As he nosed the Chevy through the gap in the fence, the mirror on the passenger side folded back with a screech and a bang. Ignoring the noise and the temporary loss of a good portion of his situational awareness, Cade craned his neck, glanced over and spotted Cross and Jasper atop the black chopper. Each man had a hold of one of Gaines’ gloved hands and together they were slowly lowering the fallen operator’s body into the outstretched arms of Hicks and Lopez.
As the truck swayed left and right on tired springs, Cade slalomed around the pallid corpses lining both sides of the road. Once parallel to the chopper, he spun the wheel right and bumped over the firm ground between two rows of headstones. There was a bang and the right front fender groaned when he failed to split the goalposts and a centuries-old cement marker disintegrated in a spray of pebbles and sand. Cade winced at the transgression but stayed the course.
“I’m retrieving Tice’s body,” Lopez said over the comms.
“Be careful, Lowrider,” Cade said sharply. “One of the Zs almost got me. Seemed like the bastard planned to ambush me. Oh, and while you’re back there keep an eye out for my backpack.”
“Copy that,” replied Lopez as he looped around the chopper’s nose.
“Someone give me a situation report,” Cade called out to anyone who was listening.
“I didn’t see your ruck ... but you were correct, Captain,” replied Lopez. “I just dropped a lurker behind the helo. Collecting the Spook’s body now. Back at the chopper in one mike.”
“Copy that. Pulling up now,” Cade called back as he ground the getaway vehicle to a stop a good distance from the wreckage, where a stray spark or its hot catalytic converter had no chance of touching off the fuel. Head on a swivel, he slammed the shifter into park and set the brake.
Suddenly Cross’s voice overrode everything. His words were clipped and to the point like he was reporting a threat to the President’s life—big important life-changing words delivered in a controlled, easy-to-comprehend diction. “Hurry up, gentlemen. I’m looking at a herd of Zs coming our way.”
“Looked like only thirty or forty to me,” replied Lopez between labored breaths.
“I know crowds,” said Cross, who was still standing atop Jedi One-One. “And what I see is not thirty or forty ... there are at least two hundred on the move.”
“Two hundred Zs,” Cade said incredulously. “From which direction?”
“They’re vectoring in from the interstate,” answered Cross. “Jasper says they’ve been moving between Sioux Falls and Rapid City. Says they pace the road and normally don’t venture into Draper unless there’s a reason. And the helo going down was plenty of reason. I estimate we have five mikes, tops, until the lead element is upon us.”
That gives us three if we’re going to transit the gravel road ahead of them, Cade thought to himself. He cast the miserable thought aside and shouldered open the slime-covered door. He tried swinging his feet over the raised channel and nearly passed out as a lightning bolt of pain flared in the ankle, that now, even in the general’s size twelve boot, felt like a bowling ball stuffed into a marble bag. “I’m no help,” he gasped, beads of sweat cascading from his brow. “Ankle’s shot. You’ll have to bring the bodies to the truck by yourselves. I only have a few dozen rounds left so double time it.”
“Copy that, Captain,” said Lopez as he tapped his inner strength and hauled Tice’s dead weight around the helo’s shattered nose while consciously diverting his eyes from the snarling Z that was once Durant. He paused for a tick to steady the load and caught in his side vision the still-suspended Ari giving him a look that seemingly said: Get me the fuck out of here.
Back at the truck Cade cast his gaze to the rearview, noted a growing cloud of gray-brown dust. Then he scanned every degree around him for threats, paying close attention to the helo and the church in the distance. “Clear to the north, west, and east,” he said to the men whose grim task of putting down Durant, extricating Ari, and moving the bodies to the truck had just begun.
Finally, resigned to the fact that he was merely an observer—and hopefully a successful getaway driver—he looked to the mirror, locked his eyes on the expanding haze to his six, and waited for the cards to fall where they may.
Chapter 13
Schriever AFB
The air temperature inside the TOC had risen steadily all morning. Now, with the hottest part of the day upon them, and two dozen human bodies and twice that many electrical devices all spewing hot air into the room, the atmosphere inside mirrored that of a pressure cooker— super-heated and volatile.
“Will someone please get me an idea of when Jedi One-Two will be wheels down,” Nash called out as she paced a hole in the burgundy carpet directly in front of the lectern.
“On it,” one of the junior members of her staff called out.
“Let’s get this right, folks,” she said. “The President wants to personally greet our guests from the NML when the bird puts down.” She looked around the room, searching for Airman Davis, and issued another order to the group of Air Force personnel who had been parked in front of their computers and communications gear for the better part of ten hours. “I want answers. Someone please tell me why Jedi One-One missed checking in.”
“I just tried to hail One-One to set up the final refueling rendezvous with Oil Can Five-Five,” stated a tired-looking airman, his once-pressed uniform looking the worse for wear and an out-of-place five o’clock shadow beginning to show on his face. “But there was still no reply, Ma’am.”
“Good job,” she said, knowing full well everybody in the hot TOC was doing their best and those two simple, morale-boosting words would be noticed by the other hardworking men and women. “Just keep trying,” she added.
“Give it some time, Major,” said Colonel Cornelius Shrill as he strode into the room. “These men and women are doing their best.”
No shit, Shrill, she thought as she hovered over a young captain who for the moment was in charge of the 50th Space Wing satellite operations. “Jensen, how long until you can bring a KH-12”—a highly advanced U.S. satellite that carried an array of powerful sensors and optics onboard—“into a stationary orbit over Jedi One-One’s last known position?”
Brunette hair snaking from under a navy ball cap, the captain consulted the two, twenty-four-inch screens arranged on the desktop before her. “Thirteen minutes, twenty-two seconds, Major Nash,” she stated confidently.
“Not good enough. I have a feeling we’ve been paid a visit by Mister Murphy. Everyone listen up,” Nash said, adding a fair amount of bass to her voice. She was in her element and it showed as she began formulating a response to these new developments. “Until we hear from the flight crew, we are going on the assumption that One-One suffered a catastrophic problem ... meaning, ladies and gentlemen, that we have a Black Hawk down situation outside of the wire. Captain Jensen, I want you to have Oil Can Five-Five link back up with the KC-135,”—a larger, jet-powered version of the prop-driven Hercules—“then, once Five-Five is topped off, have Dover reverse on Jedi One-One’s last known heading and begin a track-crawl search pattern along that route. I want the KC-135 orbiting on station until further notice or until they are on fumes and need to RTB—return to base—to refuel themselves.”
“Copy that,” said the captain as she began updating all parties involved of the rapidly-changing mission profile.
After taking in the entire exchange, and admiring Nash for her rapid fire decision-making, Colonel Shrill made an executive decision and quickly dispatched another airman to fetch him a fully-charged satellite phone from the equipment room. Then he ambled forward; as he stepped up onto the small briefing platform, his lanky frame blocked out the lights overhead and cast a shadow on the diminutive major.
“I think you are jumping the gun, Nash,” he said. “I wouldn’t worry too much about Ari. He probably started telling dirty jokes and the general ordered him radio silent because of the mixed company here.”
“
Doubtful,” said Nash immediately. “He’s brash and cocky and Night Stalker through and through. But he’s no dummy. Orders or not, he wouldn’t willfully go black.”
Shifting from one foot to the other and totally unwilling to acknowledge what his gut was telling him, Shrill looked away from Nash’s piercing gaze and removed his cover. He didn’t want to pull rank and override her in front of her staff, so he rubbed his bald head and pinched the bridge of his nose in order to buy some time to think before trying to sell Nash his glass-half-full scenario.
“Better to be safe than sorry,” Nash pressed.
“A precedent has already been set,” Shrill said. “Ari and Durant only checked in with the TOC a handful of times during the Jackson Hole mission. And correct me if I’m wrong, but that mission had zero satellite overwatch because we were involved in a protracted engagement with the Chinese.”
Nash was about to lobby Shrill to take a more proactive approach toward finding the Ghost Hawk, but was preempted when the airman returned with a thin satellite phone in hand.
Shrill took the phone, handed it over to Nash, and went on talking. “Major, you and I both know how finicky those Gen 3 rides can be. That’s all I hear Whipper talking about. I have to fix this ... Ari broke that ...” he said, bringing his normally baritone voice up several octaves in order to accurately mimic the owlish first sergeant’s voice.
Suppressing a chuckle, Nash cut him off. “To refresh your short memory, Sir. The Robert Christian snatch-and-grab was conducted under strictly NOE—nap of the earth—flight rules while maintaining strict radio silence.”
Shrill made a face that mirrored his resignation. He knew the facts and he also knew that Nash was right in acknowledging and preparing for every worst case scenario.
Nash covered the hot microphone with one hand and said, “I hate to correct you, Colonel, but what I think you meant to say is, ‘all that Whipper complains about,’ right?” She thumbed on the phone and waited until it produced a tone indicating it had made a connection. She consulted her clipboard, keyed in an eleven-digit number, and pressed the sleek black handset to her ear. After thirty seconds, she said, “Nothing. Gaines isn’t answering.” She made a face and killed the call. Grabbing another set of numbers from the sheet, she keyed them in. She hit send, then, an antithesis to the frenzied motion of people working all around her, she stood stock still, listening for one full minute. She grimaced, removed the handset from her ear, and powered it down. She shook her head and said, “Nothing. Captain Grayson isn’t picking up either.”
“Listen Freda,” Shrill said quietly, trying to remain positive, “I know how protective you are of your boys, and I know how much is riding on the success of this mission, but I’d be willing to bet they’ve got their sat-phones tucked away, snug as a bug in a rug, inside their packs by now. Besides, even if the general had one of those things sitting on his lap, he’s not going to be able to hear it ringing or feel it vibrate inside of the moving helo.”
“I don’t like it,” intoned Nash. “Compared to a UH-60”—the basic Black Hawk platform—“the Ghosts are super quiet inside. One of them would have heard the phone or at least felt the vibration.”
“Helos are nothing but one big controlled vibration. If I know Ari as well as I think I do, then it’s safe to say he’s just hot dogging like I told you a minute ago,” Shrill said, doubling down on his first argument. “Him and Durant are brushing up with some low level stick time just in case the Chinese or Russians try to take advantage of the Omega situation.”
“Still doesn’t feel right,” Nash countered, shaking her head vehemently.
“It’s a new toy to Ari,” Shrill said, remembering the one and only time he’d had the pleasure of riding in the troop compartment of a Black Hawk with the cocky SOAR—Special Operations Aviation Regiment—aviator at the stick. In fact, whenever he recounted the story of his introduction to the bouncing and jarring that was the reality of low level NOE flying, he always conveniently left out the fact that he had earned one of the not-so-coveted puker patches the Night Stalker pilots enjoyed doling out.
“Still, I’ve got a bad feeling about this. A gut feeling that I need to listen to,” the usually unflappable major persisted, her voice cracking a bit. Abruptly she turned and locked eyes with Airman Davis who had just rolled in from outside. “Davis ...”
“Yes, Ma’am?”
“Go find Brooklyn Grayson and bring her here. Alone. Unarmed. I want her here five minutes ago.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he said, and turned on his heel and sprinted for the Cushman he’d left parked outside.
Shrill dabbed at his forehead with a yellowed handkerchief and then cleared his throat. “I know I’m just a bystander when it comes to this delicate orchestra of man and machine you are conducting here, but I do have one final question I need answered, Major.”
“Yes, what is it?” Nash said, turning back to face him.
“I asked Captain Jensen if there had been an emergency distress call and she indicated there was none, and conversely I haven’t heard you or anyone else mention anything about a distress signal. Shouldn’t we have had some kind of indication if something had gone wrong?” Shrill asked, hitching an eyebrow.
Except for the hum of computers and the low murmur of people talking quietly, the proverbial calm before the storm had fallen over the TOC. But that was all about to change as Shrill and Nash commenced in a battle of wills. Two men enter; one man leaves, a voice sounding eerily like Tina Turner echoed in Nash’s head. Thoroughly committed to fighting for the Delta Unit she squared herself away, brushing some lint from her blue uniform. Hoping she was going to be that victorious man, she tucked a strand of graying hair under her ball cap and walked headlong into a spat with a full bird colonel. “Colonel Shrill,” she said. “With all due respect, Jedi One-One is missing and presumed to have gone down. Unfortunately the usual suspects ... any locals in the vicinity that would hear and see an aircraft go down and render aid, are all dead and gone. Furthermore, the FAA and local municipalities, police, or fire ... first responders who would normally receive and respond to any kind of distress signal—are also nonexistent. There are no manned control towers or even so much as a little Podunk one-person radio center servicing a dusty airstrip between here and the Canadian border. Colonel, the country has gone dark. And adding to that, as you already know, we’re a little hamstrung in the satellite department. So until the Hercules and or the KC-135 closes the distance to Pierre, which was where we last had radio contact with the aircrew, we are also in the dark.”
Realizing he was in the petite major’s domain, and though he was her superior in rank and tenure, Shrill merely winked at his old friend and colleague. Lady’s got it all figured out, he thought to himself. Then, maintaining his silence, he about-faced and stalked the room in search of a chair in which he intended to get comfortable, sit quietly, and watch the drama unfold.
Chapter 14
Draper, South Dakota
Six minutes prior to Cade returning with Jasper’s truck.
After overhearing the men in the cabin say that Cade was on the ground and on the move toward Jasper’s truck, Ari opened his eyes and watched with glee as the Zs lost all interest in him and ambled lockstep away from the helicopter and out of sight.
But he wasn’t saved yet. A handful of feet away, Durant had just turned, and was reaching and swiping at him.
In order to keep his numb left arm from dangling near the Zs snapping teeth, Ari tucked his hand under his safety harness, and with only one hand to work with cinched it down as tight as he could.
Hurry the eff up, Delta, he thought as he fought tooth-and-nail to remain still and play the role of a dead man.
***
Several long minutes battling gravity and trying to tune out the snarling one-armed mess strapped into the copilot’s chair was beginning to take a toll on Ari’s sanity. To pass the time until the Delta captain returned with the vehicle, he did his best to remember what
Durant had been like in life. He’d known the man since they’d attended flight school together at Fort Rucker. Nestled among rolling and wooded hills in Southeast Alabama, the sprawling base had been almost too small to contain the two. They were placed in the same training squadron and their careers followed similar paths, but for reasons unknown, Ari had always been given command of whatever ship they’d both been assigned to. And that was how it had been since Omega dealt the nation a death blow—him on the stick and Durant his copilot. But there had been no animosity on Durant’s part, and this trait was what Ari had most appreciated about the man. He was humble until the very end, and now that trait was causing Ari a great deal of pain. For it was his fault Durant was dead, and it was on him to make it right. To end his friend’s suffering.
Ari shot a sidelong glance at the pale cadaver that used to be a living, breathing man. He reminisced over the countless hours he’d passed shooting the breeze with Durant in the cockpit. A tear formed as he thought about all of the scrapes they’d gotten into and out of all over the world. Then, grasping the buckles holding him in place, he uttered a short prayer. He figured when he released himself and succumbed to the pull of gravity, one of two things would happen. Either he’d fall into the undead creature and get bit and join him for a time in whatever purgatory the undead endured. Or he’d fall, and somehow succeed in avoiding the creature’s snapping maw. Then he figured he’d flip up the smoked visor and plunge the locked blade of his Leatherman multi-tool into the Z’s eye socket.
Seconds away from punching free of the four-point harness and letting fate run its course, he saw Lopez sprint in front of the helicopter. Moving from right to left in a low crouch, holding a black tanto-style blade in his right fist, the stocky operator was focused laser-like on something near the fence line.
What the hell, thought Ari as he watched Lopez weave and bob through the gravestones and bodies until he was out of sight. Then, after a few seconds or minutes had ticked by (Ari’s perception of time having been skewed since the crash, so he wasn’t certain), he picked up a flash of movement from the left.
Mortal: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 6
