The hilly terrain suddenly opens into a wide valley with the mountains on the far side rising majestically from the Columbia River Basin. Low-lying clouds shroud the peaks, the darker gray ones threatening rain. The pilot pulls back on the stick, the nose rising with the rotors biting into the air. Settling into a hover, he waits for the others to join.
On line, they move out of the valley entrance and sweep over the small town. Infected pour from the three distinct residential areas and are gunned down in the streets. Tracers merge with the ground, smashing into flesh and bone. A flurry of sparks flash along the pavement, ricochets plowing into homes and parked vehicles. Rockets sequentially leave tubes mounted on wing pods, slamming into houses and small businesses. The onslaught is swift and devastating. Many infected are taken down as soon as they exit the buildings.
It’s over within minutes, plumes billowing only to be whisked away in the strong winds. Maimed bodies lie sprawled along the streets, blood running along the curved surfaces toward the drainage systems. Businesses like The Cannabis Corner go up in smoke. Several gunships loiter over the ravaged city, searching for any remaining infected. Others peel off in both directions, most up and down the highways on both sides of the river to prevent infected from approaching the dam.
Wary of the power lines crossing the river, Captain Mathews banks the Viper up the river, heading toward the first of the three islands connected by the dam and two power stations. Several infected are gathered in the middle of Cascades Island, brought out by the volume of noise from the attack on the city a mile downstream. The Gatling gun spins up, a stream of tracers throwing up dirt in the midst of infected. The dust is quickly blown away in the stiff breeze, seven bodies lying motionless on the soil.
“We have more on the south road, crossing the dam,” the gunner states.
Mathews pushes on the foot pedal, swinging the gunship around. A line of infected are running across the top of the dam. Mindful of the structures on top, Mathews waits until the infected clear the last building before opening fire. The helicopter vibrates even more as heavy caliber rounds streak toward their targets. Mists of red rise from within the heavy barrage. Some infected are thrown from the top; following a long fall, they vanish into the churning waters below. Others are pushed along the top of the dam, coming to rest against concrete walls.
More infected race their way from the far side islands and shore. Mathews patiently waits for them to enter his kill zone. Quick bursts send many over the lakeside edge, where they float in the water and mix with the other debris piled against the dam. More are added to the tumultuous waters on the other side. The kill zone is painted with red streaks and twisted bodies lying atop the dam. Without seeing any further infected, he and his wingman patrol the islands and shorelines.
* * * * * * *
Bonneville Dam, Oregon/Washington
November 5
Sergeant Parker steps from the ramp onto the gritty soil of the island. Smoke rolls overhead, driven by the winds from the burning town in the distance. Ragged clouds flow past, some sticking to the peaks across the wide river. A pair of gunships prowls above the three islands, their nearness reassuring.
The roar of the vast volume of water rushing from the dam overwhelms any other sound, which will make if next to impossible to hear the screams of infected should any still be in the area. Nearby is evidence of the gunships at work, several pummeled bodies lying amid chewed-up soil. To Parker, it looks as if they were deflated renditions of actual people, their bones shattered by the gunships.
Spaced apart with their weapons out and ready, one platoon forms up and heads toward the power station on the Washington side. A minute later, she leads her squad toward the main dam. Their destination is the second powerhouse on the Oregon side of the river.
Approaching the dam road, she sees the devastation visited upon the infected. The concrete road is pockmarked from the shells with fresh red splatters covering the short walls and pooling on the roadway itself. Ruined bodies lie packed into corners, shattered limbs separated and scattered. Ropes of purple are strung in long lines where the shells ripped into torsos and then pushed the bodies away. Bits of flesh and hair cling to the concrete walls, glued by fatty tissues and blood. It’s a grim scene they’ll have to traverse.
Past the ruin, several Marines take trips to the railing to peer over the edge to the churning waters far below. It’s human nature to stare over the sides of dams. The roar is immense. Rainbows form in the mists when the sun peeks through the heavy clouds. Further downstream, Parker makes out the small lumps of floating bodies, driven further away by the strong current. Looking over the opposite edge, she spies other bodies among logs and debris piled against the sides. Readjusting her carbine, she rejoins her squad as they make their way across the enormous edifice that is the Bonneville Dam.
The top of the second power station is lined with power relays and high-tension lines. The high-voltage lines arc away from the facility, held up on tall steel pylons along the shore. The squad searches the middle island without finding any additional infected; the buildings are quickly cleared. The inside of the power station isn’t like anything Parker had imagined. Most of the facility is open, with the gigantic turbines mounted on the floor of a large room. Glass windows allow the turbines to be viewed from different angles and levels. She had imagined narrow concrete tunnels with strings of bare bulbs to dimly light the way. The only infected she encounters are long dead, trapped within sealed control rooms. It’s much the same as her first venture onto Whidbey Island: dead infected trapped inside of rooms they were unable to escape.
Emerging back into the open, she’s glad she didn’t have to fight hordes of infected racing through a maze of tunnels. More helicopters land on the island, technicians exiting to perform their magic.
* * * * * * *
Anacortes, Washington
November 9
Five hundred feet above the choppy waters of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, Lieutenant Commander Kingsley sharply banks the Super Hornet. One wing tips straight down toward the deep blue waters, the other upward to the gloomy gray clouds not far overhead. Since the all-clear was given six days ago, the two carriers stationed off the coast have been launching and recovering aircraft nonstop. Kingsley has lost count of the number of sorties he and his flight have conducted over the past days as they’ve chased down the remnants of the infected.
Rolling out just to the west of the naval air station, he lines up his attack fighter for the initial point and inbound run. Even now, some ten days after the warheads struck the gathered infected, faint plumes of smoke drift upward from around the sound. Those mix with darker columns from more recent bombings. The past days’ strikes were concentrated on the areas east and north of Seattle, south of Olympia, and any remnants around Victoria. Today, the focus is on the vacation islands north of Whidbey.
“Talon zero one, initial point,” Kingsley relays to combat control.
He pushes the throttles up, accelerating the aircraft to five hundred and forty knots. The hornet responds instantly, pushing him back into his seat. Below, the white-crested waves pass in a near blur. The current target is the airfield supporting Anacortes, where the helicopters have gathered infected from within the island town. Kingsley streaks past a couple of smaller islands just offshore as he picks up the runway.
“Talon zero two, initial,” his wingman calls.
Kingsley makes small adjustments to his flight path, aligning with the runway that is barely visible beneath a throng of infected covering the open areas. He makes a last minute check, ensuring the weapons slung on pylons under the wings are armed and that the choppers have cleared out of the area. The target marker is set for the open area just before the runway threshold. Once released, the cluster bombs will open up on the leading edge of the horde and march down the runway. Subsequent releases by the other three members of his flight will cover the rest of the airfield, with the gunships closing in afterward to clean up any remnants.<
br />
Swooping over residential housing, Kingsley toggles the two CBU canisters free. The weapons officer signals a clean release and Kingsley pulls back on the stick. Banking the aircraft while climbing away, he looks back over his shoulder to watch as two strings of flashes erupt and march through the gathered throng. Circling offshore, he watches as his wingmen deliver their ordinance in thirty second intervals.
Gathering his flight, he looks back to the smoldering airfield, the rising smoke carried away by the wind. Where once infected screamed at their inability to get to the airborne prey, ruined bodies now cover the fields, taxiways, ramps, and runway. Kingsley alerts combat control that they’re clear; he is ordered to return to the carrier to rearm and refuel, ready for yet another target.
* * * * * * *
Captain Mathews watches as the attack jets sweep over the field, plumes of smoke following each of their bombing runs. It took him and several other Vipers most of the morning to gather the infected in the large city. The forested hills splitting the city in two presented a problem and they had to herd those they gathered around the northern tip. It took them hours to gather the infected, and only two minutes to tear them apart.
“Those cluster bombs really do the job,” his gunner says as they close in on the airfield.
“I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end, that’s for sure,” Mathews replies.
As they approach, he sees the shredded remains of thousands of infected lying on the ground. There are so many stacked that it’s difficult to make out any single one. Smoldering pockets of smoke drift upward from among the bodies. Most of the clothing is darkened by the explosions or deeply stained by blood. Faces are torn apart from the explosive forces, limbs lying separated from bodies.
As Mathews searches for any still living, a few look as if nothing at all happened, like they just tripped and fell over. He picks up movement from near the edge of the field, a couple of infected crawling across the ground toward the safety of the nearby trees.
More than likely trying to crawl away from the pain, Mathews thinks, lining up the gunship.
The chin-mounted chain gun spins, spitting out large caliber rounds. He watches as tracers stream toward the ground, throwing up clods of dirt and grass as they impact on and around the wounded infected. As they hit the bodies, the force of the heavy projectiles drives them deeper into the ground. Light smoke from the quick burst blows away from the front of the gunship. The wounded all lay still, bones, flesh, and internal organs smashed. Mathew rotates the Viper and slowly moves across the field of dead. The air is broken sporadically with buzz saw sounds, signaling a transition from wounded to dead for any remaining infected.
“Where’s our next target?” Mathews asks.
“Friday Harbor on one of the other islands,” the gunner replies.
* * * * * * *
Whidbey Island Naval Air Station, Washington
November 11
Kingsley flies up initial, the rest of his flight tucked into a tight echelon formation. Below, the airfield is a hive of activity as helicopters land supplies, Marines, and crew. All around the sound, smoke drifts from the strikes delivered day and night for the past week. Two days ago, the last of the infected were hammered into the ground by roving gunships. Both recon flights and satellite footage failed to find a single heat source for a hundred plus miles around the island, prompting a full scale migration from the boats to shore.
At midfield, Kingsley chops the throttles and banks the aircraft into a tight turn, rolling out on a downwind leg. Slowing, he drops his gear and sets the flaps to fifty percent. At the perch, a forty-five degree angle from the runway threshold, he sets full, drops the nose, and rolls into a descending bank.
The aircraft rocks slightly as the wheels come into contact with the pavement, white smoke roiling as the tires transition instantly from a slow roll to a high speed one. Pulling clear of the active runway, Kingsley pops the canopy up, taxiing slowly to give the others a chance to pull in behind. The air is filled with incoming jets and helicopters. Still having to wear protective gear reminds him that it’s not over, but they have carved out a place. This time, they’re here to stay.
* * * * * * *
Whidbey Island Naval Air Station, Washington
November 12
A chill wind blows across the tarmac where thousands have gathered in loose formations. Good-natured ribbing is evidence of the high spirits among the Marines and Navy crews. They’ve worked hard for this moment, enduring countless days and nights of sleeplessness, along with the ever present tension. Thoughts of loved ones are still strong within many, sorrow rising during moments of downtime. Overhead, clouds race across the skies, driven by cold winds coming directly off the straits.
“Aatteeen-shun!” a voice calls over a loud speaker.
The ranks instantly quieten, the slap of feet coming together and arms snapping to the sides. In front, in full dress whites, Admiral Stevens steps up to the podium set up at the edge of the tarmac.
“At ease,” he says.
“I want us to take a moment of silence to remember those we lost in this battle for humanity.”
The group bows their heads in silence, the only sound the snapping of the wind whipping against pant legs and shirtsleeves.
“Now, we’ve all lost loved ones, but I want to thank each and every one of you for your dedication. I say this in all seriousness, we could not have accomplished what we did without you. That’s not just for the combat crews, that’s for everyone. You are truly professionals and I’m proud to serve with you,” the admiral says, stepping aside from the podium and saluting the mass of gathered troops.
“I’m not going to make some long-winded speech so you can marvel at my wisdom and wonder how I’m so damn funny. This day is yours. We’ve tested the air here and for a hundred miles inland over the past twelve hours, and found it free of contamination. Again, you did that. So, without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, you may remove your masks,” the admiral states, removing his own.
Along the ranks, protective gear is removed, some masks tossed into the air as if at a graduation. Enthusiastic chatter drifts among the formations, shivers of excitement running up the backs of many. The relief of being able to breathe freely on their homeland for the first time in what seems like years is beyond belief. The indication and significance is that they’ve arrived home.
“One last item. I’d like each of you to look to your left. For those of you confused as what left is, ahem, Marines, that’s the hand you scratch your ass with,” the admiral comments.
Past the runway, past the thin strip of sand separating the shore from the salt water, out in the waters, two large carriers sail through the strait. Bow waves push outward from the mammoth gray hulls as they make their way toward the port at Bremerton. Several destroyers and cruisers sail closely by. The long, deep wail of horns carries across the waters, reverberating off the surrounding hills. The crowd on the tarmac is silent as they watch the huge ships pass by the island, more than one hardened veteran with tears streaming down their cheeks at the sight.
Chapter Seventeen
San Diego, California
November 8
Admiral Gettins looks through the high-powered binoculars, staring across the large expanse of ocean toward San Diego. From his vantage point, he isn’t able to see much of the city beyond the breakwater hiding the naval port facilities. The tops of the tall downtown buildings rise above the residences and airfield, the windows glinting in reflected sunlight.
Lowering the glasses, Gettins sighs deeply. He knows that clearing the infected from the San Diego area isn’t going to be easy. The vastness of the city makes it seem like an impossible operation. There are some three million infected within the city and surrounding area, along with a further two million across the border in Tijuana.
I may have made a mistake thinking we can take San Diego, he thinks.
Part of the problem is that he doesn’t want to use up most of t
he remaining neutron warheads. If they were using nukes, they have more than enough to destroy every infected across the globe several times over, but that would leave them without a clean place to go, turning the earth into a desolate wasteland. That makes the neutron warheads immensely valuable, and they can’t afford to use them ineffectively.
The warm sands with the gently rolling waves are inviting, and the port facilities beyond even more so. Still, the absolute immensity of the populated area is giving him doubts. The areas surrounding Seattle are nothing compared to the daunting task that he’s set for himself. Up north, they used half of the warheads to subdue the infected. He initially thought they could get away with using less here, but seeing the target zone is much different than planning its demise. Observing the city directly puts the immensity into perspective. If they want the port facilities, they’ll have to use most of what they have remaining. Even the most optimistic scenarios they scared up will require a minimum of nine warheads, leaving only six remaining. Aside from the naval facilities, the thing that makes the area inviting is the possibility that, once cleared, they’ll be shielded by the surrounding terrain.
Walking from the starboard side bridge wing, Gettins makes his way down to one of the planning rooms. Officers around a central table all rise upon his entrance, the room filled with the groan of chairs, fabric stretching when he tells them to be seated. Taking his own seat, he opens a folder set before him, glancing at the synopsis placed on top.
“OK ladies and gentlemen, let’s get started. Operations up north are proceeding against the infected remaining following the neutron strikes and should be completed within the next few days. As you know, the warheads were used with great effectiveness. I plan to use them here as well. However, the circumstances are different and I’d like to save some of that arsenal in case shit falls apart and we need to relocate. The sheer number of infected here and the overall size of the cities dictates that we look at additional options. So, with that in mind, let’s take a look at what you’ve come up with,” Gettins states.
ARES Virus (Book 3): Phoenix Rising Page 24
