Seventy-five yards uphill, in the same hide where Chance had been taken prisoner, Jamie had the zombie bracketed in her crosshairs and was a breath away from sending a jacketed hollow point into its brain. Safety be damned, she thought to herself. Gus was dangerously close to being overtaken.
As her finger smoothly reeled in the small amount of trigger pull, Gus sprang into action. She watched him use the shovel to create some space between himself and the advancing throng. Then he took three long strides toward the fence and, using the shovel as a makeshift pole, vaulted himself cleanly over the top strand of wire. He landed upright and fetched his rifle from just inside the fence. It looked like he was pulling his radio from his back pocket when her own two-way crackled alive again.
“What’s going on up there?” Duncan asked.
“I just about witnessed Gus get eaten,” Jamie replied drily.
“Can you elaborate?” asked Duncan.
“He was sparing the rotters for you,” Jamie snapped. “God damn it... can’t we just cull these ones now? More will show up. They always do.”
“Save the ammunition, we are going to need it. Stay put for now. When me and Logan are done here, we’re going to need your help to conceal the Humvee.”
“Give Logan a kiss for me,” she replied in a husky voice, knowing full well he was listening in and his cheeks were about to turn several shades redder.
“Do it yerself,” Duncan drawled. “And it’s about damn time. Kid’s more nervous around you than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”
Jamie smiled. She keyed the talk button—held it down for a second—but reserved her comment for later.
“Duncan or Logan, do you hear me?” Gus said, trying to get a word in edgewise over the chatter. “One of you needs to come and walk me back in. I don’t want to be the first to test out whatever diabolical contraptions you two have dreamed up.”
Gus took a couple steps back from the fence which was bowing towards him under the weight of the rotters. His eyes passed over the motley group. A younger male, probably high school-aged before it turned, bared its yellowed teeth and swiped across the fence at him. Gus stood still as the thing fought against the barbs even though every fiber in his body screamed, Shoot it in the head!
“Come on Winters,” Gus muttered under his breath. “Get me out of here.”
“I’m right here,” said Logan, who had snuck up on Gus from behind. “Grab your shovel and come with me.”
Gus did exactly that. He followed the younger man through the undergrowth, shovel in hand, matching him step for step, and as they transited the forest Logan pointed out each one of the covered traps as they happened upon them.
Gus whistled softly. “You guys have been busy,” he said.
“Like little beavers,” said Logan. “Neither one of us slept last night.”
“I bet you wished you were doing something other than digging holes,” Gus added.
“Don’t we all,” Logan said with a chuckle. The fact that there were only two single women among the small group of survivors wasn’t lost on the younger men. And Logan had been the recipient of most of the ribbing among them, due to the slow approach he was taking at courting Jamie.
“Watch it,” Logan said, pointing out another Punji stick-filled depression.
“How’s Jordan?” Gus asked, trying to make small talk. “She coming out of her shell?”
Logan looked over his shoulder and shook his head.
“Nope... she’s still keeping to herself,” he said. “That whole thing at the cabin—messed her up real good.”
“Too young for me anyway,” the former sheriff added sourly. “Maybe her and Lev can find some chemistry.”
The trail opened up into a small clearing ringed by scrub oak and mature trees. Duncan was eased up against a sizable trunk, legs outstretched, smoothing his moustache with deliberate strokes. The Humvee sat near the feeder road, squat and sinister looking with the .50 caliber Browning’s black barrel protruding from the rig’s top-mounted turret.
The sun was at an azimuth where its rays were still being absorbed by the canopy, so, following Logan’s lead, Gus switched on his headlamp.
“That thing good to go?” Gus asked Duncan.
“It’s low on fuel but loaded for bear.”
“How long did it take Phillip to link the ammo?”
“Too long Gus... way too long,” answered Duncan as he hauled his weary frame from the forest floor. “Lead the way Oops. Let’s get these holes dug.”
Gus and Duncan each put a shovel over their shoulder and followed Logan across the clearing and melted back into the forest.
Chapter 47
Outbreak - Day 16
Schriever AFB
Colorado Springs, Colorado
6:15 a.m.
The briefing that had started at zero-five-hundred hours lasted an hour and fifteen minutes.
Although the sunrise had been at 0604, by the time they stepped from the TOC at 0615 the low-hanging orb in the east had already brought the temperature to seventy-five degrees.
A freight train rumble rolled in from the west as the KC-130’s four Allison turboprops—with a combined eighteen-thousand horsepower—handily pulled the refueling bird down the runway. And just when Gaines thought the sound couldn’t get any louder, the fuel-laden aircraft gained more speed as the pilot pegged the throttles. The sonic tempest ratcheted up and the plane nosed up and easily cleared the fence at the far end of the runway. The landing gear disappeared into its flat underbelly and it made a graceful roll to port and cut a large half-circle around Schriever’s south and east flanks before powering away on a northeasterly heading, leaving four tails of exhaust in its wake.
Gaines craned his neck looking to the left. Watched the gray airplane level off and climb into the rising sun. He continued tracking the first of the three accompanying tankers until it was a speck on the horizon, then stared daggers in the direction of the motor pool. Shook his head because the vehicles that should have already been here waiting when the briefing concluded were nowhere in sight.
“Going to be another hot one,” he said to no one in particular.
“Already had too many of these scorchers in a row,” Ari opined. “But I have a good feeling that it’s going to be quite a few degrees cooler where we’re going.”
“One of the only reasons I decided to come along with you boys,” Gaines shot back. “You didn’t think I was tagging along for just some company and deep conversation, did you?”
“Our rides are here,” Lopez called out as a pair of propane-powered golf carts juddered to a stop in front of the men and their mountains of equipment.
He looked at the carts and then glanced back at the gear baking in the sun.
“I think we better call a dead sled to follow us with our kit,” Lopez said, as he began tossing his gear into the waiting Cushman.
Everyone but Gaines laughed at the stocky Hispanic’s joke. Gaines wasn’t in the mood. He hadn’t been lucky enough to have the same two-days stand down time he’d ordered on the rest of the Delta team, and waiting in the heat for their ride hadn’t helped matters any.
“Load em up,” he bellowed as he tossed his own gear into the area behind the seats.
After everything was piled aboard and the operators were seated, Airman E2 Davis, who was Nash’s personal errand boy, transported them to the flight line. Ari, Durant, and Hicks rode along with the general in an identical Cushman being driven by an Airman called Nealon, who looked barely old enough to enlist, let alone drive.
Cade closed his eyes and listened to the thrum of rubber tires on grooved pavement. A few minutes later he and the other operators were doing the same awkward dance with their bulky Pelican hard cases, fully stuffed rucksacks and weapons—only in reverse order—hauling them off the Cushmans and stacking them near the flat black helo awaiting the pilot’s OK to move everything one last time and stow it aboard the ominous-looking aircraft.
While h
e waited for the OK to board, Cade watched the men who were busy getting their gear squared away. Except for the tall surfer-looking guy whom he recognized as the head of the President’s Secret Service detail, he knew all of the other men who would be aboard the Ghost Hawk, which would once again be piloted by the usual suspects: Ari Silver in the pilot’s seat on the right, and Durant in the co-pilot chair on the left.
Jedi One-One would have a total of five customers aboard. Somehow—though this time out the team would be hunting for scientists, not stray nuclear weapons—Tice, the former CIA nuke specialist-cum-honorary Delta member and holder of the not so coveted ‘Puker Patch’ was coming along on the mission. Thankfully though, it appeared to Cade that Tice had given up trying to stand out—as all ‘covert cowboys’ usually try to do when thrown in amongst the uniformed Tier One shooters. Gone was his usual Hawaiian print shirt and Detroit Tigers ball cap. Instead, he wore the same tactical gear as Cade, Lopez, and Gaines: digital ACUs in desert tan, full knee skids, padded gloves and the ubiquitous low-riding tactical ballistic helmets most of the Tier One guys preferred. And he guessed from the way Tice was fidgeting in the seat beside him that the spook also had a ballistic vest strapped on underneath his ACU blouse.
The President’s man, on the other hand, had gone the Mission Impossible route. Head to toe, from his boots on up to his low-riding ballistic helmet, Special Agent Adam Cross was dressed in full black. His silenced MP7 machine pistol was black. His MOLLE load-bearing gear and the load it was bearing was all black—not a scrap of fabric, Velcro or plastic on the man was a color other than black. And black wasn’t even a color, Cade mused as he approached the President’s man.
“Cade Grayson,” he said, offering his hand to Special Agent Vader who in turn reached out and met him halfway.
“Adam Cross,” the agent replied. “Heard a lot about your recent exploits, Captain. And I’ve been meaning to say thanks for all you’ve done... not just from me but from the President as well. As you already know, she thinks very highly of you.”
Cade nodded but made no reply. It was his way of testing to see how full of himself the new man might be. He watched for a reaction from the corner of his eye and was pleasantly surprised when the minor slight seemingly went unnoticed. Cross just removed the magazine and cycled the bolt on his HK MP7, inspected the chamber and looked the mag over. Seemingly satisfied, he snapped it back into the well, smiled in Cade’s direction, and let the weapon dangle against his black body armor.
“You’re welcome,” Cade finally replied, nodding his head. “I know you from somewhere. But I just can’t place it. Too many tours... worked alongside dozens of operators from every branch.”
“I remember you too, Captain. Ramadi, Iraq... half a dozen years ago. Summer of the Devil.”
A look of recognition crossed Cade’s face.
“That’s right. You were with SEAL Team 3. You had a big bushy beard back then. That’s why I didn’t place you at first. Welcome to our cobbled-together Delta Unit.”
Just as Cade finished speaking, Lopez displayed his knack for perfect timing.
“I noticed you got stuck riding bitch again,” he called out to Tice. “You oughta call shotgun once in a while.”
“Some sneaky bastard always seems to beat me to it,” Tice replied boisterously.
Lopez grabbed his ruck from the Cushman, and slowly looked Tice up and down. “Now that I think about it, you do kinda look like an operator when you leave the Don Ho getup alone.”
“Captain Grayson didn’t like me trying to sneak it past him the last time. And I thought with Gaines along this time... I didn’t want to take any chances.”
“Hope you shoot as good as you look today... honorary Delta,” Lopez said with a wry smile. He slowly turned and walked towards the angular black Jedi Ride that would be delivering the team into harm’s way.
“Wheels up in five,” Ari bellowed from the other side of the tarmac. Then he went back to inspecting the aircraft’s flight surfaces. Jiggling this and that. Everything short of kicking the tires.
Gaines stepped from the lead Cushman, shouldered his SCAR—Special operations forces Combat Assault Rifle—and waved Cade over. Taking the younger captain’s shoulder in a firm grip, he pulled him close. “I just want to let you know that I don’t recognize that short amount of time in which Nash was holding onto those for you”—he tapped the cloth captain’s insignia adhered by Velcro to Cade’s ACUs—“I want to reaffirm what the President said... I don’t question your allegiance. Not for one second.”
“Copy that, General. But after this mission,” Cade whispered. “I am done.”
Gaines nodded. “I know,” he replied. He gave Cade’s shoulder a squeeze and let it go.
The door to Whipper’s office flew open and banged against the ribbed metal hangar wall, adding yet another blemish to its yellow exterior.
Simultaneously all eyes took in the first sergeant as he stepped from his tiny anteroom. A sheepish look was on his face as he closed the door. He raised one hand in a gesture Cade took as an apology, and shielded his eyes against the rising sun as he approached the flight line.
“General Gaines. Captain Grayson?” he said, offering up a precise salute which was promptly returned by the officers. He glanced at Cade apprehensively. Eyes flicked to the rank on the ACUs. He said nothing and scurried over to the Ghost Hawk, where he appeared to have a conversation with Durant before squirting off in the direction of the matte black Osprey sitting on the far apron.
Cade made a face. “What’s gotten into him?” he asked.
Gaines wagged his head. Rubbed his shiny black pate. “Probably just the pressure of the times we’re living in... surviving is probably the more appropriate word,” he replied. “I’ve seen a lot of strange behavior these last few days. Really began to ramp up after word got out about how many Zs were coming our way from Denver. Then the nukes popping off... disconcerting to say the least. You know, Captain, we’re sitting ducks out here. And after hearing first hand just how fast Fortress Bragg fell from the people who were there... in their own words. Can’t say that I blame Whipper, or you for that matter. Hell, if I wasn’t in the position I’m in now I’d be bugging out with you.”
The sun washed the left side of Cade’s face with a warm glow as he looked off towards Pikes Peak. He took a moment working up some kind of reply. “Truth be told Ronnie, it’s not so much me as it is Brook who wants to bug out. I never run away. You know me, I run into the fire. I thrive on it. But Brook... Brook’s over Army life. Was years before I quit the first time. She got spoiled and now she wants that life back.”
Good luck with that, Gaines thought to himself. “When I said bugging out I didn’t mean it in a cowardly manner. If it’s any consolation, there is not one sane person on this base who could blame Brook for wanting to leave either. Every person here—myself included— is collectively holding their breath hoping for something positive to happen. To me, the guy who is stuck in the middle, it feels like I’m waiting for two tectonic plates to slip and release an enormous amount of energy. The problem is I’ve got no idea which way the scale is going to tilt. If we strike out on this one I’m certain morale is going to get much worse. And when the big one strikes... a 9.0 figuratively of course. I don’t know how me, Shrill, and Nash are going to hold it all together.”
“Two minutes!” Ari yelled from the far side of the helo.
Cade silently thanked the SOAR aviator for rescuing him from conversation—one of his least favorite pastimes. Then he looked over and watched as the compact muscular Night Stalker clambered into the black helo. Then he focused on the like-colored Osprey which was squatting on the apron fifty yards beyond, where a chalk of Rangers, thirteen in all, were busy hoisting their burdensome-looking rucksacks aboard. The craft suddenly emitted a sharp whine, and a puff of exhaust followed as the massive twin props spooled up. And as soon as the last of the Rangers and their gear was finally aboard and the rear ramp had powered closed, the eng
ine noise picked up to a deafening roar.
In the Ghost Hawk, the operators had stowed their weapons and were cinching safety belts.
Durant looked back into the passenger compartment and received a thumbs up from Hicks, who had just closed the sliding door on the starboard side. His gaze passed over Agent Cross, Tice, and Lopez, who were occupying the seats backing up to the aft bulkhead. Cade was seated on the port side, and Gaines had also planted himself on one of the canvas seats near the port mini-gun.
“Launch in one mike,” Ari announced over the onboard comms.
Hicks regarded the shooters in the back through his smoked visor, and placed a hand over his mike boom. “I see you got the bitch seat again,” he said to Tice.
“Shotgun is not in the man’s lexicon,” quipped Lopez.
To answer would only fan the flames, so Tice said nothing.
The Gen 3 helo shuddered subtly as Ari pulled pitch. And as the carbon fiber blades grabbed the hot desert air and provided lift sufficient to overcome Earth’s pull, the sudden G-force created pressed everyone firmly into their seats. Simultaneously the nose pitched down and the ground flashed underneath as Ari swung the tail around to starboard in a gut-churning maneuver that brought the Ghost around to the Osprey’s port side.
Holding on to the seat and his cookies, Cade watched the Rockies spin by through the window next to Hicks’s shoulder. “Never gets old,” he said into his mike.
Gaines nodded and raised his right hand which was clenched into a fist.
Seeing this, Cade did the same and delivered a fist bump to the general. Surreal, he thought to himself. Then he swiveled his head and looked over his shoulder in time to see the black Osprey lifting off. In seconds, the northeast entrance, complete with the unmistakable winking of muzzle flashes piercing the predawn light, caught his eye.
“Looks like the numbers of Zs showing up overnight are multiplying,” he said to Gaines.
“Good observation, Captain. Seems like there are a few more each night... some are hot.”
Allegiance Page 27
