“Nomad, this is Catfish. Over.”
“Go ahead, Catfish.”
“Nomad, that first Huey managed to land in the parking lot across from the terminal. You’ve got several infected infantry moving through the building. We presume they’re engaging the civilians inside. Expect an attack from that direction any second now. We can’t tell who’s who, but if we can catch one in uniform, we’re going to take him out. Over.”
Dekker looked up at the terminal building worriedly. This wasn’t where he wanted to be. He regarded the SAW a third time. Even though he didn’t want to touch it, he couldn’t leave it behind for hostiles to recover, and the zoomies in the emplacement still had lots of ammo. He quickly ransacked the bodies, avoiding body fluids as much as possible. He boosted their magazines and one M4—the weapon was pretty much pristine, compared to his battle-tested campaigner—and grabbed their tags, as well. They were somebody’s kids, after all.
Next, he opened the SAW’s loading tray and pulled out the buffer spring. Since the weapon was still cocked and locked, the spring was under tension. As soon as he tugged on it, the spring uncoiled and flew out of the emplacement. He hopped out after it, hunkered down for a moment to ensure no one was going to guns on him, then scooped up the buffer spring and stuffed it in one of his pockets.
“Nomad, this is Six, I’m coming in. We’ve lost Nomad One and the first SAW emplacement. Alpha Two and Three, prep for ground attacks. If it’s coming your way, light it up. Break. Catfish, this is Nomad. Can you give me an ETA on close air? Over.” Dekker managed all of that while running across the tarmac toward the water-filled barriers that denoted the refuel area. The cover wasn’t much, but most of his troops were there, and he had a better chance living through the coming fight with them at his side.
“Nomad, this is Catfish. Tomcats Four and Five are less than one minute out. I’m in contact with them, and I gave them this freq. Over.”
“Roger, Catfish.”
“Nomad, Catfish. Sorry to brighten your day, but the locals have heard the fuss, and we have a strong element headed toward the airport. Looks like our days of keeping our heads down are over. Estimate OPFOR to be approximately three- to five-hundred strong and equipped with ground vehicles. Unable to get a visual on armaments, but expect whatever they’re bringing to hurt. Over.”
Fantastic. “Catfish, Nomad. Time to contact? Over.”
“Nomad, this is Catfish. Expect them to arrive on station in about five minutes. Over.”
“Nomad, this is Tomcat Four. Over.”
The new voice on the radio net sounded almost bored.
As he threw himself over the first line of barriers—no easy feat, given the weight of his gear—Dekker wondered how an attack pilot running on fumes could sound so blasé about what was occurring. Dekker landed on the other side of the plastic barriers with a thump.
“Uh, Tomcat, this is Nomad. Go ahead. Over.”
“Nomad, Tomcat. We can hose these guys for you if you want and hold up their advance. They’re about a mile south of the airport. We don’t have a lot of fuel left, so we can make a couple of passes with rockets, and then we’re done. We’ll need to recover at your location to take on some fuel. Over.”
“Roger all, Tomcat. It’s your call. We’ve got goblins on the ground here, so either way, it’s going to be a party. If you can bottle that remote element up for a bit, we can try to keep the refuel point secure, but no promises. You guys might get caught on the deck with the rest of us. Over.” After struggling with the weight of his rucksack, Dekker managed to rise to his knees. His kneepads scraped across the cement as he looked up over the bright jersey barriers, his rifle held at low ready.
“Nomad, this is Tomcat Four. Rog, we’ll treat this inbound column to some close-in gunnery and see how they like it. We’ll save some for the airfield. I’ll fire you a SITREP in a minute or so. Over.”
“Sounds good, Tomcat. Thanks. Over.”
To the left, two of his soldiers were heading toward him, crouching low. A staccato barrage of pops sounded as fifty caliber rounds cooked off in the flame that enveloped Nomad One’s dead MRAP. Behind him, the other MRAPs, their diesel engines idling, added to the cacophony with their M2s barking out an occasional burst.
“Lieutenant!” one of the cavalrymen shouted.
“Go ahead!”
“We’ve got dismounted infantry to our north!” the soldier reported. “Looks like that last Huey dropped ’em off just outside the fence! Hilbarger and Kent are trying to keep ’em pinned, but it’s not really working out too good!”
Dekker turned and looked to the north, past the refueling area the cavalry troops had secured. Two large hangers obscured most of his view, but another Air Force emplacement had been set up near the fence. If the Klowns came that way, they’d face another SAW, as well as an MRAP backing it up less than a hundred meters away. He could hear the pop-pop-pop of assault rifles chattering back and forth as his two soldiers shot it out with the Klowns.
“Nomad Three, you have Hilbarger and Kent in sight? Over!” Nomad Three was run by the platoon sergeant, an experienced sergeant first class named Heller.
“Six, this is Three. We have intermittent contact with them from this position. Over.”
“Three, this is Six. If you have the opportunity, roll over and give them some suppressing fire. We’ll have close air in just a few minutes, but they’ll need to refuel after a couple of passes. Over.”
“Roger, on that. Over.”
More gunfire sounded from the terminal building. Dekker saw figures moving around in the control tower, which sat just south of the terminal. He couldn’t tell who they were, but he saw rifles. Not a good sign. He shouted a warning to the two soldiers beside him, and as they looked up, the glass surrounding the control tower exploded outward. It wasn’t from hostile fire—but from one of the Black Hawks that orbited on the far side of the airport. The gunner had been sharp enough to take out the Klowns hoping to get the drop on the cavalrymen and airmen below.
“Catfish, thanks for the cover,” Dekker transmitted.
“Nomad, thank us later. There’s some bad juju going on in the terminal building. Some more good news, we’re seeing small groups heading toward the airfield. Don’t seem to be really synchronized, but we see weapons, from firearms to baseball bats. Given the body decorations, they’re not our kind of people. Over.”
“Catfish, give me some numbers. Over.”
“Nomad, call it fifty to sixty so far. Over.”
God damn. “Roger that, Catfish. How—”
Another burst of gunfire tore through the terminal’s few remaining windows. He looked at one of the soldiers crouching down behind the barriers with him and spotted a grenade launcher under the barrel of the guy’s M4.
“Hey, Ramirez. When they start massing to attack, hit them with some grenades.”
“Roger that, El-Tee,” the soldier responded.
The firing stopped. Silence reigned for a few seconds, broken only by intermittent gunfire and the constant throbbing of helicopters in flight. Dekker realized he didn’t hear the pounding of the remaining Huey, which he presumed meant it had either been downed or had retreated from the engagement area.
“Fitzpatrick, you have an M203?” he shouted to the soldier on the other side of Ramirez.
“Negative on that, El-Tee,” the man responded.
“Awesome,” Dekker murmured. They could have used another grenade launcher.
“Hey, you hear that, El-Tee?” Ramirez asked almost conversationally.
“Hear what?” Dekker asked.
Ramirez nodded toward the terminal building. “Laughing.”
Dekker lifted the ear cup off his left ear. Sure enough, he heard laughter, and the voices were getting louder.
“Get ready for it,” Dekker said, letting his ear cup fall back in place. “Nomad Two, you’re clear to engage at your discretion. Bravo Team, you’re cleared to engage as well. Keep eyes out. We’ve got goblins all ar
ound the perimeter now. Over.” Dekker glanced at the dun-colored MRAP that sat at the far end of the barrier line. In addition to its gunner, it was flanked by two cav troopers carrying M4s.
Both units rogered their responses.
Two minutes later, the first of the Klowns—civilians who had been infected, judging by their attire—started boiling out of the terminal building with hoots and hollers. Men, women, children, all giggling and tittering, cast their mad gazes across the airfield. Carrying anything from knives to chair legs to broken bottles, they surged toward the long line of orange barriers, feet slapping the tarmac as they ran.
Nomad Two’s M2 chattered immediately, cutting through the advancing crazies like a scythe through wheat, blasting body parts across the concrete. The Air Force emplacement opened up as well, pelting the exits with less impressive but still lethal 5.56-millimeter rounds. Dekker saw people falling to the ground just outside the exit, and those Klowns behind the first tripped and stumbled as they tried to pick their way across the corpses. The fifty roared again, kicking up explosions of dust as the rounds slashed their way across the asphalt, digging divots and ripping limbs off torsos. Dekker and the other troops hadn’t even started firing yet.
“Hey, maybe we’ll be able to save some grenades,” Ramirez shouted.
From the terminal building, something exploded with enough force to rattle the bits of glass remaining in the panes. A brief flash followed, and Dekker had an impression of something was speeding across the airfield, trailing a ribbon of fire behind it. Before he could move, Nomad Two exploded.
The force of the detonation ripped the M2 right off its mount, and the gunner flopped about in the open air cupola like a rag doll before slumping forward, his helmeted head bouncing off the rig’s thick armor. The two dismounted soldiers went down, screaming, as shrapnel tore across them, ripping open legs and arms and faces, anywhere that wasn’t armored.
“AT4s!” Dekker shouted. “They have AT4s! Hit the terminal building!” He raked a burst of full auto fire across the terminal building.
Too late. There was another booming explosion, and another fiery projectile ripped across the airfield and slammed into the Air Force emplacement, sending sandbags and airmen flying through the air. In less than two seconds, the firepower at the refueling area’s southern flank had been reduced to almost nothing. Another explosion, and a third AT4 rocket hurtled away from the terminal. It slammed into Nomad Two once again, a follow-on attack to ensure the big MRAP was out of the fight. The vehicle lurched to the side as the front left wheel was shorn off, and its diesel engine clattered and stalled, emitting dark smoke.
The Klowns emerged from the terminal building once more, a gigantic wave of at least fifty people. They carried anything that could be used as a weapon, and in their mix were soldiers. The infected Guardsmen shot on the run, and Dekker heard bullets slam into the water-filled jersey barriers near his position.
“Contact at the barriers!” Dekker called over the radio. “Ramirez, if you don’t fucking mind—”
“Out!” Ramirez shouted.
The M203 cracked as it spat out a forty-millimeter high-explosive round. The grenade grounded right in front of one of the terminal doors leading to the airfield and exploded, killing at least five or six Klowns immediately and gruesomely injuring a dozen more as they stampeded into the open. But more were behind them, and some stopped just long enough to pick up fallen rifles or other weapons.
Ramirez reloaded the M203 as the soldier beside him opened up with an M4, peppering the advancing Klowns with suppressive fire. Dekker fired a burst into the approaching Infected as well, and he was rewarded with the sight of two Klowns dropping to the concrete. He returned his attention to the terminal building. His biggest fear was of another rocket, or perhaps a machinegun attack. The Klowns in the helicopters had come ready to party, and that was really putting a hurting on Nomad.
Looking through the sight of his rifle, he saw movement inside the building. People in ACUs were walking around but not hurriedly. They carried weapons, including something tubular, probably another AT4. He fired on the figures, but he was at an extreme angle. He hit one, and the others shrank back, using an internal wall as cover. His rifle rounds weren’t likely to penetrate the barrier, but Dekker kept it up, hoping to fix them in place.
“Six, this is Three. Huey is returning, heading in from the east! I say again, red air inbound! Over!” Sergeant Heller’s voice was pitched unusually high, as he had to shout to be heard over the chattering fifty caliber weapon his rig was currently employing.
Dekker dropped his sights and fired on the Klowns closing on the barricades, trying to drive them back. His magazine went dry just as another forty-millimeter round exploded, sending human garbage flying in every direction. Ramirez had saved the day.
“Good shooting, Ramirez!” Dekker yelled as he swapped out magazines.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Ramirez sag against the barrier then fall over onto his back. The soldier’s legs twitched as he pissed himself, and Dekker realized Ramirez had been shot in the face.
Gunfire rained down on Dekker’s position. The Huey thundered past with the door gunner leaning out, his machinegun depressed as far as it would go. The gunner stitched a line of fire right in front of Dekker. The heavy rounds blew open one of the barriers, and a torrent of warm water gushed onto the concrete.
The gunner kept firing, slashing rounds through the line of barriers and ripping them open. He continued to the smoking hulk of Nomad Two, and Dekker caught a glimpse of the two wounded soldiers there being savaged by the gunner’s last salvo before the helicopter broke off, banking to the left.
The Huey exploded as a Hellfire missile slammed into it. The flaming wreckage tumbled end over end as it fell to earth, where it crashed into an intersection of taxiways, not far from where Nomad One continued to smolder.
Downrange, two objects raced toward the airport, rotors flashing in the sunlight—two AH-64D Longbow Apaches. Dekker had always thought the attack helicopters were one of man’s ugliest creations, but right then, they were lovelier than an image of Scarlett Johansson waiting for him in bed wearing nothing more than an inviting smile.
He straightened and fired at the approaching Klowns, who were ignoring all the activity. Only a few were left, so he and the other soldier managed to contain them, their M4s barking as they fired into them, dropping them where they stood.
“Tomcat, this is Nomad! Over!”
“Nomad, this is Tomcat. We’re on station, where do you need us? Over.”
“Tomcat, Nomad. If you can put a couple of Hellfires into the terminal building to our south, that would help a lot. Be advised, the Klowns have AT4s. Over!”
“Nomad, thanks for the heads-up. Roger that. Party in ten. Over.”
The Apaches slowed their approach and drifted to the right, keeping the building’s roof between them and any potential attackers. In less than ten seconds, one helicopter loosed a Hellfire. The missile climbed sharply upward then nosed down as it accelerated toward the terminal with a hissing roar.
The missile slammed through the roof, and a gigantic thunderclap ripped through the structure. A second Hellfire found its way to the target, and another explosion almost eviscerated the structure. One end of it collapsed into smoking ruin.
“Nomad, this is Tomcat. What’s the BDA from your side? Over,” the Apache pilot asked. BDA was Army shorthand for battle damage assessment. In short, the pilot was asking Dekker to declare the attack a success.
“Tomcat, slap another into the northern side of the building, just to be sure. Over,” Dekker replied. He looked to his left and saw the other soldier was tending to Ramirez. The fallen cavalry trooper was still moving, so that was a good sign.
“Another ten seconds on that, Nomad. You guys might want to keep your heads down, you’re going to get some blowback. Over.”
“Roger that, Tomcat.” Dekker got to his feet and sprinted over to the two soldiers. “Fitzpatric
k, we need to get Ramirez out of here!”
Together, they grabbed Ramirez’s harness straps and hauled him away, keeping to a low crouch as they moved. An M4 barked, and Dekker saw another soldier from his unit had climbed into the bed of one of the snowplows and was giving them covering fire. Another explosion ripped through the terminal building, sending a shockwave of debris rocketing across the airfield. Something inside the ravaged building started to burn, and thick, acrid smoke rose into the air.
“Nomad Three, SITREP!” Dekker shouted into the radio.
“Nomad Three, we’re holding up over here. Charlie Emplacement is still secure. These fuckers aren’t showing any fear. They’re running right up to the fence where we can shoot ’em. Over.”
“Roger that, Three. Maintain your scans. Don’t let them flank you. Break. Nomad Four, SITREP. Over.”
“Six, this is Nomad Four. We’re engaged at this time with intermittent contacts. Looks like they’re trying a flanking move. Over.”
“Four, any chance you can break off? Ramirez is down. I want to put him in your vehicle. Over.”
“Ah, tall order, Six. Your call. Over.”
Dekker thought about that. He was down to around nine troops now including himself, which meant holding the refueling site was more than just a dicey proposition. As he and the other soldier dragged Ramirez into the area, another soldier ran toward them—Sergeant Edwards, the platoon medic. He was a skinny, narrow-featured black kid from South Carolina.
Dekker spoke into his radio. “Four, hold your pos. Will get back to you. Over.”
“Roger, Six.”
“How bad’s he hit?” Edwards asked.
“Took a round to the face,” the other soldier said.
“Get him out of the open, guys,” Edwards said, pointing toward the lee of a nearby building.
Dekker and the other soldier dragged Ramirez to the shade of the building. When Edwards crouched over Ramirez, Dekker turned to look at Nomad Two. The MRAP was canted to one side, still smoking. It wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.
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