The ship came around an easterly turn, staying to the center of the channel, with Gull Island and Crims Island off the starboard. Bradbury Slough was a small channel which cut around the south side of the island, only useful for small craft. Grange’s attention was drawn to the north shore, where a bulk grain hauler was aground, and not toward the slough they were passing, so she missed the go-fast boats.
“Boats astern!” was the call over the intercom. “Starboard astern!” Grange spun and looked at the speaker, then ran to the starboard bridge wing. From the Slough, two low, sleek, and powerful speedboats were roaring toward them.
“Starboard .50 caliber!” she yelled back into the bridge. “Warning burst between the boats.”
“Warning shots, aye, aye!”
The M2 .50 caliber chugged a burst of five shots. The first round hit the water 100 yards in front of and between the two boats, each successive shot walking back so that it effectively worked a line past them. The last round hit the water just as the go-fast boats left the Slough, and really accelerated.
Grange knew perfectly well how fast that type of speedboat could be. Drug interdiction was part of their mission. The speed of the boats was the reason they carried the HH-65 Dolphin helicopter. Only she didn’t have a pilot for the craft; she’d died in the same outbreak that had taken the captain’s life, weeks ago.
The two speedboats turned to come up on either side of Boutwell. As they approached the stern of the Boutwell, they opened fire. Machine gun fire walked up the side of the venerable cutter, bouncing off the steel superstructure and shattering windows. Grange and everyone in the bridge ducked as rounds tore through.
“Return fire,” Grange ordered.
“Port .50 caliber not reporting!” The starboard gun roared to life, tracers walking in on the go-fast, which dodged. The bridge crew began slamming the metal shutters in place as Grange got a look at the one racing by to port. Seven or eight men were aboard the boat, all in black camo and helmets, the same as the ones in the SUVs back at the lighthouse. You bastards again.
“Radar contact,” the operator said. “Range: five miles dead ahead.”
“Fire control,” Grange order, “Bushmasters, both sides.”
The go-fasts realized they’d overplayed their hand and tried desperately to avoid as the 25mm Bushmasters came alive and began to roar. In a few seconds, both were torn apart.
“We’re being targeted!” the radar operator barked. Then a second later, “Incoming missile!”
The Boutwell’s missile defenses were automated. As soon as a threat was detected, the Phalanx CIWS, or Sea-whiz, came alive. Mounted on the aft deck, almost on the stern to give it a wide area of fire, the six-barrel 20mm autocannon fired 75 rounds per second. Once a target was designated by the ship’s radar, the Sea-whiz did all the rest itself, firing in a sustained burst like a buzz saw. The Hellfire missile was swatted from the sky half a mile out.
“Intercept,” the weapons officer reported.
“Radio, anything?” Grange asked.
“Negative contact.”
“Contact now three miles.”
“Another missile!”
“Sea-whiz engaging.”
The line of fire blazed past the bridge and another missile exploded. Ahead of the ship, a helicopter was visible two miles away as it turned.
“Target identified!” the radar operator said. “It’s an Apache. Why are they firing at us?”
“I don’t know,” Grange said. “Bring Oto on line. Target that helicopter.” On the foredeck the turret spun around and leveled. “Fire.” Boom, boom, boom! The 76mm cannon fired three rounds, two of which slapped the Apache from the sky and turned it into a spinning ball of fire. “But I’d like to know what the fuck is going on,” she said as the burning wreck fell into the river. “Damage report.”
The attack by the go-fasts had killed both men on the port .50 caliber and ruined the gun. Three other crewmembers were injured, and one of the two RHIBs had been shredded by gunfire. Medics tended to the injured, and damage control saw to sealing the shot-out windows. Boutwell was starting to look worse for wear. She wasn’t intended to be a warship.
“Should we turn around?” the helmsman asked.
“No,” Grange said. “Someone doesn’t want us here, and I’d like to know why.” She did order a somewhat slower speed, though. Half an hour later, CWO Manning surprised her.
“Engine number two is back up,” he said, coming onto the bridge while wiping oily hands on a rag.
“That’s way ahead of schedule,” Grange said. “Well done.”
“One of the mates figured out how to do it without draining the oil.”
“Put that man in for a commendation,” she said with a huge grin, then the smile faded as she remembered that there might well be nobody left in DC. “Anyway, thank you for the extra effort.”
Boutwell was considerably more maneuverable with both engines, and Grange felt less worried about what might be ahead as the deck rumble from both engines became more familiar. “Keep Oto on standby,” she ordered, and left the bridge windows shuttered. They piloted by radar and through the 1-inch slits in the armor instead. She was tired of getting shot at and ready to find out who’d been attacking them. They increased to 20 knots.
The ship navigated around Barlow point, a shallow turn to port, and the city of Longview was just ahead. There was also a group of ships in the channel.
“What the hell is that?” the helmsman asked. At least ten huge barges were joined to create a massive hauler. The entire thing was being moved by a trio of equally large ocean-going tugs. Radar indicated they were managing 2 knots at best, and even from a mile away Grange could see rooster tails behind the tugs, a clear sign they were laboring under a tremendous load. In the center of the barges sat what she thought at first was some sort of animal.
“Give me those glasses,” Grange said, holding her hand. She took the powerful binoculars and focused them through the slit. It clipped the view slightly. The thing was shaped a little like a whale, but it was many times larger than the biggest whale she’d ever heard of—at least 450 feet long, and half that wide. It was sleek-looking, with a silvery finish that caught the afternoon light, even through the low clouds. She thought she could see features, maybe seams or windows? “It’s some kind of a ship, or a submarine.” She could see people on the barge, men in black camo pointing at the Boutwell.
“Missile lock!” the radar operator yelled. “Oh shit, multiple missile lock!’
“Helm, bring us around hard to starboard,” Grange ordered. “Flank speed!”
“I have five inbound missiles.”
The nimble cutter’s engines belched black smoke as her rudder was thrown over, and she leaned hard as she turned. The Sea-whiz growled. Grange went to the port side and looked out. A flash was an intercepted missile. The Sea-whiz spun and fired again, again, and again. Then a burst stopped halfway through.
“It’s out of ammo,” the weapons officer said. Grange’s jaw set as she got an instant view of the missile, a blur across the sky as it dove on Boutwell and exploded.
* * *
North Island Naval Air Station, Coronado CA
The flight of four Marine Viper AH-1Z helicopter gunships shot over the North Island Naval Air Station fields at 200 knots. Some of the Marines on the ground waved as the helicopters shot past, but most were too busy. Dozens of heavy machines were moving, frantically clearing the main runway and one taxiway. It was now common knowledge why the effort was being put forth. Three planeloads of survivors from Hawaii, and the President of the United States. Feelings were mixed.
As the Viper passed the lines of Marines digging in under sheets of pouring rain, the town of Coronado came into view. Even in the rain there were fires started by the earlier bombings, before they were called off. The town was alive with movement, streaming down off the Coronado Bridge and into the town to flow toward the airfield and all the activity. A tsunami of infected.
“Sector seven,” the flight leader said, and the helicopters swung in unison onto a path crossing the tidal wave of infected on their march toward the airbase. “Fire when ready.”
Firing in sequence they rained a line of 2.75” anti-personnel rockets along a quarter-mile long path of destruction. Lacking the high explosive warheads, they used massive amounts of shrapnel to rend gashes in the advancing lines. Each Viper carried 76 Hydra rockets, for a total of 304. The strafing run killed and maimed more than a thousand infected. It slowed them only slightly.
Finishing their run, the helicopters spun back around and flew the same route on the return, though slightly closer to the Marine’s defensive line. This time their three-barrel 20mm chain guns rained high-velocity lead into the advancing infected. Each helicopter carried 750 rounds, adding another 3,000 shots into the already devastated town. Buildings were torn apart, abandoned cars shredded, former humans reduced to twitching projectiles of meat and bone.
Their guns empty and rocket pods depleted, the helicopters banked back toward the Essex to rearm. The problem was, they’d just fired the last of the anti-personnel rockets in the ship’s stores. There were more than a thousand M261 high explosive rockets, and they were forbidden to use them. It would take an hour for them to travel to the carrier, land, refuel and rearm, and return. In that time, the infected would be to the perimeter. Meanwhile, thousands more poured across the bridge. Reluctantly, the Viper returned to base.
“That’s the last of the anti-personnel rockets,” Lieutenant Hirt said. Captain Sharps nodded. He’d heard the same radio message from the gunships. Already infiltration across the no man’s land between the last of the residential area and their improvised line was picking up. In half an hour, it would become a flood.
“Everyone loaded up?” he asked.
“Yes sir,” Hirt replied. “Every man has as many mags as he has places to carry them, and we’ve stocked the first fallback point with piles of magazines.”
“Good. We have about 30 minutes before the shit really hits the fan. Have Company C relieve Company B so they can grab a meal bar and a drink for five minutes, then reverse for the same. Make sure everyone gets a bite, takes a dump, whatever they need.” He looked at his watch and consulted his notes. Behind him the construction crew was just finishing up on the taxiway. “The first C-130 will be down in 20 minutes. Have the LCAC come all the way up to the end of the taxiway.” The lieutenant nodded; they’d gone over it already. “And for God’s sake, don’t let the people on that Hercules screw around. Move them off as fast as you can.”
“I should be here with you and the rest of the company.”
“I need someone I can trust shepherding the sheep,” he said. “Now see to the men.”
* * *
Colonel Alinsky hadn’t stopped cursing for two hours. First the battalion transmitter in his LAV went out, then they’d been constantly harassed by infected, and then this god-forsaken rain had come in. He’d hoped it would provide some cover for their movements; instead the infected seemed almost telepathic concerning the Marines’ movements and whereabouts.
The construction equipment they’d taken from the amphib base wasn’t in good repair. He’d brought twice as much as he’d though would be required, and most of it was already broken down. They’d picked the narrowest spit of land as close to their debarkation point as possible. The plan was simple; dig a big ass trench, set demolition charges, blow the fuck out of it. This part of the island was just sand, so the result would be a water filled passage cutting the lower approach to Coronado. He had a truck with razor wire, just drive it across and it would unload. Add few hundred claymores, and it would be death to anyone, or anything, that tried to cross it.
The echoing crump, crump of exploding ordinance had stopped some time ago. They could still hear the roar of Viper chain guns and Super Hornet fighters, but no bombs. He narrowed his eyes as rain poured off his Kevlar. Something had gone sideways.
“We’re about ready to start laying explosives,” Major Hartman said. The nearest M240 rattled, chewing up a group of infected making a run at the trench. If he had a dozen of the guns and the ammo for them, he could stand off ten thousand here. Narrow approach, no cover—it was a killing zone. Might as well wish for wings, he thought. Marines worked with what they had, not what they wanted.
“Colonel!” one of the sentries was running over. “LAV coming down from the north.”
“Fuck,” Alinsky spat. There was only one reason Capt. Hirt, who he’d put in charge of the airbase, would send an LAV. It wouldn’t matter that Alinsky was out of comms, the primary mission was more important. Something was indeed very wrong.
“Roger that,” he told the corporal, “return to your post.” The young noncom saluted and ran back to the rear-guard position just as the LAV roared up off the road to the staging area where Alinsky’s trucks loaded with explosives waited. The hatch popped, and he recognized Sergeant Treymore from Company C. He ran over and saluted. “What fucked up, Sergeant?” The sergeant took out a laminated map and started showing the battalion commander just what had gone wrong.
“How long ago?” he asked the sergeant.
“About 30 minutes, sir. We had to practically swim to get to you.” He gestured to the LAV. Water was pouring off it from the rain, and it made red rivers down the beach. Alinsky could see pieces of skin and bone stuck to the armor, and what looked like a hand jammed into the suspension. “We finally had to drive down the beach or give up. I’m sorry, but you’re already cut off.”
“Good,” the colonel said. The sergeant’s eyes went wide with surprise. “Then we attack the infected from their flank.” The look of surprise turned to a predatory grin.
“Yes sir,” he said.
“Paul!” Alinsky yelled to his XO who was by his side in an instant. “Drop this operation. Leave a squad with a Humvee to set claymores as they can on tripwire, then try and follow us. Then find Gunny McComb, tell him I need six detonators rigged ASAP.”
* * *
Commander Michael “Shrek” Gorski looked down and regretted the decision to fly to Coronado when the Reagan went shit-side-up. The field was nearly open; he could see that from 10,000 feet, even if the comms were still for shit. What he also saw on radar was four planes coming in from the west. That would be three C-130s full of dependents and service staff and the E4B with POTUS and at least some of the general staff aboard. Fuck.
“Bar closed, boys,” he said over the squadron channel. “Sound off! Who has more than 20 minutes’ fuel left?” Not many responded. “Everyone with the time, head for the Ford. Just heard they’ll be open for business in 15 minutes. The rest of you line up just off shore, and we’ll see if they can get the trash haulers on the deck before we’re sucking vapors.”
“I already have a caution light, skipper,” one of his pilots called in.
“Me too,” another said.
And me, Gorski thought. No good options. They couldn’t risk a problem on landing with the big lumbering beasts only minutes out. If more than one runway was open…but there wasn’t. “Everyone almost out, follow me. The rest, proceed as instructed.”
He peeled off to the west, airspeed down as low as he could get it, slowly bleeding off altitude to cruise as far as he could. Point Loma was falling away behind him, and radar showed the nearest ship five miles out, with the George Washington seven miles away. They’d taken over flight ops after Reagan went down. Gorski checked his fuel gauge and watched it until it read zero. That’s it, he thought. He radioed his squadron. “See you in the pool.” He switched channels. “George Washington, George Washington, this is Camelot One Zero One, I am ejecting, repeat I am ejecting.”
At that moment, there was a shudder and one of the turbines began to spin down, followed quickly by the other. Warning lights flashed like Christmas morning, then the panel went dark. He reached back over his head, grabbed the yellow rope handle, and pulled hard. With a blast, the canopy blew and was instantly sucked away by th
e wind stream. A half second later, the rockets under his seat ignited, and he was blasted into the sky.
Rockets expended, the seat released him as he spun clear. Gorski got a fleeting glimpse of his $30-million-dollar fighter beginning to spin down toward the cloud deck before his chute drogue deployed. A moment later he was snapped like the end of a bullwhip as the canopy unfurled, then he was drifting down toward the clouds. He swallowed hard from the pain in his lower back and consoled himself with the fact that it was better than ditching. Soon enough he’d have a nice cool swim, and he hoped that the SAR folks would find him. For now, he was out of the fight.
* * *
Lieutenant Commander Mike “Dumbo” Davis listened to the sounds of his squadron-mates ejecting one after another just a few miles away with a feeling of utter helplessness. Flying over the Reagan, he watched a pair of Seahawk helicopters circling and looking for survivors, which didn’t help. Carl Vinson and George Washington were launching more search and rescue helicopters for the crews going down. He silently offered prayers for them.
“Ford is 20 miles out,” Lieutenant Commander Alice “Taz” Cox, his weapon systems officer, or wizzo, said. They’d been flying together as a crew on the F/A-18F, the two-seater variant of the F/A-18, for almost a year. Davis’ wife hadn’t been happy that he had a female wizzo, but she’d finally adjusted. Davis noted that Taz sounded a little off.
Turning Point (Book 2): A Time To Run Page 28