Overrun: Project Hideaway

by Michael Rusch

  "I think both, sir," the young Vulture soldier said handing Samuel the holovid.

  As he said this, a youthful-looking face appeared on the holovid’s small blue screen.

  "This is Vulture Command."

  "Vulture Command, this is General Maxwell A. Tuttle," Tuttle said taking the holovid from Samuel's hands. "Vulture Quadrant Commander in charge of the West Coast sector."

  "General?" the soldier on the other end of the transmission said looking surprised. “We've been waiting for you to report, sir. Your safety and location has been of great concern."

  "Patch me into..." Tuttle began but was then surprised to be interrupted by the lower-ranking officer.

  "Forgive me, sir. We've been ordered to connect you directly to the Administrative Dome once you reestablished contact. Please hold your transmission."

  And with that the young soldier disappeared.

  Tuttle didn’t move. He squinted his eyes at the tiny screen and waited for another image to appear. Over his shoulder, Samuel looked on behind him.

  The image of a man sitting behind a large mahogany desk soon appeared.

  He sat in a large mostly white room. Numerous empty shelves lined the walls behind him. Except for the man behind the desk at its center, the room was mostly empty.

  Not yet aware the transmission had been linked, the man’s back was to the holovid.

  It wasn’t until Tuttle spoke that he finally turned around.

  And when he did, the mission was launched.

  Chapter 13

  General Tuttle crouched in the blowing sand near Vulture Squad Captain Michael J. Samuel. Both squinted and held their hands over their eyes to shield against the flying stinging dirt thrown by the churning helicopter blades.

  It had been two hours since they had made contact with the Administration Dome.

  Other than the heavy rush of air from the helicopter blades, the two command attack choppers hovered above them without a sound.

  Tuttle’s gut twisted at the thought of leaving Kirken’s son behind.

  The helicopters hovered just above the ground about one hundred feet from the camp. Tuttle, Samuel and most of the other surviving Vulture troops ran for the short lengths of zip lines that hung from both aircraft.

  Hauling themselves up the zip lines was the only way to board the attack crafts. There was nowhere solid or flat enough in the miles of terrain around to safely set them down.

  "Are you ready?" Samuel yelled over the burning wind ripping at his nose and mouth.

  He thumped Tuttle hard on the back between his shoulders and ran for the closest chopper. About ten others from his ground unit followed. Some ran entirely beneath the first and hauled themselves aboard the second attack chopper.

  Tuttle covered his eyes and patted the gear that jutted uncomfortably into his injured body. He was about to follow when a hand pulled at him from behind and held him gently back.

  Tuttle turned around to face Medical Captain Cornellius Cranden. When he did, he felt his heart and spirit sink.

  Cranden’s jaw was set in a thin apologetic line, and he clutched at packed gear slung over his shoulder.

  Despite the wind from the waiting helicopters that forced him to hold his hands up to protect his face, Tuttle could still see the look in Cranden’s eyes.

  Samuel dropped the line he was about to climb and ran back towards where Tuttle and Cranden stood in the dark. The last men of the two mission teams ran past them to board the aircraft.

  "What are you doing medic?" Tuttle began knowing in his battered heart that his words were a waste of breath.

  "It’s over, General," the heavy moving air yanked at Cranden’s shoulder pack. He reached back his arm to keep it from tearing loose. “Requesting permission to join your team.”

  By this time, Samuel had made it back to them and stood behind Tuttle. He bent forward to hear what Cranden was trying to say over the rushing air.

  "You didn't bring him to me in too good of shape, General. There wasn't much I could really do."

  Tuttle looked at him. The wind pulled at the growing tears in his eyes. His uniform felt stiff and cold. He sensed death amongst the living and felt cold hands working to tear his heart apart.

  "What about the rest?" Samuel asked stepping up next to Tuttle.

  "We left them a good amount of gear and supplies,” Cranden answered. “They're far enough from the main road. They'll be alright for now. They have coordinates from other survivors on where to go from here.

  “General,” Cranden said trying to look into Tuttle’s sickened face. “They're going to bury him at first light.”

  Tuttle nodded and looked away into the darkness.

  "Let's go," Samuel grabbed at Tuttle’s shoulder and pulled him towards the cables hanging from the choppers.

  Cranden stepped ahead and broke into a jog toward their transport. Samuel and Tuttle trotted behind.

  Before they reached the hanging zip lines, the helicopters began to move away and rise into the air. The cables dragged across the ground as if beckoning Tuttle back towards Beuford away from the safety of the camp.

  When the three attached themselves to the zip lines of the first helicopter, both aircraft lifted further up into the sky and rotated around towards the burning city. Tuttle, Samuel and Cranden ran briefly across the ground after them until the lines pulled tight and their feet rose up into the air. They quickly clambered up the lines and hauled themselves aboard the silent attack craft.

  With the help of the men that had already made their way up, Tuttle swung his body onto the helicopter platform. One of the men next to him slammed the chopper’s side door shut against the wind-whipped heat of the outside air.

  Tuttle strapped on a headset one of the helicopter crew handed him once the door had been sealed. Further down the aircraft bay, Samuel, Cranden and the others from the original Vulture team were shedding their shredded clothing and loading up with fresh fatigues and gear.

  Even with the headset blocking out some of the noise, Tuttle was surprised at how loud it was inside the helicopter. He adjusted the headset’s transmitter across his face and walked towards the rear of the ship.

  "You with us, General?" the pilot called from the cockpit.

  "Roger that," Tuttle said moving toward Cranden and Samuel. Neither of them had headsets nor had stopped moving since they came aboard the attack ship.

  "Grab what you need," the pilot's voice sounded in his ear. "There's fresh bandages, survival gear, explosives and hand artillery. Take as much as you can carry. You can always dump what you don't need on the ground. No one’s going to be able to tell in this mess.”

  The choppers rose further from the sandy outside terrain and made their way towards the ruined town of Beuford. The flames grew in the distance the further they approached.

  “And make sure each of you has a tracer vest on so that we can come and pick you up."

  The pilot didn’t need to say why they all needed the vests. Everyone in the helicopter silently knew there was a good chance they weren’t going to make it back.

  Tuttle glanced up at Samuel and Cranden pulling their gear on in front of him. Their torsos stripped down to bloodied and bruised skin, they pulled on the thin metallic tracer vests and hooked them across their chests. A single thin light at the base of each glowed green.

  Tuttle reached into the crates of Vulture gear and did the same.

  "You’re other landing crew is ready to go in the next bird," the pilot relayed.

  Tuttle looked out the front of the cockpit window to see the ground glowing below. The city of Beuford was utterly gone. All that remained was a raging inferno broken up by small patches of dried earth. Orange and red flames tore brilliantly into the night sky.

  The choppers bucked through the turbulence of the scorched air.

  "There is going to be no easy way to do this, General," the pilot spoke again. The chopper lurched violently to the left throwing everyone in the bay area violently against the w
all. “The J.G.U. are attacking SD15 from every direction. They're even coming in through Beuford, and that land is still red hot. The only thing we can do is ride the deck and drop you in."

  "Just get us close," Tuttle said grimly while strapping on more gear.

  He looked out the cabin door window at his side. Periodically through the thick black smoke and flaming debris, he could see tanks and jeeps moving below. Some still moved in organized formations while others circled and stopped about the exploded vehicle wreckage.

  And then the burning dome came into view. Its beaten structure reached out into the sky. Twisted metal and flames encompassed most of the facility. Vehicles sped into a gaping hole near its center, and explosions still rocked its base.

  The two attack military helicopters sped further in.

  Flames from the detonated Death Wall still obscured most of the troop and other ground activity occurring in front of the dome. Rockets from distant transports still streaked toward the structure and ripped fresh jagged holes into its side. The dome was like a dying beast waiting for its end to finally come.

  "We don’t have much more than this in terms of visibility," the pilot’s voice spoke again into Tuttle's ear. "Once we dip down into the safe zone we're going to have to let you go. Staying on the deck too long we risk slamming right into one of its walls. It’ll be almost impossible to locate by sight or sensors once we’re in the thick of the flames.”

  "I understand," the general said back into his transmitter.

  “When you get out,” the pilot continued. “Make sure to activate your chest tracers. We’ll make the extraction beyond the battle perimeter.”

  The pilot had no sooner finished his instructions when a bright red fire trail ripped just past the cockpit window slicing between the two attack copters. It disappeared quickly behind them into the fire-ravaged sky.

  Both helicopters veered away from each other, banking ninety degrees on their sides, to evade the missile impact. Tuttle and the Vulture troops within the cabin careened head-over-heels into each other and sprawled across the chopper deck. Samuel's body slid all the way to the rear of the bay and slammed hard into the back wall.

  "What the hell was that?!" the voice of the second helicopter pilot yelled through the receiver in Tuttle's ear.

  "Hold your position and hold your fire, Attack Craft Two,” Tuttle’s helicopter captain quickly answered back. “Again, hold your position and fire. Stray rocket fire from the surface. We have not been spotted. Repeat. We have not been spotted."

  Tuttle looked out the side window to see the second helicopter level itself out next to them. Even through the thick glass of its cockpit and the visor of the pilot's helmet, Tuttle thought he could see the fear in his eyes. And the panic they all felt.

  "We're going over the wall," the second pilot said evenly.

  The searing heat from the ignited Death Wall pounded at the two helicopters. Superheated air from the roaring flames slapped them mercilessly about the sky. Everyone in the cabin braced themselves against the cabin floor and walls trying to keep from being tossed about the interior of the bucking command chopper.

  Solid ground became briefly visible through the roaring flames below as both helicopters crossed the ignited fuel still spewing forth from the lit Death Wall. J.G.U. terrain vehicles jammed most of the area not on fire.

  This lasted for only a few seconds. The view of the land became quickly choked up again by thick black smoke.

  "The structure is straight ahead,” the pilot said. "We have to drop you now."

  "Copy that," Tuttle answered into his headset.

  Like the other men in the helicopter bay, he attached his zip line to a leather harness and slipped it around his waist. He pulled at it twice to double check its strength and returned a “thumbs up” sign to Cranden and Samuel who prepared their gear next to him.

  Flinging his headset to the cabin floor, Tuttle took a deep breath and opened the bay door. A fierce rushing heat blasted him immediately in the face nearly knocking him to the ground. He fell back into the outstretched arms of the soldiers behind him. They patted him on his back and helped him balance again firmly on his feet.

  Not quite yet releasing his grip from the men behind him, Tuttle sat down on the floor of the cabin and lowered his legs over the ledge of the deck letting them dangle briefly into the fiery air. With a quick push and a prayer, he allowed his body to drop over the helicopter’s side.

  Controlling his descent down the line with the grip located waist-level of his gear, Tuttle dropped through the smoke and flames towards the ground. Through the corner of his eye and amidst the chaos surrounding them, he saw Cranden’s and Samuel’s lines fall through the air next to him. Their dark swaying figures dropped down the lines quickly after.

  Descending through the thick burning air, Tuttle fought to control the terror hammering the muscles of his heart. Also struggling to make his lungs work through the choking haze, he prayed that he wouldn't die right there from the intensity of his fright.

  Looking up through the black smoke from the fires below, it was impossible to see the attack choppers they hung beneath.

  Releasing more tension on his gear, Tuttle dropped more quickly down the line towards the ground’s fiery surface. Next to him, Parker and Cranden did the same.

  The further he slid down the cable, the more his body thrashed through the tumultuous air on its slack. Tuttle clutched his fingers tightly across his line and gear and struggled to hang on.

  And then the smoke around them suddenly cleared. The second chopper next to them came into view with its own team of soldiers dangling from zip lines beneath.

  In another split instant, the fiery terrain seemed to leap at their feet. Pounded by the rage of heated air, both attack choppers lurched dangerously close down to the ground nearly slamming and dragging both teams of soldiers along the scorched earth.

  Tuttle punched the release at his waist to free himself from his zip line. His body dropped violently to the ground and tumbled through the throngs of licking flames. Rocks, dirt and fire from the war-ruined land ripped harshly at the uncovered parts of his skin. With his every forced hurried breath, thick smoke drove into his lungs. For a second, he thought he heard himself scream.

  With raging fear propelling his body, he wasn’t on the ground for long.

  Digging his feet into the dirt, Tuttle stood quickly back up and pumped his arms madly at his sides. He sprinted forward through the blinding smoke and heat hoping he was heading in the direction of Science Dome 15.

  The mammoth roar of the advancing J.G.U. war vehicles surrounded him. Their engine noise seemed to taunt and ridicule his fear.

  A body dropped from the air in front of him, and a pair of legs and boots flew up into his face. Without breaking stride, Tuttle bent down and scooped Cranden’s tumbling body in his arms and hauled him to his feet.

  They both sprinted forward through the flames and heat.

  The black smoke thinned again revealing the haggard and limping figure of Captain Michael Samuel running just ahead of them. A black cable hanging from the air in front of him rose quickly up and disappeared into the sky.

  The smoke cleared enough so that the burning dome could be seen less than twenty yards ahead.

  Tuttle pumped his arms harder trying to move oxygen through his body. His limbs screamed in pain.

  Rockets exploded around them tearing into the ground that separated them from the dome. Small weapons fire spit at their feet. Larger rocket and mortar fire kicked up giant clumps of destroyed earth which rained down around them.

  Clouds from their impact further obscured the view of the battlefield the Vulture soldiers dashed across. The smell of burnt oil, spilled blood and seared flesh followed them as they went.

  Tuttle thought about nothing else other than just continuing to run.

  Speeding trucks and jeeps roared past them on both sides in the direction of the fallen dome. Covered with thick metal armor, they were unaffecte
d by the thick flames. Their weapons fired continuously into the dome’s falling shredded steel.

  Science Dome 15 was slowly being battered to the ground ahead of them. Tuttle, Cranden and Samuel raced to get in before it was all too late.

  And then a force from behind punched Tuttle hard in the small of his back and hurled him to the ground. A raging gale of air from one of the choppers above flattened his body and buried his face into the hot dirt.

  The second Vulture chopper roared over them. Its landing skids skimmed just across the terrain. Its weapons thundered from its base. Rockets spewed from its underside transforming everything in its path to flaming debris.

  The landing crew from this second chopper team twisted precariously from the zip lines beneath. The speed of the helicopter pulled the rearmost soldier dangerously up towards the chopping blade of its tail rotor.

  Through a mist of sweat, Tuttle watched the second chopper team in horror.

  Beneath the air cleared by the roaring helicopter, two dome-killer transports and a speeding J.G.U. jeep appeared in the shrouded battlefield between Tuttle and the two men running in front of him.

  Tuttle cut hard to his right to avoid being seen. Samuel and Cranden disappeared ahead of him in the flame and smoke. Hidden and alone, Tuttle sprinted towards the destroyed dome for safety.

  A convoy of trucks also obscured by the battle smoke suddenly came into view.

  More fired rockets from the belly of the second Vulture chopper pounded across the ground. Their massive might consumed the caravan of trucks blocking Tuttle from the dome and tore huge holes into the burning terrain.

  Firing all of its weapons, the helicopter pilot continued to carve out a path of flame towards the dome.

  The chopper rose up and then dropped again close to the ground directly above one of the transports. The momentum from its sudden descent swung the trailing zip cables towards the rear of the transport’s solid steel frame.

  Realizing his mistake, the pilot pulled hard at the controls trying to bring the aircraft back up. This yanked the soldiers hanging beneath back into the air and slammed the rearmost man hard against the side of the transport.