“Keep them moving away from the area,” said Smith. “I don’t know what the plan is yet for all of those people. Good work, Lieutenant.”
“Just glad to be alive, sir,” said Priddy.
Smith’s glance shifted to the AC-130, which had shut down its engines and sat quietly on the runway, its guns facing in the other direction. It was all coming back to him. Staff Sergeant Rudolph’s desperate gunfire was the only reason they hadn’t taken several more 105mm high-explosive rounds. He brought his hand up again to press the radio transmit button. They needed to make sure the AC-130 didn’t spin up again.
“Major?” said Breene.
“Yeah?” he said.
“They have everything under control. You can let go for a little while. You’ve earned it, sir,” said Breene. “Plus you look higher than a kite right now.”
“You’re right about that. I’m feeling no pain,” said Smith, leaning his head back onto the grass and staring at the night sky.
Chapter 43
David jogged along the revetment, headed away from the inferno that had swallowed most of the southern horizon. He’d never personally witnessed an explosion that large. Not even close, and he’d seen some pretty damn big explosions during his brief career in the Marines. The only thing that came even remotely close was a two-thousand-pound fuel-air explosive (FAE) bomb he’d seen dropped on a cluster of Iraqi Republican Guard vehicles outside Khafji. Nothing had survived that blast. He just hoped Delta Group had managed to evacuate the flame-engulfed correctional facility.
“Where are we going?” said Hoenig.
“Anywhere but here,” said David.
“That’s what you always say.”
“Because it’s always true,” said David, stopping. “Staff Sergeant, is there any way to get in touch with the rest of Delta? Or the main assault force? Sounds like things have quieted down near the compound.”
“We’re just set up to talk to each other,” he said, nodding at Chapman. “Without the vehicle, we’re on our own.”
“The AC-130 is shut down,” said Chapman, near the top edge of the grass embankment. “We could just walk out of here. Meet up with Delta.”
“Is it still pointed at us?” said David, climbing up the slope.
“Back about five hundred meters,” said Chapman.
“I vote we keep our heads down until that thing’s out of sight,” said Hoenig.
David peeked through the grass at the aircraft, which glowed a dull orange in the light of the distant blaze. He had no idea how far those guns could be traversed, and wasn’t willing to find out.
“I second that motion,” said David. “I like my head.”
“Let’s keep moving,” said Rudolph. “I can send up a series of flares to get their attention—when we’re in a more defensible location. Chapman, you got a green flare?”
“Affirmative,” said Chapman. “You missing a flare?”
“I loaded two red,” said Rudolph. “The sequence is red then green.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” said the corporal.
“Better be.”
They started walking north again, stopping a few minutes later.
“Hear that?” said David.
“Sounds like a lot of vehicles approaching,” said Rudolph. “Heavy vehicles.”
“Strykers?” said David.
“I don’t think so,” said Rudolph. “But bigger than HUMVEEs.”
“That can’t be good,” said Hoenig. “Could be reinforcements to quell 2nd Battalion’s rebellion. I wouldn’t put it past Cooper. He somehow managed to convince military commanders to send an AC-130.”
Chapman remained on the high side of the slope, scanning Route 31 through the night-vision scope attached to his rifle.
“MRAPs approaching the Marathon station,” said Chapman. “I’m seeing a lot of MRAPs backed up down that road. Way past the car dealership.”
“That’s a Guard unit,” said Rudolph. “I know 1st Squadron, 152nd Cavalry got a bunch of those when the Department of Defense phased them out.”
“Or Ajax bought some for their private army,” said David.
“They would have parked right here, defending Cooper,” said Hoenig. “He knew something was up.”
“Or he’d just sent them away to Fort Wayne or Indianapolis,” said David. “And now they’re back.”
“Whoever they are,” said Chapman, lowering himself into a crouch, “we’re about to meet them up close and personal. They’re heading right for the hole in the fence we made.”
“I’m popping the flares,” said Rudolph.
“I don’t know if—” said David.
“Better than getting smoked by a nervous gunner just because we’re here,” said Rudolph, prepping the first flare and turning to Chapman. “You do the green.”
Rudolph struck the bottom of the flare, firing it into the night sky. Chapman did the same a few seconds later. The flares sailed high before igniting and drifting slowly downward on their parachutes. Red and green.
“I’m going to lie down,” said David. “Just to make it a little harder for them to fill me with bullets.”
Rudolph laughed and crouched. “Why not.”
Chapman stayed three-quarters of the way up the slope, watching the vehicles through his rifle scope.
“Chapman!” said Rudolph. “Lower your rifle! What’s wrong with you?”
The corporal let go of the rifle like it had turned into a snake.
“Jesus. That was stupid,” said Chapman.
“We’re even on the flare thing,” said Rudolph.
“Copy that, Staff Sergeant,” he said, taking a few steps up the hill. “The lead vehicles stopped just inside the fence.”
Two hollow pops echoed through the revetment, followed by flares igniting to the east. First a red. Then a green.
“I think they’re friendly,” said Chapman.
Two more flares appeared in the sky toward the southeast, Delta marking its position for the incoming vehicles. Beyond the AC-130, near the Ajax compound, another set of friendly flares lit the night sky. They climbed the side of the revetment while Chapman waved his hands in a crisscross motion, signaling their position. By the time they had climbed to the top, two MRAPs had descended the slope on the other side, heading in their direction.
As the vehicles pulled alongside their small group, David was once again impressed by the size of the MRAP. Indianapolis had purchased two of these armored beasts for their SWAT unit, and he’d gotten a close-up look at them during a multi-department training exercise.
They stood nearly twice as tall as a HUMVEE, with a wider wheelbase. The vehicle had been designed to survive roadside explosive devices and mine blasts, but proved too bulky and far less maneuverable than the venerable HUMVEE. Most of them had been sold to police departments or reassigned to reserve units. He was glad to see them here, especially if they were on the right side of the fight.
The rear driver door of the closest MRAP sprang open before the vehicle had come to a full stop, exposing a familiar face that he couldn’t immediately place.
“No shit,” said Staff Sergeant Rudolph when the soldier hopped down onto the grass.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Staff Sergeant,” said the soldier.
“Just took me by surprise, Sergeant Major!” said Rudolph.
“Sergeant Major Riddle?” said David, stepping forward for a better look.
“At your service, Mr. Olson,” said Riddle, extending a hand. “Thought you could use some help here, but it looks like everything’s under control.”
He shook Riddle’s hand, still perplexed by his arrival. To their immediate south, a dozen MRAPs drove down and up the revetment, heading full speed for the runway. Twice that number of HUMVEEs followed. Riddle’s eyes followed them for a moment, stopping on the AC-130. David grinned.
“It wasn’t always under control,” said David. “Nobody knew that thing was here, and it almost got off the ground.”
> “Rudolph fucked it up with an AT4, Sergeant Major,” said Chapman.
“You expect me to believe that two National Guardsman, a cop and NevoTech’s head of security grounded an AC-130 with a rocket we don’t have in our inventory?” said Riddle.
“It was my rocket,” said David, causing them all to laugh.
“Sounds about right to me,” said Riddle, shaking his head in disbelief. “Can I offer you a ride?”
“Which road did you take on the way in, Sergeant Major?” said David.
“Whatever you call that road right there,” said Riddle, pointing at the gas station. “A bunch of back roads before that. Came up from the south to avoid detection. We couldn’t let you know we were on the way. There’s an electronics bird up there, snooping on all long-range communications. Possibly satellite comms. What’s up?”
“Did you pass a Jeep Wrangler on the way in?”
“We did,” said Riddle. “A good ways out. Someone you know?”
“You could say that,” said David.
Chapter 44
Major Gail Draper rapidly absorbed screen after screen of the digital package delivered anonymously through the battalion’s integrated data network (IDN) system, trying to wrap her head around its implications. Both of Indiana’s 151st Infantry Regiment’s battalion commanders assassinated. Their execution orders plain as day. She turned to the staff sergeant that had woken her out of a dead sleep and dragged her into the tent.
“Did you read any of this?” she said.
“It came in anonymous and unclassified, so I quarantined the file and copied it to one of the thumb drives, deleting the IDN version. Got curious, so I—”
“You’re not in trouble, Tom,” she said. “Did you read any of it?”
“Enough to know I needed to wake you up right away,” he said.
“We need to wake up the CO and the sergeant major. Where’s the XO?”
“Asleep.”
They had all returned exhausted from their various missions around Columbus. Twenty-four hours of nonstop, contested missions into and out of a city overrun by the infected. Crazies.
“Get him up, too,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And I need a secure line to brigade headquarters,” she said, pausing for a second. “Get me 2nd Squadron, 107th headquarters, too.”
“Watch officer!” yelled the soldier seated at the communications section.
“Over here!” replied a young lieutenant drinking from a travel mug.
“Colonel Holt on the satellite phone,” said the soldier. “Needs to talk to our CO immediately.”
Her staff sergeant responded, “I’ll get the colonel.”
“Wake all of the battalion leadership,” she said before rushing over to the communications station and grabbing the satellite phone.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, ma’am,” said the sergeant, looking mortified that she’d taken the phone.
“Colonel Holt?” she said.
“Dammit! I need to talk to Erickson. Right now!” said the brigade commander.
“He’s on his way, sir,” said Draper. “Did you get the data packet?”
A long pause ensued. “Who am I speaking to?”
“Major Gail Draper. Battalion operations officer.”
“Major, while we wait for Lieutenant Colonel Erickson, I need you to immediately initiate a battalion-wide evacuation,” said Holt. “Leave everything behind except for the fighting gear. I want the battalion on the road in fifteen minutes.”
“Understood,” she said. “Where are we headed?”
“To fucking war, Major. Against every traitor behind this nightmare. No mercy.”
Major Draper liked the sound of that a lot. What she’d witnessed in Columbus was unworthy of mercy.
Chapter 45
Harrison Popovich hadn’t stopped moving since he’d arrived at the station at five in the morning, about eighteen hours earlier. With most of the network’s Midwest affiliates shut down, Houston was one of few newsrooms still functioning in the middle of the country. Miraculously, his city had been spared the insanity that had stricken twenty-eight cities at this point. Every reporter, full or part time, had been sent north to Tennessee, Kentucky, Ohio and Indiana, the four states with the highest number of affected cities. Unable to liaison directly with the affiliate stations in those areas, most of them had attached to military units.
Their reports over the past twenty-four hours had been surreal. None of them had been permitted to ride into the quarantine zones for active operations, but the images, videos and stories coming out of the military bases and police headquarters almost defied explanation. There was little doubt that the simultaneous poisoning of twenty-eight cities was a coordinated terrorist attack, but solid details had so far been scant. Of course, there had been no shortage of rampant speculation, which was his job to vet.
Normally his reporters would vet the stories and bring them to his desk, but with only a few part-time reporters handling local stuff, it all fell into his lap—and he was drowning. One call after the other. Folders placed in his hands. Emails printed out and jammed in his face. Miserable.
Taking a long swig of Mountain Dew from a cold bottle, he plopped into the chair in his office and activated his computer. Knowing he’d likely regret it, he went straight to his email and scrolled through the messages. He didn’t expect to find anything here, since all of his reporters had direct access to him on the phone. If he wanted to see what they had dug up, he had it sent to the newsroom, where he had multiple screens to sift through all of the pictures and reports.
Still, the mailbox was filling up at a record rate. One hundred and eight unread messages. He was about to log off and close his eyes for a moment when one of the subjects caught his eye. The seventh message in the queue.
SUBJ: IRREFUTABLE PROOF TRUE AMERICA IS BEHIND THE BIOWEAPONS ATTACKS.
It sounded like complete bullshit, but he clicked it anyway, because he needed some comic relief from the night’s onslaught.
The email had a sizable zip-file attachment, but images had been included in the body of the message. Two of the images looked like screenshots of a green-scale computer monitor, like the kind on really old computers, but the templates were richly detailed. He read the text. Then read it again. What the fuck? Harrison looked at the second screenshot, scouring all of the text lines. Pretty crazy. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to create order templates he’d never seen before—and he’d been attached to 2nd Marines in Iraq. He was familiar with digital command and control screens. Two assassinations? He’d read enough tinfoil-hat shit for the day.
“Back to work,” he muttered, taking another swig from his soda bottle before standing up.
He scrolled a little further out of curiosity and sat back down. The third image showed a blindfolded woman with duct tape over her mouth. Someone had added a line of text to the image.
KARYN ARCHER GUNNED DOWN CIVILIANS WITH HELICOPTERS IN RUSHVILLE, INDIANA.
“What the hell is this?”
Harrison typed “Rushville Indiana” into Google and expanded the map. Odd place for something like that to happen—if anything happened. He picked up the phone and called Carolyn Mackenzie, his network-level contact.
“What’s up, Harry? Kind of busy,” she said.
“I got a weird tip in my inbox a few minutes ago,” he said. “More than a tip. Has any news come across about a couple of battalion commanders getting killed in Indiana today?”
“Hold on,” she said, the sounds of a keyboard clicking in the background. “All kinds of stories coming in.”
“Same here. Black helicopters. UN vehicles moving from town to town,” he said. “This one just seemed a little more realistic than the rest.”
“Hold on a minute,” she said. “These came in through an anonymous source at a National Guard unit—1st Battalion, 151st Infantry Regiment. Our reporter was basically ditched when the entire battalion up and left. They act
ually slashed their tires.”
“Really?” he said.
“Yeah. They did not want that team following them,” said Mackenzie.
“What came through?”
“One of the lieutenants at the unit said their commanding officer and another senior officer had been accidently killed in a friendly-fire incident just outside the quarantine zone. She claims that the officer’s tone was a bit incredulous, like they didn’t believe it was an accident.”
“What about a civilian massacre in Rushville, Indiana?” he said.
“Civilian massacre?” she said, typing away again. “There’s a quick mention of a mass casualty treatment team set up in Rushville. They were sent by FEMA from Mississippi. What’s going on, Harry?”
“Carolyn, I’m going to forward this email to you. I think you need to see it. I don’t think those battalion commanders were killed accidentally, and something happened in Rushville.”
“Send it,” she said. “I’ll call you right back.”
He forwarded the message and waited, wishing he had something stronger than a Mountain Dew. His phone rang a few minutes later.
“Harry?” she said.
“Yeah. I want you to forward that file to everyone you know in the business,” she said. “Just send it to everyone in your contact list.”
“That’s a few thousand contacts,” he said.
“Good. The more people who see this, the better,” she said. “I’m going to share it with our affiliate network.”
Harrison’s mailbox dinged, a new email appearing. He read the subject line, which included the word “forward,” and opened the message.
“Carolyn, I don’t think I was the only one to get that email,” he said. “Word is already spreading.”
Chapter 46
Lieutenant Colonel Reginald Jackson, call sign “Reggie Bar,” eased Hailstorm into a slow turn, the massive aircraft banking left and eventually settling on a heading that would take them back to Scott Air Force Base, where they had just circled overhead in the dark for two hours. Their mission to the Memphis incident zone had been cancelled and replaced with general instructions to return to Scott.
The Zulu Virus Chronicles Boxset (Books 1-3) Page 80
