The Retreat #5: Crucible

by Stephen Knight

  Moreau shrugged again. “Possibly. Aren’t you curious how he came to know I’ve been vaccinated?”

  “A fantastic question I’ll be sure to ask when I see him,” Cassidy said. “Now why don’t you be a good lunatic and put your hands flat on the desk?” Cassidy was thinking he still had zip ties in his ruck, from when they’d been on duty in Boston and had used them to restrain people before they’d fully figured out what was going on. He would be able to hogtie Moreau pretty effectively that way, and then figure out a way to gag her so she couldn’t spit or bite or puke on someone and turn them into a giggling demon thirsty for blood.

  “We knew the military would be a problem, even though they’re the ones who started this off,” Moreau continued as she put her hands palm-down on the desk. “So this was only phase one. The first release was in Denver, and the second was in Memphis. Two simultaneous releases that would confuse the federal government while the state and local authorities were left wrestling with something they could never control. Then Boston and New York, then finally DC and Los Angeles. We didn’t need to spread it any farther, because the hosts would wind up as transmission vectors all by themselves.”

  “So what’s phase two?” Rawlings asked as she secured her mask. From the corner of his eye, Cassidy saw her take in a deep breath and pull her mask over her head and secure it, establishing an airtight seal. At the same time, he ferreted out a wrist-tie from his ruck and slapped it around her wrists.

  “We had a version of the virus that’s smaller,” Moreau said, turning to watch Rawlings suit up. “The original primary is seventeen nanometers in size. The capsids for phase two are only ten capsids in size, but have all the nucleotides of the first. So smaller, just as effective, but takes longer to grow and cultivate. That’s why we used two phases. Ideally, we would have used the second phase entirely, but there just wasn’t enough to go around.”

  “What’s the difference in size have to do with anything?” Cassidy asked.

  Moreau smiled radiantly. “Ten capsids can get through the filters of your protective gear,” she said. “It’s only ten times larger than a hydrogen molecule, so there’s not a portable filter out there that can hold it back.” She nodded toward Rawlings. “What she’s putting on now is a lot like closing the screen door on a submarine.”

  Cassidy’s mouth went dry. “How is it delivered?” he said, his voice a robotic monotone.

  “Oh, you’ll see,” Moreau told him. “You’ll definitely see.”

  TWENTY-SIX.

  “Dismounts in the barrens. Estimated size, sixty to seventy-five. They’re running screens on both sides of the road—have to assume an equal number of combatants on the other side of the approach.” Haynes’s report was delivered calmly and without a hitch. “We’ll give them a speed bump, but these people aren’t going to be bothered much by a few troops sending ordnance downrange. You definitely need to get the TOC and headquarters company relocated, Six.”

  For the first time in years, Tackaberry was caught flat-footed. The finality of his friend’s transmission was obvious. If the klowns were coming through the thickets and brambles and wiregrass on foot, then they knew something was up. While the armored cav guys might be infected, laughing lunatics looking to get their kill on, they hadn’t forgotten their basic mission. They were cavalry. They were scouting.

  The wiregrass...

  “Haynes, lie low,” Tackaberry said. “Lie low and let them pass you by!” As he spoke, he spun around to look for Linton. The old Air Force NCO had heard the report, and he shot Tackaberry a thumbs-up as he relayed the information to the lightfighters in the fighting position he was talking to.

  “We can hold them up, Six. Maybe not for long, but we can give them something to think about. Over.”

  “Negative—you’ll get yourselves killed. Find a place, lie low, cover up and wait—”

  “Six, they’re going to be at your pos in ten minutes. Don’t worry about us. Get yourselves out of the danger close zone. This is a no bullshit situation, Colonel—even an Army rag like yourself has to know that. Over.”

  “God damn it, Haynes, I know it!” Tackaberry snapped. “Go to ground, cover up, and hit these fuckers in the ass when I tell you to! That is a direct order! Do what I tell you, and you can fold up their advance! Over!”

  There was a brief pause, and then: “Roger that, Six. Just so happens Esposito found a nice hide site. Going for it. Will update as soon as we can. If you hear a bunch of gunfire, it’ll probably be us and they have us. Over.”

  “Roger. Break. Seven, you got that?” Tackaberry said, transmitting to Linton.

  “Six, this is Seven. Got it all. Relaying now. Over.”

  “All Geezers, this is Six. Come back in right now. Fall back inside the wire. Fall back, fall back, fall back!” Tackaberry was surprised to find he was suddenly having difficulty breathing. His heart hammered in his chest, and his breath was running short. Now would be a hell of a time to have a heart attack.

  You wanted this, now deal with it, he told himself. It’s just a fucking panic attack, you old fool.

  “Six, this is Waltrip. We’re not going to leave Haynes and his guys out here alone.” Waltrip was a veteran Navy guy, one of the progenitors of the SEALs, back when they were simply called Underwater Demolitions Teams. “You’re going to need a couple of dimensions to the firefight. I can guarantee you at least two of ’em. Over.”

  Tackaberry was beside himself. “Wally, what the fuck? Direct order, come back in!”

  “Yeah, negative—in real life, Navy beats the shit out of Army in football, so I’m taking my cues from that. I’ll have my two guys go to ground and cover up, and if we can figure out the pattern of advance we’ll adjust to provide harassment fire. I’ll go high and keep an eye on things. Over.”

  Tackaberry was nonplussed. “Go high? What, you’re going to light a joint? Over.”

  “Climbing a tree, Six—climbing a tree. Have to get up high to see what’s going on. Even a grunt should know the value of the high ground.”

  Tackaberry was taken aback, trying to picture a seventy-year-old man scaling a pine tree just so he could get a birds-eye view of an enemy recon force pushing into the zone. He was at once flabbergasted and swelling with pride. These were men who were considered historical artifacts, relegated to society’s distant memory. An inconvenience to their families, an embarrassing cue to the young of what lay in store for them one day. But here he was, septuagenarian CPO3 John Waltrip, USN Retired, Vietnam veteran and a member of the Tonkin Gulf Yacht Club, scaling a tree so he could go eyes-on an enemy advance...at seventy years of age.

  What a man, Tackaberry thought. Who knew such courage existed in the Navy.

  “Wally, you get caught in a tree, you’re a dead man,” he said. “Japs tried that in World War II. They got killed every time. Over.”

  “I’m seventy and Charlie’s Angels went off the air in 1981, Six. What have I got to live for, really?” As he spoke, Tackaberry heard the old Navy NCO grunting with exertion. Was he really climbing a tree? Really?

  “Let me know when you’re in position, and make sure your guys are secure,” Tackaberry said. He saw someone emerge from the TOC rig, look around the area, and zero in on Tackaberry. He recognized the slab-sided shape of Command Sergeant Major Turner, and marveled at how fast Turner could move as he ran directly toward him.

  Ah, to be young again, he thought, even though Turner had to be around fifty.

  “Roger that, Six,” Waltrip replied. “Can tell you now, have eyes on forty-plus bad guys. All in uniform to one degree or another, providing you call extra body parts uniform. It’s going to be a messy party. Over.”

  “Roger,” Tackaberry said as Turner pounded up, encased in what looked to be an extra hundred pounds of gear. “Sarmajor, how’s it hanging?”

  “The usual, fourteen inches limp,” Turner said, and without being out of breath at that. “Status of your teams, sir?”

  “Most are falling back inside
the wire, have two hanging tough to provide intel on enemy movements,” Tackaberry said. “As far as we can tell, they don’t know we’re here, but there’s about seventy enemy coming in through the pine barrens. Maybe they’re blind and they’ll miss us, but I doubt it. Can you dial in arty fires?”

  “Hooah, sir. But they’re already refocusing on the main element. They’re shifting around some units, but we don’t have a response timeline yet. We can get mortars on line in two minutes, as soon as Colonel Lee coordinates the shift.”

  Tackaberry spread his hands. “Meaningless to me, Turner—have no idea what the mortar team’s original tasking is. What does Lee need to know in order to facilitate that? Got seventy klowns inbound and the only thing between them and us are six old men. Maybe you can expedite that shit, huh?”

  “I’ll see what I can do, sir,” Turner said. “How far out are they?”

  “Half a mile, tops,” Tackaberry said. “We need to give them a little surprise, Sarmajor. And in a hurry.”

  “Already arranged, sir.” And no sooner had the words left Turner’s mouth, Tackaberry heard the shriek of banshees. Artillery rounds zooming past overhead, at less than four hundred meters altitude. That he could hear them told him two things: one, they had already flown past, as they flew faster than the speed of sound. Two, the breech creatures crewing the guns had put quarters in each shell’s fuse housing—a little special something to strike fear in the hearts of those who had advanced beyond the arty fire’s engagement radius. Under normal circumstances, it would have worked. But for the klowns?

  It would just make them laugh.

  “Those rounds are too fucking high!” Tackaberry said. The explosions came an instant later, great thunder that struck him in the chest like a physical blow. Artillery, doing its job, making things far away blow up.

  “That’s because we didn’t want to turn your old guys outside the wire into explody-dopes,” Turner said. “I mean, listen, we took your team’s best interests to heart here, Colonel.”

  Tackaberry reached for his radio transceiver. “Haynes, call the BDA!”

  “Six, BDA appears to be effective at the longer range,” came the immediate response. “I can see fire and smoke now, looks like the cav’s main body took the strike right on the chin”—more rounds screamed past overhead, and again, they were too high for Tackaberry’s liking but he couldn’t call in to adjust fire—“and yeah, that last salvo probably rang their bells pretty good. But the dismounts are pushing forward. You guys are going to be danger close in about three minutes. Over.”

  “All Geezers, fall back right now,” Tackaberry said. “Haynes, that means you too.”

  “No can do, Six. Already danger close. Besides, you know the Aerosmith song...‘Haynesie Has a Gun.’”

  “Haynes!” Tackaberry fairly shouted, but it was too late. As another salvo of artillery rounds screamed past overhead, he heard an eruption of small arms fire somewhere in the forest. And mixed in with it was the heavy bam-bam-bam of Haynes’s 7.62-millimeter rifle. The gunfire reached a fever pitch before the explosions from the artillery barrage drowned it out. Downrange, several of his men emerged from the forest, their faces long and grim. The hammer was swinging their way, and they knew it.

  “You have something to report here, sir?” Turner asked as Linton hurried over.

  “Got a ground element heading our way. I have six or seven guys in a stand-up with them now, but they’re not going to last long,” Tackaberry told him. “We’ll never get out of here in time, so you’d better get ready to fight a bit, Sarmajor.”

  Turner grinned. “Hell, sir. Fighting is what I’m all about.” He turned away and started speaking into his Peltor headset’s boom microphone, relaying the information to Wizard. As he spoke, the troops manning the fighting positions came alive. A tri-barrelled GAU-19 in a Humvee’s cupola opened up, sending a fusillade of fifty-caliber fire ripping through the trees. At first, Tackaberry was afraid his men were the ones taking fire. Then he saw the shapes struggling against the big machine gun’s fire. They were all in various stages of undress, and were rolling up already mutilated in some tribal fashion that he frankly found horrifying. He raised his rifle to his shoulder and added his own fires to the conflagration, even though they were ridiculously puny compared to what the lightfighter in the Humvee was pumping out. It was stupid, standing out in the open and firing on inbound goblins, but he was too far away from any credible cover, and his only thought was to give Turner some protection while the burly command sergeant major made his report. He dropped a klown as she blundered out of the brush, holding a machete high above her head while releasing an ululating scream, her pale eyes standing out in stark contrast against the dried blood that had been smeared across her entire face. One of his rounds slammed right into her forehead, causing her to drop like a sack of wheat in midstep.

  Then a hand clamped onto his shoulder and pulled him away. It was Linton, holding his big man-killer AR in his right hand while pulling Tackaberry away with his left. His dark skin was wet with perspiration, and his eyes were wide as he tried to look everywhere at once, head on a swivel.

  “We got to get under some cover, Colonel!” he shouted. “Sarmajor, come with us!”

  Turner continued speaking into his microphone as he followed, pausing only to drill six rounds into the pine barrens. Two figures fell, Tackaberry saw. Then bullets began ripping past him, snapping like firecrackers. He heard them slapping into the Humvee where the gunner was still ripping away with the GAU-19. Tackaberry stopped looking and began running along with Linton.

  It was going to be a long day.

  TWENTY-SEVEN.

  “Okay, everyone out!” Lee ordered as he swept up his rifle. “Get your MOPP gear on and get ready for actual fighting!”

  “Sir?” Walker looked over from his station, the shock evident on his face.

  “Major, I’ll need you to stay with the command and control net, and relay information to Raptor,” Lee said as he pulled on his MOPP overgarment. He already had the trousers on, as all the troops did, so all he needed to do was mount the overgarment over his trunk, slip on the mask, and pull on the hood. “Get to one of the fighting positions and set up there, preferably one that’s farthest away from the klowns. Once I identify the numbers we’re dealing with, I’ll pass on additional instructions. For now, the revised plan remains in place: Inveigle and Desperado link up to provide protection in force for Eyes as they extract the target. Thunder remains in place to cover their retreat. Once that’s done, we’re on the road. Clear?”

  “Clear, sir,” Walker said, and Lee saw the fear in his eyes. Even after all this time on the road running and gunning, Walker hadn’t been able to rid himself of the pucker factor. The actual mission of an infantryman terrified him, and Lee found it disgusting.

  A bullet ripped through the TOC then, perforating one wall and pancaking against the interior side of the other. One of the NCOs manning the battalion net radios ducked in response, swearing as he fumbled with his own gear.

  “Get out, guys,” Lee said. “This truck’s going to become a ballistics magnet once the klowns get on-station, so you need to un-ass ASAP. Walker, take who you need to keep things running on your end.”

  “Where are you heading, sir?” Walker asked as he wrestled with his own overgarment.

  Lee checked the map outlining their defensive positions. “I’ll be with Murphy and the boys, of course,” he said. “Tell Turner to meet me there after you’re in position.”

  “Roger that, Colonel,” Walker said, his voice muffled as he shrugged his way into his MOPP IV overgarment. Lee took a breath and pulled on his mask and tightened the straps. Once it was fully sealed, he tugged the hood over his head and hit the door.

  The sky was beginning to cloud over, he saw as he emerged from the tactical operations center. There was firing already underway, though it was sporadic; that told him the leading edge of the klown advance had found them, but the main body wasn’t on station just y
et. Good. The battalion still had some time.

  He ran across the field where the headquarters company was encamped. Men and women were fully manned up and moving this way and that, carrying rifles. Everyone knew what was about to go down, and they were scrambling to get into their positions. The threat was approaching from due west. That made it easy, but it would have been easier if they’d stuck to the road—that way, the headquarters company could chop them up into pieces. Everyone wore MOPP, even the civilians overseen by Tackaberry. That was encouraging; it minimized the chances of a klown biological attack being successful. The last thing Lee wanted to deal with was his own troops turning against him.

  He found the fighting position manned by Murphy, Foster, and Sienkiewicz a moment later. The emplacement commander was Sergeant First Class McAllister, an NCO Lee knew had already been battle-hardened before the emergency that had called the Tenth Mountain to Boston. Dressed in full-on MOPP, it took a moment for the soldiers manning the position to figure out who was dropping in to pay them a visit, but when they did, there was no little amount of shock passing between the men.

  “So Colonel, just to set the record straight—are you being a captain now?” McAllister asked. He manned a SAW, and before Lee could answer he ripped off a burst into the trees, slashing away at the figures that ran through the brush, laughing and cavorting as if they were rolling up on a birthday party.

  “We need everyone on a rifle, McAllister,” Lee said. He hated how the mask muffled his voice, and how the hood made hearing difficult. “How many are we looking at?”

  “Overstrength platoon element so far, and they’re not doing so well,” McAllister said. “Figure there’s more on the back end, though.” As he spoke, another dose of the steel rain roared past overhead. Explosions rocked the near distance a moment later, and Lee saw pillars of black smoke and bright sparks rising into the growing gloom.

  “Arty’s driving them off the road and into the trees,” McAllister continued. “Gonna be a bit of a ball-buster in just a bit, sir.”