ARES Virus (Book 2): White Horse

by John O'Brien

  Behind the platoon, part of the chain-link fence surrounding the airport environment has been cut and rolled back. Should the infected show up in too great a number to be handled, they’ll move through the fence and reseal it to buy some time. Jennings marks the exact location in the dark so he’ll be able to head directly for it in the confusion.

  Turning, he scans the tree line through his 6× night vision scope. The others on watch will observe with night vision binoculars as they’re unable to use their NVGs with the mandated MOPP 4 gear because the masks get in the way. The only sound in the darkness is from gunships prowling out of sight. Being in a remote area and with the tremendous firepower stalking the surrounding area, Jennings isn’t worried about a sudden onslaught of infected storming their positions. His worry is about the one who gets through that no one notices.

  It only takes one, he remembers hearing somewhere.

  Slowly scanning left and right, he attempts to see past the shadows of the trees. He wishes that he had sighted in the thermal scope he has with his gear, but the night vision is more than adequate should any figures emerge near the edge of the trees. There aren’t any friendlies past the line set into positions along the road, so anything beyond is considered a target, and they have authorization to shoot anyone who comes into their sights.

  Finishing his scan, Jennings takes his eye from the scope and adjusts his position. Lying on a bed of gravel is uncomfortable enough, but is even more so with the protective gear on. It’s not that the stones are harder or feel any different, they just compound an already unpleasant experience.

  If boredom were an actual material object, it would be MOPP gear. It’s just a miserable experience and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  Lights erupt from the northern sky in the distance, red tracers streaking for the ground, springing forth from some undefined point in the darkened heavens. A split-second later, the sound of a buzz saw reaches the Marines. Another string of red lights angle downward, reaching for the earth.

  “Identified targets a quarter mile to the north,” Jennings hears on the radio.

  He scrutinizes the area across the field again, the trees still empty. On both sides of him, gravel crunches as others move in the darkness, having also heard the radio call and adjusting their position. Flames appear in the sky, shooting earthward like meteors, light flashing where the rockets strike the ground.

  “That hunter team looks busy,” the lieutenant a couple of feet away whispers.

  “They should be able to take care of anything they come across, sir. I bet we do nothing here except lose sleep,” Jennings returns.

  “Probably so. You see anything?”

  “Nothing except a bunch of trees and the glow from some really big campfires,” Jennings answers.

  “We should have brought our marshmallows,” the lieutenant comments.

  “You didn’t, sir?”

  “No. The captain said I have enough between my ears for the entire platoon.”

  Jennings chuckles. The platoon commander isn’t a bad sort. He actually listens to those who have been around a while, unlike some of the hard-chargers fresh out of school whom Jennings has known. Nor is he like the lost souls who always seem to be in over their heads and can’t make a single decision. He wishes those who came out of the schools that churn out officers could be more like the one near him.

  Jennings puts his eye back to the scope to make another scan. The crosshair moves slowly along the trees, hesitating when a shadow seems to move before continuing. Jennings stops, then shifts the scope back. He centers it around a defined figure at the edge of the trees, moving out into the field. Two others follow.

  “Sir, we have three tangos exiting the tree line,” Jennings whispers. “Are you sure that we’re cleared to fire?”

  He hears a shuffle as the lieutenant orients his binoculars.

  “Yes. Anything outside the wire is considered hostile. Take them out,” the lieutenant replies.

  He already knows his distances, so places the crosshairs on the center mass of the leading figure, who is racing through the knee-high grass. Adjusting his aim, he slowly breathes out and applies pressure to the trigger while tracking the target. The rifle kicks against his shoulder and the 7.62mm round swiftly exits the barrel, spinning across the open area. The report from the shot cracks across the field. Jennings sees the figure’s shirt puff from the impact. The target’s arms fling outward and it plunges face forward into the grass, disappearing from view.

  Screams from the other two erupt, filling the night. Jennings reorients, taking careful aim to lead the target. The crack of rifle fire denotes another bullet racing for its target. The second infected twists like a ballet dancer before hitting the ground, the tops of the grass hiding the body. Beside Jennings, the lieutenant radios a report. A third crash of rifle fire and the third goes down in a tumble.

  Jennings hurriedly brings his scope back to the line of trees, looking for others. There are only the trunks and shadows that occasionally flutter when a gout of flame shows above the trees.

  “Sir, you might want to get verification on those bodies. They might not be down for good and could crawl through the grass,” Jennings whispers.

  The lieutenant calls and soon a pair of helicopters swing into view. They hover for a few moments, dart to the side, and hover again. Streaks of light and shells rain down for a few split seconds, accompanied by the familiar buzz saw of a Gatling gun in operation.

  “They were down, but we made sure,” the pilot radios and the gunships depart.

  * * * * * * *

  Hills of West Virginia

  October 14

  Lieutenant Jill Pritchard studies the plumes of smoke rising in places from the cities below. While not as bad as the pictures of the torched oil fields she saw in the first Gulf War, it does look similar.

  If not a little more spread out, she thinks, adjusting the throttles of her Super Hornet.

  She looks at her rear view, seeing the sleek form of her wingman in a trail position. A glint of sun shines from the canopies of the other two hornets of her flight, which are off her wing on the other side, a mile to the south. They’re at their max range airspeed, flying with external fuel and a load of ordinance to one of the remote airfields in West Virginia.

  Formations of attack helicopters left their carriers hours before to draw the infected into several open fields and the small town west of the airport. Even with the extra fuel hanging on pylons, Pritchard and her flight will only have enough for a single pass. Following that, they’ll return to the carrier, refuel, and proceed to the airport where they’ll park for the night. The following morning, they’ll drop more loads as directed around Grissom Air Force Base.

  While it doesn’t feel odd to be carrying ordinance over the continental United States, it certainly makes her feel a touch uncomfortable to drop it on American cities and Americans themselves. They were told in their briefings not to think of them as Americans anymore. They lost that status when they became infected and began attacking others. However much she’s told that, the bottom line for her is that she will remain uneasy. But, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t understand the underlying reason for it. The survival of those remaining dictates that she do her job, and do it well.

  It was apparent that higher headquarters gave thought to that aspect of bombing the homeland, as no aircrews were assigned to combat crews attacking their home states. Everything needed to run smoothly, and the timeline dictated that there be no glitches or hesitations.

  She looks down from eight miles up, the landscape a much different pattern than that observed from a lower altitude. She thinks of the numerous power plants situated on the plains and forested hills, steam rising from their tall, thick concrete stacks. It all seemed like clean energy, until it wasn’t. She imagines what the land below could look like if they don’t get to them in time, the greens, reds, and yellows becoming a dirty brown wasteland. The beautiful places in Europe that she traveled to w
ill all succumb, not to be enjoyed by anyone for a long, long time.

  Pritchard pulls back on the throttles, beginning an en route descent into the target area. The drop will be a piece of cake, considering they won’t have any radars or anti-aircraft fire to contend with. Other than destroying real buildings and killing real people, infected or not, it won’t be much different than the multitude of practice runs she’s done. The real danger is if something mechanical happens to an aircraft. If they have to land at an emergency field, the rescue crews positioned at intervals along the route will have to arrive quickly. Even then, any aircrew member rescued will have to go through a long quarantine.

  They aren’t taking any chances on this one, she thinks, watching the map on her instrument scroll.

  If they have to bail out over a populated area, then the chances of being recovered in time are nearly nil. The 9mm on her vest wouldn’t last for long.

  Come on baby, you’ll make it, she thinks, patting the glare shield.

  She checks in with the combat controller, informing them of their position and ordinance. They don’t have a specific time on target, further alleviating any mission stress. It’s just check in, receive target coordinates, drop, and scoot back to the carrier.

  Easy peasy.

  Her flight is given two different targets. One is a city west of the airfield, the second another city to the southwest. Pritchard and her wingman will take the town to the west, the second element of her flight taking the other one. Coordinates and attack routes are input by the warfare officer riding in the back seat. The small municipality sits astride both sides of an interstate, strung out as if designed perfectly for an attack. Pritchard will fly level attack, rippling the bombs from their racks to cover as much ground as possible.

  Descending to attack level, she flies over a winding river surrounded by wooded hills displaying their vibrant fall colors. Combat Control verifies that the target zones are clear. A quick glance shows the wingman of the second element peeling off to circle around, their target directly off their nose. Pritchard banks to the right, flying straight for just under a minute, then tilts the aircraft on its side again. She rolls out and pushes the throttles up, the shops, strip malls, and large car lot ahead. Her wingman banks away, gaining separation for his run, the difference in timing necessary to ensure he doesn’t run into any shrapnel from her exploding bombs.

  With the winds blowing a little from the west, she takes the east side of the interstate to keep the second target zone clear of smoke. It’s not that it would matter much with their onboard capabilities—but if a small maneuver makes it a touch easier, why not do it? The landscape below races by, the buildings of the high and middle schools, the fast food restaurants, gas station, and other structures quickly drawing closer.

  The hornet shudders repeatedly as the bombs fall away from their racks in quick succession, spinning toward their earthbound targets. As the last bomb leaves, Pritchard yanks back on the stick and rolls away, looking back over her shoulder.

  Gouts of fire and smoke blast skyward as the bombs strike their targets, each blast further down the line of the city as the rolling barrage makes its way along the path of the freeway. Blocks of concrete and vehicles are tossed skyward, some trailing smoke. A large orange flash roils inside of dark black smoke as the gas station goes up. Cars are flung to the side as a bomb falls into their midst. Several vehicles rocket outward at speed, trailing smoke and flame. Prichard didn’t see a gathering of infected as was indicated, but she’s glad she didn’t. It’s cool watching things blow up, and taking down enemy forces. But, those could shoot back, so they were all playing by the same rules.

  She circles outside of the area, watching blasts rocket skyward from her wingman’s pass. It seems like overkill for a small settlement like this one, but it’s better than having the follow-on forces come into contact with any infected and potentially contaminate an entire unit. Gathering her flight together, she sets a climb and they inch their way back to the carrier.

  * * * * * * *

  Later that afternoon, Pritchard lines up with the interim field runway, the smoke from their earlier attack rising in columns. The gas stations still churn out dark smoke. In intervals in the outlying areas, other smaller plumes spiral upward.

  “Okay, let’s make this look good and show the grunts how it’s done,” Pritchard radios as they come up in an initial echelon formation, each aircraft tucked in tight to the one to the right.

  At the end of the runway, Pritchard whips the aircraft to the right, rolling into a ninety degree bank. She chops the power as the aircraft turns sharply at six G’s. Rolling upright and heading the opposite direction, she drops the gear with the runway threshold at a forty-five degree angle from her shoulder behind. Continuing in idle, she lowers the flaps, dumps the nose, and banks, coming around toward the runway while beginning her descent. Bringing the flaps lower, she lines up with the runway, adjusting power as necessary to keep her final approach airspeed. Her aim point is a group of soldiers gathered at the northern end of the runway. This will allow her to touchdown right at the threshold. With the short runway, she’ll need most of it to stop. Close to the ground, she sets the power in idle and flares, the wheels hitting the surface with loud chirps.

  Behind her, the remaining three talons touch wheels to runway in short intervals. They taxi to the small ramp and shutdown. With the exception of debriefing and planning for tomorrow’s attack, their day is over.

  * * * * * * *

  Grissom Air Force Base, Indiana

  October 15

  Sergeant Jennings’s heart is pounding as they approach the landing zone south of Grissom Air Force Base. From the numerous columns of thick smoke plumes dotting the countryside, it’s apparent that aircrews have had a busy morning. The base sits in between three larger cities that form a triangle around it. His company’s job is to set up south of the base to stop infected marching north for the town of Kokomo, population estimated at nearly sixty thousand.

  That’s an awful lot of infected, Jennings had thought during the briefing. That amounts to what? Five…six divisions if thought of as a military force.

  They’ll be with another company of Marines, complete with several turreted Humvees as they are flown in. That’s in addition to the gunships providing fire support.

  Still, two companies to hold of six divisions of maniacal infected. This promises to be a different kind of day than yesterday.

  The three towns are too big to bomb flat, so the two companies will hold lines along the north-south highway leading from the town to the base. Gunships spent a greater part of the morning herding many of the infected into fields and cutting their numbers down with gunfire, rockets, and aerial strikes from the fighters. However, it’s nearly impossible to completely subdue any terrain through the use of air power alone. Ground troops always have to be sent in.

  The plan is for one company to begin ahead of the other, engage any targets that head north, and leapfrog backward should the numbers become overwhelming. The company behind will engage until they also have to fold to the rear.

  Below, the flat plains look like a quilt sewn with rectangular pieces of cloth in a variety of browns with some green thrown in for contrast. Everywhere Jennings looks, dark brown and black columns of smoke spiral upward, bending in the light wind. Helicopters are in every quadrant, with the black dots of fighters streaking in and dumping their ordinance, adding new plumes and enlarging the ones already present. Jennings can’t imagine the nightmare that the combat controllers must have keeping everything straight. He just hopes they’re good at their jobs and he doesn’t find himself plummeting earthward following a mid-air collision.

  Jennings’s helicopter drops low, others in the formation following suit. They pass burning homesteads, flying at an altitude barely higher than the rooftops. Some houses and surrounding buildings blaze brightly, the flames licking upward. Others are smoldering ruins, small flames still burning among charred timbers. The rays
of the sun penetrate a pall of smoke hovering over the land, the light turning a light orangish-brown.

  He takes a few deep breaths in order to calm himself with minimal effect. This is but one of their two big pushes inland. Sure, the infected don’t fire back, but in the three cities alone, there are nearly one hundred thousand. Jennings just can’t fathom eliminating that many by firepower alone. It’s nice that they gather together in clumps for the air power they’re throwing at them to slice into their numbers. If they had a week or so to work on the numerous infected, then maybe. But, they don’t have that long, thus his and other companies being thrown into the fray.

  The helicopter flares, depositing Jennings and the rest with him in a plowed field. All around, others drop in, bringing the rest of the company. Heavy lifters settle Humvees swinging at the end of tethers. To the south, fire and smoke embroils a community of residential neighborhoods. North, other choppers drop off the covering company. The rotors spool up and depart, leaving men and machines on the ground.

  Commands are called, platoons organized, and they run across the furrowed field. Large clots of earth threaten to turn ankles or trip the heavily laden Marines. Behind, Jennings hears the throaty roar of the Humvees starting. With the smoke prevalent everywhere, it seems like barely controlled chaos even though not a shot has been fired. But, that’s the environment Marines are trained for.