***
Desantos drove the four-person golf cart the same way he attacked life: fast and furious. Cade gripped the chicken bar with one hand and the black SCAR with the other. Sergeant First Class “Low-Rider” Lopez and Sergeant Darwin Maddox took up the seats in back. Desantos cut the corner like Al Unser at the Indy 500. Tires squawked as the cart listed on two wheels, forcing the operators to brace themselves to keep from tumbling out onto the tarmac. The General let loose with a loud, out of character rebel yell.
A bevy of flat black helos came into view from behind the southeastern hangars. Cade hadn’t been to this part of the base since he first arrived in Springs with Duncan, Daymon and the young stutter-prone soldier from Camp Williams. On approach he expected, hoped is a better word, to see a bustling triage center full of incoming survivors. However, that wasn’t the case here. He noticed there had been a new addition. Next to the induction center a larger tent was erected inside the jumbo hangar. The nylon roof and walls ruffled gently; there was a natural rhythm to the movement, almost like the structure was alive.
“General, what’s in the big tent? Cade asked.
The cart chirped to a halt. Lopez and Maddox hopped out and began offloading their gear.
“That’s a state of the art laboratory for the good doctors from the CDC. He and his lady colleague have the best equipment the U.S. Army could pilfer for them. Word is they are working on an aggressive antidote that when taken would boost a person’s immune system against Omega as well as an antiserum to be used immediately following infection. This is need to know, the Alpha patient is in that tent,” Desantos said in a hushed tone. “That thing was a mess, Doctor Fuentes was experimenting on him when we came knocking. The worst part: we had to bring the thing back kicking and moaning.”
Lopez, who had been eavesdropping, interrupted. “Easy for you to say General. You didn’t carry that demonio up fourteen flights of stairs.”
“Still sore Lopez?” Desantos joked.
“No, but I had to burn my stinking uniform afterward,” Lopez shot back.
“Someone call Batman... he’s missing some toys,” Cade said to the rest of the team. He had just noticed the two sleek Gen-3 helicopters sitting on the flight line in the shadows of the hulking, dual rotor, CH-47D Chinooks. Cade had ridden in one of its predecessors, known as Stealth Hawks, but never in a Ghost Hawk also affectionately called “Jedi Rides” by the Night Stalkers that piloted them. It was the ultimate, super secret, stealth helo that the 160th SOAR would never comment on, let alone admit existed. And here they were, waiting to take him into battle. Oh well, no one to keep them secret from now, Cade thought.
The ship’s angular lines married with soft edges made the rotor wing craft look like something out of the distant future. The Ghost Hawks were painted a matte black that Darth Vader would envy.
“Shotgun,” said Lopez.
“Just get in and strap in, Low-Rider,” General Desantos ordered.
“We’re Oscar Mike in five. Saddle up,” Chief Warrant Officer Ari Silver ordered. Ari was the most decorated aviator in the 160th SOAR, and had piloted the Black Hawk that carried Desantos and his D-Boys to the CDC on their recovery mission.
“You heard him, move it. We wouldn’t want to keep the Night Stalkers waiting, now would we?” General Desantos had to raise his voice to be heard as the turbines came to life, belting out a high frequency whine. Although the Ghosts were extremely quiet, the engines, combined with the whoosh of the carbon fiber rotor spinning a few feet above their heads, made the flight line a noisy place to communicate.
Cade mounted the closest Ghost Hawk and quickly donned a flight helmet. He strapped into the seat across from Desantos, on the port side of the cabin. Lopez and Maddox sat side by side, their backs against the bulkhead, where they could see the horizon through the cockpit.
The CIA man named Tice took a seat opposite from the door gunner. Nash had introduced the Delta team to the operative shortly before the mission briefing. He wore the same desert tan camo as the operators, but his ACUs were devoid of rank, branch, or unit insignia. Cade’s first impression of the man was typical spook. The CIA specialist was cold, aloof and seemed to think he was better than his peers. Cade didn’t give a shit what the man thought of himself as long as he completed his part of the mission with a modicum of competence. Lastly, the crew chief Hicks entered the helo and took his seat near the mini-gun.
Cade listened in on the chatter between the SOAR aviators.
“Limo is a word, Durant. I don’t want to hear about it,” Ari said.
“It’s not a word. It’s an abbreviation of a word,” Durant answered.
Cade wore a confused look on his face.
Desantos noticed the expression and tried to explain the unusual banter between the pilot and co-pilot. “They’re quoting from the movie Black Hawk Down. It’s a ritual they perform before every mission. Our co-pilot Durant was not the Durant that went down in Mogadishu in Super Six-Four. Ari started doing it awhile back just to bust his balls.”
Cade shrugged his shoulders. To each his own, he thought. Lord knows he used to have rituals. He contemplated asking Desantos more about Tice before remembering that discretion is usually the better part of valor.
The helicopter leapt off the tarmac, catching the operators unaware.
“Hoo-ah,” Cade said into the mic. He marveled at the helicopter’s incredible power on takeoff, without the earsplitting, bone-rattling rawness of the standard H-60 Black Hawk.
“This is Jedi One-One. Form up right echelon. Tanker rendezvous in six-zero-mikes,” Ari said into his boom mic.
A chorus of affirmatives replied back from the other Ghost Hawk and the two Chinooks.
Cade smiled inwardly at the call sign, closed his eyes, and ran the mission through his mind for the umpteenth time.
Chapter 10
Outbreak - Day 8
Western Side of the Rocky Mountains
The Traveler parked his dusty truck on the shoulder near the backside of the small rise in the road. He climbed out of the Ford, popped his back and neck, and then did a couple of quick squats to get the blood flowing into his lower extremities. The man had driven all night, stopping only to clear wrecks from the road when he couldn’t negotiate the oversized four-wheel drive pickup around them.
***
He had been breaking and entering across two states looking for supplies and trading up for better rides along the way, and he had grown attached to the truck he was driving now. The shiny Black Ford F-650 had been hidden inside a six car garage underneath an enormous mountain chalet in a little town on the western side of the Rocky Mountains. The only thing that stood between him and the truck was the undead owner.
The man had been a real narcissist; his face adorned nearly every wall throughout the entire house. In most of the photos he was wearing a Denver Nuggets uniform and either dunking or passing a basketball. What a mess the seven foot tall, three hundred pound decomposing corpse had made of the inside of the mansion, ambling around and tearing the place apart. The way the Traveler looked at it, the ex-hoopster didn’t need the truck, nor would he ever need the rest of the exotic cars and off-road toys parked in his slick garage. Two rounds from the .45 caliber Kimber and the pink slip was his. The rig had an extra aftermarket fuel tank, six inch lift and the biggest off-road tires he had ever seen on a street legal vehicle.
***
The Traveler estimated he had fifty yards to traverse between the truck and the top of the hill, with only a sagging barbed wire fence and foot high grass for cover. To keep a low profile and remain unseen, he moved in a combat crouch and followed the shallow culvert paralleling the road. The Traveler’s head and eyes were constantly on the move, taking in his surroundings and watching his six. When the hill began to crest, he dropped to his knees and elbows and low crawled the last thirty feet.
Carefully he parted the damp stalks of alfalfa, creating a suitable spot for surveillance. The man settled into the grass,
flipped his ball cap around with the brim facing backwards, and brought the binoculars to his face.
The rest area was nestled in a shallow depression just off of the two-lane black top. A gray cinderblock bathroom stood in the middle of a sea of lush green lawn peppered with picnic tables. Multiple empty parking spots angled in towards the structure. Swaying slightly with the breeze, mature Ponderosa pines and Box Elder ringed the site. Four vehicles were parked in formation in the center of the grassy area. The entire rest stop was ringed by a neatly maintained circular drive allowing easy access to and from the rural highway.
His thickly calloused fingers worked the focus ring, bringing the distant vehicles into sharp detail. They were arranged in a crude square, bumper to bumper, forming a sort of corral. The former owners obviously parked them that way to provide a barrier to keep stray walkers out of their little camp. A pair of tents stood in the midst of the circled vehicles. Both were empty, their unzipped flaps fluttering in the wind. Hanging on a line strung between two of the pines, assorted articles of clothing ruffled and popped with each new gust. He panned the scene from left to right, pausing on a tangle of unmoving bodies. A man, woman and child, their eyes frozen open in death, stared back at him. A flash of red drew his attention. Trapped behind the steering wheel of a mud-spattered SUV, a lone zombie tap danced on the brake pedal, reliving some tucked away scrap of memory. The Traveler stood up, twisted the ball cap around, and loped back to his truck.
He drove over the crest and down the hill and parked his truck near the exit. Leaving the nose pointed towards the road, he stepped from the cab and slowly circled the parked vehicles on foot, methodically checking each one. When he rounded the back of the SUV, its brake lights suddenly erupted in a flashing orgasm of red. The Traveler got a chill when he realized that the monster had been watching in the rear view mirror and lying in wait. Not wanting to get near the grab zone, he gave the Jeep a wide berth and approached the dead family. Each one of them had the betraying defensive bite wounds indicative of a zombie attack. The woman and boy were locked in a loving embrace. Both of them had been headshot, and, judging by the powder burns and the amount of blood present, they were still alive when they were put down. The man was missing the rear half of his skull. Gelatinous lumps of his brain littered the grass in an arc that spread ten feet behind him. What a way to go, the Traveler thought as he searched for the suicide weapon. The Saturday Night Special was half buried in the grass, next to the dead man. He inspected the weapon, quickly decided it wasn’t worth keeping, and tossed it to the ground.
Next he siphoned enough gas from the abandoned vehicles to fill all three of his five gallon plastic jugs. Then he approached the mud spattered Jeep Commander, grinning as he screwed the can onto the business end of his .22 semi-auto pistol. He liked shooting walkers; it was almost a form of therapy. He tapped the silencer on the driver’s side glass. “License and registration please.” He laughed out loud at his own joke.
The zombie raged and moaned, straining against the seatbelt, all the while banging its head against the top edge of the half open window.
The Traveler moved in for a closer look. A half-eaten dead woman was lying face down in the zombie’s lap. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Road head for the undead.” Good name for a band, he thought to himself.
The stunted man moved back two steps and leveled his pistol at the driving ghoul. The creature stopped thrashing and focused its milky orbs on the gun. The Traveler hesitated. He had a creeping feeling the former human was exhibiting some semblance of awareness, almost like it knew it was about to be released from its hell on earth. Bullshit, the Traveler thought as he put three rapid-fire shots into the monster’s head.
Chapter 11
Outbreak - Day 8
Over Casper, Wyoming - 300 Nautical Miles North by Northwest of Colorado Springs
“Jedi flight, this is Oilcan Five-Five. Maintain heading and airspeed. We are on your six and open for business in five mikes.”
“Roger that, Oilcan Five-Five. This is Jedi One-One, be advised you have four thirsty birds.”
Ari Silver held the Ghost Hawk steady while the USAF HC-130J Hercules overtook the helos and matched their speed and heading. He watched the refueling probe retract from the tanker’s wing-mounted pod and slowly reel out towards the front of his ship. Ari pushed a series of icons on the glass cockpit to release the refueling probe from its internal bay. A soft clunk, followed by a flashing green star on the touchscreen, assured him that he was go for refueling. “Jedi One-One ready to engage.”
“Copy that Jedi One-One. Be sure to pick up a Slim Jim when you pay the lady.”
Ari broke protocol and replied informally, “Don’t you know what they put in those things?”
The Herc pilot replied, “Lips and assholes.”
“That is correct, Oilcan Five-Five. I owe you a beer when we get back to Schriever.”
“Copy that,” said the Herc pilot.
The other three helos went through the same routine to top off. The first of the flight’s three scheduled aerial refueling rendezvous went off without a hitch.
“90 mikes out,” Ari informed everyone onboard.
“How on earth did you get ahold of these birds?” Cade asked Desantos.
“They just showed up on our doorstep. After we popped Bin Laden, the Pakis shut down all of our hot ground ops; after that, there weren’t any missions that required an invisible insertion or extraction,” Desantos explained.
“I thought they used the H-60 Stealth Hawks for the Bin Laden raid. And correct me if I’m wrong--didn’t we lose one of them?” Cade asked.
“Affirmative. We had these two Ghosts flying over watch... ready to take out any reactionary forces. But when the Stealth Hawk crashed--instead of relying on the Ghosts to destroy the downed ship and risk losing one of them--we opted to use C4 to finish the job. Theory was, if the Pakis couldn’t see ‘em... and couldn’t hear em, and the birds leave no hits or EMR (electromagnetic radiation) trace on the radar, were we even there? Turns out the Pakis had no idea we were there until we were gone.” Once again reliving that history making mission in his head, Desantos’ kid-like grin filled up the space under his smoked visor.
“Plausible deniability... very nice.” Cade looked out the side glass. Down below, a petro-chemical tank farm belched flames. The tops of the gigantic holding vessels had already burned through, and like a glacier calving icebergs, the sides of the steel tanks were sloughing off. A massive blight on the earth started near the molten metal from the tanks and stretched as far as the eye could see, thousands of blackened acres rendered useless from the fire and settling soot. Cade was witness to the final death throes of one of man’s many industrial accomplishments as the side effects of Omega took the world one step closer to the Stone Age. The entire country is falling apart, he thought, and the only thing we can do is wait for the dead to rot and then try to pick up the pieces.
Cade snapped out of his melancholy moment when Desantos resumed his story. “The Jedi rides had been wrapped up nice and tidy and were supposed to be rotated back to Fort Campbell, but when Omega hit we had more pressing matters to attend to. They finally made the trip back from the ‘Stan onboard two C5 Galaxies that eventually ended up here at Springs.”
“Why didn’t they return home to the 160th at Campbell?” Cade asked.
“All of our large military installations are no longer responding. They are either abandoned or overrun by the dead. Thanks to President Odero ordering the rapid troop withdrawal from both theatres of war, Colorado Springs dodged the bullet, because if it wasn’t for the added combat troops, the walking dead would have already stormed our gates,” Desantos replied.
“You saw how many walkers were streaming out of Denver... this had better work or eventually Springs is going to suffer the same fate as Bragg,” Cade said pessimistically.
The spook twisted in his seat and peered at Cade from behind his mirrored Oakleys. “I’ll do my job and you Delta
boys do yours, and we’ll all be OK,” he stated matter-of-factly.
***
Cutting through the sky with their wheels and guns retracted, the Ghost Hawks appeared to have been honed from solid slabs of black obsidian. They passed over the truck stop low and slow; the high tech helos were so stealthy that the zombies below didn’t react until they had already been overflown and blasted by rotor wash.
Ari put the Ghost into a slow lazy orbit so the operators could recon their objective. Jedi One-Two split off and escorted the Chinooks to their landing zone, out of sight but close enough to help the instant they were called on.
Durant, in Jedi One-One, brought up a live streaming feed from the Predator drone which was flying a racetrack pattern 20,000 feet over the approaching convoy, ten nautical miles from the Ghost Hawk’s position.
“Durant... split the incoming feed to the aft monitors,” Ari said.
The LCD screens in the troop compartment powered up, glowing brilliant blue at first and then the feed was visible in full HD.
Cade watched the slow moving six-vehicle convoy for a moment before making his battle assessment. “The lead vehicle is a surplus Humvee.” The flat black truck had a turret-mounted large machine gun on top. “The two tractor trailers in the two and three slots hold the cargo. The vehicle in the five slot is an Oshkosh heavy fuel tanker.” The low slung truck, painted desert tan and stenciled with military markings, could be mistaken for nothing else. “The trailing Humvee is identical to the lead. I estimate a total of sixteen personnel... unless there are guards inside of the trailers.” Cade finished his observations and waited for a second opinion.
“I concur,” General Desantos stated.
In Harm's Way: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 7
