The order comes down to reorient positions thirty yards to the rear. That won’t greatly increase the distance when the infected come pouring out from within the void of the rain wall.
“We have to hold this line,” the company commander dictates.
“Why don’t we pull back farther?” the platoon commander asks Jennings. “This doesn’t give us much room.”
“We have to buy the company to the rear time to resupply,” Jennings replies.
“I hope they do that quickly.”
“You and me both, sir.”
With his eye again to the scope, Jennings observes a solid line of heat signatures. The gunships hovering on the fringes of the company begin firing into the rain, the red tracers fading and then vanishing as if devoured by the squall. Rockets leave the pods, trailing lines of smoke as they streak into the gray and vanish before small flares of flame show for split seconds. Placing a heat signature in his sight, Jennings adds his fire as well.
All along the line, without specific targets in view, the company and Humvees start blindly firing in an attempt to slow the advancing horde. The fields fill with tracers that disappear into the void, the Marines hoping that their rounds find marks. Dim figures appear just within the squall—darker, shadowy shapes wavering on the fringes. Suddenly, the front line of infected fully materialize, stumbling over bodies still falling to the ground.
The distance between the company and the charging figures is short. The firing grows more intense, trying to stem the flood of creatures emerging from the mist. Scythes rake the leading edges, but there are too many infected replacing the fallen. The distance shortens.
Even though the order has been given to hold, some soldiers bolt for the rear. The company line becomes ragged, the diminished firepower having a telling effect. The horde advances. Jennings holds his position, firing rapidly into those to his front. He no longer takes aim, the infected are too close and packed together. There’s no way his rounds could miss hitting something. Killing them isn’t as important as slowing them down. He knows there are thousands more behind those he sees, but they’ve been told to hold, and hold he will.
The infected close in on one side of the line. More Marines turn for the rear. It’s either that or be overrun. The volume of fire diminishes.
“Lieutenant, if we’re going to keep whole as a unit, I think it’s time to go,” Jennings yells.
No sooner did he get the words out then the order to retreat comes. Jennings glances at the line of infected just yards ahead. Even if they bolt and make it to the rear, the rear company is going to be hard put to slow the horde. Having to hold their fire to wait for the retreating company to pass through, they just won’t have enough room to engage effectively before they have to retreat.
This can easily turn into a bunch of infected chasing a bunch of Marines running for their lives.
The platoon turns and runs, the screams from the infected right on their heels filling the air. The Humvees that were with them hold for a few minutes longer, pulling out just before becoming surrounded. They drive backward across fields and over fences, their heavy caliber weapons continuing to fire. Rockets from gunships streak outward, delivering explosion after explosion into the mass of infected. It’s too little; the horde maintains its charge.
That is lost on Jennings, his world narrowed down to him and a few others from his platoon running for all they’re worth. Through all of the firing, he hears the rumble of thousands upon thousands of footfalls striking the earth. He feels the ground trembling beneath the feet of the storming infected. Knowing that it will only slow him down, Jennings forces himself not to look back over his shoulder.
The wet ditch he’s running along slows his advance; the Marines on the highway are making better time. It’s no longer an organized retreat, but an all-out rout to the rear. Gunships roar overhead, attempting to stem the tide. There are Marines in trouble and everything is being brought to bear, but there are too few resources to spare.
“Lieutenant,” Jennings yells, panting. “We need to…cut across to the side…we’re in front…other company won’t be able to engage. We’re in the way. They’ll be overrun…before they can…fire a single round.”
“They’ll catch up,” the lieutenant states, gasping for air.
“Better us than the two whole companies,” Jennings states.
The lieutenant nods, and then orders the men around into the fields, directing them toward a line of trees. Their angling run allows the infected to close even more distance. Explosions and the heavy chunk of machine guns can still be heard above the screams of the horde. There’s the pounding of their feet as the platoon races across the field, the panting breaths of Marines nearby, and shrieks so loud they vibrate Jennings’s skull.
With a crackle of snapping branches and a brush of leaves, the Marines plow through an outlying screen of bushes as if they didn’t exist. The terrain opens up as they pass the first line of trees, the ground shaking from the infected pounding after them. Jennings takes a quick peek behind and sees the infected nearly on their heels.
“Need to…create distance…gain some time,” Jennings calls to the lieutenant.
The platoon commander nods, and then orders those who can still hear him to turn and fire. Rounding a tree, Jennings turns and places himself behind it. Although the infected aren’t firing, the move to cover is instinctual. All around, Marines place themselves behind trees, their eyes haggard and terrified. Tracers races among the trees as automatic fire is delivered into the nearest infected. Bodies running through the woods drop to the ground as if tripped. More follow and meet the same end. Bark and splinters fly from trunks, the air filled with streaking bullets. Smoke drifts above the quickly formed line. From the corner of his eye, Jennings sees infected attempting to come in from the sides.
“Time to go,” Jennings shouts.
Without waiting for confirmation, the Marines turn to continue their run, having gained very little distance and only a touch of breath. They come to a creek, the waters placidly running between embankments.
“Make a stand here?” the lieutenant asks.
“Only to get a breather,” Jennings replies. “We need to get make our way back to the rear company in order to add our fire to theirs. They’ll have nothing to run back to, so they’ll be forced to hold their position. We need to bolster their numbers.”
The platoon clambers up the far embankment and halts behind the first line of trees. The infected tumble down the wall of mud on the far side, splashing into the water. Bullets pour down into the infected slowed by the stream. Water sprays upward from the torrent of fire, figures falling into the waters. Red mixes with the water muddied by the passage of the Marines. Bodies float on the agitated surface of the creek.
“Reloading,” echoes up and down the line as Marines exchange empty mags for fresh ones.
The stream clogs with bodies, slowing the infected even more. Jennings glances to the left and right to see infected crossing up and down stream. Fire from the sides of the line is redirected into those attempting to flank. But, the line of infected is too wide.
“Time to go again,” the lieutenant states, seeing the same thing.
“Yeah. We need to angle back toward the company.”
The woods are filled with the screams of infected as the Marines leave their positions to resume their flight. The infected directly behind are significantly slowed by the waters clogged with bodies. The platoon races in the same direction to create some room before changing directions. Although the thicket is filled with screaming hordes, the trees hide the Marines from the infected. They no longer have a visible target at which to direct themselves, giving the platoon a little room to breathe.
They catch glimpses of infected in the trees as they streak past trunks. They are winded, yet determined to use the last of their breath to break out of the tree line, hopefully to the safety of the other company…and their own.
With screams all around them, Jenning
s hears the sound of a firefight somewhere ahead. Approaching the tree line, the platoon skids to a halt. The bark of the outer trees is being shredded by rounds, the leading line of infected seen just on the other side. Those that were chasing them emerge from the trees a short distance away, merging with the larger horde.
“We came out too far from the lines. They may have pulled back some,” Jennings states.
The lieutenant directs them along the woods, away from ricocheting or stray rounds and the infected. In a ragged line, they break out of the trees. Ahead, Marines line a roadway crossing the main highway, firing into a thick line of approaching infected. The platoon commander leads them in an arc that brings them behind the engagement, and they join their lines.
With some kneeling in front of others who stand, the remaining Marines attempt to stem the oncoming wave. The front line of infected fall, only to be replaced. The fields are filled with rounds, thick enough to walk across. The horde doesn’t advance any closer, but neither is any distance created. It’s an immovable object versus an unrelenting force. Runners are sent to the resupply point and ammo is distributed along the line. Helicopters arrive, kicking crates out of the back end. If the Marines begin running short of ammo, the tide will instantly overwhelm them. More gunships arrive, delivering their ordinance before retiring to refuel and rearm.
Jennings is close enough to the company commander to hear him call for additional close air support. He wishes artillery was in place, but wishes are useless. They either have something, or they don’t.
* * * * * * *
Lieutenant Pritchard and her flight of four Super Hornets circle in a holding pattern above the thick layer of clouds. The bright blue sky with the sun in the west belies the weather that she knows is beneath them. This is her third sortie of the day, the first two delivering strikes against smaller towns surrounding the airbase. Below her, soldiers are slogging it out under gray skies and rain. Her current mission is to loiter and provide close air support if required. They don’t have a ton of fuel, but the external tanks provide for her and her flight to remain for a short period. If nothing is called for, then they’ll receive additional targets to unload their ordinance.
She’s currently monitoring radio traffic between a Marine company commander and combat controllers. Things sound like they’ve gone awry—her services might be needed shortly. The term “danger close” causes her to focus more on the radio traffic.
“Captain, that places them inside the minimum safe zone,” the combat controller radios.
“I understand. We can’t pull back or we’ll be overrun. We need help, and we need it now,” the commander replies.
“Are you making the danger close call, then?”
“I am. I’m authorizing the call for danger close.”
“Copy that. Help is on the way. ETA four minutes.”
Pritchard receives the call for air support, the coordinates, and direction for their runs.
“You have Marines within one hundred yards west of the line. Make your run north to south,” Pritchard receives, along with the coordinates.
She copies the call, reading back their instructions. Behind her, the warfare officer inputs their coordinates and sets up the ordinance. They’ll drop their cluster bomb canisters with the others in her flight following in thirty second intervals. Pickling their external fuel tanks, the flight pulls into a tight formation. She noses the Hornet over, picking up speed as the clouds envelop them.
The gray deepens as the altimeter unwinds. They pop out into the clear a few thousand feet above the ground. Patches of rain crawl across the area through the dozens of rising plumes of smoke. She banks around to line up for her run, the others in her pattern taking their spacing.
At five hundred and forty knots, the ground streaks under her nose. Ahead, a massive horde is gathered in the fields alongside a two-lane highway. To the right, she sees red tracers and the trails of rockets as they race across a field separating the leading line of infected from the beleaguered Marines. Explosions create pockets in the midst of the mass of infected, but the cleared areas are quickly filled. A last set of explosions lift bodies into the air before the heavy ordinance ceases firing in order for her and her flight to make their runs. The small arms fire continues, putting her at risk of running into a stray round. However, looking upon the scene, she knows that the Marines can’t stop firing or they’ll be instantly overrun.
Pritchard focuses on her run, watching the heads up display as the lines slowly draw closer together. The target lines converge and she pickles the ordinance, the canisters dropping from their pylons in sequence.
Protect them, she thinks, pulling back on the stick and yanking the jet into a tight climbing turn.
Over the next minute and a half, the rest of her flight sweeps low over the infected.
* * * * * * *
Jennings fires one round after another, forgoing his MK20 in favor of his carbine. The only ammunition being delivered to Marines up and down the line are 5.56mm rounds. Corpses pile up along the leading edge of infected, the ones behind trying to clamber over them before they are struck down, adding to the growing clumps of bodies.
The screams continue, mixing with the noise of the firefight. A string of flashes appear within the mass of infected, bodies tossed into the air from each miniature explosion. A second jet passes over the infected, delivering more ordinance. The blasts create a continual roar within the screaming horde. Jennings hears the sharp whine of shrapnel as it passes over his head, causing him and the soldiers around him to instinctively duck.
A third and fourth jet streak past, the roars of their engines reaching Jennings just moments before more explosions. Jennings feels a tug on his sleeve as two Marines near him drop to the ground with screams as shrapnel tears into them. Along the line, injuries are sustained by the close air support. Jennings has the passing thought that, even if they aren’t dead, they might as well be if their protective masks have been penetrated.
Gunships race one after another along the leading edge, the buzz saw of their Gatling guns sounding as rounds mow down the infected. Smoke lingers above and amid the horde. Gunfire continues to rake the leading lines, which become more ragged. The pile of bodies is taller than the infected trying to scramble over them. Jennings angles his weapon to the left, seeking another target. Then, to the right. He jerkily moves his carbine, searching.
There isn’t a target to be seen. His mind can’t fathom that circumstance, having become inured to the fact that the stream of infected is endless. His breath is panting, coming in nearly the same rhythm as the movement of his weapon. He sees movement from within the piles of bodies. Setting the M-4 aside, he pulls up his MK20, scoping the massive pile of dead and dying infected. Several are moving, attempting to crawl out of and over the pile.
The sharp crack of his rifle accompanies the kick against his shoulder. Scoping along the pile, he fires into any of those still moving. He has to replace his twenty-round magazine many times before he fails to find any more targets. Behind him, the thump of mortars sounds as they deliver fire all along the pile of corpses to ensure that none survive.
He slowly stands as other Marines kneeling along the line also rise. None of them can believe that it’s over, that the fight happening yards away might actually have ended. Having nearly been overwhelmed just moments ago, their minds are slow to comprehend this new stillness.
Helicopters periodically strafing up and down the line call that there aren’t any infected standing. Exhaustion flows through Jennings’s body, his muscles weak and bones feeling like rubber. He looks into the eyes of the lieutenant and sees the same fatigue.
“I’ll be fine if I never have to do that again,” the lieutenant states, watching as the injured are carried away.
Chapter Two
Grissom Air Force Base, Indiana
October 19
Sergeant Jennings stands on the tarmac next to the fire station servicing the airfield, the pavement damp from
the drizzling rain. Behind him, rows of F-18s occupy much of the central ramp next to several Air Force tanker aircraft. Weapons and external fuel tanks fill pylons tucked under the wings and fuselage. Hunkered against the drizzle, crews walk under and around the jets, checking that everything is in order. A slew of helicopters are neatly parked further down the ramp awaiting crews to board them for the sorties against the first nuclear power plants to begin at light.
Even though the operation to clear Grissom is complete, the airfield is still busy with incoming and outgoing aircraft as the consolidation of Whiteman is well underway. Helicopters arrive with equipment slung underneath, others departing or arriving with Marines. Staring across the ramp and fields, Jennings watches four Super Hornets lift off, trails of fire extending behind their engines, the ground trembling from the roar. They pull up their gear at the same time and quickly vanish into the overcast skies.
He is mostly sure they’re heading for Whiteman, where they’ll join others that are landing and taking on fuel before heading out. He watches the activity, but not with his full attention. His company was pulled out after yesterday’s fight and brought back to Grissom. The final toll was twelve company members, of which they recovered ten bodies. With the infected routed out of the area and the consolidation in full swing, there’s hope that rescue crews will come across the other two and find they were able to hide out. Jennings doesn’t really believe that’s likely—the missing Marines would have come out of hiding once things stabilized. In addition to the casualties, there were several others who’d had to be placed in a lengthy quarantine after their protective gear became compromised in the battle.
He knew some of those who were lost, and had attended their service this morning, the tears rolling down the cheeks at the empty boots on display as Taps was played. They lost nearly ten percent of the company, a literal decimation. However, without the possibility of replacements, there isn’t any choice except to keep on.
ARES Virus (Book 3): Phoenix Rising Page 2
