Even though it took more time, Hastings had Guerra instruct his men to prep most of the ammunition. He wanted the ammo for the belt-fed weapon systems to be connected so that they wouldn’t have to worry about reloading for a while. In the beginning phase of the mission, there would be a small window where the ground convoy wouldn’t have airframes directly overhead, except for the Shadow UAVs providing overwatch. The drones would be Hastings’s eye in the sky, and he was counting on them to provide him with situational awareness for the entire operation.
What would normally be a thirty-minute drive was going to take much longer because of the abandoned cars and wrecks on Interstate 81. The convoy would be forced to move south along US 22/Allentown Boulevard, which ran parallel to I-81, for most of the movement to Rutherford, as imagery from the Shadow had shown less abandoned cars on that roadway.
The five-ton trucks would be at the head of the convoy, specifically for pushing anything out of the way that threatened the ground movement’s progression. Once the convoy reached Phase Line RED, the first of several waypoints on the way to the objective, at the intersection of Allentown Boulevard and State Road 743/Laudermilch Road, Ballantine’s element of two CH-47F Chinooks would lift off. If the convoy made contact and needed help during that phase, Ballantine’s element would provide top cover and stick with the convoy until it achieved its second waypoint, Phase Line WHITE, at the intersection of Allentown Boulevard and SR39/Hershey Road. Once there, Ballantine’s element would continue on to the naval facility.
Hastings’s element would lift off when the ground convoy called in the third Phase Line, BLUE, at the intersection of State Road 39 and US 322/Paxton Street. There, they would link up with the convoy and escort it to the objective.
The exfiltration from the objective would see all four Chinooks and the ground convoy providing security for the trains as they moved back along US 422, which ran parallel to the train tracks. At the intersection of US 422 and SR 934/White Oak Street, the convoy would turn north and head back to Fort Indiantown Gap.
Ballantine’s Blackfoot element would follow the ground convoy to Indiantown Gap, while Hastings’s Lakota element continued to track the train along its route. Once Blackfoot had completed its escort mission and the ground convoy was safely back in Indiantown Gap, the Chinooks would do a hot refuel and take off again to relieve Hastings’s element, as they would be close to being bingo on fuel by that time, according to the pilots’ estimates.
Timing was crucial if they were to keep the birds in the air for support the whole time. Hastings knew that if they spent more time on the objective with blades turning, they would have to go to the contingency plans. Leaving the ground convoy with no air support was something he wanted to avoid if at all possible.
“Hector, you sure you got all the known wrecks annotated on your map?” Hastings asked Guerra.
“Yes, sir. I checked with the S2 personally about twenty minutes ago. I’m good to go on that,” Guerra said.
“Don’t forget to let your guys know about the possibility of hostile survivors and ambushes along the way. Most of the guys going with you haven’t been very far outside the wire since they got here, and they probably aren’t even thinking about being ambushed by the living. Remember the nut jobs we came across on the way down from Drum?”
“Roger that, sir. I haven’t forgotten about those boys, and I’ll go over it again with the men right before we SP. You can count on it. Sir, I’ve got a few more things I need to check on. Are we good?”
“We’re good. I’ll see you at SP time”
“Roger that, sir.”
Hastings turned to walk back to the TOC. He needed to see the latest from the Shadow feed and check in on Ballantine. After that, he planned to head over to the Lakota aircraft and make sure everything was tight before things got started.
*
Guerra walked toward the front of the Apache convoy. The vehicle he would be riding in was at its head. As he drew closer, he heard muffled music from inside the up-armored Humvee. When he opened the armored door, the music blared out, unrestrained by plating and impact-resistant glass. Guerra recognized the tune immediately: “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees.
“What in the fuck is going on in here?” Guerra shouted.
Tharinger, who was in the back of the vehicle, turned and smiled. “Sergeant G! We thought we’d play some music from your era to get you pumped up for the mission. Fitting choice for a mission theme song, don’t ya think?”
“First off, fuck you smart asses. I’m not that old. And second, if you want to keep ‘stayin’ alive,’ I suggest you turn that shit off before I decide to PT your asses to death! Do you fucking understand me?”
Tharinger and Stilley both wore deer-in-the-headlights expressions. The music snapped off, and the two soldiers stood frozen, just waiting for the axe to drop, as Guerra glared at them.
“Roger that, Sergeant,” both lightfighters said in unison.
Guerra broke the tension with a smile. Tharinger relaxed minutely. Stilley even managed a nervous laugh.
Guerra let the smile evaporate from his face. “Now, what the fuck are you two doing, and where did you get a radio?”
Stilley said, “I plugged my iPod into it, Sergeant.”
“Plugged your iPod into what?”
“Into the RIB,” Stilley responded, as if that answered everything. “It was on this vehicle when we got it.”
“Tharinger,” Guerra said, “do Stilley a favor and explain what the fuck he’s talking about before I smoke his bags until I get tired.”
Tharinger nodded. “It’s like he said, Sergeant. It was on the vehicle when we got it from the motor pool. One of the guys in the motor pool said it had a RIB in it when we picked it up. He said it’s a giant loudspeaker system the MISO teams use.”
“I like me some miso soup,” Stilley said.
Guerra stared at Stilley for a long moment.
“Dude, let’s try it this way,” Tharinger said. “You shut the fuck up, and I do the talking from now on, all right?”
Stilley bobbed his head, and Guerra had to admit that he was impressed. No one had ever been able to get Stilley to shut up so quickly.
Tharinger turned back to Guerra. “The guy in the motor pool told me that it stands for… ah, radio in a box, maybe. Actually, I forget what he said MISO stands for.”
“It stands for Military Information Support Operations,” Guerra said. “They used to be known as PSYOPS back in the day when you were probably still in high school trying to get your first shot of ass off Susie Rottencrotch.”
Tharinger bobbed his head. “Yeah, that’s right. That’s what he said it stood for. Anyway, Stilley figured out how to hook his iPod into it, and we were just testing it out.”
“Testing it out, my ass. You were both sitting in here shamming your butts off. What I want to know is, how is it that Stilley has the Bee Gees on his iPod? What other shit you have on there, Stilley? You have some show tunes? Maybe The Sound of Music or something you listen to while drinking your Swiss Miss hot chocolate and rubbing one out to images of Julie Andrews pirouetting on a mountaintop?”
Stilley shook his head. “No, Sergeant. At least, I don’t think so. I found it on the ground when we were in New York, and I haven’t looked at all the songs on it yet. If it does, I’ll let you know, though.” Stilley looked up at Guerra, a timid smile on his dark face. “Hey, uh, who’s Julie Andrews? Is she slammin’?”
Guerra had to fight not to bust a gut. “Don’t push it, Stilley. Okay, fuck-off time is over. You two get back to work. When I come back, I’ll be doing PCIs on your shit, and you both better hope I don’t find any gigs.”
Guerra slammed the Humvee’s door. Speaking of Susie Rottencrotch, I wonder how our resident pole polisher is getting on. I bet she can’t wait to see me so she can bust my balls again. I wonder what it’ll be this time.
*
Guerra had the convoy all lined up and ready to cross the LD. They were a
s prepared as they were going to get. He was a little worried that they might be too heavy on the ammo as he squeezed into his vehicle. The little voice in his head had a different opinion on the matter.
You out of your fucking mind. Estas loco. You forget what New York was like? Fuck that. You can never have too much ammo. Besides, you won’t be coming back with all of it. That’s for sure.
Guerra settled into the seat then picked up his radio handset. “All Apache elements, stand by for kickoff.” He switched over to the command net. “War Eagle Six, this is Apache One Two. Over.”
“Apache One Two, this is War Eagle Six. Send. Over.”
“War Eagle Six, Apache One Two is kickoff at this time. Over.”
“Apache One Two, good copy. Out.”
Guerra turned back to the internal net and gave the order to move out. The lead vehicle rolled toward Observation Post Two, and the rest of the convoy followed when the gate was opened for the column to pass through. As the convoy moved down Fisher Avenue, the drivers established the proper spacing between each vehicle. Gunners in the turrets were already scanning their sectors. So far, everything was going as planned, and everyone was following the plan.
Let’s see how long that lasts, Guerra thought as the convoy neared the intersection of Fisher Avenue and Interstate 81.
They came to the first blockage. From the Shadow feed, they had known that there were abandoned vehicles scattered along the entire route. Guerra had a five-ton truck near the front of the convoy for pushing wrecks or abandoned vehicles out of the way. Considered old and outdated, the five-tons and deuce-and-a-halfs were all metal from front to rear. Unlike the newer vehicles, they could take a beating and keep on working. The convoy slowed as the M939 five-ton began shoving cars off the road.
Guerra spoke into his handset. “All Apache elements, lead vehicle is pushing wrecks. Cover your sectors. Over.”
Riding through the cleared blockage, Guerra noticed some reekers inside a few of the cars. Apparently, they had died in there and had no way of getting out. They clawed at the windows as the convoy passed. Guerra had briefed everyone not to engage singletons or small groups of reekers along the road unless absolutely necessary. There was no sense in attracting any more attention than they already were.
Guerra’s vehicle reduced speed to turn right onto the West 22 on-ramp. Several abandoned cars littered the roadway, and the convoy had to make the turn using the grassy shoulder. A few miles down US 22 was a section of road where Jersey barriers had been put up along the center line for what he presumed had been road work. The barriers made the highway a one-lane road for about a mile, with very little to no shoulder to speak of because of the tree line at the edge of the road. To complicate matters, there were a few abandoned cars up ahead that they would have to push out of the way. Guerra didn’t like it, as it put them in a gauntlet with nowhere to maneuver if the column was attacked. Turning around would be virtually impossible.
As the convoy finished turning onto US 22 and began weaving around abandoned vehicles, Guerra spoke into the mike again. “All Apache elements, be advised we are coming up on the gauntlet. Break.” He let up off of the PTT, trying to decide the next course of action, then pushed it again. “Increase distance between vehicles as briefed. Watch for ambushes and reekers.”
They were going into the portion of the route that had side roads and houses, which could have survivors or reekers in and around them. The possibility of hostile survivors concerned him the most, as they were in the perfect setting for an ambush. There was nothing that could be done about that, other than keep their heads on a swivel, watch each other’s sixes, and hope that the size of the convoy would put off any would-be bushwhackers. The pucker factor was going to be high along until they hit that first phase line. By then, Ballantine’s Chinooks would be lifting off from Muir Army Airfield back at Indiantown Gap.
Guerra keyed his radio. “War Eagle Six, this is Apache One Two. Over.”
“Apache One Two, this is War Eagle Six. Over.”
“War Eagle Six, what’s the Shadow feed look like ahead? Over.”
“Apache One Two, no change other than a few reekers wandering around. Nothing substantial. How copy? Over.”
“War Eagle Six, Apache One Two. Good copy. Out.”
The sound of the five-ton’s revving diesel engine could be heard above the idling of the other vehicles as the M939 pushed another deserted out of the way. The Jersey barriers and the wood line had kept some reekers confined along the roadway with nowhere to go. The five-ton and the vehicles following it ran those reekers over if they were close enough, and some even swerved in order to hit the zombies square on.
As the convoy continued down the gauntlet, Hastings saw signs that made him think there might be survivors in some of the houses, but he didn’t see any people, and they had no time to stop and explore. Guerra made notes on his map of the houses he thought might be providing refuge for survivors. He hoped they might be able to come back later and check them.
At one point, the column was hit by a few harassing rounds emanating from a group of houses. Guerra wondered just why the hell someone would start shooting at a military convoy in the middle of the day. Didn’t the people in the houses have enough to worry about already? Just as he located the direction of fire and was about to transmit that information to the rest of the convoy, one of the turret gunners in a vehicle behind him opened up with the .50 cal.
Guerra saw the tracer round walk through several of the houses as he keyed the radio. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
The .50 cal stopped, and the convoy came to a halt. No more gunfire came from the house, and nobody came out or waved any flags. They were either all dead or had been convinced by the power of the .50 that shooting at the military wasn’t a game they should be playing.
Either way, Guerra wasn’t interested in sitting around and waiting to see what the shooters’ next move might be. “Get a move on. We’re sitting ducks here!” he said over the radio.
As they started rolling again, Guerra made a mark on his map, noting where the enemy fire had come from. He hoped they didn’t run into any better planned ambushes down the road.
They only had a short distance to go until they were out of the last part of the gauntlet. Small concrete islands between stretches of Jersey barriers separated the lanes, and those could be easily driven over. The convoy weaved around halted vehicles in the oncoming lane in order to keep moving. That allowed the five-tons to pull abreast of one another and clear larger sections of road. Driving down the centerline was often the easiest way to get through the mass of cars left behind.
The convoy picked up speed and moved along steadily. The Apache element was making good time, and Guerra was pleased to see they were still on schedule. He saw a road sign showing they were a half mile from SR 743 and Phase Line RED. Ahead, the lead five-ton slowed and came to a stop on the right shoulder, near what looked like a do-it-yourself storage facility with a barbed wire fence.
Guerra keyed the radio. “Lead vehicle, why’d you stop? Over.”
“We’ve got a small herd of reekers on the fence line to the right. Over.”
Some of the zombies had taken notice of the idling rig. They turned away from the fence and stumbled toward the halted M939.
“We don’t have time for them, Lead. Keep moving. Over,” Guerra said.
“Apache One Two, there are survivors on the inside of the fence. Over.”
Oh, that’s bad timing. “Roger, Lead. Move three hundred meters down the road and stop. Stay in your vehicles and pull security. Break. Apache One Three Alpha, Apache One Three Bravo, bring the gun trucks up to my position. Over.”
“Apache One Two, Apache One Three Bravo. Roger,” Tharinger said over the radio.
Guerra didn’t hear any music blaring in the background. Apparently, Tharinger and Stilley had learned their lesson.
Guerra’s vehicle moved forward. On the other side of the fence, a small group of survivors were p
ressed against one of the storage buildings, staring at the convoy as it rolled past. The fence didn’t look as though it would hold up for much longer, and Guerra could almost feel the survivors’ desperation. A group of reekers stepped into the road, headed for the convoy.
“Apache One Three Alpha, pull up alongside the fence line and take out those reekers. Make sure you don’t shoot the survivors. Break. Apache One Three Bravo, move your vehicle up to the gate and be ready to receive those survivors. Over.”
Both uparmored Humvees rolled into position, and the gunner in the cupola of Stilley’s vehicle opened fire on the reekers closest to it. The gunner then shifted his fires, raking the zombies along the fence line. The .50 cal made quick work of the corpses then fell silent.
The survivors ran to the gate, but they had trouble getting it open. The turret gunner in Tharinger’s Humvee waved for them to move back. When the civilians were out of the way, Tharinger’s vehicle backed up, and the heavy four-wheel-drive vehicle ripped the gate right off its hinges, sending it clattering to the ground.
As the civilians ran toward Tharinger’s Humvee, Guerra keyed his radio. “Apache One Three Bravo, make sure you check all those people before you let them in the vehicles. I want a head count and standard name lines ASAP. Break. One Three Alpha, provide security. Over.”
“Roger, One Two,” Stilley responded.
“One Three Bravo, let me know as soon as you’re up and ready to move. Make it quick. Over.”
“Good copy. Over,” Tharinger replied.
Guerra made a note of the location on the map. Through the Humvee’s thick windshield, he watched as the soldiers inside Tharinger’s vehicle stepped out and began searching the survivors for signs of infection… and for weapons.
These Dead Lands: Immolation Page 25
