“Sir, we just got an emergency call from the Virginia Beach landing team. They’re under attack. The landing craft is burning and they have casualties.”
“Lazarites?”
Lee nodded.
Thompson and Domini came to their feet and nearly ran the pilot down as they sprinted for the bridge.
13 June 2034
Yankee Station
U.S.S Nimitz
Thompson was all business when he came onto the bridge. “Give me a sitrep.” The landing party at Virginia Beach was sent there to see what resources they could retrieve for the Roanoke mission as well as the ships. Even the Enclaves could only share so much of their food and supplies with the sea detachments. That was another reason for the Roanoke idea. With the island in their hands, all the Sea Detachments would have a place for shore leave as well as supplies of fresh food. If the idea worked, they could start taking over other islands up and down the coast. Humanities hold on certain areas would be expanded a little more.
Lieutenant Sandra ‘Sand’ Carstairs was a slender woman who looked like she couldn’t lift herself, let alone be the excellent Intruder pilot she was. On light duty until a knee injury healed, she shared duties as comms officer when she wasn’t undergoing rehab. During flight ops, the crew stayed away from her, since the sad, angry look in her eyes would probably stop a charging Rhino.
“Sir, at 1845 hours we received a message, garbled but with the proper code words that Ensign Williams was down,” her voice caught here a moment, she and Williams were close. “Sergeant Simmons has formed a perimeter. Their landing craft is damaged and taking on water. I’ve vectored the Zumwalt and the Turner to assist.”
Thompson nodded. She’d made the right decision. The two ships were fast destroyers, with 76mm rapid-fire cannon as their main armament. They also had anti-air missiles and ASROC’s; not that either would be needed. Those nuclear submarines that weren’t docked in British ports were cruising about the world looking for safe havens and supplies. Of those subs that were formerly part of the Russian Navy, one was in Southeast Asia where they had taken over an island and were acting more like pirates than proper sailors. As long as they didn’t interfere with the British and U.S. forces, their little empire was no bother. Thompson was sure they knew what fate waited for them if they got too big for their britches. If there were any other Russian or Chinese subs out there, they hadn’t crossed paths with U.S. or European naval units. If they did, and were willing to join forces, they would be welcomed with open arms.
“Get me in touch with Captain Brothers of the Zumwalt.” Kenneth Brothers was an excellent officer whose ship had a history of winning NATO gunnery exercises. If anyone could keep the Lazarites or scavengers off the landing party, he could. While Carstairs got on the comms, Thompson turned to Fern. “What can you muster?”
Fern already had a strike force made up. “Two Stallions, four Intruders,” Carstairs head snapped around at that, “Six F-22’s.”
Thompson nodded. “Who’s leading?”
Fern smiled nastily. “Tiger is.”
Thompson smiled back. Lee’s entire family had disappeared in the maelstrom of the dead rising. They’d been at the San Francisco Naval base when it was being evacuated, but they hadn’t made it out. Lazarites made it a point to target as many military installations as possible in the early days of the rise. Like many others, Lee couldn’t believe humans were helping (as if they needed any) the dead. He always wanted the hardest missions and looked to make the enemy pay.
“Get them off.”
Carstairs handed Thompson a headset with mike attached. “He’s on sir.”
“Kenny! This is John.”
“Right. We’ve got a problem with the landing party. I’ve been in contact with them.”
“I’ve got a strike getting off right now, two choppers, mixed bag of Intruders and Raptors. Can you keep the bastards busy until they show up?”
Kenny laughed a short barking sound. “Captain, when I’m done those bastards will be praying for an airstrike.”
“Roger that, Nimitz out.”
Lee felt the impact as the catapult threw his plane off the deck. Giving his jet a goose with the afterburners, he headed for the tanker. A modified A-6, everyone would top off their tanks before heading for the beach. The choppers, slowest of all were already inbound. Lee watched as the door gunners tested their mini-guns. Each chopper was armed with three of the rapid firing weapons. Anything on the other end of those weapons would live to regret it. Lee had always felt that chopper pilots were the bravest of all. A kid with a slingshot could practically bring one down. Flying something like that really took some balls. The captain said a silent prayer for his comrades, formed up with his squadron and headed for the beach.
Brothers watched as his gunnery officer took a wind reading, all the while talking with the forward observer on the beach with the troops. Kim Cho Chan was born in Los Angeles, both Parents émigrés from South Korea. They dreamed of going home to a united Korea one day. Before that day could arrive, they instilled in their only child a love for his new country. Kim graduated from USC as part of the NAVY ROTC program. He didn’t have the vision for aviation, but his mathematics skills made him the best gunnery officer Brothers ever had. During a late-night BS session, Kim mentioned that he wished he’d been alive during World War 2 to fire guns off battleships. Brothers wished they had the Jersey with them now. Perhaps one day they could pull it out of mothballs… Dropping his fantasy, Brothers sat back and watched his gunnery officer go to work.
13 June 2034
Landing Party
Virginia Beach, VA.
On Virginia Beach, the marines were in a bad way. They were under enfilade fire, which was pinning them down. Since this was supposed to be a quick recon, they hadn’t brought any armor. It was clear from the high whistling sound, that the landing craft had been hit by a mortar. Simmons swore the next time they did a raid, he’d be sure that they brought at least their mortar section. One-half of the old landing craft was sunk, water covering it up the gunwales. The other half was burning brightly. A Hummer and two trucks were still on board, burning brightly along with the landing craft. Two of the fifty marines and their naval officer, Ensign Williams, went down on the wrong side of Virginia Beach Boulevard and were a long time dying. Their screams would ring in Sergeant Sammy Simmons mind for years to come. He’d pulled everyone back and ordered them to scoop out holes in the sand. To Simmons left were two men, tall and skinny Ron Pride, who clutched a Remington M40A5 sniper rifle to his chest and Ensign Len Ballard, the FO. Ballard was short and stocky, the PRC-99 satellite radio on his back looking like a hump in the flickering light of the burning landing craft.
“Sarge!” Ballard hissed. “We’ve got naval gunfire coming in. Make sure everyone stays down!”
Simmons nodded, activated his commlink, “Keep down, arty’s coming in!”
Pride was lying prone, ready to use his long rifle. He’d taken out hundreds of zombies with it and not a few Lazarites. He remembered one he’d hit at 1100 yards, just clipping the man’s neck. Blood fountained out and in seconds, the zombies were on him. That was when Pride stopped shooting Lazarites to kill. He’d rather they die painfully, whether they thought they were going to heaven or not.
“Watch this, Sarge.”
Simmons froze as Pride aimed at the roof of the tattoo parlor that was almost inside their perimeter. He could see someone crouched there. The sniper had set a cloth under the barrel of his rifle, to keep sand from rising when he fired. Prides rifle, with a foot long silencer on it, puffed. The figure rose and tumbled off the roof. There was a meaty thump as it landed; then screams as the zombies fell upon the wounded Lazarite.
Pride was grinning. “Wounding a Lazarite is always better than killing, Sarge. Buy us some more time.”
Simmons stared at the road that lay before and slightly higher than they were. Shambling shapes were appearing. The zombies had their scent and the dinner bell in what
passed for their minds was ringing. That was when Simmons heard the whistle of shells.
“Down!” he shouted into his link. “Stay down!”
The night was broken by a series of soft pops in the air over them. Bursting into light, brilliant flares on parachutes began floating down. The million-power candlelight they threw caused an eerie, flickering white light to appear over the beachfront area. Zombies stood and stared stupidly at the light, while their Lazarite allies froze.
Ballard watched as the rounds floated down behind the zombies, on the other side of the road. A second later, the sound of the first salvo came screaming over. The explosions caused the rusted hulks of autos, chunks of dirt and shattered buildings to bounce up into the air. The sound of shattering glass, cracking masonry and human screams floated across the humid night air. Calmly Ballard radioed his corrections. Turning to Simmons he grinned, “Watch this.”
In seconds, a second barrage of shells came screaming in. Alternating high explosive with fragmentation, the two destroyers, only 400 yards off the beach, devastated the approaching zombies and those of their Lazarite allies who were too slow to seek cover.
Pride was holding his rifle tight, glad that he wasn’t on the receiving end of the destroyers. At a moment’s lull in the firing, Pride half-rolled and said, “I wonder if they ran out of shells for that fucking mortar?”
Simmons and Ballard were about to tell him to shut up, since shells from it ruined their landing craft. Suddenly the familiar and terrifying whistle of a mortar screamed into the sky. The men huddled down all of them becoming great believers in prayer. The first round fell short; the second impacted on one of the landing parties SAW teams, blowing them to bits, leaving a smoking crater and a red stain where two men had been.
Simmons felt tears of anger fill his eyes. “Those fucking bastards!” But he could do nothing as another shell came whistling down, this one striking the landing craft, blowing the burning half to bits.
Tiger Lee used the light of the burning landing craft to vector in. It was a clear night and he could see where the marine’s perimeter lay. He also knew Ballard, not well but they had planned for this contingency.
“Big Dog, this is Tiger one. How do you read?”
“Tiger, this is Big Dog. Five by five! We are fucking glad to hear you!”
Lee banked his aircraft. Hanging from the wings were napalm canisters, the deadly gel one of the best weapons against the zombies, who went up like tinder.
“Where do you want it?” Tiger listened to Big Dog’s instructions then issued his own. “Tiger cubs; follow my lead. ECM on! They may have stingers. Intruders; lay your ordnance right on the road. I want a wall of fire between the enemy and our people. We’ll drop HE on the buildings, and then see where we need our napalm.”
The Lazarite leader, Hiram stared out at the marines. He was in no rush to get at them. Let the Blessed lead the assault. They could absorb a lot of the enemies’ ammunition. Some Lazarite leaders didn’t feel this way, but Hiram did things his way. He was still staring at the enemy when the Intruders came down at 600 mph and dropped their napalm in a perfect line along the road. The flames billowed up, engulfing everything for a half mile.
Hiram cursed. It was good and bad luck that his cell was scavenging in this area when the unbelievers came ashore. It was obvious they had no idea his cell was the in the area, making the ambush easy. That was the good. Not expecting any unbelievers, they had no stingers. Hiram cursed the bad luck that most armories in the area were picked clean. A few stingers would have made this a victory for the Order.
The lead pilot of the Intruders, Jim “Low Deck” Galvin, observed his handiwork. In another day, he wouldn’t have been flying, having learned his trade off carriers in the early part of the 21st century. Now pushing 55, excepting the injured Carstairs, he was the top ground attack pilot around. Pulling up he prepared to come around for another pass, so he could drop the last of his ordnance.
Hiram was about to abandon his position on the roof of the Wendy’s restaurant when Lee made that decision for him. A stick of 500-pound multi purpose bombs came whistling down, collapsing the building. Hiram was lucky. Buried in the rubble, skull crushed, he would be vermin, not zombie food. Of course, by his own belief, he would never see heaven, but unlike many of his victims, he died easy.
Ballard got up into a low crouch. The marines, barely one hundred yards from the road, could feel the heat of the napalm. “Choppers are five minutes out,” he reported. Simmons rose to his feet. “All right, get ready for extraction.”
Of the fifty men and women that had gone in, 38 were coming out. The enemy had been good with that mortar but paid the price for the ambush. Not long after the destroyers started shelling, the mortars stopped. Simmons hoped they were in little pieces, the Lazarite bastards!
Simmons, the last one to board a chopper, looked back at the burning road. He could hear wounded Lazarites screaming. Looking back at the burned holes where parts of his marines lay, blown apart, he hoped the wounded Lazarites lasted a long, long time.
But the Captain of the Zumwalt wasn’t done yet. Waiting for the Helicopters to clear the area, the two destroyers turned parallel with the beach. Brothers turned to Kim and nodded. With a slight smile, the Asian officer turned a key on a console and pressed a button. A klaxon began sounding, warning anyone on the bow to take cover. After fifteen seconds of this appalling noise (which was duplicated on the Turner), four bright flashes – two from each ships bow – lit up the night. The tomahawk missiles sped up away from the ship and back toward Virginia Beach Boulevard.
In his dark heart, kept to himself, Kim was wishing they carried nuclear warheads.
The surviving Lazarites came out after the choppers were gone. The leader, the only remaining Docent, a heavily muscled woman, her face split by a scar, made a motion. The acolytes moved down onto the beach, searching for any survivors before the Blessed could find them. Any weapons that were left behind (rare but known to happen) would be a boon as well.
The tomahawks radar began guiding them the second they left the tubes. Fifteen times a second they checked their course and corrected themselves. GPS satellites were working fine (although there were less of them than there had been) so they would hit within 50 meters of their programmed point. As one, the four missiles nosed over and began a dive toward the area where the raiding party landed. Brothers knew that the Lazarites, like the scavengers they were, would scurry out once the landing party was gone.
The scar-faced woman was pushing over a torso – a fellow Lazarite, recognizable by the diamond tattooed on the shattered torso – with a toe when she heard the whistling of the incoming missiles. As she turned to run, the first of the weapons, riding a radar beam from its nose, detonated ten feet off the ground. The resulting explosion created a fireball 100 feet across, obliterating anyone and anything out in the open. As the following missiles came down and expended themselves, a section of Virginia Beach, once home to tourists, was blasted beyond recognition.
The Lazarites had paid for their treachery.
17 June 2034
Blackhawk Helo approaching U.S.S Nimitz
150 Miles off the New Jersey Coast
The Blackhawk helo rocked a bit in the wind as it approached the area where the carrier and its group were steaming. The bird came from Enclave 13 and, other than some cargo, carried one passenger, Sergeant Joseph Taylor. Of average height, Taylor was dressed in his usual urban camouflage. Looking down at himself, the veteran soldier wondered when he had worn anything non-military. Truth was, it had been so long ago, he didn’t remember. Taylor was on loan to the Nimitz, the temporary duty ordered by his boss, Captain James ‘Black-jack’ Nevers. Nevers really didn’t want to let Taylor go, but Enclave Command insisted they send an experienced NCO, so against Never’s arguments Taylor was assigned to this mission.
Taylor wasn’t happy about it. He wanted to be out in the field again, with his team, the ‘BodySnatchers’, saving other humans, d
efending and enlarging the Enclave’s area and gathering needed supplies.
Taylor raised a fit when told he was being sent to a sea detachment. Never’s promised that his team would be on security status until he came back, but that didn’t calm Taylor enough. It took a threat of a total transfer to another Enclave to get Taylor to accept the temporary duty assignment.
Sitting across from Taylor was Sergeant Sammy Simmons. The marine had been sent along to help Taylor bring back whatever equipment the Enclave was sending. He might as well have stayed on the ship. Taylor carried his usual gear; a .45 caliber pistol, a combat shotgun with an extended magazine, a pouch-full of grenades, his armor, and a small pack with one extra uniform. He was safeguarding a medical crate that was marked perishable. Inside it were vials of Zombicillin. This was an anti-viral, the only thing that could save someone from a zombies bite. Yet even it wasn’t perfect, roughly ten percent of those injected with it, never developed the anti-bodies needed. Another percentage died from an allergic reaction. Still, better a slim chance than none at all.
Simmons was annoyed, but he knew that Captain Harry Thorne, CO of the marine detachment on the Nimitz sent him away to give him some time to clear his head. Simmons hadn’t minded the trip. He liked visiting Enclaves. At Enclave 5, he was fortunate enough to get laid. She wasn’t the prettiest woman he’d ever been with, but she had enough energy to wipe out all the zombies on the East Coast! Simmons smiled to himself, wondering if his coupling with her resulted in a pregnancy. She wanted to get pregnant to get light duty for a while and with the dangers he faced, didn’t mind leaving a small part of himself behind.
Enclave: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse Page 44
