“We won’t need a medic. You take care of Pruitt. He needs you more than we will,” Ski said. Graham stared at Luzetski for several seconds then his eyes hardened and he nodded. He wordlessly handed over all the full magazines he had left then climbed onboard the RHIB without looking back. The remaining civilians climbed aboard and eagerly found somewhere they could sit.
“Go! Get out of here!” Ski yelled, stuffing Graham’s magazines into his vest pouches as the boat backed away from the dock, pivoted, and headed towards Governor’s Island.
Ski watched the inflatable grow smaller and smaller then turned away.
“Jiminez! Get those comms up!” he called out as he ejected the magazine from his rifle, looked at it, tapped it in the palm of his hand and slapped it back in place. Jacking back the charging handle, he turned to face the infected that were moving in on them.
He watched the flames leap high into the air as the firestorm consumed everything combustible in its path. Sporadic firing broke out from the left flank as the infected began to probe their defensive line. The firestorm was pushing the Zulus towards them. Like frightened animals in the midst of a forest fire, the infected wanted to get away from the flames. There was little in the way of obstacles to block the flow. Some garbage cans, a few park benches, empty ammo crates that appeared from somewhere, and the LAV.
“Jiminez! I need those comms up!” Ski yelled as he watched more and more infected move towards them until it was a solid wall of Zulus.
“Blackbird, Blackbird, Sierra-3 Actual.” Ski said over the firing of the soldiers and Marines trying desperately to hold back the tide of the undead.
“Sierra-3 Actual, Blackbird.”
“Blackbird, popping smoke to mark targets. Danger close.”
“Sierra-3, Blackbird copies. Watching for smoke.”
Ski looked over at DeMillio who nodded and removed a smoke grenade from his vest, pulled the pin and threw the canister as far as he could into the multitude of infected. The pyrotechnic bounced off the head of a Zulu before falling to the ground where it began to spew its contents.
“Blackbird, Sierra-3, do you see smoke?”
“Sierra-3 Blackbird, I have red smoke.”
Luzetski looked at Jiminez, DeMillio, and then at all the soldiers and Marines engaging the infected that were almost to their defensive line. Among the infected he saw uniforms, fellow soldiers and Marines that had been turned. He hoped it didn’t get to the point of hand to hand.
“Blackbird, Sierra-3, confirm red smoke. Expend all ordnance on that smoke, Blackbird.”
“Blackbird copies all. Coming in hot.”
Luzetski dropped the handset, went to one knee and fired into a flaming infected that was shambling towards him. He heard the roar of the MC-130 overhead as he continued firing.
“Fix bayonets!” DeMillio yelled as he fitted the edged weapon to the end of his rifle. Looking over at Ski he asked, “You know what sucks?”
“Tell me,” Ski said as he fired into the mass of infected that were straining against the skirmish line.
“I paid for my fortune to be told a few years back.”
“Yeah?”
“Bitch told me I’d die in bed. With a blonde.”
“Not a bad way to go,” Ski admitted.
“Should get my money back. Looks like I’m going to buy it with you assholes,” DeMillio said over the firing and the overhead rumble of the C-130.
The GBU-43/B MOAB detonated several hundred yards away. Luzetski thought of a phrase he had once heard, ‘Death or Glory’. How fitting. There was an intense heat wave and a fleeting sensation of flying then nothing more. A few minutes later, a B-52 high over Manhattan Island released its special weapon. A heavy bass thud followed by a crackle and intense light struck as the first tactical nuclear warhead detonated on Manhattan Island.
***
On the RHIB, the coxswain cut the engine.
“Face away from the island and close your eyes tight. The flash is not your friend,” he directed as he hunched into a tight ball and covered his face with his hands. Oh God, this better work.
Doyle and Graham dropped over Pruitt and covered him. Tears flowed from her eyes and fell onto the wounded man beneath her.
“Brace!” the coxswain called out as the shockwave rolled over them. The massive windstorm rocked the boat then dissipated. The coxswain restarted the engine and continued towards the island. Doyle looked back at the mushroom cloud that rose up over the center of the Manhattan, tears streaking her face.
***
Chapter 52
Site 18, COG Facility
“Sire, we’ve lost all contact with the Alaska facility,” a communications technician reported to former United States Air Force Major General Thaddeus Augustus Lee Royd as he stood gazing out at the command center.
“Sire, confirmation of nuclear detonations in Asia, Eastern Europe, and New York city,” another technician reported.
Lee Royd stepped down into the main part of the command center.
“Brothers and sisters, the time has come,” he said, raising his arms out his sides and slowly turning in a circle. “The time of rapture is upon us. Let us bow our heads and thank almighty God that he has deemed us worthy.” He bowed his head but kept his eyes open to watch the staff of the room. He wanted to make sure they all obeyed him.
“Let me hear an Amen,” he said. A loud chorus responded.
“Now we shall pray for God’s forgiveness and mercy.” Lee Royd began reciting prayers, verses, and even dialogue from fantasy and science fiction films. None of the personnel noticed this as he ranted on about anything that came to mind.
“May the benevolent God, the divine creator who gave us Colonel Sanders’ secret recipe, Taco Bell, and Diet Pepsi, bless us and make us one,” Lee Royd dramatically brought his hands together in mock prayer in front of his chest and bowed his head so that his forehead touched the tips of his fingers. The room fell silent as all eyes watched their leader. A buzzer sounded, breaking the silence.
“What is that infernal racket?” Lee Royd asked, mentally congratulating himself for using the word infernal, as he cast a sharp glare in the direction of the technician manning that particular console.
“Sire, it’s the perimeter alarm,” the man said shakily. “The outer perimeter has been breached.”
“Show me,” Lee Royd commanded. A few key taps later and the large screen on the wall showed the view from the security cameras. Lee Royd watched in silence as a group of LAVs tore through the fence followed by infantry and Hummers.
“Sire, inner perimeter breach alarm.”
The image split to show a different view but much of the same activity. Lee Royd was silent as he watched armored vehicles, trucks and Hummers accompanied by ground troops pour into the once secure area and spread out. He became aware of the silence in the room and could feel the stares of his followers.
“The unrighteous have found us!” he bellowed. “The wolf is at the door! Arm all perimeter defenses! Rally the forces! Here, we shall make a stand!”
The control room personnel scrambled to obey his orders.
“Let’s sing our song of rally as we are brave soldiers of God,” Lee Royd said as he plugged a MP3 player into the room’s speakers and cranked the volume. Johnny Cash’s voice, distorted due to the volume, began blasting with his rendition of I Won’t Back Down.
Outside, the Marines from Crockett’s MEU stopped in position when several remotely operated weapon systems opened up on them. The LAVs and anti-armor teams were quick to put them down, in some cases, pouring so much firepower directly into the concrete bunkers that the mounts that held the perimeter defense weapon systems were melted and the concrete scarred with blast marks.
Combat engineers moved ahead, clearing obstacles until they reached the main doors of the complex. One team, with several squads of Marines, moved through the parking lot to access the secondary entrance when the long abandoned cars began detonating sending that group for cov
er. They hunkered down, taking fire and injuries from the explosions while they called in support. Rumbling in from behind the LAVs, and 1114 Hummers, a M728 Engineering vehicle rolled into the parking lot. Lowering the dozer blade at the front, it proceeded to push the cars aside, setting off mines and VBIEDs as it went. It reached the far side of the parking lot and stopped, reversed and then moved towards the secondary entrance now with the Marine squads and engineers using it for cover. The CEV stopped several dozen yards from the entrance while the engineers raced past it to place breaching charges on the doors. At the main entrance, a dozen LAVs formed a semi-circle, all with their main guns facing the doors while engineers affixed charges there as well. Once in place, the engineers backed away and detonated the charges. The heavy blast doors blew inward. As the smoke cleared, the raiders could see inside. Barricades had been thrown up at a safe distance and behind those were Lee Royd’s followers. The zealots opened up on the Marine MEU elements with small arms fire. The LAVs returned that with their 25mm cannons, shredding the barricades and those that had taken shelter behind it. Once the initial fusillade was over, Marines poured into the complex, engaging small pockets of resistance until they were outside the main command center. The doors were similar to the exterior complex doors, hardened. The combat engineers had to call out for more demolition charges as what they had wasn’t going to do much but scratch the paint. Once they had what they needed to breach the interior armored doors, they evacuated the facility and detonated them. A deep muffled thud was heard from outside followed by a huge cloud of dust that swept out of the entrance and coated the area with its grayish/white cotton like dust.
There was utter silence following the underground explosion. That silence was broken by the squawk of a radio then a few words.
“Colonel, X-Ray Actual,” the RTO said in Dwight Mattox’s ear, the United States Marine Corps officer in charge of the MEU that had been embarked on Crockett’s carrier group. Mattox keyed the microphone in front of his lips that was attached to the Combat Vehicle Crewman helmet he wore.
“X-Ray Actual, Hammer-6. Go ahead.”
“Hammer-6, X-Ray Actual, SITREP,” the voice of Admiral Crockett said in the headset Mattox wore.
“X-Ray Actual, Hammer-6 Actual. We have gained entry and are conducting a sweep and clear,” Mattox said. “We’re searching for prisoners now.”
“Glad to hear that, Hammer-6. You need to abort your operation right now and start heading south at best speed. How copy?” Crockett said.
“Say again, X-Ray. Head south?” Mattox asked.
“Confirm Hammer-6. You need to abort you current operations and head south immediately. Your new objective is to find a location that you can hunker down in for some time. Check your funny papers. Look at Four-Zero-Alpha. I say again. Four-Zero-Alpha. How copy?”
“X-Ray, Hammer-6 Actual copies all. Hammer-6 out.” Mattox stepped down from the commander’s seat of his LAV and tapped his Intel sergeant on the shoulder.
“Gunny, what do you have for something called Four-Zero-Alpha?” He watched the sergeant look through his files then tap a command into the armored laptop.
“Got it right here, sir,” Gunnery Sergeant Hogan said as he spun the screen towards Mattox. The Marine Colonel read the quick summary. Son of a bitch.
“Get me Captain Damon,” Mattox said to his commo section. Damon or Demon as his nickname had been since he had taken over as executive officer of the MEU when it was split up between the two remaining fleets, and Governor’s Island, came up on the commo net.
“Hammer-6, Bulldog-5.”
“Bulldog-5, Hammer-6, pull your people out now and get them on their vehicles. We’re moving out,” Mattox said.
“But sir, we’re still going section by section. We haven’t cleared the complex.”
“I’m aware of that Bulldog. Pull your people out now and get moving. We’re Oscar Mike in five.”
“Copy that, Hammer-6. Bulldog out.”
Mattox stood back up in the commander hatch of his LAV, brought up his binoculars and watched his Marines fall back from the COG facility. Slowly turning to look back the way they had come, he focused on a group of infected that were slowly shambling towards them. Damn. Thought we'd lost them a couple of days ago, Mattox thought as he studied the group. They had picked up this straggly-ass group outside of Wichita shortly after they had lost contact with the SEAL detachment that been with them. Mattox had used the SEALs for forward reconnaissance, a task, one of many that the Naval Special Warfare operators truly excelled at. The detachment, part of Gator Platoon, had been out on the far right flank scouting the outlying sections of Wichita when they had lost contact with them. There had been one garbled transmission interspersed with weapons fire then nothing. Mattox had hoped it was just a brief encounter but, a few minutes later, a red flare had popped indicating that the SEALs were in heavy contact. He had dispatched two LAVs to head back to the SEALs last known location but they had found nothing more than a street littered with dead infected, empty magazines, and fire trails of spent brass. Their abandoned vehicle surrounded by belt links, and more empty magazines and brass, was a testament to what had transpired. The battle debris led to buildings where all that remained were large pools of blood, discarded weapons, fragments of uniforms, and more empty magazines. Regrettably, he had been forced to discontinue the search for survivors and continue with the mission.
A few days after that, this group of infected showed up on the horizon. At first, he had thought it might have been the SEALs on foot trying to catch up. But, when the forms drew nearer and he was able to make them out through binoculars, it was just more of the victims of the Reset Virus; none of the infected was the SEALs. For some reason, no matter how fast they drove or what they did to mask their trail, this group seemed to know where they were. What concerned him more than the rabid cannibals following his unit was that they hadn’t found any survivors during the entire movement to the objective. Sure, there were small towns they had detoured through after finding freeways and highways too clogged with long abandoned cars but, none of those small towns had yielded anything more than place to establish a RON site and then move on.
“Gunny,” Mattox radioed.
“Sir.”
“Get me Doc Watson.”
“Yes sir.”
“Sir, Doc Watson.”
“Band-aid-4, Hammer-6.”
“Band-aid-4.”
“Come up with anything yet on how to mask us from the Zulus?”
“Negative, Hammer-6. With all the noise we make, we’re pretty much acting like the Pied Piper,” Watson said. He had already made a suggestion that they use powdered CS to sprinkle on their empty food packets before burying them. They had even instituted the same procedure for their latrines. But to no avail, the infected continued to dog them.
“Copy that, Doc. Keep working on other options. Hammer-6 out.” Mattox switched channels.
“Gunny, move us out.”
“Copy that, sir.”
Switching channels back to the command net, Mattox listened as the units tallied their personnel, loaded up and began moving out.
“Bulldog-5, Hammer-6.”
“Bulldog-5.”
“Bulldog, you have the point. I’ll take drag and make sure we close the door behind us,” Mattox said. He looked over and watched as Damon’s LAV sped up and took the lead position.
“Copy that Hammer-6. Bulldog out.”
Mattox had wondered how Damon had been tagged with the nickname of ‘Demon’. The officer was of slight build, something odd for a Marine, and wore the black plastic framed ‘birth control’ glasses. For all appearances, the captain would not be more out of place if he had slipped a pocket protector into a pocket of his uniform blouse. But, appearances can be deceiving. Mattox had seen Damon in action. He shook his head as he remembered how the slight in stature officer, in full MOPP 4, had fired his rifle empty, let it hang from its sling, pulled an entrenching tool from his waist and waded i
nto a group of infected. He had counseled Damon for his actions and the risk he had taken. It was well known that fluid contact with infected led to infection but the young captain had walked away without a scratch. Damon had received nothing but a blood soaked MOPP suit and field gear. Mattox had inspected the entrenching tool that Damon had used. It was not like the contemporary tools issued that folded as compact as possible. No, it was a solid oak handle with a D2 steel shovel head that was attached to that handle with a heavy duty hinge. One edge of the shovel had been honed sharp enough to shave with.
“Where did you get this, captain?” Mattox had asked. Damon had looked straight ahead, still at a position of attention when he answered.
“Sir, the captain would like to be reassured that if he answered that question he will be able to retain possession of said entrenching tool.”
“Oh, I have no intention of depriving you of this tool, captain. I just want to know how you came into possession of it.”
“Sir, it was handed down from my great grandfather to my grandfather and then to me. It dates back to the first world war. Sir.”
Mattox turned the tool back and forth in his hands, studying the handle and the meticulous care it must have taken to keep this item in the shape it was in for so long.
“Captain, please feel free to continue using this entrenching tool. It’s obvious that it has sentimental value to you,” Mattox said, handing it back to the officer. “However, while Marine officers lead from the front, it would be wise to delegate more instead of wading into another swarm of Zulus. Copy that, Captain?”
Damon nodded his head as he tried to hide a grin.
“Sir, yes sir.”
“Dismissed.”
“Sir. Yes sir.” Damon saluted sharply, did a parade ground about face and left. Mattox’s thoughts were brought back to the present as his LAV lurched through a roadside ditch then up the other side. He turned and looked off to his right. The shape of one of his scout’s LAV-R could be seen as it moved through a cornfield. Looking back, he gripped the edges of his hatch and lowered himself inside.
Up From the Depths Page 24