“We’ve got two more down by Nomad Two,” he said. “You guys stay here.” He keyed the radio. “Tomcats, this is Nomad. You guys have enough juice left to give me some top cover? Over.”
“Nomad, Tomcat Four. Roger, make it quick. We’ll need to set down in a couple of minutes. Over.”
“Tomcat Four, Nomad. Roger that. I’m headed out on foot to the MRAP closest to our position. Over.” Dekker sprinted back the way he had come, his M4 in both hands.
He kept low, his big rucksack bobbing slightly on his back, making his gait a little clumsy. Water sloshed around inside his CamelBak. The Apaches moved out over the airfield, the chain guns mounted in their bellies chattering as they fired on additional targets. One was aiming at the remains of the terminal building, while another targeted something in the opposite direction. That surprised him, and he looked across the airfield to see what the second Apache was shooting.
A pickup truck had crashed through the fence on the far side of the airfield and was speeding across the field toward them. Thirty-millimeter cannon fire ate into its body, and in less than two seconds, the carcass was spread across the grass. The Klowns in the back got the same treatment as the withering fire walked through them, rending flesh from bone.
Fuckers are all over the place, Dekker thought as he ran to the shot-up line of barriers. He realized then that the cavalry platoon and its attached Air Force security team and Black Hawk unit had been surrounded the entire time. The Klowns just hadn’t moved on them until they started making noise.
He climbed over the barrier and ran to Nomad Two. The vehicle’s rear door had been blown open, and inside, black smoke seethed as something smoldered. Dekker knelt beside the two soldiers who had been providing ground security for the vehicle. Both were dead, killed either by grievous shrapnel wounds or machinegun fire from the Huey. He contemplated the dark interior of the MRAP, then decided there was nothing he could do for the driver and gunner. They were gone. Dekker’s heart ached. He’d been with the cav unit for two years, and he knew all of the fallen personally. He glanced toward the Air Force emplacement farther out, but it had been essentially deleted by the AT4 attack. He saw a decapitated head lying in the grass, eyes blown out, mouth open.
We’re getting wiped out.
“Nomad, if you’re done, we really need to set down,” Tomcat Four said over the radio. “Over.”
“Roger that, Tomcats. You’re good to go. Break. Nomads, tighten up a bit if you can. Provide security for the Apaches. Over.”
“Nomad Three, roger that.”
“Nomad Four to Nomad Six. Will roll back as soon as we can disengage. Over.”
Dekker pulled the tags off the two soldiers lying in the field and helped himself to their ammunition and weapons. He ran back to Edwards and the other soldier who’d helped with Ramirez.
“He’s dead, Lieutenant,” Edwards said as Dekker approached. “Sorry, there’s nothing we could’ve done.” He looked toward Nomad Two. “What about Xiao and Shabelman?”
“Same,” Dekker said. “They’re gone. So are Consuelo and Cromartie and the Air Force guys.”
“Man,” Edwards said, visibly shaken. “Are you sure?”
“Completely,” Dekker said. “Listen, the Apaches need to land. Let’s stay eyes out.”
The Apaches came in, landing one at a time, their noses pointed north. The copilots climbed out of their armored seats in the front of the tandem cockpits and emerged from the aircraft. Apaches were flown by the pilot in the rearmost seat, and those individuals remained with the running aircraft. The copilots took care of the refueling process, dragging hoses from the fuel tankers positioned nearby. Overhead, two Black Hawks orbited in a racetrack formation at three hundred feet, keeping eyes on the area. Dekker didn’t know where the other two utility helicopters were.
He approached one of the aviators as he wrestled with the fuel hose, hooking it over his shoulder and running toward his idling Apache.
Dekker shouted over the noise. “Hey guy, can you hear me?”
“What is it, sir?” the warrant officer yelled back as he fussed with the Apache’s refueling point.
“You need us to help you?” Dekker asked. “We don’t know shit about fueling helicopters, but if there’s other stuff you need us to do, tell me.”
“Just keep the Klowns off us long enough for us to tank up and get in the air,” the pilot said.
“How many are inbound?”
The warrant officer plugged the fast transfer fuel nozzle into the Apache and pulled the trigger. The hose stiffened as Jet A fuel surged through it. “A lot,” he said.
“Can you guys hold back ‘a lot’?” Dekker asked.
“Sir, you guys might want to touch base with Wizard, and find out how long you’re supposed to hold this place.”
That wasn’t an answer, but Dekker read between the lines. The airfield was severe danger of being overrun.
He left the pilot to his duties and went to make sure the remainder of his unit was still in their fighting positions. He took Ramirez’s rifle and grenade rounds, stuffing the latter into his vest.
He then got on the radio.
“Catfish, this is Nomad. Over.”
“This is Catfish. Go ahead, Nomad. Over.”
“Catfish, Nomad. Can you give a pulse to Wizard and advise we are under direct attack. I’m down to maybe a squad in ground strength, and I need to know how long we’re supposed to stay here and act as ballistics magnets. Over.”
“Nomad, this is Catfish. Roger, we’ll check. It’ll be a bit. It has to be relayed through the attack battalion commander. Over.”
“Roger that, Catfish.”
“Lieutenant!”
Dekker turned. Edwards and Fitzpatrick were kneeling behind the plastic barriers, rifles oriented outward. Across the airfield, several people loped across the flat terrain, making a beeline straight for them. The Klowns surged past the smoking pickup truck without slowing. Behind them, more came, emerging from the trees that surrounded the airfield. Dekker had studied the maps intently and had even gone for a quick recon hop in one of the UH-60s right as they set up shop. The airport clearing was large, but one finger of trees blocked at least half of Runway 11 from direct visual observation. Dekker hadn’t posted any troops out that way as he had been interested in securing the refueling area and protecting the Black Hawks. But apparently the Klowns had penetrated the fence on that side.
Dekker lifted his field glasses to his eyes and started counting.
He stopped at two hundred.
On the other side of the airport, gunfire intensified as the MRAPs and Air Force machinegun emplacements went into overtime. At the same time, the pair of UH-60s orbiting the airfield opened up on the line of Klowns streaming in from the southeast, hosing them with machineguns from a thousand feet downrange. Dekker saw several of the infected stumble and fall, but more simply took their places. The Black Hawks didn’t hold in position. They kept racing along, firing as they went. Dekker understood why. If the helicopters slowed or transitioned to a hover to draw out the engagement, they’d become targets themselves.
“Six, this is Nomad Three. Over.”
“Three, go for Six. Over.”
“Six, the Klowns are really pouring it on now. We’re taking consistent fire from three directions. Air Force guys are pinned down. We’d like to advance and recover them, then fall back to one of the choke points. Over.”
“Three, stand by. Break. Any Tomcat, this is Nomad. When’s the next pair of Apaches going to show up? Over.”
A static-tinged response came back a moment later. “Nomad, this is Tomcat Eight. We are four minutes out. Over.”
“Roger, Tomcat Eight. At this time, be advised that we are danger close. Recommend you make your approach from the south-southeast and service ground combatants that are rolling up on us. They’re using the runways, so they should be easy targets for you. Over.”
“Nomad, Tomcat Eight, roger all.”
“Nomad
Three, this is Six. Over.”
“Nomad Three.”
“Three, you’re good to go on the recovery mission. Fall back to the northern choke point and deploy your dismounts there. Break. Nomad Four, this is Six. Over.”
“Nomad Four!” The soldier in charge of the MRAP had to shout over the constant bark of the fifty caliber machinegun in the cupola above him.
“Four, hold your pos until Nomad Three completes his recovery, then head back to the eastern choke point. Over.”
“Rog—”
A deafening explosion made Dekker jump, and he turned around to see another column of smoke rising on the other side of the hangar at the far end of the refueling area. A second explosion ripped through the area, then another, and another. The aviators refueling their Apaches looked around nervously.
Fitzpatrick yelled down the three man line, “Hey, El-Tee! Do those Guard guys have mortars?”
Dekker keyed his microphone. “Nomad Four, give me a SITREP—”
One of the Apaches exploded into a ball of flaming fuel as something slammed into it and detonated with enough force to tear right through the ballistic fuel cells. Jet fuel burned bright and hot as the aircraft’s rotors collapsed, the torque tearing the advanced attack helicopter to pieces. Debris flew through the air and struck the second Apache, which was parked seventy feet behind the first. Several loud cracks echoed around the airfield as the remaining Apache’s spinning rotors struck the foreign objects, sending them flying through the air at fantastic velocities. Something began whistling, loudly and shrilly.
Dekker turned to the refueling area while yelling for Edwards and Fitzpatrick to stay on the line. He saw the aviator he had spoken to gesturing madly at the Apache’s pilot. The aircraft’s engines slowly powered down, winding from a high-pitched scream to a rumbling growl. One of the aircraft’s carbon-fiber rotors flapped around madly like a broken board, rising and falling as it flailed at the air. The copilot dropped to his belly as the rotor finally folded up and slammed against the mast-mounted radome, slashing at its exterior shell. The rotors came to a sudden halt, and the pilot in the back seat frantically shoved open his canopy door.
In the distance, above the gunfire and crackle of roaring flames, Dekker heard several faint reports.
Fuck, they do have mortars!
The second Apache exploded as a mortar shell slammed into its cockpit, tearing the pilot into bloody ribbons. The copilot rolled around on the ground, screaming something that was barely audible over the din of combat. He was yelling for a medic. Dekker turned to Edwards, who looked back at the conflagration behind him.
“Oh, fuck!” he cried and started to get to his feet.
“Stay where you are!” Dekker shouted. He keyed his radio button. “Catfish, this is Nomad! Over!”
“Nomad, this is Catfish. Over.”
“Catfish, we’re being hit with mortar fire! Both Apaches are destroyed. Can you find the enemy emplacement and hose it for us? Over!”
“Ah, Nomad, roger that. I’m already looking for them. Listen, you have Klowns all over the place now. It looks like you’ve lost another MRAP. We can see it burning to your north. It must’ve been hit by a couple of mortar rounds. I see one crew member on the ground, still fighting with an M4, but he’s about thirty seconds from being overrun by at least twelve enemy. Over.”
“Catfish, do what you can, but we need those mortars taken out! Break. Tomcat, uh, Tomcat Eight, this is Nomad. Over.”
“Tomcat Eight. Nomad, we’re sixty seconds out. We’re getting some tracks on the outbound mortar rounds, you have incoming—”
Three more explosions tore through the remaining Apache, ripping it to pieces and obliterating all signs of the injured pilot who had still been writhing on the concrete. A fourth explosion ripped through one of the M500 fuel blivets, atomizing the fuel there. An instant later, the entire cloud of fuel ignited, and the ensuing shock wave lifted Dekker and threw him over the line of jersey barriers.
He rolled across the pavement. It’s so fucking hot. Behind him, Edwards and Fitzpatrick were screaming. Dekker turned onto his side and saw that the entire refueling area was ablaze. Dekker released a strangled cry. So were his men. They thrashed about inside a sea of flame, rolling, trying to put out the fires… but they were lying in puddles of fuel.
His left boot was on fire. He slapped at it frantically, hitting it with his gloved hands again and again. Overhead, one of the Black Hawks roared past, the gunner leaning out of his seat and blazing away with his M240. Rounds pounded into the concrete next to Dekker, and he flinched as he continued trying to put out the flames on his foot. Something thudded to the ground behind him. He heard a wheezing, gurgling laugh that was filled with blood and mucus. The Klowns were right on top of him, and there he was, trying to put out one of his fucking boots. He gave that up and reached for his rifle, turning to engage the enemy.
Someone kicked him in the face, and his first shots went wild. Then hands seized him, slapping him across the face as they stretched him out on the tarmac. The bright sunlight dimmed, and Dekker looked up as a completely naked, overweight woman straddled him. She stared down at him between her ponderous breasts and smiled. Nails protruded from her lower lip like bloodied fangs.
“Check out my cunt, baby,” she said, chuckling as she thrust her fleshy hips forward, exposing perhaps the hairiest crotch Dekker had ever seen.
He thrashed as hard as he could, but several giggling men and women held him in place as the woman began to urinate all over his face. Dekker coughed and retched.
No no no no
Then he laughed.
TWENTY.
He had to admit, it was a beautiful day for a war.
Harry Lee took a few steps away from the parked Humvee, his M4 in his hands. The field he stood in faced a collection of slab-sided concrete structures almost a half mile away. According to the maps, the place was called the Souza-Baranowski Correctional Facility, a maximum security prison that housed Massachusetts’s most violent offenders. While the parking lot was mostly empty, the prison buildings appeared to be secure. Lee had no idea how many criminals were housed there, but for the moment, they did not appear to be a threat.
Lee adjusted his heavy body armor and wiped at the band of sweat beneath the rim of his helmet. The day was hot, sticky, and humid, but he was still alive. He’d take hot and sweaty over cold and dead, any day.
Though being dead was perhaps preferable to becoming a giggling, murderous maniac.
Overhead, helicopters orbited. Behind him, the convoy continued rolling down Route 2, which the road signs called the George W. Stanton Highway. Lee had no idea who Stanton was, but the man probably wouldn’t have been thrilled to know the avenue named in his honor had a great view of a maximum security penitentiary.
Beside him, Staff Sergeant Mike Murphy emerged from the Humvee, accompanied by a pimple-faced soldier named Twohy, their Radio Telephone Operator, or RTO. Both men carried their weapons, and they surveyed the field with cautious eyes.
Foster still manned the M2 machinegun in the Humvee’s cupola.
“Contact,” he said suddenly, bringing the weapon around.
Lee shouldered his M4 and peered through the optical scope mounted to the weapon’s top rail. Stepping out of the trees was a man wearing a blue blazer and boxer shorts. His face was covered in dried blood that had been purposefully applied. He carried what looked to be a spear gun, of all things, and he smiled broadly and waved as he started trotting toward them. Lee could see the man’s shoulders shaking as he laughed.
Lee squeezed off two shots, and the man fell facedown into the field four hundred feet away.
“Good shootin’, sir,” Murphy said casually. “Hope he wasn’t just going to ask for a ride.”
“With a spear gun?” Lee asked.
Murphy shrugged. “True. This being Massachusetts and all, I’m surprised he even had that.” The soldier took a moment to shove a chunk of chaw into his mouth, tucking it behind
his lower lip.
A truck rumbled over while a second Humvee pulled past Lee’s vehicle. Both came to a halt. Command Sergeant Major Turner alighted from the Humvee and did a full scan of the area. Several lightfighters jumped out of the truck bed. One of them was considerably larger than the others. Lee sighed. It was the Duke himself—Muldoon.
Murphy did a quick inventory of the new arrivals. “Hey, it’s your old buddy, sir.”
Lee grunted. “Everyone needs a mascot.”
Flanked by two other senior NCOs, Turner walked over to Lee’s position and saluted. Lee returned the gesture.
“Sorry for crashing the party, sir,” Turner said.
“What’s the story, Sergeant Major?” Lee asked.
Turner’s gaze fell on the Klown Lee had capped. “Just providing some additional security, sir. This is kind of an unusual set of circumstances. I want to have some more boots in the area.”
Lee raised an eyebrow. “Unusual circumstances? You mean the fact that infected citizens want to either kill us or infect us?”
Turner gave Lee a hollow look. “I meant unusual in that the commander of the attack helicopter battalion wanted to have a face-to-face with you, sir, as opposed to conducting business over the radio.”
Lee nodded. “Yeah, I guess that is odd.”
“Thought aviators didn’t like to spend any time on the ground,” Murphy said. “I hear they’re afraid some eleven bravo might put ‘em to work.”
“Sounds a lot like you, fah-go,” Foster said, using the corrupted version of “faggot” to refer to his friend standing near the Humvee.
Murphy smirked. “Easy there, Hoss—it’s an equal-opportunity Army now.”
Lee looked over at Turner, who just shook his head and rolled his eyes.
“Soldier, why don’t you step away from the Humvee and take up a tactical position,” Turner said. “And by the way, that’s not just a suggestion.”
“You got it, Sergeant Major,” Murphy said.
“Hey, Murph?” Foster asked.
“What, cupcake?”
Slaughterhouse - 02 Page 12