“Dear Lord, For what we are about to receive, I pray I live the next five minutes well,” Ski muttered as he lowered the binoculars and tucked them into a pouch on his vest. He ejected the magazine from his rifle, and began reciting a prayer known among soldiers.
“Lord, make me fast and accurate. Let my aim be true and my hand faster than those who seek to destroy me.”
He inspected the rounds in the magazine, tapped the mag against his leg then slapped in back into the receiver. He worked the action, ejecting the live round he had previously chambered and watched it fall to the roof.
“Grant me victory over my foes and those that wish to harm me and mine.”
He looked over at his men, there were taking up positions and aiming into the mass of infected. Ski bent and picked up the live round and tucked it into a pocket on his vest.
“Stand by to engage!” Doyle called out, readying the command detonation board that was leaning against the low wall that enclosed the roof.
Beside him, the men of Sierra-3 joined Luzetski in his prayer.
“Lord, if today is truly the day that you call me home,” Their voices grew louder until they were shouting. “Let me die in a pile of empty brass!”
“Light ‘em up!” Doyle yelled out.
The weapons fire from the roof concentrated on the front leading edge of the horde, dropping scores of infected. Ski felt himself go into the zone as he called it. His movements fluid and precise as he dropped out his empty magazine, registering it hit his right boot as he slapped a full magazine into the receiver and dropped an infected that had wandered into his area of responsibility. There was another behind that one and another and another and he was ejecting the now empty mag, inserting a loaded one to keep his hungry rifle fed while he continued to service targets.
Warrant Officer Dayna Doyle, the police officers, security guards and other soldiers and civilians that had been tasked for the shock and awe, an exercise that would allow the civilians more time to escape through the tunnels, joined in the lopsided engagement. Breckhov’s bodyguard, Arkady, had joined the group bringing with him a Heckler & Koch 21 light machine gun that had somehow manifested itself. The explanation given was it came from the United Nations building. Somehow, that weapon had been in the UN security forces arms room and was retrieved when the Russian delegation evacuated the building. Ski mentally wondered what else the Russians had retrieved and stashed away. Arkady rested the bipod legs on the roof edge, calmly inserted the box magazine, pulled back the bolt and began firing short bursts into the swarm below them. It was like a metronome, rhythmic, violent, and comforting all at once. The ranks of the gathered dead were dropped only to be replaced by more as the horde shuffled forward to fill in the empty spaces that once held their brethren. The air filled with the smell of hot brass and the sweat of determined men fighting against insurmountable odds.
Ski heard the Russian muttering a mixture of English and Russian but what stood out the most was when the large man distinctly said,
“Da, get some.” This chant was repeated as Arkady continued to fire into the infected.
“Double-D!” Ski yelled as he dropped out an empty magazine and reloaded. At his feet, the pile of empty magazines and spent brass was already boot top high. He could feel the heat emanating from the barrel of his rifle. He chanced a glance over to the corner of the roof. Three Marines had set up a M240B and were now changing barrels. Earlier during the firing, he was sure he had heard someone burn out a barrel. With this target rich environment, it was bound to happen. The sure way to tell when a barrel was being burned was to watch it glow red then turn white. He had seen a M2 go out that way. The barrel had turned red then white then translucent before finally failing. He figured it was just a matter of time before they all burned out their weapons. He hoped they ran out of ammunition and targets before then. If that wasn’t the case, it would turn to hand to hand.
Doyle looked over at her former lover with a wicked grin. Reaching down to the command detonation board by her feet, she flipped the safety cover off the power switch, took a look over the side of the building, and then flicked the first toggle.
“Fire in the hole!”
Doyle and her combat engineer unit had left a number of surprises scattered around the exterior of the building and throughout the park. They had mined the likely approaches but had kept the majority of their demolitions in reserve. Command detonated mines, a mixture of M18A1 Claymore anti-personnel mines and other similar devices added to the staccato of weapons fire. Propane canisters from the vending carts placed inside garbage cans and other enclosures, with the rest of the void packed with whatever they could find, gravel, belt links, tin cans, soda cans, and odd pieces of metal debris, received the signal for detonation and added to the carnage, tearing through the infected like a wheat thresher. Whole sections of the massive horde disappeared in spheres of destruction as each of these devices sequentially detonated.
Still the infected advanced.
The streets, lined with abandoned cars, concrete Jersey barriers, and razor wire funneled the infected into the choke points. Feet, some broken, some still clad in footwear, stumbled over sheets of plywood that lay on the grass, sidewalks and jogging paths of Central Park. These wood sheets hid more destruction that exploded upwards, shredding anything in its proximity.
Still the infected advanced.
The next wave, struggling to climb over the minced remains of their brethren, made it past all this carnage and to the entrance of the park that faced the Museum. They staggered under the onslaught of small arms fire and straddled a series of cables, the first in a series of barricades. The initial charge triggered the C-4 laying under the six foot lengths of half-inch steel cables. The cables, anchored at one end to the ground with eye-bolts, stood up vertically under the explosive charge before falling back down under their own weight. Anyone or anything directly over those cables dissolved into a fine red mist that hung in the air like a crimson fog. It was dead silence for several seconds as the defenders on the roof were so shocked by the devastation, they stopped firing and stared at the horrific carnage.
I love my work, Doyle thought to herself. Damn, I should be getting pictures of this.
She waited for the mist to dissipate and the infected to move closer to the building before arming the next sequence. The mindless infected took the opportunity of that lull in shooting to move closer to the steps that led to the entrance doors of the museum. Doyle’s engineers had planned for this event as well. They had scavenged one inch thick steel plating from construction and building projects then welded slides that prevented the infected from climbing the steps except only in a few places that funneled the horde into a tight space like a cattle chute. Doyle’s communication’s earpiece crackled.
“Ma’am,” Sergeant Winchester said. “The murder holes are full.”
Doyle flipped the next toggle. The thinly rolled Semtex mounted to the interior of the steel plates that formed the chute, covered with wax that held the imbedded nuts, screws, belt fed machine gun links, broken ceramic from coffee mugs, and spent brass in place, detonated. The heavy boom was heard and felt all the way up on the roof. Winchester knew from prior experience that anything caught in that blast would end up looking like a mixture of raw hamburger and tomato paste that had been put in a blender and turned on high with the lid left off. The heavy door rattled when the Semtex was set off. He was glad that they had used tarps held in place by books, sandbags, office furniture, and other heavy items on the inside. Blood flows and the doorway didn’t have a high threshold. No one left in the museum wanted Zulu slurry leaking inside.
The blast shredded hundreds of diseased, knocking back hundreds more and pushing the swarm back against the fence surrounding Central Park. Doyle watched all this from her perch on the roof, waiting for this exact moment. She held her finger over the next switch until she was sure there were enough hostiles in the kill zone. The horde surged behind the ones that had been thrown back,
pushing forward towards the building again.
“What are you waiting for? Blow it!” Ski yelled when he saw the surge.
“Everybody get down!” Doyle yelled as she pressed the button. The half-inch plywood that was anchored to the rock and concrete fence at the park boundary and lying on the sidewalks simply disappeared. The plywood had been hiding the two hundred plus detonation cables that ran to the paper thin, rolled sheets of Semtex that was in turn mounted to more half-inch steel plating bolted to the fence. Embedded in each of these explosive sheets were nails, screws, gravel, and other odds and ends that the combat engineers could find then covered with a layer of epoxy to hold it all in place. They had spaced the sheets at fourteen inch intervals, essentially creating giant Claymore antipersonnel mines. The amount of bodies packed into the space between the fence and the museum was enough to muffle the explosion so that only a dull whump sound was heard. What the density of rotting flesh didn’t do was impede the particles that were shot out of the field expedient area suppressive devices. The mass of infected literally disappeared into nothing but rags and meat. After the first detonation, all the warheads that had been removed from DeMillio’s stockpile of M136 anti-armor weapons ripple fired. The street and sidewalk in front of the museum was swept clear in an orgy of destruction. Doyle cautiously peered over the edge of the roof. What she saw was jaw dropping and probably her best work. Her team had learned well from history and recent combat actions. Asymmetric warfare had its place and that had just been proven. The street ran ankle deep in gore, bodily fluids, and torn flesh. Organic matter painted the area in modernistic abstract art. What used to be diseased humans now looked like nothing more than red confetti. The entrance to the park that faced the museum was blocked with the twisted remains of the vehicles that had been parked on the street and the collapsed heavy fencing that had once made up the perimeter of the park. The push to reach the museum had been stopped. The infected were now totally contained within the perimeter of Central Park.
“Holy shit,” Ski muttered. “We just might live through this,” he said, surveying the chunky, reddish gravy that covered the area below him.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Doyle said. “There’s a lot more where those came from.” She pointed to the flow of infected still streaming into the park from the city.
“Holy shit,” Ski repeated. He watched as more and more infected poured into Central Park and were contained by the Hesco barriers and fencing. Some of the survivors from Doyle’s event were already shambling towards the new blockage. A distinctive sound made both of them turn and look at the sky.
“Heads down, people!” Doyle yelled as a screeching roar thundered overhead.
Aircraft from Crockett’s carrier group unloaded their payloads of bombs and missiles into Central Park. The last two aircraft dropped fuel-air explosives. The firestorm swept through the densely packed infected. Simultaneously, a perimeter of destruction was created for several blocks around the park. Buildings collapsed as supports were destroyed, falling across streets and into each other. The heady aroma of flammable liquid filled the air to mix with the coppery scent of vast quantities of blood, rotted flesh, chemical explosives, smoke, and sweat soaked humans. The fire from the horde within the park spread rapidly to those infected still pushing forward into the only opening offering egress. A loud whoosh that seemed to suck the oxygen out of the air like a black hole enveloped the area, incinerating everything in its path. To Ski, it looked like the gates to Hell had opened as millions of infected disappeared into the fiery conflagration. The defenders stopped shooting and watched, some slack jawed in awe, as the firestorm consumed the packed mass of viral carriers. Burning infected staggered and flayed around before succumbing to the heat. The wall of fire swept the park, igniting everything. They all knew the fire would burn for hours before it finally died out. Trees at the perimeter were igniting and exploding like Roman candles. Thick, black smoke reached into the sky, mixing with the gray clouds and carrying with it the stench of burning flesh, rubber, and hot metal. They could feel the heat from where they stood on the roof.
Luzetski had been optimistic about whether Crockett would be able to provide close air support. Now that the planes were in the air, strafing the park, their chances for survival had just gone up a few notches. Maybe they would all be alive for a few more hours.
Ski had stopped firing, reloaded, and stood watching what was left of the teeming mass of infected as they were consumed by the chemical fire. He knew that they had only bought a few hours before the fires died down to a point where the infected would push through. Now, they would definitely have to rely on the, utility, and subway tunnels. Might not have to do that Thunder Run after all, he mused. Each of the fighter bombers from Crockett’s carrier group expended all their ordnance one after the other then did a low level flyby, rocking their wings as they passed over the museum before punching full afterburner and gaining altitude.
***
Chapter 26
Joint Base Lewis/McChord (JBLM), Washington State
The thunder of weapon’s fire drowned the moans and shrieks of the infected. Somewhere in the back of Holroyd’s mind the new sound that the infected were making was being categorized for later contemplation while the rest of him went through the movements that only years of training could make automatic. Upton had fired the Ma Deuce empty and before he could load another full can, a small group of infected that appeared at the corner of the warehouse had grown into the leading edge of a large mass. Holroyd emptied his rifle into the closest targets, dropped the empty magazine to the ground but the group was too close for him to take the time to reload. Speed drawing his sidearm, he fired into the first few that had used the lull caused by the M2 and his rifle going empty to race to the back of the MATV and attempt to climb up. Holroyd stepped away from the vehicle and emptied his M9 as he laid down suppressive fire that gave Upton enough time to reload the heavy machine gun and rejoin the battle.
“Go! Go!” Holroyd yelled as he climbed back inside.
Sergeant Sullivan stomped on the pedal throwing up gravel from the rail bed. The gravel ricocheted off the concrete loading ramp and pinged against the armored hull. The heavy vehicle shuddered a little sideways until its deep lug tires found purchase and bit into the gravel then bounced over the railroad tracks before squealing on the rain soaked asphalt. Behind them, the Warpig crew was putting out a solid wall of destruction into the approaching infected as its driver raced to catch up with the other vehicles.
Holroyd inserted a fresh magazine into his rifle, mentally chiding himself for dropping the spent magazine. Movement in his peripheral vision made him look over as the supply/forage convoy split off and headed back towards Cascade. With luck, the infected would ignore them and continue following the gun trucks. It was important that those supplies make it back to Cascade. Not only was there more MREs to supplement the food stores they already had, there was winter clothing and water filtration equipment. Colonel Carter wanted the filtration equipment more than the other supplies as he was concerned that the water treatment plant that they had gotten back online only had filters and media for a few years. Holroyd put that out of his mind as he reached over and grabbed the handset from the SINCGARS radio mounted on the transmission tunnel. Keying the transmit button, he broadcast to all the vehicles and Cascade.
“Sandstorm! Sandstorm! Heavy contact! All units Rally Point Bravo! I say again, Rally Point Bravo!”
He knew that with the combined firepower of the gun trucks, they could battle their way out. He muttered a half remembered soldier’s prayer as he twisted around and leaned over the seat to count the cans of ammo that remained for the M2. They were in the serious shit now and the .50 was a hungry weapon. Turning back around he pat checked the pockets of his vest as he muttered the words half remembered.
‘Yea, tho I ride through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil, for I am the baddest motherfucker in the valley’
Returning
to the task at hand, he drew his M9, ejected the empty magazine, removed a loaded mag from his vest and inserted it then hit the slide release letting the slide travel forward and strip off the first round in the magazine. He holstered it and looked over and up past his left shoulder at Upton who had finished feeding another belt into the M2. Upton was his team’s heavy weapons specialist. He was able to use just about anything up to a towed artillery piece and even then quite possibly that as well. Upton slapped shut the feed tray cover on the heavy machine gun and worked the charging handle once to feed the first round in then worked the handle again ejecting the first round and feeding the next in the link. Holroyd turned back around and reached up to his MH180 headset and Panther hearing protection and clicked the transmit button.
“Check, check. Radio check,” he said over the team net
Up From the Depths Page 13