Turning Point (Book 2): A Time To Run

by Wandrey, Mark

  “Nice drops,” the FAC reported.

  “Jesus, they’re coming up the middle too!” Young said. “Lasing, drop again, I don’t have time to climb to 15,000.”

  “Okay…” Andrew said as he manipulated the stores control. The F-35 had dropped from the wings first to preserve the plane’s stealth rating as much as possible. He’d never flown a fighter with internal bays, though, and his brows knitted as he ran through the selection process. “Uh, G28, selector two?”

  “Selector nine,” Young snapped.

  “Right, sorry.” Andrew pressed the controls and the internal bays opened. That did it, he said. “Pickle is hot.” He selected the laser targets appearing on his HUD and smashed the button. “Bombs away.” The feeling of ordinance dropping away was different. For a moment he tracked the bomb progress as he flew north to south, then he noticed the indicators on his stores. Two bombs were still there, one in each bay. Damn it, I fucked something up. He was supposed to have dropped them, too, but they hadn’t released when he hit the pickle button for them.

  “Good hits,” the FAC said, “but I only got two explosions.”

  “That was me,” Andrew admitted, “I screwed up the ordinance selection.”

  “I’m up to 15,000,” Young said. “Drop back down to observation level and lase for me.”

  “Roger that,” Andrew said and heeled over. As he descended, he checked his fuel. Young would be close to where he was; around 30 minutes of flight time left. They weren’t going to be much more help. The FAC was speaking again.

  “If you can hit that middle group, I think we can really wreck their advance.”

  “Pretty impressive for mindless zombies,” Andrew said.

  “Don’t call them that,” Young said. “I’m at 15,000, give me a target.”

  “Wait one,” Andrew said as he leveled out and used his targeting camera. “Got them,” he said. The former bombsites past the demolished hangars looked like pictures of DC during a protest. Untold thousands swarmed toward the narrow line of base housing and the BOQ. Despite being thousands of feet above it, Andrew felt the same terror that had threatened to take him back in Texas as they’d fled onto the oil tanks. The infected never stopped; they just kept coming like the tide rolling in.

  Andrew selected the targeting laser and placed it ahead of the approaching horde. Only a hundred yards west lay the Marines. Too close. He hit the radio.

  “FAC, put me through to the Marine commander on the ground.”

  “Wait one.”

  “Make it fast.”

  * * *

  “Marine 2/1-B,” Gunny McComb spoke into the headset, then listened. “Captain!”

  “Gunny?”

  “Navy says they need to drop iron 100 yards that way,” he said and gestured toward the line of devastated housing. “Big iron, sir.” Captain Sharps looked at the distant buildings. A few infected where visible. Intermittent small arms fire form the nearby Marines continued to drop any that appeared. He narrowed his eyes and tried to focus closer. When he did, he didn’t see the few infected being shot every couple seconds, he saw crowds moving quickly between collapsed buildings.

  “Sector one!” Sharps barked and pointed. “Contact, heavy infiltration.” Both the .50 calibers and the closest grenade launcher spun around and started chugging out death. As soon as the first rounds hit, the horde broke cover and a solid wall of infected a thousand feet across and hundreds deep raced at them. “Tell them to drop!” Captain Sharps ordered. “Fucking do it!”

  Gunny McComb nodded and yelled to them men.

  “Incoming iron! Close, damned close. Duck and cover.” All the men dropped behind what cover they had, put their hands over ears, and opened their mouths.

  * * *

  Laser targeting established, Andrew’s targeting computer transmitted the frequency to Young’s fighter thousands of feet above.

  “Bombs awa—”

  The computer link failed between Andrew’s plane and Young’s in the same instant a brilliant flash of light made Andrew look up in surprise. Flaming pieces of debris like little meteors arced through the sky and angled down toward the ground, all that remained of the other F-35. What the hell had just happened? The infected didn’t have surface-to-air weapons. The F-35s were still new, though—perhaps it was a weapon malfunction or a bomb-to-bomb collision caused by the new aircraft’s computer that hadn’t been ironed out yet. It didn’t matter how it happened—Young was gone! Andrew gawked in stunned horror as he watched the pieces of the other plane fall from the sky.

  Andrew shook his head and tried to refocus. Only one weapon had dropped, and it homed in on Andrew’s laser designate and exploded seconds later, killing hundreds instantly and mortally wounding several hundred more.

  Andrew surveyed the results and cursed. It was like swatting three wasps from a nest—the one you hit were dead, but the others flew around them and kept coming at you. He briefly considered his two remaining bombs, then discarded the idea. He wasn’t high enough to safely drop unretarded weapons, and it would take time to climb up to where he could use them. There just wasn’t time. Instead he rolled over and dove toward the deck, pulling out just 200 feet above the ground. He opened the speed brakes and approached the island at 190 knots, uncomfortably close to stall speed.

  It took all the time he had to arm and ready the fighter’s cannon. The computer said he had 220 rounds of ammunition. He knew the GAU-22/A’s rate of fire was around 2,500 rounds per minute. That meant he had about five seconds of fire. The gun wasn’t meant for ground fire; it was meant as an air-to-air deterrent, or even a last-ditch weapon. The gunsight gave him a view of the swarming infected, and his finger squeezed the trigger.

  Andrew let off the pressure on the trigger before the gun fired. Off to his left, about a half a mile off, a line of trucks was struggling through a swarm of infected.

  * * *

  “Come on, damn it!” Colonel Alinsky screamed helplessly at the lead vehicle, even though he knew it couldn’t hear him. The front LAV was jumping up and down, rocking from side to side as its big armored wheels crushed dozens of infected. Its chassis was painted red with gore from the hundreds of infected they’d crushed. The big 120mm gun mounted on the assault version, the one that had brought him the news of the bridge infected, roared and dozens more were tore apart by the muzzle blast or blown to messy bits by the round’s detonation.

  They’d set out to reach the bridge, maybe set off the explosives the trucks carried and blow up the very edge of the southern span and thus cut off the swarms. But they’d been besieged almost from the beginning, when they’d crossed past the amphibious base and collected the squad he’d left behind. The first wave nearly overwhelmed them. He’d lost six men, and every single vehicle was swarmed. Not a single radio set survived, all their antennae were ripped off, and it was impossible to get the word out.

  By the time they reached where Silver Strand split into Orange Avenue toward the air field, it was impossible to turn toward the bridge. He’d ordered them to take Orange and try for the base. At least his company could provide more rifle fire. When they reached Ocean Blvd., he’d been again stopped for several minutes. One of the trucks was lost, all the men aboard killed. Hundreds of infected had torn the machine apart.

  They’d gotten going again, and now were within blocks of the airbase, and they’d run into the mother of all fucking zombie armies, hell-bent on attacking the airbase. When the gunner on his LAV, second behind the assault version, was torn from the turret, he’d shot his way out with a handgun and manned the smoking .50 himself.

  From his vantage point he could see that his command was ravaged. Most of the trucks now carried more infected than Marines. The creatures pounded on the transports’ windows and clawed at the doors trying to get at the men inside. He could see grim determination in their eyes as the convoy struggled on.

  The .50 ran dry and Alinsky pulled his pistol again, firing careful shots to keep infected from mounting the side of
his LAV. His XO, Major Hartman, handed him up a can of ammo for the Ma Deuce.

  “Last one,” the major warned.

  “Got it!” Alinsky said as he shot off-handed while hoisting the can into place and began getting the gun reloaded. He managed to get it done without giving himself 3rd degree burns or having an infected climb into the turret with him. He holstered the pistol, grunted as he jerked the charging handle, and put a short burst into a group of twenty-plus infected making a rush at him. Last can—100 rounds before I’m down to small arms. Another of the LAVs had fallen silent a minute ago. They weren’t going to make it.

  “What’s the plan, chief?” Hartman asked.

  Alinsky wanted to say they were going to make it to the airfield and link up with the rest of the battalion. He wanted to tell him to hang in there, they were going to be all right. He wanted to say he was sorry he’d gotten them into this. The sheer number of infected was unbelievable. What could they do, except buy the men on the airfield some time, if they still stood? Only, they’d never get close enough to make a difference.

  “I don’t know, Paul,” he said.

  “Fast mover!” the driver yelled over the roar of engine and gunfire.

  Harman looked forward and saw the streaking form of a fighter rocket by low overhead. Jesus Christ, it was an F-35! The Navy wasn’t out of the fight yet after all!

  The fighter roared away behind them, Alinsky watching it through sideways glances as he milked his last 100 rounds of .50 caliber. The jet passed behind them then shot straight up, flipped over, and came back. Some distance behind them, the fighter’s nose twinkled, and he heard the unmistakable cracks of high caliber hypersonic rounds whizzing just over their heads. In front of the lead LAV, 25mm cannon fire blazed ahead of their path, chewing anything and everything to bloody mash.

  “Yes!” he screamed over the blaze of battle. He could see those remaining in the trucks behind him cheering as well. The fucking fighter was plowing the road! The convoy shot ahead through the gap created by the fighter, which came around and did it again a minute later. Suddenly they found themselves in a gap. “Paul,” he yelled down into the LAV, “call a stop so we can move personnel. Fast!”

  * * *

  Andrew pulled up after his second strafing run, incredibly grateful the Lightning’s gunsight was so intuitive. He knew from practice that the F-15 probably would’ve dropped a few rounds on the Marines, what with firing that close. He didn’t think a single bullet nicked any of the combat vehicles.

  As he came around, he saw the convoy had come to a stop. He squinted and could just make out personnel being transferred. Based on how the entire island seemed to be crawling, he doubted they’d had so much as a minute’s break fighting their way north. Still, he wondered what they were doing.

  The Marine convoy consisted of five massive MTVRs, Medium Tactical Vehicle Replacements. The Army hadn’t been very creative in naming trucks over the last few decades. They also had three of the big six-wheeled armored cars, though he couldn’t remember what they were called. One had an almost ludicrous looking cannon on its top, making it look like a strange, hybrid Abrams tank. He could see them moving almost everyone in a rush to the armored cars. There weren’t many of them. Small arms fire twinkled from guns as they fought off still more infected.

  Andrew looked at his stores screen. It said he had 105 rounds of 25mm cannon left. He cursed and rolled in just along the side of the convoy and gave it several quick trigger pulls. The big rounds shredded dozens of infected, and the counter dropped to 85 rounds.

  He pulled up and around again, also checking his fuel. The slow passes were using more fuel than just loitering would. He still had the two bombs, if he could get a chance to use them. After the pass he was high enough to see the air station.

  Ospreys were taking off, getting the occupants of the refugee C-130s off the island. He could see the lone surviving LCAC about a mile away. The mission should be accomplished. The Marines should be performing a fighting withdrawal. Instead, they were fighting, and dying, holding the field for one more plane with, what, forty or so people aboard? Forty people and one VIP who, despite having the ability to parachute to safety and avoid making these brave Marines die to hold the base for her, insisted on landing.

  Andrew wondered if she’d be upset that a band wouldn’t be playing Hail to the Chief when she landed. What, no red carpet? The anger that began smoldering upon hearing Wade Watts talking about the kill switch, and how she’d probably been the one to throw it, was now a wildfire burning through his brain. Was any one human being worth the deaths of hundreds?

  He completed his turn, the plane angled to the right so he could observe the Marine convoy. They were moving again, good! He flew back the direction they’d come from and brought his fighter around for one more pass. His remaining ammo should be just enough to get them through.

  The gunsights lined up, and he waited until the last possible second to mash the trigger. The GAU-22/A’s thudding roar was muted through the fighter’s titanium hull. He could feel it throwing death in the vibration of the pedals and his hand on the stick. The ammo counter ground down, fast. He stroked the trigger rhythmically, firing the last few rounds at a huge concentration of the infected.

  “AMMO OUT” announced an indicator on his HUD.

  “Well,” he said, “that’s it.” He gave it some throttle and came up and to the right. Below him the three armored cars led with a blaze of rounds, tearing through the last of the infected. The Marine line on the airfield split to welcome them back. Then he noticed it was only the three APCs! Where were the trucks? He leaned over hard, almost accidentally sending the nimble fighter into a barrel roll. Nothing. He came back around and this time he did go inverted, craning his neck to look around.

  “What the fuck are you doing?!” he screamed through the plexiglass.

  * * *

  The blood-soaked LAV ground to a halt just inside the defensive perimeter. Captain Sharps looked at the gore-covered machine in amazement. Two of the tires were punctured with human femurs. Everywhere clung bits of bodies, limbs, and a severed head was wedged in one wheel well. It was Dante’s station wagon. The other two stopped nearby and all their ramps came down. The interiors were crammed with ragged and worn out Marines, some looking so tired they could barely stand. Most had no magazines in the web gear, their guns locked open, empty.

  “There’s ammo there,” Sharps said, and indicated a pallet of loaded magazines. “Any men who can give a little more, load up! We have to hold another 20 minutes.”

  It was a testament to the sheer tenacious will of the US Marines that every man immediately moved to the pallet. They might not have run, but they moved. They had a job to do, they were US Marines, and by God they were going to do it! From out of the command LAV, Major Hartman came. Col Alinsky didn’t follow. The major had a bloody field dressing on his left forearm.

  “Where’s the colonel?” Sharps asked.

  “We stopped to move uninjured personnel to the LAVs,” the major explained as Gunny McComb passed him a bandolier of magazines. “Thanks Gunny,” he said with a nod before continuing. “That Navy fighter gave us a clear moment. During the transfer, we had infiltration. The colonel got bitten on the hand.”

  “Fuck,” Sharps cursed. “Where is he, we’ll put him on the next Osprey. Maybe that mad scientist on the oil rig can help him.”

  “Not from what we’ve seen, Captain. We’ve had four men go crazy from bites just since we landed. No, a bite is a death sentence.” Sharps looked at the major’s bandaged arm.

  “Oh, this? Bouncer from one of our guns. Fucking Barbie guns.”

  “So, where is the colonel?”

  The major sighed and shook his head.

  * * *

  “You doing okay, corporal?” Alinsky asked the driver from the turret.

  “I’m a little woozy, sir, but I’m hanging in there.”

  “Give it all you can, son,” Alinsky urged, and let a burst from his carbi
ne go into a group running toward the road, “we’re almost there.” The colonel was standing in the roof turret of the lead MTVR. They didn’t have .50 caliber Ma Deuces in them, but it was still a good place to shoot from. He left the lightly-armored windows up, which was a good thing since the fucking infected often made mad jumps onto the trucks. He glanced behind; all five trucks were keeping up.

  His arm hurt like it was on fire, but that wasn’t the bad part. The bad part was that his brain was starting to feel foggy. After the infected bit him in that crazed rush, just as they finished transferring personnel, he’d realized there wasn’t any other way to do it. He and all those bitten by the infected piled into the five trucks, taking every extra magazine and grenade the other Marines had with them. The others took the LAVs and, with the help of the angel in the F-35, tore off toward the air station and some semblance of safety.

  Alinsky took the lead truck, and they’d turned right and plowed along the leading edge of the unstoppable mass of infected. The truck’s engine roared and labored as it drove into and through a mass of infected humanity like a snowplow. Screams, roars, and crunching bodies were audible over the constant rattle of small arms fire. He’d lost his hearing protection somewhere, and his own rifle’s banging reports felt like icepicks in his ears. There goes my hearing, he thought with a rueful smile.

  An infected leapt at the side door, and Alinsky gunned him down. Another crawled up over the canvas back. No one was in the rear of the truck to stop it, so he held the rifle out by the pistol grip and shot it twice. While he was doing that, six or seven leapt at the front of the truck. Three were run down under the churning wheels, but two made it onto the hood. Alinsky spun back and fired. The weapon banged once, and the bolt locked open. He let the weapon fall away—it had been his last magazine—and drew his sidearm.

  Standard issue was the M9, a version of the Beretta 9mm semi-auto handgun. Alinsky had always detested it. A colonel had more leeway than the average soldier; his sidearm was a Glock 29, an Austrian made little wonder in 10mm. The normal magazines were 10 rounds, but he carried four of the optional 15-round mags in his gear. He had two left.