The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  The Marines outside the building chose that moment to press their advantage. Alston heard rounds ricochet off the fire truck. Without warning, the truck crashed into something solid and came to a stop. He picked himself up off the large steering wheel and coughed, wincing in pain. It felt like he’d just been tackled by a linebacker.

  He saw through the cracks in the blood-smeared windshield a group of Russians standing in front of the fire truck looking at him with blank expressions, apparently too shocked to react. Alston fumbled to pull his weapon up, sure that the windshield was not bulletproof.

  As the Russians brought their own rifles up and prepared to destroy what was left of the fire truck, Alston's Marines flanked them and cut them down. Alston dove below the dashboard again as rounds peppered the front of the fire truck.

  The grizzled voice of Gunny Morin crackled over his headset: "Hangar two secure—whoever drove that fire truck deserves a medal.”

  Alston had to kick the driver’s side door open in order to exit the flaming wreckage. Blood and gore smeared the floor of the hangar in all directions. His maneuver with the fire truck had caused more havoc than he could possibly have imagined. Gunny Morin came around the back of the truck and stopped, his mouth open in amazement. He quickly recovered though, then grinned.

  "Not bad, sir. For an officer."

  Alston flashed a lopsided smile and slapped the Marine on the shoulder. "Sounds like they could use some help next door. Let's go."

  Alston and the reunited Marines made their way toward the third and southernmost hangar. Reports of injuries and casualties began to mount as they picked their way through the remnants of the intense firefight.

  When Alston stepped outside the burning hangar, he saw why. The Russians had figured out his plan of attack. They were stiffening their defense of the hangar, funneling in more troops in an attempt to shore up their line.

  As a result, the Marines were taking more and more casualties. Alston did a quick head count and realized that he'd already lost about 20 men. Whether or not they were actually killed, he didn't have time to worry about. He had 20 less rifles against God knew how many Russians.

  Then he heard it.

  The unmistakable BRRRRRRRRAW of the lead Osprey’s nose-mounted Gatling gun. The muzzle flash illuminated the hovering aircraft like some sort of ghost in the sky. Over the din of the battle and the screaming of the air raid siren, Alston had not even heard the Ospreys’ engines. He looked around in the sky over to the south and saw the other two planes. Gunners poured .50 caliber rounds into the Russians on the terminal’s roof.

  Enemy soldiers fanned out from emergency exit doors along the length of the terminal. Alston realized they had to take the third hangar soon if there was to be any hope of containing the Russians. He opened his mouth to urge the Marines forward when the pilot from the command Osprey broke squelch.

  "Actual, we got incoming aircraft. Say again, incoming aircraft. Looks like Russian helos inbound."

  Alston switched frequencies and spread the word to his attack force. "All units, Actual. Inbound Russian helos—get some cover!”

  The firefight around the perimeter of the last remaining hangar intensified tenfold as a group of Russians exited the control tower and made a break to reinforce their comrades. Half of them didn't make it.

  Alston took a second to scan the airfield and noticed that on the eastern side, the ground was covered in bodies, most of them still moving.

  How many fucking guys do they have in there?

  He saw the Ospreys break off their attack and scatter in three different directions. “Hammer 2-1, Actual, Condor Lead. Sorry, brother, we’re out of here. We can’t compete with Hinds…”

  Alston couldn't blame the pilots, though he would've liked to have had air support just a little bit longer. The Ospreys were simply not capable of surviving protracted air battles. They were primarily transport ships that could be used in ground support roles in a pinch. But if even a single attack helicopter arrived on scene, the Ospreys would be toast and the pilots knew that.

  For that matter, if a single Russian attack helicopter showed up, most of his men would be toast. Their only option was to fight their way inside the buildings and take over the Russian positions. The Russians might be crazy, but they certainly wouldn't risk killing the Source—and he had to be here.

  Alston paused and leaned back against the fire-warmed wall of the middle hangar. He coughed, whether from the smoke or the flu, and spat a glob of mucus on the tarmac.

  In some detached portion of his brain, Alston also realized that the Russians certainly wouldn't put up this much of a fight if Mr. Huntley was not on site. That realization drove home the importance of their attack. The mission had to be a success, or millions of people around the world were going to die. Even more would die if the Russians developed an antidote and decided to deploy their own version of the NKor bio-weapon.

  "Marines! We have got to take this hangar!" A round cracked against the wall near his head and a puff of concrete exploded in his face. He flung himself against the ground outside the besieged hangar.

  The Russians had barricaded themselves in from the west and east entrances. From the recon, Alston knew that there was another entrance on the side of the hangar facing the control tower. That was where the Russians were bringing in their reinforcements. That conduit had to be shut down—fast.

  In the darkness, he tripped over a support strut attached to the side of the hangar’s wall. The curved wall.

  Alston spun and called out: "Zuka! Can you scale this wall?"

  On the far side of the north wall, Alston saw a shadow turn and face the building. "Yes, sir!"

  "Get your ass up top and throw down some repelling lines."

  “Roger that.”

  Alston flipped down his night vision rig in order to provide cover fire in case some Russians decided to try and pick off Zuka. He watched Zuka as he located some footholds, slung his rifle over his back, and quickly scaled the curved side of the structure using the support struts as a ladder. He quickly maneuvered his way up the side of the building, found a perch near the peak of the roof’s slope, and began securing his rappelling lines.

  “Sergeant,” Alston said to the squad of Marines that had been with him since the start of the assault.

  “Sir!”

  “Take your men and hit ‘em from the roof.”

  “With pleasure, sir,” the Marine said as he led his squad toward Zuka’s lines. The Marines began to scale the northern side of the building—not as fast as Zuka, but pretty quick. Thanks to the lines that Zuka had provided, Alston could see that the Marines simply held onto the ropes and walked up.

  “Condor Lead, I need an ETA on those Russian inbounds,” Alston called out.

  "They’re gonna be right on top of you any minute now…" said the pilot. “Get some cover, sir.”

  "Don't worry about us, just make sure you guys get clear. I’ll contact you when we’re ready for evac," Alston replied.

  "Roger that, Actual. Condor Lead out."

  "We’re in position," said Zuka’s voice.

  "All units Hammer, Actual. Anybody with grenades, throw them now. Russian whirlybirds will be on top of us any second. We need to get inside!”

  Marines and Rangers alike began to throw grenades into the Russian lines. The firefight slacked off as the enemy sought cover.

  After a few seconds, grenades began to explode. Alston yelled: "Zuka! Now!"

  Zuka’s team timed their assault almost perfectly with the first round of explosions. His Marines opened up from the ceiling, straight down onto the heads of the besieged Russians below. Alston worked his way to the east side of the hangar as explosions continued to rock the interior of the building.

  A ball of smoke and fire erupted from the gaping hole in the east wall just as Alston was about to poke his head around the corner. He waited for it to dissipate and took a quick glance. The Russians had been absolutely decimated. There were only a dozen lef
t standing. Bodies and parts of bodies lay strewn across the hangar floor. Blood smeared the floors, the walls, wooden crates and pallets. Alston repressed a shudder and coughed again, keeping his eyes on the surviving Russians.

  Glancing up, he saw muzzle flashes from Zuka’s team stab into the darkened upper reaches of the hangar. The surviving Russians screamed as they died.

  Still, Alston was not about to express any mercy. "We've got them on the ropes. Light ‘em up!"

  He switched his fire selector to full-auto and emptied an entire magazine in seconds. The Marines on both sides of the building did the same. The noise was positively thunderous. Alston ejected his spent magazine to clatter on the bloodstained floor and slapped in a fresh one.

  "Clear!” a Marine shouted over the net from the other side of the hangar.

  "All units, cease-fire in hangar three!" Alston called out. He didn’t want to risk blue on blue fire now.

  As the last echo of gunfire dissipated into the air, Alston heard the rhythmic thupp-thupp-thupp-thupp of helicopters. He saw the repelling ropes drop down through the hole in the ceiling as the first of Zuka’s team began to descend from the hangar’s roof.

  "Zuka, hurry it up!"

  "Hey, I got a visual on the Russian helos…” said Zuka.

  "They’re Hinds, all right. Ugly bitches,” said Deuce. His deep voice made the speaker in Alston's helmet rattle. "Circling to the north. I see—"

  A tremendous ball of fire erupted from the fuel depot. Screams began to fill Alston’s headset. Marines were dying. Another explosion shook the ground and illuminated the entire airport. Alston turned to see a fireball at the fuel depot take the roof off of the largest hangar. He could clearly see scores of bodies on the runway.

  The Hinds circled the airport like vultures, pelting the Americans with incoming gunfire. Without anti-aircraft munitions, Alston could do nothing but watch the slaughter and hope his men forced their way indoors.

  One of the Hinds roared overhead, the downdraft from its rotors causing him to cover his face as dirt and debris flew like shrapnel. Tracers lanced out from the gunship and tore up chunks of tarmac, stitching a trail straight across the runway and up the side of the terminal.

  The attack helos suddenly veered away and stopped their brutal assault. The searchlights they used to spot targets continued to jump around the airport, but they had ceased their bombardment.

  “That’s it—the Source is in the terminal…” Alston muttered.

  “The Hinds are backing off!” reported Gunny Morin. “Keep on those foot mobiles and move in close! They don’t want to hit their own people!”

  An explosion just outside the entrance to the hangar next door threw Alston onto his back amid the screams of the wounded and dying. A Marine dragged Alston into the corner of the building while he caught his breath. Gunny Morin rushed up out of the depths of the flaming hangar and knelt by the coughing Ranger.

  "You all right, sir?" he asked, brushing debris off Alston’s chest. “That was some danger close, right there.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Gunny,” growled Alston between coughs. He struggled to his feet and brushed the dirt and blood off his face. “Look,” he said, gesturing at one of the orbiting Russian helicopters. “The Hinds are backing off because they don’t want to kill the Source—he’s got to be in that terminal. Get everyone you can find—we’ve got to take that building!”

  “Oorah,” grunted Gunny Morin. He keyed his mic: “Marines! We are taking that terminal! All units, advance—I want suppressing fire from the flanks. This is it ladies!”

  CHAPTER 9

  Boston, Massachusetts.

  COOPER PEERED AROUND THE corner of the trash-filled parking garage and examined the abandoned cars in the street for signs of movement. He could see nothing out of the ordinary. Well, nothing that passed for ordinary lately, at least: abandoned cars parked on what should be busy streets in downtown Boston, trash and debris piled on sidewalks, and not a single person to be found.

  Sunrise was less than an hour away on a crisp Saturday morning in New England. It was early November. They were near Harvard—there should've been students out and about, or at least a few cars. Nothing looked normal. Hastily made, handwritten posters plastered on buildings all around them provided an explanation.

  Get a mask! Get screened!

  And the more disturbing, officially printed version:

  Avoid crowds! Stay home, stay inside, stay alive.

  Every brownstone they passed appeared to have notices taped to the windows begging for food or help. Phone numbers, cut into little strips of paper for people to tear off, dangled from most of them. There were very few that had been taken by good Samaritans.

  It was like the Great Pandemic all over again. Cooper glanced down at the MP5SD in his hands and adjusted his grip. Well it was almost the same. He’d been just another college kid, rudely introduced to the big, bad world like everyone else ten years ago. It had been the Great Pandemic—technically, the Aftermath—that had prompted him to join the Navy in the first place.

  He examined the nondescript building across the street. According to Boatner, this was a top-secret research lab. Cooper looked up and down the deserted street. Not a single car. A few bits of newspaper stirred and chased each other on a little current of breeze, but otherwise nothing moved in the pre-dawn stillness.

  "All clear on the front," he announced.

  Cooper waited with Boatner at the corner of a public parking garage, partially hidden by a thick wall of unkept boxwoods. The doctor shifted next to him and Cooper reached out a hand to steady him without taking his eyes off of the building.

  "The north and the rear are clear," grumbled Swede's deep voice.

  "Southside clear," reported Charlie.

  Cooper tore his eyes away from the green-tinted night vision image of the building for a moment and whispered, "Okay, Doc, there's no activity at the building. When I say ‘three’ we’re going to stand up and run across the street. You got your key card ready?"

  "How did you know we needed a key card? The building has been designed to look completely normal—when the power went out, I thought…"

  "It was designed to look completely normal to the average Joe, Doc. That ain't me." Cooper tapped the sleek HAHO helmet he wore.

  "But—" began the virologist.

  "All the windows are concentrated on the upper floors,” Cooper pointed at the building, “where it's less likely that someone will be able to force access.” He lowered his hand to indicate the ground floor. “You've got dense bushes all around the base of the building and the flat rooftop has plenty of spots to hide all kinds of comms and ELINT gear."

  “ELINT?” asked Boatner after a moment of silence.

  “Electronic intelligence equipment. You know—spy shit.” Cooper turned his head to look at the scientist and smiled at the civilian’s discomfort. "To me this place screams top-secret government facility."

  "It's not the entire facility,” Boatner said quickly. “My lab is only in the basement. The rest of the building belongs to Boston's Child Protective Services."

  Cooper chuckled. "Nice cover." He shifted his legs underneath him and prepared to stand. He put a hard edge on his voice: "All right, Doc, this is it. We gotta get you across the street and inside that building as quick as possible. You ready?"

  "Coop! Got a vehicle approaching from the north, not slowing down," warned Sparky.

  Cooper gripped Boatner’s shoulder and drove him to the ground. As they dropped to the leaf-covered mulch behind the boxwood shrubs, a pair of headlights swung around the far corner as a vehicle approached the entrance to their building.

  "Stay still, don't move," Cooper whispered. He readied his rifle and took aim through the shrub at the passenger door.

  “Mercedes,” said Sparky’s voice. “Another German patrol.”

  The armored truck slowed as it rolled past, its spotlight sweeping both sides of the street. Cooper waited until the truck had turned
the corner and disappeared before he relaxed his grip on Boatner’s shoulder.

  "All right, we’re moving," Cooper said as he helped Boatner to his feet again. "Come on, let's do this before anybody else shows up.” He got to his feet and dragged Boatner across the street as quickly as possible. Being out in the open—even in the predawn darkness—made him feel naked and vulnerable. He rushed Boatner up to the front door and took a knee to scan the street while the virologist placed his badge against the card reader and opened the main door. Cooper stood and made sure he was first to enter.

  He stepped into the darkened hallway, his rifle at his shoulder. His helmet’s night vision made the hallway look bright as day. Every door was closed along its length. He could see only a few dusty footprints leading down to the far end of the hallway and back.

  Cooper pulled Boatner inside. “Get down under that window, sir.” He took one step inside and keyed his throat mic. "Okay boys we’re in, front door’s open. Let's move."

  "On my way," said Charlie.

  "Moving," replied Mike.

  "You guys get inside, I’ll check the street one more time,” said Swede.

  Cooper zoomed in on the far end of the hallway as he waited for his team to arrive. He switched modes from night vision to thermal and back again and was a little startled to see an IR beam at the far end of the corridor next to what looked like a janitor’s closet. He turned to glance at Boatner, crouched under the narrow window inset in the wall next to the door.

  "So where's the entrance to your secret lair?"

  The virologist shot a disapproving look at Cooper. "It's a lab, not a lair. Down at the end of the hall, on the right is a janitor’s closet. That’s the entrance.”

  Charlie emerged out of the darkness and startled Boatner as he entered the building. "Beaver’s right behind me," he said as he slipped past Cooper like a wraith and took up position further down the hallway.