Indestructible: V Plague Book 7

by Dirk Patton

  TOW stands for Target-sensitive, Optically tracked, Wire-guided. When Igor had locked the laser onto the dozer, the Bradley’s computer had begun feeding guidance data to the missile. Upon launch, a thin wire unspooled, connecting the missile’s guidance system to the Bradley’s targeting computer. The computer maintained the laser lock on the target, updating its location and distance several times per second. Igor had selected the dozer’s large engine compartment, and seconds after the laser had locked on the missile arrived.

  The TOW missiles fielded by a Bradley were designed to penetrate and destroy enemy armor. Tank killers, in other words. As large and heavy as it was, the cast iron, diesel engine in the dozer was sliced into like paper as the missile detonated. The driver was killed a fraction of a second after the detonation, and giant pieces of the machine were blasted into the air.

  “Persistent assholes, aren’t they.” Scott observed, scanning for more attackers.

  “They’re just frightened,” Rachel said. “They didn’t get vaccinated and they know what’s going to happen to them. A lot of them have probably already seen friends and family turn.”

  “So we should take it easy on them?” Scott challenged.

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I just understand their fear. But that doesn’t give them an excuse to attack us.” She answered.

  Not having a good response, Scott grunted. He kept his eyes on the periscope, checking around the area, but for the moment the locals weren’t ready to challenge the Bradley’s firepower again.

  “Ram two seven, this is Viper flight. Do you copy?” A strong, male voice sounded over Scott’s comm panel, the high-pitched whine of jet engines audible in the background.

  “Ram two seven copies,” Scott answered the call from the Navy plane that was inbound.

  “We’re fifteen mikes from RP. What’s your status?” RP was rendezvous point.

  “At the RP. Runway is clear. We have hostiles in the area, but clear at the moment.” Scott answered.

  “Copy hostiles in area. New Jersey.” The pilot spoke the challenge word.

  “Giraffe,” Scott replied with the correct response.

  The two words were completely unrelated and meant nothing. They were simply a way for each party to verify that they were who they were supposed to be. If the pilot had failed to challenge, or Scott had responded with any other word, it would have let the legitimate person know that something was wrong.

  “Confirm Giraffe,” the pilot said. “We’re a flight of two F-16s. How do we recognize you?”

  “We’re in a Bradley. The only one in the area.” Scott answered, surprised there wasn’t a transport coming for Rachel and Joe. “We’ve had to engage the locals twice so far, but they’ve pulled back for the moment. Contact when you’re five mikes out and I’ll let you know if the LZ is hot.”

  “Viper flight copies.”

  “We’ve got more company coming,” Irina called out as the radio went silent.

  Scott checked the area she was watching, sighing when he saw several hundred infected headed for them. There was a mostly even mix of males and females, the women sprinting out ahead of the group as the males shambled along behind. The sounds of the chain gun and then blowing up the dozer had almost certainly attracted them.

  “What’s wrong?” Rachel asked.

  “Infected,” Scott said. “Not more than we can handle, but still there are a lot of them.”

  “Don’t let them get on the runway,” Rachel cried out. “I watched infected get sucked up into a big cargo plane’s engines in Tennessee while it was trying to take off. It didn’t make it.”

  “Igor,” Scott said. “Light ‘em up.”

  Before Irina could translate Igor began firing the machine gun in short controlled bursts. He walked it across the ranks of the fast approaching females with devastating results. With the infected inside four hundred yards, the heavy, high velocity slugs ripped them apart. As he worked their weapons, the sound of hard impacts on the Bradley’s armor caught everyone’s attention.

  “What the hell is that?” Joe asked, looking nervous.

  Scott was searching with the periscope, finally stopping and focusing. He turned the wheel to zoom the optics and watched for a moment. There was another loud impact and he spoke without removing his attention from the view outside.

  “Got some jack ass with what I’m willing to bet is a fifty.” He was referring to a .50 caliber rifle. Deadly against just about anything that isn’t armored. “Relax. It can’t penetrate our armor. But we need to shut him down before that plane arrives. Those slugs will tear right through an aircraft.”

  Taking control of the turret from the vehicle commander’s station, Scott activated the targeting system. He focused on the shooter’s position and pressed a button that activated the laser range finder. The sniper was 447 yards away, on the roof of a two-story building with a clear line of sight to the airport.

  A couple of more adjustments and the 25 mm chain gun fired a two second burst. Watching through his scope, Scott saw a large section of the front of the building disintegrate into dust and debris. There was apparently a strong breeze blowing as the air at the target cleared quickly, revealing a gaping hole in the brick façade. Neither the sniper nor his rifle was visible any longer.

  “Not good,” Irina said a moment later.

  Scott turned his scope and uttered a curse, releasing control of the vehicle’s weapons system back to Igor. A solid wall of infected was emerging from streets and alleys, approaching the large empty field to the east of the runway.

  48

  “I thought you were dead,” I blurted out as Martinez walked down the slope towards us. Letting the rifle hang I stepped forward and wrapped her up into a hug. “What happened?”

  “Beats me,” she said, reaching out and squeezing Katie’s hand. “I remember the crash, then being carried by the infected. The next thing I knew I woke up on the banks of a river, feeling like I’d been run through a meat grinder.”

  “How did you get here?” I asked.

  “Been following these power lines forever. Knew they had to end somewhere, then I recognized where I was. Used to train in this area. That’s Tulsa.” She nodded at the city spread out below us.

  “How did you survive?” Katie asked. “You were all but gone. I watched the infected leave you in the river. Last I saw, you were floating downstream.”

  Martinez looked at her and shrugged. “Honestly, no clue. I don’t feel great, but at least I’m not dead.”

  “Turn around,” I said, moving upslope and kneeling on the grass so I could examine Martinez’ leg wound in the moonlight.

  Rachel had cut off her pants leg while she was working on her in the Osprey, and her leg was fully exposed. Leaning close I looked at the wound, not surprised to see it almost completely healed.

  “Do you mind?” I asked, hands poised in front of the hem of her shirt.

  “In front of your wife, sir? Don’t you think she’ll get the wrong idea about us?” Martinez quipped.

  “Shut up and show me,” I said, not in the mood for banter.

  Martinez lifted her shirt, exposing her abdomen. Katie leaned in next to me to see.

  “It’s healed. Or close enough to not matter.” Katie said. “Is that what mine looks like?”

  I nodded in the dark, reaching out and pressing on the skin around the puckered scar on Martinez stomach.

  “Does it hurt?” I asked.

  “Not so much hurts as it’s tender. What’s the big deal?” She asked.

  “You saw Katie take the bullet, right?” I asked and she nodded. I looked at Katie and she pulled the shirt over her head. “Take a look.”

  “Mierda,” She said when she got a good look. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “All I can come up with is the virus,” I said.

  “But we’re not infected,” Martinez said.

  “Maybe not turned, but I’m pretty sure it’s affecting you. How else do you explain bot
h of you healing like you are? And explain this.” I called Dog, but he wouldn’t come to me. Stepping away from the two women I called him again and he immediately trotted over and sat down at my feet, facing Martinez and Katie.

  “Now, walk towards me,” I said.

  Martinez took a couple of steps and Dog got to his feet and backed away. She froze in place with a look of shock and horror on her face.

  “So… what, we’re going to turn?” She asked, looking between Katie and me.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “I don’t think so. I think if you were going to turn you would have already. It might not even be the virus. It might be an effect of the vaccine. I’m just guessing.”

  “Where’s Rachel?” Martinez asked. “She might have an idea.”

  “Don’t know,” I said. “It’s a long story I’ll tell you when we have time. Right now we need to head down there and find some water, food and shelter.”

  “Food, yes. I’m starving,” Martinez said. “But the hell with shelter. There’s an Air National Guard base here at the civilian airport. That’s where I was heading. I’m sure there’s a helo there that we can borrow.”

  “Good to have you back, Captain.” I grinned.

  “I just hope you still feel that way when I find a flagpole,” she said, moving past me and starting down the slope.

  “Huh?” I had no clue what she was talking about.

  “Remember when you carried me out of the casino? The promise you made me?” She looked over her shoulder, grinning. I shook my head. “You promised that if I survived, you’d kiss my ass at noon in front of a flagpole. It will be a red-letter day when an Army Major puckers up and plants his lips on an Air Force Captain’s ass. I intend to make sure you keep your word.”

  I stood there for a moment as Martinez laughed. Looking over at Katie I was mildly surprised to see a smile on her face.

  “You poor dumbass,” she said, patting me on the chest and following Martinez towards the city.

  49

  The Marines and Rangers had spent the day preparing multiple defensive layers. Air Force personnel manned the fence line as they worked feverishly. About noon the transport planes had returned from delivering the second wave of evacuees. Fresh pilots took command and maintenance and fueling personnel attacked them with the same urgency as a NASCAR pit crew.

  Women and children were prioritized for the third wave, but they only had so much space. Many families didn’t make it on and had to wait, watching as one after another of the aircraft climbed into the afternoon sky.

  With the exception of personnel actively involved in holding the fence line, every other soul on the base was put to work. Men, women and children carried supplies, weapons and ammunition. They filled sandbags. Helped the men who had volunteered to stay behind and face the infected so they could escape. There was not a single word of complaint from anyone as they toiled away in the baking sun.

  Pointere’s plan was simple. He knew the fence would fall, and fall soon. What he needed to do was protect the survivors that were waiting to board a plane, and he needed to make sure the runways were clear. Trying to defend the miles upon miles of fence with his small, suicide force was impossible. But he could hold a much smaller perimeter that only encompassed a few hangars and the runways.

  Creating concentric layers of defense, the men worked feverishly in the hot Oklahoma afternoon. They started on the outermost ring, creating a four hundred yard buffer around the area being defended. Heavy equipment was used to carve a deep trench in the ground, a moat, completely encircling the defenders.

  Buildings were knocked down and bulldozed aside. Parking lots and roadways were torn up and trees uprooted. But unlike medieval moats that were filled with water, Pointere positioned fuel trucks around its length to pump it full of jet fuel when he gave the order. Ten feet deep and twenty feet wide so the females couldn’t leap across, a lot of infected would be trapped and meet their end when the fuel was ignited.

  One hundred yards in from the moat, crews of Marines and Rangers had positioned mortars spaced every fifty yards. The raids of the armories at Fort Hood had yielded flight after flight loaded with all sorts of weapons and munitions, including hundreds of crates of mortar tubes and thousands of pounds of mortar bombs. Tall stacks of bombs sat ready at each firing position.

  The third layer, another hundred yards in, was a double cordon of Claymore mines with a twenty foot gap between them. Thousands of Claymores had been looted and were now set up in a double ring around the flight line and hangars. Crews experienced with them were frantically reeling out thousands of feet of wire, connecting each mine’s detonator to a massive, improvised master control panel.

  In their haste, a mine had been accidentally detonated, killing two Marines, one Ranger and injuring half a dozen others. As NCOs screamed at the crews working on the wiring, Pointere had ordered the injured to be treated and taken to a hangar to await evacuation. Each man had accepted the medics’ attention, but refused to be evacuated. They returned to work, some of them with wounds that would kill them in a few hours.

  The final layer followed the edges of the pavement that defined the runways. Sandbagged emplacements were constructed. Hundreds of machine guns and hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammo were positioned. This was where the Rangers and Marines would make their last stand. All they had to do was hold out long enough for the last plane to get off the ground.

  Colonel Pointere hoped there would be time for at least some of the defenders to then fall back and be picked up by the Ospreys that would be his eyes in the air once the fence collapsed. He knew it wasn’t likely, that no one was leaving, but he had hope that perhaps at least a few could escape.

  The day wore on, evening coming and bringing relief from the scorching sun. Most of the work completed, the civilians waiting for the next wave began circulating among the defenders, delivering food and water. Many of them thanked the tired men; confused at the almost embarrassed responses they received.

  “Why are the soldiers acting funny when I say thanks?” A young girl, no more than 10, stood looking up at Pointere.

  He was standing on top of a pile of sandbags as the sun touched the western horizon, surveying the monumental amount of work that had been completed. The volume of infected at the fence had grown steadily throughout the afternoon and in less than an hour he knew the Air Force personnel fighting at the perimeter would have to be recalled.

  “First of all, young miss, they’re Marines and Soldiers,” he said, sighing when a look of confusion crossed her face. He looked up when a woman he assumed was her mother walked up. “And they’re not trying to act funny. They’re just… well, think about this. If you’re doing something because you want to, because you believe deep inside it’s the right thing to do, are you wanting to be thanked?”

  “I guess not,” she said, looking even more uncertain.

  Pointere opened his mouth, but didn’t know what else to say. Couldn’t figure out how to explain why civilians thanking military men and women for doing their jobs made them feel uncomfortable. Why the thanks so often felt hollow, as if it was little more than what people had been conditioned to say to someone in uniform without even giving what they were speaking a thought.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” the mother said and led the little girl away by the hand.

  Pointere watched them go, then returned his attention to the defenses. There were various points around the moat where large steel plates bridged the gap, creating a path for the men and women to escape across. Forklifts that were normally used for loading cargo were standing by to remove the plates as soon as the last survivor made it across and before the infected could flow through their outer defensive layer.

  “Impressive work, Jim.” Pointere looked down to see Colonel Crawford standing at the base of the pile, holding out a steaming mug of coffee. He jumped down, gratefully accepting it.

  “Just hope it’s enough. What’s the ETA on the next wave?” He asked, taking
a sip.

  “They’re half an hour out,” Crawford answered, lighting a cigarette. He held the pack out to Pointere but he waved them away. He enjoyed cigars but couldn’t stand cigarettes. “Then an hour or so to load and refuel once they’re on the ground.”

  “That will be the fourth wave, right? We still needing six?” Pointere asked.

  “We can get the last of the people out with five. The loadmasters are cramming them in like sardines. A sixth would be nice, but it would just be for equipment and supplies. Nothing we can’t do without or make a raid to somewhere on the east coast once we’re settled.” Crawford said, turning as Captain Blanchard ran up.

  “Sirs,” he said, then turned to Pointere. “Fence line defense is starting to crumble. We’re going to have to pull back sooner than we hoped.”

  “Shit! Can we hold longer with some more men?” Pointere asked.

  “No sir. Not with the numbers we have. The fence is just too long and the volume outside is growing by the minute. I can buy us some time if I can put the Ospreys up and use their miniguns.”

  “Do it.” Pointere said immediately.

  “Yes, sir.” Blanchard spun and ran off, shouting into a radio as he headed for the flight line.

  “Damn fine soldier,” Pointere commented as they watched him weave through the workers.

  “Yes, he is.” Crawford said.

  “How did he talk you into letting him stay?” Pointere asked, watching Crawford out of the corner of his eye.

  “Let’s just say it was a spirited conversation.” The Colonel chuckled.

  Both officers turned to look as six Ospreys lifted off in sequence from the end of the flight line. Spreading out, they all kept their engine nacelles rotated for vertical flight, hovering like a helicopter. Moving over the perimeter, they all began firing belly-mounted miniguns, raking the hordes of infected that were piled up against the fence.