by John Ringo
“Well, think of this as good training,” Captain Wilkes said. “Although, I’m taking this take-off and landing.”
“Please,” Sophia said. “I’m worried about the winds, sir.”
“Did worse in England,” Wilkes said, shrugging. “Finished?”
“Yes, sir,” Sophia said, keying the intercom. “Crew, you up? Port?”
Following tradition, and because it made sense to minimize intercom chatter, the aircrews used the shortest, clearest, callsigns internally. Sophia’s normal handle of “Seawolf” had been cropped to “Wolf.” Captain Wilkes’s callsign was “Tang” for no reasons he was willing to admit. As for the rest of the crew, they answered with either their position or their personal callsign, though EZ tended to insist on the former.
“Port ready to roll, Wolf,” Olga said from the rear. “But I’m sort of disappointed we’re not arming up. There are zombies to shoot.”
“Not on this mission, Legs,” Captain Wilkes replied. “Just hoisting ops.”
“Starboard, you up?” Sophia said.
“Ready to go, Wolf,” Gunner Apprentice Leo Yu replied. He generally handled the hoist while Olga rode the cable down. A trained person was required on the ground to hook the survivors to the hoist or handle a “basket” if they needed that support. Generally, that would also be a specialist, since there were also “issues” with hovering close to the ground. But they just were still that short on personnel.
“Tail?”
“Tail’s up, Wolf,” Anna “Wands” Holmes said. The British once-child-star of the Wizard Wars movies had been picked up on St. Barts where she’d been participating in the reality show Celebrity Survivor: St. Barts. She’d decided immediately that she was firing her agent as soon as she got done with the truly inane show. It wasn’t like she’d needed the coverage, unlike the rest of the celebutantes and “famous for being famous” women on the show.
Then it had turned to Celebrity Survivor: Zombie Apocalypse Shit Just Got Real and dear, sweet, thoughtful Anna had turned out to be the only one in the storage compartment with the guts to strangle the members who’d “turned.”
After which, she found it much easier to hang out with people who understood what it meant to take a human life: notably Sophia and her even more violent sister, Faith.
“Engineer,” Sophia said.
“FE is Set and Checked,” EZ replied, mild disapproval in his tone. He sat in his seat and had his plastic sleeved checklist open in his hands. A quick look around the cabin to the three crewmembers reminded them that checklists had proper responses, and they were to be used appropriately. “Starting Engines Checklist when you’re ready, Pilot.”
They’d briefly considered changing EZ’s callsign to “Moshe” after the one-eyed Israeli general Moshe Dayan. EZ had been medically retired after a “green on blue” incident in Afghanistan where the Afghan interpreter on his aircraft had “accidentally” shot him in the back of the head, blowing out his right eye.
While having a flight engineer with two working eyeballs would have been great, in a zombie apocalypse, having a trained flight engineer was something to cry happy tears over. However many eyes he might have. And sitting in the seat didn’t require the same binocular vision that manning a weapon did. He mostly had to keep an eye on the instruments and run checklists, which he did just fine with one.
“We appear to be up,” Sophia said, holding up two hands with crossed fingers.
It was only after she’d started training on one of the most complex, largest, and most difficult to fly helicopters in the world that anyone had mentioned it also had the record for most accidents per hour of flight.
“God spare us this day from wayward mechanics,” Captain Wilkes said, bowing his head and clasping his hands. “As well as the vagaries of airflow dynamics. Amen.”
“Amen,” Sophia said as the captain hit the start button.
“Go with checklist,” Wilkes said. EZ stepped him through the start sequence, and as Wilkes hit the ignition button, the three massive turbines whined to life. “So far so good,” the captain said. “Thank you, God.”
* * *
“Gunner First Class Olga Zelenova, sir,” Olga shouted over the beat of the rotor wash. She threw a half salute to the tip of her smoked helmet visor as her feet touched down. “U.S. Navy at your service!”
“We thought you were just going to pass us by, there, Gunner,” the Navy lieutenant commander waiting for her said. He stood back and made no move to grab the cable as she unclipped from her harness. As soon as she was unclipped, Yu began to retract the cable in order to clear the line.
“We were headed up to anchorage, sir,” Olga shouted. The group on the roof looked to be about half Navy and half civilian. A couple of the women were carrying newborns, and most of the rest were pregnant. “We’ll send up the people in the basket, first. Then those who can use the harness.”
“Roger,” the lieutenant commander said.
When the basket was down, he helped get one of the pregnant women into it and strap her down.
“You seem familiar with this, sir,” Olga said, giving the three tugs on the cable that signaled Yu to begin hoisting the basket up.
“I’ve been in the Navy a few years, Gunner,” the commander said. “Lieutenant Commander Lloyd Wiebe, by the way.”
“My training consisted of ‘Here’s how you hook up a harness. Here’s how you run the hoist. Here’s how you hook up a basket. Good luck, hope you survive,’” Olga said, chuckling. She stepped out of the way of the swinging basket and let it touch the ground and ground out before pulling it over and waving the next woman in. “I was a model before the Plague. Long story. Sorry, long story, sir. Still not totally up on that.”
“I’d wondered about the civilian ship,” the commander said, frowning. “Is this U.S. Navy?”
“Sort of,” Olga said. “And yes, sir. Controlling legal authority and all that. But it’s about half civilian and it’s been pick-up ball the whole time. You’ll get the full story later, sir. Right now, next customer . . .”
* * *
“Kind of bouncing around, there,” Wiebe said, looking at the slack cable dancing on the ground as they hooked up the first harness lift.
“You can tell when Sophia’s on the controls,” Olga replied, tugging on the cable above the slack. The slack came out and the survivor’s feet came off the ground relatively smoothly. “Sorry, sir, that would be Ensign Smith. She’s still learning. And Captain Wilkes was a Sea Cobra pilot from the Iwo. We use whoever and whatever we find, sir. Best anyone can do these days.”
“Well, as long as we’re getting the job done,” Wiebe said.
“Just a matter of finding the people to get it done,” Olga said, shrugging. “Only a few thousand of us, still. And we just sent a bunch to the Pacific.”
“What is the mission?” Wiebe asked. “Besides general rescue? Or is that it?”
“Right now, get Blount Island up and going,” Olga said. “As a support base on the mainland. Then do clearance and rescue ops on this base. We’re really hurting for helo personnel so we’re hoping to find some here. We’re hoping to be able to get this base cleared and under control. We’ll see if that’s possible. After that, up to LantFleet. And you’ll get the story of who LantFleet is and why when you get to the boat, sir. This isn’t the pre-Plague Navy . . .”
* * *
The gigantic helicopter was capable of lifting all the survivors on the rooftop. It just took awhile. Finally, the last survivor, Commander Wiebe, was loaded and Olga followed.
“All the chicks are in the nest,” Yu said over the intercom.
“Roger,” Captain Wilkes said. “Copilot’s controls. Return to the Boadicea.”
“Roger,” Sophia said as she wrapped her hands around the cyclic and collective. At a pointed nudge on her shoulder from the direction of the engineer’s seat, she repeated the call. “Copilot’s controls.”
“Co’s controls,” Wilkes reconfirmed, amuseme
nt in his tone.
Sophia eased forward on the cyclic, bringing the aircraft’s nose down, and simultaneously added collective, which resulted in a powered forward climb. You could, technically, go straight up if you had to do so. But with this amount of weight on board, there was a real possibility of asking more from the aircraft than it was able to give. When power demand exceeded power available, the bird would descend, and that could be catastrophic. That was just one of the reasons why taking off from the Grace Tan could be so nerve-wracking.
“More survivors, Tang,” Olga commed. “I can see some people up on houses in the base housing area and a few over by the airfield on a building.”
“Roger, Legs,” Captain Wilkes said. “We’ll get to them later. We’re gonna be here a while.”
The hop to the liner was short and Sophia slowed as she approached from astern. The Boadicea was swung more or less into the wind. But only more or less. Sophia looked at the flag as a telltale, and decided to approach from port and attempt to align with the pad once she was in a hover.
She managed to put it down on the platform, but the helo was at an angle.
“Given the hours of training and the conditions, that’s a fair landing, Ensign,” Captain Wilkes said while the gunners directed the rotors-turning offload of their passengers. EZ remained in the cockpit, but kept his one good eye on the goings on in the back. “But only fair.”
“Yes, sir,” Sophia said.
“Force Ops, Dragon Three,” Wilkes radioed.
“Dragon Three, Ops.”
“Spotted more survivors in base housing,” Wilkes said. “Continue mission, query, over?”
“Stand by.”
“Fuel state?” Wilkes asked.
“Eighty-six hundred,” EZ said instantly, glancing over his shoulder to check the fuel panel readout.
“Dragon Three, Ops. Negative. Reconnaissance of Blount Island. Check status of fencing, determine infected levels. Pick up survivors, Marine and civilian side. Repeat back.”
“Ops, Dragon Three,” Wilkes replied. “Reconnaissance mission Blount Island, aye. Check status fencing, infected levels, aye. Pick up survivors, Marine and civilian side, aye.”
“Roger. Discuss rescue ops, Mayport, on RTB.”
“Roger,” Wilkes said. “Continuing mission.” He turned to Sophia. “Think you can back this off the pad?”
“Yes, sir,” Sophia said. The wind had steadied out a bit, and would only help her power situation.
Wands came on the radio. “Tail’s in and secure, sir,” she said. “Clear back and up fifty.”
“Starboard,” Yu said.
“Port,” Olga replied.
EZ slewed back around in his seat, a satisfied look on his face. “Before Takeoff Checklist Complete,” he said. “Watch the dirty air from the tail rotor, Co. You got this.”
“And we are away . . .” Wilkes said as Sophia added collective and lifted off.
* * *
“Pilot, Port. Permission to engage infected targets of opportunity,” Olga commed.
The Marine side of the island wasn’t exactly crawling with infected, but there were fair numbers. Many of them had been down by the water’s edge where there was a line of dead infected. Most of the kills appeared to be old; they were mostly skeletal. But apparently the infected had gotten used to feeding there.
What there did not appear to be were any survivors.
“Negative, Port,” Wilkes replied. “We need this stuff and rounds do bounce everywhere. Continue to the civilian side, Ensign. But make a swing by each gate.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Sophia said.
“And do note the great big power lines,” Wilkes added. “Wires like that are the bane of any helicopter pilot’s existence.”
“Note the wires, aye,” Sophia said. “I’ve been keeping an eye on them. They scare the hell out of me.”
“As they should,” EZ said. “Call them out for your scanners, Co. That’s what they’re there for.”
“Roger,” Sophia said. She approached the fence line cautiously, slowing her forward airspeed so that her scanners could get a good look. She continued to decelerate until they reached a normal hover speed, though their hover was well out of ground effect, being well over the approximate eighty feet of their rotor diameter. The massive primary power lines were just on the far side of the fence.
“Fences are intact in this area,” Wilkes said. “Cruise the line. Starboard, you got those wires?”
“Contact wires,” Seaman Apprentice Leo Yu replied.
“Roger, keep us clear. Can you spot the gates?”
“River side gate is closed,” Yu said. “Fence appears to be in good shape.”
“Pilot, Tail: We’ve got a bunch of infected just following along,” Anna said. “I can take them with the fifty.”
“Port: no shot this side,” Olga said, regret in her tone.
“Hold off on engaging right now,” Wilkes said. “Keep your speed down, Wolf, and let’s see how many follow us. Starboard, how are those wires doing?”
“Wires at fifty feet,” Yu replied. “Doing good, Co. No drift this side,”
“Thanks,” Sophia said, though her teeth were clenched slightly with the effort of keeping everything under control. Thankfully, the wind was tending to push her away from the lines rather than towards.
They followed the fence line looking for breaks, slowly gathering a larger and larger group of infected. But even then, it certainly wasn’t the masses they’d seen in London.
“If one small group had survived in this place, they’d have been able to take out the whole lot of these,” Captain Wilkes said. “Hold your hover here.”
Sophia eased back on the cyclic, arresting the forward motion of the aircraft. “Here” was a large, elevated, scrubby but otherwise open area on the northeast corner of the main base area bordered by a vehicle parking area on the south, a container storage area on the east and two drainage ponds to the north and west.
“Starboard, can you engage oriented away from the base and materials?” Wilkes asked.
“Negative. They’re gathering under us or on the base side,” Yu replied.
“Tail’s got targets,” Anna put in.
“Roger, clear to engage.”
“Roger,” Anna replied, followed shortly by the deep thunk thunk of the tail mounted .50 cal. “Get Some,” she called into the intercom, which made everyone, even EZ, smile. That phrase had a long history, particularly among helicopter gunners. The flight engineer swiveled back in his seat to see Wands standing with legs spread in a highly aggressive stance, the .50 pointed almost straight down as she waylaid the crowd that continued to gather below.
Wilkes looked out his window, and then turned back to the front. “Are we clear forward and down? Into ground effect?” he asked. “And turn the tail port, toward the fence? I want to slide south with the nose pointing east, so we can open up with the starboard gun as well.”
“Clear forward and down port,” Olga said.
“Starboard,” Yu replied.
“Tail,” Anna said, still firing. “Tail’s clear port your discretion.”
Sophia pushed down gently with the flat of her hand on the collective and nosed it forward just a little more. They returned to the hovering speed they’d had a moment before, and the digital numbers on their altimeter began to decrease.
“Altitude one hundred,” EZ said, calling off of that instrument.
“Clear down port,” Olga said.
“Starboard.”
“Tail.”
“Good,” Wilkes said. “Keep coming down to about a twenty-foot hover, then turn your tail.”
Sophia complied, slowly pulling the collective back in to arrest her descent as her scanners called for her to “slow her down.” “Tail to port,” she called.
“Tail clear port,” Anna replied, her calls punctuated by the sounds of the .50.
Sophia started to feed left pedal in, slowly at first, then with more assurance as the S
uper Stallion’s massive tail began to pivot toward the fence.
“Go easy on it, Co,” EZ murmured into the intercom. “Treat her like a lady.”
Sophia eased up on the pedal pressure, and the helicopter slowed in its pivoting motion.
“I’ve got targets, Tang,” Yu said.
“Engage targets of opportunity oriented away from the base,” Wilkes ordered. “Legs, how’re we looking?”
“Plenty of room, Tang,” Olga replied.
“Does that mean clear to slide port?” EZ asked sarcastically.
“Roger, clear to slide port,” Olga said, apparently unaffected by the engineer’s remark. “Lots of room till we hit the trucks. We could use this as an LZ, though we’re kicking up some FOD.”
“See that,” Wilkes said. The blast from the powerful rotors was throwing up masses of sand and debris.
“Sliding to port,” Sophia said, pushing the cyclic slightly to the left, tilting the rotor ever so slightly to begin moving the helicopter toward the base.
“Lots of targets,” Yu said, his voice nearly as gleeful as Anna’s had been. “We are having a good killing.”
“And you get all the luck,” Olga said.
“Starboard’s winchester,” Yu said, using the brevity code for out of ammo.
“Can we rotate?” Olga asked eagerly.
“Pick it up and let’s get a look at what we’ve got,” Wilkes said.
“Clear forward and up,” Olga replied.
Sophia gratefully nosed down and forward, feeding in collective to bring the aircraft up into forward flight. She circled around half of the base to bring it back to the killing field. The mass of infected hadn’t tried to follow the helo. There was too much protein on the ground available for feeding.
“Shoot an approach to a hundred-foot hover,” Wilkes said. “Nose oriented west. Winds are calm here, so you should be fine. Legs, your turn. Clear to engage as soon as you have range and azimuth.”
Sophia slowed and descended on her normal angle to take up the hundred-foot hover. About midway down the approach, Olga opened fire, though she continued making her approach calls. Anna, too, joined in, swiveling the .50 on the tail as far as it would go to the port side, calling the tail clearance as they stabilized in the hover.
