“Come on,” I hissed as loud as I dared. “We have to move faster.”
To their credit, the women redoubled their efforts. As difficult as this was for me, it was undoubtedly twice as hard for them. They did not have the benefit of IR goggles and a radio. For them, the world was only darkness and grass pulling at them and pain in their legs and backs as they tried to run in a low crouch in a direction they could not see. I smelled sweat and heard harsh breathing behind me. The women were afraid, and were right to be.
Static. “Cat’s out of the bag, Alpha Lead,” Hicks said. “Over.”
“Alpha Strike,” I radioed, “tell me something good.”
“Inbound, Alpha Lead. One mike. Over.”
“Do you have us on FLIR?”
“Affirmative.”
“Light up the target area as soon as you’re in range. All other stations, commence attack when you see the tracers.”
Lanning, Clark, Greer, and Duncan acknowledged. Hicks did not because he was too busy moving the horses to the rendezvous, as per the plan. Or at least I hoped he was.
I managed to drag the prisoners maybe forty more yards before the sound of rotors chopped the air above me. The whine and thump of the Chinook passed overhead, banked southward, and a second later, the light from the minigun’s tracers flashed against the sides of my IR goggles’ display. I heard a sound like a great angry insect pounding its wings impossibly fast from the direction of the chopper, and an instant later, Lanning’s voice came over the radio.
“Fire at will.”
The command was unnecessary, but it probably made Lanning feel better to say it. I did not have long to dwell on the subject. Two grenades hit the raider camp with a pair of echoing whumps I could feel in the pit of my chest. Then two more came in the space of a few seconds, hitting a different part of the encampment. By the screams and hoarse shouts of panicked command, I guessed the raiders were now in disarray. The thrum of the Chinook passed northward and I heard the minigun let loose with another volley. The sound brought to mind a number of instances over the years when I had seen what miniguns could do.
The minigun on the Chinook was an M134 chambered in 7.62 NATO, the same round fired from most standard military-issue sniper rifles—a cartridge powerful enough to take a man’s head off at well over six-hundred yards. And the M134 could pour them out at 3000 rounds a minute, or 50 rounds per second. Furthermore, because of its Gatling-style cyclical firing system consisting of rotating gun bolts and barrels, the M134 is highly stable and produces virtually zero recoil. The result of this is a relentless hail of lethally dense and frighteningly accurate fire with a hit rate nine times higher than that of most other forms of machine guns. And the results are nothing short of devastating. Miniguns can instantly turn vehicles into shattered, perforated wrecks, reduce human beings to puddles of red paste, and even worse, can quickly and easily transition from one target to another. Combine these capabilities with FLIR, an acronym for forward-looking infrared night-vision technology, and the raiders didn’t stand a chance.
My radio crackled. “All stations, Alpha Strike. Be advised, hostiles are scattering. Some are headed toward your positions.”
I activated the GPS transponder on my radio. “All stations, Alpha Lead. GPS is online. Repeat, GPS is online. Converge on my position. Alpha Strike, see if you can keep these assholes off our backs long enough to reach the extraction site.”
“Roger that, Alpha Lead.”
The Chinook moved ahead of us and began flying a wide, meandering circle, occasionally letting off small bursts of fire. To the raiders it probably looked like the aircrew was chasing down survivors. In reality, they were trying to cover us without giving away our positions.
The next ten minutes were a slog. The Chinook roared overhead, its noise growing and waning as it moved closer and farther away. Lanning and his men radioed to let me know they were on my flanks at twenty meter intervals, SAW gunners inside, grenadiers on the wings. I acknowledged and kept moving. The hand on my belt did not let go, and the labored breathing of the women behind me grew no less desperate. Twice I had to stop when I felt a tug and looked back to see that someone had fallen. The others had them on their feet in seconds and we continued on our way. Finally, the treeline at the edge of the field loomed ahead.
“Eagle, Alpha lead. You got a visual on us?”
“Affirmative,” Hicks said. “Keep your heads down. Might have to shoot over top of you.”
“Copy. What about the assault team?”
“Got them too.”
“Any hostiles close?”
A short pause. “Not close enough to be a concern at the moment. Probably change when the helo touches down.”
“Can you do anything about them?”
“Sure. Hug the dirt for a minute.”
I stopped and ordered the prisoners to get down. For a moment, they just stared. I gestured emphatically and hissed louder than I felt safe doing.
“Get on the fucking ground!”
This time they obeyed. For a few seconds there was nothing. Then came a muted crack and a sharp cry in the darkness. Two more shots followed the first, but there were no more shouts.
“Let me guess,” I said into the radio. “One center-of-mass and two head shots.”
There was a smile in Hicks’ voice. “You’re in the wrong line of work, amigo. Should have been a detective.”
“We clear?”
“For the moment.”
Good enough. “Okay,” I said to the prisoners. “On your feet. We’re almost there.”
The women rose, Lynn said something low and terse, and we got moving. I spotted the flash of Hicks’ IR patch and pointed at him to let him know I had his position. He acknowledged by clicking his radio once. I headed to a spot of open ground roughly fifty yards away from him, told the women to lie down flat, and radioed the aircrew.
“Alpha Strike, Alpha Lead. We are go for extraction. Repeat, go for extraction.”
“Copy Alpha Lead. En route, less than one mike.”
“Roger.”
And then I waited with my belly to the earth, the smell of damp vegetable rot in my nose, and thought how I had noticed over the years that the ground smelled differently in different parts of the world. In Iraq it had been dry and acrid, redolent with chemicals in places, and in others, tinged by the faint dust of things dead for millennia. In the Philippines, it had been hot and pungent. In Germany, cool and vaguely sweet smelling. Here in Kansas, the odor reminded me of corn chips, which I found very odd. And it made me want corn chips.
The sound of the Chinook grew louder until it was directly overhead. The pilot lowered it gracefully to the ground, the weight of its dark bulk settling gently onto the landing gear. I looked up and saw the cargo door open and the gunner beckoning at us.
“Time to go,” I shouted above the roar of rotor wash. I stood up and pulled at the woman closest to me. She passed the message down the line, and in a few seconds, everyone was on their feet and running. There was no point in stealth anymore. Between the noise of the chopper and the wind tossing the grass like waves in a hurricane, anyone in shooting distance was going to know exactly where we were. Our best ally now was speed.
I led the way to the chopper holding the hand of the woman I had helped stand. She held the hand of the woman behind her, and so on and so forth. Someone in the chopper turned on a red light that was just barely bright enough to penetrate the gloom. The prisoners saw it and ran for it at a dead sprint. As soon as they were within ten feet of the chopper the light went out.
I took up position on the opposite side of the door from the gunner and urged the women into the cargo bay. Some of them had trouble due to injuries. The gunner helped me lift them bodily and set them inside where the others waited to haul them to a seat. When the last of the women were in, Lanning appeared behind me. I had not noticed him approach because I had been too busy with what I was doing, which I knew was a mistake.
Berate yourself late
r.
The gunner tapped me on the arm. “Give me a hand.”
I nodded and grabbed Lanning by the arm. “Cover us for a minute.”
He gave a thumbs up and began barking at his men. I followed the gunner inside.
“Gotta get these crates out of here,” he said as loudly as he could. “Won’t be enough room otherwise.”
I held up a thumb and pushed my way to the back of the chopper. The gunner and I hauled the empty crates to the door and pushed them unceremoniously out onto the field. That done, the gunner motioned to Lanning.
“Let’s go!”
Lanning touched his knuckles to my arm as I climbed out. When I looked at him, he nodded once. I nodded back and then sprinted toward the treeline. Behind me, the Chinook lifted off and carried its payload of damaged humanity off into the safety of the endless night sky. It was headed north. Any raiders in earshot would be looking in that direction, so when I reached Hicks and the horses, we rode west.
“Gotta put some miles behind us,” Hicks said.
I looked back and saw the young soldier had released three of the captured horses and was using the fourth as a pack animal. “At least we’re not on foot.”
“Yep. There is that.”
We spoke no more until dawn.
TWENTY-FIVE
Heinrich awoke soaking wet on the northern bank of the Chikaskia River. Maru sat nearby, rifle in hand, surrounded by six men Heinrich assumed were his inner circle, or at least part of it. He stood and approached them, one hand close to the handle of his pistol.
“Good to see you alive, Chief,” Maru said. He kept his gaze steady to the west, a large pair of field glasses held to his eyes.
“What have you got?”
“Nothing good. Looks like it was the Army hit us last night.”
Heinrich wanted to remain standing but found himself too tired to do so. Fuck it, he thought. If they wanted me dead I would be.
He sank into the grass by the riverbank. “Any idea how bad?”
“Pretty bad. After the attack everyone moved to the fallback position. What happened to you?”
Heinrich turned his head and glared at Maru. Any other day he would have shot the man for his impertinence. But this morning, with a hematoma pressing his temple, hunger gnawing at his gut, dehydration clawing his throat, and possessed of a healthy dose of gratitude that he was not dead, he let it go.
“Ran into a fucking tree in the dark. Knocked myself out.”
Maru lowered the field glasses, looked at Heinrich’s forehead, and made a face. “Christ. You look like a baby seal after the club.”
“Feel like one too.”
The men around Maru looked nervous. Heinrich took a few deep breaths, got his feet underneath him, and rose as steadily as he was able.
“What time is it?”
Maru looked at the sun and held up a hand. “About nine in the morning, give or take.”
“How’s the tribe?”
“Scattered. Lost a lot of men. We’re the only ones crazy enough to still be near camp.”
Heinrich pondered that. The Army did not usually move against raiders in half measures. They either attacked with overwhelming force and killed or apprehended everyone in sight, or they attacked not at all.
“So they came in, strafed us, and left.”
Maru stood up. “More to it than that.”
“I was in my command tent when the attack started. Fill me in.”
“One of the patrols went missing. Found out about it maybe thirty seconds before that chopper tore into us. Rider came in to report, and the next thing I saw was tracers.”
“So we were under surveillance.”
“Seems so. And it gets worse. The women are gone.”
“Gone?”
“No trace. Holes cut into the wagons, some of the fence posts on that side dug up and loosened.” Maru gestured to a man sitting on his left. “This fella found one of our guys dead where the women were being kept. Looked like someone shoved a goddamn machete through the back of his neck. Nearly took his head off.”
Heinrich felt his teeth clench and his fists ball up. “It was a goddamn rescue mission. They came for the women, probably sent a few spec-ops types.”
Maru edged closer, his voice lowering. “We’re compromised here, Chief. We should move on.”
Heinrich shook his head. “If they could muster enough troops to show up here in force, they would have.”
“They might be back. In fact, I’d say it’s just a matter of time.”
“Agreed. But we have to salvage what we can.”
“What are you saying?”
“Round up the men. Get them back here. Do a damage assessment and regroup.”
Maru sighed. “Hell of a risk. The Army comes back, we’re dead.”
“We’re worse than dead if we don’t. Lot of rivals in this part of the state.”
Maru wiped a hand across the back of his neck. “Fair enough. So we regroup. Then what?”
“Scatter protocol.”
The big Maori thought it over. “Okay. They won’t all come back.”
“Then they leave with nothing. They complain, kill them.”
Maru looked at his men and gestured. They moved off toward the sound of horses clomping through grass. “I’ll do a BDA and report back. Where should I look for you?”
“In the center of camp.”
“Right, Chief.”
*****
There was a small group of infected pushing ineffectively against the cable fence surrounding the livestock. The animals kept their distance, but otherwise seemed unperturbed. Heinrich felt around his torso and found his kukri and pistol were still in place. He tried to remember if he had grabbed his rifle before fleeing the hail of red fire pouring from the sky the night before, but his head was pounding so hard he couldn’t think.
Focus on the task at hand.
He drew his pistol, removed the magazine, and worked the slide. It seemed to work fine. Looking ahead, he saw the infected were now less than thirty yards away around a curve of the cable fence. They had not noticed him yet, but would soon. They always did.
Heinrich replaced the magazine in the gun, chambered a round, and walked to within ten yards of the undead. There were eight of them. His weapon held fifteen rounds, plenty enough to get the job done. He assumed a firing stance, leveled the sights, and squeezed the trigger. The report echoed across the plains, startling the livestock. Oxen and horses bayed and snorted as the undead whipped toward the sound of gunfire. The ghoul in Heinrich’s sights slumped to the ground in a limp heap.
The rest of the infected began shambling in his direction, mouths open, hands outstretched. Dimly, Heinrich noted that three of them were grays. They got off to a faster start than their still vaguely-human brethren and covered ground quicker. Heinrich shifted aim and dropped them before they were within five yards. Four left. Heinrich killed one more at point-blank range, then holstered his pistol.
His head hurt. His thoughts, much like his men, were scattered. He was in a bad situation. He had been caught by surprise and nearly lost everything and had been forced to flee in fear for his life like one of his victims. The sense of invincibility he had enjoyed the last few months was gone. In its place, buzzing angrily at the base of his skull, was the urge to kill something with his hands, an impulse that swelled and stretched and raked hot nails against the backs of his eyes. The ghouls were available. A living person would have been better, but Heinrich believed in making due with the resources on hand. He drew his kukri, the same one a Blackthorn had used to sever two of his fingers.
The first ghoul was a woman, middle aged when she died, probably turned at least a year ago. When she reached for him, Heinrich sidestepped, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her toward his outstretched ankle. She fell face first to the ground and was still for the briefest of instants. It was enough time for Heinrich to raise a boot and bring his heel down on the back of her neck with crushing force. There was a wet crun
ch and the ghoul went still.
The next one was there in an instant. Heinrich jumped a couple of feet backward to avoid its grasping hands. He was a strong man, but he had learned long ago not to test himself against even the smallest undead. Only a fool tried to overpower something that felt no pain. Instead, he rolled to his left, came up in a crouch at the ghoul’s side, and slashed at the back of its knee. Tendons and ligaments parted like frayed cord and the ghoul fell over. A short, brutal chop to the side of its skull ended its struggles.
With the last infected, Heinrich took his time. The kukri was a big knife, easily capable of removing limbs in skilled hands. And Heinrich was certainly skilled.
First, he took the arms off at the elbows so the ghoul could not grab him. Then, he hacked at the creature’s knees so it could not stand up. Satisfied it was no longer a threat, Heinrich stepped back and let it pull itself toward him on the stumps of its arms. He smiled as he watched and thought to himself he had to admire the thing’s dedication. It knew what it wanted and pursued that goal with relentless determination. Something he knew a thing or two about.
When Heinrich grew bored teasing the pathetic monster, he put a foot on the back of its head, pressed its face into the dirt, and hacked at the creature’ spine just below the base of its neck. The ghoul immediately went limp, but did not die. Heinrich backed off to admire his work. The creature’s mouth twitched uselessly, its milky white eyes rolling in its head, limbs paralyzed.
“Have a nice eternity,” Heinrich said, and walked away. On the way to his command tent he decided the exercise had done him good. He felt a little better now.
TWENTY-SIX
His pack, rifle, and other possessions were right where he had left them.
The tent had collapsed in the chaos, but the contents within were unharmed. Heinrich found enough unbroken posts to re-erect the command tent, and when finished, laid out the contents of his rucksack on his cot so he could check each item for damage. Everything was in good order, the most important item being his IR scope.
Surviving the Dead (Book 7): The Killing Line Page 22