“The phrase ‘tactical position’ does not mean bend over and spread ’em,” Foster advised.
“I’ll pass that on to your mom and sister,” Murphy said, moving off to stand thirty feet from the Humvee’s front bumper. He took a knee, the stock of his rifle pulled into his armpit.
Muldoon strolled toward the vehicle, accompanied by a shorter man whose nametape read NUTTER.
“’Sup, Duke?” Murphy asked.
“My johnson,” Muldoon said. He marched past the soldier and advanced toward Lee and the others. “Looks like we’re your new security detail,” he said to Lee.
“Is that so?” Lee asked.
Turner nodded.
“Muldoon’s platoon is severely understrength, down to about a squad. I figured it would be a good idea to pull together a silver bullet element to keep the Klowns off you, sir.”
“It’s a bullshit duty,” Muldoon said.
“Duke, take it easy, man,” Nutter said.
Turner was on Muldoon in an instant, getting right in the bigger man’s face. “What the fuck did you just say?”
Muldoon didn’t bat an eye. “I said, ‘it’s a bullshit duty,’ Sergeant Major. Hearing issues, much?”
Turner grinned. “Son, you are going to get severely fucked up.”
“That’s enough,” Lee said, stepping forward. “Back off. Both of you.”
Neither man moved, so Lee pushed in between them, physically separating the two as Nutter grabbed Muldoon’s pack and pulled him away, and another NCO did the same with Turner. Turner shrugged the guy off and glared up at Muldoon. He was the battalion command sergeant major, and Muldoon, for all his skills at war craft, was making a serious mistake in pushing Turner’s buttons.
“Muldoon, you will stop being a fucking prick,” Lee said. “You’re in the Army, and you’re not some four-star general. You’re a fucking E-5. Your missions get picked for you. When did this not become clear?”
Muldoon looked at Lee and grinned.
Lee wasn’t going to take it. “Got something to add?”
Muldoon looked as though he wanted to say something, then the smile faded from his face, and he shook his head. “No, sir. I’m good to go.”
“Then unless you’re here to get additional direction or make a report, return to your men and make sure they’re squared away,” Turner said. “We’re not going to have this conversation again, Sergeant. You need to be one thousand percent clear on that.”
“I’m clear on it, Sergeant Major,” Muldoon said then turned to Lee. “Anything else, sir?”
“You’re free to go, Sergeant.” Lee returned Muldoon’s salute, and the big sergeant stalked off. Nutter followed, looking back at Lee apologetically.
Lee asked Turner, “What the hell was that about?”
Turner sighed. “Muldoon and I have never gotten along, sir. I apologize for the theatrics, but we have differing philosophies on how a soldier should comport himself in combat.”
“Muldoon always did right by me,” Lee said. “Mostly.”
“He’s smart and has no fear,” Turner said, “but usually not at the same time.”
Another Humvee pulled over, and more soldiers emerged. Lee watched as Major Walker climbed out of the vehicle and looked around, clutching his assault rifle. Walker saw Lee and made a beeline for him.
“How’s it going, Walker?” Lee asked when the major was within earshot.
Walker presented him with a ghost of a smile, and shook his head. “It’s going, and that’s about all I can say about that. You have a second for me, sir?”
“Sure.” Lee looked at Turner. “Hold the fort, Sarmajor.”
“Yes, sir,” Turner replied.
Lee and Walker moved away from the vehicles a bit under the watchful eye of the soldiers providing area security. Lee kicked at a rock in the field, and watched as a grasshopper bounded away.
“So I guess the whole thing about making you a lieutenant colonel kind of blew up in our faces,” Walker said. “Someone talked. Any idea who it might be?”
Lee shook his head. “No. Not really. It’s not important, anyway.”
“In retrospect, it was a dumb thing to do. A lot of the troops aren’t happy with it, and that could cost us,” Walker said.
“Turner’s good to go with it,” Lee said. “We’ll let him square away the rest of the NCOs. We just need to keep the rest of the officers in line.” He looked at Walker, who stood beside him, sweating in the sun. “I own this, Walker. Not you. No one held a gun to my head and told me to assume the rank.”
Walker gave Lee that faint smile again. “Well, holding you at gunpoint was one of my contingency plans.”
Lee snorted and shook his head. “It’s done. I’ll deal with it. Don’t sweat it, Major. I’ll take the heat.” He knew that’s what Walker wanted to hear.
“I’ll take some of the heat with you,” Walker surprised him by saying. “It’s not like I wasn’t involved. You’re not in it alone.”
Lee was impressed. “Thanks.”
“Free of charge.”
Overhead, an Apache dropped out of the formation and descended toward the field. Lee waved Turner over before he pulled his goggles over his eyes as the attack helicopter came in for a landing, its wheels rolling briefly through the grass before coming to a halt in the center of an expanding cloud of dust. The pilot in the front seat unstrapped and pushed open the canopy door on the right side of the cockpit, then he climbed out. He ran across the field to where Lee and Walker waited. It was Major Fleischer, the attack battalion commander. Lee started to salute him—old habits died hard—but he checked himself before his hand raised above waist level. Fleischer saw it anyway, and the action caused him to delay his own salute. He finally did so, snapping his fingers to the rim of his oversized flight helmet.
Lee returned the salute.
“What’s happening, Major?”
“Contact with Drum, sir,” Fleischer said.
Lee was surprised. “What?”
“Yes, sir. Contact with Drum over satcom. Authentication codes checked out. Voice-to-voice with Mountaineer Five.”
Lee frowned. Mountaineer Five was the deputy commanding general of the 10th Mountain Division, a brigadier general named Salvador. That it was Salvador and not Major General McLaren who was making the call was odd, but the world was suddenly a very odd place.
“You’re kidding,” Turner said. “Sir, are you sure about who you talked to?”
Fleischer looked at Turner and shrugged. “No—I’m not sure. But whoever it was didn’t sound infected. No laughing, but definitely a lot of fighting going on. And they had the right codes, which means the aviation liaison officer is still alive to provide them.”
“Okay, what did they say?” Lee asked.
“Aviation units are to return to Drum as soon as possible,” Fleischer replied. “The post is pretty much overrun. Klowns are everywhere, and they’re well armed. The fort has essentially fallen, but Salvador is leading what’s left. He needs us on station to provide fire support and CAS.”
Lee exchanged a glance with Turner then asked, “So you’ve been ordered to leave the column?”
Fleischer nodded. “Yes, sir. Seems legit. You’ve also been ordered to proceed at full speed to the post and assist in combat operations. From the picture I got, this battalion is the only one left outside of Drum. All units in New York are gone.” The aviator paused. “I can leave a couple of units behind, but we’ll need to pull almost everything we have left out, including Catfish. I was asked to see if you could spare some troops, as well.”
“Troops?”
Fleischer nodded. “For defensive operations, sir.”
Lee considered that. Losing their top cover as well as a platoon of lightfighters would cost the column dearly. The battalion had already taken a pounding, and it had barely made a hundred miles yet. Every refueling stop took an hour, and more often than not, they had to repel attacks at the same time. The only saving grace was they weren’
t encountering much infected military any longer, even when they had rolled past Fort Devens, a reserve component training center. The attacks that were mounted against them, while savage and occasionally effective, were no longer backed up by hardware and tactics.
“I advise against sending any troops, sir,” Turner said.
“Why’s that?” Lee asked.
“We have no idea what we’ll run into between here and Drum, sir. We’ve already lost more than a few troops. Reducing our footprint is only going to make us easier to kill.”
“I think I agree with the sergeant major,” Fleischer said. “You’ve got a few hundred miles ahead of you, and you’re going to need every joe you can get. Plus, by the time you get there, Drum might be gone. We have to plan for that.”
“That’s correct, we do,” Lee said. “Once you’re over the horizon, Major, we’ll lose contact with you guys. You’ll be operating without a ground element. You ready for that?”
Fleischer shrugged. “Not really, no. But it’s not like I have much of a choice. As far as I can tell, the order’s legal. And to tell you the truth, my family’s there.” He waved at the waiting Apache. “We need to pull pitch and get out of here. Everyone’s been refueled, so we’re going to make for the airfield at Pittsfield, just east of the border with New York. If we can refuel there, that’ll get us enough range to get to Drum.”
“Roger that,” Lee said. “Anything else for us, Major?”
Fleischer shook his head. “Only this, and then that’s it from me.” He handed Lee a piece of paper.
Lee looked at it. There were several radio frequencies written on it, with call signs for the divisional elements still operational at Drum. Lee nodded, folded the paper, and shoved it into a pocket.
“Give ’em hell,” he told Fleischer.
Fleischer nodded and saluted. “Same to you, sir. Same to you.”
He then turned and ran back to the waiting Apache.
Lee looked at the soldiers around him.
“Okay, let’s get back on the road.”
TWENTY-ONE.
All roads led to Hell.
The column moved through Massachusetts as quickly as possible, stopping only when absolutely necessary. As the daylight dwindled, great flocks of carrion birds—crows, hawks, turkey buzzards, even stately eagles—filled the sky, converging on the greatest sites of carnage. The birds were of use; they told the battalion where it was safe to go, for the presence of so many dead meant the Klowns had already gone through the area, killing in a frenzy.
Destruction was everywhere. Cities and larger towns were nothing more than flaming wreckage, home to only rotting, defiled bodies and the animals that fed on them. Huge clouds of flies converged upon them, darkening the sky like some errant, haphazard rain. The battalion avoided the cities at all costs. Not only was the risk of engagement higher, so was the potential for infection by insects. Though there was no evidence to suggest the Bug could be transmitted by such simple hosts, avoidance was the order of the day.
Smaller towns fared better, though death had touched them all. The bodies of the infected lay in their streets, more often than not surrounded by those they had sought to contaminate. And on occasion, the convoy passed fortified farm houses, their windows boarded up, surrounded by sand bags. Several of those were encircled by rings of dead Klowns, shot down as they had attacked. The hardy souls inside these dwellings never called out to the convoy as it snaked past. They were either dead, or hardened enough to take their chances where they were.
As night took reign, the convoy continued on. Operating under the cover of darkness made things marginally easier; even though the Klowns still attacked, still drew blood, they were more easily slain by a unit that was well-equipped for nocturnal combat. In those areas where the Klowns set up ambushes, the advantage of night vision and heavy weaponry proved invaluable. Even the mortar team had some fun, popping altitude explosives into the air that emitted bright bursts of infrared light which allowed the lightfighters to visualize their targets as if they were in the middle of a bright, cloudless day. The Klowns paid a heavy price.
Still, they came.
And died.
The night grew deeper, and the horizon was lit by the glow of distant fires as towns and cities burned, consumed by maelstroms of violence-fueled fire.
The convoy continued on. Into the dark maw of death.
TWENTY-TWO.
“Sir, you’re out of your fucking mind,” Turner said, his voice a low rumble.
“Yeah, that is kind of new for you,” Muldoon added.
Lee looked at the two men in the dim glow of the sliver moon that hovered high overhead. The convoy had finally come to a halt, three miles from the boundary of Fort Drum. To their south, the town of Watertown was a lunatic’s shooting gallery.
“Guys, I don’t understand the problem here,” he said.
“It’s pretty simple, sir. You’re the commanding officer. You don’t lead from the front,” Turner said.
“Going on a recon is hardly ‘leading from the front,’” Lee said. “Besides, I held two phase lines and came under attack both times. This isn’t any riskier. At least this time, we’ll be mobile and have the ability to maneuver.”
“You want to be a captain, then that’s fine. Execute some recon missions,” Turner said. “You want to be a lieutenant colonel, you’re going to have to learn to stand off and watch.”
Lee grunted, but he understood. While it wasn’t unheard of for field grade officers to venture to the forward lines and do some real work, that kind of mission usually rested with company grade officers. Lee had several good ones at his disposal, along with a menagerie of noncommissioned officers possessed of refined fieldcraft that left his in the dust. But in his mind, Lee was still an operator. While he was an officer, at his core he still believed in walking the walk, not just talking the talk. And it was time to do something other than huddle up inside his Humvee and wait for Death to rap its knuckles on the uparmored door and invite him to step outside for one final dance.
“I appreciate your opinion, Sergeant Major,” Lee told Turner. “But we’re all in this one up to our necks. We need to know what we’re up against.”
“Not in disagreement about the mission, sir, just with you personally leading it,” Turner said. “Hell, I’ll do it. I’ve got a lot of miles on my odometer. This kind of stuff is second nature to me.”
Lee shook his head. “You’re the man with the institutional knowledge here, Sergeant Major. Of the two of us, you’re the least expendable.”
“Sir, I’m a soldier—”
“With almost thirty years of experience. A shame to waste it, or even worse, you get infected and then all that knowledge and expertise gets handed to the Klowns. Right?”
“Cuts both ways, sir,” Turner said firmly.
“Colonel, maybe we should make another pass with the drones.” Major Walker said. He was leaning against Lee’s Humvee, his arms crossed over his harness and body armor. He wore his MOPP overgarment, but the mask hung from his belt.
“How many passes will be enough, Major?” Lee asked. “We’ve already gotten good optics on the area. We’re clear on this side of the Black River, and the part of the post across from us appears to be deserted. But we need to get eyes on target in order to find the enemy’s main body, and we can’t have the drones flying all night long.”
“I understand the desire to act, but I’d argue for a more conservative approach,” Walker said. “We have other troops who can do this mission and probably just as well as—”
“Stop worrying, people. I’ve got John Wayne with me.” Lee pointed at Muldoon, who rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“And who are you supposed to be, sir?” Turner asked. “Jimmy Stewart?”
“I had him pegged for Dean Martin,” Muldoon said. “Just not as drunk. Unless you’d like to make a confession here, sir.”
Lee made the decision final. “I think we’re done,” he said. “Walker, you hav
e operational control of the battalion until my return. Lean on Sergeant Major Turner here if things get tough, and don’t forget the company commanders. They’re all warfighters, and they’re ready to close with the enemy and kill him if he gets too close.”
“Roger that,” Walker said, but there wasn’t much enthusiasm in his voice.
“We’ll have the drones up in the air, sir,” Turner said. “We’ll keep eyes on you for as long as we can. But maybe instead of trying to sneak in, you could just radio Mountaineer Five and tell him we’re in the neighborhood?”
Explosions erupted in the distance, followed by a long volley of gunfire. Fifty cals and if Lee wasn’t mistaken, some Vulcan twenty-millimeter cannon fire. There were no aircraft in the sky other than the drones, and the chances they were being engaged by the Vulcans was negligible. The Ravens were just too small to be seen at night. That meant the folks at Drum were using air defense weaponry against ground targets. Mixed in with all of that were volleys of small-arms fire.
“We can’t be sure Mountaineer is still alive and that his TOC hasn’t been compromised,” Lee said. “I want to put eyes on target before we make any calls.”
TWENTY-THREE.
Rawlings crawled up the muddy river bank, shivering in the night air. Even though the night was warm one—well over seventy degrees and humid as hell—the waist-high water of the Black River was icy cold, and the rushing river’s embrace had sucked away a great deal of her body heat as she and the rest of the soldiers forded the tributary, holding their weapons over their heads.
She had been issued night vision goggles—those had been taken from one of the fallen—as well as body armor and a full lightfighter kit. She struggled beneath the weight of all the gear. While she was no dainty kitchen fairy and was used to physical labor—her job with the National Guard had been to keep heavy equipment running, and that involved a lot of heavy lifting—humping a hundred pounds of gear across a fairly swift-moving river was no easy task.
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