting me, surprised that Chico was only wearing a sleeveless shirt and battle vest on his upper body.
I checked on Lieutenant Edwards. He looked like he was about to throw up. But I had to give him credit. He was stacked tight against Drago, ready to go out the door the moment he was told. For a cyber-dwelling nerd, he was showing some intestinal fortitude.
“Thirty seconds,” the pilot called another warning.
Pulling my headset off I hung it on a hook, high on the bulkhead. Dutch’s joined mine a moment later. I moved to the door on the right side of the helo as Dutch moved to the left. Chico, Drago and Edwards would follow me out, Dutch and TJ going the other way.
Looking down I marveled at the sheer number of infected covering the ground. Well, I had to assume there was ground beneath their feet. There were so many of them, pressed so tightly together, I couldn’t see anything other than raging faces looking up at the noise of our passage.
A fence flashed beneath us and I was surprised and encouraged to note it was still standing. We were over one of RWA’s massive parking lots, and for the moment at least it was empty of infected. They hadn’t had a reason to push against the fence and knock it down, yet, I realized as the helicopter suddenly flared to bleed off speed.
With the Black Hawk’s nose up and tail down, the pilot brought us over the edge of the roof and transitioned to a hover. The helipad, painted white with a large, blue “H” in the middle, was right beneath us.
I jumped, dashing ten feet forward as soon as my boots touched the roof. My rifle was up as I dropped to a knee and began scanning for threats.
“Dog one, down and clear,” I called over the radio.
“Two, down and clear,” Dutch answered a moment later.
The other two team members quickly responded with an all clear, the rotor wash from the helicopter threatening to blast me across the roof like a piece of trash in a storm as the pilot gained altitude and sped away.
“Make room for the gas station,” I said, standing and moving forward.
I was on the western edge of the roof, overlooking the large parking lot we’d just flown across. On the far edge, the infected were piling up against the tall, chain link fence, drawn by the noise of our ride. It wouldn’t be long before it collapsed under their constant pressure.
I took a moment to check in with each of the team members over the radio, ensuring the roof was still clear. As I did this, Edwards ran to each of the corners of the helipad and placed IR strobes to help guide the second helicopter. Not that the pilot wasn’t capable of landing without them, but every little visual reference helps when you’re operating at night.
“Dog one, Sam two-seven,” I heard in my earpiece.
“Go for Dog one,” I answered the inbound Black Hawk with the fuel on board.
“One minute from LZ. Call status.”
“LZ is green. Repeat, LZ is green,” I answered, watching in dismay as the western perimeter fence began to bow inwards under the pressure of thousands of bodies.
“Sam two-seven copies LZ is green,” the pilot answered.
By now the fence was bent inwards at least thirty degrees and only moments from collapsing completely. If the infected rushed in before we got to ground level and started the generators, we had a problem.
“Sam one-niner, Dog one,” I called.
“Go ahead, Dog.”
“Got any hellfires you can spare?” I asked, watching two females climb over a throng of males, up the angled fence and get tangled in the coils of razor wire lining the top edge.
“Maybe. You wanting to throw a party?”
Everyone’s a fucking comedian, and I’ve always found helicopter pilots are the worst.
“Trying to, but there’s a whole bunch of party crashers at the fence. If you could find something about a klick west of the LZ to spark up it might distract them long enough for me to kick the party into gear.”
“Copy that, Dog one. Sparking up just for you.”
As the pilot answered he modified his voice and did a pretty good imitation of Cheech Marin taking a hit off a joint. I couldn’t help but smile and shake my head as the fuel carrying Black Hawk came into a hover and set down in the middle of the helipad. The crew was out the door in a flash, struggling to get the heavy bladder onto the roof.
More females were scrambling over the heads of the males, most getting caught in the wire, but a couple dropped to the pavement and began sprinting towards the building. I fired two shots, both of them tumbling to the ground and beginning to crawl in their quest to reach the noise of the idling helicopter.
I hadn’t tried head shots as they were still a good distance out, rather had put a bullet into each of their pelvis’. This slowed them and I took my time aiming, drilling first one then the other through the head. In the time it took me to do this, four more topped the fence and charged.
Five quick shots, yes I missed once, put them on the ground. I was opening my mouth to update the team over the radio when there were two sequential flashes of light to the west. Two hellfire missiles being fired. A moment later there was a brilliant flash that lit the night sky and briefly blanked out my night vision.
It took about three seconds for the sound of the explosion to reach my location, and it was brutally l
oud. Loud enough to have a physical presence, vibrating the organs in my chest and the fillings in my teeth. A massive fireball was forming, boiling into the dark sky and it was hard to tear my eyes off it and check on the infected at the fence. They weren’t all leaving, many still with their heads raised and zeroed in on the noisy Black Hawk, but more were turning to head west than were staying.
“Sam one-niner, what the hell did you just shoot?” I asked.
“Truck stop along the Interstate,” the pilot chuckled in my ear. “Couple of tanker trucks were just sitting there begging for it.”
“It’s working,” I said, appreciating the man’s sense of humor and trying not to think about how much I wished it was Martinez at the controls. “Think you can repeat about a klick north?”
“Thought you’d never ask, Dog. Stand by.”
I fired several more shots, putting females down permanently, then glanced over my shoulder to check on the fuel delivery. The large bladder, looking like a fat amoeba, sat on the roof and two crewmen were unloading the last of several reels of hose. Tossing their burden onto the pile of equipment they’d already deposited, they scrambled aboard the aircraft and a moment later it was airborne.
Checking with the rest of the team over the radio, I was surprised and pleased to find there weren’t any other spots where the fence was failing. And many of the infected were moving away now that the helicopters were gone and there was a very loud and visible distraction in the opposite direction.
It wasn’t long before there was another flash of light to my right. I was busily engaged in shooting females who were charging across the parking lot, pausing and looking up. I had time to look back, target and drop another female before the sound reached me. This one, as impressive as it was, wasn’t on par with the first.
“You’re slipping, Sam one-niner,” I grinned into the radio as I pulled the trigger on another runner.
“Propane tank at an RV dealership,” he said. “Want me to find something bigger?”
I could tell by his voice that he was enjoying blowing shit up. Hell, who wouldn’t? But we didn’t need to continue expending missiles and there was a mission to complete.