Captain Alston, Zuka, and Deuce were already stacked up along the wall of the gas station by the time Denny crashed into the building in a huff. The Rangers looked at each other and grinned as Denny dropped to his knees and gasped for breath.
“Dagger Lead, Hammer 2, Actual. I read you five-by-five. Welcome to the party. We took down the remaining SAM sites, you got clear skies.” Zuka held up a map in front of the Captain. “Ivan’s holed-up on grid Victor-Romeo, one-three-niner, alpha. Friendly forces are on east side of the town, backed up to the river. All other foot mobiles are hostile, repeat, all other foot-mobiles are hostile. What’s your ETA?”
“Hammer 2, Actual, we are ten clicks out and comin’ in hot. Fuel for one pass. Whirlybirds are on our tails and will provide close-in support for the EVAC. Tell your boys to hunker down—target coordinates are locked.”
“Roger that, Dagger Lead, good hunting!”
Captain Alston leaned around the map Zuka was holding. “You heard the man, this is going to be danger close.”
Denny gasped for breath. “What was all that about?”
“There’s a flight of Marine Corps F-35 Lightning’s coming in to lay a strafing run on the Russians. NORAD got the word out and they were the only ones available to assist. I guess they’re coming long-distance, because they’re only going to make one pass before they fly home. Should be some helicopters along in a minute to get us the hell out of here.”
“Oh,” said Denny, staring at the snow. “Well, okay then.” His head was spinning with the events of the last few days as he tried to ignore the chuckling Rangers. His world had suddenly become a surreal environment: violent explosions everywhere he turned; dark-clad Russian invaders scrambling around engaging his friends and neighbors in blistering firefights; the systematic slaughter of many good citizens at the hands of the Russians; an armored personnel-carrier rumbling about trying to kill his friends; and now American jets making bombing runs across his town.
“Hey,” said Deuce. He put a reassuring hand on Denny’s shoulder. “Hang in there, sir. You’re doing great. It’ll all be over soon. Now that we’ve taken out the SAM sites, Ivan’s gonna get a surprise, even if it is just a bunch of Marines.”
Zuka laughed. “Hell, I’d welcome the Coast Guard at this point.”
“Oh I’m not turning down the assist,” said Deuce, a half-smile on his lips. “I just think it’d be more dignified if it weren’t Marines doing the rescuing.”
Captain Alston let the Rangers laugh for a moment before he spoke. “All right, settle down. We need to get across the street into that house and get some cover. Let’s go. We don't want to be next to this thing when the jet jockeys get here,” he said, patting the wall of the gas station.
Zuka peered around the south corner. “Clear.”
“Clear,” replied the Captain, looking around the north corner. “Let’s move.”
They double-timed to the sturdy-looking house across the snow-covered street and took up positions on either side of the front door. The house was mostly still intact—one of the few remaining the area. Denny glanced up the street. The house had a good view to the east.
One solid kick from the big Ranger and the door crashed in, allowing Zuka and Captain Alston to rush in weapons-up, lights on, followed quickly by Deuce. In seconds, the house was cleared and they called for Denny.
“I hope your friends are getting behind some cover,” said the Captain as Denny entered the front room of the abandoned house. The Rangers were in the shadows, looking out the windows at the dome of glowing light in the distance. The brilliant orange, flickering light pin-pionted where the fighting was taking place on the other side of town.
“Hammer 2, Actual, this is Dagger Lead. Commencing our attack run. Danger close, danger close, danger close.”
“Here it comes!” said Captain Alston. He made a show of covering his ears, closing his eyes, and opening his mouth as he crouched down low to the floor.
The Rangers grinned. Denny looked out the window as he heard the tremendous roar of the jets overhead, through the walls, through his chest, in the soles of his feet. The house shook as the jets split the night in their passing. Then the town of Salmon Falls exploded.
Houses and businesses—buildings that he had walked past or driven by countless times exploded into matchsticks and blossoms of fire and sparks. The ground shook as missile after missile streaked into the Russian lines and pummeled the town.
As the last explosion rocked the house, Denny could just make out glowing stars moving across the darkened sky in a diamond formation—ten of them. In seconds, the jets were screaming-off to the northeast, leaving the town burning in their wake.
Then the second wave hit. More jets, more missiles riding fire and smoke through the air, more explosions. The ground trembled, the house shook, sparks and flaming debris flew through the air across the east end of town. The destruction was beautiful and horrible, yet mesmerizing to behold. Denny couldn’t take his eyes off the devastation. And then it was over and the jets were gone. The only thing left was the sound of the raging fires and the clouds of debris raining down on the town. The deafening silence of the snow returned to drape an eerie blanket over Salmon Falls.
Captain Alston stood up and brushed glass off his uniform. “Well, that ought to even the odds a little.”
Denny hadn’t even noticed the big picture window had imploded not ten feet from him, showering the room with shards of glass. He watched, hypnotized, as the curtains danced in the breeze, while the town of Salmon Falls burned beyond the window frame. As the noise of the jets and explosions receded, he began to regain his senses and noticed his hands were trembling in-time with his racing heart.
“Hammer 2, Actual, Dagger Lead—our run is complete, multiple good kills. That BTR shouldn’t be giving you any more trouble.”
“Roger that, Dagger Lead, thanks for the assist.”
“Oorah, Ranger. Switchblade will be taking over close-air support in a few minutes, just hang tight. Dagger Lead, out.”
“Let’s move, Rangers. There’s still a fight to win.”
“Hooah!” replied Zuka. The little Ranger looked positively giddy.
Denny followed the soldiers out, his head still in a daze over the destruction he had just witnessed. It was one thing to read about air strikes in some foreign land, quite another to witness one in your own home town.
As they approached the heart of the battle between the townspeople and the remaining Russian troops, Denny could hear something, a growing rumble of noise that began to rise above the gunfire, the roar of the fires…
Cheering.
All around them, people were rushing out of their homes, carrying baseball bats, garden tools, sticks, pipes, anything they thought would work as as weapon. The entire town—what was left of it—was joining the fight and swarming like a hive of angry hornets toward the surrounded Russians.
This is going to be a blood bath, he thought as he stared around in shock at the tide of humanity rapidly advancing toward the invaders, toward vengeance. They’ll rip the Russians limb from limb.
The looks on their faces made people he had lived with for a decade look like strangers—they appeared completely alien to him on this cold, bloody night. They were consumed with rage. Most of the people he knew did not recognize him, dressed as he was in camo and face-paint.
War paint, he told himself. The Shawnee are going to war one more time. Denny was swept up in the river of people and carried toward the firefight.
Cleanse the land, Little Spear, whispered Grandfather.
CHAPTER 32
40 miles west of Boston, Massachusetts.
22,000 feet over Worcester.
COOPER WOKE UP WHEN he felt a firm grip shake his shoulder.
“It’s go-time, LT,” yelled Jax, a big grin plastered on the man’s face.
Cooper nodded and sat up, taking quick stock of his surroundings on the rumbling C-130. He and the remainder of his Team were in the cavernous ca
rgo area, bathed in red light. The cargo crew was securing themselves by the rear hatch. His own men were still in their seats, examining gear and parachute straps one last time. He put on his high-altitude jump helmet and watched as the others followed suit.
Cooper took a deep breath and nodded again. He watched as the cargomaster hit a button and the flashing red light started blinking overhead. The rear hatch began to lower sedately, letting in the howling, cold wind as the opening grew wider and wider. Cooper watched the dark hole grow in size as the big cargo ramp dropped out of sight.
The red light turned green.
“Let’s go, ladies!” Cooper stood up and hobbled his way aft toward the opening. His gait was made awkward by the parachute, the gear, the weapons, the High-Altitude/High-Opening jump gear and oxygen tank, all strapped to his body. He prayed his knee didn’t lock-up before he made it to the ramp.
A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed his SEALs were lined-up right behind him, moving like their namesakes in an odd wobble-shuffle toward their date with the open sky.
Cooper stood at the edge of the ramp and switched on the latest-generation heads-up-display inside his helmet. In the upper-right corner of his field of view, he saw the rest of his team behind him through the rear-facing camera on his back. Altitude, windspeed, air temperature, O2 levels, and GPS coordinates were displayed on the left side. He moved his eyes to the far left of the helmet and the screen switched to night-vision. I love these things.
“Radio check,” he shouted over the muffled roar of the wind.
“Two,” said Charlie.
“Three,” said Jax.
“Four,” replied Swede.
“Five,” muttered Mike.
“Six,” said Sparky.
The cargomaster slapped Cooper on the shoulder and gave him the thumbs-up.
Cooper nodded. The little rear-view screen showed Charlie’s insect-like head nod to the cargomaster as his XO stepped up in-line.
One more step. Cooper closed his eyes and savored the moment. The start of a new mission. Everything was green. Everything was before him, the past was gone. His head was clear, his mission was clear, his world was focused. He was ready.
Please let my leg hold up on the landing…
He leaned forward and fell out the back of the plane, grinning like a schoolboy at the familiar feeling of free-fall. The roar of the plane vanished in a heartbeat, replaced by the roar of the wind as it screamed past his helmet, trying to freeze him as he approached terminal velocity. It was one of the perks of his job he would miss the most when he retired. The complete freedom, the near weightlessness, the odd sensation in his stomach that told him he was in free-fall. He loved it.
He watched the mission timer on the left side of his screen. When the little green clock ticked over to fifteen seconds, he pulled the D-ring on his chest and braced for the jolt of the main parachute unfurling above him. With a muffled snap, the ‘chute filled with frigid air and halted his uncontrolled descent.
The voice of the wind softened to a gentle whistle as he watched his airspeed slow and his rate of descent drop into the controlled stage. He flicked his eyes to the right and watched the rest of his team deploy right on cue, one after the other. He could just barely make out the the dark shape of the C-130 as it turned against the star-field and disappeared from sight in the distance. When Mike’s ‘chute opened and Cooper was confident his entire team was secured and on target, he turned his attention back to the ground, still thousands of feet below.
Worcester was already falling under his feet and moving behind the SEALs. The darkened city was a large, black hole in the landscape below, marked by a few random points of light. The mission briefing had revealed that the locals would likely be burning fires in backyards. Power was sporadic across the region, due to workers falling ill iwht the rapidly spreading influenza.
As far as he could see at this considerable height through the light clouds below him, there were dark green fields and darker green forested areas—all interconnected by the black ribbons of roadways. Everything was calm, everything was quiet, everything was dark.
“One, Four. Check your two o’clock low.”
Cooper frowned at the break in radio silence but looked where Swede had directed. He flicked his eyes to the far right of his HUD and the rear-view screen cycled to a map of their area of operation. The glowing green dots represented his team, the blue triangle was Cooper, himself. They were passing over the intersection of Interstates 495 and 95. He noticed on the map that two o’clock low corresponded to the darkened city of Framingham.
Looking back down at the ground, he saw what had attracted Swede’s attention. A line of vehicles, tiny little specks down below on I-495, led by the lance-like beams of their headlights. There were twelve vehicles, all traveling on the interstate at perfectly maintained spacing. It was a military convoy, and they had just left Framingham in flames. It looked like half the town was on fire.
The Germans are ranging out of Boston. Must be a retaliation raid or something…
“Copy that, Four.”
Cooper made a mental note to remember the convoy roaming around behind them when they landed. He squinted his eyes and looked forward at Boston, nearly straight ahead and at the far edge of his vision. He glanced at the distance-to-target number on his HUD: 25 miles. The number was dropping quickly. His altitude was down to 16,000 feet and falling.
He lost track of Boston in the distance as he dropped into some thin clouds and his vision went white. It was an eerie sensation, knowing that your body was falling out of the sky—hanging by just a few threads connected to a billowing sheet of silk thousands of feet above the ground, surrounded by clouds and the nocturnal darkness. Without the advanced tactical night-vision built into his HAHO rig, Cooper would have been completely blind. He looked around and could barely see his hands and feet—then suddenly he was through the cloud deck and burst into the night once more.
The ground below sprung into sharp clarity, so that he had a much better view than when he had been above the clouds. In the distance loomed Boston, a giant black hole on the edge of the starlit ocean. A ring of lights were visible—even at a distance of nearly 20 miles—fires and spotlights that ringed the besieged town. It appeared the largest concentration of lights were clustered due west of Boston and located, according to his map display, around Newtown. That had to be the German base.
Random flickering of lights down below gave away the position of people trying to survive the crisis. Cooper could see as he through 10,000 feet, that whole neighborhoods had made huge bonfires so entire blocks could share the light and heat. It was truly a desolate scene below—there were no visible indications of cars or trucks moving about, no houses with lights, nor a single strip mall. It was as if he had traveled back in time two hundred years, back to a time when the only light was provided by a candle or a torch.
As they passed through 5,000 feet and came within ten miles of their landing zone, Cooper continued to keep a wary eye on the sky for German aircraft and drones. His night-vision enhanced HUD showed no aerial threats yet, but he was still cautious. The last thing they needed was to be spotted by a damn drone or some Luftwaffe pilot flying CAP over Boston.
The great northern city grew ever larger, filling his green-tinted HUD. He could make out skyscrapers and the downtown district now, out on the wide peninsula in the Bay. There were lights in many of the windows of the bigger buildings. He could see fires burning in the streets and groups of vehicles prowling the outer fringes. It looked like a restless night.
They sailed, silent as a whisper, over the I-95 loop where it intersected U.S. 90, the Massachussetts Turnpike, heading into the heart of the city. The Germans were just below them now; he could easily spot their sprawling base. It was the large area full of heavy equipment, neatly parked rows of half-tracked vehicles and what looked like tanks and a few planes as well. There was a stream of lights heading overland from the port, where he could see dozens of larg
e ships anchored offshore. Cooper frowned as he realized their resupply effort was in full swing. At that instant, he saw a large cargo plane lift off from Logan International. The huge plane and started to claw its way into the sky, heading east over the Bay toward Europe.
He scanned the approaching ground—now just a few thousand feet below—watching roads and neighborhoods roll by under his boots and bags of gear that were strapped to his body. He could see burning buildings, flattened homes, swaths of whole neighborhoods that were just ugly, charred black smears instead of homes and businesses. The rioting and unprecedented repression by the Germans in response had left battle scars all around the outskirts of Boston.
At last he was able to spot their primary landing zone, John F. Kennedy Park, just on the north side of the Charles River, about as close as possible to Harvard’s campus, where the good Professor was reportedly living. Instead of the darkened grass and trees he expected, Cooper spotted lights and movement. There was a group of people walking around with flashlights and a number of vehicles on the outskirts of the park. A German forward operating base? Or a checkpoint? The Park was conveniently located adjacent to the John F. Kennedy Street Bridge that linked Cambridge to Allston.
Well, that’s not going to work. Damn park is crawling with Germans.
He keyed his mic: “All units, abort primary LZ, repeat, abort primary LZ. Follow my lead to the alternate.” He listened to a series of clicks as his men checked in by breaking squelch and acknowledged the change in plans.
Cooper pulled on his guide ropes and started a slow, gentle turn to the north and west, making a loop over the Charles River and getting the team lined-up for landing on a large, flat, sports field complex across the river from JFK Park. He pulled the team down through a thousand feet and followed the river, keeping an eye to the left, where Cumnock Fields Park was a nice, inviting patch of green. He couldn’t see anything on the ground below—no sign of Germans anywhere close. Cooper swooped around to the north, then curved back to the east over the river at a steep incline, and dropped just over the tree line. Their boots skimmed the treetops and coasted just above the grass to the far side of the field.
Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga Page 47
