by Dave Lund
CHAPTER 46
February 4th
NORAD, Peterson AFB
“Major! Groom Lake just made contact, they’re back online!” Technical Sergeant Arcuni yelled across the room to a weary Major Wright. So far NORAD has been able to remain secure by taking some drastic steps as soon as the Chinese bombers and the ICBM launches were first detected.
Close to a dozen of their men were dead by their own hand, not able to come to terms with the new world around them. Most of the men who had committed suicide had families on the outside, and had lost hope when they checked on their homes using SATINT, real-time satellite imagery, only to find them destroyed. One had even identified the bodies of his two young daughters in the street in front of his home.
Another five men had been lost on supply raids outside of their building. The base was completely overrun by the undead and, as far as they could tell, they were the last airmen on duty.
“Sir,” Sergeant Arcuni continued, “he identified himself with the code word ‘Lazarus.’”
“Alright, let me look it up.”
A few moments later, Wright returned. “He’s supposedly OGA, tasked with ensuring the continuity of government.”
Major Wright crossed the room to Arcuni’s terminal and turned on the external speaker so he could hear the radio traffic.
“Lazarus, this is Major Wright, what is your current status, over?”
“NORAD, SITREP follows. Most of the facility is secure, however, all personnel but one KIA. I am requesting any help you can offer. We need personnel to continue our mission, even if civilian, how copy?” SITREP was military-speak for a situation report.
“Clear. Copy Lazarus, unable to provide any information on relief; in fact, we’re in very bad shape here as well, over.”
“Roger that, Major, we are well supplied and secure if you can rendezvous, over.”
“Lazarus, not sure how to facilitate transport … look, I don’t know how you’re set over there, but we’re in really bad shape here. Most of Peterson is destroyed, burned, and overrun by undead. We have twenty-eight men left, and we are scavenging for food and water, with little success.”
Lazarus replied, “Major, we need your help, and it sounds like you need us. I drove to my location from Denver; it wasn’t easy, but it might be your only choice.”
Wright put down the handset and looked around the room at his men. They looked rough. None of them had showered since the beginning, nor had they been able to shave. Most had lost at least fifteen pounds from stress and a lack of food.
“Okay guys,” Wright finally said, “we’ve all seen the SATINT. I think it would be near suicide to attempt the trip by truck or on foot ... if we can find a plane—no bullshit—can any of you fly?”
Arcuni looked up at Wright. “Sir, I can.”
CHAPTER 47
NORAD, Peterson AFB
“Gentlemen, take every Sat-Phone you can fit, and get both SeeMe systems packed and loaded,” Major Wright directed his remaining airmen as he oversaw the evacuation to Groom Lake.
Over the past few weeks, the airmen had only been able to scavenge the destroyed air base for supplies. To accomplish this, they took the only two five-ton, six-axle M939 trucks and three HMMWVs (Humvees) they could find that were still functional. The rest had been burned, wrecked, or destroyed in the lost battle for the installation against the dead. According to “Lazarus,” Groom Lake was well-stocked, so Wright opted to leave behind their dwindling cache of MREs to save weight and room. Even with the five trucks, space was very tight for the twenty-eight remaining men and all the gear they needed to bring.
Major Wright wasn’t sure if Groom Lake had the capability to direct and retrieve satellite imagery, but the new Space Enabled Effects for Military Engagements (SeeMe) systems could; at less than a year old and nearly a million dollars apiece, the Major deemed them an absolute necessity. If Groom Lake wasn’t mission-capable with the dozen Key Hole KH-11b and the three new KH-12 satellites currently in orbit, then without the SeeMe systems, they wouldn’t be able to use any of the current technology satellite imagery. Wright guessed they had only two, maybe three more years of use out of the Key Hole systems before the lack of course corrections and the high possibility of a collision with the other orbiting piles of electronics left them forever in the dark. Beyond that, he also figured they only had about three years of reliable GPS service before the same fate befell those satellites, so they should use the technology while they still had it.
Before setting his simple plan in motion, Wright had a long discussion with Arcuni. While stationed at the USAFA (Air Force Academy), Arcuni, an avid private pilot, had befriended the pilots who flew the DHC-6 Twin Otters for the skydiving teams. Over the course of three years, he had accumulated over two hundred hours of flight time sitting in the right seat with the lead pilot. He had also snuck in about one hundred hours of flight time sitting right seat with one of the Lockheed C-130 Hercules transport aircraft crews after being stationed at Peterson. If Arcuni and Wright had attempted their plan of egress just three months ago, they both would have landed an all-expenses-paid “vacation” in Leavenworth, Kansas. However, with the “rotters,” as they had started calling the undead, in command of the base, the plan to take a C-130 and fly it to Groom Lake was set in motion.
Wright oversaw the preparations to leave while Arcuni, set up with a SeeMe system, examined a nearly live digital feed from a KH-12 satellite overhead. Out of the dozen aircraft on the ramp, Arcuni picked the two C-130s that looked the most promising, with the first choice being the one closest to a start-cart. The men in their five trucks would leave in a convoy, attempt to evade the roaming undead, and load and start a C-130 and fly to Groom Lake. If their attempts to take the aircraft failed, the convoy would have no choice but to evade overland to Nevada, a prospect that none of them looked forward to.
In the previous weeks Wright had established a set protocol for tracking and maintaining intelligence estimates on the undead throughout the country, and so far the undead had mainly stayed clustered near the larger cities. In the beginning, he had only been able to gather information on cities between the Rocky and Appalachian Mountains because the East and West Coast’s imagery was obscured by smoke from the large uncontained fires, but in the past few weeks they had been able to initiate an analysis of the major coastal cities. What they’d found was horrific—near total destruction on an unimaginable scale.
For now though, his priority had to be escaping to Groom Lake. The overland route from Colorado to Nevada contained a roaming mob of undead, plus a large number of “unassociated undead.” About three weeks earlier the undead had begun moving in large groups the airmen referred to as “herds”; they even took to assigning numbers to each of the primary herds (and in a few cases, nicknames). Each herd totaled an estimated 75,000 to 125,000, with one near Dallas, Texas totaling at least 200,000 undead. The only upside was that these large herds were relatively slow-moving so they could be outmaneuvered, but the undead needed no rest. Always moving, anything in the herd’s path was destroyed by the crush of undead bodies.
Still using near-real-time imagery, Arcuni plotted the convoy’s route through the base to the flight line. Besides having to drive across a large section of the base, which involved dealing with the large number of undead roaming the base, there was also a fence that separated the base from the flight operations.
On the bright side, they were relatively well-armed—Wright’s airmen were able to scavenge about a dozen M4s from the handful of armories, and what they had found discarded on the ground where the undead had overrun a defensive position on the base. They also located two cases of .556 ammunition, roughly two-dozen magazines for the M4s, four M9 pistols, and a box of 500 rounds of 9mm ammunition. Major Wright kept one pistol, gave one to Arcuni, and distributed the other two to the reservists who had been police officers out in the “real world.” The M4s were distributed to the airmen who claimed the most proficiency with the wea
pon. Wright really wished he had some PJs in his group; these Air Force special operators, called pararescuemen or pararescue jumpers, could have made the tactical side of his plan much easier.
“Major, we’re loaded, and have four hours until sunset,” Arcuni reported.
“Alright,” said the Major, “let’s shut all of this stuff down and get the trucks started, it’s time to roll!”
CHAPTER 48
NORAD, Peterson AFB
“CONTACT LEFT!” came from the cargo area behind Major Wright. The distinct chatter of an M4 firing rapidly shattered the brief optimism. The convoy had only made it to the edge of the block south of their building.
“Orduna, speed us up, we need to break contact and conserve ammo,” ordered the major. “Arcuni, relay to the convoy to pick their shots and only shoot when they absolutely have to. We have to evade the undead and conserve ammo.”
“Roger, Sir.”
“CONTACT RIGHT!” The rate of fire picked up. Major Wright was in the lead HMMWV (Humvee) with Airman Orduna at the wheel; looking over his shoulder to see what his fellow airmen were shooting at, Orduna never saw the group of rotters shambling out from behind a burned-out pickup ahead of his truck.
“ORDUNA!” Wright yelled, causing the airman to look forward and jerk the steering wheel hard to the right to avoid the undead. The first one bounced off the front bumper of the truck, and the HMMWV’s front right wheel struck the burned-out pickup truck in the road. The HMMWV lurched hard and spun sideways as the second Humvee slammed into the driver’s door of the lead truck, causing a horrific crash.
The rest of the convoy slid to a stop, smoke rising from their too-hot tires and brakes. Three airmen from the first M989 trailer jumped out of the back of their truck and ran to the collision to check on the major and their fellow airmen for injury. “Sir,” said one, “you’re injured, give me your arm and we’ll get you out of here.” Wright’s vision slowly came back into focus. At first he wasn’t sure where he was, but about halfway to the M989 he started to realize what had just happened.
“Orduna, Arcuni, Holt, are they okay?”
“No, sorry sir, Orduna and Holt are dead. Arcuni’s unconscious, and he’s already in the back of the truck.”
“Shit, what about the second Humvee?”
“Combat loss sir, no KIA, just some bumps and scratches.”
“Clear,” Wright replied, “salvage gear and get rolling.”
Three of the airmen began retrieving gear, while four others provided cover fire with their M4s to the convoy. The undead, drawn to the sound of the crash and the prospect of a fresh meal, began to amass onsite. Two pistol shots rang out, and the remaining airmen climbed aboard their trucks.
“Sir, Orduna and Holt will not reanimate, we made sure of that.”
“Good man,” said Wright, “thank you, they would’ve appreciated that.”
Ten minutes after the collision, the now smaller convoy barreled towards one of the southern gates to get out on the flight line. The C-130s were at that end of the ramp and there was no time to waste. Wright was sure that the gathering of undead at the collision would soon follow the evading trucks.
The large vertical stabilizers of the parked C-130s loomed in the distance on the other side of the fence. They would have to move fast. Wright estimated they had only fifteen minutes to pick a plane, load it, and take off before the undead began flooding onto the flight line and runways. Hitting them with their large truck was bad enough, striking one with their plane would stop their evacuation before it could really begin.
In the cargo hold of the first M989, Wright poured water from a bottle onto Arcuni’s face. “You back with us yet?” he asked.
Coughing, Arcuni opened his eyes. “Yes Major, but I’m dizzy, and my head feels like it’s going to explode.”
“You probably have a concussion, at the very least, but we don’t have any time for that. We have fifteen mikes to get in the air. We load and hold perimeter, you pick the plane, make sure we have enough fuel, and get us in the air.”
“Roger.”
“Hold on back there, about to breech the gate!” came through the opening in the cab where a small rear window had been before.
The five-ton truck shifted and began to pick up more speed. After hitting the fence gate at forty miles per hour, the truck jerked left and right but stayed upright. It screeched to a halt near the C-130 that Arcuni wanted to check first. Not knowing yet which plane on the ramp they were going to load, the airmen exited the trucks and formed a defensive perimeter, leaving their gear on the trucks. Once Arcuni spun the turbo-props, those airmen without rifles would begin loading the plane.
Arcuni tried to jog to the first C-130 Hercules, but he still couldn’t focus his vision and fell to the ground, vomiting what little food he had in his stomach. Another airman ran to him and pulled him up, saying, “Shit man, come on,” practically carrying Arcuni towards the aircraft. Once seated in the cockpit, Arcuni turned on the master and the fuel gauges lit up, but the needles barely wavered off the bottom.
“Out, out, out, to the second plane!” he yelled.
He climbed down and was once again half-carried by his teammate to the second plane. This time the fuel needles climbed a little higher. It was still not a lot of fuel, but he thought it might get them to Groom Lake, or at least he hoped it would. His buddies holding security began engaging the approaching undead and the tempo of the rifle fire increased.
“Get the major, plug up the APU, pull the chocks, and get this bitch loaded!” he commanded.
The airman ran through the cargo hold to the back of the plane and flipped the handle to drop the hydraulically controlled ramp. Seeing this, Wright jumped into the Humvee that the auxiliary power unit (APU) had been hitched to and drove towards the plane. Those airmen not on guard with M4s drove the rest of the trucks to the plane for loading. The APU coughed to a start, throttled up, and the C-130’s turbo props roared to life, one at a time.
Disconnecting the APU, Major Wright climbed into the cockpit of the aircraft. Sitting in the left seat, Arcuni pushed the controls, working his way through a shortened pre-flight checklist. Not wasting any time, his fellow airmen were peppered by wind and dirt as Arcuni set the brakes and ran up the engines while the plane was still being loaded.
“How do we look?” Wright asked.
“Shit sir, I don’t know,” said Arcuni. “There’s a couple of warning lights on, but I really have no idea what they mean. Everything feels okay, but I’m not sure how it’ll all play out.”
“This is the girl we brought to the dance, Arcuni,” Wright replied, “we’ll have to dance with her. If we don’t get in the air now we’re screwed, buddy.”
“Rog-o, sir.”
One of the other airmen tapped Wright on the shoulder. “Major, we’re loaded and closing the ramp now. There are probably two hundred rotters through the fence and more behind them.”
“Time to go, Arcuni,” Wright replied.
Arcuni released the brakes, pushed the right engines a bit more forward than the left side, pushed with his left foot, and spun the big turbo-prop plane to the left and towards the taxiway on the edge of the flight line. Taxiing at over fifty Kts (knots), the plane lurched forward as Arcuni slowed to make the next left onto the taxiway before shoving the throttles forward.
“A taxiway is not a runway, but who gives a shit today, right sir?”
Pushing forward with the yoke to keep the aircraft on the ground, Arcuni watched the indicated airspeed climb to one hundred Kts before pulling back on the yoke, causing the big plane to practically jump into the air and generating hoots, yells, and cursing from the cargo hold. A gentle turn to the left to point west, and they had escaped Peterson AFB.
Arcuni leveled out the climb at 12,000 MSL (mean sea level) to be confident he could clear the surrounding mountains. He had no navigational charts, and wasn’t sure how high he would have to be to clear everything, but he was betting this would be a safe altitude,
while still remaining low enough to lower the danger of becoming hypoxic. Once level, and with the throttles set at a safe cruising airspeed, he took the opportunity to program the coordinates to Groom Lake into the navigation. Even without navigational charts to plan waypoints and identify dangers, he could at least get there using the navigation system, and he’d also have an idea of how long the flight would take.
Thirty minutes into the flight Arcuni began to feel better. He wasn’t as dizzy, and his vision had focused. The cold winter air made the flight smooth and almost enjoyable, if it wasn’t so loud in the aircraft. The all-too-brief moment of tranquility shattered at the sound of a screeching buzzer that accompanied a new warning light on the panel between Arcuni and Wright.
“Damnit, outboard starboard engine lost oil pressure,” Arcuni yelled to Wright, and as if on cue, the aircraft began to shake.
“Shutting it down—Major, pull that red handle, the one with the number four on it, it’s the fire suppression.”
The plane’s airspeed slowed noticeably with the loss of the engine, and it took some finesse for Arcuni to throttle the port side engines just right to keep the controls neutral, the fourth engine’s propeller feathered and turning like a windmill in the air.
“Sir, we’re about forty-five mikes before we begin descent. Try raising Groom Lake on the radio, we’re not going to be able to overfly the runway to check for obstacles, they’ll have to check it for us.”
Groom Lake, Nevada
“Well shit,” exclaimed Cliff.
“What?” said Lance.
“The guys from NORAD found a plane. They’re on their way, about forty-five minutes out.”
“That’s great,” replied Lance. “What’s the problem?”
