by John O'Brien
Kingsley brings his throttles back and the nose of the super hornet drops. In the back, he knows that his EWO is inputting the route and selecting the munitions. All Kingsley has to do is drive the bus and open the doors at the right time. Of course, doors isn’t the term, but he doesn’t really have much to do other than make sure his aircraft doesn’t meet the earth or the others buzzing around the sky.
The other aircraft in his flight mimic his actions. He had put them into a trail position once they hit their orbit so they could relax a little. Being tucked into wing formation for periods of time was just exhausting and meaningless for what they’re doing. In a steep descent, heading for the checkpoint that starts their particular route, Kingsley mentally runs the path and strike in his mind, conjuring up each action to take with each checkpoint.
In the background, he hears Reaper redirect the others in the squadron to lower altitudes, awaiting their turn to ingress. Helicopters radio their positions, giving approximate numbers of the infected they are drawing to predetermined sites.
The ground and water rushes up. Kingsley maneuvers his aircraft to align himself with the heading of the first leg of his route. As there aren’t many barriers, radars, or anti-air sites to avoid, or the need to hide what they’re targeting from those who might spot them low to the ground, the route is a relatively easy one. The only reason turns are incorporated is so they can remain clear of flight paths to and from the carrier. Operating in such a close proximity creates its own problems.
Hitting the first check point at five hundred feet and five hundred forty knots, the water outside his cockpit is just one streak of blue, the white caps rushing underneath. Again, there’s no need to fly under radar, so he won’t have to dip any lower.
There’s no greater rush than flying low level, Kingsley thinks, the reasons behind his mission forgotten with the thrill.
He gives a brief checkpoint call to Reaper and sends his flight out to a tactical formation. Number three and four aircraft streak out a mile to the side; number two maintains a loose wing formation. Being this close to the ground and at this speed, Kingsley keeps a sharp lookout for birds. Gulls wing their way all over the strait; even though they might not be big enough to penetrate the windshield, they could certainly make for a bad day. It’s not like he could even do anything about it. By the time he spots a bird, it is a split second before he is past it. Most of the time it’s, “Oh, bird,” then a flash as it streaks by the canopy. The only real indication will be a dark spot and a splat, before adrenaline actually hits his system. That would come afterward. But, that doesn’t stop him from looking.
Crossing the next checkpoint, he calls Reaper. He signals the turn away from the other two aircraft, a mile to the side, with a twitch of his wing. The number three and four aircraft begin the turn. When they’re just about to vanish from sight behind, Kingsley turns hard in a nearly ninety degree bank. Looking over his shoulder, he picks out three and four on the other side. As he rolls out on his new heading, they are in perfect formation with the two elements a mile apart.
They hit their initial point on their attack heading. Reaper acknowledges and informs them that the helicopters are egressing. Kingsley pushes the throttles up, the aircraft instantly responding as it accelerates to the six hundred knot mark. He and his EWO confirm that everything is set, the master arm switches set and specific ordinance selected. His wingman turns to create the necessary spacing to make his run without encountering the aftermath of Kingsley’s ordinance drop. The other two make similar maneuvers to fold into their intervals. Normally, they wouldn’t attack from the same direction, but rather come in from differing angles. However, the infected being unlikely to direct anti-aircraft fire in their direction, that tactic wasn’t critical.
The shores of Whidbey Island streak under his nose, just a few hundred feet below. The route takes him down the centerline of the naval station’s runway seven. It’s like many high-speed flybys he’s done in the past, but not quite this fast. The strip of gray is there for a moment, and then gone. At the far threshold, Kingsley pulls back on the stick, the G’s pressing him down in his seat. At a steep angle upward, he rolls the aircraft inverted and pulls back on the stick. The sky gives way to ground as the nose crosses the horizon, the aircraft again heading toward the ground.
A mass of people fills the windshield, congregated in an open field of green. In his limited view, it looks like they are extending their arms toward where the helicopter vanished. Centering his pipper on the mass, Kingsley pushes forward on the stick, unloading the hornet to zero G’s. A sharp sideways tug on the controls rights the aircraft with his target indicator glued on the horde. He presses the trigger, feeling the weight of one of the CBU-87 cluster bombs fall free. A second later, the second one releases. Kingsley pulls back on the stick, putting the aircraft into a climbing turn with his EWO grunting under the high G maneuver. Both bombs are cleanly away.
The cluster bombs fall, spinning for seconds before each canister contained within the bombs breaks apart, each flinging two hundred and two sub munitions outward. Each bomblet orients itself and deploys a decelerator. The munitions hit in the midst of the crowded field, four hundred and four explosions driving shrapnel and fire through the mob.
Bodies and limbs fly into the air, some skyward and others horizontal. The blast waves collide with each other like the ripples from a bucket full of pebbles landing in a calm pond. Chunks of flesh collide with limbs, thick pools of blood splashing against each other. The field, filled with a mass of infected, becomes a slaughterhouse.
Kingsley looks over his shoulder, observing the multiple flashes of light in the midst of the gathering. He hears his wingman inbound and sees the dark objects drop from the wings. Turning his attention back to setting up his orbit to regather his flight, he doesn’t witness the second round of devastation. They finish their run and return to a high orbit, waiting again for their next run at the island.
* * * * * * *
Captain Ian Mathews, USMC, hovers over an open green field that was once some kind of farm. Fifty feet below, hundreds of infected have gathered, all reaching with their arms outstretched, as if they could catch him through sheer will alone. Even from this altitude, he sees their feverous eyes and blood-stained clothing. It could be out of a scene from every zombie movie he’s watched.
The early morning sun casts long shadows from the helicopter across the horde and field alike. The shadow of the narrow fuselage and spinning blades undulates across the upturned faces. Downwash from the blades turning in a blur overhead blow the greasy locks of the infected this way and that, their sleeves, pant legs, and skirts waving in the strong draft.
Another AH-1Z Viper calls in. Looking north, Mathews picks up the dot of the attack helicopter as it slowly makes it way to him. The basic plan for drawing the infected to a central location is to have helicopters interspersed across the island, drawing any of the infected in the area to them, then fly slowly to his position with the creatures following. Mathews and his gunner in the seat ahead are to be the holding point. The newcomers join the infected already filling the field. The attack choppers would then head out to gather more. Once they had gathered enough, they would inform combat command and they would send in the strike fighters.
Once finished, they would return to clear out any infected that survived the strike. Then, they would move to another field and start the process anew.
Rinse and repeat.
The process is slow and tedious as the helicopters can only move at a pace at which the infected can advance. Sometimes, obstacles present themselves, like the fences surrounding the many fields. The attack helicopters have to clear the path with a well-delivered salvo of rockets. The reasoning behind gathering a large group as opposed to many small ones was ordinance conservation. They could gather smaller pockets and send strikes to each one, but that would be overkill—wasted ammunition. At this early stage, without any source to renew their supply, it is critical that they conserv
e what they have.
The Viper leading a group of infected grows larger, slowly becoming more defined. It crosses over the edge of the field, moving forward a few feet at a time. Behind, a group of infected emerge from a tree line and walk into the field, the grass matted down from previous arriving bands. Once the entire package has been delivered into the field, the attack helicopter noses down, picking up speed, and rapidly departs the area. The infected refocus their attention toward Mathews and stumble across the pasture, joining the already large horde crowded closely together.
“Reaper, Zulu Zero Four,” Mathews radios.
“Zulu Zero Four, go ahead.”
“Target Whiskey Zero One is assembled and ready.”
“Copy that, Zulu Zero Four. Extricate on initial point call,” Reaper responds.
Mathews hovers, glancing at the mass of infected. Seeing them like this, it’s difficult to believe that they were once human, people who went to work each day, worried about bills or whether they were going to make it home in time to watch their favorite show. The infected below drove cars not that long ago, took their kids to the beach, relished days when they could sleep in. Now, they have only one thing on their minds, and that is to spread their infection to others—if they can think at all.
Seeing those feral eyes staring up at him, mouths open in unheard screams, Mathews doesn’t think of them as human anymore. They aren’t Americans about to be devastated by steel and fire moments from now. They are an infection that needs to be wiped out. He thinks that it’s a shame that it happened, but there’s nothing to be done about it. It happened and now they need to be vanquished so that those still alive can survive.
His parents died from cancer, both succumbing within a year of each other.
That was a tough year to get through.
As an only child and a bachelor, he doesn’t have any close family to think about. He’s watched many of his squadron mates go through a grieving process. He imagines that it must be harder without any definitive word as to their loved ones’ status. If they could know if they were dead or not, then they could have something to grieve and eventually come to terms with. Not knowing only extends that. Of course, not one of them shows their grief in the open, going about their jobs as if it didn’t exist, their red-rimmed eyes the only betrayal of their emotions, only truly exhibited in private moments.
“Talon Zero Four, One, Initial,” a voice calls on the radio.
“I guess that’s our cue,” Mathews says to his gunner over the intercom.
Rotating the Viper one hundred and eighty degrees, Mathews begins accelerating out of the area. The infected will follow, but hopefully they won’t get far before the ordinance from the strike aircraft begins raining down on their heads. The helicopter picks up more speed as it leaves the field and crosses over a narrow strand of beach. Out over the water, far enough away to be out of range of the shrapnel and out of the flight path of the egressing fighters, Mathews turns the chopper around, settling into another hover.
The island is relatively flat, especially across the narrow section of land the naval air base resides on. To the east, he can still see the east-west runway of the air station. A black dot appears, streaking low across the airfield. Mathews watches as the aircraft pulls steeply upward, rolls inverted, and points down toward the field he recently vacated. Masses of infected are running across the field in his general direction.
He looks back to the aircraft in time to see two smaller dots fall away, one after the other. A series of explosions rip through the horde, dirt mixing with bodies and parts of them rising into the air and tossed to the sides. Smoke with embedded gouts of flame cover the entire field. The darkened outline of the F-18 grows larger against a blue sky as it climbs away in a turn. Thirty seconds later another series of munitions erupt in the pasture, followed by a third, and fourth.
The aircraft call clear and Mathews maneuvers back to the field. The trampled grassland is now a churned up mess of soil and bodies, all mixing together. Hovering to one side, he glances down to the display, watching it as his gunner pans the area, searching for any survivors. Along the edges of the devastated area, a couple of infected crawl over the turned-up ground. He feels the vibration and hears the 20mm chain gun on the nose fire a burst. The ground erupts as the large shells strike, throwing dirt into the air. As the dust settles, the figures lie still. They continue to scan the rest of the field, finding one or two here and there, finishing what the bomblets failed to do until all who were gathered are still.
He searches the field a second time, then a third. It’s imperative that they get every single one across the entire island. Even one stumbling into their midst once they’re ashore will spell disaster.
“Reaper, Zulu Zero Four. Whiskey Zero One is clear. That was overkill. Recommend a strike package of two on the other targets, with two on standby,” Mathews radios.
“Copy that, Zulu Zero Four. Proceed to Whiskey Zero Two,” combat command replies.
Mathews spends the rest of his time hovering over one target zone after another, until bingo fuel, when they are replaced by another team. He returns to the USS America to refuel, rearm, and rest until it’s his turn on the island again.
Chapter Nineteen
Whidbey Island
Night of October 15
Shadows cover the land, the moon rising above the darkened silhouettes of the mountains to the east. The rays reflect off the waters in a never-ending dance, highlighting the tops of the trees on the forested sections of the island, the light contrasting to make the shadows a deeper black. Mathews slowly flies his Viper above the treetops as his gunner looks for the infrared signatures of the infected. Their briefing prior to the mission stipulated that there would be no survivors: Every living being was to be treated as one of the infected.
The previous day had been spent with various crews drawing the infected to open areas and bombing them into oblivion. Toward the end of the day, they had to search harder to find any remnants. The mission tonight was to continue those efforts, but instead of luring them into open fields, they were to hunt them down and gun them in place—a search and destroy mission.
Gunships were divided into teams of two and assigned sectors up and down the island. Mathews and another Viper from his squadron were assigned a sector that included the town of Clinton on the southeastern coast of the island and the neighboring area of Deer Lake. They’ll engage any targets they encounter with the 20mm Gatling gun slung under the nose, but have four rocket launchers mounted on the wing hard points. Each launcher is capable of delivering nineteen 2.75-inch rockets in case they encounter larger groups.
Opting to focus on the Deer Lake area before tackling the residential community of Clinton, Mathew slides the Viper over the waters sparkling in the moonlight. Residential lots line the eastern shoreline, lights shining forth many from open windows. Yellowed pools of light join with the silver moon’s rays on the waters. Thin fingers of wooden docks extend into the dark waters of the lake. Hovering above the middle, the surface is disturbed by the downdraft from the rotors.
“Looks like we have company,” the gunner states.
Mathews looks to his display, seeing a white figure run from around one of the houses toward the shoreline. It halts at the water’s edge, its arms waving forward and up.
“Shall we extend our welcome?” the runner queries.
“Let’s wait a sec and see if any more show up,” Mathews answers.
He looks to the side, seeing his partner Viper swing off to the side, the shape a darker green in the glow of his night vision. Position and formation lights remain steady as he finds a position to hover to cover the shoreline from a different angle.
“Zulu Zero Five, cover the opposite shore,” Mathews radios.
He watches as the helicopter spins on its vertical axis, pointing at the western part of the lake. A second later, streaks of light pour from the chin-mounted Gatling gun, racing for the far shore.
Mathews waits
for a few more minutes, seeing if any other infected materialize. Except for the single one crazily waving near the docks, there isn’t any sign of others. Mathews notes that the water seems to be an effective barrier; the infected doesn’t venture into the water in its attempt to get at them.
Higher levels of thought seem to be buried, or they wouldn’t try to get at a hovering helicopter. They only seem to be drawn to sound or movement that indicates something could become infected. Can animals be infected as well? No, in the briefings, they specifically mentioned that only humans could be a host, Mathews ponders while keeping an eye on their ghostly visitor. I wonder how they know that?
“Okay, let’s dispatch this one and move on,” Mathews says.
He wonders how the others of his squadron, those with family, are dealing with this wholesale slaughter. The odds dictate that some had to be from this area. Maybe not from the island itself, with its small population base, but what if they move to someone’s home town? There they would be eradicating someone’s family member for sure. Even if they are infected, they may not be thought of that way by those who knew them. He knows he’d freak out.
What if they came face to face with a loved one who was infected? he muses, then shakes his head to clear his mind of that awful thought.
Water gushes skyward near the shore as 20mm shells smash into it, the barrage rolling onto the sand. The infected vanishes under the one-second onslaught of high caliber rounds, one moment standing and screaming, the next torn apart from the shells slamming into it, tearing limbs from its body, smashing bones into splinters. Mathews takes a last look at the shore, then breaks out of the hover to continue the grid search for others.
