by Dirk Patton
Step one was to not cause any problems for the guards. Right now they were keyed up and on high alert, expecting me to go Neanderthal on them after the way the arrest had gone down. I needed them to relax. Think I was going to be a docile prisoner. Let their guard down a little. Until that happened, I wasn’t going to have a chance.
Step two was to be physically ready for any opening. That meant resting and letting my body heal as much as possible. But rest was going to be difficult with the throbbing pain between my legs. Gingerly standing I hobbled to the door and banged on the upper access slot with my fist. After almost a minute it slammed open and I found myself looking at a pair of angry eyes.
“Could I please have an ice pack? I’ve got some injuries.” I said in a calm, respectful voice.
The eyes stared back at me for what seemed a long time, then the panel was slammed shut. Shrugging, I turned and went back to the bunk. A few minutes later the access panel at floor level slammed open and a chemical ice pack came skittering across the floor.
“Thank you,” I shouted before the opening closed with slightly less violence.
Good. Let them think I’m hurting and subdued. Well, I was hurting. Subdued? Not hardly, but it’s all in the timing. Squeezing the pack I broke the ampules inside that released whatever chemical it was that starts the reaction. I immediately felt the cold start seeping through the rough cover. Stretching out on the bunk I opened my pants again and placed the swiftly cooling pack directly on my aching boys.
Laying my head down I closed my eyes and thought about Katie. I was still in shock that she had made it all the way to Oklahoma. I knew she was smart, tough and resourceful, but I had to admit to myself that I was surprised she’d made it this far on her own.
How had Roach identified her? The Security Forces major had said that Roach was in charge of processing refugees, but how the hell had he put it together? Or had he? Was she just a woman that had caught his eye? No. That was just too much of a coincidence. He knew exactly what he was doing and whom he was taking. But why?
I had thought he was dead, killed by the fall into the Mississippi River. Hell, everyone had thought he was. But he’d survived somehow. Not only survived, but had managed to make it several hundred miles to Tinker and put himself into a position to kidnap my wife. The anger began pulsing again and I forced myself to think about something else. I’d just tamp that anger down until it was time to make use of it.
The clang of the lower panel opening woke me sometime later, followed by a scraping sound as a tray of food was slid into the cell. They had arrested me in the early afternoon and this was the first food I’d been given, so it must be the evening meal. That told me it was roughly 1800 hours. I’d slept for maybe three hours.
The chemical reaction had stopped in the ice pack and it had grown warm from my body heat. Removing it, I closed my pants and carefully swung my legs off the bunk into a sitting position. I still hurt, but it was manageable. Retrieving the tray, I balanced it on my lap and devoured every bite. Placing it back in front of the slot I lay back down and waited.
Half an hour later the tray was collected and I was just settling down to try and get some more sleep when I heard the rattle of keys in the steel door. The lock scraped, then the door was pulled open. I remained still on the bunk, raising my head to see what was happening. A large Security Forces Sr. Airman stood blocking the opening. Over his broad shoulders I could see two more guards standing in the hall. All of them were wearing tactical gear, and I suppressed a grin that they were being that cautious around me.
“Your lawyers are here.” He said, never taking his eyes off of me. “I have to let them in, but if you cause any problems they’ll have to leave and you can spend the night in the punishment cell. Understand?”
“Understood.” I replied, still staying still.
He stepped back into the hall and motioned to someone down the hall that I couldn’t see. A moment later, Tech Sergeant Zach Scott stepped into the cell, followed by Martinez. Scott’s arm was still in a cast supported by a sling, and he was wearing an Air Force Captain’s uniform. Martinez was dressed in an Air Force issue dress uniform, complete with skirt and low heels. She wore Staff Sergeant chevrons.
Once they were fully through the door, Scott turned to the guard. “I’m going to have a privileged conversation with the Major. You and your men wait down the hall.”
The guard nodded, then closed and locked the door. Martinez quickly moved to it and pressed her ear against the steel. She listened for a few moments then nodded to Scott. I stood up and smiled at him.
“Congratulations on your promotion, Tech Sergeant.” I said in a quiet voice.
“Colonel Crawford’s idea.” He said. “A better idea than this.” He held up his cast and frowned at me.
Scott had broken his arm when we were extracting from Los Alamos. I’d gone to visit him in the hospital at Tinker and he’d been asleep, so I’d personalized the virgin white plaster for him. I was mildly surprised he hadn’t covered up my message. In bold, black letters it read, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get it up”.
“Get IT up? Really?” He said, with a shake of his head.
“Isn’t that how it goes?” I asked innocently.
“If you two are done, how about we get the hell out of here.” Martinez said.
“I’m ready. What’s the plan?” I asked.
Scott reached up and fished around inside his sling, pulling out a Taser. Martinez hiked her skirt up around her hips and retrieved two, small pistols that were strapped to her upper thighs. Handing me one, she smoothed her skirt back down and stepped close to me.
“We only kill in self defense.” She said, face close to mine as she looked directly into my eyes. “Agreed?”
“Agreed.” I finally said. She kept looking at me until she was satisfied I was being sincere.
“OK, there are the three guards you saw in the hall. Out the door to our left is a gate that leads to a processing area. The gate is locked, but the lead guard has a key for it. We’re going to put them in here and lock them in, use his key to get through the gate where there’s one more guard. I’ll go through the gate first, distract him, then you two get him back here and in a cell. Then we walk right out the front door where our ride’s waiting.” Martinez said.
“Seriously? That sounds way too easy.” I said.
“This is a holding facility, not a prison. It is easy. Ready?” Scott asked.
I nodded my head and he stepped over to the door and banged on it sharply. The Taser was concealed in his good hand. Martinez and I had our pistols held behind our legs, out of sight. A few moments later the lock scraped and the door opened. Martinez quickly stepped past the lead guard as Scott moved close to him and pressed the Taser to his neck and pulled the trigger.
The guard fell like a sack of bricks, the two others freezing in place when Martinez brought her pistol up and aimed it at their faces. Scott stepped over the stunned guard and I quickly dragged him into the cell and removed a ring of keys from his belt. Stepping into the hall I raised my pistol and motioned the two guards into the cell.
“Are you fucking crazy?” One of them asked, a shocked look on his face.
“I just might be,” I said. “Now, inside before you find out.”
With looks that were a mix of hatred and fear the two men slowly moved into the cell. Scott pushed the door closed and I fumbled with the ring until I found the right key to secure the lock. We moved down the hall past half a dozen empty holding cells with doors standing open, stopping at the gate long enough for me to find the right key.
Gate unlocked, Martinez put the pistol into her purse and slipped through as Scott and I held back. The processing area was a large room lined with benches. Heavy, steel rings were set into the floor in front of each bench for the cops to secure a prisoner while waiting for a holding cell to be assigned. A government issue, gray metal desk sat in the center of the room, a Security Forces Staff Sergeant sitting behind it doing
paper work. There was no one else in the room at the moment.
He looked up when Martinez walked in front of his desk, stopping at the far corner so that to look at her his back was completely turned to us.
“I think something bit me,” Martinez said, bending at the waist and lifting her skirt to run her hand up the back of her thigh. “Do you see anything?”
I rolled my eyes. I couldn’t believe she was doing this. But it worked. The guard nearly fell out of his chair in his haste to lean forward for a closer inspection of Martinez’ leg. Scott moved forward and pressed the Taser to the back of his neck and I grabbed him before he hit the floor.
Dragging him through the gate, I put him in the first empty cell I came to, closed and locked the door. I locked the gate behind me, dropped the keys in a waste can sitting behind the desk, tripped the magnetic lock on the exit door and followed Scott and Martinez outside.
The fresh, night air was invigorating. Martinez led the way, heels clicking rapidly on the pavement. We rounded a corner and ahead I heard a Humvee’s diesel engine clatter to life, then roar towards us. Captain Blanchard pulled up next to us and we piled in, the vehicle rolling before we even had a chance to close the doors.
“Any problems?” He asked.
“Smooth as silk.” Martinez answered. For about the hundredth time I reminded myself I was glad she was on my side.
20
The infected were relentless. The Air Force had arrived and had been bombing the herd for hours, killing tens of thousands, but at best had only slowed their advance. Dead infected were just another obstacle for them to negotiate. Nothing more. Nothing less.
The Marines securing the refinery had spent the afternoon waiting for the coming battle. Hours with nothing to do other than think about the millions of hungry mouths that were bearing down on them. Enough to drive most people crazy, but like fighting men the world over, waiting was just another part of combat. Sometimes the worst part, but these were well trained and well disciplined men.
They had kept it together, and now they were ready for battle as the leading edge of the herd came into small arms range. Zemeck had made more trips up and down the line of Marines than he could count, making sure everyone was alert. Colonel Pointere had made at least as many, not the type of officer to leave the morale of his troops to his NCOs.
They had four snipers with them, two with .50 caliber rifles, two more with 7.62 mm rifles. The snipers had started engaging targets at 800 yards. Bodies dropping from sniper fire would have stalled the advance of any normal army, but the infected could care less. Zemeck and Pointere watched in dismay through their binoculars as the herd continued unabated, trampling the ones that were shot into the dirt.
“Guess your Army buddy was right,” Pointere said. “They don’t even notice when the one next to them goes down.”
“No, sir. They don’t.” Zemeck answered, then turned his head when he heard a low rumble approaching from the west. “Fast movers coming.”
The sun was almost down, but low on the horizon the two Marines could see the silhouettes of a dozen jets streaking towards them at a low altitude. As they approached, they slowed until it seemed they were flying too slow to stay in the air. Then they spread out and commenced their attack runs.
The jets were A-10 Warthogs. Ugly and slow, they were originally designed as a weapon to destroy Soviet armor. With a seven barrel, 30 mm Gatling gun, they could fire 4,200 high explosive rounds per minute, and that’s exactly what they did.
The display of raw power was amazing, the Marines cheering as the Warthogs began chewing up the ranks of the infected. Pass after pass destroyed everything in their path until the final plane in the flight fired its last round. Easily 50,000 infected had been killed in the attack, but those behind them immediately began climbing over the shattered bodies to continue their trek.
“Shit on a stick,” Pointere said.
“We need napalm,” Zemeck answered. “Roast these motherfuckers.”
Pointere turned and looked at him, then turned and looked at the refinery at their backs. Zemeck looked too, then met his eyes and grinned.
“Aye aye, sir. I’m on it!” He said and turned, running off to find the refinery manager.
A Lance Corporal ran up to the Colonel a minute later and held out a secure satellite phone. “Admiral Packard for you, sir.”
“Pointere.” He said into the phone.
The conversation lasted five minutes, then he clicked off and handed the phone back to the Marine. While he was disturbed by what the Admiral had told him, he wasn’t surprised.
“Fucking Secretary of Energy.” He muttered to himself.
The devastation from the Warthogs’ attack had bought them some time. A sea of bodies stretched out from the barricade, and the closest infected were now a mile away. They had maybe fifteen minutes before the infected were pushing up against them. Half that time was gone when Zemeck returned.
He started to speak, but paused as two Ospreys lifted off and raced away to the north.
“Not napalm, but we’ve got a plan.” Zemeck said.
After almost a minute Pointere turned to him, “Is this one of those jokes about how to keep an asshole in suspense?”
“Sorry, sir. We’re going to spray them down with fuel oil and set the fuckers on fire. There’s a big agricultural site a few miles to the north and one of our pilots swears he saw a couple of crop dusters sitting there when we flew in.”
“We’re going to crop dust the infected?” Pointere smiled.
“Pretty much,” Zemeck smiled back. “Load up with fuel oil from something called a cracking tower, don’t ask me what the hell that is, then soak these bastards down and toss a match.”
“Is that a good idea? That much fire this close to a refinery?” Pointere asked, turning back to look at the approaching herd through his binoculars.
“It’s better than being the appetizer to keep them excited about getting to Oklahoma City. Sir.”
Pointere nodded but didn’t say anything else on the subject. “We’ve got another problem, Master Gunny.”
“Sir?”
Pointere filled him in on his conversation with Admiral Packard.
“Your thoughts, Matt?” He asked when he finished speaking.
Zemeck was quiet for a minute, processing what he’d just heard. He’d been with Pointere for a long time, and knew he could speak freely in this situation.
“I think we’ve got one big fucking mess that’s bad enough to deal with without a traitor trying to hand what’s left over to the Russians. I haven’t spent over twenty years of my life and had my blood spilled on three continents just so some goddamn bitch can roll over and spread her legs for the enemy. Sir.”
“Well put, Master Gunny.” Pointere said. “Here’s what else you need to know. The Admiral has dispatched a couple of SEAL teams to Alaska to arrest President Clark. If we’re in, we’re in all the way.”
“Why don’t we just ignore her?” Zemeck asked.
“We could, but there’s officers that are following her orders. We’ve got to take her out of the picture and try to get them back in line.” Pointere said, then continued to fill in Zemeck on the situation at Tinker.
“What’s funny, Master Gunny?” He asked when Zemeck started grinning.
“The thought of them thinking they’re going to arrest and hold John Chase.” He answered. “He is the most god awful terrifying son of a bitch in battle I’ve ever seen. And with a few hundred Rangers right there in the middle of the base? They don’t know the can of worms they’ve opened.” Zemeck answered, then they both looked up when first one, then a second bi-plane roared overhead.
“Guess they got the crop dusters flying.” Pointere said drily.
“Looks that way. If you’ll excuse me sir, I want to be on hand while they’re loading up.”
Pointere nodded and Zemeck trotted away in the direction the planes had flown. Looking through his binoculars Pointere could clearly see the lead
ing edge of infected. It was all females and they were now less than five minutes away, charging as fast as they could over the broken corpses left behind by the Warthogs.
An Osprey went into a hover between the barricades and infected, minigun sweeping across the ranks of females with devastating results. But it was only a delaying action. They had nowhere near enough ammunition to stop the herd. Tens of thousands had already been killed, but millions still pressed forward from the rear. Pointere took a moment to say a silent prayer that Zemeck’s idea with the crop dusters would work. They were out of rabbits.
It was close to ten minutes later when the first bi-plane roared into the sky. Its tanks that normally held fertilizer or pesticides were full to the top with partially refined fuel oil. Marine Captain David Williams was at the controls, not at all bothered by the thought of flying a gigantic fuel bomb. He gained altitude and turned toward the herd.
Lining up with the long axis of the mass of infected he swooped down over the refinery and as he approached the leading edge, pulled a lever in the cockpit that activated a high pressure pump driven by a wind turbine. The pump forced the fuel oil through nozzles designed to break liquids up into billions of tiny droplets.
The crop duster’s spray nozzles are mounted along the trailing edge of both wings, and as the plane flew less than fifty feet above the heads of the infected it left behind a dense fog of highly combustible fuel oil that slowly drifted down and soaked everything on the ground. The second plane flew in formation to his left, slightly higher and just behind so there was no chance of it passing through the flammable mist.
The herd was half a mile wide and several miles long, stretched to the south like a huge, undulating snake. At the one mile mark they banked sharply and separated to spread farther to the sides so they could cover the full width of the leading mile. Tanks running dry, they banked sharply again and returned to the north side of the refinery for a fresh load.