Hastings returned the glare. “Apparently you do, Vogler. Because if you’d been paying attention, all of this shit”—he pointed toward the container wall behind them—“would have been in place already, and we wouldn’t be sweating our balls off, worrying about setting up defenses. Am I right, or am I right?”
Vogler took a step fowared. “Who the fuck do you—”
Ballantine moved to stand between the two men. “Whoa, guys. Cease fire,” he said, raising his hands. “Let’s save the heat for the enemy, all right?”
“Step aside, Ballantine,” Vogler snapped.
Ballantine knew which side his bread was buttered on, so he shook his head. “Don’t think so, Captain.” He looked at the rest of the officers, who were just standing around the Humvee, watching and waiting. “Anyone else want to maybe give me a hand defusing this? If not, I’ve got ten bucks on Hastings.”
A first lieutenant stepped up beside Ballantine, helping him block off Vogler. “No one’s doing anything.” He looked at Hastings. “Let’s get back on target. Sir, if we’ve got seventy-five thousand reekers heading our way, we’re going to need a lot more troops up here.”
Hastings backed away a little. “There’s another infantry company rolling out, and they should be here in just a few minutes. They’re going to pitch in and help fortify this position, then the plan is to create a secondary fallback in case the shit gets too real. Once we get a better handle on the approaching force and can determine when it’s going to get here, we’ll start ramping up the combat power. But don’t expect carte blanche. We can’t leave other flanks wide open.”
“We’re going to need at least a thousand guys, plus support,” Vogler said.
Hastings nodded. “Agreed. Victor’s working that up in concert with Jarmusch, so I think we can count on it happening. Right now, we need to finish our work while the intel folks do theirs.” He motioned toward where the Shadow crew was readying their small aircraft for launch and fixed his gaze on Vogler. “So let’s stop bitching to each other about roles and responsibilities and get it done. What do you say?”
“I say you’re on, Lightfighter.”
Hastings smiled thinly. “Prove it, Airborne.”
*
The two Chinooks pounded through the air at an altitude of five thousand feet, a luxury the pilots normally didn’t get to experience. For Army aviation, staying close to the ground regime was the order of the day. Even big, fat CH-47s were expected to at least approximate nap-of-the-earth flight, rising and falling with the terrain at an altitude of less than one hundred feet. To the aircrews, flying along at five thousand feet was like cruising the flight levels with airliners and fighter jocks. Maintaining a trail formation, the aircraft buzzed along at one hundred forty miles per hour, which was their normal cruise speed. Both helicopters were traveling light. The lead machine had eight people aboard: four flight crew and four soldiers from Victor’s brigade intelligence section. Everyone was fully manned up with weapons and gear, including food and water, in case the helicopter went down and the personnel couldn’t be immediately evacuated, not that there was much worry in that regard. The second helicopter carried only its flight crew, and the massive Chinook had more than enough space to retrieve the personnel from the first aircraft in the event of a mishap.
Heading easterly, the two Chinooks paralleled I-78 after crossing over Swatara Creek. The day was clear, though the high humidity conspired to create a haze that obscured the far distance, so visibility was not unlimited. Winds were light, and so was the accompanying turbulence. The aircrews thought that it was a great day for flying. Below, the landscape alternated between relatively dense woods and cultivated land that was beginning to return to the wild without the attentive ministrations of farmers. The rural roads and highways were either full of abandoned vehicles or surprisingly vacant. Small groups of figures moved along the roadways, stopping to stare up at the big olive-drab helicopters. No one waved, begging for rescue. They were zombies.
As the flight pressed on, it slipped past the apparently vacant town of Hamburg. The observers in the first helicopter noted no activity that appeared to be man-made—no smoke from fires, no coordinated movements, no built-up communities that might have housed the living. All they saw were scores of reekers stumbling through the town on stiff legs that might have been made from wood.
But when the helicopters bore down on the town of Fogelsville, the community outside of the much larger city of Allentown, things became noteworthy. The highway leading out of Allentown was full of bodies—a moving, undulating mass of zombies slowly heading west. Like some sort of gigantic creature, the horde pushed through the debris-choked streets, walking over cars, barricades, and even each other. The scope of the mob was breathtaking, and for minutes, no one in the helicopters said much as they stared down at the legions of corpses that seemed to extend for miles, all the way back to the horizon. The reekers were sticking to the roads where they could, but their numbers were so vast that thousands more struck out across fields, drifting back to the crowded interstate when they encountered heavy woods. From five thousand feet, the interstate looked like nothing less than some gigantic rotting serpent slowly winding its way toward Fort Indiantown Gap.
*
Colonel Victor stared at the remote video display in the TOC, watching the video feed from the Shadow UAV that had followed the same flight path as the Chinooks. He had moved well beyond terror. The scope of the situation was so vast that it left him feeling numb and hollow. As a combatant commander, he had never faced such an array of enemy forces, and their numerical superiority was almost beyond his ability to comprehend. Millions. Six thousand troops and civilians against millions of dead.
“Should we start hitting them now, Colonel?” Henry Cornell asked.
The big helicopters were on their way back, having flown to Bridgewater, New Jersey, before turning around. The flight had confirmed what Victor and the others had already suspected. Having eradicated all food sources in the New York City metropolitan area, the zombies were heading west like one great migratory herd.
If they made it past the barricades, the reekers could surround Fort Indiantown Gap, blocking every approach and exit. The National Guard training facility would be like an island floating in a sea of rot and decay. They would have no escape.
“Colonel?”
Victor looked away from the screen. Cornell was staring at him, his dark face composed and almost serene, despite what was coming for them. Victor admired the politician’s poker face. The man seemed to be outwardly unflappable, even under the direst of circumstances.
“We’ll send out teams to try to slow them down,” Victor said. “But honestly, I’m not sure that’ll have much effect. That’s a lot of bodies to take out. We’ll start with mortars and long-distance sniping, but I can’t say how effective those measures will be, either.”
“I’ve heard there’s some equipment that’s been successful at defending observation points,” Cornell said. “What about those?”
“You mean the mulchers, sir? Those have to be transported by truck, and they require a good amount of work to relocate. Even though they’re on tracks, they’re not designed for long-distance travel under their own power. We’d like to keep them closer, to defend the post itself.”
Cornell nodded slowly. “All right, sounds fair enough.” He looked at the screen again, and Victor thought he saw the senator’s mask slip a little bit. “So how will we get out, if it comes to it?”
“We still have the helicopters, sir. And the trains. We’re thinking the majority of personnel will depart by train, while senior staff and VIPs like you are taken out by helicopter.”
“To where?”
Victor sighed. “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, sir. We don’t have an actual destination yet.”
“That could be a problem. Not that those are in short supply.”
“Obviously, we’ll leave if the post is about to be overrun,” Victor said. �
��We’ll get out before it can be taken down. As much as I’d hate to go out into the world without a plan, staying and fighting the dead to the last man doesn’t sound like the way to tactical success.”
“It is not. I agree,” Cornell said. He looked up as Sergeant Major Parker hurried toward them.
The command sergeant major’s bald head gleamed in the light. “Excuse me, sir,” Parker said. Parker looked a bit agitated.
Victor sighed. He had never seen Oratious Parker get agitated over anything in the past, not even back when the brigade combat team was trying to retreat from Philadelphia and the troops were getting hammered by the dead. “More bad news, Oratious?”
“Not this time, sir.”
Victor raised his eyebrows. “Oh? What’ve you got?”
“We’ve been working the radios, using those frequencies Master Sergeant Slater provided. We’ve received a response.”
Cornell smiled. “Well, that might be worth a hot damn.”
“What else, Parker?” Victor asked.
“I’m told that Bragg is secure, sir, and under the operational control of Lieutenant General Remsen and his staff at Army Special Operations Command. Call sign is Rawhide.”
Victor slapped the table, almost sending his coffee mug skittering across the surface. Burt Remsen was a hard-charger but also an astute thinker, reputed to be an aggressive general officer, despite his relatively low profile. While Victor had never been formally introduced to the general, he had certainly seen the man during visits to his duty station at Fort Campbell when the commander of Army special operations assets had visited the 5th Special Forces Group and 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment. Remsen was an old school Green Beret with nothing left to prove.
“Bragg is secure?” Cornell asked.
“That’s what they said, sir.” Parker looked back at Victor. “They’d like a pulse from you directly, sir.”
Victor got to his feet. “Hell, yes!”
*
The firing range was deserted when Bill Everson parked the van in the lot. Diana watched as the man looked around then unlocked the door and stepped out. Before his work boots met the pavement, he had an M4 in his hands. Diana thought he handled the weapon with as much authority as Hastings and his soldiers handled theirs. Even though Everson was an old guy, she could see he had been well trained.
“Okay, let’s all step outside,” he said. “Everyone bring their kit with them. We’ll get set up at one of the tables over there. Follow me, if you would.”
Once everyone had climbed out of the vehicle, he led them to one of two long wooden tables set on the patchy grass. Diana lugged a tactical harness that was too big for her and an M4 rifle. The weapon was surprisingly light, and she found she could carry it easily enough. She had to reminder herself that it was an actual instrument of death and not some kid’s toy. After few seconds, she slowed and looked around for Kenny, but he was nowhere to be found. She laughed at herself. Of course—he was back in the barracks, being looked after by Kay and her boys. Wow, I’m becoming all motherly and shit.
“Everyone lay your weapons on the table on their right sides, left sides up, barrels pointing toward the range.” Everson’s voice was loud and booming, even though the range was almost as silent as a tomb. Diana had become used to that quality of speech—it was how Ballantine and Guerra talked to the rest of the soldiers. There was no pompous attitude in Everson’s tone. He was merely using the voice of command, another habit he’d apparently picked up during his time in the Marine Corps.
She watched the older man closely as she followed his instructions. Back in the barracks, he had been almost soft-spoken, even outright congenial. He treated Kenny and Ballantine’s boys kindly, which was a bit surprising given his rather aggressive appearance. He looked more like an older Hell’s Angel, a man who had spent years on the back of a Harley Road King, than a former Marine. But despite that, the old Marine was apparently back in the swing of things.
Everson corrected some folks who put their weapons on the wrong side or didn’t point them toward the field. Once everything was arranged the way he wanted it, he moved on the other side of the table and faced them. He held out his own M4. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the M4 carbine. Today, we’re going to spend some time getting to know it, and then, we’re going to spend some more time actually using it in a live-fire setting. Now, some of you have weapons of your own, and that’s fine. As far as I know, you’re going to keep them. But we all have to train up to a set standard, and for that training, this is the weapon we’ll use.” He looked at Diana. “I see you have a smaller version of this back at the barracks. You already know your way around the weapon?”
Diana shook her head. “Not really. We found it on the road. I mean, I know how to shoot it, but that’s about it.”
“Okay. Anyone else here have prior experience with the M4 or M16 series of weapons?” When no one responded, Everson nodded. “Okay, then. Let’s get to it.”
The Marine went through some essential safety procedures—treat every firearm as if it’s loaded, never point a firearm at anything you are not willing to destroy, always be sure of your target and what is beyond it, keep your finger off the trigger until you are on target and ready to fire—how to inspect a weapon, and how to clear it. He moved on to explain the sights and how they functioned then demonstrated how they needed to be lined up on a target. He instructed them on how to load a magazine with ammunition, how to insert the loaded magazine into the magazine well, and how to charge the weapon by pulling back on the charging handle. He then pointed out and explained the rifle’s three settings—safe, semiautomatic, and full automatic. A final topic of discussion was what to do in the event of a firing failure, and Everson familiarized them with the acronym SPORTS—Slap, Pull, Observe, Release, Tap, and Shoot. He spoke with an easy familiarity and stopped occasionally to ensure everyone was keeping up with him.
When it came time to fire the weapons, he handed out foam rubber earplugs and explained how to twist one end and wind the plugs into their ears. Diana found she could still hear quite well while wearing the earplugs, and she wondered aloud if they would actually do anything.
“They’ll take the bite out of the noise so you won’t lose your hearing,” Everson said. “Obviously, if firing in an enclosed space, you’d want better protection. But for the great outdoors, they’ll be fine.”
Small sandbagged areas had been set up in the field, and Everson instructed each shooter to kneel behind the bags, so they could get used to not only shooting but seeking cover at the same time. While the chances of a zombie shooting at them would be nonexistent, the former Marine explained it still made sense to attempt to obtain as much security as possible while fighting. Everson instructed them to ensure their weapons had a fully loaded magazine inserted then to pull back on the charging handle. After that, they were to ensure their selector switches were rotated to the SAFE position. Everson explained that the M4’s firing selector couldn’t be moved to the SAFE position until the weapon was charged and ready to fire, and he emphasized that everyone needed to keep their rifles indexed.
Diana showed her weapon to Everson as he walked down the line, checking everyone’s work. A hundred yards or so out from each position stood white targets that bore human-sized silhouettes. Diana pulled the rifle’s stock into her shoulder and kept the weapon indexed and the barrel pointed toward the ground.
Everson returned to the end of the firing line. “In order to stop a zombie from closing to kill, you have to hit it in the head, specifically, above the bridge of the nose.” He indicated the position on his own face. “You have to cause traumatic injury to the brain. Hitting a man in the chest or abdomen, or even an extremity, in some cases, is very likely going to stop an attack. Hitting a zombie anywhere but the brain pan isn’t going to do a damn thing. It will just ignore the injury and keep on coming. So I want you to put your sights on the head of each target out there. Just raise the rifle barrel and look at the target thr
ough your sights. Weapons remain on safe and remain indexed. All right, sight your targets and hold.”
As they raised their rifles, Everson stepped behind them. He walked down the line and inspected each student’s stance and grip on their weapons. After making some adjustments—Walker, bully though he was, seemed to have no clue how to handle a rifle, which made Diana smile—Everson stopped at the far end of the line.
“Okay, with your thumb, rotate the firing selector switch to the semiautomatic setting,” he said. “Remember, you’ll hear and feel the switch move into a slight detent and stop.”
Diana did as instructed and heard a small click as the safety switch snapped into place beneath her thumb.
“Aim for the head, folks. If you think you have a good sight picture, start firing.”
Diana pulled the M4’s trigger, and the weapon barked once. The recoil was light and more than manageable, even though she was the smallest person on the field. A hole appeared in the white space right above her target silhouette’s head. She adjusted her aim and fired again. Another hole appeared in the target, well within the black, right in the center of the forehead. Beauty shot!
She lined up for another shot. Fired. Hit. Again. Again. Again. Each round landed more or less where she wanted it to go, right in the silhouette’s head. She picked up the pace and fired more rapidly. Her accuracy began to diminish from the light but insistent recoil that forced her aim off. A few millimeters of drift by the barrel translated to inches at the target, and she worked to correct for it, trying to find the rhythm between firing and aiming. Before she knew it, she had fired all thirty rounds in her weapon’s magazine.
“Reload if you need to!” Everson shouted over the din of firing.
Diana looked up and saw that he wasn’t turned in her direction but watching a man farther down the line. The man hit the magazine release on his weapon, and the empty dropped out of the rifle. Diana hit the release on hers and pulled the mag out when it failed to eject. She dropped it, pulled a fresh magazine from her vest, and slapped it into the mag well. When she hit the bolt release on the left side of the rifle’s receiver, she was rewarded with a slight snick as the bolt snapped forward. She brought the weapon up to her shoulder.
These Dead Lands: Immolation Page 39
