These Dead Lands: Immolation (41 page)

Hastings watched the
ramp of the Chinook come down as the bird descended and hovered above the train engine. The crew chief gave a thumbs-up, and Hastings gestured for his men to move out the back and onto the top of the train. The pilot was holding the hovering helicopter so low that the step down was minor.

Man, these guys
are
good
.
I thought they were talking shit when they said they would land us right on top of the trains.
Hastings followed the last man off the aircraft. The rotor wash was terrible. He felt as if he were walking into a raging hurricane, and he chose his footing carefully. Once on the train, he turned back to give the crew chief a thumbs-up. The crew chief returned the gesture with a huge smile.

As the helicopter lifted off, Hastings and his men dropped into crouching positions. Hastings had seen men get blown right off their feet while tending to sling loads under CH-47s, so he knew the climb out would be tough. Once the Chinook had departed, Hastings looked up and saw Guerra’s vehicle stationed up on the Sixty-Third Street bridge. The gunner manning the .50 in the Humvee’s cupola was firing continuously at targets Hastings couldn’t see, but he knew what they were. Hastings became aware that he could hear a
lot
of gunfire from the surrounding area. It sounded like many of the major offensive actions he had been in overseas.

No
.
It sounds just like Manhattan.
He knew his guys were fighting for their lives. Yet just a few hundred meters away, he and his group didn’t see a single reeker anywhere.
Fuck it, I’m not complaining. I’ll take it like this all day long.

Hastings keyed his mike. “Bravo Team, Lakota One One. Let me know when you’re up. Over.”

“Roger, we’re inside the engine,” the Bravo Team lead responded. “The engineer is going through the start-up process now. Over.”

“Good copy. Out.” Hastings got to his feet and looked over the side of the engine.

All the members of his team had climbed down to the walkway. Some were attempting to get inside, while others had assumed security positions around the locomotive.
So far, so good.
Hastings clambered down the engine’s side and stepped onto the walkway. By the time he joined them, the men had managed to get the narrow door leading into the engine open. He turned sideways so he could step inside.

Just as he put a foot through the doorway, a massive explosion roared through the air.

*

Guerra felt as
well as heard the explosion, and both he and his driver ducked down, even though they were inside an uparmored Humvee. The turret gunner dropped into the back and crouched behind the seats. To Guerra, the explosion had sounded a lot like an improvised explosive device going off. He’d only distantly encountered two while pulling duty in Iraq, but he hadn’t forgotten the noise they made.

Startled, he looked to the south as a huge fireball climbed into the sky. Pieces of fiery debris rocketed upward, passing the fireball’s expanding vortex ring. The debris flew high into the sky then arced back toward earth, trailing smoke.

“Fuck me! What the hell was
that
?” Guerra shouted.

The men in the Humvee all looked at each other for a split second. Then the turret gunner stood up in the cupola again and went back to laying down a steady stream of hate and discontent from the .50 cal into what had turned into a wall of reekers trying to make their way across the bridge. The wreckage and the fact that the bridge was narrow were to their benefit; otherwise, reekers would have had a much easier time waltzing up to the gun truck.

Guerra keyed his microphone. “Stilley, what’s happening down there? Over!” He looked out the Humvee’s side window.

As the mushroom cloud continued rising—it was beginning to break up, drifting off in an easterly direction—he saw a wall of flames lapping at the sky and casting black angry-looking smoke across the horizon. Whatever had happened, it hadn’t made things any easier downrange. The gunfire wasn’t stopping.

After waiting a few seconds for a response, Guerra keyed his radio again. “Apache One Three Alpha, report. Over.”

“I’m a bit busy, Sergeant G. What’s up? Over.” Stilley’s loud voice was bracketed by a hellacious fusillade of gunfire.

A fucking nuclear bomb goes off in his area, and Stilley asks
me
what’s up?
Guerra had to hand it to Stilley. The soldier was a fuck-up most of the time, and Guerra had even wondered occasionally if the man was mildly retarded, but when shit got serious, Stilley was as solid as they came.

“One Three Alpha, you might’ve noticed the big boom in your area. Did you have anything to do with that? Over.”

There was a long pause, and then the sound of heavy gunfire came over the radio once again. “Well, fuck me, no one told me there were POL storage tanks down here,” Stilley said. “I guess we shot one… or maybe two. Over.”

Guerra wished there was a way he could reach through the radio, because if he could, he’d be squeezing Stilley’s neck so hard he’d be talking in a coarse whisper for the rest of his life. “Is everyone all right over there? Over.”

After another long pause, Stilley came back with “I don’t think any of us are all right at the moment, One Two, but none of us are dead yet, if that’s what you mean. Over.”

And this is why I’m fairly certain he’s retarded.
“Apache One Three Bravo, send SITREP. Over.”

Gunfire erupted over the airwaves as a microphone was keyed for a moment before it cut off. A couple of seconds later, the gunfire came back again, accompanied by Tharinger’s voice. “We got a shitload of reekers down here, Sarge, and they ain’t slowing down. Over.”

“You up on people? Over.”

“Yeah, far as I know, all is good. Over.”

“Roger. Let me know if anything changes on your end. Out.”

*

The crew chief
leaned over and tapped Ballantine on the back. Ballantine looked back, and the crew chief held up ten fingers and mouthed, “Ten minutes.”

Ballantine gave him a thumbs-up and keyed his radio. “Papa Zero Three, this is Blackfoot One Seven. Over.”

The Special Forces guy, Slater, responded after the second call. “Blackfoot One Seven, this is Papa Zero Three. Send it. Over.”

“Papa Zero Three, we’re ten mikes out. How copy? Over.”

“Good copy, Blackfoot. The welcoming party is ready and waiting for you. See you soon. Over.”

“Roger. Out.”

Ballantine wasn’t sure what to expect when he got on the ground, and he’d said as much to Hastings during planning. They had only briefly met Slater, and not only did the man look dangerous, he’d acted as though he might not be all there. Ballantine wasn’t sure if they could trust him or not. He just hoped that things were as Slater had told them.

The aircraft banked hard and came around in a two-hundred-seventy-degree turn and began to descend. Ballantine looked out one of the small side windows and saw the other Chinook landing on the clearly marked helicopter pad outside of what looked like a typical military facility. Ballantine wondered where the hell
his
chopper would land if the other bird was bogarting the pad. He turned and looked out the back of the Chinook just as the crew chief finished lowering the ramp while babbling to the pilots over the intercom system.

Ballantine couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The pilot had lowered the rear of the Chinook right on top of the train engine, and the crew chief was waving at them to get off. Having no other choice, Ballantine got to his feet and herded the troops out of the helicopter and onto the waiting train. The Chinook bobbed gently as the soldiers piled out, and Ballantine had a moment of queasiness. He’d never enjoyed flying, not even on big commercial jets. Buzzing around in helicopters was actually pretty low on his list of things he liked to do in life. At least it was only a two-foot step-off to the top of the train engine.

Once the soldiers outside had started making their way down, Ballantine swallowed and hopped out of the hovering Chinook.
That’s one small step for mankind, one giant leap for me.

As soon as he was clear, the Chinook pulled off the target. Ballantine hunched over against the rotor wash, which died down quickly as the twin-rotored Chinook hauled ass out of there.

Once the aircraft climbed out, he keyed his radio. “Gunslinger, Blackfoot One Seven. I’d appreciate it if you’d orbit close by, just in case we need a quick pickup. Over.”

“Blackfoot One Seven, good copy. Give us a call when you’re ready. Over.”

“Roger. Out.”

Over where the other bird had set down, his men were moving to secure a perimeter around the immediate area. As soon as Ballantine was on the ramp that ran along the locomotive’s side, he let out a long sigh. Another flight, safely completed. He turned to find himself face to face with Master Sergeant Slater.

“Nice entrance there, Big Sarge,” Slater said. While Slater smelled better than the last time they’d met, the NCO still had that same look in his eyes that Ballantine found unsettling. “Good to see you again. It’s Ballantine, right?”

“Yeah. Didn’t you say you weren’t going to be seeing us again?”

Slater shrugged. “Hey, who knew.”

“How ya been, Sergeant?” Ballantine asked.

Slater shrugged again. “You know, saving the world again. Same shit, different day. Come on inside. I traded that Prius for this badass rig. Whatcha think?”

Ballantine regarded the towering locomotive engine for a moment before following Slater inside. The cab wasn’t tiny, but it was tighter than Ballantine had thought it would be, considering the size of the train. “Not bad,” he said. “Is everything already loaded, or do we have more to do?”

Slater looked at Ballantine with a blank expression before responding, “It’s all loaded, along with the people from the facility. We just need that driver. I take it that’s the guy over there pulling all those knobs and pushing buttons?” Slater jerked a thumb toward Lieutenant Munn, who was working to bring the train to life.

Slater was smiling, which put Ballantine a bit more at ease—though the Green Beret still looked like a crazy motherfucker to him.

“Yeah, that’s the guy,” Ballantine said.

“Good deal. Let me know when we’re ready to roll. I need to go take care of a few more things.”

Ballantine wondered what else the Slater had to take care of, but he didn’t care enough to inquire. “No problem. We should be ready to roll in about twenty mikes, according to my man.”

Slater shot him a thumbs-up and another winning smile then walked off.

Ballantine called over the radio to the team pulling security outside the train. “Give me a status. Over.”

The reply came back quickly. “We’re good, Blackfoot One Seven. Just a few reekers in the distance moving this way but nothing to start shooting at. Over.”

“Roger, remain in PZ posture. I’m going to call the birds in to pick up your team since everyone from the facility is on the train already. We should be rolling here shortly. Over.”

“Good copy, One Seven. You won’t get any complaints from me. Over.”

Slater returned and asked, “Everything tracking?”

Ballantine nodded. “Yeah, it’s all good. I’m going to call the birds back in to pick up my team, since your people are all inside and ready to go. We were expecting to be on the ground a lot longer. Thanks for having all of this squared away.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s the least I could do. Hey, do you have any chow on you? Some of the people have families with them, and they haven’t had much to eat lately. They could sure use it.”

“Let me ask my guys,” Ballantine said. “I’m sure we can scare up some pogie bait, if not a few MREs. These
are
Guard guys, after all.”

Slater and Ballantine chuckled together. Ballantine found he was starting to warm up to the man. He didn’t trust the SF guy just yet, but the guy moved up a notch in Ballantine’s book for asking about food for the families.

The train began making more and more noise, and Ballantine started to worry the racket would attract reekers. He keyed his radio. “Gunslinger, this is Blackfoot. Over.”

“Go ahead, Blackfoot. Over.”