by Mark Rounds
July 10th, Friday, 11:12 am PDT
Old Alert Pad, Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
Jen watched as the Alpha and Bravo flights streamed through her position. Her troops were settled and ready but this was their first contact with the Infected and they had only been together as a unit for two days. She was worried, but she couldn’t let that show. As the last of the armed Humvees streamed through the old Alert Pad, the chief pulled up to Jen on his motorcycle.
“Casualties were light, ma’am,” said the Chief pulling off his helmet. “Use your firepower. Don’t mix with them. If you have to, retreat to the Alert Facility and hold out there. We will be back as soon as we re-arm. Stay calm things, will be OK. Do you want me to stay with you?”
Jen thought for a moment and looked at Sergeant Finkbiner who was going from position to position checking ammunition and morale. If she had the Chief stay back with her flight, she would undercut the confidence that was building behind her Flight Sergeant.
“Thanks Chief,” said Jen, “but we can handle it. Just hustle back as soon as you can. Shotguns are pretty short-ranged.”
“You got it ma’am,” said the Chief over his shoulder as he headed after Alpha and Bravo flights.
Jen’s attention was drawn as her two automatic weapons opened up. Looking to the east, she saw that there were sparse clumps of Infected. What worried her more were the individuals behind the Infected. Those in front of her were nearly naked and at most carrying clubs and blades. Behind them, the troops were in uniforms, carrying AK-47s and AR-15’s. They were clearly well-organized.
“Finkbiner,” said Jen as her flight sergeant ran by, “get Bailey and his spotter and put them on the roof of the Alert Facility. Have him take out anybody who looks like they are giving orders, waving their arms, or packing a radio. For some reason, they are not coming forward quite yet. I want to use that.”
“Yes, ma’am!” said Finkbiner who snagged Bailey and his spotter. “You two, come with me, let’s see how much trouble we can cause!”
July 10th, Friday, 11:17 am PDT
Northeast corner of Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
Macklin's troops finished dealing with the Infected in front of them quite quickly, and automatic weapons fire from the Alert Pad took out the remainder. There were some that were flowing around the edges of the perimeter but they were intent on entering the base proper and were of no more value to him.
Macklin looked over at Wallace and motioned him forward. Wallace caught the look and started shouting and kicking at the cluster of mercenaries who had stopped to watch the demise of the Infected in front of them.
All of the sudden, Wallace stopped cold and grasped at his throat. Seconds later blood began to seep through his fingers and he slid to the ground. Wallace's radio operator turned to run but was knocked to the ground. His radio exploded in a shower of sparks. A split second later, there was the sound of a rifle report. The radio operator dumped the smoking radio and got up to try to run. A second shot put him down.
Ngengi dropped to one knee and began firing rapid aimed semi-automatic fire with his FN SCAR 17S in the direction of the blocky building on the alert pad. Several others took up the fusillade. Suddenly, Ngengi nodded and started pushing the troops forward again.
“What was that?” asked Macklin when Ngengi got closer.
“There was a sniper on the roof,” said Ngengi. “I don't think we hit him, but we did force him off the roof. I will be watching from now on.”
The Infected in front of them soaked up the fire coming from the automatic weapons positioned around the old Alert Pad, but they were soon gone and there was a definite gap between the two forces. While some of the Infected leaked around the edges, it was Macklin's forces that came under accurate fire.
Most of the mercenaries hit the ground as the fire built, but they continued to crawl forward. Macklin noted that they were receiving pretty accurate fire, but it was only coming from seven or eight weapons. There were a lot more troops in front of him that were waiting and that worried him
July 10th, Friday, 11:12 am PDT
Old Alert Pad, Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
Sergeant Finkbiner tumbled down the stairs leading to the roof and landed in a heap right in front of Capt Stutesman.
“Sorry, ma'am,” said Finkbiner as he struggled to get up. “We got a few shots in, but then they took the roof under fire. We were out there without cover on the hot asphalt shingles. We stood out like a sore thumb. I got Bailey and his spotter off the roof and I was just securing the door when I fell.”
“Are you OK?” asked Jen.
“Fine, ma’am,” said Finkbiner, brushing himself off. “The door is secured and locked in case someone tries to enter from above. I jammed a chair in the latch. You would have to be Superman to move it now.”
“Good,” said Jen. “How are the troops in the foxholes doing?”
“I am headed out there to check now,” said Finkbiner.
“Keep your head down," said Jen worriedly.
“I'll use the communications trench, ma'am,” said Finkbiner.
“Good,” said Jen. “Bring them back to this building if it looks like we are getting overrun. I'll be watching from the door. We will build some internal barricades at the doors.”
“Yes ma'am,” said Finkbiner as he headed out the door working his way from fighting position to fighting position along a trench that hardly merited the description. Behind the line of fighting positions, a bulldozer had made a couple of passes, scraping the ground down a couple of feet. The soil was then shoveled, by hand, to the front side of the berm. As a result there was a space roughly two and a half feet deep and eight feet wide that could protect him. It was fine if he wanted to low crawl, but he needed to move faster so he hobbled in a low crouch that only drew a few bullets.
He had taken the time as they settled in to place some range markers fifty yards in front of the firing positions. They were just stakes, but they didn't stand out and would help inexperienced shooters decide when to fire.
“How is it going guys?” asked Finkbiner as he tumbled into Fraser's and Morton's hole.
“Pretty good, Sarge,” said Fraser. “The guys falling back left a couple of grenades and water.”
“Water is in short supply,” said Finkbiner, seeing that they had two canteens. “I'll leave you one canteen and take the other to the next hole. Remember your training. Don't start shooting until they get in front of the range stakes. Let the riflemen engage them. Unless it's really dicey, one of you shoot and while the other loads so you can keep up a steady rate of fire. I'll run these two extra weapons back to the Alert Facility, but you can keep the ammo. You might need it. If you have to bug out, bring as much ammo as you can. I figure we will run low before the Chief gets back. Stay calm and I'll check you in a few minutes.”
“You OK, Morton?” said Fraser as he checked to make sure his shotgun was loaded for the tenth time.
“Shiny,” said Morton.
Suddenly, bullets started to kick up dirt along their berm. Morton looked over the berm quickly and made to shoot. Fraser tapped his shoulder and shook his head.
“We could probably get some hits this far out,” said Fraser, “but most of them look infected. It will take more than a few pellets to put them down. We need to wait until they are at fifty yards, like the sergeant said. Then the shock factor of the twelve gauges will be in our favor.”
“I heard him,” said Morton. “I just want to do something. This waiting is giving me the willies, you know?”
“I know,” said Fraser. “Just hang on.”
He had hardly uttered the words when a grenade, smoking from the internal fusing, landed right between them. Without thinking, Morton scooped it up and pitched it back, hard in the direction of the enemy. It detonated halfway there and spooked the mercenaries facing them to the point where they hit the ground again.
“Good arm,” said Fraser admiringly.
“I was a varsity pitc
her at my high school,” said Morton. “Not good enough to get a college scholarship and not many folks from my high school went to college anyway.”
“When things settle down,” said Fraser, “I’m snagging you for the squadron softball team.”
“If there is a team,” said Morton.
One of the few Infected to get past the automatic weapons stepped inside the range marker. Morton fired twice and missed, but the third one caught the young infected man right in the chest. It sat him down abruptly, but incredibly, even with the muscles from his chest hanging like ribbons, he struggled to his feet. It took two more rounds before he stopped moving.
“Loading!” shouted Morton as he slid down from his firing position. Fraser crawled up and started looking. There were no Infected left, but there were quite a few men and women in tiger-striped battle dress working their way towards them. Several crossed the range line and he began a slow measured fire. He was sure he hit at least one, but they were doing their best to use what sparse cover there was available and they were staying low.
“Loaded!” shouted Morton.
Even though he had two rounds out of the eight the shotgun held, Fraser ducked back down and nodded to Morton who popped up and began firing. Fraser tried to load his shotgun, but his hands were shaking so bad that it was hard. He took a deep breath and slowly finished loading.
“Out!” shouted Morton as he slid down and began to load.
“Firing!” shouted Fraser as he took his position. Targets were scarce now as the shotgun pellets singing around caused the mercenaries out in front of them to cower in place.
“Loaded!” shouted Morton.
“I’m still good,” said Fraser more conversationally. “Targets are hard to hit.”
Morton took a swig of the remaining canteen and passed it to Fraser who also took a small drink.
“Shit!” said Fraser after a few minutes. He began firing rapidly and motioned to Morton. “Get up here and start shooting Morton!”
Morton squirmed up into position and saw at least a dozen mercenaries attempting to rush their position. He opened up on them and they quickly took cover, but closer now. Three more rushes followed. Fraser and Morton were hard-pressed to load their shotguns and keep up a high rate of fire. The other firing positions near them supported their fire when they could, but they were all being pressed.
It looked like they were significantly outnumbered and one by one positions were being silenced. First it was the M-249. It drew a lot of fire and there was a concerted rush on it during a reload. They were able to clear the fighting position with a counterattack, but the crew was dead. The weapon was recovered but there was very little ammo, so it was retired to the Alert Facility. Ammo started to run out. Morton and Fraser were able to keep up a high rate of fire because of the additional bandoleers they had, but things were getting close.
Capt Stutesman, who was watching things from the inside and keeping higher HQ notified, stripped the wounded and her command staff of all their shotgun ammo and called Finkbiner over.
“We have a problem,” said Jen. “Major Beadle is at least ten minutes out and the troops are starting to run out of ammo now. I have gathered all the ammo here in the facility but it's not much. Call squads one and three back to the doors and we will give them all the resupply we have. Then call in squads two and four and get them in the building. Squads one and three will have a mad minute as soon as the retiring troops have cleared their field of fire. They fire all the ammo in their weapons and then they are to come in. After that we fort up and try to repel any breaches with what we have left. What do you think?”
“As good as anything I can come up with,” said Finkbiner. “I'll get the troops moving.”
A security police squadron is normally long on radios, but with the Plague, they were limited on batteries so there was only Jen's radio in the flight. Finkbiner tapped Bailey's spotter as one runner and he took the other job. They sprinted out to the squad leaders for squads one and three and gave them a warning order that they would be retreating to the door in a minute. Then they headed for squads two and four. Bailey's spotter never made it but Finkbiner got to Squad four and sent a runner from there. When everyone was in place, he blew his whistle.
The remains of squads one and three fell back to the doors. A couple of the walking wounded and Capt Stutesman herself handed out the remaining ammo. Finkbiner watched as the ammo was passed out and the squads took up a hasty defense around the doors.
Then he blew his whistle twice and the rest headed in. Fraser had just loaded his shotgun and so figured to unload it before he left. Morton took off. The mercenaries saw, almost too late, that the much-reduced Security Flight was headed inside and rushed the perimeter. In several places, they managed to gain the perimeter before the even number squads cleared the firing lanes.
In front, where Fraser and Morton had been stationed, Fraser's six rapid fire rounds drove the attackers back momentarily, but before he could run, Carlos caught him in the sights of his SIG Sauer M400 and put four rounds of .300 Blackout into his chest and abdomen. The impact knocked him flat on his back.
“DON'T LEAVE ME!” screamed Fraser as he lay on his back, trying to get up.
Several of the mercenaries closed in for the kill in front of a horrified Morton. The men who were with Morton only glanced at Fraser as he lay the screaming and continued their headlong flight into the building. Morton got to one of the third squad guys and threw is M870 and his remaining half bandoleer of ammunition at him.
“Cover me!” shouted Morton. Then he pulled the pin from both grenades and threw them, one after another, with deadly accuracy into the killing ground where the mercenaries were charging. The resulting explosions killed two and drove the rest to the ground.
Morton took a deep breath and before he could really think about what he was doing, charged back towards his fighting position. Even though Fraser was a bigger man, Morton picked him up in an awkward fireman's carry. The pain of being picked up caused Fraser to scream again, but then he saw and felt Morton lift him off the ground and he quieted down. Morton carried him back at a shambling run.
By this time, Finkbiner had gotten to the door and along with Capt Stutesman provided enough additional covering fire that Morton could get inside the building without further injury.
“Morton, you da man!” whispered Fraser as he awkwardly patted Morton's pack. As they ran, no one noticed as Fraser bled out and died from the huge exit wounds in his back.
Chapter 24
July 10th, Friday, 11:22 am PDT
East of the Base Ops Apron, Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
Nergüi was frustrated. He had tried three times to take the Base Ops Apron and get to the aircraft there and hopefully to the General. Even if he could just destroy the planes, it would be good because the General would be stuck here for a while.
But the troops defending Base Ops were well equipped and trained and they just didn't give in. The amount of firepower they laid on his troops was devastating and though he had started out with a three to one numerical advantage, he had lost half of his men.
“Macklin!” said Nergüi into his phone.
“Macklin here,” crackled the voice over the phone.
“We are stalled out in front of the airplanes,” said Nergüi. “We will lay down fire. See if you can get at them from the flank.”
“Yes, sir,” said Macklin somewhat truculently.
“Don't fail me,” said Nergüi ominously. “There are worse ways to die than a bullet through the head.”
Nergüi broke the connection before Macklin could reply. It galled him that Macklin had probably already figured out what was wrong with his plan and had tried to warn him, in spite of the threats.
“I may have to reconsider how I use Macklin,” thought Nergüi in a rare moment of self-examination. “In these new times, he is right more often than I am.”
Nergüi grabbed Sven as he ran by and spoke to him urgently.
; “We can't break through the defenses here,” said Nergüi gesturing towards Base Ops, “In a couple of minutes, those jets are going to start taking off. You will keep two platoons here and all the heavy weapons. Make them think you are going to try to take them again. I will take what's left, plus the two remaining Stinger teams and get down to the end of the runway. With your demonstration and Macklin's forces coming in from the north, I hope to get into position without attracting too much notice. Maybe I can take the General out that way.”
Sven nodded and started getting his reduced infantry company together to move forward one more time. Nergüi caught the attention of the third platoon leader and outlined his plan. The mercenaries didn't seem too keen on it, but with Ælfheah and Tömörbaatar looming over the proceedings, no one voiced any objections.
Nergüi waited until Sven had his troops firing and moving forward. Then he put his meager forces in motion, heading south and east along the line of the runway. Luckily, they were able to find a foundation for some old Instrument Landing Equipment just off the runway several hundred feet before the end. Under normal circumstances, the weeds and grass around the runway were cut very close to the ground, but since the Plague and the fuel shortage, it hadn't been cut since mid-May. As a result, there was pretty good concealment for their position.
Nergüi did have some concerns. His two Stinger teams had three missiles between them. With the size and robustness of the C-17, he couldn't count on single-shot kills. He was going to have to concentrate his fire on a single aircraft. So while they waited for the launch, Nergüi contemplated in which of the three aircraft the General would choose to ride.
July 10th, Friday, 11:27 am PDT