“Go!” the General lit another cigarette.
The engine growled. In the front cockpit the driver and gunner exchanged silent glances. The APC lurched forward, the throaty roar of its diesel matching the Chinese commander’s sudden impatience.
DALIAN HARBOR
LIAODONG PENINSULA
CHINA
It sounded like the hissing surf of a restless ocean – or perhaps the thrashing of a high wind through a forest of trees. It was a menacing noise, an ominous harbinger of something insidious and impending coming remorselessly closer. The ground shook. A haze of clouded dust smeared the skyline beyond the barbed wire like a veil of smoke.
They were the sights and sounds of nightmares – as terrifying and as inevitable as the incoming scream of an artillery barrage.
The Chinese Marines along the perimeter exchanged quick, nervous glances and fidgeted with their weapons.
Helicopters swept overhead, racing east – so many that they seemed for an instant to blacken the sky. The downdraft of their rotors flattened the grass and kicked up whirlpools of dirt. The stench of death and decay was so thick and choking it seemed to strangle the waiting men’s breath.
“Make ready!” the call rippled along the line, passed from company to company. On top of the steel shipping containers that stood like watchtowers, machine gunners fired short bursts, the weapons clearing their throats for the stuttering roaring bellow that would soon follow.
Along eight kilometers of high wire fortifications the Chinese Marines were paraded into two lines, twenty yards behind the wire, with the front rank kneeling and the second rank standing so that every weapon could fire. It was a scene stolen from a grand battle of the Napoleonic Wars, with company captains and sergeants standing on the flanks, peering anxiously ahead.
The sound came on like rolling thunder until it seemed to break directly overhead. Beyond the skyline of bombed buildings a mile away, explosions suddenly erupted as the swooping, swarming helicopters began their deadly work.
Smoke and dust hung like a curtain across the sky.
“Hold your fire!”
The storm front of menacing sound began to break apart and take on definition; becoming shouts and maniacal growls. Pounding, stomping feet and blood-curdling screams were the clamor of Hell’s music.
“Hold your fire!”
Suddenly the haze was torn apart by flitting, running shapes, moving like ghosts in the mist until they broke into the rubble-strewn streets and swarmed towards the wire.
“Hold your fire!”
The undead became a solid wall; a phalanx of writhing, howling bodies. They filled the horizon, pouring across the ground like an army of ants from a disturbed nest.
“Hold your fire!”
The undead came on without order or cohesion – a ruinous riot that blackened the earth and trampled the ground underfoot. They saw the soldiers and blood-lust incensed them to new frenzy.
“Fire!”
The machine guns atop the containers roared as one, spitting flame and chattering death from their elevated positions, firing over the heads of the Marine ranks and through the whorls of barbed wire. The air seemed to shimmer with a heat haze.
The infected fell in their thousands, torn to shreds and flung back by the flailing fire, but behind them a million more ghouls pressed on so that the tide of zombies rolled on, as remorseless as the ocean. Even the bravest Marines sensed the inevitable. Nervous agitation threatened to become raw panic.
“Fire!”
For fifteen thunderous seconds the entire defensive line spat a blaze of relentless fire. The undead hit a solid wall of lead and seemed to pause. A shudder, like a ripple of shock, ran through the pressed ranks. Then the fire became ragged as the first men spent their ammunition and were forced to reload.
The undead surged forward again, more slowly now, their momentum stalled by the hammer blows of gunfire. They came on like they were walking in the face of a howling gale.
“Keep firing!” the Marine captains urged their men. Empty magazines clattered to the ground as fumbling, frantic fingers raced to reload. Their rockets spent, the helicopters dived on the snaking column’s head, twisting and turning in the air like vultures. Two choppers clipped rotors in the melee. They were just fifty feet above the ground when they collided. One of the helicopters pitched onto its side and fell into the mass of undead, exploding on impact. The second helicopter stuttered in the air, spinning drunkenly around on its axis. For a moment it seemed to have recovered – but then a black smear of oily smoke erupted from its whining engine. It went down nose-first, the rotor shattering to pieces like a scythe. The chopper hit the leaning remnants of a bombed-out building and crumpled. The crew died screaming.
At last the undead reached the barbed wire fence.
Mindless with the insanity of their infection, they hurled themselves onto the jagged snares of the razor wire, trying to claw their way to the soldiers. They snagged like flies caught in a web, thrashing and howling, until the sheer weight of all the ghouls ensnared began to collapse the fence.
“Now! Now!” Marine Colonel Zhang Bingjun searched the chaos for the waiting crew of weapon specialists. They ran forward in teams, their bodies hunched under the heavy burden of flame-throwing equipment. They sprinted up to the wire and hosed the undead with a dragon’s breath of fire.
The undead writhed and roasted in macabre twisting dances as their bodies burned and the rotting flesh melted off their bones.
Zhang lunged for his radio and broadcast an urgent call over the command net.
“Wánquán zhèngyì!” It was the Chinese military code phrase warning that a unit was on the verge of being overrun, similar in application to the American alarm of ‘broken arrow!’.
Ninety seconds later a flight of twelve JH-7A Flying Leopard fighter bombers screamed low overhead, their sonic boom sounding like the crack of an almighty whip. Bombs fell like rain and then the jets turned out of the low cloud and strafed the perimeter wire, while two kilometers behind the line a battery of light artillery added their voice to the chaotic roar of battle. The Marines broke their rigid ranks and went forward to the wire, fighting in squads and teams to force the undead back while a fresh wave of attack helicopters launched from the amphibious support ships joined the battle.
For precarious moments the battle hung in the balance. The mangled bodies of the undead were piled fifteen feet high in holocaustic drifts of shattered limbs and rotting flesh. The sky turned black with drifting smoke, and the percussion of relentless explosions shook the ground. Swirling skeins of fire burned grass and bodies.
An eerie lull fell over the battlefield. Colonel Zhang squinted his bleary eyes and peered into the nightmare haze. The undead were shuffling backwards, turning and snarling like savage dogs denied prey. The battle for Dalian – at least temporarily – had been won.
“Keep firing! Keep firing!” the Colonel’s face streamed smoke-irritated tears and his voice was hoarse in his throat. “Keep pushing them away from the wire. Drive them back from the fence!”
THE OVAL OFFICE
THE WHITE HOUSE
“Mr. President. We might have another problem,” Walter Ford declared from the doorway of the Oval Office.
POTUS lifted his eyes from the files on his desk and glanced in the National Security Advisor’s direction. “What’s the issue?”
“China again,” Ford said.
The President closed the file with an uneasy sense of foreboding and gave Walter Ford his full attention. “What have you got?”
Walter Ford came into the room clutching a fistful of satellite images and a wad of yellow forms. He laid the photographs out on the Resolute desk like a casino card dealer.
“The Chinese merchant navy is assembling.”
“Assembling?”
“Gathering, sir. All in one place.”
“Where?” the President did not recognize the landmass in the top right corner of the images.
“Dalian
Harbor in the Yellow Sea.”
The President shrugged. “Walter, I’m not sure I understand your concern, and I don’t really have the time for guessing games today…”
“Sir, every single merchant ship the Chinese own has been recalled and told to sail for Dalian. The ships currently carrying cargo are dumping everything at sea.”
“Do we know why?”
“No, Mr. President. That’s why I think we have a problem. The Chinese seem to be up to something. What they’re doing is extraordinary.”
“Does anyone have a theory?”
“No, sir. We only just finished compiling the imagery.”
“Does Jim Poe know about this?”
“I sent a copy of everything to the Pentagon ten minutes ago.”
President Austin frowned. He didn’t like surprises, and normally America’s vast and advanced intelligence service ensured that very little in the world remained secret from discovery and analysis.
Normally.
“What is the Chinese Navy doing?”
“Nothing has changed. I just checked with the Situation Room. The bulk of the PLAN is still steaming towards the South China Sea with the exception of their North Sea Fleet. They’re still at Qingdao.”
“In the Yellow Sea…”
“Yes.”
POTUS frowned. “So the entire Chinese merchant navy is gathering at Dalian Harbor and the North Sea Fleet has remained in port. But the East Sea Fleet and the South Sea Fleet are both steaming into the South China Sea?”
“Correct, sir.”
“And how formidable is the Chinese North Sea Fleet?”
Walter Ford flicked through the yellow pages of Pentagon reports in his hand. “According to Defense, the fleet comprises seven destroyers, about a dozen frigates, half-a-dozen corvettes, five nuclear submarines and up to twenty diesel-electric boats.”
“That’s pretty substantial.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s going to get crowded in the waters around China…” The President said ominously.
“Sir, I think this assembly of all China’s commercial shipping is a grave concern. Conceivably, there might be a legitimate, innocent reason for China’s actions. It must be connected to the outbreak of the infection somehow… but until we understand their intentions…”
“Yeah,” POTUS nodded. So many adversarial ships and guns and missiles jostling inside the one piece of ocean was a recipe for potential disaster.
“Do you think I should tell the Seventh Fleet to back off and give the PLAN space?”
“No, sir. But it might be worth summoning the Chinese Ambassador. It would be interesting to hear an official explanation of what they’re up to.”
“Good idea,” POTUS agreed. “I’ll get Virginia to make the call.”
USS HALEY (DDG137)
PACIFIC OCEAN
The USNS Leroy Perrett T-AO 164 was a forty-thousand ton fleet oiler tasked to provide underway replenishment of fuel, cargo and stores to US warships at sea. She was long and broad-beamed, with unlovely lines, a bulky stern superstructure, and a deck strewn with hoses, lines and pumps.
She appeared on the horizon ahead of Haley’s plunging bow, sailing at a steady fifteen knots.
Commander Slattery studied the Leroy Perrett’s stern from his position on the bridge, binoculars pressed to his eyes.
“Okay, XO,” Slattery grunted. “Time to go to work.”
Underway resupply of fuel and stores is standard Navy practice, but the procedure was fraught with hazards. There had been many past examples of ships colliding and sailors being injured. For Slattery it would be his first underway replenishment with his new ship. He was tense. He was still to get a sense of the crew’s competency. He sent the XO and the senior watch officer to make a check of watch stations throughout the destroyer.
When the two men reported back and gave the all clear, Slattery glanced sideways at the ship’s conning officer and gave a curt nod. The Leroy Perrett had begun to slow. The distance between the two grey ships inexorably closed.
The conning officer studied the Haley’s angle of approach with an experienced seaman’s eye and then spoke into the microphone.
“All engines ahead flank, indicate turns for twenty-four knots.”
Haley sprang forward enthusiastically, her massive gas turbine engines driving the hull through the water. The wind off the ocean blustered in through the open bridge wing doors.
Slattery watched with critical approval as his destroyer made a perfect approach that would put her alongside the oiler with barely a hundred and fifty feet separating the ships. At the critical moment the conning officer cut speed.
“All engines ahead standard. Indicate turns for thirteen knots.”
Slattery allowed himself a sigh of relief. Positioning the two ships side-by-side in such close proximity was the first challenge of the procedure. Now they would be required to maintain a steady course and speed, working together like ballet partners for forty-five anxious minutes.
The refueling rig was set in position. Lines and thick black hoses were sent snaking between the ships. The refueling hose pulsed to life and began pumping fuel. Slattery allowed himself a smile. He nodded his approval to the XO.
“Nicely done, Mr. Braye,” he said generously. ‘The crew is a credit to you and your fellow officers.”
Tom Braye smiled. He had learned in the short time since the new skipper had been aboard that praise was hard earned. Bud Slattery already had a reputation amongst the men for being aggressive and forthright. To Tom Braye, it made the sudden compliment even more significant.
Forty minutes later the ship’s engineers reported the Haley’s fuel level was brimming near one hundred percent.
Slattery nodded at the news. It was time for the final challenge. “Prepare to breakaway, XO.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Tom Braye said.
An emergency breakaway was the procedure for separating the two ships, disconnecting the hoses and cables that bound them together. Slattery watched on intently until the last lines were detached. Haley went to flank speed, her throttles fully open. The ship dashed forward like a dog let off its leash, her speed building to over thirty knots. The ocean between the ships churned to white boiling froth until Haley had cleared the oiler and was steaming once more into open water.
FUXIN CITY
JINZHOU-TONGLIAO DEFENSIVE LINE
NORTHEAST CHINA
The inspection of Fuxin City’s defensive positions ended six kilometers behind the Chinese lines where the Army’s massed artillery was arrayed. For several days, teams had been carefully plotting and pinpointing ranges to the east, preparing for the approaching horde of infected. Their work would allow artillery to fire with unerring accuracy at any point demanded.
General Guo finished his inspection and glanced at his wristwatch.
“When is the first helicopter attack scheduled?” he demanded of his operations officer.
The Colonel checked his own watch. “Twenty-four Z-10 attack helicopters are expected to lift off within the hour, my General. They will be targeting the undead around the ruins of Shenyang.”
“And the bombers? The Air Force?”
“That is being arranged as we speak, General. The 31st Fighter Aviation Brigade has been evacuated southwest from Siping to Huairen Air Base and is on standby with JH-7A Flying Leopard ground attack jets.”
“When will they be operational?” Guo gruffed.
“Tomorrow morning, General.”
“Why so long? We need them now!”
The Colonel made a helpless shrug of his shoulders as if to suggest that the answers to such questions were beyond his rank or his control.
Guo sniffed irritably. “Put a call through to Beijing,” he snapped. “I want to speak to Minister Yi Dan.”
“Sir.”
Guo grunted. The work of the helicopters and bombers played a vital role in his plan. Coordinated attacks in conjunction with the Air Force would be an important e
lement in weakening the enemy long before they came within artillery range. This was what he had advocated for; standing off and thinning the attacking mass from the safety of distance and in open space where tanks, APC’s and men could not be trapped and overrun.
The General grunted. He lit another cigarette and squinted his eyes against a billowing veil of dust whipped up by swirling wind. The sun was lowering down the cloudless blue sky – perfect weather for flying and visibility.
“Summon my command helicopter,” the General decided on an intuitive impulse. “I want to see the enemy for myself and watch the work of the helicopters when they launch their first assault.”
ROOSEVELT ROOM
THE WHITE HOUSE
Three Secret Service agents escorted the Chinese Ambassador to the Roosevelt Room where Virginia Clayton stood waiting. Under the watchful eyes of the security people who stayed at the doors, the two diplomats shook hands. The greetings were civil, but expressions were strained behind masks of cordial politeness.
“Madam Secretary,” the Ambassador smiled tightly. He was an experienced diplomat aged in his sixties – a thin, small-framed man with carefully dyed black hair to vainly conceal the effects of greying. His face was ordinary, the line of his jaw blurred by soft pouches of flesh. But the eyes behind the wire-framed spectacles were sharp and glittering with intelligence and guile. He came to the meeting wearing an expensive black suit and blue tie, carried on a cloud of cologne. Virginia Clayton noticed the lapel pin the man wore; it was a Chinese flag. He stood, slightly stooped at the shoulders, and shook Virginia’s hand.
“Thank you for coming on short notice,” Virginia’s grip was firm. She smiled into the Ambassador’s eyes and held his gaze, the way that two arm-wrestlers engage and test their opponent’s resolve. The Chinese Ambassador kept his eyes level and steady.
Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse Page 27