“Wolfhound Zero-Zero,” a voice arose over her radio. “Contact Zero-Six Stewart on Five-Nine-Decimal-Nine-Five-Zero in the red. Read back for check. Over.”
Arn had been given Valkyrie One-Nine’s radio frequency from Commander Travis, which had come from the air mission commander at Steward. Now she was being instructed to contact the air mission commander directly on a different unencrypted channel. She knew something was wrong if she was being instructed to contact Stewart directly, but she had no idea how bad the situation was at FOB MEDCOM.
“Valkyrie One-Nine this is Wolfhound Zero-Zero,” Arn responded. “I read back: Contact Zero-Six Stewart on Five-Nine-Decimal-Nine-Five-Zero in the red. Over.”
“Wolfhound Zero-Zero this is Valkyrie One-Nine. Correct. Out.”
***
Arn was correct. There was something very wrong. Valkyrie One-Nine was in the midst of a skirmish as it hovered above Madison Square Garden, laying down cover fire so the last of the 1st MEB could be extracted. The only extraction point for the remaining personnel was also from a rooftop position. Though the Garden didn’t have a rooftop helipad, it did have enough room for four UH-60 Black Hawks to land on the outer perimeter of the circular roof. Having dropped off a full complement of MEDCOM HQ medical personnel at Stewart ANGB, Valkyrie One-Nine was on its way back to Manhattan to extract Wolfhound Zero-Zero as ordered. However, as they neared Manhattan airspace, they received a call from air mission command.
“Valkyrie One-Nine, Valkyrie One-Nine this is Stewart Zero-Six. How copy? Over.”
“Stewart Zero-Six this is Valkyrie One-Nine, solid copy, go ahead.”
“FOB MEDCOM has lost final protective line. Imminent compromise of LZ. Divert to FOB MEDCOM at buster for over watch until exfil is complete. Do you copy? Over.”
Chief Warrant Officer 2 Parker Holt confirmed, “Stewart Zero-Six, Valkyrie One-Nine copies. Out.”
The four-bladed, twin-engine, helicopter only took a minute to get to Madison Square Garden. As it moved into over watch position, Valkyrie One-Seven was already lifting off from the roof and Valkyrie One-Two was loading their last two passengers.
Pilot CW2 Holt rotated the helo so that the left side M134 Minigun had a direct line of fire on the roof access door. If the enemy broke through, gunner Dylan Jusino would be able to keep them at bay until the last helicopter was in the air.
One of Valkyrie One-Five’s crew chiefs helped Lieutenant Morrow direct his fleeing troops to the helicopter. As it readied for lift off, the Morrow began directing the last of the troops to Valkyrie One-Six. A burst of carbine fire echoed from the roof access entry. Six soldiers rushed through the door heading toward Morrow. One of them yelled, “Tangos on our six!”
There was a rapid succession of carbine fire from the last fleeing soldier toward the onrushing enemy, and then the flood of the living dead spilled onto the roof. The hungry mass went directly toward the retreating troops heading to the last helo.
Sergeant Jusino’s 7.62 caliber, rotary machine gun whined as it rapidly spat out rounds from its six twenty-inch barrels, tearing the charging zombies into meaty chunks. Though the zombie corpses started to stack up, the sergeant couldn’t kill the living dead fast enough. In under a minute he had expended the minigun’s 5,000 round belt, and the living dead kept pouring out the access door, charging toward the helicopter.
“Left gun dry,” Sergeant Jusino announced over his radio headset. “Rotate 180, rotate 180,” he instructed pilot CW2 Holt. As the Black Hawk rotated right to put Corporal Carlos Rojas into firing position, Wolfhound Zero-Zero radioed. Holt knew why Arn was calling; his team was late picking them up. Holt and his crew were in an active fire mission, and ordered to be over watch until all remaining troops were extracted. They couldn’t leave, so he told Wolfhound Zero-Zero to contact air flight command for an update.
It only took Holt a moment to rotate the helicopter 180 degrees to get Cpl. Rojas into firing position, but in that brief amount of time a drove of the living dead had streamed onto the roof, reaching Valkyrie One-Two before Capt. Morrow could get aboard. The front of the pack tore into him, as the rest moved to the helicopter just as it began to lift off. The Valkyrie One-Two gunner that faced the oncoming horde had opened fire as soon as the troops were out of the line of fire. But he too couldn’t kill enough to stop them from reaching the helo. As Valkyrie One-Two got wheels off the ground the living dead reached them, charging head-on into the crew compartment before they could get the door closed. There was some weapons fire inside, and then the helicopter clipped its wheels on the retaining wall of the roof as it rocked under the extra weight.
A bullet went through the cockpit wall and struck the pilot in the back of his head, piercing his helmet. The bullet tore out the front of the pilot’s skull, projecting a thick, crimson splatter of blood and brains onto the windshield. The co-pilot tried to correct the faltering Black Hawk, but two zombies seized him. The flight control stick shifted right, moving the rotorcraft toward West 31st Street above the venue’s loading dock, and then the co-pilot’s feet came off the pedals. As another zombie pushed its way into the cockpit the co-pilot was thrust forward, pushing the control stick. The helicopter pitched frontward and dove to the ground, crashing nose first to the pavement below. The helicopter didn’t explode upon impact. Instead the main rotors shattered as they sliced at the pavement, sending pieces of rotor shrapnel careening in all directions. The Black Hawk banked onto its side, and then spun like a top until the rear rotor and tail assembly tore itself apart. The helicopter hadn’t stopped its circular motion before the zombies around the loading dock area swarmed it.
“Break, break,” CW2 Holt called over the radio. “Valkyrie One-Nine, Valkyrie One-Nine to all stations. FOB MEDCOM has fallen. I say again, FOB MEDCOM has fallen.”
***
The noise from the helicopter agitated the zombies behind the rooftop door. Arn knew the barred entry would not hold for long. Her men scrambled up the Black Hawk’s ladder as quickly as they could. The helicopter was hovering high above them, unable to get any lower due to the tight distance between the buildings. They were also fighting updrafts and cross breezes.
There was a crash of glass from the west. It had come from the building on the northwest corner that butted up against the rear of the armory. Capt. Arn’s fear had come to fruition. The building behind the armory had been compromised. The living dead were crashing through the top windows, most falling headfirst. Their skulls split open like over ripe pumpkins as they thudded, the impacts causing blood and brains to ooze across the rooftop. However, there were lower windows that the zombies came through, and when they smashed through and fell, they did not die.
Three of Arn’s soldiers were already aboard the hovering helicopter. Spc. Harold English was halfway up the ladder when the first zombie came crashing out the building window. Arn ordered Staff Sergeant Patrick Murphy to follow him, but he refused. Murphy was a heavier man, compact and muscular, and was anchoring the ladder, holding it steady. Murphy told Arn to go, and he would follow.
The helicopter was facing Lexington Avenue, trying to remain as steady as possible above the front of the building, but the cross wind was causing the pilot to make constant corrections. From their position they could not see the nose-diving zombies.
There must have been a hallway window that the zombies had discovered, because there was now a constant flow of the plummeting living dead from one particular window. Arn was slow getting up the ladder; both her heavy daypack and the Mossberg 590 shotgun strapped to it were hindering her ascent. She could have dumped the backpack once the helo had arrived, but it was filled with carbine and shotgun ammo, and her instinct as a warrior told her to hold onto it.
Murphy stepped onto the ladder just as the living dead attempted to rush him. The helicopter began to rise moving toward the street, but an up current caused the Black Hawk to violently jolt and then rotate. Murphy lost his grip and fell, one of his feet caught in the lower rungs of the ladde
r preventing him from plummeting to his death. Murphy couldn’t swing himself upright; the helicopter was swaying him, almost slamming him into the armory’s façade. As he hung upside down below roof level, he saw the living dead leaping off the building toward him. They dove at him like stage diving concertgoers into a mosh pit. The first few missed, landing atop the clamoring horde on the sidewalk below. However, as the helicopter attempted to correct itself, it put Murphy parallel to the rooftop.
Arn yelled at the crew to pull the helicopter up the moment she saw her sergeant grab hold of the ladder. When the helo first jolted, causing Murphy to dangle like a piece of bait half on a hook, she knew he was in serious trouble. Then Arn saw the first few zombies launch themselves off the roof in a futile attempt to snatch him. As the helicopter regained control and rose once again, it put Murphy directly in the vaulting zombies’ path. Before the rotorcraft could rise to a safe height, six more leapt off the building. Murphy attempted to shoot them with his carbine, but two successfully made the leap. One struck Murphy squarely on the chest, the impact triggering him to drop his weapon and nearly causing him to break free of the ladder. The zombie bounced off Murphy and splatted on the sidewalk below. The other struck the ladder but had no concept of how to grab the rungs to hold on. However, like Murphy, its leg became entangled in the ladder, turning him upside down. It immediately grabbed Murphy’s leg and bit into his inner thigh. Murphy cried out as he grabbed for his sidearm. He pressed the pistol against the zombie’s head and fired.
Arn had been watching the whole time. She saw the blood splatter as the sergeant shot it, and then she saw him look up to her. Murphy dropped his pistol, and then grabbed his knife. Arn knew what he was about to do.
Though Arn could not hear Murphy’s words over the noise of the helo, she swore he said, “Faugh an Beallach,” just before he cut himself free. Murphy plummeted to Madison Square Park below, landing face up and in the lap of the imposing bronze statue of statesman William Henry Seward; Murphy’s vertebrae were crushed and his spinal cord was severed on impact.
***
The Air National Guard base encompassed 267 acres and was home to the 105th Airlift Wing, which was comprised of ten units. However, by the time Valkyrie One-Nine reached the base only a small contingent from the 137th Airlift Squadron remained. Five of the airlift wing’s eight Boeing C-17 Globemaster III large military transport aircraft had already departed, taking most of FOB MEDCOM and 1st MEB with them. Captain Arn and her team exited the helicopter just in time to see a large group of Boeing CH-47 Chinook tandem rotor heavy-lift helicopters lift off. Sgt. Richardson made a comment to Arn about them, which gunner Rojas overheard.
“That’s B Company, Mountain Movers. They’re from the 10th AR, like we are,” he told them, referring to the 10th Aviation Regiment of Fort Drum, New York.
Richardson asked, “Isn’t Colorado the other way?” having observed the helicopter’s direction of flight.
A half-dozen army soldiers began to load the Black Hawk with more ammunition before they got in. “They’re headed to MRIID with troops and some doctors,” Rojas answered Richardson. “We’re headed there, too.” Rojas pointed at the last of the Globemaster IIIs with its load ramp down. “You better hurry. Those are the last Moose out,” he told them, and then warned, “As soon as they are wheels up, fire support for the base will terminate.” As he stepped back into the helo, he saluted Arn, and then slid the door closed.
Midway to the cargo plane, Spc. Emery stopped and turned to look at a few abandoned Humvees.
“Let’s go,” Richardson instructed, but Emery refused to move.
“No, Sergeant,” he replied. “I’m going home.”
This time Richardson was more forceful. “That’s an order, Specialist. Now move!”
However, Emery no longer cared about orders. There was something more pressing on his mind, and that was to get back to his family. “I’m going home. I got a wife and a four-year-old in Fishkill—that’s twenty minutes from here.”
The sound of the engines from the three Globemasters began to grow. The transports were ready for departure. Capt. Arn looked to the planes. She saw a crewmember urgently waving her on.
“We gotta go and we gotta go now, Specialist,” she told Emery.
“With all due respect, Captain, screw this. I’m not going to Colorado and leaving my family behind. You want to stop me then you’ll have to shoot me.”
Emery walked away and headed toward the Humvees. As he did, Richardson aimed his weapon at the deserting specialist, but then quickly lowered it. “Maybe he’s right,” he told the group. “I have a wife and kid, too. So do you, Captain. Maybe—”
Richardson didn’t finish his thought. There was a loud roar of attack helicopters flying low overhead, and then a series of air-to-ground missiles erupted nearby. Then the group saw what was happening: the living dead had broken through and were heading toward the transport planes. Arn and the rest dashed toward the Globemaster III just as the plane began to raise its cargo ramp. They made it just in time.
Emery had done what Arn believed they all wanted to do, and if they had had a few minutes more to think it over, she knew it’s what they all would have done—desert.
Her team should have gotten off the helicopter and appropriated whatever ground transportation they could acquire to get back to their families as Emery had done, Arn thought, as she and her men got situated while the Globemaster made a quick takeoff before the horde of zombies could interfere with their departure. Although Arn no longer had a spouse to be concerned about, she did have Casidhe, her six-year-old daughter. Casidhe was home in Lebanon Springs, which was 30 miles southeast of Albany, and less than two hours from the air base. Arn had told her parents to get home and secure themselves in the basement. Arn’s house was like a fortress; she had made sure of it. She had been deployed to Iraq when her regiment was called to duty for Operation Iraqi Freedom, and then again in 2008, when she was deployed to Afghanistan as part of Task Force Phoenix. She had been witness to the horrors of war and with Hurricane Sandy had seen how a natural disaster could be devastating to families. She knew the importance of being prepared and secure. Arn had turned her basement into a bunker. She phoned her parents to check in. Knowing her daughter and parents were secure and safe for the time being gave her some comfort, but her daughter still needed her mother. Casidhe wanted her mother with her, to keep her safe from the monsters outside. Now all Arn had to do was figure out how she was going to get from Colorado back to New York State.
When she was done with her phone call, she got a situation report (sitrep) from Sgt. Richardson, and discovered they were not headed directly to Colorado Springs. They were first on their way to USAMRIID at Fort Detrick, Maryland, but that was all the information Richardson could get from the plane’s loadmaster. Arn went to speak with the Air Force sergeant.
“Sorry, Captain for the indirect route, but we’re on a response mission to Fort Detrick for a heavy assets drop,” Staff Sgt. John Eller informed her. “Those Special Ops Rangers are jumping in with some of the 3-2 SBCT after we drop their load. That’s all I can tell you.”
However, that wasn’t everything that Eller could tell her. Arn also learned from him that the airdrop was going to be at 600 feet instead of a low-altitude parachute extraction. This was because the noise from the engines of the three Globemasters would attract the zombies, as well as the Strykers’ electronic equipment being too sensitive to take such an abrasive impact from a low-altitude parachute extraction. Arn also learned who was in charge of the mission, codenamed Operation Thunder.
First Lieutenant Earlman from Special Operations, 2nd Ranger Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment was in command of not only his Rangers, but also the ranking officer for the supporting fire units from the 3rd Stryker Brigade Combat Team, 2nd Infantry Division. Both the 2/75 RGR REG and the 3-2 SBCT were out of Fort Lewis, Washington, and though they both had a small supporting presence at the armory, she did not know the mission comman
der.
“Operation Thunder is on a need-to-know basis,” Earlman told Arn. “But if you know the work MRIID does, then you know why we’re on this response mission.” Earlman then offered, “You want to know more, then you and your team need to join us.”
It didn’t take any guessing on Arn’s part to understand what they were trying to accomplish at USAMRIID. Colonel Travis had told her before he sent her team to the roof that all the research data collected on the virus from FOB MEDCOM was being transferred to MRIID’s Biosafety Level-4 facilities at Fort Detrick. Included in this transfer was the return of half the remaining MRIID doctors and some CDC virologists. All other operations were being transferred to Colorado Springs.
Maryland was certainly closer to New York than Colorado, but Arn was certain that she would be literally jumping back into action against an ever-growing enemy that might not be stoppable. However, her choice was clear—Fort Detrick was closer than whichever Air Force base they were headed to in Colorado Springs. She told Earlman she would get back to him after she spoke with her team. He told her to hurry because shortly they would be over the drop zone.
Sergeant Richardson was torn between fighting and fleeing. He had joined the 69th New York National Guard, like his father and his grandfather before him. His reason was to prove himself to himself, wondering what he would do under fire. He had trained for anti-siege, and had been in numerous firefights with bullets and explosives being shot at him. But it was a world of difference when it was an exponentially growing, relentless enemy horde that had to have their heads blown off in order to kill them. In the last three days he had seen they were fighting a losing battle. If there was any hope for the salvation of humanity, then perhaps MRIID could find it. It was also closer to his home in Middletown, New York, than Colorado Springs. He was in.
Apoc Series (Vol. 1): Whispers of the Apoc [Tales From The Zombie Apocalypse] Page 17