by Dirk Patton
To drive home my point I flicked the rifles safety lever off with my thumb. The click was clearly audible and three sets of eyes got very large. I looked at each of them in turn and didn’t see anything in their eyes that concerned me at the moment.
“We understand,” the Lieutenant spoke up. “We aren’t looking for any trouble, just trying to survive.”
“Fair enough,” I said, clicking the lever back into the SAFE position.
Rachel came out the back door and paused, picking up on the stressful dynamic of the moment, then walked over to me and took the cigarette out of my hand. She took a long drag, closed her eyes and held it for a moment before smiling and exhaling through her nose.
“God, that’s good,” She said. “I’m going to run back and get some supplies. He’s in bad shape and there’s not much more I can do with what we have than make him comfortable. I’ve got the stuff I found in that house that should help him.” Rachel was referring to the heroin she’d found in the house she’d been held captive in.
“OK. Take Mayo here with you,” I answered, gesturing to the young Airman. “Airman, when you get to that boat you will go straight to the flying bridge. There’s a pair of binoculars up there and you will use them to keep watch. If you see anything approaching, another boat, infected, whatever, you sound that horn. Understood?” I held his eyes with mine, waiting for an answer.
“Yes, sir.” He replied and got to his feet to climb into the speedboat with Rachel.
“Oh, and Airman,” I stopped him. “There’s a nasty tempered dog on that boat. He’ll let you on the bridge as long as Rachel here is with you, but… if you try to leave the bridge without one of us on the boat he’ll likely bite you balls off and have them for breakfast.”
Mayo’s eyes went wide and he looked back and forth between his Lieutenant, me and Rachel. When no one smiled he got the message. “Yes, sir. Got it.”
He scrambled into the speedboat with Rachel already at the wheel, untied the line holding it to the houseboat and they were gone.
“He’s a good kid,” Blake said. “He won’t mess with anything.”
I grinned and looked over my shoulder and watched Rachel maneuver the speedboat to the stern of the cruiser where Mayo grabbed a line out of the water and tied the two boats together. Dog stood at the stern rail, tail down and ears up and Mayo didn’t make another move until Rachel boarded the boat and motioned him to follow.
“So gentlemen. How did you wind up in this little corner of paradise?” I asked.
36
Lieutenant David Anderson hung up the phone, grumbling to himself at the emergency call in. Three months out of college he was honoring his commitment to the National Guard in exchange for four years of tuition having been paid in full. He didn’t mind the National Guard, especially since things were winding down in Iraq and Afghanistan and it was very unlikely that he’d get deployed. However, he had just walked in the door of his cramped apartment and had planned to grab a shower before meeting Melanie for a drink.
Melanie was a student at Georgia Tech, in her senior year, and was the most beautiful girl Anderson had ever seen. Tall with a runner’s body and long blonde hair he was still amazed that she had ever agreed to go out with him two weeks ago. This was now their third date, and he was hoping he was reading the signs right and she would be coming home with him tonight. Damn call ups, he fumed, almost throwing his cell phone against the wall. Instead, he calmed himself and called Melanie and canceled their date. To his surprise she asked him if he would call her as soon as he was free so they could go have their drink. He agreed and, mood lightened, set about gathering what he needed to take to the Guard base.
Half an hour later he sat in a briefing room with Captain Gerry Helm, the pilot of the Pave Hawk to which Anderson was assigned. Their crew chief, Tech Sergeant Blake and a young Senior Airman named Mayo sat in the row of chairs behind them. At the back of the room were four men wearing a mishmash of civilian and military issue clothing. All had thick beards, three with long hair to their shoulders and the fourth with a shaved head.
Anderson didn’t need to be told they were Special Forces operators. No one other than SF walked around any military installation looking like a dirt bag, or as Captain Helm put it, ‘Rejects from the Hell’s Angels’. He had seen SF Operators before, but never worked with them. They were almost a mythical creature to someone like him and a thrill of excitement ran through him at the thought of adding a SF operation to his military resume. He snapped out of his reverie when Captain Helm shot to his feet and yelled, “Attention!”
He was on his feet, ramrod straight in the blink of any eye as were Blake and Mayo. From the back of the room he could hear shuffling about and chairs being repositioned as the SF guys got to their feet in their own sweet time. Anderson kept his eyes straight ahead, focused on the US flag standing at the front of the room, but in his peripheral vision he could see Colonel Hamm, his air wing commander, accompanied by an Army Colonel stride into the room and take up position between the US and Air Force flags.
“As you were,” Colonel Hamm rumbled in a baritone voice that always made Anderson think of a gravel crusher. Hamm was an early middle aged black man who in his prime had been a star linebacker for Air Force, and he still had the thick chest and arms from the football days of his youth. As large and intimidating as he was he didn’t compare to the Army Colonel standing next to him. The man was a shade over six feet tall and obviously spent a great deal of time in the gym. His shoulders and back strained the ACU blouse he wore and his biceps threatened to rip through the sleeves. He was one of the ugliest human beings that Anderson had ever seen and not anyone he’d want to have pissed off at him.
After the men settled into their seats Hamm spoke briefly. “Gentlemen, this is a classified top secret briefing for an equally classified operation. It is not to be discussed with anyone not present in this room. Clear?”
The four Air Force personnel immediately answered with an affirmative, but the back of the room was silent. The SF guys didn’t do anything that wasn’t classified at least top secret and this was old hat to them. Anderson wasn’t even sure they were paying attention, but he wasn’t about to turn around to find out. Hamm glared at the back of the room for a moment, then introduced the Army Colonel.
“With me is Colonel Flowers from Army Special Operations. This mission shall be under his operational control and he will brief you on what you need to know.”
Hamm stepped aside but the larger Flowers didn’t feel the need to move from where he already stood. Flowers? Anderson suspected it had been a very long time, if ever, that anyone had made a crack about the Colonel’s name. Looking at him standing with his feet wide apart and hands clasped behind his back Anderson felt a shiver of uncertainty as the man looked at each of the Air Force personnel in turn before speaking.
“Thank you, Colonel Hamm.” His voice was nearly a falsetto, almost an amusing counter point to Colonel Hamm. Almost.
“Gentlemen, we have received intelligence that the United States is in imminent danger of attack. Not overseas, but here in the continental US. I am not at liberty to discuss the details of that intelligence with you, and beginning now you are in blackout status. No communication with any persons not directly involved in this mission. Am I clear?”
A chorus of “Sir!” sounded from the back of the room, but Captain Helm was the only man in the front row to acknowledge the order. Flowers’ head swiveled to Anderson, then Blake and Mayo.
“Gentlemen? Did I mumble?” His expression never changed but the tone in his voice was chilling.
“No sir. I mean, yes sir, the order is clear,” Anderson stumbled over his words. Blake and Mayo also acknowledged the order.
“Good. Now, your mission is simple.” He was clearly addressing the flight crew. “You are to depart this installation at 2300 hours with the team in the back of the room with you. You will have a full load out of war shot for this mission. Your call sign will be Cadillac Tw
o Seven. Your destination is the CDC, the Center for Disease Control, in metro Atlanta. Colonel Hamm tells me your flight time should be 15 minutes from wheels up to touchdown. Pilots, the briefing packet under your chairs contains your flight plan, radio freqs and designations, and destination landing details. Once on target you will stand by while my team retrieves a passenger.
“Once they are inserted you will remain on station and will defend the aircraft from any and all personnel who may try to approach. Your ROE – Rules of Engagement – are as follows; Absolutely NO personnel, civilian or military, may approach or board the aircraft. Deadly force is authorized. Am I clear?”
This time the flight crew spoke as one with a firm, “Yes, Sir!” Years of training was all that kept them from giving any other answer. Use of deadly force within the continental US was unheard of outside the personnel that secured nuclear weapons or sensitive installations. Deadly force to prevent someone from wandering up to an Air Force helicopter was beyond exceptional.
“Upon the return of the team with your passenger,” Colonel Flowers continued, “you shall disembark the CDC and make all possible speed to Fort Campbell, Kentucky. You will be met approximately half way by an escort flight of Apaches, designated as Whiskey Flight.
“Also in your briefing packets is a photo of the passenger you will be picking up. If my team is occupied providing rear cover and he arrives at the aircraft unescorted you shall provide protection for him, bring him aboard and depart immediately. The team is expendable, he is not. You are not to wait for them, or any member of the team, once your passenger is onboard your aircraft. Questions?”
Anderson had about a thousand questions, but kept his mouth shut. Anything operational should come from Captain Helm, and most of Anderson’s questions had little to do directly with the operation.
Right on cue Captain Helm spoke up, “Sir, should we expect resistance at the target?”
“Captain, you should expect resistance. You need to be prepared for possible panic from the civilian employees, and cannot hesitate to do what is necessary to complete your mission.” Flowers stared at Helm for a moment, then moved his gaze across the rest of the men in the room, satisfying himself that his message had gotten across.
When no one else spoke up he looked over at Colonel Hamm who had an expression on his face like he’d just sucked on a lemon. Colonel Hamm stepped forward and dismissed the assembled men. Captain Helm shot to his feet, calling the room to attention as the two officers walked out the door. A moment later Flowers stuck his head back in and motioned for the SF team to follow him. They quickly exited the room, leaving the four man Air Force flight crew alone.
“What the fuck, sir?” Blake asked with a look of incredulity on his face.
“You heard what I heard, Sergeant. This is all way off the reservation for me, but our orders are pretty clear.” Helm flipped open the briefing packet and thumbed through until he found the glossy photo of their passenger.
The man in the photo was in his mid-fifties with thick, graying hair, bushy eyebrows and a drinker’s nose. Anderson thought he kind of looked like his uncle. Helm stared at the photo for a few minutes then handed it to Blake.
“Tech Sergeant, I want you on the door gun this flight. Here’s our passenger. No one other than him or the SF team boards the aircraft. You good with that?”
Blake looked down at the photo in his hand, Mayo peering over his shoulder to get a good look.
“Sergeant Blake?” Helm prompted after a few moments of silence.
“Yes, sir. No problem,” Blake finally looked up and answered.
“Good. Let’s get our bird pre-flighted and make sure the ordnance monkeys don’t forget to give us bullets.” Helm stood and led the crew from the briefing room.
Just over an hour later Captain Helm pulled back on the collective and the Pave Hawk jumped into the dark Georgia sky. Anderson kept a hand on the controls ready to take command if needed as Helm spun them around and transitioned to forward flight on a direct course to the CDC.
In back, Blake sat in the open door of the helicopter, strapped in and ready on the machine gun that hung from a complicated sling system, ready to fire at a moment’s notice. Mayo, also strapped in, sat to the side ready to provide support to the gunner as needed. The four SF Operators sat in canvas web slings that hung from the walls of the helicopter. They were heavily armed and despite the expected short duration of the mission each carried a large amount of spare ammunition. They weren’t big talkers, the only communication coming from the team leader when they boarded the chopper and he asked for a headset so he was plugged into the internal intercom while they were in flight. Pave Hawks make all the racket in the world and the only way to communicate while in flight was over a headset.
The flight to the CDC was fast and uneventful, almost enjoyable as the soft warm air of the evening flowed through the helicopter’s door and the lights of Atlanta spread out below them. When they reached the CDC Anderson identified the helicopter pad for Helm, IR strobes embedded in the rooftop landing pad flashing brightly in his night vision goggles, then kept watch for other aircraft as they quickly descended and touched down.
The SF team was out the door before the rotors could spin down, running towards a metal door that led into the building. They moved in a diamond formation, each of the men with their weapons raised as they scanned their individual areas of responsibility.
“Cadillac Two Seven, Alpha Team moving. See you in a few,” the team leader radioed over secure comm link to Helm and Anderson.
“Copy, Alpha Team. Luck.” Helm responded, then turned around in his seat. “Mayo, take that M4 and some extra magazines and take up watch at our nose. I don’t want anyone coming in from our blind side. Remember you ROE, Senior Airman.”
“Yes, sir.” Mayo sounded a little shaky, but did as ordered. When he was in position he plugged his headset into an externally mounted jack on the front of the helicopter so he could stay in communication with the flight crew.
The rotor spun slowly overhead, the engines at idle while they waited. Helm would normally shut down the engines to save fuel, a Pave Hawk is a very thirsty bird, but he wanted to be ready to lift off the moment the SF team returned with their passenger.
It didn’t take long for the first signs of trouble to start. Mayo came on the intercom with a report of gunfire from the south.
“Could it be the SF guys, Mayo?” Helm asked.
“Negative sir, I don’t think so. They were carrying sound suppressed weapons, and besides this sounds like pistol fire with the occasional shotgun.” The stress in Mayo’s voice was evident, but Anderson knew he’d grown up in the gang infested streets of south Atlanta and would know the difference in sound between a pistol and an assault rifle.
“Lieutenant, take a look. Mayo, stay on your position.” Helm ordered.
Anderson gave a thumbs up as he pulled off his headset and released the flight harness that held him into the seat. Exiting the cockpit he trotted around the nose of the Pave Hawk and stopped next to Mayo to ask where he was hearing the shots, but didn’t need to as he heard them for himself. Jogging ahead he reached the edge of the roof and kneeled down at the low parapet to look over.
At first he thought he was looking at a small riot in the street below. Three police cars, roof lights strobing red and blue across the surrounding buildings, were sitting at haphazard angles in the middle of a large intersection. Five uniformed officers faced a large crowd of people who were advancing on them. Several bodies lay on the pavement, already being trampled by the advancing crowd.
As Anderson watched a slight figure that looked like a woman suddenly raced forward from the edge of the crowd, quickly followed by two more. All five officers opened fire, two of the women dropping to the street but the third made a mighty leap, landed on the hood of one of the patrol cars then launched herself at one of the officers. They went down in a tangle and started fighting until another office cracked her over the head with a baton.
She went limp and was pushed aside.
The officer who had used the baton turned his attention back to the rioters, engaging another runner before she could reach the hood of his car. As Anderson watched, the officer who had fought on the ground with the woman slowly got to his feet, stumbling like he was injured, then to Anderson’s horror he reached forward and appeared to sink his teeth into the other officer’s neck. They fought for a few seconds before falling to the ground, the first officer’s jaws still locked onto his prey. The other three officers stared, distracted for a minute, and paid the price. Five more women raced forward and quickly drug them down. The screams were clear on the night air and soon the crowd of rioters reached the struggling officers and fell on them like a pack of hyenas.
“What the fuck is going on?” Anderson asked himself as he backed away from the edge of the roof, turned and sprinted back to the idling Pave Hawk. He ran past Mayo, ignoring him, and skidded around the nose of the chopper. Yanking the door open he fumbled his headset on and relayed what he’d seen to Captain Helm.
“What?” A shocked Helm asked.
“Exactly what I said Captain. I’ve never seen anything like it except in movies. It was just like a scene out of The Walking Dead.”
Helm might not have believed Anderson if it weren’t for how obviously shaken the young Lieutenant was. He hadn’t known Anderson for long, but from what he’d seen the younger man was steady and level headed and didn’t seem to have a tendency to want to exaggerate or play jokes. Making a decision he pushed the button for the secure comm channel.
“Alpha Team, Cadillac Two Seven,” He broadcast.
“Go Two Seven,” the answer came back almost immediately, the SF team leader barely speaking loud enough to be heard.