by Mark Rounds
On Final Approach to Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
Major Kong flew the C-17 like a fighter plane, trying to get it on the ground in the shortest possible time. While they were descending in an earsplitting dive, Gen Antonopoulos saw a biplane make several passes on the on-coming horde, breaking up their focus, and killing many, though the survivors didn't seem to slow much. He had never seen someone fly that low and not crash, so when a missile did finally hit him, he was further amazed the that crazy pilot landed the airplane in front of the enemy and calmly got out. Just as his C-17 touched down, he saw Phillips' UH-1 land down to pick him up.
“Damn, if that guy lives through this, I’m buying him a beer,” said Gen Antonopoulos.
July 10th, Friday, 10:24 am PDT
Base Ops, Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
Jen made it to the AGE shed about the time the first of three C-17's started to settle down on the runway. Sergeant Finkbiner met her at the door and handed her a web belt with her M-9 in a holster with four extra magazines.
“Nice dog, ma'am,” said Finkbiner.
“Dog?” said Jen momentarily flustered. “Oh, her, that's Candy. She’s a sentry dog.”
“Could be real useful, ma'am.” said Finkbiner with a bit of a smile, then he was down to business. “I got all the weapons I could scrounge in five minutes, ma'am. We have the M-249 and the M-240 we had on patrol. We were allowed to keep our M-4s, so I passed them out to the team leaders but we had to turn in all the M-9's other than yours. Bailey has his .270 and a Ruger Blackhawk in .357 mag. I kept the 870 and other than four nondescript, low end, 9mm pistols, it's knives and tire irons.”
“It will have to do,” said Jen. “Shake them out into fire teams and stand ready. I got the feeling we will be busy soon enough unloading the C-17's which maybe have some more 870s.”
Jen turned around just in time to see an old UH-1 settled down on the pad. Before the rotors stopped spinning, Col Phillips jumped out, followed by two door gunners carrying M-60's. Behind them came the pilot and co-pilot packing ammo. The end of the entourage was an old geezer in a Major's flight suit.
Capt Twitchell came running from the Base Ops building and for a few seconds held a tense conversation with the Colonel. Then the Colonel looked up and saw Jen and motioned her over.
“Captain, is that your Flight in the AGE shed?” asked Col Phillips.
“Yes, sir,” replied Jen.
“Why are they here and not training?” asked the Colonel.
“We were doing squad fire and movement tactics in the ball field,” said Jen trying to keep her fear under control. “When we saw the Ag-Cat take off, I figured there was something going on, so we double-timed it to Base Ops to see if we could help.”
“Have your troops any training at all with the M870 shotgun?” asked Col Phillips abruptly.
“Sir,” said Jen starting to get mad. How dare he suggest that her troops were goofing off! “We have all had a four hour block of instruction on basic handling and cleaning of the M870 twelve gauge shotgun. Every airman in this flight has fired an abbreviated twenty round familiarization course with the weapon, that being all the ammo we were issued. This morning, they were up at 06:30 for PT and then Fire and Movement drills in the ball field after breakfast.”
“And you have had them for just thirty hours?” asked the Colonel rhetorically.
“Fine job, Captain,” said Colonel Phillips with a little bit of a smile. “I have radioed in for the three other new and currently under-armed flights of the 106th to get to the Flight Line ASAP. The nearest one is ten minutes out because their officers didn't think to come down here on their own initiative. In two minutes, that C-17 will be parking on the apron and the General himself will be wondering why we aren't unloading. Shortly after that, Infected will be crossing the airfield perimeter in some thousands. I have positioned every security troop I can spare on the east edge of the base to stop them, but look at them!”
Jen couldn't see the whole eastern perimeter, but what she saw was scary. Every fifty yards or so, there was a Humvee or Air Force pickup mounting some form of automatic weapon. Between the vehicles, there two or three two man teams in small sandbagged emplacements. It was more than ten yards between each emplacement.
“They are damned thin on the ground, Captain,” said Phillips. “I have a couple of other dirty tricks planned, but getting your troops armed and set up to defend a fallback position as Alpha and Bravo flights retreat and rearm could make this operation go a lot smoother. Are they up to it?”
“Yes SIR!” shouted Jen.
“Very good, Captain,” said Phillips smiling. “That is the first good news I have had all morning. But what about the dog?”
“That's Candy, sir!” said Jen unwilling to apologize. “She is a trained Air Force Sentry dog with no handler currently. We are so short of weapons that some of my airmen are carrying tire irons. I thought we could use her.”
“Very probably, Captain,” said Phillips approvingly. “Twitchell will get you situated to unload the first plane. The forklifts, which are here finally, will start pulling pallets off the plane the moment it drops its ramp. Hustle your troops to the port-side door of the first aircraft. There will be armorers handing out M870s and bandoleers of shells. Distribute them and prepare to defend the old alert pad or wherever the need seems greatest on that flank.
“At some point, Major Beadle and the deployed security troops will fall back through your position. Keep your troops steady and hold the Infected for thirty seconds or so while Alpha and Bravo flights fall back to the buildings. Then you hustle back behind them rearm and wait for the next bound. Is that clear, Captain?”
“As a Bell, SIR!” said Jen.
“Very well,” said Phillips who handed Jen a radio, commonly called a 'brick', with a sly grin. “You are the senior flight commander on the runway right now so it's your show. When the new flights arrive, get them armed and situated. The Chief is forward with Alpha and Bravo flights. He will fall back to your location once you tell him where you are and take over this operation. Good Luck Captain!”
Without another word, the Colonel left to handle another crisis and finally, for a moment, Jen was speechless.
“Chief, this is Captain Stutesman,” said Jen uncertainly into the radio. The only reply was a barrage of static. She tried twice more with similar results. Then the old geezer in the flight suit, who had been following the Colonel spoke.
“Captain,” said Lee. “It will work better if you wait a few minutes. I am not supposed to know this, but I heard them talking in the helicopter. The Colonel has something laid on to open the airwaves. Give it a few minutes and try again.”
Then the old man winked and followed the Colonel.
July 10th, Friday, 10:34 am PDT
In the air, West of Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
Lt Jeremy Price was leading a six-man detachment from the 92nd Security Police Squadron at Fairchild Air Force Base. The team was the closest thing Fairchild had to a special-ops team. The 36th Rescue Squadron supplied the UH-1N helicopter they were flying in along with a pilot and a PJ named Senior Airman Michael LaPoint, and who was probably the best combat shooter in the team, Tech Sergeant Raleigh Winters. Winters was officially a non-com in the intelligence section of the 92nd Operations group, but he competed regularly in local distance shooting competitions and was the closest they had to a sniper. Senior Airman Peterson was his spotter, also a member of the intelligence section.
Senior Airman Mario Hernandez was a member of the 242nd Combat Communications Squadron and was also a dedicated ham radio enthusiast. He currently sat cross-legged in front of home-built device that was controlled by the laptop computer in his lap. Connected to the rough wooden case that belied a pretty sophisticated, if handmade, radio receiver, were two makeshift RF directional antennas dangling from a rack underneath the helicopter.
Master Sergeant Ray Filby was the senior enlisted man in the unit. He also trained the Security Poli
ce squadron in unarmed combat and at 6’ 5” and 238 pounds, was by far the biggest man in the helicopter. Another member of the 92nd Security Police Squadron, Airman First Class Preston Ireland, who was this year’s Warrior Fitness champion for the base and all around sports fanatic, completed the crew.
“The signal is impossible to miss, sir,” said Hernandez. “Look fifteen degrees left of track, and no more than two miles.”
“Are you sure about this?” asked Price, who looked dubiously at the box of incomprehensible electronic parts.
“Yes, sir,” said Hernandez. “I realize this may not look like much, but I have tested many times since we got the order to build a detector for the radio interference we have been receiving. The signal we are looking for is real powerful and hard to miss. Their power requirements must be pretty big. Given that most of the power grid is down, I would be looking for a very large solar array or something like a large diesel truck running a big generator just about flat out.”
Jeremy nodded and continued to scan where Hernandez pointed. Because of the way the radio direction system was constructed, they were not able to fly straight at the target but had to approach in kind of a zig-zag pattern.
“Lieutenant,” said the pilot, Capt Scott Sines of the 36th Rescue Squadron, “there is a bit of a smoke plume about where your tech wizard said the target would be, kind of like a big diesel motor under a heavy load.”
Jeremy looked down and saw that the country below him was a lot of wide open farm land, but a plume of exhaust was just visible came from the edge of a valley that had been carved by little stream called Deep Creek on the map.
“Captain, make as if you were headed off to the west of that location but continue to close,” said Jeremy to the pilot who nodded and turned the aircraft forty degrees to the west.
“The bearing to the jamming source is now twenty-five degrees right of track,” said Hernandez after the pilot completed the turn, “no more than a mile and a half distant.”
Jeremy could now see that there was a semi-tractor that had obviously towed a smallish trailer over some pretty rough county to get to the top of the ridge. The truck was throwing up a huge plume of smoke, like it was running at pretty high rpm and against a load.
“Captain, that’s our target alright,” said Jeremy to pilot. “Get us down there fast, as close to the truck as you can.”
Jeremy patted Airman Ireland, who was manning the M-60 door gun.
“Hold your fire unless somebody has a weapon pointed at the helicopter,” said Jeremy. “We want to take some of these guys alive.”
Jeremy gave a thumbs-up to the rest of the team just as the bottom dropped out and helicopter dove for the ground. It covered the intervening mile and a half in forty seconds and flared at the last second to maximize surprise.
As soon as the runners hit the ground, the team jumped off and fanned out. As they had practiced on base, Sergeant Winters high tailed it north carrying his personal Remington 700 BDL chambered for 300 Winchester Magnum at high port. As soon as he saw movement, he hit the ground and assumed the prone position.
The target, a dark-skinned man in tiger striped camouflage, reached for his shoulder holster. The pistol never cleared leather as Winters gently stroked the trigger. At less than fifty yards, the 180 grain boat-tailed slug punched right through the body armor he was wearing and hit the truck behind him, whining away in the distance.
Filby and LaPoint went north around the cab, and Jeremy and Peterson went south. Someone was on the ball, because they dropped prone on the opposite side of the trailer unit and took it under fire with a P90 sub-machine gun. It took only four rounds for an alert Airman Ireland to locate the source of the fire over the whine of the twin turbines in the UH-1N and the big Cummings diesel running flat out. Ireland replied with fifty rounds from his M-60 which ended the fire coming from under the trailer.
Someone was just rising from a field chair with a pistol in his hand when one of Filby's giant paws closed over the weapon and the other bodily lifted him out of the chair.
“Keep still,” said Filby in a menacing basso profundo.
Meanwhile, Jeremy cleared the side of the trailer to see the final member of the jamming team running down the hill. Jeremy thought briefly about trying to run him down but the terrain looked dicey so he pulled up his M-4 and fired three rounds low at the target. Firing at someone's legs while they are running is a hard target to hit, but whether it was luck or skill, Jeremy managed to put one round in the lower calf of his adversary knocking him off his feet.
LaPoint rushed forward and put the muzzle of his M870 in the guy’s ear.
“We want you alive,” said LaPoint, “but I figure you can carry half a dozen pellets from this shotgun and still not die. Want to try me?”
The guy shook his head and sat down.
“Anybody have any Tangos?” shouted Jeremy who was answered by a chorus of no sirs. So he looked over the equipment and saw that most if the labels on the gauges were in Chinese. While he was puzzling out how to shut down the complex piece of equipment in front of him, the diesel suddenly died.
Jeremy looked up at the cab of the truck and saw Hernandez holding a broom stick in the air. Jeremy gave him a thumbs up.
“Can you shut this thing down?” asked Jeremy now that he could hear.
“The power is dead, sir,” said Hernandez into the silence. “Just pull that big cable in front of you out of the socket.”
Jeremy pulled the cable and looked around for manuals or anything else of intelligence value while his team secured the two prisoners. Then he noticed that it was really quiet. He could hear birds chirping.
He double-timed it over the helicopter to see Capt Sines squinting at a runnel of hydraulic fluid coursing down the side of the bird just below the engines.
“Did you shut down the engines sir?” asked Jeremy.
“I did,” said Sines. “We got hit by two or three rounds. It must have been something pretty high velocity because I started getting all kinds of warning lights in the cockpit so I shut everything down to keep it from roasting the engines. Unless we can get a CH-47 or something big to lift this beast out, this aircraft has become a high-priced chicken coop for the farm over there.”
“Does the radio still work?” asked a shocked Jeremy.
“It does until the batteries run out,” said Sines. “I just radioed in our location and situation. Left power on for now because I figured you would want to radio a status report back to base.”
Jeremy nodded and ducked back into the now silent helicopter. Sines handed him the headset and nodded, indicating that the power was on and they were on the air.
“Red Rover Control,” said Jeremy into the microphone, “this is Red Rover One-Seven is Red Rover One on the air?”
“Negative One-Seven,” said a cheerful female voice on the radio. “However Red Rover Two is right here and would like to hear your report.”
“Roger,” said Jeremy, trying to remember his hurried permission brief. With some thought, he remembered the code for ‘mission success, prisoners in hand, cannot return to base.’
“The code word is 'Rum Raisin' Zero-Two,” said Jeremy, after Fairchild Control answered his query. “I say again the code word is 'Rum Raisin.'”
“Good work One-Seven,” said the voice of the Deputy Commander for Operations. “Things are a might sporty around here right now, but once we get things under control, I'll have a motor patrol go out and pick you up. Prepare to RON, copy?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jeremy with a sinking feeling for RON meant Remain Over Night. “Good luck, sir!”
“Thanks, son,” said the DO. “We will likely need it before the day is out.”
July 10th, Friday, 10:33 am PDT
On the ground east of Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
Nergüi watched the Infected overrun the biplane with some satisfaction. Then he focused on the lead elements of the horde which had reached the fence. The first few climbed over it. Then the b
ody of Infected reached the fence which started to bow inward as the mass of human flesh pressed up against it and the fasteners holding the wire to the post started to give. When it looked like the fence could hold no more there was a series of ripping explosions all along a line fifty feet from the inside of it.
It was clear that these mines were directional, because the first wave of the Infected was cut to ribbons. Many of the Infected attempted to keep moving, even though they had grievous wounds, but the line of troops along the perimeter opened up and fired at them as they started to clear the abattoir that was the fence line, adding to the confusion. The Infected continued to struggle through the barrier, which now had several holes blown in it due to the mines.
Nergüi looked around and saw that while the Infected were pressing forward with vigor, his company of mercenaries had stopped dead in their tracks. The scene in front of them was horrific. He realized saw that their resolve was tissue thin.
“Forward, you fools!” shouted Nergüi. “This is what the Infected were for! They ate all that shrapnel so you wouldn't have to! Close up! Use their mass to shield your bodies! This is all according to the plan!”
Nergüi nodded to his three followers, Ælfheah, Sven, and a Mongolian giant named Tömörbaatar, to move forward. Using threats, kicks, and curses, they got the company moving forward slowly. Luckily, the Infected were moving even slower. Nergüi knew that for his plan to work, he had to get his mercenaries behind the wire, causing enough chaos and confusion so that he could get close to the General.
July 10th, Friday, 10:34 am PDT
On the ground north of Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
Macklin saw the mines go off and disintegrate hundreds of the Infected and shuddered. Had he gone forward as Nergüi had ordered, his forced would be a shambles, just as the Infected were. As it was, he had finally, with the help of Wallace and his followers, got his troops organized into companies and platoons. Unfortunately, they had also seen the mines rend the Infected on their flank. The fear in the air was palpable.