“On it,” the pilot said, and he made the call.
“Checklist underway,” said the senior crew chief from the back. As he and the other crew chief began to prepare the MV-22 for arrival, he turned to the Navy medic sitting on one of the long bench seats.
“We’re almost there, so you’ll have a patient soon,” he said over the intercom.
The medic rolled his eyes. “How awesome.”
Jimenez groaned when Gartrell and McDaniels helped him get into a sitting position. McDaniels could tell the aviation soldier hated himself for expressing his pain, but no one was superman. McDaniels squeezed his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, son. I know it hurts like a bitch, but the Osprey’s coming in.” As he spoke, McDaniels heard a rhythmic thumping that steadily grew louder. Right on cue, the MV-22 closed on the building.
“It’s no problem, sir,” Jimenez said. His voice almost bordered on a scream. McDaniels squeezed his shoulder again sympathetically and knelt beside him.
“You listen to me, soldier. You’ve been a total stud muffin this entire time. If you have to scream your head off while we carry you up those stairs, then you do it. No one’s ever going to be able to convince me you’re a girlie-man. Got that?”
Jimenez nodded slightly, and even that seemed to hurt him. “Yessir,” he said.
“Major McDaniels is something of an expert when it comes to identifying girlie-men,” Gartrell said as he knelt to the carpet on the other side of Jimenez. “Comes from a lifetime of actually being one.” McDaniels met the first sergeant’s gaze and shook his head. Now that transportation had arrived, people were starting to loosen up. Even Jimenez snorted a brief laugh.
Overhead, the sound of turbine-powered whirling rotors deepened, more felt than heard. McDaniels guessed the MV-22 had transitioned to a hover over the building. He looked out the windows for some sign of where the aircraft was, but there were no indicators, not even the reflection of flashing anti-collision beacons.
“Let’s go NVGs for the transfer,” he said to Gartrell, and both men reached for the PVS-7 night vision goggles in hard packs they wore on their belts. They clipped the devices to the mounts on their helmets and powered them up, testing them in the still-too-bright tepid lights of the cafeteria. Both units were fully functional.
McDaniels rose to his feet and beckoned to the Safires and the Browns. “Folks, we’ll be leaving shortly—you can hear the transport, I’m sure. What’s going to happen is that Sergeant Derwitz will come down to let us know when everything is stable upstairs, and he’ll lead us to the roof. There will be lots of wind, both from the aircraft and from the storm itself, and rain. You’ll want to keep your heads down. Sergeant Jimenez will be uploaded first via a rescue hoist, due to his injuries. After that, it will be the Safires, then you and your kids, Earl. The rest of us will come up after the Marines have you aboard. Derwitz and Finelly will lead you to the extraction point and fit the hoist harness around you. You will not move toward the hoist position until one of them physically takes you by the hand and leads you in. This is for your safety, so please, wait for them to do what they need to do.
“Questions?”
Zoe raised her hand immediately, and with such exuberance that it brought a smile to McDaniels’ lips. “Yes, Miss Brown?”
“Can I sit up front?” she asked.
“Zoe!” Earl said, his tone one of scolding.
McDaniels and Gartrell laughed, as did Regina and Kenisha. Zoe looked around, confused by the laughter and the contrasting rebuke issued by her father. Safire, of course, merely sniffed.
“That’s up to the Marines,” McDaniels said. “And that’s something else—once we’re aboard the aircraft, they are in command. Follow their instructions to the letter. It’ll be very loud inside the aircraft, but they’ll give you headsets as soon as they can. In the meantime, once you’re seated and strapped in, cover your ears with your hands and open your mouths, like this.” He demonstrated the position. “This will help reduce the noise level and save your hearing. Anything else?”
“Where are we going?” Safire said. It hardly sounded like a question.
“We’ll be flown out of the city and back to the USS Wasp, which is the Marine assault carrier in the Atlantic. After that, I don’t know. But we can assume the Wasp will be the safest place for us to be for the moment.”
Before anyone else could say anything, the door leading to the corridor opened. Gartrell and McDaniels turned toward it with weapons raised. Derwitz stood in the doorway, one hand on the door handle, the other on the grip of the MP5K strapped to his thigh. He was soaking wet, and his night vision goggles were flipped up on their mounts. McDaniels saw the green-white glow from their eye pieces as Derwitz faced him.
“We’re ready, major,” he said. “It’s a bitch of a night out, so get ready for it.” He released the door handle and darted forward, reaching for Jimenez. “Ready to go, Taco?” he asked.
“Oh yeah,” Jimenez said. He gritted his teeth and winced as Derwitz and Gartrell hauled him to his feet. Derwitz went to gather him into a fireman’s carry, but Gartrell stopped him with one hand.
“Let me take this, Night Stalker. You get everyone else ready for transport.”
Derwitz hesitated for a moment, clearly not comfortable with allowing someone else to handle one of his own, but Jimenez pushed Derwitz away weakly.
“Help the major with the civilians, Maxi. The first sergeant can help me out of here.”
Derwitz turned and pointed toward the door. “Everyone, out into the stairwell. The stairs going up will be to your right and straight ahead. You’ll see some blood and stuff, but it’s nothing to worry about.” He turned back to McDaniels. “Finelly and I dragged the body down a couple of flights so they won’t have to see it,” he said, his voice pitched low.
“Good job,” McDaniels replied in kind. Then louder, to the others: “All right, let’s move out. Derwitz, you have the lead.” He turned and spotted Gartrell as he folded Jimenez over his shoulder as gently as he could, then hoisted up Gartrell’s pack. Holding his M4 in one hand by its pistol grip and Gartrell’s pack in the other, he followed Gartrell as he carried Jimenez out of the cafeteria.
In the streets below, the walking dead raised their sallow faces toward the wet sky when the thundering rotor beats reached their ears. Though none of them knew what it was they saw, some primordial instinct that survived even death was able to alert them to it, to suggest with vague promises that it led to food. And this in turn led them to contemplate the building with the bright lobby that sat before them more earnestly. Moving slowly at first, then more hurriedly until they moved as fast as their dead ligaments and muscles would allow, the dead rushed toward the bright lights, drawn to it now like moths to open flame.
And at the vanguard of the dead army were corpses wearing the uniforms of the United States Army, uniforms that were subtly decorated with subdued Special Forces patches.
CHAPTER 15
Derwitz had been right, it was a hellish night, made even worse by having an MV-22B in a hover overhead. The aircraft’s rotors pounded like thunder even through McDaniels’ hearing protectors and his radio headset. He dropped Gartrell’s pack outside the open rooftop door and turned to help the first sergeant carry the wounded Jimenez up the stairs. The stairwell was full of turbulent air, courtesy of the storm and the hovering Osprey.
Holding a hand up to at least attempt to ward off the rain from splashing across his NVGs, McDaniels looked up at the aircraft. It seemed higher than he would have liked, at least two hundred feet above the roof. It rocked back and forth in the wind, a dark silhouette against the lead-gray clouds.
“Why are they so God damn high?” Gartrell asked over the Special Forces radio net. He stood next to McDaniels, stooped slightly beneath Jimenez’s weight across his shoulder.
McDaniels pointed toward the buildings that surrounded the one they stood on, several of which were taller. “They must be afraid the wind’s going to dri
ve them into one of the other buildings. Looks to me like they can just barely handle what Mother Nature’s throwing at them now.”
Finelly stood several yards away with his back toward them. The flashing infrared strobes that marked out the landing zone flashed, illuminating his silhouette through the NVGs. His face was turned skyward, and his hands were held out from his sides. His gear sat several feet behind him; he only wore his body armor and weapons. Behind him, Derwitz lined the civilians against the stairway wall so they would be out of the lion’s share of the pounding rotor wash. Then he shucked his own gear and joined McDaniels and Gartrell. He pointed up at the Osprey as it fought to maintain its hover.
“Litter coming down for Jimenez!” he shouted, and his voice was distant and tinny above the rotor noise. “I’ll lead you out there, first sergeant. Major, you stay back here with the civilians!”
McDaniels shot Derwitz a thumbs-up. He looked up and saw the Stokes litter descending from the MV-22’s side-mounted hoist. The litter swung crazily in the air, and he was thankful he wasn’t the one who would be riding it up. He watched as it dropped low enough for Finelly to hold it steady while more cable was paid out. Finelly dropped the metal litter to the rooftop and waved Derwitz forward.
“Let’s go, first sergeant!” Derwitz helped Gartrell advance against the vortex of wind-driven rain and mist. When they got to the litter, Derwitz pinned it to the deck while Finelly helped Gartrell with Jimenez. Working carefully but with practiced efficiency, they strapped the injured man into the litter. Finelly motioned Gartrell back, and the first sergeant retreated to the relative safety of the stairwell.
“How is out there?” McDaniels asked.
“It’s like a day at Club Med. Only colder. And windier. And shittier.”
McDaniels watched as Derwitz and Finelly finished securing Jimenez to the litter. Both men stood up and made hand signals to the MV-22, which continued to sway and bob overhead. Finelly held one hand against his face, shielding his boom microphone from the wind as he communicated with the aircraft’s flight crew. The cable grew taut as the slack was reeled in, and then the litter slid across the rooftop before springing into the air. It swung back and forth like a pendulum, and Derwitz had to dive to the roof to miss being clipped across the head. He scrambled to his feet, and both he and Finelly moved back.
Overhead, the MV-22’s engines shrieked as they labored to keep the aircraft stable in the storm.
In the MV-22, both pilots were on the controls, fighting to keep the aircraft steady in the punishing crosswinds. The wind on the Osprey’s nose kept changing with such rapidity that they encountered the control limits several times.
“It’s the fucking buildings,” the co-pilot said. “They keep breaking up the wind flow!”
“Aircrew, how are we doing back there?” the AC asked over the intercom.
“We’re hooked up, patient is on his way,” the senior crew chief said.
“Get him aboard as quick as you can. This is becoming a furball!”
“Oo-rah, sir!”
The MV-22 began vibrating suddenly. At the same time, an alarm sounded as both pilots looked at the flight displays on the instrument panel.
“Ring vortex state! Advance the nacelles six degrees, we’re settling!” the AC shouted as the MV-22 began a slow, steady slew to the left. He shoved the cyclic to the right and stomped on the right pedal, but nothing took. The aircraft’s left rotor, though still operational, had entered a condition known as vortex ring state. The rotor disk passed through its own turbulence wake, which sheared away the lift generated by the whirling blades. As the copilot advanced the nacelles and tilted the rotors slightly forward, the MV-22 continued its slew while descending at the same time. The rotors’ angle of attack changed slightly, slicing through more-or-less undisturbed air which allowed them to recover. Though still left wing low, the MV-22’s left rotor developed sufficient power to halt its descent.
But at the same time, the winds changed yet again and pressed against the undersides of MV-22B Osprey’s wings and fuselage. It was like someone had walked up and given the aircraft a strong shove, knocking it off balance, sending it stumbling toward a building across the street from the LZ.
McDaniels knew things were headed south when he saw the MV-22B heel hard over. He had no idea what had happened, but the giant tiltrotor aircraft slewed to the left like an out of control car sliding across an icy highway. The tempo of its rotors changed as its engine nacelles tilted forward, as if the Marines were calling it a day and pulling out. Below the aircraft, the litter containing Jimenez snapped from one side to the other, a victim of runaway centrifugal force.
Finelly and Derwitz turned and ran for the roof door, the latter waving McDaniels back.
“Get down, get down, get down!” he shouted, his voice barely audible above the din of the storm and the aircraft that was fighting for its life overhead. Gartrell stood right next to McDaniels, looking up at the crazing tiltrotor through his NVGs; if he had heard the Night Stalker’s warning, he didn’t react to it. McDaniels reached out and grabbed Gartrell’s arm and yanked him back just as the Osprey’s left rotor disk struck the building across the street. Glass, steel, and composite rotors came together in an explosive cacophony of sound. As McDaniels leaped back, he saw the MV-22B suddenly bounce back and right itself, like a drunk who had been fortuitous enough to find a wall to steady himself against. It side slipped back toward their building, its belly now only twenty feet above the rooftop. The rotor wash was intense, and Finelly was blown halfway across the roof. The stokes litter still hung from the rescue hoist on the right side of the aircraft, and the Marine manning it held onto the hoist’s frame for dear life. The litter slammed to the rooftop and the line attaching it to the hoist went suddenly slack as the MV-22 descended toward it.
“Everybody get back!” McDaniels shouted as Derwitz fairly flew past him and collided with Gartrell, sending both men sprawling down the stairs. McDaniels watched in horror as the MV-22 settled right on top of the Stokes litter—and Jimenez—crushing it into the roof. The aircraft rebounded again, springing into the air like a cat before it listed once more to the left.
And then, the Osprey rolled over the side of the roof as it turned onto its back, falling to the street below. The litter, still attached to the hoist, followed the big machine like a faithful dog.
“Ritt, Leary, the Osprey’s crashing!” McDaniels shouted over the Special Forces net as he stumbled down the stairs. He jumped over Gartrell and Derwitz and grabbed Safire, who stood safe and dry on the landing, and hauled him through the fire door as the MV-22B finally hit the street below.
The MV-22B Osprey’s flight control computers couldn’t read the situation for what it was quickly enough, and the aircraft’s level of bank passed through 45 degrees, left wing low. By the time the feather command had been sent and the right engine’s rotor system was rolled back, it was too late. The Osprey slowly flipped over onto its back and spiraled toward the traffic-choked concrete of Lexington Avenue. It crashed into the street with enough force to shatter the fuselage and kill everyone aboard. Though designed to be ballistically tolerant, the machine’s fuel tanks couldn’t withstand the force of the impact. Fuel ejected from the tanks, atomizing once it hit the air. It was then drawn into the still-running number two engine and ignited. The resulting explosion sent a fireball climbing into the air, incinerating Jimenez’s corpse as it fell toward the aircraft, still strapped to the crushed Stokes litter. The explosion was forceful enough to rattle windows and cause several secondary detonations as the fuel tanks of passenger vehicles ignited. The flames reached out against the wind and rain and consumed everything that was flammable, including dozens of nearby zombies.
“Holy shit!” Rittenour screamed, even though he had heard McDaniels’ warning. The building shook and rumbled, and when he looked outside past the fire door, he saw the streets beyond the lobby windows as if the sun had risen. There were thousands of zombies beyond the glass. Thou
sands.
And the reanimated corpse of CW3 Keith was still there, looking directly at the fire door Rittenour and Leary hid behind. He—it!—ignored the flaming maelstrom behind as the fire raged on, feeding off the JP-8 jet fuel the Osprey had carried in its tanks.
“Oh man, we are so fucked!” Leary said. “What are we gonna do?”
“Shut up, man!” Rittenour kept his eyes on his former commander and keyed his microphone button. “Terminator Six, Osprey is down in the street. It’s a total write-off. Can’t see how any of the Marines might have survived, over.” When there was only silence in response, Rittenour grew slightly agitated. “Terminator Six, can I get a SITREP from you, over?”
Shit, are they all dead? Were they on the Osprey?
“Is it just us now?” Leary asked, apparently thinking the same thing as Rittenour. Rittenour only shrugged.
“Six is still with you, stand by,” McDaniels reported suddenly.
“Roger that, Six.” Rittenour looked outside as the zeds attacked the lobby windows once again. Obviously, they’d finally determined that Rittenour and Leary were in the stairwell. The zombies swelled against the glass windows, which were still remarkably intact even after the explosion and fire caused by MV-22B crash. It was disgusting to watch, all that putrefying flesh pressed up against the glass, frantically pounding on it with hands, feet, faces. But the ones in the Army uniforms, the ones who had been Rittenour’s teammates... they weren’t having any of that. They just stood there amidst the crush of the bodies piling up behind them, probing the glass with their hands. They pushed against it, but did not pound it with their fists. Rittenour moved slightly to his left and reached behind him. He grabbed a handful of Leary’s uniform blouse and pulled him toward the door.
“Check out what Keith and the other guys are doing,” he said. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the ruckus outside.
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