These Dead Lands: Immolation (36 page)

“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 pressed 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.

“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.

*