by Rounds, Mark
“We can use the load sure enough,” said Phillips, “but doesn't he know we aren't very secure out here?”
“I suspect he knows sir,” said Twitchell. “I did convey the message to him.”
“Well, call out the reaction force and have everybody stand to!”
“Already done sir,” said Twitchell. “I would suggest you launch the ready bird as well.”
“I twitch every time people say that,” said Phillips. “We have an old crop duster mounting M-60 machine guns and carrying all manner of homemade bombs. Then there are four ancient UH-1Ns that have even less weaponry. That is the sum total of our air support and we only have fuel for two or three sorties. But yeah, go ahead. It seems like you have it all in hand. The General will be here in half an hour; do you have anything else for me to worry about?”
July 10th, Friday, 8:22 am PDT
Joint Base Fort Lewis-McChord, Tacoma, WA
Whipkey jumped out of the staff car he had commandeered and ran up to the third plane in line. Engines were already running and the APU cart had been pulled away in preparation to taxi. With a little gesturing, he got the pilot to stop and opened the side entry door.
“What’s the word, Captain?” said Gen Antonopoulos as soon as the hatch was closed and the noise level was down to a tolerable level.
“A call went out from Hanson's phone,” said Whipkey. “He is in custody. Gen Johnson is under house arrest.”
“And hopping mad I'll bet,” said Gen Antonopoulos who then turned to Lassiter who was standing beside him.
“Captain Lassiter,” said Gen Antonopoulos, “you are now the 'real' head of human intelligence. Your first shitty job is to interrogate Hanson and Johnson and find out who was the mole. Was it both of them, or was Johnson sloppy enough that Hanson was the only one? I would like to keep Johnson on my staff, but not if he is under suspicion. Have Capt Whipkey take you back in his staff car and get started. Knowing this may mean something significant to this mission.”
“You knew!” said Lassiter who pointed his finger at Maj Gen Antonopoulos and was on the edge of blowing his temper, then he reined it back. “Sorry, sir.”
“I had a hunch,” said Antonopoulos nodding. “Not enough to bet the farm on, especially with a General Officer.”
“Yes, sir,” said Lassiter somewhat mollified. “Then as my first act as head of human intelligence, I am going to recommend that we scrub this mission. They know where you are flying to and our reports from Moscow put Macklin in the area with enough assets to jeopardize the mission and put you at risk.”
“I expected that,” said Antonopoulos. “The mission goes. I think that they will hit Spokane now regardless of whether this mission goes or not. The cargo on board might make the difference between holding the base or losing some serious assets to the adversary.”
“Fine, sir,” said Lassiter quickly, “I expected that, so I recommend that I take your place. I will do it in writing if so required. I can assess the security situation at Fairchild as well as you, and as much as this upsets my stomach, you have a better handle on fighting these guys than I do. We need you to be alive tomorrow.”
“That is the correct and logical decision, Captain,” said Gen Antonopoulos. “I am going to overrule it. This is the second time I have put people at risk to find out something from the bad guys and the last time, people I care about got injured and damned near killed because I couldn't get the right assets on the target. I will not allow that a second time.”
“Sir, I am sorry about ...” began Lassiter.
“Water under the bridge, Captain,” said Gen Antonopoulos. “Learn from it, but don't stew over it. You will have a bunch of jobs while I am gone that you will have to prioritize. Brigadier General Bossell will be in charge of Army Aviation and senior Army Officer on post who’s not under arrest. He is a good man, but he is getting thrown into the deep end just like you are. I may need something. You get it for me. Start negotiating now with the folks that control the assets you think I might need, like your drones or the Army's Chinooks. Get me a company of good airborne infantry. Brainstorm about what other scenarios might take place and put some contingency plans in place. Find out all you can about what Hanson and Johnson know. I would suspect nothing, but you never know. Whipkey is up to speed on everything so use him. My staff is also on board, but do it yesterday Captain!”
July 10th, Friday, 9:07 pm PDT
Shooting range on Lenville Road, five miles east of Moscow, ID
Training had begun early for Connor, Tom, and Harold. At 06:00, they and their training platoon had made the seven mile hike from the armory to the old Rod and Gun Club range outside of town with their weapons and a hundred rounds of ammunition. Nominally, they were under Staff Sergeant Elizabeth Borden's tutelage. She was married to First Sergeant Michael Borden, so she knew the score. They were going to begin an abbreviated Army Marksmanship course.
It was abbreviated because they were limited on the amount of ammunition they could use. The real plan was for Elizabeth, or Liz as she was known to her friends, to work with the six other recruits including Pederson, and leave Acting Corporal Gibson to assess Strickland's shooting skills. They had set up standard paper targets at fifty and a hundred yards for initial familiarization with their weapons. Pederson had been issued one of the scarce M-4's that were in the pool for the National Guard troops to use but Gibson had his own Mini-14 and Connor was packing his M-1. The weight of the rifle plus the ammunition had tired Connor significantly and he was breathing hard when they finally got to the range. As they had been briefed before they left, they moved directly to the firing positions.
The initial course of fire was from the prone position, fifty meter, slow fire. Some of the recruits who had little experience with firearms had difficulty putting even a single hole on the paper. All five of Connor's were in the ten ring, as were Pederson's. The next round of fire was at the instructor's choice. Patiently, Liz kept the range at fifty yards and worked with the less-experienced recruits on not flinching and staying on target.
Gibson moved the targets out to the hundred-meter stakes. Pederson missed one completely, but kept the rest inside the eight ring. All of Strickland's were again inside the ten ring. At Gibson's direction, Pederson joined the rest of the recruits as they moved their targets out to the hundred meter stake.
When the cease-fire had been called, Gibson moved the stake out to two hundred meters. When fire recommenced, Connor put four in the ten ring and one in the nine ring and he did it at the same speed he had been firing at the other ranges.
At the next cease-fire, Gibson put six pint milk cartons filled with Tannerite, a low grade explosive that can only be set off by the passage of a high velocity bullet, at various ranges from one hundred and forty meters out to six hundred meters.
“All right, Connor,” said Harold after he had resumed his place as Connor's spotter. “Here is where we get to see if you can really shoot. Take your time. Shoot at each target in turn, nearest to farthest. When the one you are aiming at explodes, move to the next one further out.”
Connor loaded his rifle and gave Gibson a thumbs-up declaring he was ready. Gibson nodded to Liz who began the now familiar litany on the firing line.
"Firers, assume a good supported prone position."
She waited until everyone was settled.
"Lock one of ten rounds, load." said Liz, watching her charges like a hawk.
“Ready on the right?"
"Ready on the left?"
"The firing line is ready."
"Place your selector lever on semiautomatic."
“Commence firing."
Connor began firing. His pace was slightly slower as he had to adjust the rear sight range knob each time he changed targets. The big M1 had a much deeper report than the M4s and so it was easily discernible when he fired. And so it was not hard to determine which shot exploded the targets as they popped in quick succession. After the third round, Gibson tossed a lighted package of f
irecrackers five meters in front of Connor who flinched when the first firecracker went off in his field of view.
“No one told you to quit firing recruit!” shouted a smiling Liz who was in on the test.
Connor wasted a split second to glare at Gibson and then popped the next three targets at his same steady rate of fire as the firecrackers partially obscured his sight picture. On the six hundred yard target, Connor missed the first shot, but calmly reacquired the target and exploded it on the next shot.
"Cease-fire, lock, and clear your weapons." said Liz as if nothing happened. One round left the action of Connor's M1 and spiraled into the air to land on the blanket next to them followed by the empty eight round clip. Six targets and seven rounds expended.
"Clear on the right?"
"Clear on the left?"
"The firing line is clear."
“Cease fire.”
“What happened on the last target, recruit?” said Liz in a softer voice.
“Sergeant, the breeze picked up a little,” said Connor, “and the firecrackers disturbed my calm a little bit so I didn't account for it on the first shot.”
“Not a whole lot,” said Gibson smiling. “Sergeant, we are giving this recruit too much ammo.”
Whatever snappy rejoinder the sergeant was going to comeback with was lost when Mr. Saunders, the civilian caretaker for the range, stuck his head out of the range shack.
“You better get your boys back to the Armory,” shouted Saunders. “Fairchild Air Force Base has been attacked. The Captain has reinforced all the outposts and has started a recall. He wants y'all to be part of the reaction force!”
July 10th, Friday, 9:58 am PDT
In the parking lot of APB Auto east of Fairchild Air Force Base's main gate, WA
“The bombardment should have started fifteen minutes ago,” thought Macklin as he checked his watch with irritation.
Almost as if his ruminations were a cue, the mortars began firing. They were way off target and only corrected slowly. He knew in his heart that three ancient M2 sixty millimeter mortars manufactured in the 1960's did not constitute a heavy weapons company any more than the two under-strength mobs being led by has-beens and wannabe's resembled infantry companies. They had trained for a little over two weeks and they had some coordination and semblance of control, but if the Air Force teams augmented by local militia put up any meaningful resistance, they would break.
That was why, after some soul searching, he kept all his colleagues close to him rather than spreading them out as company commanders. The three antediluvian but extremely competent warriors alongside could make the difference between his living to see tomorrow and dying in this pointless attack that Nergüi insisted on.
His force was to assault the eastern perimeter of Fairchild Air Force Base. It was the most well-defended part of the perimeter as it was close to Highway 2 and the ground nearby was flat, only thinly wooded, and had few structures to hide behind. His troops had simply rolled up in school buses, converted step-vans and the much abused MRAP from when he was in the Tri-Cities, and started to unload in the lot in front of APB Auto Parts, a salvage yard.
For the last fifteen minutes, they had been getting out of the buses and various other vehicles, organizing into their units, and then deploying on line. Something real infantry could have done in two minutes. The personnel at Fairchild were watching the whole thing and with his binoculars, Macklin could see trucks and Humvees rolling up and troops disembarking into prepared positions. It appeared like at least two teams of snipers were firing on his rabble and that only made things more confused.
To top it all off, the mortars which were to lay smoke to cover the deployment and then shift fire to the gate area had taken fifteen minutes to set up, find all their crew members, break out the ammo, and god knows what else before finally beginning firing.
He did have one ace up his sleeve that Nergüi didn't suspect. He had Wallace and his special action team of ex-Blackwater shooters with him. When the wheels came off, as they most likely would, his mission would be to grab anybody in the know for intelligence purposes. Then he would have some insurance if Nergüi's plan fell through. They would also be useful if he had to extract in a rout, which is what his portion of the battle was sure to become if it went on for very long.
He was also concerned about the crop duster that was loitering around over his formation. He suspected that it was for surveillance and, god forbid, air support.
July 10th, Friday, 10:01 am PDT
In athletic field next to the Security Police Squadron, Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
Capt Jennifer Stutesman heard the growl of the old crop duster that made up the sum total of their fixed-wing air support on base taking off. She and Sergeant Finkbiner had been running her flight through fire and movement drills in the ball field and now everyone stopped to watch the plane take off. What once was a very commonplace activity on base, an aircraft taking off, happened so rarely now that it was a news story in and of itself.
“Sergeant,” said Jen conversationally, “when was the last time you saw that crop duster take off?”
“Two weeks ago,” said Finkbiner. “They were testing the new napalm canisters as I recall.”
“Your former billet was in the Munitions Maintenance Squadron right?” asked Jen.
“Yes, ma'am.” said Finkbiner.
“Was there a test scheduled today?” asked Jen.
“No, ma'am,” said Finkbiner. “I always go out and watch the tests when I am free. I have a buddy that is still over in MMS who lets me know when something is up.”
“I thought so,” said Jen. “Look, POL is really short, it's likely they aren't sending the pilot up for touch-and-go's fully bombed up like that. Something is up. Form up the Flight. Hustle them back to the barracks and get everyone into ABU's and whatever LBE gear and weapons we have and then double-time out to base ops.
“I need to run over to the kennel,” said Jen. “Care over there is spotty since I lost one of my airmen I had doing feedings and such. I will likely beat you to Base Ops but if I don't, find some shade and be prepared to be useful.”
July 10th, Friday, 10:04 am PDT
In the air east and north of Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
Lee Shoults was concerned. He had flown OV-10A's in Vietnam and was called up again during Desert Storm, but these days, at seventy-two years old, he confined his flying to the only slightly less dangerous world of crop dusting. His current aircraft was the turboprop version of the Grumman Ag-Cat.
When the Plague struck, Lee and his wife Midge loaded up their belongings and Lee, as a retired Air Force major, evacuated to Fairchild. There wasn't much for him to do there and he was chafing at the inactivity when, over a meal with some other retirees, he heard one of the retreads who had been picked up as a staff officer exclaim that that for an Air Force base, they had damn-all in the way of air support.
That hatched an idea in Lee's brain and the next morning, in his dress blues, including all his ribbons, he reported to the Ops Officer of the 141st Air Refueling Wing of the Washington Air National Guard. Lt Col Chuck Waddel, who had flown as his co-pilot in Desert Storm greeted him warmly.
Lee cut through the pleasantries quickly and popped his idea. He had heard that there was no air support for the ground units the base was forming up for defense, and no prospect of any being transferred to Fairchild any time soon. His idea was to refurbish his Turbo Ag-Cat as a light close support and observation aircraft. Chuck listened politely and said he would be in touch.
Lee thought that the idea was dead and so went back grumpily to the quarters assigned to him and his wife. The next morning, a bicycle messenger tapped on their door and asked that Major Shoults report to Wing Headquarters and that a car would be along in a half hour to pick him up. He was whisked into a staff meeting and peppered with questions as to the capabilities of his aircraft, its serviceability, and his own skills as a pilot. By the end of the day, a pickup with two airmen
, the line chief for the reserve tanker squadron, and Lee drove out to the airstrip where he kept 'Sadie', his Turbo Ag-Cat D/ST with the 750 horsepower Pratt & Whitney PT6 turbine engine.
After a thorough pre-flight by Lee and a similarly intense inspection by the Line Chief, Sadie was declared fit to fly. Lee gathered up all the tools and spare parts they could fit in the truck and the co-pilots seat of the Ag-Cat and flew it back to Fairchild.
He and the Air Force technicians spent the next week stripping out all the plumbing for crop spraying and adding two M-60 machine guns and racks to drop a variety of various homemade bombs and napalm canisters. It had been great fun at the time, and getting back in the saddle, as it were, was good for his ego.
All that seemed distant as he flew over the environs of the Air Force base. Less than three hundred yards from the eastern perimeter, a cross between an infantry battalion and the keystone cops was unloading from a mixed bag of vehicles. There was some long-ranged sniping that was coming from the base that seemed to be hampering matters somewhat.
What worried him more was in the fields to the east of the old alert pad. There were at least ten thousand Infected who were exhibiting many of the signs of end stage infection. Many were totally naked, but unlike most Plague sufferers in this stage, most were carrying something. What it was, he couldn't make out.
“Fairchild Tower this is Tomboy One-Two, do you read me?” said Lee laconically into the microphone. It was his old call sign from Vietnam, which he jokingly used with the tower when he first brought the crop duster into Fairchild and it had stuck.
Using it now sent a chill down his spine as a memory of slow red balls of fire floating out of the jungle and then quickly turning into deadly, 23mm fire flashing by the canopy… He shook his head.
