“Sergeant G, they’re all clean,” Tharinger broadcast a few minutes later. “Headcount is seven pax—three male, four female. Over.”
“Roger. Get them in some of the other vehicles. We’re moving in five mikes. Over.”
“Good copy.”
Five minutes later, as the convoy started moving again, Guerra switched the radio over to the command net. “War Eagle Six, Apache One Two. Over.”
“Apache One Two, War Eagle Six. Over.”
“Six, SITREP. Prepare to copy. Over.”
“Apache One Two, send it. Over.”
“Six, we’ve recovered seven survivors at grid four-three tango foxtrot echo three-nine-two-nine-six-seven-zero-nine-five-five. Three male, four female. Break. RED, I say again, RED. How copy? Over.” RED meant that Guerra’s element had obtained its first phase line, which meant other aspects of the plan were to be initiated.
“Apache One Two, I copy seven survivors and RED at this time. Over.”
“Roger. Apache One Two, out.”
*
The speakers in Ballantine’s Peltors headset came to life. “Blackfoot One Seven, War Eagle Six. Over.”
“War Eagle Six, this is Blackfoot One Seven. Over,” Ballantine replied.
“Blackfoot One Seven, you are cleared hot. Apache One Two is RED at this time. Over.”
“Roger War Eagle Six. Blackfoot, out.”
Ballantine had pre-staged his teams on the airfield, and the twin-rotor CH-47F Chinook helicopters were prepped and ready to go. They had done rehearsals beforehand, practicing loading and unloading the aircraft and conducting mock actions on the airfield.
Sergeant Hartman was the chalk leader on the second aircraft that would be accompanying Ballantine’s aircraft. Hartman’s team would be responsible for handling security for Ballantine’s team once they were on the ground. The Chinooks would pull pitch and orbit overhead, covering the teams with their M134 miniguns and .50-caliber machine guns. Ballantine’s team would establish contact with Master Sergeant Slater and his group then proceed to get them onto the train so Lieutenant Munn could put it into operation. Once the train was operational, Ballantine would call the Chinooks back in to pick up both teams and link up with the others at the rail yard.
Ballantine was plagued by the unknowns. What if the helicopters attract a large group of reekers, forcing the teams to enter into a protracted gunfight? What if the train takes longer to get started? Would the helicopters have enough fuel to continue with the rest of the mission, or would they have to break off? What if two zombie elements of significant size appeared on site and separated the teams? Hastings had gone over contingency plans, and everyone knew what to do if things suddenly went tits up, but Ballantine still war-gamed the possible scenarios in his head. One never knew when that asshole Murphy might decide to show up and throw a wrench into the plans.
Not only that, Ballantine was worried about his family. If he fell in combat, who would take care of them? Not now. Not now. He pressed the PTT on his radio. “Hartman, get ’em up and on the bird. We’re cleared hot.”
“Roger that,” Hartman replied.
The Chinook crew had already gotten the word from the aviation commander, and the pilots were busy strapping into their armored seats. As the troops moved toward the aircraft, Ballantine made eye contact with the crew chief standing on the lower rear ramp. Ballantine raised his hand above his head and made a spinning motion, and the crew chief gave him a thumbs-up. Ballantine needn’t have wasted the energy. As they trotted toward the Chinook, he heard the starter motors engage and the igniters start clicking. A second later, the rotors began to turn, and the helicopter’s big turboshaft engines spooled up.
Ballantine took up a position at the end of the Chinook’s ramp and counted each man as they boarded the aircraft. The chopper’s blades spun faster as both engines continued building thrust, howling like banshees on either side of the aft pylon overhead. As the last soldier boarded, Ballantine looked over at the second Chinook. He saw Hartman counting the soldiers filing into his aircraft.
Ballantine keyed his radio. “Hartman, you up? Over.”
“Roger, I’m up. We’re good to go over here. Over,” Hartman responded.
Ballantine bolted up the ramp of the Chinook and gave the helmeted crew chief a thumbs-up. The crew chief locked and loaded the pintle-mounted .50-caliber machine gun on the edge of the ramp. The gunners standing behind the cockpit bulkhead did the same with the M134 mini guns mounted on the shoulder windows on each side of the aircraft. The pitch of the engines increased, and the Chinook vibrated as the twin rotors overhead clawed at the air. Both helicopters lifted off in unison, accelerating as they climbed to two hundred feet before turning toward the objective. Ballantine watched from the open tailgate as they passed over Observation Post Two. Once clear of the OP, each gunner conducted a weapons check and fired off a few rounds to ensure their weapons were operational.
“War Eagle Six, this is Blackfoot One Seven. Over.”
“Blackfoot One Seven, this is War Eagle Six. Send it. Over.”
“War Eagle Six, Blackfoot One Seven is kickoff at this time. Over.”
“Roger, good copy, Blackfoot One Seven. War Eagle, out.”
Dialing in a cruise speed of around one hundred fifty miles per hour, Ballantine knew it wouldn’t take long for the helicopters to catch up to the convoy. He was getting ready to try to make contact with Guerra when he heard his own call sign being called over the radio.
Tharinger transmitted, “Blackfoot One Seven, this is Apache One Three Bravo. Over.”
“Apache One Three Bravo, this is Blackfoot One Seven. Over.”
“Blackfoot One Seven, what’s your ETA to our position? Over.”
Ballantine leaned over and slapped the crew chief on the shoulder. The chief pulled up his SPH-5 helmet, moving one of the earphones so he could hear Ballantine. Ballantine asked for the ETA, shouting over the roar of the turbines and the breeze swirling in through the open ramp. The crew chief nodded then spoke into his microphone to pass on the question to the pilot. A few seconds later, the crew chief held up five fingers.
Ballantine keyed his radio. “Apache One Three Bravo, Blackfoot One Seven. Over.”
“Blackfoot One Seven, Apache One Three Bravo. Send. Over.”
“Apache One Three Bravo, we are five mikes out. How copy? Over,” Ballantine reported.
“Blackfoot One Seven, good copy. Wait. Out.”
Ballantine leaned back in the cargo net seat of the aircraft and waited for Tharinger to call him back.
*
Guerra gave orders to pull security as the convoy approached a large mass of vehicles that was going to take a while to clear. He had identified the spot on his map as being a blocked area from the Shadow feed. What they couldn’t tell or know from the Shadow feed was that itwasn’t a random blockage of vehicles caused by people trying to flee and abandoning their vehicles. As Guerra drew nearer to the front of the convoy and the vehicles piled in their way, he realized that the cars had been placed in order to block the entire street. He looked down at the still picture from the Shadow feed. There was a large building set off of the road just beyond the vehicle barricade. No one knew what it was, and there were no signs that it was occupied.
Guerra grabbed his M4 and climbed out of his vehicle. Striding up to the five-ton truck at the head of the column, he could see the building in the distance. He climbed onto the idling M939 to get a better look at it.
“Twelve o’clock, on top of the blue minivan!” one of his soldiers yelled.
Guerra turned and spotted a man standing on top of a minivan about fifty meters ahead. The guy seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. He was shouting something, but Guerra couldn’t make out the words. The turret gunners shifted their weapons to aim at the guy. The man was armed with a rifle, but he wasn’t pointing his weapon at any of the troops. Instead, he waved his free hand at the convoy.
Guerra keyed his radio. “Keep your eyes ope
n, people. This might go south quick.”
He climbed down from the truck and slowly walked toward the man to get a better look at him and to try to hear what he was saying. The guy was wearing black dress pants, a white short-sleeve shirt, and a black tie, not really appropriate attire for the zombie apocalypse. He appeared to be in his late twenties and not particularly bright if he was going to pop up in front of a military convoy while holding a weapon.
“Turn around!” the man shouted. “You can’t pass through here! Turn around and go back!”
Guerra stopped about fifty feet short of the barricade of cars and stood behind the front end of one of the MRAPs. The CROW system on top of the vehicle slewed to the left as the gunner inside sighted on the man.
“We’re with the government!” Guerra called. “We need to pass through here. You and any others are welcome to come with us to Fort Indiantown Gap.”
The man shook his head. “You can’t pass! Go back!”
“We’re not infected, if that’s what you’re afraid of. We’re the US Army.”
“I don’t care. You can’t come through here! We won’t let you!”
“So there are more of you then?”
The man’s expression changed as he realized he’d just let the cat out of the bag. He looked down toward the ground behind the minivan as if listening to someone else talk from behind the barricade. He faced forward again and yelled, “There is no more government! We cannot help you. You can’t stay here, and you can’t pass through. You must turn around. This is religious ground now.”
Guerra couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Religious ground? What the hell are you talking about? It’s a road, guy. We just want to pass through, and we don’t plan on staying. You and your people can come back to the base with us if you want.”
“That can’t happen!” the man shouted. “You must go back!”
The man was becoming extremely agitated. But Guerra was tired of wasting time and sitting out here in the open like a sitting duck.
“Listen, we mean no harm. You said this is religious ground. What religion would that be?”
The man looked back down behind the barricade, consulting with his unseen advisor. He turned back to Guerra after a moment. “This ground now belongs to the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Armageddon is upon us. There are no more governments, and you all are non-witnesses. We are the cleansed society of true worshippers!”
“Well, no shit.” Guerra snorted. The standoff was starting to make sense to him, and he had an inkling as to what the building in the distance was. Guerra keyed his mike. “Apache One Three Bravo, Apache One Two. Find out how far out Blackfoot is from our position. Over.”
“Copy. Wait. Out.”
The man on the minivan continued to speak about “the truth” and how demons were walking the earth. According to him, he and his compatriots had been chosen to be part of the one hundred forty-four thousand who would go to heaven.
Tharinger came back over the radio. “Birds are five mikes out. Over.”
“Copy. Five mikes out. Let Blackfoot One Seven know we will need the aircraft to circle the front of the convoy as a show of force and that we have armed Jehovah’s Witnesses behind a barricade. Over.”
There was a pause before Tharinger came back. “Sergeant G, say again. Did you say Jehovah’s Witnesses? Over.”
“Affirmative. I say again, armed Jehovah’s Witnesses in front of the convoy’s position. Do not engage unless fired upon. Over.”
“That’s a good copy. Stand by. Over.”
*
“Blackfoot One Seven, this is Apache One Three Bravo. Over.”
“Apache One Three Bravo, Blackfoot. Send. Over,” Ballantine said. He was sitting in the Chinook’s passenger seat. Across from him, one of the troops looked air sick, and he hoped the Guardsman wasn’t going to puke all over his boots. The Chinook was a wide helicopter, but Ballantine wasn’t convinced he wouldn’t wind up wearing some of the soldier’s chow if he let loose.
“Blackfoot One Seven, be advised we have armed Jehovah’s Witnesses in front of the convoy. Request you orbit above them as a show of force. Do not engage unless fired on. Over.”
Ballantine didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. “Apache One Three Bravo, say again. Say all after ‘be advised.’ Over.”
Tharinger made it short and sweet. “Jehovah’s Witnesses with guns on the ground. Over.”
Ballantine couldn’t believe what he had just heard. He was ready to deal with reekers not Bible thumpers. After a slight pause to gather his wits, he responded, “Good copy. Over.”
Ballantine didn’t even attempt to shout this info to the crew chief. Instead, he pulled out his notepad, wrote a note, and passed it to the crew chief. The aviation soldier quickly read it then looked at Ballantine with a small smile on his face. The crew chief pointed at the paper as if to verify the information. Ballantine shrugged and nodded. The crew chief shook his head then spoke over the intercom system to the pilot. The exchange was a bit on the lengthy side, and Ballantine could tell by the chief’s body language that he was having to repeat everything to the pilot. The crew chief finally stopped speaking, and with a grin, he shot Ballantine two thumbs-up.
Ballantine returned the gesture then leaned back in his seat with a sigh. Well, one thing is certain. We sure as shit don’t have a contingency plan for Jehovah’s Witnesses with guns. What’s next, Amish with tanks?
*
Guerra knew he had to play things right, or the scene could get ugly quick. He waited for a break in the man’s tirade and jumped in to ask, “Who’s in charge in your church?”
“I’m the one you can talk to,” the young man said.
“I don’t think you’re in charge of anything. Otherwise you wouldn’t be standing out here on top of a minivan when you are clearly outnumbered and outgunned. Why don’t you do us all a favor and get whoever is in charge down here so I can talk to him?”
The man seemed to consider that, then he looked down again to consult with whoever was behind the van. After a few seconds, he turned back to Guerra. “We are not outgunned for we are protected by God and the angels. We are not afraid of you!”
In the distance, Guerra heard the familiar sound of approaching Chinooks. One thing he had noticed since the zombie thing began was that the world had become a much quieter place without airplanes, traffic, and everyday noises bombarding his ears all the time. Pretty soon, the man on the minivan and whoever else was with him would hear the inbound helicopters too, so Ballantine had to time his play well.
“You don’t need to be afraid of us. We only want to pass. But if you don’t let us through, you’ll see that some angels protect us, too.” Guerra raised a finger toward the sky. “See for yourself.”
The man shifted his gaze to where Guerra was pointing. The Chinooks were flying fifty feet above the treetops. At that moment, the roar of pounding rotors and shrieking turboshaft engines became abundantly clear as both Chinooks passed overhead. They split up, turning away from each other as they banked back toward the front of the convoy. The pilots pedal-turned the big helicopters so that they crabbed sideways while still advancing, giving the gunners the best picture possible. The helicopters then climbed out to a hundred fifty feet and began a slow orbit over the man and the barricade.
“These are my angels!” Guerra shouted, and damn if he didn’t feel a bit of righteous power. “They can be angels of life or of death—you make the choice. Let us pass, and we’ll be on our way. I give you my word.”
“The word of a non-witness does not hold any weight with me!” the man screamed.
Tharinger spoke over the radio. “Sergeant G, Blackfoot says there are only three other people on the other side of the barricade, all armed males. And they have four bicycles. Over.”
Guerra keyed his PTT twice to let Tharinger know he had heard him.
The man raised his weapon and pointed it toward the convoy for the first time. “You must leave, or we will unleash the powe
r of God on you!” He angled his gun slightly toward the sky and fired off a few rounds.
Guerra spoke into his radio quickly. “Everyone, hold your fire! Break. Apache One Three Bravo, tell Blackfoot to put a short burst of minigun fire into the ground around our friends behind the barricade! Over.”
“Roger!”
A few seconds later, one of the miniguns on the Chinook opened up with a nice staccato burst that peppered the ground and the vehicles behind the barricade. Minivan man dived off the vehicle when the weapon opened up. After the gunnery pass was over, he slowly climbed back up, a hard set to his face.
Guerra shouted, “I won’t be so nice the next time, if you do not let us pass in peace!”
Tharinger came back over the radio. “Apache One Two, we have movement coming from the building. Blackfoot advises it looks like two males on bikes. Over.”
Guerra keyed his mike twice again to acknowledge Tharinger’s message.
“I told you already, you cannot pass!” the man shrieked.
Guerra shook his head. He had a mission to attend to, and he’d wasted too much time already. By the existing rules of engagement, he could have taken the guy out the second he fired shots in the direction of the helicopters, but that wasn’t what he wanted to do. “Apache One Three Bravo. Pass on to Blackfoot to tell the aircrews in each bird to light up the ground and cars around the JWs this time. Over.”
“Roger that.”
Both Chinooks opened fire around the man and his friends, blazing long, sustained streams of fire that ripped through sheet metal, shattered glass, and pulverized pavement. The minivan’s hood flew into the air, blasted right off its hinges by a salvo of 7.62-millimeter fire, and the young man on top of the vehicle cried out as he fell to his side and curled up into a ball on the van’s roof. His rifle fell away and clattered onto the roadway. Plumes of dust and debris shot up everywhere, and Guerra stepped back behind the MRAP when pieces of shrapnel began to pelt its armored hide.
When the shooting stopped, Guerra peeked around the idling rig’s tall fender. The Jehovah’s Witnesses slowly stood up from their hiding places behind the barricade of abandoned—and severely shot-up—vehicles. The young man on the minivan sat up, shaking as he wept. The other men raised their arms and showed their hands. None of them held any weapons.
These Dead Lands: Immolation Page 26
