Regina looked out the large oval window beside her and watched as a Humvee drew abreast of the Gulfstream G450 and shadowed it. A female trooper stood in the vehicle’s gunnery hatch, holding a rifle; another troop sat in the front passenger seat with a rifle across his lap. Regina supposed they were Air Force personnel since they were on an Air Force base, but she didn’t know enough about the military to be sure.
The flight attendant spoke over the cabin address system, just as if they were on a commercial airliner. She explained that the jet would take off as soon as it was cleared to do so, but there was substantial congestion on the ground, which would delay their departure. Also, aircraft were still returning to the base, and those aircraft had to be managed on the ground as well. She promised to update the passengers as more information became available.
“I guess the president isn’t really bothered by all the ground traffic,” one of the Rid scientists said from the back of the plane.
Regina turned to her right and peered through the window on Kersey’s side of the airplane. Air Force One was already accelerating down a runway.
“So much for him being just like us,” another researcher said. “There’s some change I can believe in.”
***
McDaniels was going over the placement of trenches with Gartrell and the engineers when the first of several M949 six-by-six trucks appeared. The vehicles turned into the InTerGen facility parking lot and, after a brief pause, were waved through the first checkpoint. The trucks continued, then ground to a halt near the Army Corps of Engineers emergency response vehicles.
“Looks like the first of the guns are here,” Gartrell said.
“Looks like.” As McDaniels spoke, he heard the growing thud of an approaching helicopter. He looked toward the northwest and saw an MH-47 Chinook heading for the landing zone that had been established by the 160th. Behind the first chopper, a second twin-rotored behemoth followed along a quarter mile back. He pointed out the helicopters to Gartrell. “Rangers get bragging rights. They beat the Special Forces guys to the area of operations.”
Gartrell grunted. “Well, even mangy dogs have their days.”
Major Guardiola looked from the trucks to the helicopters and back again. “Things are starting to get exciting.”
“Wait until the zeds show up,” McDaniels said.
“I’m hoping to be gone by then, sir.”
“Better hope not. By the time you’re done here, this is going to be the most heavily fortified installation outside of Cheyenne Mountain.”
Guardiola grunted. “We’ll do our very best to see that’s the case, sir.”
McDaniels looked at Gartrell. “Sergeant Major, we should synch up with the Rangers and the SF guys. Any further guidance for Major Guardiola here?”
“If you can’t get enough shipping containers, use those sixty-foot trailers.” Gartrell pointed at several semi-truck rigs that had been hired to ship goods from Fort Hood to SPARTA. “They’re not as strong, but they’re the right size, and if we bury their wheels in dirt and maybe fill up the trailers to weigh them down, they might be a suitable replacement.”
“We’d already thought of that. We’ll have to brace them so we can mount heavy equipment on top of them, such as gun emplacements and the like, but we’re thinking it can be done.”
“Outstanding, sir.”
“Thanks for your help, Major,” McDaniels said. “Keep up the good work. You think you’ll get most of the trench work done by…?”
“Tomorrow night, Colonel. We’ve got a contractor on his way here with some heavy equipment to get that started, and at the same time, we’ll start that berm.”
“Great. Sarmajor, let’s go hook up with the Rangers, and then we’ll have a quick how-do-you-do with the Special Forces.”
“Hooah, sir.”
McDaniels headed toward the incoming M949s as the big, dun-colored trucks came to a halt. Soldiers dismounted immediately, leaping from the enclosed beds. The men were armed and wore full battle-rattle. Most carried M4 carbines, but some were outfitted with Mk17 SCARs, a “next generation” assault rifle that had gone through a lengthy acquisition process initiated by Special Operations Command. Initially procured as a replacement for the M4 SOPMOD the rest of the Rangers carried, the Special Operations Forces Combat Assault Rifle—for which the acronym SCAR was the official diminutive—proved to be less than advertised by the time they made it to the actual operators. McDaniels had tested the 5.56 millimeter Mk16 version in Afghanistan and Iraq, and the experience had ensured he would never be a fan of the weapon. The Mk417 was an upgunned version, chambered for 7.62 millimeter rounds, and its reputation was only marginally better than the original offering. But it would be preferable to the M4, which McDaniels had finally had enough of after his last one jammed during an engagement with the dead.
“Gartrell, do you think you can get your hands on some HK416s or 417s?” he asked, as they approached the Rangers.
“I’ll add them to the list. But if you’re hoping to get enough to replace those SCARs I see up ahead, you can forget it, sir. They’re a Tier One weapon with the D-Boys.”
McDaniels shook his head. “No, just get three or four if you can. One for me, one for you, and two spares.”
“I’ll try, sir, but I’m going to hook myself up with another AA-12.”
McDaniels grunted. “Good call. Get another one. I might change my mind about the HK later.”
“Roger that, Colonel.”
Several Rangers broke away from their assembly and marched toward McDaniels, their movements as perfectly synchronized as any machine. The one in the lead was a lieutenant colonel, and McDaniels knew he would be the battalion commander. Since they were the same rank, McDaniels extended his hand as opposed to saluting. “Cord McDaniels.”
“Ralph Haley,” the Ranger said. “Call me Bull.” He was much shorter than McDaniels, probably only five foot eight or so, but he was built like a linebacker for the Green Bay Packers. His face was vaguely simian, his features blunt and hard, and he walked with what McDaniels thought of as “the Ranger strut,” as if he were the undeniable the cock of the walk. His gray eyes were sharp and probing, and his grip was strong. There was no pretense to Lieutenant Colonel Ralph Haley. What you saw was what you got, and that suited McDaniels just fine.
“Good to meet you, Bull. I go by Cord. We’ve got plenty of GP medium tents that aren’t occupied at the moment, so your troops would probably be better off getting set up as soon as possible. We’ll be getting more boots in the zone throughout the day, including a detachment from Special Warfare Group One. So if you want to lay claim to some quarters, now’s the time to do it.”
“Understood. Whereabouts would you recommend?”
McDaniels pointed to a row of tents on the other side of the Corps of Engineers’ area. “That row right there would probably be pretty good. It’s close to showers and the D-FAC.”
“I like the way you think, McDaniels. You’re in charge of Hercules?”
“I am.”
“Have we ever worked together?” Haley asked.
If they had, only Haley would remember it; black Special Forces officers were a rarity, whereas white officers were the established majority. “You tell me,” McDaniels said.
Haley allowed a ghost of smile to cross his face. The expression seemed foreign to him. “I don’t think we have. I’m sure I’d remember. Who’s the CO?”
“Commanding officer’s an Air Force colonel named Jaworski. Seems pretty competent. Super laid back though, and likes to sleep a lot. But other than being well rested, I think he’s a sharp one.”
“Heh. The zoomies always did have it good. So you mentioned a SEAL detachment is coming in? I guess this is going to be another great exercise in jointness?” The American special operations community was used to interacting with companion units from other services on a fairly regular basis, which made sense. That way, each service could leverage the skills of another service’s area of expertise w
ithout any undue operational friction.
McDaniels jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the landing Chinooks. “We have a few alpha detachments from Tenth Special Forces dropping in too, to keep the SEALs occupied. I figure between us Green Berets and you Rangers, we should be able to keep the Navy and Air Force in check.”
“Roger that.” Haley glanced at Gartrell.
“This is Sergeant Major David Gartrell, my senior NCO,” McDaniels said.
“Sergeant Major Gartrell,” Haley said, returning Gartrell’s automatic salute upon being recognized. “Heard you were in New York.”
“We were,” McDaniels replied. “Gartrell overstayed his welcome by another day, though.”
“Is that so, Sergeant Major?”
“That is a fact, sir.”
“Huh.” Haley looked as close to impressed as he likely ever allowed. “Then I guess the two of you might have some pointers as far as the best way to take down the stenches, if they show up this way.”
“We do. And they will,” McDaniels said.
“They’re moving on San Antonio now,” Gartrell added.
“No shit?”
“No shit,” McDaniels said. “We just saw the intel a little while ago. A freaking tsunami of dead meat crossed over from Mexico into Laredo.” He turned and pointed to the row of antenna-studded trailers near the center of the camp. “See those antennas over there? That’s where the TOC is located. Why don’t you see to your troops and get them squared away, then meet us with your senior staff over there at”—McDaniels looked at his watch—“ten forty-five hours. Gartrell and I have to welcome the Special Forces and get them situated, as well as take care of some other odds and ends. Colonel Jaworski is meeting with the civilians in the office park, but he’ll be back to introduce himself.”
“Roger that.”
McDaniels shook Haley’s hand again. “Welcome to Joint Task Force SPARTA. I hope you brought more ammo than you thought you needed, because when the stenches get here, we couldn’t possibly have enough.”
“Cheery thought,” Haley deadpanned.
10
“Colonel Jaworski? I’m Bob Blye. It’s good to meet you,” said the short man with the slicked-back hair and deep tan. His accent sounded as though he hailed more from southern California than southwestern Texas. He looked comfortable enough in a yellow Polo shirt, freshly pressed tan slacks, and brown loafers without socks. His handshake was firm, and his blue eyes were piercing, alert.
“Same here. Stas Jaworski, U.S. Air Force. I’m the man in charge of destroying your working lives, as well as your corporate campus.” Jaworski wasn’t joking. While Blye shook Captain Chase’s hand, Jaworski looked around expensive corporate lobby.
“I hope it’s not going to be that unpleasant,” Blye said. “Let’s go up to the conference room. Several people are waiting for us up there. We’ve also got some coffee and pastries and the like, in case you’re hungry.” Blye’s obsequiousness automatically bugged Jaworski.
“We’ve already had breakfast, but the coffee’s probably better here,” he said, though in actuality, the cup he’d had earlier had been pretty damned good.
“Follow me, if you would.” As Blye walked to an elevator bank, his loafers clicked on the shiny tile floor. Jaworski and Chase followed, while arriving employees openly stared at them. Most were just curious, but some were some obviously annoyed at the changes occurring.
The conference room was a sumptuous affair befitting a Fortune 100 company in New York as opposed to a pharmaceutical outfit in the Texas desert. Jaworski was motioned to a leather chair, and he slid into its soft embrace. Coffee, croissants, and breakfast pastries were positioned at various intervals along the table, and Jaworski helped himself to those in front of him. Chase kept his broad hands on the table until Jaworski nudged him and told him it was all right to dig in.
“Folks, this is Colonel Stanislaw Jaworski from the Air Force, and—I’m sorry, your name again?—Captain Chase from the Army,” Blye said. “Obviously, the nation is under a severe threat, and Colonel Jaworski is here to tell us what our part in countering this threat will be. Colonel, this is my senior staff, including the company’s top researchers and engineers, all of whom are accomplished biochemists, physicians, and clinical researchers. Most of them were hand-picked by Wolf Safire years ago, and they in turn are responsible for assembling some of the very best minds in the pharmaceutical world.” Blye waved a hand. “We’re here to help you do whatever it is you need to have done. We’ve already received a preliminary heads-up from Washington and, of course, from Doctor Safire before New York… um… went down.”
Jaworski swallowed a bite of pastry. “And I thank you for the invitation. Has your engineering staff been able to go over Safire’s formulas?”
“We have, and we received more information from the Army as well. As it turns out, there was already some advanced research available on this particular type of virus.”
Jaworski looked at him, surprised. “There was?”
Blye looked around the table for a moment, then back at Jaworski. “I’m sorry. You didn’t know about that?”
Jaworski turned to Chase. “Did we know about that, Captain?”
“All I know is that I didn’t know anything about it, Colonel.”
“Consider us ill-informed and please enlighten us,” Jaworski said to Blye.
Blye looked nonplussed. “Uh… Andrew, would you be so kind?”
“Of course.” An overweight man seated at the far end of the table leaned forward slightly. His dark brown hair was thinning, and his round face was partially hidden behind a full beard. Unlike the others in the conference room, he wore a suit and tie. “Colonel, my name is Andrew Kerr. I’m with an organization out of Los Angeles, and I’m the individual who did the earliest assessment of RMA.”
“RMA,” Jaworski said. “The name Safire gave to the virus, right?”
Kerr smiled. “Wolf wasn’t that original, actually. I’m the one who named the virus, though a slightly different variety.”
Jaworski was gobsmacked. “You mean there’s another version of this virus?”
“A related version. A precursor, if you will. The Soviets apparently modeled this version—which is now known as RMA 2, but the way—after the first. They substituted a different protein, one that was apparently synthesized in a lab somewhere, but the final effects are somewhat related.”
“And just how long ago did you identify…?”
“What’s now called RMA 1? I’m afraid that’s classified.” The big man’s attitude and demeanor were passive, and Jaworski didn’t sense he was the kind of man to play a bunch of silly power games.
“Does anyone else in this room know the specifics of your past research?” Jaworski asked.
“They do not,” Kerr said. “As I said, it’s classified information, and I haven’t been cleared to disclose anything further.”
“Classified by whom, sir?” Captain Chase asked.
“The Department of Defense, Captain.” Kerr looked back at Jaworski. “At any rate, Colonel, my findings aren’t specifically relevant to what we’re facing here. If they were, you would know about them. I only mentioned it to ensure you and everyone else that Wolf’s findings have been corroborated and vetted as much as possible.”
“Okay. Thanks for that.” Jaworski leaned back in his chair and regarded the pastry selection. He was no longer hungry. “Is there anything else related to that topic?”
“I think we’re good on that,” Blye said. “I think we’d all feel better if you were to give us a rundown on the situation, Colonel. Can you do that?”
“Certainly. As you might have noticed, your office park and manufacturing compound is in the process of being hardened against possible necromorph attack.” Jaworski pulled his secure iPad from one of the pockets on his BDUs and placed it on the table. As it was outfitted with a privacy screen, he went ahead and switched it on so he could pay attention to any alerts that might be flashed to him from
the TOC. “This is going to take several days, maybe even several weeks. I’m sorry, but it’s going to be extremely intrusive. We’ll be doing a lot of work, and almost all of it will impact access to the facilities. We’re starting by digging a series of defensive trenches and using the soil to stand up several tall earth berms, on top of which we’ll add additional security structures. More troops and engineers will be arriving from several services, and by the time we’re done, there will be over five hundred soldiers, sailors, airmen, and contractors onsite. I realize this is going to be a huge imposition, but the government has identified this facility as a national asset. As such, Joint Task Force SPARTA is designed to protect it.”
Blye held up a hand. “Colonel, we’ve all seen the news. We know what’s going down, we know what’s happened to Europe, and we know what’s happening on the east coast. If you have to tear up every bush, tree, and parking lot to keep those things at bay, then you have my blessing. I’ll even pick up a shovel and help. But I saw on the news today that they’re in Texas now, down in Laredo. That’s not exactly right next door, but it’s a lot closer than New York.”
Jaworski nodded. “That’s true. We expect them to continue moving northward. I don’t have any real information on those developments, but I would expect communities in their path will be evacuated to the north, where it’s a bit safer.”
“Colonel, San Antonio is in their path,” Blye said. “Do you mean to tell me the authorities will evacuate an entire city?”
“I don’t know what they plan to do, Mister Blye. All I know is they probably have two choices—leave, or barricade the place and stay. Which one they’ll choose, I don’t know, but we can expect substantial refugee traffic headed this way over the next couple of days. And that’s one of the things I want to talk to you folks about. Do most of your employees live nearby?”
“Yes, of course. Almost everyone lives in Odessa. I know it looks remote from where you might be concerned, but Odessa is just a few miles up South Grant Avenue.” The executive pointed out the window toward the four lanes of regional highway bordering the office park. “Why do you ask? Are our families in immediate danger?”
The Rising Horde, Volume One (Sequel to The Gathering Dead ) Page 12
