Turning Point (Book 1): A Time To Die

by Wandrey, Mark

  “You’re the one who flew the intel flight east of Monterrey, aren’t you?”

  “Yes sir, that was me.”

  “Can I assume something happened on the flight back from Bahrain?”

  “That’s correct sir. The same thing that’s happening in Mexico, only on an A-380 in the middle of a thunderstorm.”

  “You’re one hard-to-kill SOB, Tobin,” General Rose said.

  “They call me Switchblade, sir.”

  “I’m not surprised. Look, Switchblade, I know what you’re flying, and I know you’re probably flying it to get the fuck out of the land of burritos and cannibals.”

  “That’s an accurate assessment, General, but I have a dozen civilians aboard I evacuated out of Mexico as well.”

  “Seems to be going around.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

  “Let me explain. But first, are you still working for us, son?”

  Andrew thought for a long moment before answering. “I’ll do whatever I can, sir.”

  * * *

  Kathy jerked awake, hearing a pair of gunshots from downstairs. Cobb was out of her arms and racing for the stairs to the widow’s walk, and she went to the window where they’d propped the HK91. More gunshots rang out as she reached the window and hefted the big battle rifle. Hundreds of crazies were out there feeding on the dead killed by the Claymores. Their Mexican guests had opened fire on some that had wandered too close to the house, and now, hundreds of bloody faces turned to look at them. “Here they come!” she yelled to Cobb.

  “On it,” he replied as she heard him settle the big machine-gun on the railing. A second later, she jerked as it started yammering a few feet above her head.

  Kathy nodded and shouldered her rifle, which was becoming quite familiar. She pulled the magazine and checked it. It was about half full. She dropped it into the bag she wore across her body and grabbed a full one from the end table. She had five left, plus the partial one in the bag. She put the magazine in and seated it with a satisfying click. She sighted through the scope and picked her target.

  “It gets easier every time,” she said aloud as she killed a man with a shot through the neck. The thundering feet of hundreds more crushed him. She fell into the same rhythm as before, fire, recover, verify target down, move to another. They came closer and closer as the machine gun roared above her. The shooting from the other windows began to fall off as the guns ran out of ammo. Over the roar of the gunfire, Kathy heard panicking people. Their voices rose in intensity as enfermo pulled at the barricades on the stairs. Above them, the M240 went suddenly silent.

  “Switching belts!” Cobb yelled as he struggled with the ammo. The gun was so hot, the metal action plate he was using to feed the belt burned him. He hissed and ignored the sizzling skin as the first round caught on the retaining pin. He jerked the charging handle back, and let it fly forward. The barrel glowed red, and he felt the heat on his face like a brand fresh from the fireplace.

  No time to worry, he thought. He brought the gun back around and opened fire. The nearest crazies were only a few dozen yards from the house when he heard a new sound. It was a dull roaring that seemed to be coming from above and behind him. He didn’t dare stop firing, they were hanging on by the barest of margins. He realized only his machine gun and the HK91 were still firing.

  “Get them ready to run!” he yelled over the side of the widow’s walk, “Kathy!?”

  “Oh my God, look!” she yelled back.

  He stopped firing and looked up, just as the AC-130 began firing.

  * * *

  They were only 10 minutes’ flying time from the coordinates General Rose gave Andrew when he decided to do what the general wanted. He’d set the autopilot and slipped past Chris on his way out of the cockpit.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have talk to someone,” Andrew explained.

  “But…what do I do?”

  “Don’t touch anything.” Andrew swung down the ladder to the crew area and found Wade exactly where he expected to, in the chief’s seat screwing with the controls. He wasn’t surprised to see that the kid had unlocked the control and was using the joystick.

  When he saw Andrew, he pushed back. “Hey, I didn’t do anything!”

  “I know,” Andrew said, “but I’m going to need you to.”

  “Whoa, wait, what? Really?”

  “Yes, but I only have about five minutes to explain, so shut the fuck up and listen.” Andrew looked around at the people nearby. “I need you to follow me, quickly!”

  Five minutes later, Andrew scrambled back into the cockpit, praying he hadn’t made a lethal mistake.

  “We’ve been going down the whole time!” Chris said, pointing at the controls and out the cockpit’s window.

  “I know,” Andrew said, and dropped into the left-hand pilot’s seat. “I need you up here,” he said, hooking a thumb at the right-hand pilot’s seat as he grabbed the straps and secured himself.

  “I don’t know how to fly,” Chris stated, although he came forward. He was extremely careful as he climbed over the central console, watching where he put his feet, sure that one minor mistake would send them plunging into the ground. Andrew was too busy punching information into the navigation computer to pay him much attention. Chris saw how the harness worked and began buckling in. “Andrew, God, the ground!”

  “Put the headphones on,” Andrew told him, pointing to where they hung on a hook, ignoring his panic. Chris did so, with shaking hands. It was much easier to talk over the closed circuit of the plane’s intercom. “Down there are a hundred or so people trapped by a shit-ton of those cannibalistic fucks,” he explained. “We’re going to try and help them. But you have to help me.” Chris shook his head. “A gun is a gun, Chris, damn it. Look at that screen.” Chris did. “All we have to do is get to the right place, and wunderkind back there will do the rest.”

  “Video gamer Watts?” Chris asked.

  He laughed. “Yes, him.” Andrew glanced at the displays, touched one of the icons, and took the controls, pulling back and levelling them off.

  They were only a few thousand feet off the ground. Below was something that looked like ants, crawling along the ground. They strung out in lines, following trails, creek beds, or whatever else they found. Chris realized they weren’t ants, but people, or what had been people.

  “Oh no,” Chris hissed.

  “Yeah,” Andrew said. He flipped a couple of controls and two screens came to life. Andrew pointed to the screens. “We’re going to fly this together—”

  “I said I can’t fly!”

  “God fucking damn it, Chris, we don’t have a choice! The screen is simple, just help me hold the target.”

  Chris looked completely lost for a second, then grabbed the controls. “Tell me what to do.”

  Andrew found the house on the forward looking infrared, and marked it. “Wade, you get that?”

  “Yeah, that the target?” the kid asked.

  “No, absolutely not! Those are the good guys.” Andrew panned the camera and the wave of attackers became clearly visible. They could see the bright twinkle of firing guns from the house. It seemed be glowing, even as they watched. The wave moved inexorably toward the house. “There, the advancing group, get as close to the house as you think you can manage.” Andrew pulled the yoke back, and put them into a steep turn. The plane started to lose altitude, so he increased the throttle. The engines spun up, the power increased, and the engine temperatures started to climb. “Fuck,” he swore under his breath as he completed the steep turn and leveled out.

  “The icon is high,” Chris said.

  “Bank us,” Andrew said, “turn the wheel until it’s on. I’ll hold our course.” Chris nodded, and turned the wheel. The plane banked, and Andrew used the foot pedals to apply the opposite rudder, keeping them on the same trajectory.

  “There!” Chris said. “We’re about to pass over them.”

  “Wade!” Andrew said in
to the intercom, “Now!”

  In the back, Wade sported an ear-to-ear grin that would take surgery to remove. He followed the instructions; flipping the last safety lever up, he snapped the switch under it. The “MASTER ARM” light came on, and he squeezed the first two of three triggers. “Die zombie scum!” he screamed, although no one heard him. The cargo bay of the AC-130 turned into the percussion section of Satan’s favorite death metal band.

  “Jumpin’ Jesus!” Andrew barked as both 20mm chain guns fired with a sustained “Braaaaaaap,” and the 40mm Bofors cannon began yammering, sending a round down range every two seconds. The recoil displaced their flightpath. He gave it more rudder.

  “Bank us around,” Andrew screamed over the hellacious cacophony of fire. “Pylon turn!” He helped with the controls. It was almost more than one man could handle, and the reason he wanted Chris to help. He sent more power to the engines, and the first warning light came on, Engine Overheat—#4.

  In the rear, Wade giggled as he stroked the trigger like Andrew showed him. Graphic displays showed his ammo consumption. The 20mm guns held a staggering 20,000 rounds each, and in ten seconds he’d gone through 5,000. The Bofors fired its last round, and two people drafted by Andrew grunted as they hefted a five-round clip into the feed rollers. Firing resumed. The men wore headsets, but every time the cannon fired they felt like a lightly-padded 4x4 was slapping them in the chest. The floor was awash in spent brass, most of which fell through chutes to rain on the ground below, but some flew around like insane red-hot wasps.

  A spent 20mm casing bounced off one man’s face, leaving a clear burn, and he fell to the floor, screaming. Someone took his place. They didn’t know who they were attacking, but the Air Force officer was confident, and that was enough for them.

  The AC-130 pivoted in a tight circle as death rained down in a rough figure-eight. The computer tracked impact points, and Wade moved the joystick, aiming the weapons at hard-to-hit areas. It was the greatest day of his life.

  “Wade,” Andrew yelled, “major concentration, lower right!”

  “Got it,” Wade said, and grabbed another control. He pivoted the weapon, and almost managed to center the cross hairs on the target. “Close enough,” he said, and pulled the trigger. The 105mm howitzer roared; if felt like cannon fire hit the plane.

  “Wahoo!” Wade yelled as the cannon automatically ejected the shell which clattered to the floor, leaving a trail of smoke. Two men wrestled a fresh round into the breach. They yanked the lever, and nothing happened.

  “Won’t close!” one of them said into his headphones.

  “Punch it!” Andrew said.

  “WHAT?!”

  “I said punch the fucking round!”

  The man looked down at the head stamp of the round and swallowed. “Oh, what the fuck,” he said, and bent over and punched it as hard as he could. “OUCH!” The round moved an inch forward, and the breech slammed down, almost cutting his hand off. “You could have warned me!” he yelled. “Damn thing almost cut my hand off!”

  “Better get clear,” Andrew warned. The man jerked back, tripping over the spent 105mm casing, sprawling into a pile of 20mm casings. He was thankful they’d had a chance to cool down a bit. “Wade!”

  “Outbound!” Wade yelled and pulled the trigger again. BOOM!

  “Andrew!” Chris screamed.

  “Yeah?”

  “One of the engines is smoking!” Andrew glanced at the board. Engine #4 was well past redline. As he looked, a red light started flashing on the engine indicator, and an alarm sounded. “Now there’s fire shooting out of it!”

  “Got it,” Andrew said, calmly. He cut power to #4, turned off the fuel feed, feathered the prop, and, once the RPMs dropped, he jerked the fire extinguisher handle. The black smoke and flames turned to white smoke. The fire light went out. “Last pass,” he told everyone.

  The AC-130 completed a final turn, wider this time to get more of the stragglers outside their initial kill box. As he leveled out the turn, he heard the 20mm go silent. They were out of ammo. Andrew tried to gain altitude with only two engines, but failed. At least he could maintain what they had. The other two engines were at 90 percent throttle and running hot. He sucked air through his teeth.

  “That was the greatest experience of my life,” Wade said from the back.

  Chris laughed, then Andrew. Soon, everyone in the plane was laughing hysterically. And then the #1 engine caught fire.

  * * *

  “FUCK YEAH!” Cobb screamed as the AC-130 Spectre gunship passed overhead, cutting a swath of bloody death through the ranks of the enfermo. A 40mm cannon shell fell in their midst and he watched as, less than a hundred yards away, bodies became hamburger, limbs flew, and entire figures rose into the sky doing lazy cartwheels. The plane made a tight turn, then the huge 105mm cannon fired over the house, and at least a hundred of the enfermo turned into red mist and bone fragments.

  The huge plane circled above them as the Mexicans cheered. Cobb expected one pass, maybe two. Instead it stayed on station, pouring death. Then, one of its engines burst into smoke and flames. “That’s not good.” He grabbed his binoculars and focused. The fire was out, but he noticed the plane was already down one engine. Man, he owed General Rose a fucking semi-tanker of beer for this. That pilot was letting it all hang out.

  Finally, the plane finished one wider turn and headed off toward the north, flying much lower than Cobb would have done in any combat theater. As he watched, another engine started to smoke. “Go with God, brother,” he said silently, “and thanks.”

  “That was unbelievable,” Kathy said, when he climbed down from the widow’s walk, the still-smoking machine gun over his shoulder, and the last belt of 7.62mm rounds wrapped around an arm like Rambo.

  “Guess that call was worth it,” he agreed. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  “There are many more,” Enrico said as he entered the room, pointing out the window. True, the AC-130 had decimated their numbers, but hundreds of crazies remained.

  Cobb glanced at his belt, and at the three mags left on the nightstand next to Kathy. “We have to make a run for it while they’re figuring things out.”

  Cobb was first out the back door, and he was met by a pair of crazies who looked ravenous. He fired and sent them sprawling off the porch. Then, over the scrub, came the second-best thing he’d ever seen: two CH-47 Chinook helicopters with an Apache gunship escort.

  The Apache effected a tight circle, similar to the AC-130’s. Its chain gun cleared a perimeter, and it moved off to take down some crazies the Spectre had missed. The two Chinooks came in low and fast, flaring less than 50 yards out. Their side doors were open, and men with M60 machine guns fired intermittently at targets.

  The pilots were good. Just a meter off the ground, they rode their dual rotors and spun around, rear doors already dropping as they set down in a hurricane of dust and debris. A soldier with a .50 caliber on a door mount swept the area from side to side. Another soldier waved, then motioned for the survivors to hurry toward the helicopter. Cobb nodded.

  “Move it fast!” he yelled and pointed. The people split into roughly even groups and raced toward the choppers. Kathy appeared with her backpack slung, camera in one hand, HK91 in the other. Cobb watched as the last of the civilians climbed aboard. Kathy boarded in front of him, then he stepped on the ramp. “Major Cobb Pendleton. Thanks for the ride!” he told the crew chief and saluted.

  “Major Pendleton,” the man said, and returned the salute, then held his hand out, “Lieutenant Alice, sir. With the General’s compliments, and you’re welcome.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 22

  Monday, April 23, Late Afternoon

  The support ships moved along with the launch platform in the early evening mist. Now 40 miles west of Long Beach and well below the curve of the Earth, Jeremiah breathed a sigh of relief. At least this time he wouldn’t end up on YouTube, or so he hoped. They’d been out and back with the launch
support ship so many times, no one really took notice anymore.

  The video of Angel One explosively surfacing in San Diego Harbor, then slowly sinking while the OEE support ships raced in to retrieve the crew, came from a cell phone a mile away. The quality was poor. The press dubbed it a forgery, an attempt by Jeremiah Osborne to drum up publicity for his failing venture. There were dozens of good quality videos of the sinking ship, but they were not as damaging as the one of the submerged ship popping to the surface like an abused tub toy.

  When they pulled out, and a few curious boats tailed them, he’d been a bit concerned, but the last of them turned around more than 20 miles ago, unprepared for an open ocean trip. The waves were more than three meters, and he was sure that had helped.

  “We’ve established station keeping,” his chief of ocean operations announced.

  “Thank you,” Jeremiah responded. It was the first time his Mission Control center was fully staffed. Many of the staff had come in with little notice, and it surprised him that most of them had showed up. Staffers had filled in the holes of the few who hadn’t come in with names from the contingency lists. Considering they were all temps, he tried not to think about how he’d pay them. His accounts looked like binary, without the 1s. “Let’s have a go, no-go report.”

  “Flight ops.”

  “Go.”

  “Tracking.”

  “Go.”

  “Telemetry.”

  “Go.”

  “Computer.”

  “Go.”

  “Propulsion.”

  “Um, go?”

  “That doesn’t sound very sure,” Jeremiah said. On the big screen, a camera inside the ship showed the pilot, copilot, and engineer. The engineer was Alison McDill, and Jeremiah had figured he’d have to bribe or cajole her into doing the job. It was difficult to find the right scientist or computer type for the job. Instead, she’d cornered him in his office after she returned from the recovery ship, and the Coasties finished with him, and told him she’d quit if he tried to keep her off the next test.