Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  “Bring the pain, baby!” replied Deuce.

  The next thing Chad knew, Garza had tackled him. “Keep your head down, sir! This is gonna be nasty!”

  “What—”

  Chad’s question was cut short by the tremendous roar of a side-mounted mini-gun spewing fire and death from a hundred feet above them. Brass casings rained down on the Rangers through the snow as the sounds of the gun battle were quickly silenced by a throaty bbrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaww.

  Chad lay buried under Garza but could just barely see the tongue of fire stretching from the side of the helicopter as it maneuvered along the line of battle and decimated the North Koreans. It was the most awesome and terrifying display of raw power he had ever seen.

  Time slowed down for Chad. He could feel each heartbeat take what seemed like a minute as his mind processed the impossible scene. His vision focused tightly on the helicopter. He could see the snow gently swirling under the power of the helicopter’s rotors, the shiny brass casings tumbling through the air, the jet of fire and the noise…it was simply surreal.

  In a few seconds, it was over and the mini-gun wound down, its roar now overshadowed by the helicopter’s rotors once more. Time sped back up to normal and Garza rolled off Chad laughing.

  “That was fucking awesome! Beautiful!”

  “Stand clear, Hammer 2, Anvil is putting down on your six. IR shows negative tangos.”

  “Jesus!” said Deuce, peeking over the redoubt. “Bodies everywhere…look at that, man,” he said, gasping with laughter. “Blew the freakin’ trees apart like toothpicks!”

  “Hoo-fuckin-aah!” shouted Zuka.

  Chad, however, was quite simply shocked into silence. Garza and Deuce half supported, half carried him across the ten yards through the blinding maelstrom of snow kicked up by the Black Hawk perched delicately on the frozen ground. They tossed him gently through the open, side door. The side-gunner grinned under his bulbous green flight helmet and face shield and pulled Chad into a jump-seat next to the door.

  “So you’re the guy, huh?” he asked, shouting in Chad’s ear over the thrum of the Black Hawk’s idling engines. “Hang in there, sir, we’re gonna get you out of here.” He finished buckling Chad in and slapped him on the shoulder before moving to check on the Rangers piling into the aircraft.

  Captain Alston, his white camo smeared dark red, struggled through pain to help lift Deacon’s limp body on board the helicopter. Garza and two others climbed up to secure their fallen comrade. Deuce then helped his CO up into the aircraft. The last Ranger took one final look around and sat on the edge of the door, rifle trained out and gave the thumbs-up sign to the gunner.

  “Back check, sir. We’re all set, let’s go!” said the gunner into the microphone stalk protruding from his flight helmet. He pulled a strap down from overhead and connected a large silver carabiner clip to the back of Deuce’s combat vest and slapped his helmet. The big Ranger gave a thumbs-up over his shoulder and continued scanning the snow for threats.

  The gunner then swung the mini-gun he had used to annihilate the North Koreans back into position and kept his hands on the twin grips, ready to fire again as the Black Hawk began to power up for dust-off.

  Chad guessed it had been no more than a minute since the helicopter touched down before he found himself strapped to a seat. Less than another minute and he felt the roller-coaster sensation of being pulled straight into the air as the engines whined and the Black Hawk leapt into the sky.

  “What’s his story?” yelled Captain Alston to the gunner. He pointed at the man in a flight suit sitting next to Chad. Chad turned his head and saw that the man had pilot’s wings on his uniform and was not just sitting, but hogtied to the jump seat and looked to be spitting mad. He had been gagged and strapped tightly to his chair, a nasty black and blue bruise forming on the side of his head.

  “Co-pilot commandeered the aircraft and brought ‘er down.” The gunner jerked a thumb toward the tied-up man. “He’s the pilot—said our orders were to observe and report, but not to interfere. That’s some bullshit, right there! He replaced Captain Munn just before takeoff, really weird-like.” The man shook his head, the big green helmet making him look like a frog.

  “Why’s that?” hollered Captain Alston.

  “Something about last minute order change,” the gunner replied over the noise of the engine and the roaring wind. “I don’t know what the whole story is, but he,” the gunner said, pointing at the tied-up pilot, “sure didn’t want to pick you guys up. The Co-Pilot, Lt. Travers, cold-cocked him with his sidearm and took command. Ain’t never seen shit like this before,” he laughed, shaking his head. With a nod toward the cockpit, he continued: “The LT had me light ‘em up for ya.” The man grinned and patted the mini-gun affectionately. “That was fun!”

  Chad could feel the pilot suddenly stiffen again. Someone was laughing now.

  “I don’t think he’s going anywhere, sir,” yelled Garza, pointing at Chad with the universal ‘stop sign.

  Chad looked down and noticed his rifle was casually draped on his lap. The nearly half-inch wide barrel was positioned just under the pilot’s chin. He was looking down the open maw of the Henry .45-70 with eyes the size of softballs.

  “Sorry,” Chad said with a grin. He shifted the rifle so the butt rested on the cabin floor, muzzle pointed toward the vibrating cabin roof. Only when the big rifle swung away from the Pilot’s face did he relax.

  Chad stared out the window in a daze as the helicopter raced away from Glacier National Park. He assumed they were heading west toward Spokane, but didn’t know for sure. He was used to seeing all the mountains from the ground, not the air. It was making him dizzy, the way the pilot was hugging the ground and swooping over hills and valleys, constantly going up and down following the terrain. But Chad didn’t want to look around inside the cabin. All he could think about was the sight of that North Korean soldier falling backwards into the snow, one arm raised, seeking help that would never come.

  I killed a man. He’s dead in the snow out there. His family’ll never hear from him again. Because I pulled the trigger…and… Chad tried to focus on the landscape blurring by his window. Did he have kids? Did I just destroy a family, not just a man…? He could feel his hands start to shake.

  Chad was only vaguely aware that the Rangers were grieved over the loss of their comrade and tending wounds. Captain Alston had removed his outer layer of camo and was letting Garza field dress his shoulder where a round had clipped the meaty flesh of his deltoid. Every one of them had been wounded somehow, either from bullets or from splintered logs. They all had cuts and scrapes from the mad stand at the redoubt.

  And it’s all my fault. Chad looked down at his slightly shaking hands and realized he too had cuts and scrapes on his cold-red fingers. He smiled ruefully, happy that at least for all the grief he had caused in the last few days, he hadn’t escaped unscathed. That was something, he figured.

  They had come to bring him back to civilization and tap into his blood to save lives again. They had fought the snowstorm, the North Koreans, and now their own people. As a result, most of the Rangers had been injured and one had paid the ultimate price. Chad wanted to throw-up—he didn’t know if the nausea he was feeling was from the motion of the helicopter or guilt that tormented every fiber of his being.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” hollered Captain Alston. “But it’s not your fault, sir.”

  Chad shook his head. “It is,” he yelled back over the muted roar of the big engines on the Black Hawk.

  “Mr. Huntley, these men are Rangers. We all knew the risks when we signed on the dotted line. I am just as heartbroken about Deacon as the rest of them, but the time for mourning is not now. We are still very much in danger. We will grieve for him in our own way, when there’s time. But right now−”

  The helicopter angled nose up sharply, throwing everyone inside to the rear of the cabin in a jumble of equipment, bodies, and curses. The floor quickly leveled-out and
Chad, restrained by his seat harness, could feel the helicopter had stopped moving and was hovering. He saw a look of surprise appear on Captain Alston’s face as he untangled himself from Garza and looked toward the cockpit.

  “We got a problem!” said the gunner, tapping his helmet and pointing forward.

  Chad sensed movement out the cabin window about the same time he heard someone shout, “Holy shit!”

  He saw out the small window to his right—maybe a hundred yards away—an Apache attack helicopter slowly rise through a cloud of kicked up snow from behind a ridgeline. The menacing-looking helicopter was unmistakable, even to a civilian like Chad. Hanging off its stubby wings, Chad could see an assortment of missiles. The big gun underneath its nose swiveled to the left and right, as if looking for a target. Above the spinning rotors was a bulbous object, like a pancaked balloon.

  “Got another one over here!” called out a voice from the other side of the cabin. Captain Alston moved over to look, then returned to the front.

  “Longbows!” Garza observed.

  “What do they want?” Deuce yelled.

  “They’re asking us the same thing!” replied the gunner, tapping his helmet.

  “Tell ‘em you’re carrying Rangers. Give them my rank and tell them we’ve been fighting the North Koreans and have WIA and KIA on board.”

  After what seemed like forever, hanging there in the sky surrounded by attack helicopters, the gunner whooped in relief and leaned in close to Captain Alston. “They’re requesting permission to join your task force, sir!”

  The tall Ranger sighed and dropped his head down in relief. Chad exhaled, not realizing that he’d been holding his breath. He watched as the Apache out his window sidled-up in formation next to them and the pilot waved and flashed a thumbs up sign.

  “Tell them we’re damn glad they’re on our side and that we’re heading for Spokane,” Captain Alston yelled. He looked toward his men. “Nice to have a little more firepower, huh?”

  “Hell yes, sir!” The jubilant gunner pumped his fist, then relayed the message to the pilot, and returned the response from the cockpit. He shook his head and grabbed the mic to keep from screaming in his pilot’s ears.

  “They say Spokane is a no-go. NKor ground forces have swept clear across the state. That pilot out there,” he said motioning toward the Apache out the window, “isn’t sure if they’ve taken Spokane or not but there’s enough SAM activity to make it a suicide run. They just came from near there, an Air National Guard base just across the border. The last of their battalion. Most of ‘em didn’t make it out when the NKors landed on ‘em. They were ordered to make a break for it and try to regroup.”

  “Damn it!” said Captain Alston as he pounded his fist on the metal airframe of the helicopter. “We need a place to set down and regroup.”

  The gunner nodded. “A couple of them are bingo fuel. They say there’s a small airport just a few miles south of here, it’s about as far as they can reach.”

  Captain Alston nodded. “Sounds good! Let’s do it.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Los Angeles, California.

  TALK TO ME, BEAVER,” said Cooper. His hands gripped the steering wheel of their stolen APC with white knuckles.

  “They’re facing away from us. No idea we’re here, boss.”

  Cooper thought for a moment. They had successfully navigated the streets of Los Angeles, creeping farther and farther from All Saints, heading south and west. So far they had escaped detection from the Koreans but he was doubtful their luck could hold much longer.

  He glanced down at the bloody helmet that was plugged into the comms panel. Someone was bound to realize that an APC wasn’t responding to hails and would go looking for it. He would.

  They had driven through crowds of panicked civilians, streaming in all directions away from downtown, away from the attacking jets and missiles. Cars were struggling to move on the major roads. He grimaced thinking of the shouts of the civilians who spotted the Korean APC and ran in terror.

  At least it helped clear the road for us. Thank God we’re not stuck back in that mess. Like a sea of parked cars.

  The crowds eventually thinned out as the wave of humanity escaped the chaos of downtown. Cooper had been driving for over an hour now, and he was seeing just as many people on the ground as on their feet. People infected with the flu were running out of energy and just dropping as they walked.

  A jet roared overhead, its noise muted by the North Korean APC’s thick armor—an unpleasant reminder of the war zone into which L.A. had been turned. He shook his head again at the unbelievable thought: North Korean forces making strafing runs on downtown L.A., dogfights in the skies, invading ground troops ransacking one of America’s largest cities and civilian casualties as far as the eye could see.

  And on top of it all, they were beginning to see an alarming number of casualties not related to combat. A few in cars, but mostly just on the street, slumped next to buildings. Most, as far as he could tell, were from the homeless community. There were no blood splatters or signs of violence and the doctors in the crew cabin behind him confirmed that the unprotected, wandering homeless would be hit by the flu first and with most lethal effect.

  Slowly they crept, maddeningly slowly, through the side streets and thoroughfares, making their way as quietly as possible south, following the Harbor Freeway. Twice they had turned corners and saw a gaggle of North Korean soldiers gathered in the street, officers shouting orders.

  The first time, the North Koreans had barely glanced at the APC before running off in the opposite direction.

  The second time, one of the officers broke away from his squad and approached the APC with a smile. Just as Cooper was about to give him a six-ton kiss, he touched his helmet and nodded, then waved before running back to lead his men deeper into the chaos.

  At last they had cleared through the rubble of the ring of destruction surrounding Downtown and emerged onto the unscathed Harbor Freeway corridor. The Freeway was essentially deserted, yet the eight miles they had to travel to reach The 105 took them nearly 45 minutes.

  “Looks like everyone remembers the Blue Flu pretty well,” mumbled Mike from the turret. “Everyone stayed home or already headed for the hills.”

  “That didn’t take long, this time,” replied Cooper. For that, he was grateful—it kept the civilians out of his way for the most part. He took the exit for the Glen Anderson Freeway West.

  “Okay, what’s next?” he called out over his shoulder. They were still a long way from safety.

  ROADBLOCK UP AHEAD, COOP—‘bout a mile,” said Mike.

  Cooper cursed the traffic snarl that had forced them off the Glen Anderson in Hawthorne and slowed the rumbling APC to a stop facing the ocean at the intersection of West 120th Street and Oxford Avenue.

  He tried in vain to stretch his tight back muscles in the cramped driver’s seat but knew he’d get no relief until they could all get out of the stolen APC. Instead, he used a joystick on the dashboard to manipulate a little external camera so he could see on the night vision screen what Mike was looking at up in the turret. The street sign at the intersection read: Hawthorne Blvd.

  Power outages had spread rapidly after the initial assault and now the entire city—at least as far as he could tell, had been plunged into darkness. The green-tinted screen showed no activity, only a few bodies on the street and abandoned cars. There were some dim, glittering lights in the homes that were packed along both sides of West 120th Street. Someone was still alive around here.

  He manipulated the controls and zoomed in farther west down the street. Cooper figured they were only about two miles from Los Angeles Air Force Base, now. The roadblock at the intersection up ahead had to be the outer edge of the invading forces.

  “They’re looking north, man. Looks like no one knows we’re here, yet,” said Mike.

  “All right, everyone,” said Cooper, loud enough to be heard in the crowded cabin. “I think we’re almost home-free
. Looks like one last road block before we get out of OZ.”

  “What’s OZ?” a female voice asked faintly from the rear of the APC.

  “It’s a movie. Judy Garland? You know, the wizard…?” replied Jax’s Texas drawl. After a chuckle, he said, “Naw, it stands for Occupied Zone.” When his joke was met with silence, Jax cleared his throat and muttered, “Tough crowd.”

  Cooper suppressed a grin. “Right now, that line of cars and North Koreans in front of us is the only thing separating us from a straight shot to the Air Force Base on the other side of the San Diego Freeway, and hopefully, safety. Everyone hold on tight, we’re gonna hit ‘em hard.”

  “Yo, Coop, I got some chatter,” said the team sniper, bent over the comm station. He shook his head. “I don’t know what they’re saying, but they’re awful excited about it.”

  “Got movement at the checkpoint. They’re looking around…” warned Mike’s voice from the turret. “I think they know we’re in the area…”

  “I see the searchlights,” said Cooper. “This is it people. Hang on!” He pushed the throttle wide open and felt with satisfaction the heavily-armored vehicle lurch forward.

  “Clear the road, Beaver!”

  “Hooyah!”

  There was a deafening roar and Cooper felt the steering wheel buck violently as the APC’s main gun spoke. Cooper, his ears ringing, felt the hammering of his heart and focused only on the view out the armored window in front of him. He was vaguely aware of muted screams and commotion behind him in the crew cabin.

  The APC lumbered west on 120th, picking up speed. As the smoke down the street cleared, he saw one of the two civilian cars that the North Koreans had parked across the ramp nose to nose, was now on its roof about ten behind the roadblock. The other had been flung back off the road and was in flames in the drugstore parking lot on the corner.

  There were bodies on the ground: some moving, some still, and some in pieces. On the sidewalk and behind the other vehicles, Cooper could see scurrying forms illuminated by the burning wreckage. The rest of the North Koreans at the roadblock were seeking cover in a panic. On the night vision screen, they looked like so many cockroaches, scattering in the light of the main gun as it belched fire from the top of the APC.