by Dirk Patton
Rachel just nodded, holding Dog tight to her body, feeling his heart pounding away. He had pressed his face under her chin and she talked to him in a soothing voice, trying to comfort him as much as she was trying to distract herself.
With no warning the hail and rain stopped, like someone had thrown a switch to shut off the storm. Lightning and thunder continued, though, the countryside around them being lit in an electric white strobe every few seconds.
“Oh, fuck me running.” Jackson said after one of the lightning flashes.
“What?” Rachel looked around, but it was completely dark other than the road in reach of their headlights. Jackson pointed to their left, out his window, and a moment later lightning flashed again.
The fraction of a second of light was more than enough for Rachel to see the tornado less than half a mile south of where they were driving on the Interstate. She saw a brown monster that had to be close to a mile across where it touched the ground. In the instant of light she had seen huge pieces of debris, frozen in the air by the flash, swirling around the vortex.
“OK, you need to drive really fucking fast!” She said, trying to keep herself from screaming.
Jackson had already floored the accelerator and the truck was gaining speed. Lightning flashed again, the tornado still looming large and way too close. Swerving around a wrecked minivan, Jackson gritted his teeth when a motorcycle lying on its side appeared in the lights. Yanking the wheel he avoided it, but nearly turned them over. Regaining control he kept the throttle hard to the floor as Rachel stared out the window, waiting for another flash of lightning. She didn’t have to wait long.
“It’s closer!” This time she did scream when the lightning strobed.
“How close?” Jackson shouted back.
“How the hell do I know? Close! Damn close! Just drive!” She yelled back, eyes glued to the spot in the darkness where the tornado was.
Their speed steadily climbed, and mercifully there weren’t any more wrecks that had to be avoided and Jackson was able to keep them in a straight line. Lightning flashed and it was closer. They could hear it now, a low roar much like Rachel remembered Niagara Falls sounding when she had visited. Leaves, small branches and trash started blowing across the road in front of them. The tornado was getting closer.
Rachel glanced at the speedometer and saw they were traveling at 80 miles an hour, the needle holding steady. She looked back in time to see another flash, the tornado now close enough that it filled the entire horizon. Chunks of debris larger than the truck they were in were caught up in the swirling winds. She remembered her dad saying that the debris in a tornado was what killed you, not the wind. She didn’t know if that was true, or an old wives’ tale, but had no doubt the debris she was seeing was dangerous enough to end their day in hurry.
“Faster!” She shouted.
“This is it. It won’t go any faster!” Jackson shouted back, hands locked on the steering wheel as he peered forward trying to see farther than the headlights reached.
The truck didn’t have a smooth ride to begin with, but it suddenly got much rougher as the wind started buffeting against it and pushing them around on the wet pavement. Lightning flashed and the tornado looked close enough to reach out and touch. They weren’t going to outrun it.
“Find a low spot, like an underpass. That’s our only chance!” Rachel yelled over the roar of the engine and bellow of the wind.
Jackson had grown up in Mississippi, not far away, and he’d learned about the danger of tornados at an early age. He also knew exactly what Rachel was talking about. Tornados don’t follow small changes in the terrain. Ditches, underpasses, anything that was significantly different in elevation than the surrounding terrain would be passed over and left relatively unscathed. He’d seen it happen a dozen times when he was a kid, but the problem was there weren’t any places he could see to seek shelter from the storm.
The part of Arkansas they were in was table top flat, and the Interstate ran a perfectly straight line across that table. It actually was built up above the surrounding terrain which was predominantly flooded rice paddies. All they needed was somewhere to get a few feet below the average ground level.
The buffeting from the wind grew worse, and their speed slowly dropped to below 75 even though Jackson still had the engine wide open. They were in the “suck zone” of the tornado now, the air being pulled into the vortex so swiftly it was slowing their progress. Larger pieces of debris were flying towards them, slamming into the grill and windshield as they were sucked into the hungry storm.
“There!” Rachel shouted, pointing ahead and to the right. In a flash of lightning she’d seen a raw scar cut into the earth along the side of the freeway. A construction project of some kind, and it had apparently required the digging of a deep ditch a few feet to the right of the pavement.
“Hold on!” Jackson shouted. He fought the wheel, struggling to maintain control of the truck as the wind speed increased. Cranking the wheel hard to the right he crashed through the safety barricade and they went airborne for a moment when the ground dropped out from under them and the truck slammed down into the water filled ditch.
43
Martinez had us rolling at a steady 15 miles an hour when the front bumper contacted the gate. The 14 ton MRAP shoved it open and compressed the front ranks of bodies packed against it, then started to slow. Martinez fed in more power and the truck kept rolling, crushing bodies against the fences that lined the driveway and under its massive tires. The screams of the females were audible even through the thick armor and ballistic glass.
The engine strained in low gear as we continued to bull our way deeper into the crush of infected. I tried to estimate how much weight was pushing against the front bumper, but quickly gave up. We’d either make it or we wouldn’t. Figuring out how much resistance was coming from all of those bodies wouldn’t help us at this point.
The MRAP slowed more, a glance at the instrument panel showing we were down to less than 10 miles an hour. Our Russian guests were cursing and breathing like they’d just run a 100 yard sprint, then I realized so was I. It wasn’t hot in the vehicle, but we were all sweating, filling the air with the stink of fear.
I glanced over at Martinez and she was completely focused on driving. She was also cursing in a steady stream of Spanish which I understood a little better than Russian. I learned a few new ways to combine words for different parts of the human anatomy as well as a couple of biological functions. I couldn’t help but snort a laugh when she got very creative with different Spanish curse words for the act of procreation.
“What the hell is funny? Sir.” Martinez asked, wiping sweat off her forehead.
“Not a thing, Captain. Just expressing my appreciation for your heritage.” I said.
“Fuck off. Sir.” She said. I grinned despite myself. Maybe she wasn’t showing the proper military respect, but I’d take a woman like her, with a fire in her belly when things got rough, any day over someone who was too worried about offending me to act like a human. Guess that’s why it took the end of the world for me to become an officer.
We kept pushing, the engine roaring, and the grin disappeared from my face when our speed dropped to five miles an hour. A fast walking pace. We were in our lowest gear and Martinez had the throttle wide open, and we were barely making a fast walking pace. Much slower and I was going to ask the Russians to get out and push.
The bodies in front of us kept compressing. The infected that had been on the road had pushed forward when we appeared and crashed the gate. We weren’t just pushing what was right in front of us, we were also battling against the entire rear of the herd that was trying to reach us. The tires began slipping, losing traction. I looked out my side window and couldn’t see pavement. We had to be driving on bodies, not asphalt. Another ten feet and we came to a full stop, engine bellowing and tires making a high pitched whine as they spun uselessly.
“Don’t blow the engine.” I said, a moment later r
eaching out and placing a hand on Martinez’ arm when she didn’t respond. When I touched her she lifted her foot off the throttle and the engine settled into a smooth idle. Infected pressed in from every side so tightly I didn’t understand how they weren’t killing themselves in the crush.
“We’re fucked.” Captain Vostov said from behind me. I turned and looked at her and felt a moment of pity for her. Her hair and blouse were soaked with sweat and her skirt had finally made it all the way up around her waist. The two Russian Spetsnaz looked concerned, but were keeping their shit together.
“Not yet, Irina.” I said, using her name instead of rank. “There’s one thing you Russians have never understood about us Americans.”
“What’s that?” She asked in a shaking voice. For the first time since meeting her I could hear an accent.
“We never fucking quit!” I said. “Martinez, rock us back and forth to get some traction, then make a left turn.”
“What? Into the mine field?” She asked, the fear apparent in her voice.
“Captain, what does the MR in MRAP stand for?” I coaxed her as she wiped more sweat off her face.
“Umm, it stands for Mine Resistant…” Her voice trailed off as she realized what I was saying. “Yes, sir! Left turn coming up!”
I was more worried than I was letting on. Yes, MRAPs were designed and built to counter the use of roadside bombs by Al Qaeda in Iraq and the Taliban in Afghanistan. They were tough as hell. And I hoped that the land mines that had been used as part of Los Alamos security measures were the lower powered anti-personnel variety. If that was the case, we should be able to roll through the mine field with ease. If that was the case. Regardless, we were out of options.
Martinez jammed the truck in reverse and hit the throttle. The tires spun, grabbed and moved us a couple of feet then started spinning again. Back in drive we moved forward maybe three feet, then started spinning again. She repeated this process a few times, turning us towards the fence just a few feet to our left every time she went into drive. Finally it felt like we had all the traction we were going to get, and the nose of the MRAP was at a 45 degree angle to the fence.
Now, instead of thousands of infected stacked up and pushing against us, there were less than a hundred crammed in between us and the fence. In drive, Martinez pressed the accelerator to the floor and the tires slipped for a moment before grabbing. The infected in front were pushed back and compressed against the fence which immediately started bowing outwards. Steering for the gap between two of the steel support posts, Martinez kept pressure on the throttle and the fence ruptured, spilling crushed and mangled bodies into the sandy no-man’s land behind it.
We followed them through the fresh gap in the chain link, shedding infected as we bounced over the concrete curb at the edge of the pavement. The MRAP handled the soft sand like it had been born for it, which it had. The infected from the driveway were pouring through the opening in our wake, but they couldn’t keep up. We heard a loud explosion from behind as an infected found a mine that we had somehow managed to miss.
“Get past the back edge of the herd, then through the fence and onto the road.” I said to Martinez, pointing out the windshield at the infected filling the road to our right.
Before she could respond we found our first mine. It sounded like Thor himself had come down and struck the side of the MRAP with his hammer. Vostov let out with a decidedly un-military, but very feminine, scream. The heavy truck barely shuddered and didn’t slow down. If there was any damage, it was to the exterior armor and wasn’t a concern at the moment.
We hit two more mines before traveling far enough to get clear of the herd on the road. When I felt we were far enough I pointed and Martinez turned the wheel, speeding up to crash through a section of chain link fencing. The truck didn’t even shudder, slicing through like nothing had happened, then we were back on pavement.
I looked behind and saw the herd in pursuit. As I turned back to the front there was the sound of a hard impact and a spot on the windshield the size of a half dollar, directly in front of Martinez’ head, suddenly turned opaque. There was a second impact and another opaque spot before I realized someone was shooting at us with a high caliber rifle.
44
When the first bullet struck the windshield Martinez had reflexively backed off the throttle.
“Go!” I screamed. I had no idea where the sniper was or how good he was. If he was good enough to keep putting rounds within a couple of inches of the same spot he would be able to eventually punch through the ballistic glass.
Martinez immediately floored the accelerator, the diesel roaring and the heavy vehicle surged forward. She didn’t have to be told to swerve back and forth between the fences as she drove. She was a combat helicopter pilot. Several more spots appeared on the windshield from bullet strikes, but they were in random spots.
“Looks like your patrol is early!” I shouted to Vostov over the roar of the engine. She twisted around, got her skirt back below her hips and stuck her head over my shoulder.
“Probably a two man scouting party that came ahead of the patrol.” She said, grabbing my arm to keep from being thrown to the floor when Martinez swerved again before making a right turn onto a side road. I had no idea where it went, but almost anything was better than being a sitting duck for a sniper.
“And they’re probably on the radio with the patrol right now.” I said. “Will they call in air?”
She turned her head and had a brief conversation with Igor in Russian. “Igor says that for one vehicle they will just track us. They don’t know who’s in the truck, or why we’re running, and they won’t want the Air Force involved as long as they think they can stop us.”
“How big is the patrol?” I asked, running ideas around in my head.
“Usually five men.” She answered after another exchange with Igor.
“Are you willing to kill your countrymen to get away with these bombs?” I asked her. “If they aren’t going to stop chasing us, we’re going to have to fight before they get a couple of helicopters up here to frag all of our asses.”
“Frag?”
“Frag, as in fragment. Blow us all to hell. Fire an armor piercing round right up our ass.” She looked at me a moment then turned to the two Russian soldiers. They talked for a couple of minutes, voices raised and getting passionate a couple of times, then they seemed to reach a consensus and nodded all around.
“We will fight.” She said, turning back to me. “We don’t want to, but this is bigger than a few soldiers. It will just make it all the sweeter when Barinov is turned into a pile of ash.”
I looked into her eyes to make sure I saw the resolve that would need to be there. I did. Turning, I locked eyes with the other two Russians and saw the same. Nodding to myself, I turned to Martinez and told her to find us some terrain that would hide the MRAP. Five minutes later the road narrowed significantly and started to wind down into a canyon. Large rock outcroppings pushed in on one side, a steep drop off looming on the other.
“There!” I said to Martinez, pointing at a narrow trail that cut between two massive rocks on the right side of the road.
She jammed the brakes and cut the wheel, driving the MRAP onto the small track. When I said it was narrow I wasn’t exaggerating. Both sides of the vehicle scraped on rock as Martinez pushed on. After only a few feet the trail ended and we came to a stop with our front bumper touching a sheer rock face. None of the side doors could be opened as they were wedged against solid rock, so we popped the rear doors and jumped to the ground.
“Will the sniper team join up with the patrol?” I asked.
“No. They will follow behind them to provide security.” Vostov answered, this time without having to consult Igor.
Climbing back into the MRAP I picked up Scott’s suppressed rifle and tossed it out the door to Vostov, followed quickly by all the spare magazines Scott had on him. Next I removed his radio and earpiece, jumped back out and handed it to Vostov.
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“I’m going after the sniper team.” I said. “The patrol is yours.”
Martinez looked at me like she wanted to say something, but kept her mouth shut. Vostov looked at me and nodded as she attached the radio to her clothing and inserted the earpiece. Igor stepped forward and placed a big, meaty hand on my shoulder. I waited for him to say something, but after a moment he withdrew his hand and turned to start setting up an ambush for the patrol. I could only imagine the conflicting emotions that were going through his heart at the moment.
“Don’t make me regret trusting you.” I said to Vostov in a quiet voice before turning and starting to make my way back up the side of the canyon.
I stayed well off the pavement, and the going was steep and difficult. The side of the canyon was packed sand, rock and the occasional cactus. The only place for the sniper team to set up was at the edge of the mesa, looking down, and I needed to get there before they did. It was almost a certainty that they would have night vision and if I wasn’t in place waiting for them they’d just have a deep, hearty Russian chuckle as they put a bullet in me.
There was still twenty feet of steep, rugged terrain to the top when I heard voices. Russian voices. They were speaking quietly, but the clear, high desert air carried the sound quite well. It was a short conversation followed by the soft sound of a vehicle door closing and an engine starting. A moment later, an American Humvee nosed over the edge and started down the winding road a few dozen yards to my right. They were running dark, no light showing.
I thought about it for a second, wondering why they were driving a Hummer. Once I thought about it, it all made sense. Why transport all the heavy ground vehicles from Russia when there were plenty to go around in America, just waiting to be taken. Plus, all the spare parts they could need were right here, so that’s even more equipment they didn’t have to put on a plane. Besides, it’s not like a Hummer is a specialized piece of equipment. If an 18 year old Army Privates can drive one, there’s no reason the Russian Army couldn’t.