by Mark Rounds
“OK,” began Pearson in a more conciliatory tone, “maybe I made an inappropriate joke because I was angry ….”
“I didn't find anything funny about it,” said Jen. “Furthermore, I don't believe it was a joke, but rather an attempt to manipulate me.”
“Geez,” said Pearson with a little panic in his voice, “what do you want? We will take the public health stuff off your hands. Happy?”
“No, but as that is the minimum of what is required from you professionally, it is probably where you should start,” said Jen and then she left the room without another word. She slammed the door but not before she heard Pearson utter the word “Bitch!” under his breath.
Jen stomped down the street with a full head of steam and headed for the IG's office. The three block walk was long enough for Pearson to come to his senses and try to fix what he had done. The first news Jen had about it was when Capt Wesley Twitchell pulled up in the Colonel's staff car.
“Still mad?” asked Wesley.
“Absolutely furious,” said Jen not slowing down. “What has he done?”
“He went to Phillips and said you tried to blackmail him,” said Wesley.
“How did that go over?” asked Jen as she slowed a bit from her high-speed power walk.
“That's why I am out in his car, despite the gas shortage'” said Wesley. “He wants to hear your side before Pearson can pressure witnesses. The Colonel is not taking chances. Pearson has pushed the envelope one time too many. He is under house arrest while I come get you and one of the AFOSI guys finds out what his staff really heard.”
“Yikes,” said Jen, “who is he gunning for? The Colonel, I mean.”
“Pearson plays really close to the line,” said Wesley. “Phillips needs doctors, but this guy is a piece of work. Phillips wants to smack him down hard enough that he does his job and follows orders. So let’s go talk to the nice man, tell him the truth, and then we will see how much pressure Phillips can put on this guy. I have also been told to tell you that whatever the investigator wants will have to happen between now and lunch because you have a flight to take over at 13:30.”
July 9th, Thursday, 1:15 am PDT
Security Squadron Operations Building, Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
Capt Stutesman stalked into the room with a fearsome look on her face. She had wanted to meet with her new troops in a kinder, gentler mood, but her interrogation by AFOSI had brought her to the boil.
Intellectually, she understood that they had to ask her if there was in fact, any inappropriate relationship between the Colonel and herself. But they had gone into far more detail about what constituted an 'inappropriate relationship' than she would have wished. And while the Special Agent had observed all proper military protocol, she felt there was an arrogance in his voice and posture that said he was questioning her truthfulness. Crap! She had only spoken to the Colonel rarely, usually because there was a water supply issue or some of the food in the chow hall was past due dates. She still didn't even know his first name!
“Flight, Attention!” shouted Staff Sergeant Finkbiner as she entered the room in a black mood. Most of the young airmen immediately jumped to attention, however there were five or six out of the forty three young men and women in the room who were moving slower, knowing just how slow to go before getting called on it.
“Very well,” thought Jen as she walked the length of the room, “two can play it that way.”
“At ease ladies and gentlemen,” said Jen as she faced them in the front of the room. “Welcome to Gulf Flight of the 92nd Security Police Squadron. We will be Alpha Flight in the newly formed 109th Security Police Squadron as soon as they are activated. We will be manning stationary defenses to start, until our training is up to standard.”
There was some sniggering in the back of the room. Normally, Jen would have ignored it, if she had been engaged in her normal, run of the mill briefing, like on the subject of hygiene in the kitchen or how to care for military working dogs. But today, she was the commander and that meant she had to be in charge, not just informing or educating.
“You have something to say, airman?” asked Jen looking at the young man in question. He was an Airman Basic, not something you normally see in an operational unit so he was likely someone who had been reduced in rank due to an Article 15.
“No, I didn't say nothing,” said the young man. Jen noted his nametag, Morton.
“Airman Morton! We will leave the poor grammar until later,” said Jen, glaring. “We will first work on military deportment. First off, when you address a superior female officer, what is the proper salutation?”
“It would be ma'am, ma'am,” said Morton sarcastically.
“Exactly! In the future,” said Jen, choosing to ignore the sarcasm, “you will use it.”
“As I was saying,” she went on, trying to put the interruption behind her, “I have managed to borrow five more shotguns from Bravo flight for the afternoon. We will be doing familiarization firing this afternoon at the range. This is the firearm which will be this unit's primary weapon, once the shipment from McChord get here.”
Again Morton laughed.
“I am glad Airman Morton finds this so amusing,” said Jen finally blowing her top. “I had laid on a bus to take us to the range, but since Morton has so much additional energy, we will all run, in formation. Further, those of you who have weapons will carry them. The rest of you will carry a 2x4 as they are building some fortifications near the range and it would save even more gas if we carried them. Is that clear?”
“Yes ma'am!” chorused Gulf Flight.
“Then I suggest you get moving!” said Jen. “Staff Sergeant Finkbiner? Form them up outside the building. I have a couple of calls to make to get the lumber over here.”
Airman First Class Fraser stumbled accidentally on purpose into Morton.
“Way to go, asshole!” said Fraser under his breath.
As they filed out of the room, Finkbiner fell in behind Morton. As soon as they cleared the building, Finkbiner pulled Morton aside.
“Staff Sergeant Foster,” said Finkbiner over his shoulder. “Take the flight through some warming up exercises in front of the building. We don't need anyone pulling a muscle in this run. I need to have a word with Morton.”
“What is your problem, Morton?” said Finkbiner after everybody had moved out of earshot. “You intentionally antagonized our new boss fifteen minutes after she took over. Are you as dumb as you look or did you have to study?”
“Gee Sarge,” started Morton but Finkbiner cut him off.
“Airman Morton, Attention!” said Finkbiner in his best parade ground voice. “You have obviously forgotten appropriate military courtesies. You will address me as Sergeant Finkbiner or Staff Sergeant. Is that clear?”
“Who the fuck are you trying to kid?” said Morton still in a slouch. “That was a room full of clerks and jerks. Half of them will be pukin' before we get to the range. This isn't a security flight; this is a gaggle of fuckwads.”
Even though Finkbiner was a good three inches shorter than Morton and twenty pounds lighter, he was far more fit and trained three nights a week in Aikido. While Morton was still acting pleased with himself, Finkbiner acted. With his left hand he struck Morton in the chest with a palm strike and slammed him up against the building.
“I said attention, airman!” bellowed Finkbiner two inches from Morton's nose. “Brace up against that wall, arms extended.”
Using the element of surprise to his advantage, Finkbiner spun Morton around and pushed him towards the building so he had to catch himself with his hands.
“There, brace against the wall!” shouted Finkbiner, kicking Morton's feet back ten inches or so to make sure he was resting on his arms.
“Normally, I'd haul you up on charges,” said Finkbiner in a quiet but earnest voice, “but you are already an Airman Basic so I can't bust you any lower. I could fine you, but your money will buy squat-all. So one more time, with proper military c
ourtesies, what in the Nine Circles of Hell is your problem? Do you want to go back to detention with fifteen hundred calories of the most boring rations possible each day? With a guarantee you that you will be working just as hard there? What is your problem?”
“Staff Sergeant,” said Morton grudgingly, “I was supposed to get out of the Air Force until ‘The Plague’ shit happened. I was going out on a general discharge but that don't mean nothin' to me. Then they tell me I have to stay in detention eating shitty food for the duration, whatever that means, or I can come play solider with you. I figured I might get a couple of good meals out of the deal so I 'volunteered.' But this Air Force crap isn't for me. This cluster of clerk-typists, out-of-work technical wienies, and assorted losers is going to get me killed. Go ahead; throw me back in fucking detention. It'll be safer there.”
“You really don't get it, do you?” said Finkbiner, shaking his head. “You poor bastard, what do think will happen if the base gets over run by the zombies? Let me make it simple for you. They eat people right? And in detention, you will be locked up in a nice cage, without any weapons. To them, you will look just like a chicken-fried steak on the steamer table in the chow hall. And they won't just kill you and then eat you; they will start eating you first. There will be hundreds of them so you can't possibly fight them off no matter how much of a badass you think you are. So they can and will just keep chewing on your guts until you bleed out. Since your testicles are nice and exposed, I suspect they will crunch them down first, kind of like an appetizer.”
Morton who had gone pale, looked like he was about to faint, because he clearly hadn't thought about what it meant to be captured by the Infected.
“I said brace, Airman!” said Finkbiner as Morton's knees began to buckle. “I am going to help you out. Instead of letting the Infected chomp on your testicles like a pair of little Swedish meatballs, I am going get you as trained up as I can so that you can maybe kill a few of them. If we get enough people out there with weapons and training, we might actually be able to stop them. But you have to be on the top of your game. Goofing off and wasting my time will get you sent back to the Chow Line, I mean the detention center.”
Finkbiner paused for a moment and let what he had said sink in.
“Now,” said Finkbiner as he saw Morton start to relax, “maybe you are already thinking that 'OK, I'll play his game long enough to get a shotgun and some ammo and then I'll cut and run.' But remember this; there are thousands of Plague-infected people between here and whatever latrine you call home. You can't carry that much ammo even if I was insane enough to issue it to you. And think about this: if you do desert, you will be out there, on your own. You will have to sleep sometime with no one to watch your back. Remember, the Infected think you are crunchy and good with ketchup, so the first time you go to sleep will likely be the last time.
“So what’ll it be, Airman? Do you want pull your load and try to do the best you can, learn how to be an Air Force Security Policeman, and maybe protect a few others in the process? Speak up son, I don't have all day and there are some folks I can help.”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant!” said Morton who now fully believed that senior NCOs could actually read his mind. “I will work hard! I will do what I am told! I appreciate the chance, Staff Sergeant!”
“Alright then,” said Finkbiner trying not to smirk. “Let's double-time around to the front of the building and wait for Captain Stutesman to join us for a delightful little run.”
As the two of them hustled around the corner, Chief Pffremer let the curtain to his office window slip back with a chuckle. He had watched and listened to the whole affair.
“Major Beadle,” said Pffremer in a genial tone, “would you care to join me for a cup of coffee?”
“Who do we have to kill, Chief?” said a somewhat perplexed Major Beadle from the office next door as there had been no coffee to be had anywhere on base for the last three weeks.
“I have a stash in my office,” said the Chief, “that I have saved for special occasions. If you would join me, I would be happy to brew up a pot.”
“I'll get my cup,” said Major Beadle. “What's the occasion?”
“I just watched Staff Sergeant Finkbiner become the kind of NCO the Air Force needs. If it wasn't for this damnable Plague, I could retire now.”
Chapter 21
July 10th, Friday, 7:13 am PDT
Joint Base Lewis-McChord, Tacoma, WA
“Whipkey, what is the status of my special mission to Spokane?” asked Gen Antonopoulos.
“Sir, the aircraft have just been pre-flighted and the tanks have been topped off,” said Capt Whipkey. “The cargo has been palletized and loaded for days now. Your security element has returned from their morning run and are about to start urban fighting drills.”
“Very good,” said Gen Antonopoulos. “Get all of your special troops off training and get them scattered about the base. Get every cell receiver we have positioned to cover as much of the base you can. Do this quietly. When everything is in place, give the word to launch. I want to be able to get airborne fifteen minutes after the word gets out. I want our mole to be under pressure to get the message out. Find out who it is and put them on ice. Don't kill them unless you have no choice. I want to ask whoever it is some questions. Am I clear?”
“As a bell, sir,” said Whipkey. “If you will excuse me sir, we have run through this a dozen times and I have some prepackaged orders to give. We should know with in twenty minutes if everybody is in place. Then, it's your call, sir.”
“Excellent!” said Gen Antonopoulos. “Make it happen!”
Ten minutes later, foot patrols, private autos, and a couple of Army step vans were in their pre-planned locations throughout the base. Five seemingly harmless e-mail messages showed up on Capt Whipkey's computer, indicating that his already deep detection net was augmented in key places around the base. Three assault teams augmented by CID personnel to affect an arrest were also in location. They had practiced it often enough that the completion was almost anti-climactic.
“General, we are in place,” said Whipkey after walking the thirty feet down the hall.
“Very good,” said Maj Gen Antonopoulos. “Have my junior aide call Gen Johnson and give the mission a go. Then you inform CAPT Lassiter that he is to meet me at the hangar and tell him that the mission is on. That should give both of them a sense of urgency to put this information out. Then as soon as you have a good intercept, nab them and shut it down.”
“Yes, sir,” said Whipkey.
July 10th, Friday, 7:59 am PDT
A Mansion on Spokane's South Hill, Spokane, WA
“Our source says he has decided to launch,” said Nergüi. “Activate your plan to attack Fairchild.”
“How long do I have?” asked Macklin.
“He will be airborne in minutes,” said Nergüi. “I want you attacking the gate as soon as you can after he lands but hopefully before they get the aircraft ready for the return trip. You have about forty-five minutes to get that bunch of hooligans in position to attack. I am spending a very valuable resource to make this attack happen. Don't fail me.”
“Yes, sir,” said Macklin, “we will be rolling in ten minutes with the recon elements. The rest will follow-up as soon as the buses arrive.”
“Consider this your graduation exercise, Macklin,” said Nergüi. “Fail me here, and you won't live to see tomorrow. Succeed and you will be well rewarded!”
July 10th, Friday, 8:04 am PDT
Joint Base Fort Lewis-McChord, Tacoma, WA
Capt Whipkey realized that his pacing was making the Headquarters staff nervous, so he went to his office. He had just closed the door when his cell phone went off.
“Whipkey,” said the young Captain into his phone.
“Team two has a good intercept,” said the voice on the other end. “They have used the code words we have for 'Spokane' and 'General Antonopoulos' sir. Request we send a team to arrest the target.”
“Who is the target?” asked Whipkey in spite of the need for communications security.
“Hanson,” said the voice.
“Roger that,” said Whipkey and then after a bit of thought. “Roll the team for Hanson, and roll the team for Johnson too. Tell Johnson's team to treat him with all due respect, but put him under armed guard and take any means of communication from him. He can't call anyone, not his wife, or even the Chaplain, but offer to send a messenger if he asks. I am off to the hangar.”
July 10th, Friday, 8:17 am PDT
Headquarters, Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
“I have an intel flash message from Fort Lewis.” said Twitchell as Col Phillips came in the door.
“Give it here!” said Col Phillips who grasped the flimsy and read it. “This was issued twenty-five minutes ago, Twitchell! SOP says that Flash and Immediate messages are to be delivered ASAP.”
“Sir, you were on your bike,” said Twitchell quietly. “There are three bike patrols looking for you now. I was on the phone when you walked in, calling for a car patrol.”
“Damnit,” said Phillips irritably. “I am sorry; it’s not your fault. We are on the ragged edge here and I get a message that General Antonopoulos is inbound.”
“Sir, if you read the rest,” said Twitchell diffidently, “you will see that he is coming with three C-17's carrying ammo, spare parts, dried food, and five hundred newly manufactured pump shotguns with a hundred rounds each. They are also sending substantial stocks of 5.56 M855 for our M-4s and M249s and 7.62 M118 for our M240s and M60s.”
