by Mark Rounds
Old Alert Pad Building, Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
Morton gently put Fraser down on the floor in the mess hall of the Alert Facility oblivious to the fact that his back was completely covered with Fraser's blood.
“Hey, buddy,” said Morton gently, “we made it.”
Fraser didn't respond. Morton became agitated and frantically put his head to Fraser's chest, trying to hear a heartbeat.
Capt Stutesman cleared the corner after helping Finkbiner bar the door and finish the barricade. She stopped in her tracks. She was the veteran of many surgeries where various animals had not survived, but even she did not grasp how much blood could come out of one man. Morton was on the edge of hysterics. Shooting erupted from both doors as the mercenaries tried, too late, to force the doors.
“Airman,” said Jen in her most soothing voice, “let me check him out.”
“Yes, ma'am,” said Morton in an unnaturally high pitched voice. “He isn't breathing and I can't hear his heart and ...”
“Morton,” said Finkbiner kindly, “let's get you cleaned up. The skipper is the vet on base remember? That's better than a doctor.”
“Oh, OK,” said Morton as the adrenalin started to wear off. “Please, help him, he …”
His words trailed off as Finkbiner led him out of the room.
As soon as Finkbiner and Morton left the room, Jen checked Fraser's back. There were four holes in his back and lower abdomen the size of golf balls and there was no more blood coming from them. Jen checked for a pulse and respiration, but it was clear that Senior Airman Lucas Fraser had died in defense of his fellow airmen.
Jen gently closed his eyes and covered him with a couple of clean garbage bags. Better care would have to wait. The living needed her more. She left the mess hall and found Finkbiner sitting with an almost catatonic Morton.
“Airman,” said Jen mildly. “Airman Fraser is dead. Sergeant Finkbiner and I need to get back on line. You can rest here awhile if you like.”
“All a waste,” said Morton to himself.
Finkbiner nodded to Jen who went to look to the wounded.
“What's all a waste, Airman?” said Finkbiner after his commander left.
“All this,” said Morton. “Me running out there like a madman, the grenades, the shooting, the … killing, it's all a waste. Maybe I could have saved him if I had stopped to patch him up before I came in? Maybe I could have ...”
“Enough, Airman,” said Finkbiner gently. “Fraser had four big holes in his back, where you couldn't see them. If you had been a trauma surgeon and we had been at Walter Reed, you might have been able to save him, but maybe not even then. You did the right thing.”
“He was talking to me on the way in, you know,” said Morton. “He kept saying 'You da man' over and over. But I wasn't! I didn't save him!”
“Morton,” said Finkbiner strongly, “we all have to die. Do you think Fraser would have wanted to die in an old-folks home, being fed mush three times a day, and watching reruns on TV?”
“No,” said Morton with some finality.
“Damned right,” said Finkbiner. “Fraser died with his boots on, being a badass. But it wasn't wasted. When he was shot, everybody left him. When you heard his voice, you went back.”
“But Geez, Flight Sergeant,” said Morton rocking back and forth, “I was so scared, I pissed myself.”
“And yet you went back,” said Finkbiner kindly. “You picked him up and brought him to safety. Think of it this way. Fraser probably knew he was dying, but he didn't want to die alone, so he screamed for help. Luckily, he had a friend and comrade who would run in front of bullets to save him. His last thought, his last memory, was being held by a friend who came back through a hail of bullets, even though he was so scared he pissed himself. I hope I have such a friend when I go.”
“But I hardly knew him,” said Morton, “and mostly, he just talked to me about doing my part and playing softball and stuff. He also talked about how the reason we came out here didn't matter, we all had to do our part. I don’t get it!”
“I misjudged you, Morton,” said Finkbiner. “I thought you were a coward and a loser. But you have a set of brass ones. You may not have known Fraser very well, but you were friends and comrades in all the ways that really matter. You displayed bravery in the very finest tradition of the Air Force. It wasn't wasted, because your friend and battle-buddy didn't die alone.”
“You really think so, Sergeant?” said Morton, finally looking up.
“Absolutely, Airman,” said Finkbiner listening to the rising gunfire outside. “Were this any other time, after you got your medal, I would have you hauled out of here in an ambulance and you would get the best medical attention in the Air Force. But I have need of men like you. You can hear them; the wolves are baying at the door. Let's get you cleaned up and get you a weapon so we can kick their asses, the way Fraser was doing when he died.”
July 10th, Friday, 11:36 am PDT
Outside the Old Alert Pad, Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
Macklin cursed his luck as the mercenaries recoiled from the most recent attempt to rush the doors. Apparently, whoever was left inside still had some fight and just as importantly some ammunition left. He had his orders from Nergüi, he had to work his way south to the Base Ops building but he couldn't leave this force unattended.
“Carlos,” said Macklin urgently. “Build up a base of fire and keep these guys bottled up. If you can, get somebody on the roof. Maybe you can crack this nut that way. I am leaving 3rd Company with you. Nergüi wants me to work south to base ops. Listen up on the phone. If it looks hopeless, I'll give you a call on your cell phone and you will fall back. Save as many of you troops as you are able. We will need them later.”
'Yes … sir,” said Carlos with a noticeable pause. Nergüi would have left him to die in place. He smiled and started gathering his troops.
July 10th, Friday, 12:02 pm PDT
Inside the Old Alert Pad, Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
Morton came out of the bathroom after attempting to get as much of Fraser’s blood off of him as he could. There was no water in the latrine, but he was able to ditch his soiled ABU’s and underwear. There were still some paper towels and some waterless hand cleaner left so he didn’t scare people anymore, but inside, he was still in shock, just going through the motions. Finkbiner had found a coverall that mostly fit and then he was gone.
The Flight Sergeant had left him to his own devices as it appeared the battle was heating up. But Morton didn’t want to be idle. If he were, he might think and would probably lose it so he went in search of a weapon. He rounded the corner of the top level of the Alert Facility in time to hear and explosion from the stairway to the roof. He raced around the corner to see the chair that Finkbiner had wedged behind the hatch to the roof blown into a dozen pieces by a second breaching charge.
Searching frantically for any weapon, Morton spotted half a dozen ceramic coffee cups next to a dry and obviously unused coffee pot. Morton grabbed one and pitched his best fast ball at the figure coming down the steep staircase, hitting him on the shoulder. While the intruder did have a helmet, he wore no body armor so the mug hurt and more importantly knocked him off balance forcing him to grab for the railing. Morton threw two more, the first one hitting him on the chest with enough force to cause him to exhale and the next one on the edge of his helmet. The ceramic mug shattered, cutting the brow above his eyes and filling them with tiny shards of the ceramic glazing and his own blood.
Morton charged before his adversary could clear his vision. He had grown up in Flint, Michigan, and there had been gangs on his block. Being averaged-sized, he quickly learned to hit hard and be ready to run. As the intruder started to stumble down the steps, Morton punched him hard with an upper-cut to his gut followed with a knee to his groin. This loosened the grip on his Vulcan AR-15 clone enough that Morton could wrench it out of his hands.
He turned and fired five rounds into the struggling man. Anot
her helmeted face appeared in the hatch but three more rounds out of the AR fired in the general direction of the hatch and he ducked back around the edge of the latrine.
It was ironic that he had liberated the specific rifle in his hands, for it was one of the cheapest of the AR clones out there. Furthermore, its maintenance in the hands of this Infected mercenary had been sporadic at best. The shell from the last round fired stove-piped in the action, in the process sheared off several little brass shavings from the case. These bits of metal worked themselves into the action itself, locking it half open when Morton tried to clear the jam.
He had little time to give the rifle because the next thing that came down the hatch was a grenade. It bounced once on the stair and once on the railing, out of Morton’s reach so he ducked back into the latrine he had just come out of. He was just in time for there was an earsplitting crack as the grenade detonated. It was followed almost immediately by the sound of gunfire and the growling of a dog. Morton came around the corner to see Capt Stutesman firing her M-9 at a partially silhouetted figure in the hatchway.
She quickly ran out of ammunition and as she attempted to load her spare magazine, another mercenary charged down the stairwell. Morton started to come forward to engage, using his jammed weapon as a club, but he didn’t have to. Candy, the sentry dog, hit the mercenary from behind, taking him to the ground. Then Candy moved in and went for his throat. The mercenary tossed his weapon and tried to cover up.
“Get that dog off me!” screamed the mercenary.
“So you can shoot us more easily?” asked Jen sarcastically with her now loaded M-9 leveled at his midsection.
The Jen spoke to Candy.
“Heel girl, come here.”
The dog obediently moved to Jen’s side but continued to growl and snarl at the thoroughly-cowed mercenary.
Morton spotted movement in the hatch and so tossed aside his jammed AR-15 clone and picked up the mercenary’s discarded weapon, an AK-47, and fired four rounds through the opening.
“Coming from behind, Morton!” said Finkbiner as he charged around the corner with two other airmen, both toting shotguns. He added a couple of rounds of twelve gauge though the hatch and it was quiet. In the distance, they all heard a rising note of automatic weapons’ fire.
“Golf Flight, is anybody receiving?” squawked Jen’s radio. She was as surprised as anyone because they were all working to stay alive.
“Stutesman here,” said Jen into the radio.
“Good to hear your voice, Captain,” said the voice of Major Beadle over the radio. “We had a spot of trouble with some of the hostiles who had bypassed your position. What is your status?”
“We have nineteen effectives,” said Jen, who then noted Morton with his borrowed AK and his look of fierce determination.
“Make that twenty effectives,” continued Jen. “We have four non-ambulatory casualties and three walking wounded who are helping with the defense. The rest never made it to the Alert Facility. I don’t suppose any of them showed up with you?”
“Negative,” said Beadle. “We have an ambulance headed your way. We will be outside your facility in two minutes. We have ammunition and additional weapons to rearm your unit. I hate to say this, but we need you to help with mop-up.”
“Roger, Major,” said Jen wearily, “we are on our way.”
July 10th, Friday, 12:10 am PDT
Outside the Old Alert Pad, Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
Macklin gathered his troops and headed south toward Base Ops. His company, the second that they had trained, was at about half-strength. Many were casualties from combat, but just as many had taken the opportunity to run, preferring to take a chance to find more Slash to keep their infections under control on the open market rather than face the quick death of combat.
They had barely deployed when they were taken under fire by several automatic weapons. They hit the dirt and began moving forward slowly, trying to eliminate the shooters with massed fires. Macklin realized that he had a numerical advantage over his adversaries and so pushed hardest on the flanks. Things got interesting when he closed with the Air Force troops. When his lead element got within fifty yards, they were hammered by a barrage of shotgun fire. It became clear to him that he was engaged with some of the second-line security troops armed with shotguns. The troops themselves were most likely technicians and office workers, perhaps on a par with his own training-wise.
From behind him, he heard Carlos's company coming under intense automatic weapons fire. Clearly, the troops who had retired had regrouped and rearmed and it was all Carlos could to do hold on. Macklin knew that he had minutes at most to accomplish whatever he could before the wheels came off.
“Ngengi and Ölnirsen,” said Macklin, motioning his two followers over to his position. “This is either going to succeed in the next few minutes, or we will have to withdraw. We are going to push as hard as we can on Base Ops. If we can get it, well and good, if not, I don't want to go back to Nergüi empty-handed. If you see an officer, capture him. The higher the rank, the better. It will give Nergüi someone other than us to 'interrogate.' Is that clear?”
Both of the followers nodded. They both remember all too well what Nergüi's sessions were like.
“OK then!” shouted Macklin. “Up and at them!”
Some of the braver souls got up into a crouch and began moving forward slowly. Ngengi and Ölnirsen moved up and down the line, encouraging, threatening, or kicking the troops until they were moving and firing as they were taught.
At first the return fire was devastating and twice, the Macklin's troops nearly stalled, save for the brutal tactics that Ngengi and Ölnirsen used.
Slowly at first, and then in bigger and bigger numbers the troops in front of him began to slip away. First a few crawled away. Soon though, several got up and ran. Then the bulk of the troops began streaming back towards the Base Ops building.
Macklin smiled, rallied his troops, and closed in for the kill.
July 10th, Friday, 12:17 am PDT
Inside the Base Ops Facility, Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
“General,” said Phillips quietly, but forcefully, “with respect, our outer defenses are crumbling. If you delay any longer, you might wind up in enemy hands. Please, sir. We can hold out here. I have Alpha and Bravo Flights relieving the Alert Pad. Once they are done there, they will come here with what's left of Golf Flight. Charlie Flight is third line protecting the dependents and mopping up leakers. Delta is out front and Echo is on the front gate, Foxtrot is spread thin patrolling the west side of the base. I've got to thank you for your Rangers, they are kicking ass and taking names, but I have no more reserves.
“In a few minutes, your two remaining aircraft will be overrun. God only knows what they will do to them. The plane you came in is empty and we were approximately eighty percent done unloading the other when we came under fire a few minutes ago. You can get these planes out of here with no harm to us, but only if you leave now.”
“OK, Colonel,” said Gen Antonopoulos. “I don't think my visit did you much good. I'll tell Major Kong to spool up the engines.”
“It's not as bad as that, sir,” said Col Phillips. “We burned through a lot of ammo, but you brought more. The spare parts and medical supplies were sorely needed. The Rangers are a fine addition. We did burn through two-thirds of our gasoline supply fighting today, but we have many more armed troops to face the next attack. I suspect I'll be able to police up a few more weapons after this is over. But having you in this building and having to protect those two planes is reducing my options. Please, sir, leave now.”
Gen Antonopoulos nodded to Phillips and then spoke on his radio.
“How soon until take off, Major Kong?” said Gen Antonopoulos.
“My check list will be done as soon as you put your foot on the cargo door,” said the Major over the radio.
Gen Antonopoulos looked over at his ground control team.
“Pack it up, boys and girl
s, and head for the jet,” said Gen Antonopoulos. Then he put out his hand toward Phillips.
“It has been instructive, Col Phillips,” said Gen Antonopoulos shaking Phillips hand. “We will start a weekly flight in here. First priority will be to get you some indirect fire weapons. I will also push to have that convoy released to head over here to ease your POL situation.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Phillips, “Let's not keep the good major waiting, shall we?”
July 10th, Friday, 12:29 pm PDT
In the scrub land east of the runway, Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
“Sven,” said Nergüi into his phone, “what is the situation there?”
“Macklin's forces are pushing in on Base Ops,” said Sven. “Several people ran to the planes and now one of them is rolling down the taxiway.”
“Did you see the General?” asked Nergüi urgently. “Was he there?”
“No way to tell,” said Sven. “We were 200 yards out and they were running from cover to cover. We put as much fire on them as we could, and a couple of them fell, but their comrades gathered up the fallen and entered the planes.”
“Did they get in just one plane or both?” asked Nergüi.
“Both, sir,” said Sven.
“Well, keep them under fire,” said Nergüi. “Perhaps you can disable one.”
Before he could respond, Nergüi cut the connection. Then he punched in Macklin's number.
“Macklin,” said the voice on the phone.
“Did you see any of those people who entered the planes?” asked Nergüi.
“No, sir,” said Macklin. “I didn't know anything was up until one of them started moving. I saw the tail shift. The Base Ops building interfered with our view. I have currently diverted some of my troops to fire on the rolling plane, but the range is long.”
“Keep it up,” said Nergüi. “Then shift to the stationary one if it starts to move.”
Nergüi cut the connection and pulled out his binoculars. The first plane was already to the runway threshold and starting to run up the engines. He shifted his field of view back to the other aircraft and it had also started moving.
