by Lund, Dave
Flipping on a flashlight, Chivo dug through a tool chest at the far end of the hangar before finding what he was looking for.
“Here ya go, mano, now you can fix your lights,” Chivo said, handing Bexar a Phillips-head screwdriver.
Granite Mountain, Utah
Cliff looked at his watch. Six hours until sunrise.
The command line interface was becoming easier now that Cliff was using it; some of the training on it was starting to come back to him. Toggling through overheads stored on the computer, he followed the West Coast from Washington State southward, checking every deep water port that would be able to handle the types of vessels that the intelligence estimate stated China could or would use. North Korea had nothing in the way of shipping or naval assets that were of that size, so all estimates had the NKP working with the PLA.
One by one, each of the cities appeared on his monitor; he zoomed in to view the port facilities for any activity or to discern what the remaining capability might be. One by one, he found the cities partially destroyed, burned, and overrun by the dead, and the port facilities and the gantry cranes all appeared damaged beyond repair. This was the first time Cliff had been able to see the West Coast after the apocalypse, the EMP attack that started it all. Previously, while reviewing overhead imagery, the view had been obscured by massive fires and smoke. The infrared view had shown the fires, but had been useless to find much else due to the thermal blooming. The results of the end of the world as we know it were painfully obvious now.
The Port of Los Angeles and Long Beach, two of the busiest ports in the world, looked partially intact; it would take an analyst hours to pore over each detail to make a judgment on the remaining functionality, but the channels were blocked by capsized vessels so it really didn’t matter right now. The lone remaining port was San Diego; with a few keystrokes the screen resolved to show a high overhead view of the entire bay. Three dark spots to the south of the harbor entrance grabbed his attention. Zooming in, Cliff saw a group of container ships in anchorage. Moving the slider to the left, the view transitioned between time stamps, going backward in time slowly. The latest imagery stored on the computer was old, but his wonderful hacker friends had disconnected the systems and for all the training Cliff had, he was not a network engineer.
Each image took a little time to fully resolve and show clearly. Cliff frowned at how long the task was taking. Although the actual time elapsing wasn’t that much, he had no patience for it right now. Suddenly he stopped. The last ship of the group was out of place, approaching the others in anchorage from the west.
Cliff brought the view in closer, viewing Halsey Field from the time the ship arrived to the last captured time stamp. The last two views showed some activity, vehicle movement on the facility, vehicles that Cliff recognized as a mix of Chinese and North Korean types. Point Loma had had no activity, but the San Diego International Airport had a massive amount. The surrounding city was owned by the dead, but the PLA and NKP had a toehold; Cliff could see that they were moving out slowly. Each moment in time on the imagery closer to real time showing a wider and wider area of operations, trucks and men moving out further away from the airport. Set on the perimeter of the PLA operations were mobile radar units with oddly shaped transmitters. Piles of dead made a thick wall around the front of each of the trucks, clearly killed by the trucks or something the trucks carried.
So that’s it, that’s how they do it. Radar, microwave, something they transmit killed the dead. That isn’t what the analysts predicted, but we knew they would have something. Dammit. The dead gives me some time, but once they have the chance to secure enough area to begin offloading the container ships then we’re going to be in trouble. That’s going to be soon with the mobile radars.
This was a scenario that wasn’t supposed to happen. Some portion of the United States’ Naval Force was supposed to survive, but so far every indication pointed to the fleets being lost for unknown reasons.
If they were issued orders like the fuckup directives the President was issuing which resulted in the Denver facility being lost, then he might have had them working humanitarian missions. Trying to rescue American citizens trapped abroad instead of launching nuclear assets against China and North Korea.
Cliff tapped his pen against the screen and began to work the problem. He needed to destroy an invading force, he was on his own, and what he needed was the firepower of a national level asset. Overall he wasn’t sure any were left; the bomber force was presumed lost with the loss of the physical facilities, the Navy was presumed lost ... but there should be over four hundred Minuteman-III Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles sitting safely in their silos.
Cliff put his head in his hands, a headache starting to throb behind his eyes. He took a few breaths and tried to remember what his access with the ICBMs was.
Even if I did have any sort of outside connectivity from here, I still couldn’t access the ICBM systems. Those systems are ancient and kept isolated on purpose. I have to get to Wyoming … North Dakota or Montana … no, I only have to get to northern Colorado, there are missile flights there.
A few keystrokes later, the overhead view outside of Cheyenne, Wyoming came into view, the stark landscape dotted with numerous missile silos that were visible to the trained eye. Ten of the silos were clustered around a launch command center, which was underground, each flight of missiles able to be independently fired from the other flights.
San Diego or Colorado, fucking Colorado … every time I leave, I’m whipped back. The mobile radar truck, if that’s what it is, that is a key piece of technology we had no idea about. If I decimate San Diego with an ICBM then the technology is lost. If I go to San Diego the Chinese might be able to establish more of a beachhead and take control of more land. San Diego, that’s almost a thousand miles from here. I could do it in less than a week, maybe even two days each way if I don’t sleep and move quickly. Call it three days there, three days back, six days total, leave the radar truck at Groom Lake. If I leave for northeast Colorado, I could be at the ICBM LCC in less than a day, but that leaves a whole country of dead to put down.
Cliff took a deep breath and shook his head, looking at the hacker he’d put down, the same one from the video. “Dammit guy, you really fucked me by pulling this facility off-line.”
Coronado, CA
The cover of night brought a blessing and a curse for Hammer and Gonzo. They could move with stealth in the night, the night was their friend for movement, but the massive Barrett 50-caliber rifles, even with suppressors, were very loud when fired. It was in no way discreet.
The large rifles secured and slung, their rucks on, M4 rifles in hand, the pair slowly made their way down the parking garage ramp. The dead they encountered on the way in the night before still lay motionless on the concrete where they’d been left, skulls ruined by their knives. The truck they’d pushed against the bottom of the ramp was keeping the rest of the dead from meandering upwards, but now they had to get past the truck, the dead, and out to the walkway below.
Climbing over the wall one after the other, they dropped to the patio below, the entombed guests thumping against the window glass of the resort hotel towering above them. Before anymore dead could make their way to them, the pair jogged to the fence separating the pool from the large public walkway and climbed over. Once on the walkway they moved slowly, deliberately. The PLA activity significantly reduced after nightfall, but they were still wary of being observed. Even though they’d handily killed a number of PLA that day, including the tug and ship pilots resulting in the destruction of the container vessel, they didn’t want to be caught in the open. With the massive convention center on their right, and the large yachts of the fabulously wealthy on their left, Hammer and Gonzo used the shadows and moved to the road leading out to the marina park. The trees lining the roadway gave some comfort to both of them. The trees gave concealment and cover, a welcome friend in urban operations. They made it to the southern corner of the park
before lying near some trees in the overgrown lawn. The NVGs gave Hammer a bright green bay to look across, the night vision goggles giving the park an eerie but familiar glow to Gonzo, who lay prone with his M4, holding rear guard for the pair. Some Zeds shambled through the park, but Gonzo would try not to fire his M4 if at all possible, even though it was suppressed. He wanted nothing more than to climb aboard the Zodiac with Chief without having the park erupt in gunfire.
Hammer’s foot tapped against Gonzo’s leg twice. Extract approaching.
The faint hum of the Zodiac’s specially muffled outboard motor evaporated into the air, as the motor was shut off while the rubber boat drifted into position near the shore. Hammer knelt, watching the boat approach, grabbed his ruck and big Barrett rifle and ran to the boat, setting both in the boat as he climbed in, the other teammates holding cover with low firing positions against the gunwales. A few seconds later Gonzo joined them and, with five critical skills operator Marines aboard, the Zodiac came to life, powering south and towards Glorietta Bay where the team had put in.
Happy ran the boat onto the beach, the team barreling out before grabbing a handhold and pulling the boat onto the sand.
Simmons met them at the shoreline with the UTV and trailer. The boat weighed close to seven hundred pounds with the fuel and the motor; they could have carried it, but since they had the resources to use, Simmons and the UTV came to help. Once on the trailer and secured with a single ratchet strap thrown across the boat, the team grabbed a spot either in the UTV or in the boat while Simmons drove them out of the park, bouncing across curbs, through the gate by their team building and out onto the beach on the west side, the ocean side of Coronado. The team put the boat in and followed it into the water, climbing aboard as the waves jostled them around. The motor came to life and the five of them headed out, moving quickly towards the mouth of the bay. Simmons drove the UTV and trailer to a position alongside the beach facilities, using the buildings to avoid being seen. As per the plan, he left the UTV in place and jogged back into the team area where the M-ATVs were sitting at the ready. Jones sat in the lead truck, radio on and ready to roll for a heavy extract if needed.
Halsey Field, Coronado, CA
Davis and Snow loaded the back of the strange Chinese-made Jeep with every block of C4 they could find in the bunkers, along with spools of det cord. Kirk was set up in the bunker next to them with two large Mark 84 bombs on a cart. He had two mechanical fuses he was modifying for their needs before they could leave the airfield. Sweat dripped off Kirk’s forehead; a small Surefire flashlight clamped in his teeth, he wiped his face with the dark shemagh wrapped around his neck. Working quickly but carefully, his modification would set both of the two-thousand-pound bombs off ten minutes after being set, which was outside of the normal operation of the fuse system.
The radio crackled in all three of their ears. “Five mikes.” Snow appeared in the open door of the hardened bunker with his hand up, fingers spread to show a big five. Kirk gave a thumbs up and continued to work.
A few minutes later the heavy four-wheeled bomb cart’s ring was locked in the Chinese Jeep’s pintle hitch, and the team drove carefully out from the bunkers and towards the runways. The C4 and det cord they weren’t worried about; they were shockproof, heat-resistant and proven reliable. The four thousand pounds of explosives bouncing along on the cart behind them was a different story. The Mark 84 bomb was an old design that kept getting upgraded with new guidance systems, and the system itself was reliable, but Kirk’s hacked-together fuse system was an unknown.
“If they go off early we’ll never know.”
“I’ll know, I’ll find the little pieces of your body scattered across the airfield and I’ll haunt the shit out of you, Kirk.”
Snow shook his head. Kirk and Davis could joke, but they weren’t the one driving the damn Jeep. Once on the runway the surface was smooth and Snow accelerated sharply, racing against the open expanse to park their trailer in the center where the two runways crossed. It would still be possible to land some aircraft on the ramp or on one of the shortened sections, but this was the best they could do in a short time and it should cause the PLA a lot of grief. The Jeep stopped, and Kirk and Davis jumped out to unhitch the trailer and to arm the timer. They piled back in and Snow wasted no time pushing the accelerator pedal all the way to the floor, driving back the direction they had come, towards the beach. As they bounded over the rocks and onto the sand, the Zodiac slid onto the beach. Their teammates exited the boat quickly, running to the Jeep to unload all the explosives they had retrieved. Kirk looked at the timer, counting down on his watch before holding up his hand with two fingers raised. Two minutes.
Snow drove the empty Jeep up the sand and towards the rocky seawall a short distance to the west. He shifted into neutral and jumped out of the Jeep onto the hard dirt as it bounced across the rough terrain and fell over the rocks into the deep channel. As much as they wanted to keep the Jeep, they weren’t sure if there was a tracking device on it; they couldn’t chance it being located anywhere near them. At least this way if someone finds the Jeep they might think the saboteurs went across the channel to Point Loma.
Snow ran as fast as he could towards the Zodiac which was already pushed off from the beach and holding enough throttle to keep it motionless against the approaching waves. Once he reached the boat his teammates pulled him onto it, where he fell atop the ruck sacks and explosives piled in the hull. Happy poured the coals to it, the nose of the Zodiac standing out of the water as the boat pushed hard in the water under maximum power. Forty-five seconds later the pressure wave washed over the team, followed almost immediately by the sound of the massive explosion.
Snow gave Kirk a fist bump, Kirk having trouble hiding a smile beneath all the dark face paint. Once the boat ran upon the beach only three miles away, the team bounded out of the boat while Gonzo ran to get the UTV and trailer. They didn’t bother unloading the explosives, leaving the rucks, explosives, and other gear in the boat; it went on the trailer and Gonzo hauled ass to get it all under cover before any patrols flew overhead. The rest of the team followed the UTV’s tracks in the sand, kicking the sand over the tracks and covering their paths. A few minutes later the entire team was together under cover by the M-ATVs, carefully unloading and cataloging the explosive ordinance they had just retrieved, the eastern horizon beginning to glow with the coming of dawn. They had plans for their newly acquired tools of war and it was going to be the story of legend, if anyone lived long enough for it to be told.
CHAPTER 10
Kanab Municipal Airport, Kanab, Utah
March 15, Year 1
Chivo was up before dawn, Bexar snoring loudly in the cab of the truck with the windows rolled up. After kicking him awake after midnight to get him to climb into the truck, Chivo slipped outside for a quick patrol of the airport to make sure the monstrous snoring hadn’t brought any of the awoken dead. Now the hangar door stood partially open, mostly hidden from view from the passing highway. Chivo had tried to make the doors look like they were accidently left open and not purposefully opened for use while he fueled the truck from the plastic gas cans. Half of the cans were used to top off the tank, which worked perfectly for Chivo. With the hand-cranked fuel transfer hose they’d taken from the parts store, Chivo left for the planes tied down on the ramp in front of the hangar. Twenty minutes later Bexar stood outside and pissed on the side of the hangar, steam rising from his face after waking up warm and cozy in the truck cab, and Chivo had fuel cans full of Av-Gas. A roll of blue painter’s tape in the tool box was used to mark the cans with Av-Gas; they would have to mix them in the truck’s fuel tanks later and this would help keep the fuel types identified.
Loaded up, they were quickly on their way, Chivo taking the driving duties while they both ate cold stew out of a can. The countryside passed by outside of their truck in silence, including the small town of Fredonia, Arizona and their turn onto Highway 389. If not for the low vegetation and powerlin
es the highway might as well been on Mars. The highway dipped south before turning north again, skirting around the southern edge of the mountains on the border between Arizona and Utah and towards Colorado City. The highway crossed the town, which for being so small had an amazing number of undead turning northbound to shamble after the truck rolling through town like a fifty-mile-per-hour flash. The stark landscape reminded Bexar a little of Big Bend country, although it was different. The number on the highway sign changed with the passing of the Utah border, but neither of them cared. As long as they kept this pace and didn’t get lost, they would be in Groom Lake before dinner.
Granite Mountain, Utah
Cliff had his plan. Speed run to San Diego. He could spare a week and still be able to stop the Chinese invasion with an ICBM strike, although by his guess he would have to use two of them, striking further inland too. On the way back north he would leave the radar truck in Groom Lake and take whatever vehicle a survivor had left sitting topside. He could send a message to Clint with an update as well. Walking out of the mountain and into the cold March air, Cliff started the old truck and drove out of the complex. He would be happy to never return. All he had to do was clear the middle of the city between him and Utah Lake, then he could take Highway 68 and rocket south outside of the major cities, eventually cutting over to I-15 which would hopefully be clear enough so he could drive as hard as the truck would handle. After reviewing the stored overhead imagery, and measuring the distance with scaled overhead imagery and checking the major cities, he’d decided to break from I-15 in Las Vegas and shoot down Highway 95 until hitting I-8. If his plan worked, he should be able to arrive in about thirteen hours. Chasing the sunset he would get there just after dark, which should make acquiring the PLA equipment easier. The return trip might be longer, not knowing if the truck was governed, but the distance was shorter. Depending on what he found in San Diego he might even have the chance for a nap and a shower in Groom Lake before heading north again.
