Zombie Killers: HEAT

by John F. Holmes

  “Nick,” she said, wrapping her arms around me. “You have given enough. That beating you took last year, you still haven’t recovered from, and honestly, if it wasn’t you giving the orders, it would be someone else less qualified. At least this way, they have a better chance.”

  “My mind gets all that, it really does, but my soul wants to be out there with them.”

  She held me tighter, and whispered, “I know. That’s what scares me. Stay with me; I don’t want to lose you.”

  “You won’t.”

  As it turned out, she didn’t lose me.

  I lost her.

  Chapter 240

  In the end, I decided the least I could do was escort one of the teams in their insert, to see them safely away. Brit would have to live with that; it was the best compromise I could come up with between duty and honor. She was OK with it; she learned a long time ago to push it only so far and no further.

  Choosing which team to go in with was easy. I wanted to feel the fight, and Scotty Orr’s team was going to be going in, at night, in the middle of a spoiling attack. The plan was for a couple of Bradleys to break through the MR lines somewhere, knock the crap out of something, and pull back. In the confusion of the attack, the three men of Scout Team Eleven would un-ass one of the Brad and move out to occupy a hide site, then go searching for the HQ the next night.

  The other three teams, respectively IST – 3, 5 & 10, led by Szimanski, Ball and Hideyoshi, would take the following approaches. Team Three would insert underwater, downriver, and attempt to find a gap on the river lines. Team Five had the crappy job of moving through the sewers, and were in full undead kit, maxed out on suppressors and .22 ammo. Team Ten was going to dive through the flooded Metro and come up through a station in the northwest part of the city.

  Night had fallen when we reached the siege lines the troopers of the Big Red One had set up by I-395. The darkness smelled of unwashed bodies, decaying flesh, dried blood and diesel exhaust fumes, mixed with gunpowder residue, and was punctuated by sniper fire and the rumble of the six hundred horse power Bradley engines. A platoon of them loomed like hulking beasts in the night, occasionally glowing when their ramps opened, letting out filtered light.

  Although I was just along for the ride, while Brit and Rheam monitored the radios back at the ops center, I still kitted up all the way. M-4 with 200 rounds of 5.56. Front and back SAPI plates, and a Combat Vehicle Crewmembers helmet that would allow me to talk to the Bradley crew. I was met in the assembly area by a young Captain, who I couldn’t even see in the darkness.

  I was surprised, but shouldn’t have been, when a female voice gave the introductions. “Colonel Agostine, I’m Captain Lowenstein. My boys and girls will be conducting the probe tonight.” I heard a slight snigger and Orr whispered, “She said ‘probe’ haha!” I smacked him on the back of the helmet, hard.

  “We appreciate the ride, Captain. How has the fighting been here?”

  I could hear the strain under her nasal, Bronx accent as she answered. “Well, my company has to play fireman whenever the Rebs push too hard at our lines, run around and plug the gaps. There isn’t enough armor to do this properly, and we lost two more tracks yesterday to ATGM’s and PRG fire. Plus we have two down for unavailable spare parts. Any word on when the rest of our armor is going to get here, give us a break and push these jackoffs out?”

  “Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve lost almost half my guys this week since the whole thing kicked off. We were doing Z clearance in Bethesda when we got told to haul ass and try and lock the Rebs down. Bit of a difference.”

  “What are we facing?” asked Scott, all business now.

  “Light machine guns, some heavier pieces, RPG’s, a few TOW missiles, mortars. The Brads have a hard time because the streets are all broken up, and we don’t have enough infantry to cover our asses. We can move up and down 395 all night long, but the minute we head into the city proper, it’s a shit show.”

  She paused to take a long drink from her camelback, then continued. “In the daytime, don’t even think of showing your head. Those good old boys can SHOOT. I lost my XO to a Barrett .50 three days ago, took off the top of his helmet, just slightly exposed, and the concussion snapped his neck like a twig. Made a mess of the top of his skull, too, come to think of it.”

  I let her dwell on it for a moment, then broke her reverie. “How is your men’s morale, Captain?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, we’re doing OK, except for bitching about lack of ammo for the 25mm. Most of us understand that the Union has to stand, or we’re all going to fall apart again. Those that don’t, well, we had three deserters the first day. I caught one and hung her from a street light.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, and I could just make out a figure swinging slightly in the sliver of moonlight.

  “Thing is, none of the rest of the guys were pissed. She cut and ran in the middle of combat, trying to get to the Rebs’ lines. Fuck her, I would have sent her back to the rear if she said she couldn’t fight against Americans. I did that for two others. All enemies, foreign and domestic, right?”

  “Pretty much. Well, thanks for the back brief.”

  “Can I ask what exactly my people are risking their lives for, Colonel? I had two wounded doing a probe last night. Not serious, but it’s only time till someone catches it.”

  “I wish I could tell you, but I can’t.”

  “OK then. Let’s roll. SERGEANT HORVATH, GET’EM MOVING!” A blocky figure stood up and started cursing at the troopers, who responded with good natured grumbling. They seemed like a good unit.

  We followed the infantry soldiers into the back of their vehicles, and the ramps hissed shut. Sitting down, I plugged into the intercom system and listened to the Vehicle Commander, in this case Captain Lowenstein herself, talk to the Gunner. Then she addressed me.

  “Colonel, we have an agreement with the Rebs that we all stay away from the museums and monuments, so we’re going to head northwest and punch through some of the ghetto. They can’t cover everywhere, and move around to respond to our probes, but we’ve ID’d a hard barrier that we want to smash. Once through it, we’ll drag race down one of the avenues and let your guys out at a likely place. Be advised, we will probably be under fire at all times.”

  “Roger that. I’m just an observer. You fight your track and your company, Captain.” She didn’t answer, but the track jerked forward, banging over the curb and racing down the street.

  The thing about riding as a passenger in an armored vehicle, is that you really can’t see shit. The Bradley’s originally had firing ports, but experience in Iraq had led to them being welded over. We were just along for the ride, and it was a hell of a ride. There really is nothing soft in any armored vehicle; they’re designed for utility, not comfort.

  Almost as soon as we pulled off the highway, rounds began to ping off the armor, the Bushmaster Cannon returning fire over our heads, accompanied occasionally by the coax machine gun as the gunner engaged targets. About two minutes into the run, there was a BANG and the vehicle lurched to the side, but continued on.

  “RPG, I don’t know where the fuck they get those things,” yelled Lowenstein over the radio, and continued to give directions to her driver. Periodically she dropped off the net, to give instructions to the other two vehicles.

  “HANG ON!” she yelled, and I repeated it to the team. We all grabbed what we could for support, and the Brad accelerated. The volume of fire ringing off the hull increased, accompanied by the WHAP WHAP of heavier machine gun rounds, Then, with a huge crash and a grinding noise, the floor shifted and we climbed over what I assumed was the barrier. The most dangerous time for any fighting vehicle was when it was nose up, going over an obstacle, exposing the weaker bottom armor. I held my breath waiting for a shaped charge warhead to burn its way through in a jet of plasma. Then we were through and racing down the wide avenue, no more shots ringing off the hull.

  “Heads up, s
topping in another two hundred meters, Prepare to exfill.” Scott, who was also wearing a CVC, switched it out for a regular Kevlar helmet, and chambered a round in his rifle. His other two men did the same, a man and woman who I hadn’t had the time to meet yet. The track ground to a halt, Scott opened up the back hatch, and the three of them stormed out and ran right, disappearing into the darkness.

  We started moving again, having stopped for less than thirty seconds. I was happy that it had gone so well, and I thanked the Captain. “Don’t thank me yet, we have to hit that fuel dump and then get the fuck out of here.”

  To emphasis her words, the cannon started hammering again, and all the sudden she was yelling into the headset. “HOLY SHIT THAT’S A FUCKING TANK! DRIVER, STOP, GUNNER, TOW!”

  He screamed back at her, “THERE AREN’T SUPPOSED TO BE ANY FUCKING TA...”

  The world exploded in a hammering that had no sound, or had more sound than my ears could handle, and the whole track was slammed sideways, the interior lights went out, and I was thrown to the floor.

  Chapter 241

  Smoke quickly filled the compartment, and I held my breath. The shit that brews up in an armored vehicle fire is toxic as shit, and can quickly overwhelm you. I grabbed my Maglite, and still holding my breath, tried to find the hatch. For a second, I thought the shock of being hit may have twisted the frame, but it popped open, and I dashed outside. I first shone my light back into the troop compartment, then remembered that all the infantry had made way for Scott’s gys and me, so I was alone. Running around the side of the track, I climbed up to see what had become of the turret.

  Across the street, the second Bradley had stopped behind a shattered brick wall. A TOW anti-tank missile shot off the launcher, but at the same instant, a sabot round punched its way through the brick wall, in one end of the Bradley and out the other. The missile twisted harmlessly off into the night, and the turret shot up into the air in a ball of flame. It flipped over twice and landed on top of a small house, crushing it. 25 mm ammo immediately started to cook off, along with machine gun rounds, and I took shelter behind the turret of my own vehicle. After a second, I realized that I had to move, and I looked around to the slope of the turret, where the gunners hatch and commanders’ hatch were. The front end of the Bradley was pushed in and crumpled around where the drivers hatch would be.

  The gunner, or what was left of him, was splashed all over the turret. The Captain was slumped in her seat, her face a bloody mess, not moving. She had been travelling with her head exposed to better guide the vehicle and assess the situation, something I knew a lot of track commanders did. Maybe the reactive armor had gone off and hit her, maybe it was spall from a HEAT round. I grabbed her slight frame and dragged her up from the seat, pulling her out and across the deck, then tried to lower her to the ground.

  Rough hands took her from me, and I saw in the light of the fire, the third Bradley pulled into an alley, back ramp down. The infantry squad inside had piled out, and even as two of them grabbed their boss and hauled her into the Bradley, two more let fly with a Javelin. Several undead, attracted by the explosion of the tank round, came shuffling towards us, and the riflemen started firing at both them and the muzzle flashes down the street. I climbed down and hauled ass for the Brad.

  “EAT THAT, COCKSUCKER!” yelled the gunner, as the Javelin whooshed from the tube, and he ran back to join us, followed by his assistant. They got halfway when the gunner grunted, spun around, and fell to the ground, helmet perforated by a large caliber sniper round. His companion barely paused, saw the splattered brains and sightless eyes, and climbed on board muttering ‘holy shit holy shit’ over and over. The ramp raised and the driver floored it, charging down the alley, sides scraping the brick, then cutting left to head back to friendly lines. We were followed the whole way by small arms fire, pinging off the hull, and muted thumps as we ran over undead.

  Captain Lowenstein lay on the floor, with their medic working frantically over her. Her face was horribly burned, but I could see in the compartment light that she had been young, and very beautiful. Now her dark hair, which had been cropped short and dyed light purple, was burned, and her skin had peeled away in some places, including a gaping hole on her cheekbone. The rest was covered with soot and blood, and her eyes fluttered open as I looked at her.

  Grabbing a CVC off the rack and plugging into the coms, I listened to the Platoon Sergeant cursing me for an asshole who got his fucking platoon wiped out. I unplugged; whatever information I had to pass could wait till we got back, and I wasn’t going to get into an argument with him.

  The ride out was anti-climactic; I guess the MR were happy with taking out two of our tracks, and only random small arms hit the hull. About halfway back, Lowenstein woke up and started screaming in pain. Her yells echoed around the cabin; burns are one of the worst pains imaginable. The medic stuck a needle of morphine in her arm, and she quieted down to making grunting sounds while he worked to get an IV going.

  “Did you get him?” I asked the assistant gunner from the Javelin team.

  He stared at me dumbfounded, still in shock at the loss of his sergeant. “What?”

  “Did you kill the fucking tank, Private?”

  “Uhm ah yessir, I saw it hit. Catastrophic kill.”

  “Good job. Brads aren’t made to go up against tanks.” After that, I really had nothing more to say to him, or to any of the rest of the enlisted guys. I sat there and stared at Captain Lowenstein’s face, or what was left of it. These guys just had almost a dozen of their buddies killed, and had barely escaped death themselves, and their boss, whom I suspected they had a great deal of respect for, was mutilated, for life. The fucked up thing was that I couldn’t even tell them why. Instead, I showed them. Turning my right shoulder to them, I growled “Look! LOOK, GODAMNIT!”

  One by one, the six surviving infantrymen looked at the green and black American flag velcroed to my sleeve. One by one, they each reached over and touched their own dirty, soiled flag on their uniforms.

  I felt a hand reach up and squeeze mine, the blood on it soaking my gloves. Looking down, I saw Captain Lowenstein looking at me, teeth clenched in pain, grimacing through the agony of her burns. “At any price!” she gasped, and managed to touch her own flag, leaving a smear of blood on it.

  “At any fucking price!” I answered her, and the hand fell away as she lost consciousness.

  Chapter 242

  The Bradley stopped first at the Combat Support Hospital and we offloaded Captain Lowenstein and another guy who had wacked his head pretty hard somewhere along the way. Then we headed back towards the staging area, dropping the ramp again and letting the warm Maryland night air roll over us.

  I sat down on an ammo crate and started cleaning my weapon. I hadn’t fired it; but the ritual was a way of calming my nerves after the fight. Pop the rear pin, remove the bolt, look down the barrel for obstructions, check the trigger housing for dirt or debris, and make sure the spring rode back and forth. It was calming, and it had saved my life more than once. In the teams, your weapon, and your teammates, was your life.

  “Colonel?” The voice said “Colonel” three times before I realized the young Private was talking to me. My rank was brevet; I was more used to being called “Sergeant” or “Sergeant Major”. Or dipshit, or prick, or cold hearted bastard, or … well, you get the point.

  “What’s up, son?” Jesus I was getting old. This kid looked about twelve, but I knew he was at least sixteen.

  “Well, I have a question, if you have a minute, Sir.”

  “Cop a squat. What’s your question?” In the slowly dawn growing light, I saw his platoon sergeant eyeing him, looking like he was about to jump his shit, but I held up my finger, asking for a minute. The sergeant turned away, but not before letting me get a good look at the disgust and hatred on his face.

  “Well, Sir, what you did back in the track. About the flag. I don’t get it. What was that all about? I mean, why are we even fighting these guys?
”

  Good question. Why the hell WERE we fighting them? I had no love for President Epson, and General Scarletti was a straight up prick. In fact, I was tired of fighting all the time, and each time I went out, the dice rolled. That could have been me in the Bradley that took the tank round, or I could have had my face burnt off like Lowenstein.

  I was quiet to the point where the kid almost gave up and walked away, but then I started to speak, and he stopped. “Listen, Private,” I said, trying to read his name tag in the faint dawn light. “Private Baldridge, is it?”

  He nodded, and I continued. “Listen. That flag, and what it represents, is our ONLY hope. Our country, what’s left of it, was something unique in history. A chance for people to set their own course. Are you following me?” I wasn’t sure he would, schooling had been pretty spotty over the last eight years.

  “I think so, Colonel.”

  “You see all these little warlords and big shots that have set themselves up after the apocalypse? If they are allowed to thrive and grow, and our government falls, then there’s no chance for the little guys like you and me. We might not have the best people in government, and in fact, before the outbreak, maybe we were getting away from it, sliding backwards, but without some kind of popular representation, it’s just going to be who is the toughest and baddest, and with the most guns.” Or bows and arrows and swords.

  I could see he wasn’t getting it, so I tried a new track. “Listen, kid, you got a sister?”

  “Uh, sure, but ain’t you married to that redhead chic, from the TV show? Besides, you’re a little old for her, with all due respect, Colonel.”

  “Jesus H Christ on a pogo stick, that isn’t what I meant. Wait, is she hot? No, never mind. Point is, under a warlord, whatever the big man says, happens. If he wants your sister, or your mom, or your land, he takes it. In a democracy, there’s the rule of law, and it offers some protection against that. Our flag, and the idea of America, is that everyone is treated equal and that the law makes us so. That’s why I fight so hard, for the idea of America.”