by John O'Brien
Grissom Air Force Base, Indiana
October 16
Lieutenant Pritchard flares, the wings of the hornet rocking as her wheels touch the pavement. Ahead, other F-18s taxi along the taxiways, with others already parked on the large ramp. She taxis clear as the rest of her flight touches down in sequence, joining behind as she passes large KC-135 tankers parked on the western edges of the ramp. Guided by ground crews, she brakes and comes to a stop. Pulling the throttles back, she lifts them over the detent, shutting down the powerful twin engines. The canopy raises and she sits for a moment, looking out over the runway environment.
Lights shine from other aircraft as they fly down final, touching down with wisps of smoke from their tires. In the near and far distance, smoke plumes continue to rise from burning cities, neighborhoods, and farmhouses. Helicopters angle in toward the ramp, staying out of the way of the flight paths. They land, disgorging Marines and navy specialists before taking off to pick up others. Larger choppers swing over the perimeter fences, equipment slung underneath, dropping their loads in the outlying fields.
Even though gunships will continue to prowl the perimeters, the big push for the base is over. As far as she’s aware, they haven’t sustained a single loss. They’ll have to have maintenance go over their aircraft to ensure that it remains airworthy, but another day is complete. She unstraps, climbs down, and heads crew bus waiting at the end of the line. They did well today, but the operation is far from over.
Chapter Twenty One
Whidbey Island
October 16
Flights are held on standby. The decision to bombard the towns before drawing any remaining infected to open field is made in the early hours of the day. Destroyers and cruisers alike are given their targets of towns and communities. As the sun crests the peaks, gouts of flame and white smoke shoot out of deck-mounted barrels. Sharp claps of thunder roll across the watery straits, reverberating against forested shores. Flocks of birds leave their branches and rise from shorelines in a flurry of wings. Five-inch shells arc through the morning air, momentarily free from their bondage. Landing with explosive force, they add their roar to the mix.
Each five-inch gun is capable of firing up to twenty rounds per minute, and they strive to reach that mark. Nine destroyers and cruisers are partaking in the mission, each tossing rounds out at a rate of one every three seconds. With twenty-second travel times, there are upwards of forty-five shells in the air, either arcing toward their targets or exploding upon them. With so many five-inch shells striking targets along the breadth of the island all at once, it’s as if they were trying to sink the island in its entirety.
The cracks and rumbles continue unabated as walking barrages roll through once peaceful island communities. Homes, cafes, and shops operated by families waiting for the summer crowds are all obliterated under the constant shelling. Buildings that took months to build are flattened in seconds. Up and down the long island, plumes of smoke rise. Towns like Freeland, Greenbank, Keystone, Coupeville, and Lagoon Point become cratered soil filled with the devastated detritus of civilization. In the lower lying communities, the smoking craters slowly fill with water.
As a grand finale, the nine warships all turn their guns to the largest town on the island—Oak Harbor, just to the southwest of the air station. Nine huge blasts rock the northern part of the town in a line. That line begins walking south two hundred yards at a time. Every three seconds, a new line erupts, throwing dirt and debris skyward.
The shelling stops at the southern end of the town, sparing the library, the marina with its naval exchange and commissary, and a residential neighborhood on the very tip of the peninsula. Adjusting fire back to the northern end of the city, the ships begin another rolling barrage south through the undamaged parts of the city. It’s understood that resources are being destroyed, but it’s imperative that they get ashore without the risk that infected could be hidden within the towns. “It only takes one” has become an unvoiced motto.
It’s over within the hour. In the end, only three larger residential neighborhoods are spared. Two are near the naval air station, one to the north and the other to the south. The third lies at the end of the peninsula just south of the ravaged city of Oak Harbor. As the fire lifts, helicopters and strike fighters take to the air to begin a day of luring the infected into open fields.
Early in the afternoon, the helicopters hovering to gather infected don’t find any more massing under their rapidly spinning rotors. The island is carefully combed and a few stragglers found, their lives ended under a hail of 20mm shells. The island is swept a second time without finding a trace. With the exception of those that may be in and around the naval air station and surviving residential neighborhoods, the island seems clear. Sulley orders a third sweep of the entire island, the result coming back the same—no infected.
“It’s time to send in the Marines. I want those buildings cleared, but that doesn’t mean that’s the priority. The safety and preservation of our men and women remains the primary matter of importance, and always will. I want each commander briefed on keeping the protocols. I want it drilled into their heads until they’re murmuring it in their sleep.”
With that, the word goes out and activity of another sort begins across the fleet. Marines are gathered, briefed, and collect their gear. Helicopter transports and gunships are warmed up. Arrows are made on maps and call signs given. Nervous fingers twitch on trigger guards and mags are checked for the hundredth time. Complaints are made about having to wear the MOPP gear and the resulting heat. Those are voiced not only because the Marines mean it, but because they’re supposed to complain; it is almost a ritual. After months of boredom aboard the boat, they’re getting off the steel tub.
Action, regardless of what kind, is a relief. It will give them something to do besides chores and other meaningless activities. They’ve had too much time to themselves to worry about loved ones; too much time to imagine every kind of situation. Most know the circumstances. Some keep up hope that their families have survived, others are sorrowful believing theirs are either dead or infected.
Hopefully dead. That’s better than infected…right? Would it be? Maybe it wears off and they’ll return to normal. There must be a cure. Can rabies be cured? I’m not really sure. I know you can be vaccinated, but does that hold true if the symptoms appear?
Thoughts of that nature cycle continuously. The Marines stationed on boats within the strait spend their days at the railing, watching the attacks happening in the distance. There’s really not much to see other than black dots streaking toward the island and plumes of smoke rising. But, it’s something, and it’s not spending time lost in the worried depths of thought.
* * * * * * *
Sergeant Kelli Parker leans forward, her carbine between her knees with the barrel resting on the floor.
“Can’t be shooting our own helicopter down,” her instructor had answered when she asked why so long ago.
The vibrations of the Super Stallion’s rotors rise through her boots and is felt on the tight nylon seating. The gloomy interior is cramped with her squad crammed next to and across from her.
If this was built any smaller, we’d all become pregnant, she thinks, trying to worm her way into a more comfortable position.
She notices a smear on her goggles, blurring a section of her vision. Her gloved hand does little to clear it. Continuing to wipe at it, it finally fades. The MOPP gear is warm and uncomfortable.
At least we don’t have to wear our armor, which makes it marginally better. And the mask prevents me from smelling the sweat mixed with jet exhaust.
As there isn’t any chance of incoming fire, they are able to go in without the weight of the body armor. It’s a short flight, but even so, she wishes they could have used the Osprey.
Those at least have marginally more comfortable seats, and more space.
She rehearses their mission in her mind. They are landing at the naval air station in company streng
th, with the support of gunships and decoy helicopters. They were briefed that the outside area should already be clear of any infected, but also told not to take that for granted. While transitioning between buildings, they are to remain alert.
Three teams of Vipers will be on station, one acting to draw any stray infected into the open and the other two to gun them down. Theirs and another company are to conduct squad-sized infiltrations of the buildings, clearing them of any remaining infected who might be trapped inside. The second company will clear the dorms and admin buildings in the base’s interior, while hers would be taking care of the hangars and other buildings next to the base’s airfield. Two other companies of the battalion were assigned the residential areas that escaped the day-and-a-half bombing campaign.
She doesn’t feel the same kind of nervousness she felt dropping into combat areas in the ‘Stan. There, people could shoot back. Here, they can infect, but only if they get close enough. Her greatest fear is that she’ll snag her gear on something and tear a hole in it. Although the briefers said that the virus would only infect if inhaled, she has her reservations.
In the leadership meeting called by the company commander, he informed them that anyone becoming infected would be put down, and put down immediately. That there was to be no question or hesitation. They couldn’t afford to carry back a single infection. All would be disinfected and go through a quarantine period after the mission to ensure that nothing was brought back. That whole thing was what made her nervous. She remembers the shocked expressions of her squad when she told them the parameters. They recovered only moments later, the shock turning to understanding, and the game faces emerged. They were Marines and knew what they were up against.
Kelli leans forward, looking down the line of faces to right and left. The Marines in her squad are solid enough. They all have idiosyncrasies that drive her nuts at times, but they are a good team when the shit hits the fan. A couple of them are trying to converse, shouting through their masks to be heard over the sound of the engines and the twin rotors spinning overhead. Most are silent, lost in their thoughts.
Marines, she thinks, pondering her six years in the service.
It still amazes her at times to be a Marine. When growing up, her diminutive stature had her constantly having to prove herself; she always had to do more to make up for her lack of height. A part of her knew that this was in her own mind, but she was self-conscious of it in high school nonetheless. Everyone had their insecurities and that was hers. Her friends had filled out fully while she still wore training bras, and that was only for affect. While her friends were chasing boys, she involved herself with sports and her schoolwork. She became tenacious in everything she did, always trying to outdo everyone. It’s not that she was an asshole about it, she just tried harder. And, of course her dad wasn’t upset that she directed her energies toward other things than boys.
Kelli didn’t know her grandparents very well, nor did she see them often. The only thing she really knew about her grandfather was that he was a Marine and was in a war. She remembers the day her grandfather sat her down, just the two of them sitting on the porch, taking in the summer day. Her grandfather didn’t talk much, so it was mostly them sitting and rocking back and forth in their chairs.
“You know, Kelli. Size doesn’t matter. You have the capability to do anything you want to. It’s not the body that gives you strength, it’s this,” he had said, pointing to his head. “Don’t ever think you can’t do something. Work hard for what you want because you want to, not because you feel that you need to. You have nothing to prove to anyone, only yourself.”
That was it. It was more words than she’d ever before heard him string together at once. She stared at him for a moment across the small intervening space. He had gone back to looking at the trees that bordered his property. Seeing him with a different eye, she could see his silent inner strength. Solid, but quiet and reserved. Confident, not showy. That moment shaped her in ways the previous years hadn’t, and that was the moment she decided she wanted to be a Marine. Everything she did for the rest of high school was directed toward that goal. She was finally doing something for herself, something that she wanted to do and not to prove to others that she could.
Of course, achieving her goal didn’t mean that there were fairies dancing around throwing flower petals into the air. It was hard work. There were days when she questioned her decision; times when she wanted to quit.
“What you’re feeling now is nothing compared to the feeling of crossing the finish line.”
That’s the sign she saw once while running a marathon. She was near mile twenty, exhausted and wondering if she could make another six point two miles, when she looked up and saw that on a billboard. She realized that there wasn’t anything more right than those words plastered high overhead. It became her mantra for when things got tough.
She made it. Even though it was warm and she had to stand forever, her Marine graduation ceremony made that statement true. Her grandfather had been there and hugged her, saying, “I’m proud of you.” Nothing—nothing could have made for a better moment. He died later that year. Her parents the year following, in a plane crash.
“Five minutes,” she hears the crew chief state, holding up five fingers.
She brings her thoughts out of the past and to the present. Like everyone else in the back of the Super Stallion, she checks over her gear, ensuring she has a full mag and that her safety is on. Mags in their holders are patted to make sure they’re secure and available. Kelli’s breath rate quickens, exhaling through her mask. It’s not her first time on a combat mission, but it is her first as a squad leader.
The helicopter’s rear hatch opens, wind whistling past the opening. The roar of the engines grows, as does the squad’s anxiety levels. Beyond the opening, forested hills rise in the distance above a wide expanse of water. Ships ride the swells, their gray dreary against the bright colors of the strait and surrounding terrain. She doesn’t see the other three helicopters carrying the rest of the company, but knows they’re there, close at hand. The hood and sleeves of Kelli’s overgarment flutter in the wind swirling through the cabin.
She eyes the crew chief as he raises one finger and shouts, the words lost.
“Calm down, Kelli. You know what to do,” she mutters behind her mask.
The helicopter begins descending from their five-hundred-foot altitude. The view behind transitions from water, to a thin strip of sand, then to short brown and green grass. A gray runway with white markings appears, and the Super Stallion banks hard, continuing its descent. Kelli sees white lettering on another paved surface: “Welcome Home.”
The nose rises sharply, slowing the chopper as it settles onto its gear, the ramp clanging on the concrete surface. Buckles are opened and belts tossed as the squad scrambles out, descending the steel ramp and onto the hard surface. Kelli races down the ramp and to the left, cradling her M-4. The rotor whips the air into a frenzy, wind driving against her clothing in all directions. Clear of the chopper, she snaps her safety off and directs her three teams to the side of the concrete closest to the buildings.
The helicopter carrying them lifts off, another taking its place a couple of seconds later. Another team is disgorged, then another, and a fourth until her company is on the ground forming a box.
Kelli pays little attention to the arriving helicopters, other than trying to keep the wind from blowing her protective gear off. Ahead, across a strip of grass and a taxiway, large white hangar buildings with bright blue doors rise from a wide concrete ramp nearly a mile in length. To the left, several P-3 Orion sub chasers sit quietly, red flags hanging from the large props protruding from each of the four engines. Parked to the extreme right and left of the ramps are a few F-18s, some with the ends of their wings folded upward. Almost directly to the front, two large helicopters in the colors of the Coast Guard sit with their huge rotors drooping downward.
Her second squad has the responsibility of clearing t
he main hangars, the air terminal, control tower, and base operations building. First squad has the hangars and buildings to the left, with third squad taking the structures on the right side of the ramp. Fourth squad will remain on the ramp as a reaction team, along with the company command.
Kneeling, with her weapons shouldered, she keeps a careful eye in and around the hangars for movement. The helicopters depositing her company depart, leaving the sound of the covering gunships hovering in the near distance. On the other side of the base, the Super Stallions landing the other company heave into sight, vanishing behind the tall hangars as they land.
She feels a hand on her shoulder. Looking up, Kelli sees the eyes of her company commander behind the mask.
“Are you ready?” he asks, having to shout to be heard.
“Aye, sir,” she replies.
“Let’s move out then. Sooner started, sooner done,” her commander states.
She knows that the areas outside are clear or the infected would be running to the sound of the gunships and to the landings. That doesn’t alter her apprehension or her vigilance, though. “It only takes one” rings through her mind. She is still in a little bit of shock regarding what happened to the world, and is a touch disassociated from it. The events had been matters of discussion, talk around tables and briefings. Other than being warned of upcoming operations, her reality hadn’t changed much. There were still the gray steel walls of the ship and the endless blue of the ocean. This was her first time experiencing the infection in person. So far, there’s only the emptiness of the air station. This stark barrenness, buildings standing where there should be the sprawl of human activity, adds to her feeling of disassociation.
The thought of encountering the infected in the tight confines of the buildings frankly scares her to death. Not only the idea of becoming one of them, but of failing. Rising, she gets the attention of her squad and motions them into action. She trots off the concrete pad in the middle of the airfield, across the grass and adjoining taxiway, and onto the ramp. The five large, closed, navy blue doors of the search and rescue hangar can hide any number of infected behind them.