by JE Gurley
“This ought to put the fear of God into them.”
Mace flipped one of the four toggles that activated each of the four Claymores they had installed. He lifted the cover from the red firing button and pressed it. The 680 grams of C-4 packed into a Claymore planted at the edge of the parking lot exploded, sending 700 1/8-inch round pellets the size of #3 buckshot flying outward in a 60-degree arc at just under 4000 feet per second. The explosion thundered across the valley and shook the building. Four men went down. One lay on the ground screaming, his right leg blown off at the knee. The remainder raced for cover, ignoring their colleague in their panic. The defenders cheered. The second explosion occurred behind the hidden troops, this time killing two.
Mace dropped the safety cap over the fire button. His face bore a look of grim determination with a touch of satisfaction. “We had better save the other two. That slowed them down a bit though.”
Jeb was beginning to think they had bought themselves time to get better prepared when he heard the roar of three more helicopters approaching. Shading his eyes from the afternoon sun, he saw that they were two more Black Hawks and an Apache helicopter. From conversations with Vince, he knew the deadly capabilities of an Apache. He glanced back at the camouflaged AGM-65 D Maverick air-to-ground missiles Vince had removed from Raptors at Red Rock and converted for air defense. Without Vince, they were useless. The five-hundred-pound missiles were easy to operate, but no one else knew how to arm them, an oversight that could now doom them all.
The Apache made a pass over the habitat but out of range for the .50 caliber looking them over. Its second pass was a firing run, raking one of the berms with its highly effective chain gun. One defender, Jeb recalled his name was Howison, died under the hail of 30 mm bullets.
“They must have a base north of here, Phoenix maybe,” Mace observed. “An Apache’s range is only about 280 miles. If he starts in with those Hellfire missiles, we’re dead.”
Jeb shared Mace’s despair. The Apache could sit off a few miles and destroy the entire Biosphere2 complex.
“I guess attacking is out of the question now,” he said.
Mace raised an eyebrow. “You think? I’d say there are forty to fifty men out there, well-armed and eager for revenge.”
Jeb asked the question that had been plaguing his mind. “Do we have a chance?”
Mace raised the binoculars to his eyes and surveyed the new arrivals. “They’re unloading some mortars. We need to get everyone into the basement. They’re sitting targets in there.” He turned to Jeb. “Go get Karen out. One more rifle won’t mean much out here.”
Jeb considered Mace’s offer, but his prime responsibility was no longer to his wife. He had accepted a leadership position in the group because he thought he knew how to coerce people into doing what he thought they should do. He was wrong. People followed but could not be compelled. He now wondered if he had done any of his former patients a favor by pointing out their foibles and suggesting ways to modify their behaviors in response to the negative stimuli around them. Instead of helping Karen, he had allowed her to drag him down into her world of despair, the first no-no of a psychiatrist. He had identified too closely with his patient and had overlooked the small, insignificant ways in which she had manipulated him – guilt, despondency, lethargy, and the memories of what they once had. Death might be kinder to her than he had been.
“No.” He removed the walkie-talkie from his belt. “I’ll contact Renda to do that. I’m staying.”
Mace stared at him for a moment; then he said, “Okay. Go to the west berm and support them.”
Jeb left Mace on the roof, climbed down the ladder, and broke into a run. The Apache had not returned, but he didn’t want it to catch him in the open if it did. The military had not yet attempted to surround the dome. Jeb assumed they were leaving an escape corridor open hoping the defenders were foolish and frightened enough to leave the security of the complex. Once out in the open, they stood no chance. With good defensive positions, even an untrained force could inflict serious damage. The Claymores had shown that. However, mortars and missiles raining down upon them would greatly reduce their chances of survival.
Once he reached the safety of the berm, he called Renda and advised her to evacuate the dome, suggesting they take shelter in the basement. Knowing her as he did, he suspected she would return to Mace’s side as soon as the others were safely away. His second call was to Antonov, the only man who could fly the Russian Mi17 helicopter. Without him, there was no escape. The helicopter was useless in the daylight with the Black Hawks and the Apache prowling around, but at night, they might have a slim chance if they flew dangerously low through the valleys and into the Catalina Mountains to the east.
The Apache came in for another run, its chain gun blazing. Jeb heard screams from near the Visitor Center and hoped one of the screams was not Mace’s. Ten men rushed his section of berm. He cautioned the men to wait until they had clear shots. He chose his target, trying not to dwell on whether the man had a family or if he wanted to be somewhere else. He slowly squeezed the trigger and fired. His man fell. Two others collapsed as Jeb’s companions opened fire. The dead men’s comrades hit the ground and returned fire. The man next to him caught a round in the shoulder. He rolled down the berm moaning in agony. Jeb tried to ignore his cries for help and continued to fire into the attackers. A second section of berm came under fire. Jeb heard a third Claymore explode and smiled. Mace was still alive.
Finally, unable to break through, the attackers retreated. Jeb sat back in his foxhole and grabbed one of the bottles of water there. It was hot, but it quenched his thirst. The late afternoon sun beat down on them mercilessly. He wore only jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. The military wore full combat gear – fatigues, heavy boots, helmet, frag vest, and an ammo belt. They were cooking inside their uniforms. They had come expecting a quick victory but Jeb knew they would not leave. Even if they deemed the cost of securing a few munies too high, they could not leave an armed opposing force behind to create dissent. If they could not take the habitat, they would destroy it.
The soldiers settled into defensive positions, as if they would not be attacking any time soon. Jeb looked at his watch – four-thirty. With only three hours until darkness fell, it didn’t give him much time to come up with a plan.
He wondered who their commander was, what kind of man he was. Was he as ruthless as some he had met? Closing his eyes, he settled back to wait for night.
24
Major Corzine stared down at the glimmering glass structure of Biosphere2 from the Black Hawk helicopter. The reconnaissance unit sent in ahead of the main force had met with heavy resistance. He debated an all-out assault to obliterate the domes and its inhabitants, but he wanted live bodies to take back to San Diego. A victory with no one over whom he could gloat meant nothing to him. He knew that Costner’s CDC researchers would never submit to his authority, but Harris had reported they had encountered the same problem with Blue Juice his group had described. The deterioration of the vaccine had remained a secret so far. As soon as that knowledge became widespread, his control over his troops would wane. The secret would die here. Of course, that would mean eliminating Harris as well, but that mattered little to him. Hunters were easy to find. After his near-fatal brush with death at the Gray Man’s treachery, he would love to eliminate Hunters altogether.
Phoenix was rising from its ashes. Troops were presently clearing the downtown area of corpses, both zombie and human, and the airport already functioned at a limited capacity. Establishing a new research facility for work on a new vaccine came next. He could really use Costner, but her death would serve as an example to the other would be scientific malcontents. So would the destruction of Biosphere2. The growth of a new America would have to be controlled to utilize limited resources – farms, factories, railways. There was no room for individualism. Success depended on a strong central authority and a dependent populace. The lessons of the American Revolution had
not been lost on him. An emphasis on states’ rights and petty bickering had almost lost the war to the British. The zombies were a constantly evolving threat. Defeating them was a gradual process. Sarin gas was effective but difficult to produce. Unless the military found a method of mass extermination, mankind would eventually go the way of the dinosaur. This war was one that they could not afford to lose.
“Set us down,” he said to the pilot.
The chopper landed beside the other two Black Hawks amid a cloud of dust kicked up by the rotors and disgorged their loads of troops. The Apache remained in the air. Upon stepping out of the chopper, a frightened lieutenant came running up to him.
“They’re heavily armed, sir,” he burst out. “I’ve lost six men.”
“You’ll lose them all if you don’t listen up, Lieutenant.”
The young lieutenant’s Adams apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. “Y-y-yes, sir,” he stammered.
“I’ll send in the Apache to keep their heads down. You take ten men and feint an attack to the enemy’s right. I’ll send in a larger force down the center. We must smash them quickly.”
He watched as the lieutenant’s men came under a withering return fire. He ordered the attack down the center, but it immediately fell apart when a Claymore exploded, killing two men and the sergeant leading the attack.
“Order them back,” he snapped. He glanced up at the Apache. It had a limited flying time and he might need it later. “Order the Apache down well out of range.”
When the lieutenant reported to him, Corzine lost his temper. “You failed to mention that they had Claymores.”
The lieutenant backed up a step from Corzine’s wrath. “But I said they were heavily armed.”
“Heavily armed does not include mines, Lieutenant.”
“You should have brought more men,” the lieutenant replied. “We could overpower them.”
For several moments, Corzine did not reply. Then he took his pistol and placed it against the lieutenant’s head. “You’re too pathetic to make suggestions, fool,” he said.
The move caught the lieutenant by surprise. Before he could react, Corzine squeezed the trigger. The lieutenant widened his eyes in fright and began to protest. The protest died on his lips as his brains exploded from the far side of his skull. He fell lifeless at Corzine’s feet. The men around him were too stunned to speak. Corzine turned to a young second lieutenant.
“You’re a first lieutenant now. Let’s see if you do any better than your predecessor. Tell the men to stand down, but to stay alert. We’ll wait for nightfall.”
The newly promoted lieutenant rushed off to convey the order, eager to be out of Corzine’s presence.
Corzine looked down at the body, blood seeping from the wound onto the dry sand. “Get this body out of here before it begins to stink.” His glare strayed toward the glass buildings in front of him. “At last a worthy opponent.”
* * * *
Vince took over the driving from Amanda. They pushed the pickup to its limits to place distance between themselves and the cloud of deadly nerve gas enveloping Phoenix. They crashed through packs of zombies also headed south ahead of the invisible toxin. After dawn, they parked in an empty barn to avoid detection by jets and helicopters patrolling the skies above them. Vince’s loyalties bounced back and forth between continuing the mad rush to warn his friends at Biosphere2 and in protecting Amanda.
The strange bond he had felt when he had first met her had grown stronger over the last few days. She was a strong and resilient woman, reminding him of Renda. After her confession that she had shot the Gray Man and had left him to die, the hatred that had hardened her features had melted away. She had even smiled at him.
The afternoon of the second day since their escape, as they relaxed beneath the canopy of a large tree, a pair of Black Hawk helicopters flew over headed south. He knew where they were going – Biosphere2. Too late, to warn his friends, he nevertheless pushed on in the daylight, chancing discovery. In the late afternoon, three more helicopters appeared to their east headed to the same destination. His friends were in serious trouble.
“Maybe they were going somewhere else,” Amanda suggested in an attempt to break through the sudden dark depression that had descended upon him.
He shook his head. “No. They’re going to Biosphere2. If I don’t do something, my friends are going to die.”
“What can one man do?” Her eyes pleaded with him not to go, but he also saw resignation and reluctant acceptance.
What could one man do? “We have missiles, but I’m the only one who can operate them.” He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “I should be there.”
“If you were there, I would still be a prisoner,” she reminded him gently.
She was right. Self-recriminations served no purpose. If he had not been captured, he would be there, but Amanda wouldn’t be with him. He tried to think more clearly. How could he help his friends? It would be difficult, if not impossible, to break through the enemy lines if they had surrounded the habitat. He couldn’t fight his way in. It would take an army... He slammed on the brakes and slid to a stop.
“What is it?” Amanda asked, alarmed by his sudden action.
He turned to her. “I need an army.”
“An army? Where do you expect to find an army? There isn’t a living soul around.”
He smiled grimly. “I don’t need living souls.”
* * * *
Mace was surprised when Mikal Antonov climbed up on the roof with a message for him. The strong wind gusts had almost made the roof untenable. Thunder sounded over bursts of gunfire, teasing him with the promise of rain. Just after dark, the military had crept to within fifty yards of the berm. Sporadic but accurate fire had slowly withered the ranks of the defenders. Mortar fire, so far confined to the defenders, had killed several. Twelve dead and five wounded and the real attack hadn’t even started.
“There’s someone on the radio for you,” Antonov said.
Mace glared irritably at the Russian helicopter pilot. He didn’t have time for a radio conversation. They were under attack. “Who?” He growled.
Antonov smiled. “Vince.”
This brought a smile to Mace’s face as well. “So he’s still alive.” He rushed from the roof to the radio room, dodging rifle fire as he crossed open space. To his surprise, the incoming communication was in Morse code. His Morse was rusty, but he followed the gist of Vince’s message. Vince was calling from the microwave relay tower a few miles away in Oracle. Without a microphone, he had stripped a few wires and rewired the repeater station to broadcast by tapping the hot wire against the ground wire, making a simple but effective telegraph. Mace marveled at Vince’s resourcefulness. At first, Vince’s plan sounded ridiculous. At best, it was highly risky, but as Mace considered the options, it began to make a mad kind of sense. He sent his agreement.
He told Antonov, “Tell everyone to hold out for another hour; then quietly abandon their positions.”
Antonov stared at him. “Are we giving up?”
“No, we’re waiting on reinforcements.”
Antonov eyes narrowed between his bushy eyebrows. “Shouldn’t we help them when they arrive?”
Vince grinned. “No, not these reinforcements. Get the chopper ready to fly.”
“We’re leaving?” Antonov did not hide his disgust at the thought of leaving. He knew the Mi17 helicopter could only hold about thirty people. More than that number remained.
Mace sighed and laid his hand on the old Russian’s shoulder. “We don’t have much choice. By the way, tell them to be careful not to shoot Vince.”
Trust Vince to come through when we need him most. Mace didn’t know what ordeal he had gone through over the past few days. He had not mentioned Mateo’s fate, but Mace got the feeling that he was dead. He had explained in layman’s terms how to arm the missiles. That gave them a surprise advantage against the helicopters.
Renda and the others had returned
to the habitat as the soldiers encircled the compound. Erin and her bunch were busy treating wounds in the converted desert habitat. They had done a remarkable job, but even so, several of the injured would not last until morning, if anyone did. Jeb remained outside directing the defenders’ fire. They had used their last Claymore and a well-placed mortar round had silenced the .50 caliber machine gun on the roof of the Visitor Center, killing its operator. The army had so far held off on a sustained mortar barrage, lobbing just the occasional shell more for intimidation than for effect, but as time dragged on, that option would be included in the assault.
Following Vince’s directions, Mace armed all six Maverick missiles. The stinging sand blowing underneath the edges of the camouflaged tarp stung his eyes, making a complicated job even more difficult. Finally, satisfied he had done everything on Vince’s list, he powered the launcher and held his breath until all six red lights changed to green. If their luck held, they might manage to fire two of the missiles before accurate mortar fire or a missile from one of the helicopters silenced the battery. Two might be enough to turn the tide. As he was preparing the missiles, the summer monsoon rains began.
Lightning illuminated the sky, dancing from cloud to cloud. With each flash, the peaks of the Catalina Mountains stood out in stark contrast to the ominous dark storm clouds behind them. The storm was going to be a big one. The rain stung like cactus needles as the strong winds hurled it at his exposed face and arms. Flying the big Russian helicopter over the mountains in such weather would task even Antonov’s considerable skills, but the same weather would make pursuit almost impossible.
He had given considerable thought to a destination. It had become obvious to him that a large gathering of people such as they had attempted at Biosphere2 drew too much attention. Breaking into two smaller, more manageable groups seemed the best solution, but who would go with whom? He would not separate from Renda under any circumstances. He hoped Vince would remain by his side as well. The perfect candidate to lead a second group was Jeb. He was a natural leader who was slowly coming to grips with his abilities. He was a good friend, but there was no one else in the group Mace would trust in such a position of authority. The democratically elected ‘Action Committee’ had proven a disaster, as he knew it would. In such trying times, people needed a strong leader, not a group of weak ones ruling by consensus. If there was a right answer and a wrong answer, you could not compromise on a ‘close enough’ answer. Someone had to make the difficult decisions and then live with the consequences while not becoming a tyrant in the process.