“Paul?”
The big soldier shrugged his shoulders. “I like the sports field,” he said. “We can come in from the ocean and drop down without overlapping the efforts of Chopper Two,” he gestured with his flattened hand as if it were flying above the map. “If we set down in the middle of that clearing we’ll have good sight lines from the two possible approaches – the marina, and the business district.”
Smith nodded. “Concur,” he said.
The men straightened. Bannon looked confused. “Is that it?”
Smith shook his head. “No, we need to work out the diversion,” he said, then hunched back over the map. He stared for long seconds and then said slowly, “If Chopper Two circles the marina and broadcasts the announcement to Sully –”
“– And my wife…”
“And your wife,” Smith conceded apologetically, “for about ten minutes, it’s going to draw all the undead to this one area.” He had a marker pen in his pocket. He scrawled a circle around the waterfront. “Then we’ll have Chopper Two start to make a series of false insertions, firstly here… and then here…” he drew black crosses on the map in the small areas of clearing between the waterfront and the bridge that Bannon had indicated, “then finally here.” Smith looked up, grimly satisfied. “Just like the Pied Piper,” he said. “That should give Chopper One time to come in from the ocean and drop down for the pickup.”
The soldiers nodded curtly. “Sounds like a plan,” Paul agreed.
Smith threw the marker pen down and stood back from the map with a satisfied sigh. He folded his arms. “Okay,” he said, “let’s make it official.”
There was a shuffle of movement in the room and then a kind of formal silence that somehow left Bannon feeling a sense of sudden exclusion. All eyes were turned to the intelligence officer.
“Gentleman, I’m Captain Smith and we will be conducting the mission brief at 1230 hours along with our time hack.” The men in the room looked to their wristwatches. “It will be 1230 in thirty seconds…”
Silence.
“Ten seconds… five, four, three, two, one… hack.” The men surrounding the intelligence office all synchronized their watches, and there was an instant of pause. Smith swept his eyes across the assembled men’s faces. “Okay, let’s get down to details. If you have any questions, save them until the end of the brief.”
Bannon stood silently. Smith went around to the far side of the room and planted his hands on the edge of the big table, hovering over the map.
“Situation,” he announced. “We have a male who has been bitten by the virus, but has not turned into one of the undead. We also have the possibility that at least one local woman is still alive in a hostile environment, possibly without food or water.
“Mission,” Smith said, and then paused to glance down at the map one last time. “We are going in to Grey Stone to extract the infected male and any remaining civilians via two UH-60 Black Hawks and four spec ops personnel.”
No one spoke. Bannon watched the men closely. Their expressions were concentrated, focused.
“Execution for this mission will be conducted by Flight Lead and spec ops command,” Smith went on, and then gestured with his hand at one of the pilots. “Sam, do you want to take it from here?”
He was a tall man with short sandy hair and piercing blue eyes. “Weapons status for the mission is strictly ‘hold’, en route,” the pilot began in a steady calm voice. “Once Chalk One is over the LZ we are weapons ‘free’ until extraction has taken place. We will use the same flight route as yesterday’s recce and operate in trail formation until the separation point. Position and anticollision lights all the way.”
The other pilot nodded, and Bannon saw a couple of the special forces guys nod as well.
“Administration and logistics have all been covered,” Smith spoke across the silence, “and so has command and signal. Abort and bump criteria will be left to spec ops.” Smith turned to the man he had introduced to Bannon as Paul.
“This is a priority op,” the soldier said and his voice had the tone of someone accustomed to leadership. “So if Chopper One fails start, we are going to bump to Chopper Two and continue the mission. If Chopper Two goes down, the mission continues. If Chopper One goes down, the mission will abort,” the soldier declared in a no-nonsense tone. “Understood?”
Everyone nodded. The soldier turned his attention to his own men, gathered next to him.
“Once we’re on the ground we’ll split – two men covering any approach from business strip, and the other two covering the direction from the marina,” he said. “We hold that perimeter until we see the subjects and get them onboard.”
“Kit?” one of the other soldiers asked casually.
The team leader paused for a moment. “Light,” he said, and then went on with assurance. “We go in light and fast. No body armor, no kit that won’t kill zombies. We’re there for a short time. This is a ten minute job. If we’re on the ground any longer it will be because we’re dead.”
The soldier who has asked the question raised his eyebrows with mild surprise. “No body armor?”
“None,” the team leader said again. “If we’re on the ground and carrying a hundred pounds of gear, we’re going to lose our speed. No point wearing body armor – we’re not going to be taking fire.”
One of the other men made a face. “What if they get close? Armor could come in handy.”
The man named Paul shook his head. “If they get that close, it’s already too late. We need to be able to avoid and evade – to bug out fast.”
The rest of the team nodded. They were casual and calm. Bannon could see signs of tension and impatience in the way the soldiers carried themselves, as if they had been through this routine a dozen times before. Their expressions exuded a kind of arrogant confidence – repetitive familiarity mingled with an appreciation that every combat situation was inherently different.
“Speaking of bugging out…” the soldier who had asked about body armor prompted.
The team leader nodded. He leaned over the map, and his eyes were hawk-like. “Reconnaissance shows the buildings in the business strip ruined and burned – but they’re not all destroyed, so if everything goes to hell, we make for those buildings. It’s our best chance for cover and concealment. We get into the shops and offices and find an LUP for the night.” The man turned his head slowly and found the intelligence officer with his eyes.
Smith nodded. “We’ll have a bird back over the LZ at sunrise,” he said.
Paul turned back to his gathered men. “That’s fourteen hours we need to lie up for – so find somewhere secure, and then get back to the LZ before zero six hundred.”
One of the men rubbed his chin. He didn’t look convinced. “Those buildings are going to be crawling with tangos,” his voice sounded dubious.
“That’s possible,” Paul conceded. “But there aren’t other options.”
Bannon spoke up suddenly. “What’s an LUP?”
“Lying up position,” Paul said.
Bannon nodded, then hesitated for a moment. “You could use the apartment complex – the place I lived,” he offered uncertainly.
Paul looked suddenly curious. “Where is it?”
Bannon stabbed the point on the map with his finger.
The team leader shook his head. “Too far away from the LZ,” he said, narrowing his eyes as his gaze swept over the details of the map, “and too close to the waterfront.” He shook his head adamantly. “Guys, it’s the buildings that form part of the business strip. That’s the point we exfiltrate to. Clear?”
The rest of the team nodded. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that,” one of the men muttered. He stepped back from the table and yawned.
“What about me?” Bannon asked at last.
Smith turned, frowning. “What about you?”
“Well what do I do?”
“You stay on the bird,” Paul cut in curtly, making the words sound like a barked o
rder. “And you don’t get out, under any circumstances. We need you to ID Sully. So stay out of the way and out of trouble. When he approaches the perimeter, we will bring him to you.”
Bannon nodded, and suddenly the meeting had the air of being finalized. The tension in the room seemed to dissolve and the faces of the soldiers became more relaxed.
Smith looked at his watch. “You have less than four hours to prep, gentlemen,” he declared. “Lift off is sixteen hundred.”
Bannon flinched. “Whoooa! Hold on. You’re doing this in daylight? Don’t you guys normally do these special operations in darkness? What about cover and concealment?”
Smith shrugged. “What’s the point?” he asked. “Daylight gives us the best chance to see what’s coming after us… and the best chance to spot John Sully.”
“And my wife, right?”
Smith made a little irritated gesture of weary acquiescence. “Yes, Mr. Bannon. And your wife.”
Chapter 5.
The jacket Bannon wore was like a camouflaged hunting vest – covered in pouches of various sizes.
“Keep this on,” Paul insisted. “It’s a modular chest rig.”
Bannon nodded. “Will it protect me?”
“No,” the man said bluntly. “We just need you to be a packhorse in case we need extra ammo.”
Into the pockets the special forces soldiers loaded spare magazines of ammunition, a medical kit containing bandages, tourniquet, aspirin and laxatives, a small black flashlight¸ a pocket knife and a compass.
And a small black box with a digital keypad on one side.
“Homing beacon,” Ringo explained gruffly and then showed his teeth. “So we don’t lose you if things get shitty.”
“Is it on?” Bannon studied the device.
“No. You key in the code and that activates it. It’s set on a military frequency. Once the distress signal is activated, everything – I mean everything – the US military has at its disposal comes a runnin’. I’m talking land, sea and air.”
Bannon frowned at the beacon, twisting it in his hand and inspecting it carefully. It was about the size of a cigarette packet. “Wanna tell me the code?”
Ringo looked bored. He was a stocky man, younger than the rest of the team. He had massive muscled shoulders and a thick neck. His face was craggy with the pitted scars of adolescent acne, his eyes dark under even darker bushy eyebrows.
“Six, Zero, Two,” Ringo’s voice sounded like gravel in a cement mixer. “Just don’t fuckin’ lose it. If we run into trouble and need to tap out of the area for any reason, we’re going to need that beacon.”
“Tap?”
“Fuckin’ run,” Ringo explained the jargon. He jerked his head. “John there did some stuff with the SAS a few years back. It’s a Pommy expression.”
Bannon nodded gravely, then frowned. Fully loaded with spare magazines, the chest rig was heavy and bulky. “Do I get a gun?”
“No,” Ringo said. “The last thing we need is an amateur running around in a firefight.”
“What about a knife?”
“No,” Ringo said again, and then sighed wearily. “If these fuckers get close enough for you to use a KaBar, boy, then you’re already dead.”
Smith, the intelligence officer, came up behind the team. “Gather round everybody,” he said crisply. “I want you all to listen to this – it’s the message we will be broadcasting from Chopper Two.”
He had a small audio player in the palm of his hand. Bannon and the special forces team fell silent.
“Announcement. Announcement,” the message had been recorded in a man’s voice. “This is the US Army with a message for John Sully and Madeline Bannon. We are a rescue team. Come immediately to the sports field below the lookout. We have a helicopter waiting to take you to safety. Carry something white for recognition and be prepared to identify yourself to US troops ready to evacuate you… Announcement…”
Smith stopped the device. “Well?”
Paul shrugged. “It does the job,” he said grudgingly. “It’s not exactly eloquent, but it’s specific enough.”
The intelligence man turned to Bannon. “Your thoughts?”
Bannon nodded his head. “If Sully and Maddie hear it, I’m sure they will respond.”
Smith smiled, satisfied. “Good. Now remember, this message will be broadcast over Grey Stone for exactly ten minutes before Chopper Two makes its first landing, and then begins hopping to each new designated false insertion point. You need to get in – and out again quickly.”
The team was gathered inside a huge hangar on the perimeter of the base. They walked out into bright afternoon sunshine carrying weapons and kit. Two helicopters squatted on the ground, their rotors idling slowly.
To Bannon, the closest Black Hawk helicopter looked similar to the one that had plucked him out of the field, except forward of the open cargo door in the fuselage of the machine, he could see a heavy machine gun, mounted just aft of the flight deck. A crewman was checking the weapon, and there were two pilots in the nose of the chopper, watching the men approach.
Bannon scurried to catch up.
Ringo grabbed Bannon’s shoulder just as he was about to climb aboard the helicopter.
“Have you ever been in a helicopter crash before?” the soldier had to raise his voice above the slow whine of turbines.
Bannon shook his head.
Ringo grimaced. “If it looks like we’re going to crash, just tuck your head down between your knees, okay?”
Bannon nodded anxiously. “Then what?”
“Then you kiss your ass goodbye, because you’re probably going to die!” The soldier laughed. He shoved Bannon in the back, and he climbed up into the belly of the beast.
The rest of the team was seated on metal benches that faced front and back on either side of the cargo door. Paul leaned close to the crewman and shouted. “Where’s the other crew chief?”
The man at the machine gun looked over his shoulder at the other heavy weapon mounted on the opposite side of the Black Hawk. It hung loose from its mounting, and the seat behind it was empty. The man smiled at Paul grimly. “I’m the only one today.”
“You’re kidding!” Paul was stunned. He frowned. “Isn’t it regulation to have two crew chiefs on every flight, unless it’s a training run?”
The crew chief’s expression was wry, almost ironic. “Regulation?” he grunted and shook his head bleakly. “We’re going into action against zombies. Zombies, for fuck’s sake! What part of this op is regulation?”
Paul stared. The man turned back to his weapon. Paul’s lips were thin and pale. He turned his baleful eyes onto Bannon.
“Have you had a briefing about emergency procedures?”
Bannon nodded, still rattled. “Ringo just gave it to me,” he said without humor.
Chapter 6.
Paul handed Bannon a headset. “Put these on,” he said as the helicopter’s big rotors began to gain momentum and the noise from the twin engines rose.
The four soldiers all wore them. The headset had light green ear muffs, joined by a black headband. A small microphone was attached to one of the muffs. Bannon fiddled clumsily with the set until the mike was positioned close to his mouth.
The electronic sound of Paul’s voice filled his ears. “A combat UH-60 has practically no soundproofing,” the soldier explained, pointing in a mime around the stark interior of the helicopter. “Once we’re in the air, this is the only way we can communicate.”
Bannon nodded. A few seconds later he heard another distorted voice through the headset.
“Takeoff is sixteen hundred hours and we expect to be over the LZ at sixteen-twenty hours, plus or minus thirty seconds.” Bannon realized it was the voice of one of the pilots. “I’m going to isolate you now. If you need anything, signal the crew chief. Isolating.” There was a split second burst of static, and then the headset went abruptly dead.
The two helicopters took off together, the front struts of the Black Hawks co
ming off the ground first, as the big helicopter hovered in the air, with its nose up and tail hanging for a couple of seconds. Then the pilot nosed the giant bird over and set course for Grey Stone.
Bannon felt his stomach swoop. It was like being in an elevator for a couple of seconds as the Black Hawk took to flight. Then, when the chopper had tilted, he had been pressed back into his seat, taken by surprise by the helicopter’s aggressive acceleration. He sat, stony faced, and concentrated on not looking scared.
The helicopters followed the winding course of the river, skimming just above the canopy of treetops in tight formation. Bannon stared out through the cabin window as the ground below went rushing by in a swirling blur and deafening clatter of noise. The ride was bumpy. The helicopter rose and fell through minor thermals.
Five miles north of the town, the helicopters reached the release point and quickly separated. Chopper One heeled over and swung away towards the shimmering ocean on the far horizon. Bannon snatched at a hand-hold as the helicopter seemed to tilt on its axis. The special forces team didn’t even seem to notice. They were slumped and relaxed in their seats, their bodies riding with the juddering changes in altitude and sudden course alteration. The men’s faces were impassive, their gaze distant. Bannon felt a nervous twitch in the corner of his eye and wondered how any man could be so calm, flying into the face of imminent death.
Once they had cleared the coastline, the team went through a weapons check, the movements of their hands practiced to the point of instinctive habit.
“Locked and loaded,” Paul said. The rest of the team repeated the expression. Paul glanced at his wristwatch and then Bannon heard sudden chatter through his headset. It was the pilot.
“We are four minutes from the LZ.”
Paul was frowning, listening to the same message. He repeated the words to make sure everyone in the team had heard.
“Four minutes,” he spoke into his mike, then held up four fingers and watched their faces until each man acknowledged. Bannon felt himself tense, and the atmosphere in the belly of the helicopter became suddenly strained. The helicopter swung in a tight turn, and then came racing back towards the smoke-hazed cliffs of the coastline.
Dead Rage Page 12
