by Dirk Patton
The show was impressive, the tracers in the ammo creating the illusion that a solid stream of red, molten lead was connecting each aircraft to the ground. Thousands of infected were killed in only a few seconds. They were packed in so tight it wouldn’t have been possible to fire a single round without hitting at least two of them.
The exhausted ranks of the Air Force personnel holding the fence cheered as the Marines continued to chew up their attackers. Body parts flew through the air and a fog of bodily fluids started forming. But the infected in the rear just flowed in when the bodies in front of them were destroyed. No fear or reason existed, only the desire to reach the flesh they could see and smell on the other side of the barrier.
50
Rachel was nearly deaf from the sound of the Bradley’s chain gun and machine gun. They were holding the infected back, but barely, and not for much longer. They were burning through their ammunition at an alarming rate, but didn’t have a choice. If the infected reached the runway, the plane wouldn’t be able to land and all of this would have been for nothing.
“Viper flight, Ram two seven. What’s your ETA?” Scott shouted into the radio.
“Three mikes,” the response was almost instantaneous. “What’s the situation on the ground?”
“Large force of infected to our east. We’re holding, but our gun’s going to run dry pretty soon.”
“Copy that, Ram two seven. Pop smoke and we’ll see if we can give you a little assist.”
“Copy. Popping smoke,” Scott answered, hitting a switch that ejected a smoke grenade to clearly mark their position. “Smoke is blue.”
“What’s going on?” Rachel shouted.
“Navy’s here. They’re going to give us some help with the infected.” He answered.
Igor and Scott kept up a steady rate of fire, but the front ranks of the infected were spreading and not allowing them to stay concentrated. This reduced their effectiveness and allowed the leading edge of females to press closer to them and the runway.
“Viper flight on station. Copy blue smoke. We’ve got you Ram two seven.” The pilot called on the radio, acknowledging he wouldn’t fire on the location marked by blue smoke.
A moment later they could all hear the roar of jet engines through the hull of the Bradley, then a ripping sound that passed over them from right to left at high speed. A couple of seconds later it was repeated. Scott whooped when he saw hundreds of infected pulverized by 20 mm cannon fire.
Igor popped the turret hatch open and stuck his head outside to watch. The sound rattled Rachel’s teeth as the jets returned, making another strafing run, then a third. Igor had stopped firing the chain gun, now using short bursts from the machine gun to clean up the few infected that had somehow not been killed by the aerial assault.
The pitch of the jets changed as they turned and lined up on the runway, touching down and quickly rolling to a stop not far from where the Bradley sat.
“Irina, tell Igor to keep his eyes open. I’m going out to get them loaded.” Scott said, jumping out of his seat and hitting the ramp release button with the side of his fist.
The ramp dropped quickly, smoke and the stench of a battlefield swirling into the vehicle’s interior. Scott grabbed a rifle and led the way out, Joe and Rachel close behind him. The machine gun kept firing occasional bursts as Igor kept the remaining infected at bay.
Running down the ramp they turned to their right, rounding the back corner of the Bradley and Rachel and Joe both almost came to a stop. Expecting some sort of passenger transport plane they were both surprised to see two F-16 Falcons sitting idling on the tarmac. Both pilots had already raised their canopies and extended a boarding ladder, which was nothing more than an aluminum pole with small pegs sticking out on each side.
They exchanged glances then picked up their speed as the two pilots climbed down to meet them. Each of them had a bundle under their arm. Scott ran up, meeting them and turning to see where Joe and Rachel were.
“…expecting a transport.” Rachel heard him saying to one of the pilots when she got close enough.
“Nah, they wanted this done right,” the pilot said, grinning. “That’s why they sent us.”
He turned and looked at Joe and Rachel, stepped forward and faced Joe. “Sir, please step over there with Lieutenant Henry. He’ll get you ready and we’ll get out of here.”
“Ma’am,” he said, holding what looked like a padded flight suit out to Rachel. Joe had walked over to the other pilot and he was offering the same thing. “Please put this on, and forgive the familiarity but you’re going to need my help and we don’t have a lot of time.”
“What is it?” Rachel asked as the man shook it out and started lowering zippers. It looked more like a space suit with what had to be pressurized air connections in several places.
“It’s a G-suit, ma’am.” He said. All the zippers were open and he held it out for Rachel to step into. “If I have to make any hard maneuvers while we’re in flight, it will keep you from blacking out.”
Rachel worked her feet through the legs, the man stepping behind her and helping pull the tight suit over her hips.
“Why would there be hard maneuvers?” She asked as he grabbed her arm to help force it back into a sleeve.
“The Russians are still putting up patrols, ma’am. You’re other arm, please, and bend to the side.” He helped her contort her upper body, then she was in and he was back in front of her, yanking the rubberized zipper up to her neck. She spared a glance at Joe who was already dressed and climbing the ladder on the other jet.
The pilot escorted her to his plane. Before he could start her up the ladder she turned and faced Scott who was checking on the proximity of the infected. Igor was still firing the machine gun and once again an occasional burst from the chain gun.
“Find John,” she said, pulling a surprised Scott into a hug. “Tell him where I am. Tell him…” She stopped herself. She was going to say, “I love him”, but at the last moment held her tongue.
“Good luck,” Scott said, stepping back from her embrace.
“Ma’am, up the ladder and in the back seat. Don’t touch anything. I’ll help you with the harness, helmet and mask once your seated.” The pilot placed a firm hand on Rachel’s back.
Turning, she climbed the ladder and carefully stepped into the cramped cockpit before sliding down into a seated position. The pilot appeared a second later, reaching on either side of her, then between her legs to grab straps. He got everything buckled, pulled them hard enough to pin her tightly to the seat, then connected several air lines to her suit.
He made a quick check to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, then put a helmet on her head and fastened the integrated mask across her lower face. An oxygen line and a couple of wires in a bundle led from the mask to the console at her side. Tapping her on the helmet the pilot gave her a thumbs up, his eyebrows raised questioningly. She returned the gesture, unsure if everything was good to go or not.
He got situated in the front seat with an ease that came from lots of practice. A moment later the canopy descended, sealing tight against the body of the jet. The engines had been idling; creating a steady vibration that was transmitted through the seat into her body. Strangely it was almost comforting.
“Can you hear me, ma’am?” Rachel was startled when the pilot’s voice sounded in her ear.
“Yes, and my name’s Rachel, not ma’am.” She replied, unsure if he’d be able to hear her or not.
“Yes, ma’am. If you feel sick, there’s a bag between your feet. You don’t want to throw up in your mask if you can help it. Here we go.”
As he spoke the words, the vibration increased and the jet turned. Through the clear canopy Rachel could see the second jet, two helmeted heads tuned in their direction. She raised a hand, moments later the rear seat passenger returning the wave.
The pilot maneuvered the aircraft for a minute, getting it lined up with the center of the runway, the nose dipping slightly wh
en he put on the brakes. She saw his head turn left, then right before going back to center. It bobbed slightly and suddenly the whole plane shuddered as the engines throttled up to a scream. Rachel didn’t understand why they weren’t moving, then she was pressed deep into the seat as he released the brakes.
The Falcon flashed down the tarmac, bellowing as it accelerated. Rachel could feel the bounce of every seam in the concrete in her ass as they rolled over them, then the tires left the ground behind. Her stomach dropped to her feet as the pilot lifted the nose almost vertically and they rocketed skyward. She could hear him communicating with the other pilot over the intercom in her helmet, not having a clue what they were talking about.
They continued climbing for a short time then he tipped the nose of the jet over and brought it horizontal. Rachel breathed deep, nearly panicking when she heard a hissing sound and looked down to see the legs of her suit slowly deflating.
“What the hell’s going on with this suit?” She asked.
“Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t have time to brief you. The suit will automatically inflate and deflate to counter the G forces generated in flight. Without it, all your blood would drain into your legs and you’d pass out and potentially die. By inflating, it squeezes your limbs and keeps blood in your core so your heart can still pump it to your brain.”
“OK. Good to know.” Rachel said. “How long will it take us to get to Seattle? And what’s it like there? Infected everywhere?”
“I don’t know what Seattle’s like, ma’am. We’re actually going to Whidbey. Whidbey Island Naval Air Station. It’s about fifty miles from Seattle out in Puget Sound. That’s all I know. I was just told to get you to Whidbey, nothing about what you’re doing after that.” He answered, turning his head to the left. “As far as flight time, I was told to get you there fast, so as soon as we top off the tanks we’re going to boogie. It will be less than two hours.”
Rachel looked in the same direction and saw the other plane, seemingly hanging in mid-air a short distance off and behind their wingtip.
“Top off? We’ve got to land?” She was surprised, but not as much as when the man chuckled and pointed at a speck in the sky above and in front of them.
“What’s that?” She asked.
“Flying gas station, ma’am. Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to step out and pump some gas.” Rachel shook her head. What was it with these military guys? Everything they did was so amazing, yet they talked about it like it was just an everyday errand.
The refueling plane was the KC-135 out of Tinker Air Force Base that had launched with the first evacuation wave. It had stayed in the air to refuel any evac flights that were running low, the F-15 that was ferrying Dr. Kanger to Seattle, and service the two F-16s that were inbound. Flying nice and level and slow, it reeled out a fueling line with a drogue and two small winglets at the end when the pilot called on his radio.
Rachel watched in fascination as he brought the plane into stable flight, below and behind the tanker. A few moments later the basket of the refueling probe was “flown” into contact with the F-16s fuel probe by a crewman staring out of a small window in the back of the larger plane. Several minutes later they were full, disconnecting and moving well away to make room for the second Falcon to hook up and take a drink.
Fueling complete, the two jets banked sharply to the left and gained altitude. Rachel could see a compass on the panel in front of her and watched the little airplane icon settle on a direction of northwest. She looked out the canopy to her left, surprised to not see the other jet.
“Where did they go?” She asked.
“Half a mile to our port. Our left,” the pilot said. “Keep looking in that direction. It’s pretty humid. You should see them in a moment.”
Rachel didn’t understand what was going on, but did as she was told, keeping her eyes glued on the blue sky directly off the left wing. A few seconds later there was a large burst of white vapor, seemingly out of nowhere.
“What the hell was that?” She asked, concerned for Joe.
“That was the shockwave of a jet breaking the sound barrier. We just made one too.”
“What?! You mean that was a sonic boom? Why didn’t I hear it?” Rachel was excited, staring out, hoping to catch a glimpse of the other plane.
“You can’t hear sound if it’s moving slower than you are, ma’am.” The pilot said. Rachel was sure she heard a smirk in his voice. “Fifteen hundred miles to Whidbey. We should be there in ninety minutes.”
“If you call me ma’am one more time I’m going to punch you when we land.” She said, amazed at the view of the Earth spread out beneath her.
“Yes, ma’am.” He answered.
51
The holding effort with the Ospreys bought them some time. While the aerial miniguns were chewing up the infected, the ground defenders were able to take a short break, drink some water and regroup. But miniguns blow through ammo at an astonishing rate. And the supply was hardly infinite. They’d brought all they could scavenge, but there wasn’t enough for a prolonged assault.
The Ospreys ran dry, one by one. As each exhausted their supply of ammo the pilot peeled away and returned to the flight line. The remaining rounds had already been divided up and ground crews quickly set about rearming the aircraft, but Pointere kept them on the ground. They would be the absolute last line of defense to keep the infected clear of the runway until the last evac flight could take off.
After that, well… He reached behind him with both hands, checking on the two large fighting knives sheathed at the small of his back. They were nearly as long as a Kukri, but where its blade was broad and curved for slicing, these were straight and narrow for stabbing. Satisfied they would draw smoothly when needed, Pointere turned to check on the loading of the fourth evacuation wave.
All of the C-130s were already loaded, the last one that was still on the ground roaring down the runway as he watched. The Globemasters, C5s and B-52s all had people queued up, loadmasters running up and down the lines screaming instructions. Though he couldn’t see inside he had no doubt there were NCOs yelling and pushing, jamming bodies in as tight as they could.
Nine hours. That’s how long it would take for the wave to reach Nassau, unload, return to Tinker, refuel, load the last of the evacuees and get back in the air. Nine hours. A short workday for a Marine, but forever when he and a handful of men had to hold off an enemy that didn’t stop charging regardless of their losses. They didn’t have to fall back to regroup. They would just keep coming in a relentless surge.
“Sir, it’s time to pull back,” Captain Blanchard said as he trotted up. “We’ve got infected making it over the top of the fence and we’re starting to lose people.”
“Fifteen minutes, Captain.” Pointere said, looking over his shoulder at the flight line.
“Sir, if we wait, the defenders won’t be able to make it across the bridges without being overrun.” Blanchard said.
“Fuck!” Pointere thought, grimacing. “Very well. Issue the order to fall back and pass the word to expect infected inside the wire.”
“Yes, sir.” Blanchard turned away and started issuing orders over the radio.
“Nine fucking hours,” Pointere muttered to himself.
“Sir?”
“Never mind.” He said, not believing they could hold out for nine hours.
All around the base the sound of gunfire ceased as his order to fall back was relayed. The report of small arms had become a constant for the past several hours, and now it was shockingly noticeable by its absence.
“Get those fuel trucks pumping into the moat as soon as the defenders are clear of the bridges.” Pointere ordered.
“Already issued the order, sir.” Blanchard said, standing at Pointere’s shoulder. They didn’t want the highly flammable fuel in the open until the Air Force personnel that had been holding the perimeter were safely across the moat. One spark, or the discharge of a weapon could ignite it and cut off hundreds or thousands of
men and women who would then fall to the infected.
“Why the Army, Captain?” Pointere asked as they waited. “You would have made a hell of a Marine.”
“Thank you, sir, but there’s several generations of Blanchards that would have risen from the grave and haunted me.”
“Army brat?”
“My great, great grandfather was in the 1st Volunteer Cavalry in 1898.” Blanchard said.
“Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders?” Pointere asked in surprise.
“Yes, sir. He came back from Cuba with Malaria and died a year later, before my great grandfather was born.
“He fought in World War I. In the trenches. Married an English girl and brought her home. They had my grandfather just in time for him to grow up and fight in World War II.
“He was in the 5th Ranger Battalion at Normandy. Toughest son of a bitch I’ve ever met. Sir. Anyways, he brought home a French girl and they had my father. My grandfather fought in Korea while my dad was growing up. Then my dad enlisted just in time for Vietnam. Four tours before he lost his legs to a VC trap.
“Then I came along. It was pre-ordained I’d join the Army by the time I was born. I’m the first officer in my family, and that was bad enough. If I’d picked the Marines, well they’d have strung me up. Trust me, sir. My grandfather may be 90, but I still don’t want to mess with him.” Blanchard grinned.
Pointere stood looking at the young man for a long moment.
“Captain, hasn’t your family given enough? You shouldn’t be here. Get on one of those planes. There’s a lot more you can do for the survivors alive than you can by giving your life here.”
“Sir, I appreciate you saying that, but my mind is made up.” Blanchard said. “There’s never been a Blanchard that ran from a fight at the expense of another, and it sure as fuck isn’t going to start with me.”
“Stubborn, isn’t he?”
Both men turned, startled. Colonel Crawford stood behind them. He was dressed in full battle rattle, M4 rifle slung over his shoulder.