by Mark Wandrey
“Now where in the hell did they find that?” he wondered, then didn’t waste time thinking about it. He dressed and headed out, passing his two friends returning from the showers. Wade looked unhappy, but clean. He hoped no one had given the kid any shit. He’d acquitted himself out there just fine, holding up his end of the deal even with his poor showing in repelling. “Hurry up,” he reminded them. They both nodded.
Outside he found the rain still coming down and the airfield abuzz with activity. There was an overhang where he could watch out of the rain. Most of the huge piles of gear were gone now, as were many of the helicopters. He’d slept right through them leaving. The least of the gear was being loaded into some of the choppers and into the Globemasters. All that was left were six Apaches, an old Cobra gunship, four Chinooks and the two lone Ospreys.
“This is our moment of greatest risk, Lieutenant,” a voice said. Andrew glanced over and saw the general standing there smoking a cigarette.
“I thought the Army was non-smoking.”
“I quit ten years ago,” the general said. “Started again yesterday. If I’m going to get eaten by a zombie, I figured fuck it.”
Andrew just shrugged. He’d never gotten the habit. Smoking, dipping, or even coffee. He preferred tea. “We’ve had a Kiowa out almost constantly. An hour ago it spotted another horde coming from the south, drawn by all this activity.”
“Austin?” Andrew wondered. The general nodded. “Shit.”
“Yeah,” he said. “We’ve sent a third of our strength out on Chinooks already.”
“So we have a destination?” Andrew asked.
“Sort of.” Andrew looked at him pointedly. “Los Angeles.”
“That doesn’t sound logical,” Andrew said. “Just the population…”
“I know, same here. But there are a lot of military bases there, and we’ve gotten intermittent shortwave traffic indicating that LAX is still open and planes are landing.”
“Wow, that’s long odds.” Andrew the math in his head. “Around a thousand nautical miles?”
“More like 1,060 from here to LAX.” Andrew shrugged.
“What’s the range of the Chinook?”
“1,261 miles.”
“Oh,” Andrew said. “Planning to refuel en route?”
“We pass within fifty miles of two bigger airports and a handful of municipal. They’re scouting as we go. They have a little extra range in the scout Chinooks, with less than full loads. Thanks to you guys getting the C-17s, we have a few more options.”
“The Globemasters will have a lot of options,” Andrew said. “Hell, we could make Hawaii without a stretch. But if we get there without refueling the Chinooks…”
“Yeah,” the General said. The rest didn’t need to be stated. “The bigger problem is the Ospreys. They’re only good for a bit over a thousand miles. If we can’t refuel we’ll have to land and abandon them.”
“Any passengers?” Andrew asked.
“Just gear,” General Rose said. “We’ll have plenty of room for the crews on the Chinooks.”
Just then a bell sounded from the south perimeter, followed by the unmistakable sound of helicopter chaingun firing. Both men moved over to that side and watched. A second later a series of green parachute flares popped into the sky and was quickly followed by a long series of thunderous explosions.
“Claymores,” the general said and took one last long drag from his cigarette before dropping it onto the dirty concrete sidewalk and crushing it out under his heal. “Time’s up. Get your crew to the transports.” The general’s aide came running up and the two set off purposefully. Andrew never even had a chance to ask how he was getting out.
The base exploded into frantic activity. The defensive units initiated a controlled fallback, concentrating their coverage of key points as they moved towards the actual airfield. The last of the cargo was loaded onto the C-17s and their crews ran towards them.
Tobey came out of the temporary barracks with Kathy right behind him. She looked up in confusion at the green flares falling slowly in the rain and looked at Andrew.
“The base is going to fall,” he told her. “Get to C-17 44F,” he said and pointed to one of the towering plane’s tails where the marking was visible.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m tasked with defense of that plane with my men.” The now familiar squad of men came trotting up, loaded with huge amounts of gear and ammo. They handed Tobey a similarly loaded pack and web harness.
“I want to go with you.”
“Not this time,” he said. She started to protest and he put a hand on her shoulder. “Listen, damn it. You are damned good with a rifle. Keep the HK-91.” One of the operators handed him a rig with the H&K. Somewhere they’d found some magazines for it and they were all loaded with 7.62x54 military ball. “Help protect the civilians. The loadmaster is holding a seat in first class for you. Be there, be safe. I’ll make it on board, I promise.”
She looked at him with wide eyes, but let him fit the battle rattle to her. The operators looked at her skeptically but she pulled a magazine, checked the rifle and fit a mag skillfully, grabbing the forward mounted charging handle and racking a round into the chamber. They looked at each other and smiled.
“You fucking better make it,” she snapped and reached a hand behind his head and pulled him into a kiss. The operators hooted and hollered and Tobey actually blushed.
“Don’t worry, ma’am,” one of them said and winked, “we’ll bring the colonel back to you.”
“Stow it,” Tobey ordered them and they came to mock attention. “Get to the plane,” he told her. “I’ll see you shortly!” Before she had time to complain he and his four men raced off in another direction, leaving her alone as people raced in every direction.
For a long moment she considered following him and damn his admonitions. But then she noticed a huge group of civilians. They were just like her, but scared shitless. None of them were armed and they were completely confused as dozens of military personnel ran by, many yelling orders to each other and all with a purpose. They were like an island in the maelstrom.
“Where are you supposed to go?” she asked one of the women. She held up a card that had a hand printed 44F in black Sharpie. “Same as me,” Kathy said. The women looked at her in confusion, at her military jumpsuit with no rank or patches and the big black battle rifle she held cross body and vest full of magazines.
“Come on,” Kathy said, making her decision, “let’s get onto the plane.”
* * *
Andrew climbed the crew ladder that had been put in place. It wasn’t made for the C-17 so it was several feet too short, forcing him to jump up to get inside. Chris followed easily but they had to turn around and pull Wade up.
First class was already partly filled with military command staff, some doctors and other specialists. At the rear the bunks had injured in place that were in too poor of a shape to survive the hours it would take for the helicopters to make it all the way to LAX. Nurses tended to them, securing IV bags and hooking up monitors to the on-board power.
The plane’s own APU was running already. That had not been an option in the hangar, but because no one had known the condition of the plane’s batteries they’d gone with the external APU to avoid having to fall back on it instead of starting there.
Wade dropped into the engineer’s seat and consulted the operations manual. After comparing some of the switches and controls, he began the pre-start sequence. As Andrew used the overhead to get into his pilot’s seat, he could see the engines already turning and temps coming up. Wade had used the preheaters and saved him a couple minutes of nursing them to fight temp.
“Good job on the prestart,” he told Wade, who grinned and gave a thumbs up. “Here we go.” The engines began to roar to life as he put his headset up. “Load master, report?”
“We’re about two-thirds loaded, Captain,” came a reply immediately. Andrew could hear the sounds of hundreds o
f voices over the intercom.
“Buzz me as soon as we’re cleared!” Andrew said and clicked off the intercom.
From their high perch he had a wonderful view of the airfield defense, and just how desperate it was becoming. Several Apaches were making wild strafing runs along all sides of the perimeter, sometimes dangerously close to each other. Tracers lit up the gloom of the storm through the rain like laser bolts in a sci-fi movie. He desperately wished he were in a ground attack fighter, or something other than a big fat helpless transport waiting for his fate to be revealed.
The other two C-17s were finishing their loads. He could see they carried some military personnel but mostly pallet after pallet of gear. 23P was already raising their ramp, the pilot starting his taxi even before the ramp was secure. One of the Apaches came in for a landing, crews racing to refuel it while another desperately kept pouring fire onto the screaming hordes coming from the south.
It was inevitable that something would go wrong. Andrew looked up from checking the temperature on all four engines just in time to see an Apache effect a tight turn at the far end of the runway, where they would rotate and climb away. Something happened, the turn became steadily tighter until the helicopter was perpendicular to the ground, then it seemed to hold there for a long instant.
“Oh no,” Andrew moaned as the chopper side slipped into the ground and became a mushroom cloud of fire and debris. It had landed squarely on the northern perimeter fence corner, obliterating a fifty-yard section of fence as it slammed in and exploded. Even the ten-foot-tall concrete barriers were sent flying through the air by the titanic impact and explosion. In moments the infected were streaming in.
It was luck that the section hit wasn’t on the north side. Most of the remaining troops were deployed there against the huge influx from Austin. That still meant there were thousands there. The firing towers that had been erected to defend the fence every two hundred meters were all spared. Troops on those towers with M-2 50 caliber machine guns instantly began concentrating fire on the breach. From across the tarmac a Stryker armored car raced toward the breach, spewing still more fifty-caliber and as it stopped a squad of gunners deployed a pair of M240 machine guns.
Transport 23 Poppa finished its taxi, turned onto the main runway and punched it. The engines roar was clearly audible even over the constant gunfire. C-17 41I was closing its ramp and starting to move. Andrew could also see the last few Chinooks begin to spin up their rotors. More explosions reverberated from the southern and as the last of the demolitions charges were blown. Men could be seen running for the Chinooks. The last of the evacuation was under way.
“We need to move!” Andrew yelled over the PA as more explosions rocked the east and west perimeter.
“Last in,” the loadmaster said. “Ramp coming up!”
“Release brakes,” Andrew said and Chris took care of it. He had a good basic feel for some of the systems after their first adventure.
“Brakes released,” Chris confirmed.
“Ten percent power,” Andrew said and felt Chris’s hand on his as they pushed the throttles a little forward. The big Pratt & Whitney turbines spun up and the plane began to move.
Outside several of the Chinooks banked towards various areas of the field. To save time the soldiers were manning their defenses to the last minute. The gun towers would be evacuated directly onto the hovering Chinooks. Lightning played across the sky and Andrew couldn’t imagine a more harrowing extraction. Rotary wing pilots had a screw loose to start with.
He used the foot pedals to steer them towards the taxiway and glanced up just as 23 Poppa rotated and climbed ever so slowly into the sky. With a full load of fuel and maximum cargo, they’d used almost the entirety of the runway’s 3,100 usable feet.
“Shit that was close,” he mumbled.
“What was that?” Chris asked.
“Nothing,” he replied, then changed channels. “Forty-one Indigo, note the rotation point for Twenty-three Poppa?”
“I saw, Forty-four Foxtrot. Gonna give it a little more.”
He was just turning on the taxiway that ran adjacent to the runway, so Andrew saw 41I turn onto the runway. Unlike the previous transport who just throttled up and ran for it, this pilot used a trick the Globemaster was known for. He engaged the thrust reversers and backed the huge plane all the way to the end of the runway.
“Well done,” Andrew nodded. The other plane stopped, thrust reverser stowed, and its engines screamed as it roared down the runway. He rotated with a good five hundred feet to spare.
“Ground control calling,” Wade said. It was his job to monitor the channel. “Defenses have fallen to the south end.”
They were taxiing to the south and Andrew squinted in the planes powerful landing lights to see. A pair of Stryker armored cars raced past towards the helipads and several hundred yards away he could see running figures. They weren’t in uniform.
“Jesus God,” Chris said.
“I only wish,” Andrew said. His hands itched to push the throttles further forward and speed their taxi, but he knew the plane was heavily loaded. A turn at too high of a speed could actually tip them over onto a wing. Then it would be game over.
They reached the end of the taxiway and he started his turn. The plane bumped slightly once, twice.
“Was that what I think it was?” Wade gulped.
“It wasn’t a turtle,” Chris told him, talking about the little concrete bumps on roads.
The cockpit door open and Andrew glanced back to see General Rose come in. “Mind if I use the jump seat?”
“You’re welcome to it, sir,” Andrew said. “Pardon me if I don’t get up and salute, we’re a little busy.” As they taxied out onto the runway dozens of half-naked people could be seen running at them.
“I can see that, son. Carry on. I just wanted to be here, one way or the other.” Andrew shrugged. It was the general’s prerogative.
They were lined up on the runway. Andrew called for the brakes, which Chris applied. Then he reached for the throttles.
“We’re not going to back up?” Chris asked. They could hear a distant thumping sound and he could see them on the ground through the low set view window.
“We don’t have time,” Andrew said, “too much risk of sucking one into an engine. Full throttle!”
They both pushed all four levers for the engines all the way until they stopped. For the first time they heard the deafening roar of the four turbofans at full power. The entire plane shook and they could hear screams of fright from the lower deck. Brakes squelched and bucked in the wet concrete. Andrew caught a view out of the corner of his eye on one of the rearward facing cameras. The powerful jet wash had sent hundreds of the crazy bastards flying through the air, cartwheeling and spinning like leaves in the wind.
Andrew watched the RPM indicators until they reached 70%. He didn’t dare let the power get any higher or risk yawing them as the brakes were cut.
“Release brakes,” he said.
The C-17 didn’t exactly take off like a rocket, it weighed far too much fully loaded. But the acceleration was much more profound than the previous two planes had experienced. He knew many of those hundreds below who were sitting on the floor were now sliding around like loose stuff in the bottom of a trunk. Just as he had feared, the plane skewed slightly. He corrected with the front wheel steering and some rudder and brought them back on course.
Racing down the runway slowly gaining speed he had a ringside view of the final evacuation. Chinooks hovering over several guard towers, dangerously low, back ramps down and men making frantic near suicidal leaps as infected climbed the towers to get at them. One Chinook spinning, almost losing control as dozens of the monsters got ahold of the undercarriage. The helicopter got under control and started to climb, shedding gesticulating bodies as it ascended.
Another Chinook landed on a taxiway as three Strykers skidded to a stop in the mud, their crews bailing out and rushing headlong up the ramps. Many of the
m fired over their shoulders as they ran. One had a dozen of the crazies run inside even as it lifted off. Andrew swallowed, imagining the sudden pitched battle inside. He offered a silent prayer for those men.
At the end of the runway, near where the Apache had gone down, a lone Stryker sat. Its crew was deployed laying down a withering hail of lead. Some were still getting past, through and around their fire. Andrew could see four men on the ground, and one in a turret, fifty-caliber Browning booming away at the infected.
The end of the runway was approaching. Airspeed past 75 miles per hour. Andrew saw the flood of ex-humanity racing towards the runway, onto the runway, and towards his racing plane, heedless of the danger. Faster, faster, the first of the monsters were pulverized under the wheels. He cringed when they hit them, but never even felt it. A half-million pounds of airplane doing nearly 100 miles per hour turned them to jelly on impact.
Andrew checked the flaps, slapped their control a notch, said a silent prayer, and pulled back on the stick harder than he would have liked. The nose almost shot up and the plane bunny hopped into the air. He gritted his teeth and waited for the sickening sound of a tail strike that never came. The altimeter jumped about 100 feet, then the stall alarm screamed. He pushed the stick back forward.
Andrew expected to have to nose down to gain speed again, but the C-17 leveled out and kept accelerating. The stall alarm went quiet and the HUD showed him a level flight. He gave it five degrees up elevator and they began to climb out. He banked to the west. It took him a minute to find the ship-wide intercom.
“This is Lieutenant Tobin, your pilot,” he said, hearing his own voice echoing from the rearward first class area just behind the flight deck. “We made it, we’re safe.” The entire plane reverberated with the cheers of over seven hundred souls.
* * *
Andrew felt safe for the first time in days. Behind the stick of a powerful airplane climbing past 25,000 feet, the insanity of the last few days was miles below him. It might as well have been on another planet.