Slaughterhouse - 02

by Stephen Knight

  “Tomcat, this is Wizard. How long will you need? Over.”

  “Wizard, this is Tomcat. We’ll need ten minutes to hot refuel then ten minutes to travel. Over.”

  “Roger that, Tomcat. Send some of your guys ahead to secure the landing zone, and I’ll follow up with a truck of lightfighters. Once the LZ is secured, I’ll send in the tanker. Over.”

  “Wizard, this is Tomcat. Roger all.”

  SEVENTEEN.

  A voice crackled in Dekker’s radio headset. “Six, this is One. Hueys are inbound, single file formation. I can see them over the terminal building. Over.”

  Dekker heard the characteristic racket the Hueys generated over the buzzing rumble of the final Black Hawk as it lifted off. He turned toward the passenger terminal building, but he couldn’t see anything. Nomad One was the tactical designation of the MRAP at the entrance to the helicopter assembly area, and the gunner there had elevation on his side. His sightline was superior to what Dekker had, standing on the deck.

  “Can you hit them, One? Over.”

  “I can try, Six. Over.”

  “Light ’em up! Fire for effect!” Dekker shouted as he ran back toward the MRAP. The Air Force guys in the M249 SAW nest were hunkering down, getting ready for action. Farther downrange, a second machinegun position was also getting squared away, not that there was much to do in the way of preparation. Everyone was cocked and locked, and a final radio check had been conducted. Everyone could talk to each other, and the aviators were staying within range.

  Even though the Black Hawks weren’t outfitted with heavy weapons, every helicopter had two pintle-mounted M240 machineguns, one on each side. Dekker and the aviation commander agreed that the UH-60s shouldn’t be used as attack platforms, but they could certainly provide covering fires if required, as well as airborne surveillance. Avoiding the Hueys wouldn’t be terribly difficult for them, since the Black Hawks enjoyed a fifty-knot speed advantage. Dekker was thankful the helicopters were remaining nearby. He was sure Nomad could use their assistance.

  EIGHTEEN.

  As the formation of Hueys draws closer to the airport, the lead helicopter bucks slightly. BANG! The engine begins winding down. Fire lamp snaps on. Copilot laughs and pulls on the fire extinguisher plunger as N1 winds down. Fire lamp goes out, but the engine isn’t responding. The pilot rolls off the fuel as the windscreen on the left side of the cockpit puckers inward for an instant before shattering. Something strikes the copilot in the neck and shears his head off. A fountain of scarlet splashes across the overhead console as the man bleeds out. The pilot titters as warm crimson droplets splatter him. The copilot was been shot, and the Huey is still receiving fire as it leads the others toward the airfield ahead. It’s all funny as hell. Death is a laugh a minute.

  With power falling off, the Huey doesn’t have a lot of air time left. Rotor RPM is decaying, falling past 260 rotations per minute. The pilot pushes forward on the cyclic, lowering the chopper’s nose, sending it into a shallow dive, using his airspeed to keep the main rotors turning. The helicopter wouldn’t make it to the airfield proper, but it could definitely make the parking lot in front of the terminal building.

  As the Huey swoops in and the pilot prepares to make the autorotation, movement at the terminal building catches his eye. Civilians emerged from the structure, watching the helicopters approach. Even from a few hundred feet out, the pilot can see their faces, all turned toward the approaching flight. Waiting to be saved.

  The pilot laughs so hard he almost blows the approach, and the UH-1 makes a short run-on landing, scraping across the mostly empty parking lot on its landing skids for thirty feet before coming to a halt.

  This is gonna be fun.

  NINETEEN.

  “Six, Nomad One. First Huey is down! Rest of the formation is breaking up. Over!”

  “Roger that, One. Keep up the fires. All units are clear to maneuver as needed. Over.” As he spoke, Dekker ran across the pavement, heading toward the Air Force machinegun emplacement closest to him.

  He heard the pounding of Hueys drawing closer, their thick blades slapping through the hot summer air. One of the tadpole-shaped aircraft thundered right over the terminal building, so low that its skids ripped an antenna off the roof and sent the metal pole tumbling to the jet way. Dekker was caught out in the open. He raised his M4 and ripped off a burst on full automatic, discharging the weapon right into the Huey’s belly just before it began to descend for a landing. Dekker slowed and turned with the aircraft, hosing it with burst after burst, none of which seemed to make any difference to the helicopter or its pilots.

  Then, a stream of fifty caliber fire ripped through the aircraft, and the helicopter canted to the left, still descending. It recovered before the rotors struck the ground, but the machinegun fire from the MRAPs was relentless as two of them consolidated their fires. The helicopter began a drunken spin while moving farther out across the airfield, bits and pieces of it being blasted off as it bobbed beneath the fury of the attack.

  Dekker saw uniformed men in the back of the struggling chopper, attempting to get their weapons oriented on the threat but failing as the fifties chewed them up along with the helicopter. As the Huey drifted toward the taxiway, it finally keeled over and slammed to the deck with a clattering roar. The main body spun around in a circle as its main rotors flailed at the concrete, destroying themselves. The tail boom separated, and the vertical stabilizer sheared off, becoming momentarily airborne. The remains of the tail rotor tried for one last chance at flight before it too returned to earth, bouncing and flipping across the taxiway and into the grass median, a victim of its remaining torque.

  The helicopter’s body came to a halt on its left side, mangled landing skids pointing toward Dekker. He opened up once again, emptying his rifle’s magazine into the helicopter’s bullet-torn belly. More rotor beats came from ahead and behind. Dekker heard the MRAPs shifting their fires away from the first Huey to deal with other threats. He continued his run toward the Air Force position, ejecting the empty magazine from his rifle and letting it clatter to the pavement. He pulled a fresh mag from his tactical vest and slammed it into his rifle’s magazine well. With a tap of the bolt release lever, he was back in business.

  A second Huey appeared directly ahead as it cleared the terminal building and hovered on the other side of the parked Airbus jet. The door gunner there opened up on the Air Force emplacement as the zoomies did the same with their SAW. The Huey had the advantage of elevation, and it hammered the Air Force position with slanting fire that tore into the sandbags surrounding the two airmen, forcing them to duck and cover.

  Once again, Dekker was caught out in the open, and he wondered if that was going to be a persistent hallmark of the current engagement. While running, he fired at the Huey, hoping to hit the door gunner, but happy just to hit the aircraft itself. He was delighted when the Huey descended and settled down behind the Airbus. Dekker redoubled his attempts to get to the sandbagged emplacement. He finally dove into it, scaring the shit out of the two airmen there who were just getting back on their SAW.

  “You guys all right?” Dekker asked.

  “Peachy, Lieutenant.” The older NCO’s face was haggard, and the beginnings of gray razor stubble stood out on his cheeks. He pulled the bipod-mounted M249’s stock against his shoulder.

  The loader lay next to the gunner, another box of two hundred rounds of 5.56-millimeter at the ready. “They’re dismounting!”

  Dekker looked over the top of the sandbag wall and saw at least ten figures moving toward the Airbus jet, crouched low, weapons at ready. They all wore Army Combat Uniforms—National Guardsmen, in full gear. Things were about to get interesting.

  Then the Huey reappeared, rising just above the Airbus. The door gunner in the right hell hole opened up again, raking the emplacement with 7.62-millimeter gunfire. Dekker flinched as a round tore into the sandbag he was leaning against, but he still sighted on the hovering Huey. Through his scope, he could see the
gunner leaning into the M240, shouting with glee as he blazed away at the emplacement. The Air Force gunner returned fire, but he only succeeded in stitching a line across the top of the Airbus.

  Dekker shouted into his headset microphone. “Nomad One, come forward and hit this Huey! We have dismounts under the Airbus. We need you with us!”

  Ignoring the inbound fire as much as possible, Dekker squeezed off three rounds. He was rewarded by the sight of the gunner sagging in the hell hole, his hands falling off the M240’s grips as his helmeted head lolled forward. The pilots in the Huey appeared not to notice. They held the hovering helicopter in place, giggling behind their controls.

  Dekker heard the rumble of a diesel engine above the rotor beats, then a fifty caliber barked. The cockpit area of the UH-1 was besieged by a hail of heavy machinegun fire, and the aircraft rolled to the left and crashed to the tarmac on the other side of the passenger jet. Debris whirled through the air as the helicopter tore itself to pieces, sending chunks of shrapnel rocketing through several of the terminal’s big windows. Heavy shards of plate glass rained down on the jet way and sprinkled across the concrete like oversized diamonds that gleamed in the sunlight.

  “Light up those troops!” Dekker ordered.

  Following his own command, Dekker exposed more of his body and fired three shots in rapid succession at the chuckling Klowns who emerged from beneath the moribund passenger jet. One Infected took one round to the leg and went down. Several bullets pelted the emplacement, making tapping sounds as they pierced the sandbags.

  The SAW gunner opened up, and another two Klowns went down, writhing on the tarmac as they laughed and screamed. Then Nomad One rolled up, the fifty in the open-air cupola chattering as the gunner walked the rounds through the crowd.

  The Klowns didn’t care. They reoriented on the MRAP as it came to a halt and charged it, firing as they went. At first, the attack was ineffective. The MRAP was designed to withstand and survive improvised explosive devices, like those used with great effectiveness in Iraq. Bullets ricocheted off the slab-sided vehicle without leaving much visible damage. Then, the gunner grabbed his neck, and a fan of bright arterial blood spurted out from between his fingers.

  At the same time, the last Huey thundered overhead. Dekker shouted a warning to Nomad One, telling him that the gunner was down in the cupola, but he could barely hear his own voice over the burst of rotor wash that pounded the emplacement. Dekker raised his rifle and fired at the Huey that lumbered across the area at an altitude of less than thirty feet. As the helicopter flew past, several objects fell from it.

  “Incoming!” Dekker shouted, and he leaped to the far side of the emplacement.

  The loader looked up while the gunner remained fixed on cutting down the Klown Guardsmen.

  Water balloons cascaded across their position.

  Dekker threw an arm across his face, shielding his eyes and mouth, as the rubber missiles exploded, spreading a foul-smelling liquid—most likely a mix of urine and feces—all over the two airmen. He shoved his back against the sandbags behind him, his heart hammering as he instinctively sought to get as far away from the liquid as possible. He knew that the Bug was incredibly infectious and that the disease manifested itself almost immediately.

  Outside their ring, the firing reached a crescendo, punctuated by shouts of glee. Something exploded nearby, and the SAW had fallen silent. Interspersed with the din was an almost urgent rustling noise, like hand-to-hand combat. Despite that, Dekker could think of only one thing:

  Am I infected?

  After a few moments, he lowered his arm. He was elated to discover that not a single drop of infected piss had landed on him. He was completely dry, and nothing immediately humorous came to mind. Laughing was not on his current agenda.

  However, the machinegun loader was giggling like a school girl. His face was flecked with blood, and his right hand was soaked in it. Sunlight gleamed off the crimson-streaked blade he held as he jammed it into the throat of the gunner, again and again, each strike resulting in a fine spray of droplets that splattered uniform and tactical vest. The gunner gurgled, drowning in his own blood, his lips coated in a pink-tinged froth. His eyes met Dekker’s, and the cavalry lieutenant could see the NCO was already visiting a happier place.

  The loader looked up from his work and grinned madly. “A little blue on blue action, El-Tee. Whaddya think of that?”

  Dekker grabbed his rifle. The loader lunged at him, lashing out with his knife. The blade hit the M4’s upper receiver and skidded upward, gouging a chunk out of the side of the targeting scope mounted to the weapon’s upper rail before traveling on past Dekker’s shoulder. The blade plunged into one of the sandbags at his back, and Dekker twisted around beneath the airman, struggling to free his rifle. The weapon was firmly wedged between them. The airman laughed, then inhaled and coughed up a load of phlegm, obviously preparing to spit in Dekker’s face.

  Dekker pulled his M9 pistol from its holster and pressed the muzzle against the man’s body, right where his chest protector had ridden up, exposing his belly. He pulled the trigger three times. The airman’s eyes went wide as the nine-millimeter bullets tore through his intestines and diaphragm. Dekker snapped his head forward and slammed his Kevlar helmet into the airman’s face before shoving the man off him. The airman coughed as he rolled away, chortling despite the fact he had just been gut-shot. Dekker fired twice more, and both rounds slammed through the underside of the airman’s chin, up into his skull. The airman released a gurgling sigh as he died.

  Dekker holstered his pistol and picked up his rifle. Avoiding as much of the piss and blood as he could, he took a quick inventory of the area. The SAW lay on its side, covered in piss and blood. He was unmotivated to touch it, especially since he had left his MOPP gear in the MRAP designated as Nomad One. He stuck his head above the sandbags. Nomad One was trundling away, trailing smoke from its recently emptied cupola. Klown Guardsman swarmed all over it, and one of the maniacal bastards hurled something through the open cupola.

  “Fire in the asshole!” the Klown shouted as he stepped back.

  There was a muted explosion from inside the MRAP, and a geyser of debris erupted from the vehicle—tattered paper, insulation, plastic, metal, and body parts. The rig hitched twice then coasted to a halt, its windows turned milky white. A thick column of black smoke rose into the air from the vehicle’s burning interior.

  The Klowns all laughed, and those on top of the vehicle quickly dismounted as it began to burn. Fifty caliber rounds cooked off with sporadic bangs.

  More gunfire sounded, and bullets crashed through the terminal windows closest to Dekker’s position. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about, it appeared another avenue of attack was about to open up.

  “Catfish, this is Nomad. Over.”

  “Nomad, this is Catfish. We were getting worried about you. Over.”

  “Catfish, this is Nomad. Can you guys swing around to the front of the airport and tell me what’s going on? There’s weapon fire inside the terminal building. I just need a recon. No need for you guys to get too close. Over.”

  “Roger that, Nomad. We’re on it. Ah, a couple of things. We see some activity from that first Huey you guys splashed. Second aircraft is a write-off, but there’s still someone alive in the first. The attack battalion is sending four units your way. Two arrive in three minutes but are low on fuel. Two more will be on station in ten minutes, with full tanks. Also, looks like one of your units is on fire. Over.”

  “Roger that, Catfish. If you can, reach out and touch those bastards who fried our MRAP. Break. Nomad units, this is Nomad Six. Consolidate fires on that last Huey. Bring it down as soon as you can, then service any ground combatants you come across. Over.”

  All units responded affirmatively. On the other side of the airfield, the Black Hawks split up into two elements. One pair raced around the perimeter, heading toward the terminal building. The second flew across the airfield and turned to parallel the smok
ing MRAP. Standing off at around five hundred feet from the destroyed vehicle, their gunners opened up on the Klowns, chopping away at them as the Infected crawled off the MRAP. The Klowns that tried to stand and fight were taken down by 7.62-millimeter projectiles. Some Infected sought to use the MRAP as cover, despite the fact that it was on fire.

  Dekker once again considered the bloody SAW lying beside him but decided the risk of infection was too great. He rose over the sandbags and started firing at the Klowns with his rifle, hitting them from behind as they tried to hide from the Black Hawks. Two went down before they figured out the sandbag emplacement hadn’t been wiped out.

  The remaining Klowns surged toward Dekker, hooting and howling, apparently forgetting the UH-60s that prowled along over the center of the airfield. Dekker continued firing from his fixed position, even while the Infected opened up on the emplacement. But they were shooting on the move, laughing uproariously the whole time, and their accuracy was down to nothing.

  One of the Black Hawks suddenly reversed, flying backward to bring its gunner into a better firing position. The soldier rained lethal slanting fire onto the Klowns, cutting them down as soon as they were clear of the smoking MRAP.