by Dirk Patton
At the far end of the runway, evacuees were already queued up to start loading. Fuel trucks sat on either side of the tarmac, prepared to rush forward and hook up the moment the aircraft came to a stop. The engines would not be shut off, a risky procedure known as “hot” refueling. Normally, passengers would never be loaded with the engines turning as fuel was being pumped into the wings, but nothing was normal any longer.
“Claymores ready, on my command.” Pointere broadcast as the males moved to within ten yards of the ring.
Crawford turned a quick circle, binoculars to his eyes as he checked on the readiness of the defenders. Machine guns were manned, a civilian sitting next to each gunner, prepared to hand them ammo or do anything they needed once the fight started. Each of them had received a crash course in what to do, and how, by the Rangers and Marines manning the guns.
“We’re as ready as we’ll be,” Crawford said to Pointere, who nodded and keyed the transmit button on his radio.
“Claymores FIRE!” He ordered.
Explosions rippled around the perimeter a moment later, thousands upon thousands of males being blown backwards and falling to add to the layer of bodies on the killing field. Dust obscured the defender’s view, but this time there was no silence. Screams from a hundred thousand throats sounded as the females surged forward.
A few machine guns opened fire immediately, the gunners nervous, firing blind through the dust and smoke. Ripping sounds began around the perimeter as the hovering Ospreys fired their miniguns. Hundreds, then thousands of females were shredded by the withering aerial fire, but in the end it had about as much effect as trying to hold the ocean back with a plastic shovel. More and more machine guns jumped into the fight as sprinting figures emerged from the dust, rifle fire picking up moments later.
Pointere shouted a few orders over the radio, but quickly gave up. No one could hear him and no one had time to do anything other than keep shooting at the screaming horde bearing down on them. Crawford had already raised his rifle, picking off runners with rapid but well placed shots. Pointere joined him, the two of them shoulder to shoulder on top of a pile of sandbags.
60
I could see the lights at Tinker well before we arrived. The only electric illumination visible for as far as I could see in any direction, they weren’t hard to spot. I could also see anti-collision lights on several aircraft that were landing. Had to be the evacuation flights I’d heard mentioned on the radio, returning to pick up more people.
Leaning forward out the side door to get a good look, I glanced into the cockpit to see a compass. Holding a piece of paper down on my leg against the buffeting wind I drew on it with a grease pencil Katie had found in the cockpit.
“Panther flight, Dog Four. Copy?” I transmitted.
“Go Dog Four.”
“Friendlies are defending the north-south runway. Civilians being loaded onto transport at the south end of the runway. You have eyes on the aircraft in the air?”
“Affirmative,” the Navy pilot responded. “We’re tracking them. Where do you want our first run?”
“Unknown at this time,” I answered. “I’m still two mikes out. Stand by.”
“Panther copies.”
“Claymores FIRE!” I heard over the speaker at the same time as I received the Navy’s response.
Watching, I saw a neatly defined perimeter around the runway and a couple of hangars appear as quick flashes of bright light when the mines detonated. I was impressed. That had to have been over a thousand mines, and I’d already heard a previous order for use of the weapons.
As we continued to approach I could see the winks of muzzle flashes and the path of tracer rounds as machine guns opened up. Watching for a moment, I spotted an area at the north end of the runway that was receiving the brunt of the attack from the infected. I also noted half a dozen Ospreys hovering over the perimeter, and getting closer I could tell they were firing their miniguns.
“Martinez, bring us in over the north end, and tell those Marines in the Ospreys to get the fuck out of the way!”
She descended fast and I could hear her yelling into her radio. Turning, she swung us into a hover a hundred feet over the heads of half a dozen machine gunners. To their rear was a large truck with thick bundles of wires that headed out in all directions. Had to be the master control for the Claymores.
“Panther, Dog Four,” I shouted to be heard over the pounding of the rotors and the sounds of the battle beneath me.
“Go for Panther.”
“I want half your flight on each side of the runway. Tangos are danger close. Friendlies are marked by small arms fire.”
“Panther copies. On target in two mikes.” He answered, still sounding calm and cool.
While we waited for the Navy, I swiveled the M60 around and added to the fire being pumped into the females. The machine guns on the ground were being run hard, without pauses to let the barrels cool. Normally that’s not a good idea, but when the enemy is in your face the last thing you’re worried about is ruining a machine gun barrel. You just stay on the trigger as long as you have ammo and a target.
The fire was devastating. High velocity bullets ripped through the herd, severing limbs, smashing bones and destroying internal organs. Females fell by the thousands, but for every one that went down there were more behind them, ready to take their place.
“Why did they hold back from the mines but charge into the gun fire?” Crawford wondered to himself as he changed magazines in his rifle. He didn’t have time to think about it so he dismissed the thought and followed Pointere when the Marine slapped him on the shoulder.
Together they ran, firing their rifles as they moved. The emplacement closest to them was in danger of being overrun, the gunner firing at targets no more than ten feet away. A young female Airman was standing behind the gunner, firing her rifle on full auto to take the legs out from under the raging infected.
Crawford and Pointere arrived, taking up positions on either side of her and together with the machine gunner, all of them were able to stop the advance. But they couldn’t push the infected back, no matter how fast they fired. The best they could achieve was to not let the females get any closer.
They all looked up in surprise when a helicopter roared into a hover directly over their heads, the door gunner adding to the fight. He worked the stream of bullets back and forth across the leading edge, shredding bodies. Slowly, the gap in front of them widened.
“How much longer?” Crawford shouted to Pointere.
“First one rolling in ten minutes. Forty until they’re all in the air!” He shouted back.
At first, Crawford didn’t recognize the rushing roar he heard approaching. His instinct was to turn to his rear and look, but he didn’t dare take focus off the infected right in front of him. Then he heard the sound of heavy canons and a jet flashed by on either side of him, leaving a wake of destruction among the infected.
He heard another roar coming, then a second pair of jets screamed by, ceasing fire as they banked and rocketed skyward. A third pair appeared a moment later, then a fourth, fifth and sixth. The destruction they left behind was awe-inspiring.
In seconds, they had carved a one hundred and fifty yard wide swath of death out of the females with their Vulcan 20 mm rotary canons. The gunners quickly dispatched the few infected that were between the strike zone and them, then the firing slowed as there were no more targets inside a hundred yards. Crawford and Pointere exchanged surprised glances, then grinned like little boys.
“Get those fucking planes loaded, Colonel! Someone just bought us some time.” Crawford shouted, turning to replenish his supply of magazines.
“Good shooting, Navy!” I shouted into the radio. “Hold until they start pushing in again.”
“Panther copies. We’ll be here when you need us.”
“Isn’t that Colonel Crawford down there?” Martinez yelled over the intercom.
“Where?” I asked, leaning out to look.
“Behind the emplacement to the left of the truck.”
“Yep, that’s him,” I said, spotting the familiar figure.
“And here they come again,” Martinez said a moment later. I looked up to see females surging in all around the perimeter.
“Panther, Dog Four.” I transmitted. “Let’s rinse and repeat. Just like last time.”
“Panther copies,” I heard, wishing it was daylight so I could see the Hornets turning and lining up for their attack runs.
The females had covered most of the open ground, running up against the machine gun and rifle fire, which slowed their advance and caused them to bunch up. That made them perfect targets for the Navy pilots. Less than a minute later the buffer had been opened back up, thousands more females dead.
The bodies were piling up, getting deeper by the minute. This hampered the infected’s forward progress, but not enough. Without the air support they were able to start pushing in again.
“Panther, let’s hit the bitches again.” I said, closely watching the progress of the front ranks of the females.
“Copy Dog Four.” He answered. “Be advised this will be our last run. Ammo will be depleted and we’re almost bingo fuel. Spooky is five mikes out with the throttle through the firewall.”
“Understood Panther, and thank you.” I replied, looking at the ocean of bodies below me.
As far as the lights could reach there was nothing visible other than tightly massed bodies. If I could see out into the city or onto the prairie I suspected all that would be there was more of the same. I hoped the defenders could hold out until Spooky arrived on target.
61
“I’ve finally got the Colonel,” Martinez shouted as the last Navy jet banked away to head south. She had been trying to break in on the defender’s comm channel for some time, but for some reason they couldn’t hear us even though we could hear them.
“Should I thank you for the air support, Major?” Crawford asked a moment later.
“Negative sir. They just showed up. I suspect we’re seeing Admiral Packard at work.”
“Well, they saved our ass, but it’s about to get interesting again.” He said. He and I were looking at each other as we spoke, him on the ground, me in the side door of a Huey a hundred feet over his head. “By the way, where did you get that museum piece?”
I imagined Martinez was grinning from ear to ear right about now. “National Guard, sir. They have all the cool hand me downs. You need to hold out for five more minutes. Spooky’s on the way.”
“That is good news, Major. I’m glad Sergeant Scott found you.” He said, turning when the machine gun next to him began firing again.
“Sir? Sergeant Scott?” I asked, but he had already raised his rifle and was back in the fight.
Looking down the runway I could see long lines of civilians being herded into waiting planes. A Globemaster was in motion, lining up for takeoff and Martinez took us well out of its way. I could hear the bellow of its engines, even over the rotors and noise from the battle. It seemed to accelerate too slowly, and looked like it was barely moving when it lifted off the runway. The optical illusion created by very large aircraft.
The infected pushed in, screams audible even as we hovered. Watching from my vantage point the mass of bodies reminded me of the old movie The Blob. They seemed to flow over everything, just like that extraterrestrial gelatinous monster. Machine gun fire raked the leading edge, bodies falling to be immediately stepped on by the thousands pushing in.
Runners began breaking away from the main body as it pushed to within thirty yards of the defensive line. Rifle and machine gun fire cut them down, but in doing so gave up a few feet of ground to the herd.
“Spooky, Dog Four. What’s your time to target?” I shouted into the radio.
“Two mikes, Dog Four. Got you in sight. We’re going to have to hold back for a minute more. There’s a big bird about ready to go.” I turned and looked south, seeing a C5 Galaxy beginning to trundle down the tarmac to line up for take off.
“Copy, Spooky,” I said. “When you’re on target, defend the runway. You’ll see the perimeter. Friendlies are in a world of shit.”
“Spooky copies,” I heard, turning back to check on the line below.
Runners had broken away from the front edge, which was now only twenty yards from the defenders. Crawford stood next to two figures, one of them enough smaller that I suspected it was a woman, all three of them firing at the sprinting females. The machine gunner in front of them was working his fire along the front ranks, then had to pause to slap in a new ammo belt being held out by the civilian next to him.
The pause in fire from the machine gun was all the females needed. Two of the runners leapt, slamming into the gunner and his assistant as dozens more sprinted forward. In seconds they were pouring through the breach in the line. Crawford and the other two fighters formed a tight circle, backs to each other and kept firing.
“Katie, get back here!” I screamed, firing the door gun to give them some support.
“What?” She shouted in my ear a moment later.
“Unstrap me, then take over,” I shouted back, not wanting to stop firing even long enough to change gunners. I felt her begin releasing my body from the straps that held me in place.
“What are you doing?” She shouted as the last buckle came free.
“Going down there,” I said, sending a long burst into a group of runners who were almost to the line.
“Are you crazy?” She said, grabbing my arm.
“No time,” I shouted, moving out of the way. Grabbing her hands I pulled her close, kissed her quickly then pushed her at the door gun. She started firing as she slipped into place and I quickly secured her to the helicopter.
Snatching an equipment bag from where it was strapped to the floor, I opened it and yanked out a pair of heavy gloves and the end of a fast rope. Slapping the gated hook over a steel stanchion, I kicked the bag out the side door opposite the machine gun. The bag fell to the ground, uncoiling the rope as it dropped. Turning my back to the open doorway, I pulled the gloves on, grabbed the rope with both hands and jumped backwards into the air.
62
I came down fast. Yes, it’s called fast roping, but there’s fast and then there’s the fast I just did. I might have hurt something if I’d landed on solid ground, but I took my feet off the rope just in time to slam onto an infected’s back. She fell, face first, and I let go of the rope and landed on her body.
I could feel her back break when my knees hit, and I let her absorb the rest of my momentum before rolling to the side and onto my feet. Females were leaping over the sandbagged machine gun to my left, the Colonel and his two companions still fighting to my right. Enemy too close for me to use the AK47 I’d taken off the dead terrorist, I pulled the Kukri and went to work.
The blade whistled as I slashed through flesh and bone. I wasn’t necessarily going for kills, just keeping the screaming bodies away from me. I needed to clear enough of a path for someone to get back on the goddamn machine gun. Blood flew as I battled to move forward, the Kukri inflicting horrible injuries as I continued to wield it.
Punching with my left hand, grabbing and pulling bodies out of my way, I hacked and slashed like a man possessed until I reached the dead gunner. There was no time for me to look to see if anyone was close, and I nearly decapitated Colonel Pointere when he pushed past me and leapt for the machine gun. It took him a second to charge the weapon and swing the muzzle up.
Pressing the trigger he cut down dozens of females directly in front of us with a long, sustained burst, then began working on the ones right behind them. With the machine gun back in action I was able to wade in and clear up most of the females who had gotten through the line, Colonel Crawford and the blonde Airman taking down the last ones with their rifles.
Crawford looked at me and said something I couldn’t hear between the hammering of machine gun fire and the blood pounding in my ears. I looked up as a massive
C5 roared overhead, appearing to be traveling way too slow to possibly be in flight. Once it passed I scanned for the Huey, but didn’t see it, then realized Martinez would have gotten out of the area for Spooky.
I heard the bass drone of the four giant turboprop engines a moment before the AC-130 passed overhead and opened fire. The 25 mm Equalizer is a five-barrel rotary canon and spits out 1,800 rounds a minute. The shells are about the size of my fist and traveling faster than 3,000 feet per second when they leave the barrel. They are absolutely devastating, and as the plane orbited it fired continuously.
Nothing was left alive in its wake. Hell, nothing was left intact, or even recognizable. Bodies just seemed to cease to exist, disappearing in a puff of pink mist if a shell hit them squarely. The leading ranks of the infected weren’t pushed back, they were erased off the face of the planet.
After Spooky’s second orbit we had a nice, wide buffer zone between the infected and us. There was some clean up, and the machine gunners made quick work of the incredibly lucky females that had somehow avoided the devastation. Starting his third orbit, Spooky opened up with the 40 mm Bofors autocanon, firing into the main body of the surrounding herd as it began to push forward.
Huge gaps were blown in the legion of infected by shells so powerful they had been used for anti-aircraft purposes in World War II. On the next orbit he continued firing the Bofors and engaged the Equalizer again. Two more orbits and we had a four hundred yard buffer.
Nearly every infected inside the defensive ring defined by the moat had been killed or maimed badly enough that they were no longer a threat. The few hundred that were still on their feet fell to machine gun fire. We were by no means out of the woods, there were still hundreds of thousands if not millions of infected pushing into the base, but we had some breathing room.