Anderson enjoyed the view of the darkening Iowa sky until David spoke again.
“We’re ready now, Frank.”
Anderson turned and held out a hand for David, who had descended the ramp to meet him. “Good luck, Mr. Blake. Governor, that is.”
David shook his head. “Still not used to that. You stay safe, Frank. Morena would kill us all if something happened to you.”
Anderson smiled, then glanced at Eden and jerked his head in the direction of the terminal. “You have your orders, Corporal. Carry them out!”
“Yes, sir,” she said and double-timed off, headed for the terminal. She only glanced back once at her father.
“What the fuck am I doing, Frank? Kim is going to kill me.”
Anderson snorted. “Yeah, probably. But the girl is too much like her mother. Headstrong, doesn’t take any shit. She was bound and damn determined to come here. Ain’t nothing you could’ve done to stop her, and she’d have hated you forever if you took her home.”
David looked after his daughter’s retreating form. “None of that helps me figure out what I’m going to say to her mother. Or how either of us will deal with it if she doesn’t come home.”
Anderson clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “With that, my friend, you’re on your own. Safe flight.”
“Call us with updates!” David yelled over the noise of the rotors and the plane’s nose closing as he strode back up the ramp.
Anderson nodded and waved. He preferred to keep his screaming ability for the troops later. Moments later, with his fingers in his ears against the noise of the takeoff, he watched one of his oldest friends leave for greener pastures. He turned back to the forces assembling under the cover of darkness and the shelter of the now-empty hangars and wondered if he’d ever see his own greener pastures again.
He sent a small prayer heavenward, hoping his old pal George was listening, and asked the old codger to see him safe home to his wife and son. “You owe me that much, George,” he said, then jogged toward the terminal.
It was time to go take over a bunker.
Coalition Command Center
Des Moines International Airport, Des Moines, Iowa
“Bunker Four isn’t like the others,” General Frank Anderson said to the teams he was briefing. “For one thing, there’s nothing above ground except for an armored building just big enough for the vehicle elevators. Underground, it gets worse.” Anderson pointed to the top sheet on a set of drawings spread out on the table in the makeshift command center.
One of the hangars at the airport had still been serviceable, so they’d commandeered it for their use. All the vehicles and supplies were indoors in case the enemy were using UAVs or other aerial reconnaissance methods. Everyone agreed that there was no sense in advertising their presence here and giving the bunker time to fortify.
“Here’s the bad: This isn’t a hole we dug in the ground for the bunker. It’s a converted missile silo. That means a bunch of tall holes in the ground with walkways between them and a small area in the middle that’s carved out for living space. Only eight of the fifteen silos are for personnel and other storage, and they still have more than enough space.
“It gets worse. This will be all close-combat fighting. Lots of blind corners, places to dig in. What’s great for keeping out zombies is just as good at keeping us out in this case. The one saving grace is that Ops is up top, just like it is in the other bunkers, ‘up top’ in this case meaning forty feet below the surface, all hardened concrete.
“What makes it a nightmare, though, is the Driebachs.” Anderson heard the whispers start and ignored them. “That’s right, people. This is where they were designed. You can expect them to be in here somewhere, probably on the lower levels in some experiment room. We have no idea how many either. Could be hundreds, could be ten. I want all of you at the top of your game on this one.”
He stabbed a finger at the plans again. “There’s one way in—the elevator. So, we have to play this smart. Major Mancuso is in overall command of the Hunters, and they’ll take out some of the roving patrols. We’ll use those to infiltrate the bunker. The patrols run at most about forty- to forty-five minutes out from the bunker, and we’re three hours away. We can assume they’ll have some sort of aerial reconnaissance, but we won’t know for sure until we spot them, at which point it’ll be too late.
“Our only chance is to prep ambushes under cover of darkness and wait for the go code from the Fleet guys. Then we can take them on their next patrol.” Anderson turned to his comm specialist. “Lieutenant Celero here has been monitoring their communications with the patrols. He thinks we’ll be okay to take them down if we do them at the same time. We’ll have about a ten-minute window before their comm checks cycle back through.”
One of the men let out a low whistle, and Anderson grunted. “Yeah, it ain’t no picnic,” he said. “But we’ve got the men and means to do it. You’re from different bunkers, and you’re used to different styles of command, different training rotations, whatever. But you’ve all got the basics, and you all know what’s at stake. Stay alert, stay safe, and remember the headshots.”
Someone laughed, and the others chuckled with him. “Seriously, though, we’ve been killing walkers for twenty years. That’s easy. Walkers don’t shoot back. These fellas will. And you can be damned sure that anyone Dagger lets out of the bunker is one hundred and fifty percent on his side and will take us out without even thinking about it.” He pointed at Celero, who stepped forward.
Celero was a short, olive-skinned man with dark hair. His big nose, bushy eyebrows, and bristling mustache made him look like a young Albert Einstein. From what Anderson knew from Celero’s CO, Major James of Bunker Three, he was at that level of intelligence too, at least when it came to electronics and communications.
And because Anderson gave the man his undivided attention, so did everyone else.
“We have no leeway here. They run their comm checks on a perfect schedule, exactly ten minutes. There are four patrols, each with a three-man team in a Humvee equipped with a high-powered radio and a .50-caliber gun. They spend no more than one hour on patrol, less if they spot nothing suspicious or noteworthy. They don’t chat, they don’t bullshit, they stay off comms unless they have something to report.”
He sighed. “In short, the worst setup we could want. But if we pull this off and maintain the schedule, they should have no reason to suspect us until we’re inside. I’ve already set up a jammer equidistant from their usual patrol routes. It’s powerful enough to knock them out of commission for at least a full comm cycle. We’ll have that long, but no more.”
Anderson stepped forward as Celero stepped back and looked at his assembled team leaders. “This is the big one, folks. If we don’t take this bunker, we can kiss the human race goodbye. That ain’t hyperbole, either. Dagger and his men have done and will do some of the nastiest things you can think of if they’re not captured or killed. The stakes could not be higher. You all have your assignments. We won’t have eyes on you for most of this. I expect each of your men to make this go off without a hitch. Any questions?”
A hand raised from the back of the crowd. “Just one, sir.”
The crowd of soldiers parted to reveal his least-favorite and newest addition to the team, Eden Blake. He had nothing but respect for her dad, but the way she’d made it here hadn’t endeared her to the general. He hated stowaways, and rebellious teenager stowaways were even worse. “Yes, Blake?”
There was a general murmur in the crowd, and Anderson growled. “Stow it! You’ve all known who she was since before she landed. Can it and let her speak.” Just because he didn’t particularly like her was no reason to let discipline slip.
“Thank you, sir. I was just wondering where you’d like the Hunters, sir.”
“As I said, Mancuso has command of them, Corporal. Get your orders from your CO.” He started to turn away but stopped short when Eden cleared her throat.
“Excuse m
e, sir, but Major Mancuso is gone. I thought you knew.” Eden looked surprised, as did everyone else. “Did no one know this? Fuck me,” she said, with a sigh and a shake of her head.
Anderson knew his reputation for stoicism and had worked hard to earn it. Even so, this took him by surprise, and one eyebrow raised before he could get himself under control—equivalent to a gasp from anyone else. The others darted knowing looks at each other. “Say again, Corporal?”
“Major Mancuso is nowhere to be found, sir. We’ve all been looking. After his initial briefing of the teams, he disappeared.”
Anderson had known the major for most of his career, and this was so unlike the man as to be worrisome. “Right. Blake, check with the perimeter and see if they’ve seen anything, and get Marquez in here. The rest of you, report to your teams and begin a detailed search. Sierra team will remain on guard. We have no time for this, people. Graves and his men will be coming up on the bunker any minute. Move out!”
The group of soldiers spun and ran, each racing to his or her duties. Anderson watched Blake head over to the comms table and followed. It would be interesting, if nothing else, to see how she handled herself in this crisis. Was she as level-headed as her mom? Or a dreamer like her dad? Though her old man had earned the general’s respect, Eden hadn’t yet, and he would be careful with what he assigned her.
“. . . if they’ve seen Major Mancuso pass through the perimeter for any reason. All sentries should be on high alert.”
“Yes, Corporal,” the comms tech said as she twisted a dial. “Perimeter, all stations, all stations. Report any sighting of Major Mancuso. High alert, I say again. High alert.”
A response came back almost immediately, the words clear over the short distance. “Perimeter Three here. Major Mancuso passed outside the wire a half hour ago, said he was running recon. Over.”
Anderson didn’t wait for the comms tech to repeat it but walked over to the map marking the perimeter positions. Perimeter Three was east/northeast, toward the airport outbuildings and a residential area. “What in the bright blue fuck is he looking for out there? And without a team? No one ordered him on any recon. Dammit.”
He turned back to the comms tech. “Issue recall to the teams for the search. No sense sending good men after stupid. Order them to prep for the missions. I want them ready to go as soon as they get back.”
“Yes, sir,” the tech said.
Anderson turned to Eden, a critical look in his eye. “Where’s Marquez?”
Eden stood at ease. “On his way, sir.”
A moment later, the tall, swarthy Lieutenant Marquez entered the hangar at a run and approached. “Lt. Marquez, reporting as ordered, sir,” he said.
“You’ve got a shit job, LT. I need you and a select team to find one of your people who’s apparently gone AWOL. Do you know Major Mancuso?”
Marquez glanced his way. “Uh, only by reputation, sir. He’s gone AWOL, sir?”
“Right off the fucking reservation. He passed Perimeter Three not long ago, headed for what looks like a residential district to the east of the airport. Track him, bring him back. We can’t have anyone running around out there half-cocked. And do it on the double, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir,” Marquez said, and Anderson picked up on the hesitation in the LT’s voice.
“Something wrong, Lieutenant?”
“Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Granted.”
“Why bother, sir? He’s gone AWOL, let him go. We don’t need people like that on our team, sir. And frankly, sir, I don’t want to risk my men on a wild goose chase.”
Anderson glanced to the northeast, in the direction Mancuso had gone. “There are… variables that you’re not aware of at play here, Lieutenant. Things that make it vital that we find Mancuso and bring him back.”
He could feel Marquez looking at him, weighing his options and responses, and gave a small, internal sigh when the lieutenant nodded. There was no question that bringing him back was a necessity, given what the council suspected about the major. They didn’t know for sure, but Anderson couldn’t very well let a possible spy for the other side run loose. One of the other sides, at any rate. Of course, he couldn’t very well tell that to Marquez, either.
“Yes, sir. We’ll bring him back, sir.”
“Take Blake here with you.”
Marquez glanced her way, then frowned. “Sir, with respect…”
“That’s an order, Lieutenant.”
Marquez nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Gear up and move out. I want you gone in five. Dismissed.”
“And Blake,” Anderson continued, causing the girl to stop and turn her head over her shoulder. Marquez was already out of earshot.
“Yes, sir?”
“I don’t want to lose any more Hunters.”
“Understood, sir.” She continued out of the tent, and Anderson only just heard her mutter.
“Neither do I.”
“What the fuck was he thinking coming out here?” Marquez asked as the small squad of four Hunters moved off the airport property and into the residential area. “There’s nothing here. Eyes out.”
As they followed the missing major’s presumed path, they spread out and moved through the parking lot at the corner. Houses were up ahead, many burnt-out shells that had copious vegetation taking over the lots. A few still stood, though their roofs were sagging and broken windows glinted on most.
Eden knew that her CO wasn’t expecting an answer, and besides, it didn’t matter why the major had gone off the reservation. Because if they didn’t find him soon, he was shit out of luck regardless. They had a much bigger mission to finish than searching for one lost asshole who’d gone off into the wild. On his own, without even mentioning it to anyone, much less taking any backup.
Marquez motioned for them to hold, and she squatted down and scanned the ground and surrounding area for clues while keeping an eye on her CO. She could smell the long-decayed remnants of the cars, rust and oil mixed with the scent of old leather and rotted cloth. The sun shone bright as it glanced off the still-intact windows of a maroon Chevy Trailblazer. It speared through her sunglasses and made her squint. There was no wind, little noise.
It was then that she realized what had been bothering her: the lack of background noise.
There should have been some noise… birds, insects, something. But no, there was nothing. Without Marquez nattering on, it was too quiet. She was just about to signal the lieutenant when he preempted her.
“Something’s not right,” Marquez said. “Giuliani, take point. Blake, you’re with me. Foretti, rear.”
As a unit, they crept through the parking lot and over the ruined back fence of the house next to it.
It hadn’t escaped Eden’s notice that Marquez had chosen members from his own unit for this team, and she was sure Anderson had noticed too. Had she been in charge, she would’ve cherry-picked the best from the units available instead. After all, these were the best units from Hunters of four different bunkers. Why not use the best?
Marquez was just comfortable with his own people, and that was fine. Just because she would’ve done things differently didn’t mean that either way was better. Too bad Fontana was laid up with the flu. That was what she got for missing her regular med check.
“Contact left,” Giuliani whispered over the radio. “Holy—” There was a rattle of gunfire, longer than Eden would’ve expected. The rest of them ran to his position, and Eden saw him struggling with a walker. Thick, dark, red blood dropped in clumps onto Giuliani’s uniform, and he struggled to avoid getting it on his face.
“Pop up!” Marquez shouted.
Giuliani grunted and heaved the walker up, pushing it a few feet above him and twisting beneath it to shield himself. Eden started to take the shot but hesitated, and Marquez took it instead. The walker’s head exploded away from the grappling pair, and blood showered down.
“Secure,” Marquez said as he and Foretti took up guard
positions.
Eden moved forward at a crouch and slung her rifle behind her. She grabbed her canteen as she approached the still Giuliani. She then poured the canteen’s water over him, washing away a relatively small amount of blood, none on his face.
Giuliani stood, shucked out of his uniform top, and dropped it on the ground. He checked himself over and then grunted in her direction before carefully extracting what little he’d carried in his top pockets. “Thanks.”
She nodded, not expecting anything more after what had happened between them in Eatonville. The fact that he said that much surprised her. She put away her canteen and slung her rifle back into position, giving the thumbs-up to Marquez.
The lieutenant pointed toward a section of ground ahead to the east. He spoke low and quiet. “Boot track, fresh. Not from the walker, too clean. We’ll head east, then take stock at the next row of houses. Move out.”
They crept forward, careful of running into any other walkers. Eden had noticed some of the slight background noise returning, so she figured there wasn’t another one nearby. Still, it never hurt to be ready. The next house had waist-high weeds that obscured their vision and slowed them even further. Their AWOL comrade was easier to track, though, as the broken and bent stems from the grass marked his direction like a glowing arrow for the seasoned trackers.
They had come to the corner of the house after splitting into pairs, each pair taking a side and covering the path forward and behind. It wasn’t ideal, given the high grass and other terrain features, but it was necessary if they were going to find Mancuso. A calculated risk that Marquez was taking, and one Eden decided she would’ve also made. It was hard to see where her CO was going sometimes with his tactics, but she resolved to pay more attention and find out what she could.
Twenty-five minutes into their search, they had crossed the second set of yards when they heard a crash from a house across the street. It came from a building two to their left and focused their attention. A shout of what could only be rage and anguish pierced the air, and Marquez signaled them to move double-time across the street.
The Dying of the Light (Book 3): Beginning Page 25
