by Rounds, Mark
Billie was short for Belinda, who at twenty-seven was the oldest trooper next to JD. She was also small, petite, and looked about fourteen. He knew he shouldn’t treat her any different than the rest of the squad, but he worried all the same.
As Billie rounded the corner, she stopped her horse and stared down the road with a shocked look on her face. Then she pulled her Mini-Thirty Ranch Rifle out of the scabbard and held it over her head in two hands and pumped it up and down a couple times, the Cavalry signal for ‘enemy in sight, large numbers.’ Then she spun Rusty around and tried to come back hard and fast. Rusty was a game little horse but was mainly used for trail riding at a slow pace. After half a dozen strides Rusty stumbled and JD thought that Billie was going to be thrown, but years of trail riding over rough terrain paid off and she was able to keep her seat.
The stumble allowed the first of the Infected to reach the luckless pair. Rusty kicked out and drove her hoof into the chest of the poor unfortunate, sending him back in a heap, others were following closely.
The disease reduced cognition and long-term planning in Plague sufferers, so JD could tell that these individuals had been infected for a long time. They had little clothing and only a few carried anything that could be construed as a weapon. Perhaps they were buoyed by abuse of the drug Slash, which could for a while mask the symptoms but actually made one more prone to the infection. These poor folks were nearly naked as they abandoned anything they didn’t immediately need, and there were dozens of them.
“Open Fire!” shouted JD, “but for God sake, aim carefully!”
Slow measured fire erupted from the seven riflemen in the firing line. They were hitting the infected as they became visible around the corner, but something had to give or Billie and Rusty would be pulled down by sheer weight of numbers since her squad mates were only hitting targets as they cleared the corner, not the ten or so that were right next to the horse.
Billie drew her sidearm, a Smith and Wesson M&P 9mm. The magazine only held eight rounds and she expended those quickly on the two wretches closest to the horse, buying herself a little time. However, keeping a hand on the reins meant she couldn’t reload.
“Keep the fire on them as they clear the corner!” shouted JD as he spurred his horse. Stomper was a large quarter horse, bred for the quarter mile sprint races common in the west. JD and Stomper swung wide to avoid the fusillade of bullets and then sprinted the intervening 100 yards to get to Billie. Even though JD frequently rolled his eyes at the cowboy affectations his troopers used, he was a bit of a traditionalist himself so instead of drawing a pistol, he drew a modern steel replica of the US 1860 Heavy Cavalry Sabre. Modern steel made the weapon lighter and stronger than the original and the edge was razor sharp.
The big quarter horse accelerated rapidly, and he was on the Infected surrounding Billie in seconds. Rather than slow to duel with individuals, JD made several passes, using the horse’s momentum to add strength to his swing. Quarter horses were very agile as their normal job was to herd cattle; Stomper could stop and turn on a dime. After four such attacks Billie was able to break free but Rusty stumbled again. The smaller horse was trying to run and keep her weight off her left leg. Clearly, she wasn’t going anywhere fast.
JD sheathed his sword and reached down for Billie.
“I am not leaving Rusty!” said an indignant Billie.
“I am not asking you to!” said JD in exasperation. “Ride double with me and lead Rusty. If she isn’t carrying you, she’ll be able to move faster!”
Billie gracefully slipped from the saddle of her faltering horse, reins in hand, and rolled onto the back of JD’s horse.
“OK, git!” shouted Billie.
JD needed no further encouragement as he spurred his horse. Stomper wanted to run all out, something that would have yanked Billie off Stomper’s back so JD reined him in after a second and they cantered up to the firing line.
“Mount up,” shouted JD who now completely disregarded the manual for the sake of speed. “We don’t have enough ammo to shoot them all and we need to get Rusty out of here!”
The rest of the squad mounted up quickly and before the first of the Infected could get to the firing line, the troopers of the 125th Engineering Company’s Provisional Cavalry Platoon rode off into the sunset.
July 10th, Friday, 5:51 pm PDT
West edge of the Turnbull Wildlife Refuge, south of Spokane WA
The P-19 fire truck that Gen Antonopoulos and his troops had commandeered slowly coasted to a stop. Their fuel had run out and they had used the last hill to eke out just a little more distance between the General and those who were chasing him.
“Is that it, Chief?” asked Antonopoulos as he looked over at the driver, Chief Master Sergeant Shiner, the fire chief of the flight line at Fairchild AFB.
“I’m afraid so sir,” said the Chief. “This beast was never easy on fuel and we only had about ten gallons in the tank. Overloaded like we were, I am surprised we made it this far.”
“Right, let’s get off the bus,” said Antonopoulos.
“General,” said Major Kong, “I think we better be moving. Those fellers back a piece ain’t gonna wait long.”
“I concur, Major,” said Antonopoulos. “We’ve got a few shotguns left from the load and some ammo. Share it around so that the firemen and air crew are all armed. Pull out any water and food left in the rig. Leave any snivel gear behind, we’re going to have to move fast.”
“Sir, Sergeant Vincent was shot up pretty bad,” said Sergeant Martin, a PJ with Antonopoulos’s protection team. “We have him stabilized, but I am afraid we are going to have to carry him. While we’ve been driving, my team and I have rigged a stretcher of sorts. I have to say though, I don’t know how long he can hack being carried. Are you sure we can’t get a dust off?”
“We’ve got a short-range radio that we can use to contact aircraft and troops close by, but no sat phone,” said Antonopoulos. “That was part of the plane. So, I guess that means we fort up and wait for them to find us.”
“NOOO!” shouted Vincent which surprised everyone as they all thought he was unconscious. “I know what’s going on. You guys think I am out of it, but it just hurts less if I close my eyes to the sun. I’ve heard what everyone says. I know we need to move. Those Zombies or whatever they are will be following. We are short of ammo and shooters. They will get you all and I don’t want that to be my epitaph. Please sir, I’ll be ok, get moving.”
Antonopoulos looked over at Martin who shrugged.
“I hear you, son,” said Antonopoulos who then looked at the rest of his band. “So what direction should we go?”
“We told Lassiter that we would be headed down US 195,” said the co-pilot, Lieutenant Keith Pearson, as he held up a TPC chart, “but if I were the bad guys, that’s where I’d go too. Sir, I suggest we go cross country, get off the roads. Moscow is generally south of here. Most of the land is rolling hills, farm land with a few groves of trees. If we keep headed generally south, someone is bound to pick up our radio call.”
“I hope everyone got some sleep,” said Antonopoulos as he hefted an M-870 and a bandolier of ammo. “I intend to march all night if we can. Anybody got any flashlights?”
Several of the aircrew held up standard GI flashlights and some of the others had key fob LED’s and other lights.
“OK, keep them,” said Antonopoulos, “but we will rotate out lights as the batteries fade at the front of the column. Go single file and watch your feet. We could get all balled up if we stumble and land in a bunch.”
“Gee, General,” said Airman Cory Blevins, the youngest man on the plane, “we’ll be just like Sand People in Star Wars.”
“How is that, Airman?” asked Major Kong quizzically.
“You know, they ride in single file to hide their numbers,” said Blevins grinning, “That’s what Obi Wan Kenobi said in the first Star Wars movie.”
“Major,” said Antonopoulos in answer to Kong’s quizzical stare, �
��we are going to have to update your cultural awareness. Let’s move out!”
July 10th, Friday, 6:05 pm PDT
At the intersection of Graham Rd and State Highway 904, south of Spokane WA
“We’ve lost them,” said the normally taciturn Ælfheah fearfully.
“How can you lose a fire engine!?” screamed Nergüi. “Never mind, there are bands of Infected roaming the area. Sooner or later, they will encounter one and we will know. Head south!”
Ælfheah nodded and turned to his mercenary lieutenants. His force wasn’t large, but it was potent. He had four MRAP’s that, before the Plague, had been seconded to the police forces. His colleagues had collected them and some other equipment to make them very deadly indeed. Three carried M-60 machine guns in their turrets and one had an M-19 grenade launcher. He also had a pair of Toyota four-wheel drive pickups with a half dozen Slash enabled mercenaries in each. They were rolling within seconds.
They kept their speed below 30 mph as gas was scarce, even for them. They hadn’t moved more than half a mile before they came under rifle fire. Two of the MRAP’s formed a V and their M-60 gunners began firing suppression fire in the general directions of the sniper fire.
“Why are we stopping?” shouted Nergüi.
“Sir,” said Ælfheah neutrally, “the troops in the MRAPs won’t have a problem with small caliber rifle fire, but those troops in the two Toyotas at the end of the line could get shot up pretty bad.”
‘I will say this one time,” said Nergüi evenly. “We have an opportunity here to capture the General who has been the most successful in the nation in thwarting our goals. They are expendable. You are expendable and I am expendable in that quest. Am I clear?”
Ælfheah nodded, but before he could answer, Nergüi’s phone rang. Because the cell towers were mainly under NSA control and the NSA was at least partially under Nergüi’s colleagues’ control, they had cell service when everyone else did not.
“This had better be good news, Macklin,” said Nergüi after he noted the originator of the call.
“Good and bad,” said Macklin. “I have about a company of our forces in buses headed down Highway 195, the most likely route to Moscow. The rest of them, frankly the most unreliable, are dosed up with enough Slash to keep them high for two or three days. I have half a dozen minders who will keep them high until we get back.”
“What’s the bad news?” said Nergüi rather testily.
“In my opinion, we are unlikely to run into the General,” said Macklin. “He is smart enough to realize that the most direct route is also the most dangerous. Since I am using school busses, any serious patrolling is out. I can keep an eye on the main road and do some small foot patrols but I don’t dare break this force up too small or they’ll desert. Morale is almost non-existent after Fairchild.”
“Keep him off the main road then,” said Nergüi who broke the connection, not trusting himself to say more.
“Macklin is becoming more effective,” mused Nergüi silently, “as this chaotic period lingers on. As long as I control his Infection, he will be useful, but if he ever finds a way to do without me, he will move quickly. I best develop a plan in case that unlikely event ever happens.”
“Ælfheah!” said Nergüi out loud, “Push through this resistance. Keep focused on the objective!”
July 10th, Friday, 6:08 pm PDT
Joint Base Fort Lewis-McChord, Tacoma WA
Capt. Lassiter stormed into the communications center for the 62nd Airlift Wing which had become, during GEN Antonopoulos’s tenure as both commander and head of the ad hoc HUMINT operations for the Northwest, the de facto intelligence clearing center as well.
“I now FINALLY have authorization,” said Lassiter, carefully controlling his speech in spite of his frustration with the political situation around Joint Base Fort Lewis-McChord, “for a dust off for the General. Something that I should have been able to get with a five minute briefing. Instead, I have spent almost FOUR HOURS defending our actions in arresting General Johnson and his aide. I had to describe, in detail, General Antonopoulos’s very carefully crafted sting to wind up the high level leak on base. Only then, when they agreed that we had done it right, would they discuss any kind of rescue op. Give me some good news, like we have the location of the General.”
“Sorry sir,” said Capt Whipkey, an Air Force C-17 co-pilot that had been seconded to the intel organization after most of the transport aircraft had been grounded due to lack of a mission. “We have both drones up but the air is hazy. We have found the P-19 fire truck at the edge of the Turnbull National Wildlife Refuge, but it is abandoned, no doubt out of fuel. They are probably on foot. Between the haze and the vegetation, we have not been able to find them. I have a request in to get some aerial reconnaissance out of Army Aviation, but I had no luck there.”
“What about our ground assets?” asked Lassiter.
“The BACA element has only just gotten to the area,” said Whipkey. “They had to detour around several wheat fires, likely set by our adversaries, which is the proximate cause of the haze. Major Tippet had issues getting fuel but is now out in the field. The cavalry patrols have reported bands of Infected roaming the area. Not good news I am afraid.”
“Not your fault, Captain,” said Lassiter, who had calmed down. “Army will have two Apaches from 6th Cav airborne in fifteen minutes. There is a Chinook on standby for a dust off if we can give them a target. How many hours of daylight do we have left, Captain?”
“Let me check sir,” said Captain Whipkey as he thumbed through a dog eared copy of a five year old Farmer’s Almanac. Under normal circumstances, he would have just looked it up with his phone but the net was spotty at best and many websites that routinely held that sort of reference information were down.
“We have about two and a half hours left sir,” said Captain Whipkey.
“Let’s hope that is enough,” said Lassiter almost to himself. “I have some ruffled feathers to smooth. Captain, send a runner to Army Aviation HQ if I am needed.”
July 10th, Friday, 6:15 pm PDT
On Highway 195, just north of Colfax WA
Major Dave Tippet called a halt to their little convoy when the horsemen came into view. Dave’s troops weren’t much to look at. There was one National Guard HUMVEE with Dave and his friends, and MRAP supplied by the Pullman Police Department with a SWAT team and a National Guard M-60 team. There was also a twelve passenger biodiesel power van filled with National Guard troops and half a dozen motorcycles, mostly ridden by National Guard troops. Two were special, they carried Hammer and Ace, two bikers who had become part of Dave’s growing intel organization.
These horsemen were clearly part of the cavalry patrols LTC Amos, the National Guard Commander, had sent out to try and find GEN Antonopoulos. This one had two riders on one horse and another, smaller horse moving slowly.
“What do you have for me Sergeant?” said Dave as they got close to the patrol.
“Sir, we engaged a band of Infected,” said JD. “Billie here was point and her horse Rusty lost footing and came up lame. Billie here says Rusty has suffered from tendonitis in that joint before so we need to get her off her feet. We are heading back to save the horse as per standard procedure and to report. We estimate that we engaged approximately 200 infected individuals just south of the Powers farm. Perhaps fifteen of them were casualties before we were able to extract. Other than Rusty’s injury, we have no casualties.”
“Good work,” said Dave. “What do you know about what the other patrols have seen?”
“We have had contact from outriders from both of the other cavalry patrols,” said JD. “They have all had contact with bands of Infected, sir. Our orders are not to become bogged down with these bands but they have every major road blocked and a lot of the secondary roads.”
“What about going cross country?” asked Dave.
“We were going to attempt that once we saw Rusty to safety,” said JD. “Our horses are pretty precious.�
��
“We’ve been briefed on that,” said Dave nodding. “But the road is clear behind us. Could you dispatch a rider with Rusty and then have the rest of your patrol work with us? We could sure use the help.”
“Noah,” said JD looking over his shoulder, “Take Rusty back to the barn.”
“Aw,” said Noah as he gathered Rusty’s reins and headed down the road.
“Billie,” said JD, “Why don’t you ride with the Major. The rest of us will fan out on either side of the road and see if we can find a way around the band up ahead.”
July 10th, Friday, 6:41 pm PDT
On State Highway 23 just north of Lamont WA
Slider got off his Harley and peered into the haze and gloom. There was a huge wheat fire west of Sprague and another south of Lamont. The farmers they had talked to along the way were sure somebody had purposefully set the fires. The farmers were using some of their carefully hoarded gas to plow fire breaks around the fires, but they were meeting with only modest success.
“I think we are finally around the edge of it,” said Slider.
“Good thing,” said Viking Dan, also known as VD, “this smoke is killing me.”
“We better hope they get a handle on those fires,” said Slider gesturing to the east. “That grain is this winter’s bread and beer.”
“Damn,” said Voodoo, “messing with a man’s beer is hitting below the belt!”
“It is at that,” said Slider with a smile, then he got serious as he pulled out his binoculars. “I think I can see a Toyota truck over there. VD, can you see it?”
“I ain’t a fan of Toyotas,” said VD using a new pair of binoculars, courtesy of the United States Air Force, “but I see it. Why should I care?”
“Because behind it are two MRAPs,” said Slider.
“I am getting Nixon on the horn,” said Sparky. They had the luxury of satellite phone communications which was the only reliable, secure form of communication in this post Plague world. The area around Fort Lewis was being blanketed by white noise jamming from multiple sources so radios were only short range at best. Cell phone towers across the US had lost power or had been deliberately sabotaged so that network only worked in a few isolated areas. Finally, it had come to light that the NSA had been compromised.