Legion: V Plague Book 19

by Dirk Patton

  “How is she?” the Admiral asked.

  “Devastated, sir. Her entire world was just shattered. Rachel got her through the initial shock and they’re back in Ziggy’s quarters.”

  Packard nodded, having delivered more than his share of heart-breaking news to surviving spouses over the course of his career.

  “Any word from Commander Vance, sir?” Jessica asked, wanting a change in topic.

  “No. And it’s time. He should have been over the target fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Maybe weather or...”

  They looked around at the sound of running feet. It was Captain West, charging toward them and they stood as he arrived.

  “Cypress, Admiral. Cypress,” he said, beaming.

  This was a word that was unrelated to anything about Vance’s mission to St. Louis. It had simply been generated by a computer as a one-time code that could be broadcast over an unsecure radio frequency without providing any information to the enemy. But it spoke volumes to Packard who was smiling from ear to ear.

  “It’s time to end this,” he said, the smile dropping from his face. “Initiate Operation Failsafe, Captain.”

  West was no longer smiling.

  “Sir, I’d be remiss if I didn’t remind you that Colonel Chase, Chief Strickland and Captain Martinez were last known to be moving toward one of the target areas.”

  Packard nodded somberly.

  “I’m all too aware, Captain. But the longer we wait, the greater the possibility that the enemy launches another attack. Frankly, I’m surprised they haven’t already detected the resources we’ve been hiding. We cannot afford to lose the element of surprise.”

  West acknowledged the order, then turned and raced away toward the Combat Information Center.

  “Are you a praying woman, Chief?” the Admiral asked, following in West’s wake at a more sedate pace.

  “No, sir. Not particularly.”

  “We still have friends in harm’s way. Might be a good time to start.”

  71

  “I think he has to go,” Mavis said.

  Martinez looked at Dog who seemed perfectly content stretched out on the deck of the Osprey.

  “Seems fine to me.”

  “Ooookay, but I’m not cleaning it up.”

  Martinez looked at her, unable to stop from grinning at the young girl. She glanced at Joe, but he was snoring softly and she didn’t have the heart to wake him up.

  “Alright but hang on. Let me check the area, first.”

  Moving to the cockpit, she activated the thermal imaging system and carefully scanned a full three-sixty. Seeing nothing of concern, she shut it down and walked back into the cabin. Dog was on his feet, standing next to Mavis at the rear.

  “Good to go,” Martinez said, fist-bumping the button that lowered the ramp.

  Dog ran forward and leapt off the end while it was still in motion, Mavis and Martinez following once it thumped to a stop on the tarmac. They spotted him running back and forth with his nose to the ground and Mavis took a breath, but Martinez cut her off.

  “Don’t say it!”

  The looked at each other, Mavis with a smug expression on her face. Dog finally found a suitable spot, though it looked exactly like every other one he’d sniffed.

  “Hey!” Joe called from the top of the ramp, drawing Martinez’s attention. “Something’s beeping in the cockpit.”

  “Stay close,” she said to Mavis before hurrying back inside.

  A red light was flashing on a communications panel, accompanied by an annoying tone.

  “What’s that?” Joe asked.

  “Transmission on the guard channel,” she said, silencing the alarm and activating the radio.

  “Spanish Rose, do you copy?” Vance’s voice sounded from a small speaker.

  “Spanish Rose?” Joe asked with a grin.

  “Fucking Vance,” she mumbled, plucking a microphone off its hook and answering. “Got you, Nutcracker.”

  “Miss me?”

  “Like a case of the crabs. You inbound?”

  “Overhead. What’s your mission status?”

  “Ongoing. No update from primary.”

  “Understood. Can you ident so I can spot you?”

  Martinez turned and looked at Joe, then pointed at a locker on the bulkhead behind the cockpit.

  “IR strobe in there. About the size of a child’s fist. Clear lens.”

  He was already digging through the equipment and held it up for her to see.

  “Yep. Run outside and turn it on until I yell. Switch underneath. Be sure it’s aimed straight up, and don’t worry when you don’t see any light. It’s infrared.”

  Joe did as she asked and when she could see him through the open ramp with the strobe held over his head, she notified Vance. He told her to stand-by then was quiet for nearly a minute.

  “ID one strobe,” he called.

  “Shut it off, Joe,” Martinez yelled.

  “Strobe is dark.”

  “That’s us,” Martinez said. “Can you stay on station?”

  “Three hours, max. Any more than that, there’d better be a gas station between here and home.”

  Martinez checked her watch then signed off. She’d been worrying about how they were going to get back to Hawaii, which was well beyond the range of the Osprey, and Vance’s unexpected arrival was welcome. Powering down the radio to save the batteries, she walked out to where Joe still held the strobe over his head.

  “All done,” she said, then looked around with a frown. “Where’s Mavis and Dog?”

  They both turned fast circles, searching for any sign of them, then traded worried glances.

  “Were they here when you came out?” Martinez asked.

  “I don’t know,” Joe said with a shrug. “I was focused on the strobe. What were all of you doing out here to begin with?”

  “Dog had to go.”

  Martinez raced inside, grabbed two rifles and shoved one at Joe when she returned.

  “You go that way,” she said, pointing. “Back here in ten minutes.”

  Joe nodded and they both trotted off in opposite directions. Martinez ran up to the plane twelve minutes later, concern mounting when she didn’t see Joe, but he arrived in less than thirty seconds.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Where the fuck are they?” she hissed.

  “I think she might have left.”

  “What?”

  “There’s no way something happened to them without us hearing it,” Joe said, explaining his theory. “Not with Dog. He’d fight to the death before he’d let something happen to her, and I was outside. There wasn’t a sound.”

  “But why? Why would she leave?”

  “She’s got some kind of... connection. With John. Maybe he’s in trouble again.”

  Martinez looked at him for a long moment before she faced out into the darkness and cursed a blue streak in her native tongue.

  “If you’re right, she’s going north, and she can’t have gone far.”

  She ran back into the Osprey, returning quickly with a fully loaded vest.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Going after her,” Martinez said, adjusting the vest. “Stay with the aircraft. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Bullshit. I’m coming with you.”

  ***

  By the time the Admiral and Jessica walked into the CIC, it was a hive of activity. Multiple large displays showed the status of the plans that had been in the works for several months. One of them monitored activity at an airstrip on one of Hawaii’s more remote islands as a B-52 took to the air. Behind, waiting their turn were thirty-five more of the giant aircraft.

  As soon as the military recognized they were going to be unsuccessful in using the stockpile of nuclear weapons that were housed at Pearl Harbor, Admiral Packard had quietly assigned a group of engineers to begin building thermobaric bombs. These munitions were the same as the MOAB, or Mother of All Bombs, which has a yield equiva
lent to eleven tons of TNT.

  An even dozen of these were constructed. Smaller versions were made by the thousands. Now, the thirty-six B-52s took off with a combined load equivalent to one kiloton, or one thousand tons of TNT.

  As the bombers gained altitude and formed up for the flight to the mainland, they were joined by every airworthy fighter that was in Hawaii. Each of these was equipped with every last incendiary bomb in inventory. Weighing seven hundred and fifty pounds each, these were the direct successors to the napalm bombs used extensively in Vietnam. More devastating because they would burn longer and hotter, the fires they started were all but impossible to extinguish until the fuel had been fully consumed.

  Midway between Hawaii and the California coast, the fighters were met by tanker aircraft from the Reagan. As they slowed to refuel, the B-52s maintained altitude and speed. When they were still eight hundred miles from the mainland, the carrier began launching EA-18G Growler jets which would lead the way.

  Highly specialized for electronic warfare, their job was to jam the electromagnetic spectrum that the Russians used for radar, communications, command and control. Built around the F-18 Super Hornet design, each aircraft also carried a pair of HARM or High-Speed Anti-Radiation Missiles which would home in on the radar signal of Russian air defense systems.

  Behind them came the Reagan’s four fighter squadrons of F-18s, all equipped and armed for aerial engagement with enemy aircraft. It was their job to keep Russian fighters off the backs of the B-52s. All told, over two hundred and fifty warplanes took to the dark Pacific skies.

  Before the Russians even became aware that they were under attack, one B-52 and four fighters were lost. Since the V Plague had been unleashed on America, no new parts had been produced. Aviation mechanics were left with no option other than to ignore recommended maintenance replacement schedules and also had to repair instead of exchange components that were damaged. Every flight crew in the air that night was aware of the risks but had willingly made the decision to take their plane up and join America’s final fight.

  “Failsafe flight has reached the mainland, Admiral. The Reagan is assuming tactical control.”

  Packard nodded at Captain West, unable to take his eyes off the screens that displayed the air-armada’s estimated location and progress.

  72

  Martinez and Joe returned to the Osprey two hours later. They’d failed to find any sign of Mavis or Dog despite ranging more than five miles to the north. The only good news was they hadn’t encountered any infected or Russians. Just a dark, ghostly city.

  “What now?” Joe asked.

  “Search from the air,” Martinez answered.

  She dumped her rifle and shrugged out of the vest as she headed for the cockpit. Joe knew they would be risking detection by a patrolling Russian aircraft but didn’t complain. Following, he settled into the copilot’s seat as Martinez closed the ramp and fired up the engines.

  As the propellers began to spin, she turned on the radio and contacted Vance, glad he was still in an orbit, somewhere high above their heads.

  “I’ll be here if you need me,” he said after she finished a cryptic explanation of the problem.

  “You get your ass home,” Martinez said. “You can always come back after refueling.”

  “I’m good for another hour. You just worry about finding the girl and I’ll worry about me.”

  There was nothing else to be said and Martinez got them in the air and headed north, remaining in vertical flight mode. Despite their not having found her, Mavis still couldn’t be more than fifteen miles away. Maybe a little farther considering she was now infected and faster, but the Osprey could cover the distance quickly even with the engines tilted up.

  “I’ve got to concentrate so I don’t fly us into a radio or electric transmission tower,” she said to Joe. “You work the thermal.”

  She gave him a ten second tutorial on using the system then gained a little altitude. The search would be way more efficient if she were able to fly at a couple thousand feet, but that would expose them to every enemy air defense system for miles around.

  Assuming Mavis would stick to pavement so she could move faster, Martinez began following a broad freeway that ran due north. They had covered twenty miles when Joe suddenly leaned forward. Martinez’s heart leapt until he spoke.

  “Oh, shit. We just flew over some Russians!”

  “What?”

  “Two Hummers full of armed men, and they were all looking up. Definitely heard us even if they didn’t see us.”

  “Sit tight,” Martinez said after a second’s thought. “We’ve still got to find Mavis.”

  Joe didn’t argue, but he tugged on the straps holding him in his seat, making sure they were tight.

  “Russian helo, twenty miles west, just changed directions and is heading straight for you,” Vance called a minute later.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Joe said when Martinez didn’t react to the information.

  “We can outrun any helicopter. Pay attention to the thermal.”

  “Can we outrun a missile?”

  “Do your fucking job, pendejo!” Martinez snapped.

  Joe took a breath but didn’t continue to argue. Focusing on the screen, he continued to scan both their path as well as a wide swath of city to either side.

  “Seven miles,” Vance said. “Coming fast and he’s adjusting course to track you. Bastard’s got you on radar.”

  Martinez ground her teeth in frustration before slamming her fist against the bulkhead next to her. Without a word, she transitioned the engines to horizontal flight and turned east. The Osprey quickly gained speed and she lost altitude until they were skimming the desert floor.

  “You’re opening range and he’s not turning to follow your new course,” Vance called. “You should be able to... uh oh.”

  “Uh oh? What’s uh oh?” Martinez shouted into the radio.

  “You’ve got a fast mover heading your way from the north. Looks like a Mig 35, and those fuckers have look down.”

  “What’s look down?” Joe asked, worry creeping into his voice.

  “Radar for finding and tracking low altitude targets,” Martinez said through gritted teeth as she banked sharply to the south and gave the engines full power.

  “Bastard turned with you!” Vance shouted.

  “What do we do?” Joe asked, his voice surprisingly calm.

  Martinez didn’t answer. He looked at her for a long moment before nodding his head in understanding.

  “Where is he?” Martinez asked Vance.

  “Twenty miles.”

  Martinez made a sudden turn to the southeast, hoping to reach a low mountain range where she might be able to hide from the Russian fighter.

  “Still with you,” Vance said a few seconds later as an alarm in the Osprey’s cockpit began screaming.

  “He’s got missile lock!” Martinez shouted.

  Without warning, she suddenly pulled back on the stick as far as it would go. The nose of the aircraft came up and she used the pedals to slip sideways as it continued past the horizontal. A beat and the Osprey rolled back into level flight, having changed directions in a matter of seconds.

  “Holy shit!” Vance crowed. “Didn’t know one of those could do that!”

  With the sudden course change, the missile alarm went silent, but it was only a few seconds before once again it was screaming. She banked hard, the big propellers clawing the air and dragging them through a turn the designers of the aircraft had never intended it to be able to accomplish. The alarm went quiet again.

  “Keep doing that! Help’s coming!” Vance shouted.

  Martinez didn’t ask questions. She was too busy trying to evade missile lock. But as good as she was, her aircraft wasn’t built to go up against a fighter jet. The Russian was now close enough that no matter what she did, he maintained a weapon’s lock.

  Expecting a brilliant flash that would be the last thing she’d ever see, she took wh
at she thought was her final breath when there was an earth-shattering boom and the Osprey was buffeted so hard it was nearly knocked out of the sky. It took several long seconds of continuing to fly before she realized they weren’t dead.

  “Are we hit?” Joe said, panic finally obvious in his voice.

  “I don’t...”

  “You’re good, Spanish Rose, but you’d better get your cute little ass on the ground before another bad guy finds you,” Vance said, interrupting her.

  She traded a look with Joe then a smile slowly spread across her face.

  “What’d you do, Nutcracker?”

  “Nothing much,” he said proudly. “Just introduced Ivan to a little American hypersonic shockwave. Knocked his ass right out of the air. You can thank me properly later.”

  Martinez grabbed the thermal imager’s controls and swiveled the sensor to point behind them. A huge heat bloom filled the screen from where the Mig fighter had crashed and was burning.

  73

  I lay on a rock studded desert hill a quarter of a mile from Barinov’s brightly lit estate. It was palatial, certainly befitting a head of state, but if I was remembering correctly had once been owned by a football player for the Arizona Cardinals.

  Besides the main home, there was a huge, glass-walled garage in which I could see multiple cars sitting on a gleaming floor. An Olympic-sized pool was surrounded by tropical gardens that appeared to be meticulously manicured. Since the house had probably been sitting untended for at least eighteen months, Barinov must have put a small army to work for it to look ready for the cover of Architectural Digest.

  The estate was well isolated from any neighboring homes, accessible only by trekking across native desert or following a mile long, winding driveway. On three other high points that formed a lopsided triangle around the house, mobile air defense units had been set up to protect the president. These were in addition to dozens more that dotted the Russian safe zone.

  Guards walked the perimeter in pairs and seemed alert and focused. Though I hadn’t spotted them, I was also expecting there were cameras watching every square inch, probably with built in motion detection. Getting inside without being noticed was all but impossible.