Kind of like packing and organizing everything needed for a lengthy family vacation. However, if something is forgotten there, one can just go out and purchase it. Here, if they forget something or if they don’t bring enough of a certain item, the whole thing can go down the tubes.
She looks toward the helicopter parked nearby, the one that brought them to this location and the one that will transport them tomorrow. Red flags hang limply from ropes tying the large rotors in place, the pilots lying on the opened back ramp. Although gunships patrol the wide outer perimeter, they were told to be ready to leave in a hurry. The basin holds several large cities, but they are miles and miles away. However, with the time that they’ll be spending at the forward deployment base, there’s always a chance that they could have visitors. Instead of fighting them, they’ll just board and lift off, the operation either scrubbed or sent off to find another location from which to deploy.
She knows that their helicopter is fully fueled. It dropped them off and then scurried over to one of the refueling depots. Parker is still amazed at the immense amount of coordination it takes even to schedule the refueling. Somewhere, someone is set up with a portable radar, directing the incredible amount of traffic. In the back of her mind, she knows the roar of so many rotating blades echoing off the mountainsides has to be heard by the infected gathered in the faraway cities. However, considering the detail with which the operation is being conducted, someone must have already thought of that and considered the risk negligible.
Pulling a map out of her pack, Parker draws a line with her finger from Mountain Home to their location in the mountains.
Nearly thirty miles. Walking an average of three miles an hour, that’s ten hours. And, through rough terrain, double that.
She relaxes a little. The force will be out of the area long before the twentieth hour arrives, providing the town wasn’t filled with a bunch of marathoners. Hours pass, the helicopter traffic becoming much more sporadic. Many are on the ground, tied down just like her squad’s chopper. Several black dots circle the surrounding hillsides, looking for signs of encroaching infected.
Small squad-sized camps are laid out, preparing for the evening. Packed bags are stuffed underneath poncho tents, along with unrolled sleeping bags. Parker is already tired with having to constantly wear the MOPP gear and isn’t looking forward to sleeping in it. But, it’s a far cry better than becoming infected. After the operation is over, she’ll have a chance to doff the gear onboard the ship once they get disinfected.
Tomorrow, they’ll lift off at first light, make their way to an intermediate refueling location that is currently being set up, and then set out for their targeted location.
* * * * * * *
Sawtooth National Forest, Idaho
October 21
Parker drifts along the calm waters, the reason for being in the boat unknown. Lying on her back, she stares at the blue skies overhead. She’s lulled into a blissful feeling by the light slap of water against the wooden hull. There’s something she needs to be doing, or heading toward, but she can’t bring herself to sit upright and take hold of the oars gently swaying back and forth just above her. She wants to continue staring at the endless blue above the gunwales.
Something rocks the boat, the oars swinging toward the front. The craft is jostled, rolling up and down over larger and larger waves. Lifting her head, she sees a deep blackness marching across the waters, storm waves rising tall. The surface of each of the large waves is wrinkled by smaller cresting waves. A sharp gust of wind blows past, catching her long hair and whipping it behind.
When did my hair get so long?
Lightning flashes from within the dark of the storm, striking the water continuously. The huge waves arrive, driven by the fierce tempest. Her tiny boat is rocked this way and that, rising up over large waves, only to drop rapidly down the far side. Parker grabs the sides, holding on as hard as she can. She’s bounced to the sides, the wind and surf a roar in her ears. Overhead, the edges of the storm sweep away the blue skies, drowning out the sunlight. She’s immersed in total darkness, strobing flashes of lightning sporadically illuminating the turbulent seas. The winds take on a note, like a call. Her heart is beating rapidly and she’s sure that she won’t be able to ride out the storm…sure that her boat will be smashed by the violent waves…sure that she’ll flounder in the cold water, unable to keep her head above the water. She sees herself slowly sinking below the waves, light flashing above her, her long hair splayed out, sensing the violence a few feet overhead.
She listens. There are words in the roar of wind, calling her.
“Parker…Parker…Parker…for fuck’s sake, Parker, wake the fuck up.”
She startles, her eyes slowly opening to the beam of a flashlight moving across her face and someone shaking her shoulder. The dream fades, reality taking its place. She peers out through one end of her makeshift tent to see that it’s still the dead of night. Several helicopters roar overhead, their green and red lights vanishing as quickly as they appear.
“What in the hell? It’s still dark,” Parker says, then instantly worried about why she was awakened. “What’s going on?”
“Gunships located a massive group of infected heading our way. Orders are to get everyone inside the transports and seal them up. Grab your weapons and gear and get moving. Make sure to take your shelter so that it doesn’t create debris when we leave,” a voice in the dark answers.
“How close are they?”
“I don’t know, but the captain says we need to move quickly.”
“Okay, okay. I’m up,” Parker responds, scooting out of her shelter.
I guess they move faster than I thought they could, she thinks, gathering her gear and waking the rest of her squad. Yet another reason why it’s important that we get the satellites functional.
With her pack over her shoulder and carrying her carbine, Parker makes sure she has her entire squad together before heading toward the helicopter. At the rear of the chopper, a crew chief holds a pair of red wands, motioning the lot of them toward the correct location. All across the plain, flashlight beams sway across the soil, shouts rise above the general background noise of soldiers on the move.
Parker stands next to the crew chief, counting her Marines as they board, the metal ramp ringing under their boots. Assured that everyone is accounted for, she radios the platoon commander to report in that her squad is present and accounted for.
The interior is cramped with everyone on board, but they try to space themselves to get as comfortable as they can. The ramp is raised, casting the interior into darkness, beams of light flash momentarily before being doused. Parker wishes that the pilots would turn on the interior lights, but understands that they don’t want to waste battery power. It would suck not to be able to stage an emergency egress because they had wanted the comfort of light. She settles in, trying to wedge herself into a more comfortable position, attempting to fall back asleep. It’s going to be a long day and she doesn’t want to face it already exhausted.
* * * * * * *
Over the next few hours, Parker is able to doze off and on despite the constant noise of shuffling Marines. In the distance, she can hear a high-pitched sound, like a faraway echoing scream. The interior lights come on, bathing the Marines in a red glow.
“Ladies and gents, please take your seats. This show is about to get on the road,” the crew chief hollers.
Parker climbs out of her cramped position, her joints stiff and sore. Climbing into one of the nylon seats, she looks outside. Red and green position lights are scattered across the plain, red glows shining from the windows of nearby helicopters. White flashes begin to dot the plateau as the choppers slowly come to life.
Inside, the red light dims and Parker hears the whine of the rotor beginning to turn overhead. The ground outside flashes as their own strobe comes to life. It’s too early for them to be lifting off for their interim stop. The only conclusion she reaches is that the infected hav
e drawn significantly closer and they have to leave. Whether or not they’re heading back to the fleet or heading toward their next stop, the train is rolling.
Pressing the side of her head against the window, Parker looks eastward toward a thin line of bluish light showing between the peaks. Dawn isn’t far away, so their revised timetable isn’t really that far off plan. Catching the crew chief’s attention, Parker asks which way they’re going.
“To our next refueling stop. The timetable has been moved up two hours,” he answers.
Outside, several of the red and green position lights gain altitude, then start moving forward, disappearing from her line of sight. The landing lights are kept off in order not to interfere with the night vision goggles the pilots are using. To the sides, red tracers streak from points in the darkened sky, some hitting the ground and ricocheting. Ship by ship, the armada breaks ground and begins moving.
Parker’s helicopter is one of the last to lift off, the roar of the turbine increasing. In the flashes of the strobe light, she sees several people in the field where the helicopter had been sitting seconds ago. They reach toward the lifting bird as if begging it to land and pick them up. Parker’s heart leaps in her chest, thinking that they’ve left people behind; people who missed their ride for some reason.
Maybe they exited in order to go to the bathroom, she thinks, staring at the figures growing smaller.
She’s about to say something when she notices, in one of the flashes of light, that the people outside aren’t wearing any MOPP gear. Everyone in the strike is forced to wear it during all hours, which means that the ones growing smaller below are infected.
Damn, they got close.
The deck of the helicopter tilts and they begin moving forward while still ascending, leaving behind a plateau filled with infected.
* * * * * * *
The bottom of the clouds just above the blur of rotors looks like a vast, flat plain of gray. Below, forested ridge lines are deeply cut by steep ravines and valleys. The entire flight from the west coast has been over similar terrain. Parker really had no idea that the entire western part of the continent was so mountainous.
A ridgetop passes underneath in a flash. Parker realizes that they don’t have much margin between the top peaks and the overcast. Gunships and transports are anchored in place to either side, which seems nearly impossible as she feels as if she’s inside a paint shaker. The turbulence picked up a short while ago, beginning with a single hard bounce, which then escalated into a continuous, unrelenting series of solid shakes. She hopes they end soon or she’ll lose the little she had for lunch on the inside of her mask.
The refueling stop went by with little incident, with barely a mention of how close the infected were able to get. The two hours of the sleep they lost by taking off early was returned. Parker had lain down immediately and was soon out, only waking for brief moments when a helicopter thundered overhead. Now, they are heading toward a small Air Force base to clear it out for engineers to come in and redirect control of the defense satellites.
The chopper banks; they’ve reached the point where the forces will split. The other group has the task of drawing the infected in Colorado Springs away from the target; her group is heading south around the metropolis to Schriever. There, the Marines will wait for the gunships in the group to clear the surrounding area. Before long, they pass the last ridgeline and begin descending, the turbulence following them all of the way down.
* * * * * * *
Schriever Air Force Base
October 21
Parker looks down at the barren land. The targeted base is one of the smallest that she’s ever seen. The number of buildings within the double security-fenced interior can be counted on one hand. She’s both amazed and not that something as prominent as a facility controlling the defense satellites is housed in such a small base. During the briefing, before the slide shows, she had envisioned something monstrous and fortified like Cheyenne Mountain. On the other hand, it’s easier to keep security protocols with a small facility. Two large parking lots sit outside of the perimeter fencing, giving an indication of the base’s importance. Apparently, vehicles aren’t allowed anywhere near the buildings.
Does the metal of cars interfere with the radar? she wonders, her nerves tensing with their imminent landing.
The other item of interest she notes is the barrenness of the base. All of the other air force bases that she’s visited have been marvels of landscaping, much like the country club everyone jokes the Air Force to be. Here, it doesn’t look like they even made any effort. The buildings nearly outnumber the trees, with the rest just dirt.
The ground is dotted with unmoving figures lying prone. The gunships drew the infected into the open and gunned them down while the transports hovered in the distance. Comparing the number of vehicles in the parking lots with the bodies on the ground, the buildings must certainly hold many more infected. Parker wonders whether the ones inside will have already succumbed like those in the hangars on Whidbey Island had.
They were briefed that there was the possibility of survivors holding up deep within the facility, but that they weren’t to take unnecessary risks toward verification. In other words, if the encounter is sudden, they’re to shoot first and apologize later.
“Unless they specifically call out and can say the alphabet backward,” he quipped.
Just to the north, a housing area burns fiercely, black smoke billowing upward to merge with the clouds. The helicopter circles, and then drops down for a landing within the perimeter onto one of the streets. The ramp lowers and Parker, along with the rest of her squad, runs down the slope amid swirling dust. As soon as they’re disembarked, the chopper revs up and leaves to assist the others in keeping any stray infected away from the base.
Up and down the wide street, clouds of dirt indicate where the rest of the company was dropped off. The platoons of the company form up and separately walk down the crack-filled road toward the main building. The four-story concrete building has few windows. Those that it does have are narrow and tall, seeming to stretch the full height of each floor. A second three-story building, attached via a covered and walled single-storied walkway, is the antithesis of the larger building. It is virtually covered with glass panes on all sides and floors, with only the corners made of solid concrete. To Parker, it looks much like a canopy, the covering held up by poles.
With the sound of over a hundred boots thumping on the roadway echoing off the solid walls of the larger building, Parker, with her squad in the lead, notes the green lawn surrounding the two buildings. It’s the only real attempt to transform the high mountain plains with some form of landscaping. Although gunships cover the company’s approach and have spent considerable time working over the area, Parker still keeps her eye on the neighboring buildings. She feels relatively secure with the firepower of an entire company behind her, but it would be just her luck if an infected would streak out and specifically target her before any fire could be brought to bear. She can almost hear the “Damn, that’s a shame,” comments following her demise.
Nearing the entrance, which is the single story building connecting the two larger ones, Parker stares at the large, darkly mirrored panes of glass of the second building reflecting the overhead clouds. She notices with interest that one of the uppermost panes appears to be vibrating. Halting her squad, she points out the strange anomaly.
“Could it be machinery in the room behind it?” one of her Marines asks.
“I’m not sure. I suppose it could be,” Parker answers, reaching for her mic.
Behind, the sound of boots reverberating from the building has stopped, her squad’s pause bringing a halt to the entire company.
Before she can speak, she hears her platoon commander on the radio.
“Parker, what’s the hold up?”
“I’m not exactly sure, sir,” she responds.
“I’ll be right there.”
Parker cranes her neck, continui
ng to watch the window. The mirrored clouds reflected in the panes bounce in quick intervals. Suddenly, a crack appears, radiating rapidly up the length of the large window. Before she can do anything other than mutter a “Holy shit,” the window bursts, large shards blowing outward and tumbling toward the ground. Immediately following, a figure tumbles out of the upper story, its fists still hammering as if it didn’t notice that it had already broken through.
That realization comes shortly as the hammering motions turn into flailing limbs, attempting to right their body. The figure passes through the tumbling shards, picking up speed as it passes floor after floor. Parker and her squad stare transfixed, waiting for the inevitable hard impact with the ground. Even through their minds know that the forceful collision will be ugly, they can’t turn their eyes away.
The figure screams on its way down, right up until it hits the ground with a heavy thump, sending vibrations along the surface. Along with the heavy thud, Parker hears the sharper cracks of bones breaking. The glass shards rain down a second later, crashing loudly as they shatter into smaller pieces.
From several feet away, still alive, the figure looks toward the squad, blood streaming from its mouth and nose. The lips part as it attempts to shriek, but all Parker hears is a shrill gurgling that forces another surge of blood out of its mouth. The figure rises to its forearms, one of which has a bone sticking out of it. Ignoring the pain, it struggles upright, the end of the broken arm flopping down. The infected swings a mangled leg forward, the limb flopping in front like a large wet noodle. Landing on the leg, it emits another gurgling scream, adding more blood to that already streaming off its chin, before it falls again to the ground.
Sickened beyond belief, Parker lifts her carbine, thumbing her selector switch to make sure it’s on auto. Shouldering the weapon, she fires a quick burst into the creature, the bullet impacts lifting the greasy hair and grimy shirt. The figure slumps and is still.
ARES Virus (Book 3): Phoenix Rising Page 9
