by David Spell
A shotgun blast caught the defender center-mass, the 00 buckshot spreading enough to cover the female sentry’s abdomen, chest, and throat. A rifle round also found her leg and she collapsed next to her dead friend. The return fire from the cartel had finally caused the defenders on the inside to duck their heads and the criminals reached the exterior walls.
“You know what to do,” Quintero ordered the four men carrying gasoline. “Hurry up!”
The survivors were unable to aim their weapons down from inside the building, the firing slits only designed to engage attackers approaching them. The gang members were safe for the moment and within minutes gasoline was being applied to all of the boarded up entrances, as well as the exterior near the ground floor windows. Two of the men had five-gallon cans, while the others had two-gallon cans.
They didn’t have enough gasoline to cover the entire house so Jorge had ordered them to douse the areas that the survivors would try to escape out of. This was a large structure and the cartel lieutenant knew it would take a while for the fire to really get going. The gang members began taunting those inside, telling them what was about to happen to them. I wonder if any of the gringos speak Spanish? the gangster leader wondered.
As soon as his men had poured out the contents of their containers, each was to strike a match, light the gas, and then try to escape without getting shot in the back. Shouts told Quintero that the fires had been ignited and he saw the flames slowly licking up the side of the clubhouse. Panicked voices could now be heard inside as the Americans realized that they were about to be burned to death.
The General Atomics MQ-1 Predator was on-station, circling the area at fifteen thousand feet. Admiral Williams had one of the armed drones and its crew transferred to Dobbins Air Force Base. Having the unmanned aerial vehicle operated so close to the action allowed it to remain overhead much longer.
The drone had followed the convoy as it departed from the cartel’s HQ that morning. The video feed was being monitored by the one man, one woman crew in a special room at the Air Force base. The drone’s pilot, First Lieutenant Jim Cox, and the sensor operator, Senior Airman Heather Cook, watched the scene unfold in the country club neighborhood in Buckhead. As the cartel members set the building ablaze, they both felt helpless, knowing that innocent lives were about to be lost.
“Call the major,” Cox ordered. “We need her in her now!”
Even though the normal phone system was down, one of the technical sergeants had rigged up a field telephone system covering most of the base. In less than a minute, Cook had gotten Major Singleton on the phone and asked her to join them in the drone command center. Four minutes later, the major and Admiral Williams strode into the small room.
“What’ve you got, Lieutenant?” the major asked.
Cox quickly recounted what they were seeing in real time as well as the events of the previous ten minutes. Singleton and Williams both watched the seventy-two inch video monitor in horror as fire began to spread along the outside of the clubhouse. The remaining cartel members had split into two groups, managing to flee to opposite corners of the burning structure, leaving behind six bodies of their comrades, two of whom had been shot fleeing after setting the building on fire. The gangsters found cover behind trees, cars, or even a large green utility box, watching and waiting for anyone inside to try and break out.
“Do we know that there are people inside that building?” the major asked.
Cox glanced at Cook. Her job was to monitor the video feed and interpret it. The senior airman nodded. “There were two sentries on the roof, ma’am. They engaged the attackers, killing several. We watched one of them walk over to an opening in the roof and it looked like she was yelling down into the building. Both sentries went down during the initial firefight.”
While she was talking the sensor operator zoomed in on hole that had been cut through the roof. A head suddenly popped up, and a middle-age white man crawled through and then reached back inside, pulling a teenage girl and then a middle-age woman onto the roof with him. Over the next five minutes, twelve other survivors climbed onto the roof. Six of them were armed and cautiously approached the sides of the building, looking for a way out.
One of the armed survivors jerked and fell. Everyone on the roof dropped flat onto their faces to get out of the path of additional bullets. The video showed two of the defenders shooting blindly over the edge, before pulling back. The flames continued to envelope the clubhouse, spreading faster, fire reaching upwards towards the flat area of the roof where the group was trapped.
“Admiral, this is your show,” the major acknowledged. “What do you want to do?”
“What’s the weapons package on the drone, Lieutenant?” he asked.
“Two Hellfires, sir,” Cox answered.
Williams looked at the screen closely, noting the positions of the cartel soldiers, estimating distances.
“Lieutenant, can you put a missile on either side of that structure in the middle of those two groups of attackers?”
“Sir, that’s danger close to those victims.”
“Son, those people will die if we don’t do something. They might die even if we do do something. Take out those killers and let’s see if we can give those poor people a chance. I’ll accept responsibility for the order, Lieutenant. Major, can you launch a Search and Rescue mission to go pick up any survivors?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, grabbing the phone, making a call, and issuing orders.
Thirty seconds later, the pilot nodded at the CIA man and his commanding officer. “Weapons free. Targets are acquired. Launch one, launch two. I’ve got two good launches, standby for impact.”
Quintero watched with satisfaction as the building crackled, the flames starting to engulf it. He still expected those people on the roof to try to make a break for it. That’s what he would do. There was no way that he would allow himself to be burned alive.
Directly across from the clubhouse, another mansion sat up on a hill. Jorge tapped Carlos on the back and nodded to the hill adjacent to their position. “Let’s go over there. Maybe we can get high enough to see the gringos and shoot them.”
Carlos was a good soldier and nodded at his boss. Quintero told the others in his group, “Me and Carlos are going over there,” pointing to their destination. “Keep a close watch for those gringos to try and make a break for it.”
The other cartel members smiled and grinned, occasionally yelling to the people trapped on the roof to come down and that they would be spared. Jorge and Carlos started running, covering almost a hundred meters, getting halfway up the incline from which they could engage the survivors.
A buzzing sound suddenly came from overhead and Quintero glanced back towards the ever-growing fire. The group of soldiers on the far side of the building were in a small patch of woods. A flash and the clap of an explosion sent a concussion sweeping across the street, knocking Jorge onto the grass, Carlos falling on top of him.
Jorge’s ears picked up another buzzing sound, this one even closer, like it was dropping right on top of him. There was another roar as the missile exploded, disintegrating the men whom Quintero had just been with. The second concussion sucked the air out of the cartel lieutenant’s lungs, picked him up and slammed him down onto the hard ground, and sending him into the darkness.
He awoke with incredible pain all over his body and a ringing in his ears, unsure how long he had been unconscious. A heavy weight pressed his face into the ground. It took all of his strength to roll over, shoving Carlos’ dead body off of him, the left side of his face aching. A loud vibrating noise cut through the air and Quintero looked up to see a gray helicopter circling the scene. He also saw that the middle of the clubhouse was now completely engulfed in flames, a section of the roof having collapsed inward.
Jorge struggled to get to his feet and stumbled towards the mansion that he and Carlos had been running for before the explosions. A glance over his shoulder revealed that the aircraft was descendi
ng towards the large parking lot across from his position. Had they seen him? Were they coming after him? He ducked behind the house, looking for an opening, a place where he could hide for a few minutes and assess his injuries.
The gangster suddenly realized that he had lost his rifle, but he couldn’t risk going back to the front to look for it. Thankfully, the reassuring weight of the Colt Python .357 Magnum revolver still hung from his waist. The double French doors of the large house were locked. Quintero used the barrel of the gun to smash out the pane of glass closest to the door handle, reaching through to unlock it. Stupid Americans, he thought.
As he stumbled inside, the smell of decaying flesh hit him in the face. If his ears weren’t damaged and the sound of the helicopter wasn’t already so loud, he would have also heard the growls coming from down the hallway. Suddenly, a black man and woman were in the living room, rushing towards the Mexican. Gold chains jangled around the man’s neck, just below where his flesh had been ripped open. The woman’s dreadlocks hung from her head, blood covering her face.
The loud explosions of the .357 Magnum barely registered in Jorge’s ears. His first shot caught the man in the face and sent him to the floor. He missed with his second shot, the round smashing into the far wall, but the third hollow-point bullet hit the woman under the right eye, snapping her head back, and dropping her to the carpet, as well.
After waiting for a moment, no other zombies had appeared, and Quintero moved to the other side of the house, peering out the windows. The helicopter was down in the parking lot, a hundred yards from where he watched, soldiers advancing on the positions where his men had been. They moved quickly, weapons up and ready.
Moments later, additional figures came from behind the house, being escorted by the armed men. One of the soldiers was actually carrying an injured women, another was supporting a wounded man. Jorge counted nine people being loaded into the helicopter. Two of the eight soldiers climbed in with them and in seconds, the helicopter lifted off. A second aircraft that Jorge had not even known was in the area touched down, allowing the last six troops to board. It was quickly airborne, as well, disappearing out of sight.
After the sound of the two aircraft receded, the ringing returned to his ears. Quintero found a small bathroom next to the massive kitchen and examined himself in a mirror. His vision was blurry but he saw that his left eye was swollen and there were several small cuts on his face, with blood coming out of both ears. His head throbbed, his back was pulsing with pain, and a wave of dizziness forced him to grab the sink for balance. Pretty much every part of his body hurt, he realized.
Jorge needed to get back to their secure area in Buckhead, but to do that he would have to retrace his route to where they had left their vehicles. The dizziness passed and he staggered out the rear door. For some reason, his balance was unsteady, like he’d had a lot to drink, he realized. He glanced around the yard for his rifle but didn’t see it. Carlos’ Benelli shotgun was near his body, though, so Quintero picked it up.
Corona isn’t going to be happy, Quintero thought, as he tried to maneuver back down the steep driveway. The dizziness suddenly returned and the gangster lost his footing, slamming down hard onto the concrete and rolling twenty feet down the hill, coming to a rest at the edge of the roadway. He groaned, feeling the blood dripping from his face and his hands, scraped from trying to stop his roll.
He’d lost the shotgun when he stumbled, but could see it laying near the top of the driveway. Jorge briefly considered trying to go retrieve the weapon, but knew that he’d never make it. I just need to get back to mi familia, the cartel, he thought.
After a minute, he managed to push himself to his feet again, stumbling across the street towards the clubhouse, where the fire continued to rage, the building appearing to be ready to collapse in on itself. He paused briefly to look at the crater where his men had been. Where he would have been if he had stayed there a minute longer? Most of the bodies were completely destroyed. A direct hit, he realized.
Quintero glanced around the area for another weapon but didn’t see anything. He did see several gringo bodies lying at the rear of the house, the flames licking their bodies. They must have tried to jump off of the roof, he thought. A few minutes later, he had made it back to their vehicles. He managed to climb into one of the SUVs to drive back to tell Antonio Corona the bad news.
Centers for Disease Control Compound, East of Atlanta, Wednesday, 0930 hours
McCain and a few of his team stood near the front gate, waiting. Fleming, Walker, and Trang were in the office mapping out their plan of attack. Grace stood next to Jimmy, smiling at something that he’d said. It’s good to see her smile, Chuck thought. Elizabeth was meeting with Dr. Martin, discussing how she might be able to help him and the researchers that he oversaw.
Admiral Williams and Shaun Taylor had flown back to Dobbins the previous day to make the final arrangements for housing and equipping his men for the upcoming operation. Williams had given Chuck a satellite smart phone and the two men had talked three times on Tuesday and twice already on Wednesday. The CDC Supervisory Agent now had a much better idea of the assets that would be participating in the raid.
The eight CDC agents would be joined by eight National Guard troops and their commander, Lieutenant Colonel Kevin Clark. Williams had pushed hard for Clark’s entire team of thirteen men and women but the former Ranger was adamant that he could not leave their families unprotected. The SOP that he had been using had worked, always leaving four soldiers and one of their armed humvees behind to guard their compound.
The admiral had also been able to secure fifteen Marine reservists from the air force base. None of their officers had survived and their ranking NCO, Gunnery Sergeant Gray, would be joining them on the operation to bump the number of Marines to sixteen. Williams told McCain that Major Singleton wasn’t happy at all about Gray participating in the high-risk mission. They’d had a heated conversation in the admiral’s presence, the major telling the marine that she relied on him for every detail of the base’s security.
“With all due respect, Major, I’m a senior Marine NCO. I’m not going to put my men in harm’s way and sit behind a fence here waiting to hear the outcome of this mission. And if I’m not mistaken, ma’am, you feel the same way because you’ve been flying multiple combat missions a week yourself, killing Zs. You also believe in leading from the front.”
At that, the Air Force officer had turned away, the truth of his words silencing her. She was already planning on being a part of the raid, too, her HH-60 Pave Hawk helicopter serving as McCain’s command ship. Even with those Marines being temporarily loaned out, there was still a force of almost forty security personnel on the large base, a mixture of Marines, Air Force Security, and several civilian police officers who had been allowed to bring their families into the perimeter in exchange for the officers’ help in keeping the facility secure.
Williams had also procured half of a SEAL Team platoon from the west coast to participate in the mission. Along with these eight naval warriors, the admiral told Chuck that he was allowing his own two-man security detail, Tim and Tom, to participate. Major Singleton would be arranging for infiltration, air cover, medevac, and exfiltration if they were forced to pull out before the mission was accomplished.
Normally, forty-three against so many bad guys would not be the kind of odds that Chuck would want to tackle. Being heavily outnumbered by violent gang members was not the ideal situation, especially when he remembered that any zombies in the area would be drawn to the sounds of the attack. And McCain anticipated a lot of gunfire.
On the plus side, there was a lot of experience on the team, even if they hadn’t worked together before. And they would have air cover above them. What concerned McCain the most was the timeframe. The plan would be finalized by Friday and his task force would train together for a week at the Dobbins Air Force Base indoor firing range, conducting both dry and live fire rehearsals.
The big man’s t
houghts were interrupted by two marked police cars driving up the access road towards the front gate. He had been told to expect some guests who would provide security for the CDC location while he and his men were away. Chuck was constantly amazed at the admiral’s influence. He made things happen in the most difficult of circumstances.
The police cruisers stopped near the gate and a familiar figure got out of the lead vehicle. Sergeant Josh Matthews had been McCain’s assistant squad leader on the SWAT team when Josh was a corporal and Chuck was a sergeant. Their history went back even further than that, though. Corporal McCain had been Matthews’ field training officer when the young recruit graduated from the police academy.
Months earlier, their paths had crossed again at Peachtree Meadow High School. Terrorists had unleashed the zombie virus on the sprawling suburban high school, killing and infecting hundreds of students, faculty, and parents. Over twenty police officers had also been killed while trying to rescue victims hiding inside the school. Sadly, a SWAT Team had also been overrun by zombies.
Josh had led his eight-man team inside in an attempt to locate the first SWAT assault team which had entered the school. They had not been heard from in over fifteen minutes. Just as Josh’s men had gotten inside the high school, however, a large group of infected students and teachers attacked them. Matthews had lost four of his teammates, the other four just barely managing to escape the same fate.
When the CDC officers showed up to render aid, Sergeant Matthews and his three remaining SWAT assault team members fought alongside the federal police officers, killing hundreds of zombies and rescuing many survivors. The two men had not seen each other since that difficult day.
Matthews smiled and waved at his former boss. McCain waved back and the gates were opened allowing the police cars to pull inside. A total of six officers exited the vehicles, looking around at the busy compound. Josh and Chuck shook hands and embraced. The SWAT officer was a solid five foot ten inches tall with a face that looked much younger than his thirty-eight years.
