Days Of Perdition: Voodoo Plague Book 6 (11 page)

After a few moments of silence Crawford turned and walked
through the line of Rangers, heading for the waiting Humvees.  Blanchard fell
in behind him, the Rangers slowly following, making sure the Security Forces
didn’t try to advance.

The holding cell the Air Force put me in wasn’t large, or
particularly comfortable, but at least it was clean.  When they put me on the
floor in the small room my hands were still cuffed behind my back and my ankles
were shackled together.  The lead Sergeant was pissed that I had resisted and
hurt some of his men, but he should have been glad all I’d done was hurt them. 
I was starting to regret my restraint. 

Use of my Kukri and pistol would most likely have gotten me
out of there and on my way to find Katie.  Right now all I cared about was
finding her.  I was through holding back.  The next person that got in my way
wasn’t going to survive the encounter.

Four of them were crowded into the tiny space, and before
they removed my restraints I received several solid kicks to my head and ribs. 
Fortunately I didn’t feel anything break, but I almost passed out from a well
placed blow to my temple.  Finally they stopped kicking and one of them leaned
in and Tasered me on the neck again.

My body went rigid and I lost control of my voluntary
muscles.  And it hurt like a son of a bitch.  While my nervous system was still
scrambled, they removed the leg shackles then flipped me over and took the
cuffs off.  The last one out the door paused and looked down at me.

“Not so fucking tough now, are you asshole?”  He punctuated
his words with a kick to my balls that caused bile to rise in my throat, then
stepped out and slammed the heavy steel door.

I just lay there for a while, slowly curling into a fetal position
as the effects of the Taser wore off.  The floor was smooth concrete and there
was a small, metal drain cover set in the middle.  I let the coolness of the
floor seep into my battered body as the pain in my lower abdomen began to
subside.  Not go away, just ratchet down from a ten to a six or seven.

Eventually I was able to sit up and look around.  The cell
was stark.  The walls and ceiling were also concrete that had been finished
smooth, the only way in or out a solid steel door with an access slot at the
top and another at floor level.  A light was recessed in the ceiling, protected
by thick glass covered with heavy wire mesh.  A combination stainless steel
toilet and sink were bolted to the wall in the back corner. 

On the opposite wall was an iron bunk that was bolted to the
wall and floor, a thin mattress rolled neatly and resting at one end. 
Otherwise, the room was completely void of any furnishing or decoration.  Slowly
climbing to my feet I unrolled the mattress and eased myself onto the bunk,
suppressing a groan of pain as my weight came down on my pelvis.  Opening my
pants I inspected myself, relieved to find that while there was some swelling
it didn’t appear that the kick had ruptured anything important. 

Taking a deep breath I took another, closer look around the
inside of the cell.  Nothing I hadn’t seen the first time.  The only way out
was if someone opened the door.  In what seemed like a lifetime ago I had
undergone Army SERE – Survival Evasion Resistance and Escape – training.  I had
failed to evade and resist arrest.  Now it was time to think about escape. 

But unlike a Hollywood movie, I wasn’t going to be tunneling
through solid concrete, or disappearing down a sewer drain.  My shot would come
when they opened the door, which they would.  Someone would want to talk to
me.  Lawyers would be involved.  I could probably make a good case for needing
medical attention.  Every time that door opened I had an opportunity.  Some
would be better than others, and I had to be ready to take the right one when
it presented itself.

Step one was to not cause any problems for the guards. 
Right now they were keyed up and on high alert, expecting me to go Neanderthal
on them after the way the arrest had gone down.  I needed them to relax.  Think
I was going to be a docile prisoner.  Let their guard down a little.  Until
that happened, I wasn’t going to have a chance.

Step two was to be physically ready for any opening.  That
meant resting and letting my body heal as much as possible.  But rest was going
to be difficult with the throbbing pain between my legs.  Gingerly standing I
hobbled to the door and banged on the upper access slot with my fist.  After
almost a minute it slammed open and I found myself looking at a pair of angry
eyes.

“Could I please have an ice pack?  I’ve got some injuries.” 
I said in a calm, respectful voice.

The eyes stared back at me for what seemed a long time, then
the panel was slammed shut.  Shrugging, I turned and went back to the bunk.  A
few minutes later the access panel at floor level slammed open and a chemical
ice pack came skittering across the floor.

“Thank you,” I shouted before the opening closed with
slightly less violence. 

Good.  Let them think I’m hurting and subdued.  Well, I was
hurting.  Subdued?  Not hardly, but it’s all in the timing.  Squeezing the pack
I broke the ampules inside that released whatever chemical it was that starts
the reaction.  I immediately felt the cold start seeping through the rough
cover.  Stretching out on the bunk I opened my pants again and placed the
swiftly cooling pack directly on my aching boys.

Laying my head down I closed my eyes and thought about
Katie.  I was still in shock that she had made it all the way to Oklahoma.  I
knew she was smart, tough and resourceful, but I had to admit to myself that I
was surprised she’d made it this far on her own. 

How had Roach identified her?  The Security Forces major had
said that Roach was in charge of processing refugees, but how the hell had he
put it together?  Or had he?  Was she just a woman that had caught his eye? 
No.  That was just too much of a coincidence.  He knew exactly what he was
doing and whom he was taking.  But why? 

I had thought he was dead, killed by the fall into the
Mississippi River.  Hell, everyone had thought he was.  But he’d survived
somehow.  Not only survived, but had managed to make it several hundred miles
to Tinker and put himself into a position to kidnap my wife.  The anger began
pulsing again and I forced myself to think about something else.  I’d just tamp
that anger down until it was time to make use of it.

The clang of the lower panel opening woke me sometime later,
followed by a scraping sound as a tray of food was slid into the cell.  They
had arrested me in the early afternoon and this was the first food I’d been
given, so it must be the evening meal.  That told me it was roughly 1800
hours.  I’d slept for maybe three hours. 

The chemical reaction had stopped in the ice pack and it had
grown warm from my body heat.  Removing it, I closed my pants and carefully
swung my legs off the bunk into a sitting position.  I still hurt, but it was
manageable.  Retrieving the tray, I balanced it on my lap and devoured every
bite.  Placing it back in front of the slot I lay back down and waited.

Half an hour later the tray was collected and I was just
settling down to try and get some more sleep when I heard the rattle of keys in
the steel door.  The lock scraped, then the door was pulled open.  I remained
still on the bunk, raising my head to see what was happening.  A large Security
Forces Sr. Airman stood blocking the opening.  Over his broad shoulders I could
see two more guards standing in the hall.  All of them were wearing tactical
gear, and I suppressed a grin that they were being that cautious around me.

“Your lawyers are here.”  He said, never taking his eyes off
of me.  “I have to let them in, but if you cause any problems they’ll have to
leave and you can spend the night in the punishment cell.  Understand?”

“Understood.”  I replied, still staying still. 

He stepped back into the hall and motioned to someone down
the hall that I couldn’t see.  A moment later, Tech Sergeant Zach Scott stepped
into the cell, followed by Martinez.  Scott’s arm was still in a cast supported
by a sling, and he was wearing an Air Force Captain’s uniform.  Martinez was
dressed in an Air Force issue dress uniform, complete with skirt and low
heels.  She wore Staff Sergeant chevrons.

Once they were fully through the door, Scott turned to the
guard.  “I’m going to have a privileged conversation with the Major.  You and
your men wait down the hall.”

The guard nodded, then closed and locked the door.  Martinez
quickly moved to it and pressed her ear against the steel.  She listened for a
few moments then nodded to Scott.  I stood up and smiled at him.

“Congratulations on your promotion, Tech Sergeant.”  I said
in a quiet voice.

“Colonel Crawford’s idea.”  He said.  “A better idea than
this.”  He held up his cast and frowned at me.

Scott had broken his arm when we were extracting from Los
Alamos.  I’d gone to visit him in the hospital at Tinker and he’d been asleep,
so I’d personalized the virgin white plaster for him.  I was mildly surprised
he hadn’t covered up my message.  In bold, black letters it read, “I’ve fallen
and I can’t get it up”.

  “Get
IT
up?  Really?”  He said, with a shake of his
head.

“Isn’t that how it goes?”  I asked innocently.

“If you two are done, how about we get the hell out of
here.”  Martinez said.

“I’m ready.  What’s the plan?”  I asked.

Scott reached up and fished around inside his sling, pulling
out a Taser.  Martinez hiked her skirt up around her hips and retrieved two,
small pistols that were strapped to her upper thighs.  Handing me one, she
smoothed her skirt back down and stepped close to me.

“We only kill in self defense.”  She said, face close to
mine as she looked directly into my eyes.  “Agreed?”

“Agreed.”  I finally said.  She kept looking at me until she
was satisfied I was being sincere.

“OK, there are the three guards you saw in the hall.  Out
the door to our left is a gate that leads to a processing area.  The gate is
locked, but the lead guard has a key for it.  We’re going to put them in here
and lock them in, use his key to get through the gate where there’s one more
guard.  I’ll go through the gate first, distract him, then you two get him back
here and in a cell.  Then we walk right out the front door where our ride’s
waiting.”  Martinez said.

“Seriously?  That sounds way too easy.”  I said.

“This is a holding facility, not a prison.  It is easy. 
Ready?”  Scott asked.

I nodded my head and he stepped over to the door and banged
on it sharply.  The Taser was concealed in his good hand.  Martinez and I had
our pistols held behind our legs, out of sight.  A few moments later the lock
scraped and the door opened.  Martinez quickly stepped past the lead guard as
Scott moved close to him and pressed the Taser to his neck and pulled the
trigger. 

The guard fell like a sack of bricks, the two others
freezing in place when Martinez brought her pistol up and aimed it at their
faces.  Scott stepped over the stunned guard and I quickly dragged him into the
cell and removed a ring of keys from his belt.  Stepping into the hall I raised
my pistol and motioned the two guards into the cell.

“Are you fucking crazy?”  One of them asked, a shocked look
on his face.

“I just might be,” I said.  “Now, inside before you find
out.”

With looks that were a mix of hatred and fear the two men
slowly moved into the cell.  Scott pushed the door closed and I fumbled with
the ring until I found the right key to secure the lock.  We moved down the
hall past half a dozen empty holding cells with doors standing open, stopping
at the gate long enough for me to find the right key.

Gate unlocked, Martinez put the pistol into her purse and
slipped through as Scott and I held back.  The processing area was a large room
lined with benches.  Heavy, steel rings were set into the floor in front of
each bench for the cops to secure a prisoner while waiting for a holding cell
to be assigned.  A government issue, gray metal desk sat in the center of the
room, a Security Forces Staff Sergeant sitting behind it doing paper work. 
There was no one else in the room at the moment.

He looked up when Martinez walked in front of his desk,
stopping at the far corner so that to look at her his back was completely
turned to us.

“I think something bit me,” Martinez said, bending at the
waist and lifting her skirt to run her hand up the back of her thigh.  “Do you
see anything?”

I rolled my eyes.  I couldn’t believe she was doing this. 
But it worked.  The guard nearly fell out of his chair in his haste to lean
forward for a closer inspection of Martinez’ leg.  Scott moved forward and
pressed the Taser to the back of his neck and I grabbed him before he hit the
floor. 

Dragging him through the gate, I put him in the first empty
cell I came to, closed and locked the door.  I locked the gate behind me,
dropped the keys in a waste can sitting behind the desk, tripped the magnetic
lock on the exit door and followed Scott and Martinez outside.

The fresh, night air was invigorating.  Martinez led the
way, heels clicking rapidly on the pavement.  We rounded a corner and ahead I
heard a Humvee’s diesel engine clatter to life, then roar towards us.  Captain
Blanchard pulled up next to us and we piled in, the vehicle rolling before we
even had a chance to close the doors.

“Any problems?”  He asked.

“Smooth as silk.”  Martinez answered.  For about the
hundredth time I reminded myself I was glad she was on my side.

The infected were relentless.  The Air Force had arrived and
had been bombing the herd for hours, killing tens of thousands, but at best had
only slowed their advance.  Dead infected were just another obstacle for them
to negotiate.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.

The Marines securing the refinery had spent the afternoon
waiting for the coming battle.  Hours with nothing to do other than think about
the millions of hungry mouths that were bearing down on them.  Enough to drive
most people crazy, but like fighting men the world over, waiting was just
another part of combat.  Sometimes the worst part, but these were well trained
and well disciplined men. 

They had kept it together, and now they were ready for
battle as the leading edge of the herd came into small arms range.  Zemeck had
made more trips up and down the line of Marines than he could count, making
sure everyone was alert.  Colonel Pointere had made at least as many, not the
type of officer to leave the morale of his troops to his NCOs.

They had four snipers with them, two with .50 caliber
rifles, two more with 7.62 mm rifles.  The snipers had started engaging targets
at 800 yards.  Bodies dropping from sniper fire would have stalled the advance
of any normal army, but the infected could care less.  Zemeck and Pointere
watched in dismay through their binoculars as the herd continued unabated,
trampling the ones that were shot into the dirt.

“Guess your Army buddy was right,” Pointere said.  “They
don’t even notice when the one next to them goes down.”

“No, sir.  They don’t.”  Zemeck answered, then turned his
head when he heard a low rumble approaching from the west.  “Fast movers
coming.”

The sun was almost down, but low on the horizon the two
Marines could see the silhouettes of a dozen jets streaking towards them at a
low altitude.  As they approached, they slowed until it seemed they were flying
too slow to stay in the air.  Then they spread out and commenced their attack
runs.

The jets were A-10 Warthogs.  Ugly and slow, they were
originally designed as a weapon to destroy Soviet armor.  With a seven barrel,
30 mm Gatling gun, they could fire 4,200 high explosive rounds per minute, and
that’s exactly what they did. 

The display of raw power was amazing, the Marines cheering
as the Warthogs began chewing up the ranks of the infected.  Pass after pass
destroyed everything in their path until the final plane in the flight fired
its last round.  Easily 50,000 infected had been killed in the attack, but
those behind them immediately began climbing over the shattered bodies to
continue their trek.

“Shit on a stick,” Pointere said. 

“We need napalm,” Zemeck answered.  “Roast these
motherfuckers.”

Pointere turned and looked at him, then turned and looked at
the refinery at their backs.  Zemeck looked too, then met his eyes and grinned.

“Aye aye, sir.  I’m on it!”  He said and turned, running off
to find the refinery manager.

A Lance Corporal ran up to the Colonel a minute later and
held out a secure satellite phone.  “Admiral Packard for you, sir.”

“Pointere.”  He said into the phone.

The conversation lasted five minutes, then he clicked off
and handed the phone back to the Marine.  While he was disturbed by what the
Admiral had told him, he wasn’t surprised. 

“Fucking Secretary of Energy.”  He muttered to himself.

 The devastation from the Warthogs’ attack had bought them
some time.  A sea of bodies stretched out from the barricade, and the closest
infected were now a mile away.  They had maybe fifteen minutes before the
infected were pushing up against them.  Half that time was gone when Zemeck
returned.

He started to speak, but paused as two Ospreys lifted off
and raced away to the north. 

“Not napalm, but we’ve got a plan.”  Zemeck said.

After almost a minute Pointere turned to him, “Is this one
of those jokes about how to keep an asshole in suspense?”

“Sorry, sir.  We’re going to spray them down with fuel oil
and set the fuckers on fire.  There’s a big agricultural site a few miles to
the north and one of our pilots swears he saw a couple of crop dusters sitting
there when we flew in.”

 “We’re going to crop dust the infected?”  Pointere smiled. 

“Pretty much,” Zemeck smiled back.  “Load up with fuel oil
from something called a cracking tower, don’t ask me what the hell that is,
then soak these bastards down and toss a match.”

“Is that a good idea?  That much fire this close to a
refinery?”  Pointere asked, turning back to look at the approaching herd
through his binoculars.

“It’s better than being the appetizer to keep them excited
about getting to Oklahoma City.  Sir.”

Pointere nodded but didn’t say anything else on the subject. 
“We’ve got another problem, Master Gunny.”

“Sir?”

Pointere filled him in on his conversation with Admiral
Packard. 

“Your thoughts, Matt?”  He asked when he finished speaking.

Zemeck was quiet for a minute, processing what he’d just
heard.  He’d been with Pointere for a long time, and knew he could speak freely
in this situation.

“I think we’ve got one big fucking mess that’s bad enough to
deal with without a traitor trying to hand what’s left over to the Russians.  I
haven’t spent over twenty years of my life and had my blood spilled on three
continents just so some goddamn bitch can roll over and spread her legs for the
enemy.  Sir.”

“Well put, Master Gunny.”  Pointere said.  “Here’s what else
you need to know.  The Admiral has dispatched a couple of SEAL teams to Alaska
to arrest President Clark.  If we’re in, we’re in all the way.”

“Why don’t we just ignore her?”  Zemeck asked.

“We could, but there’s officers that are following her
orders.  We’ve got to take her out of the picture and try to get them back in
line.”  Pointere said, then continued to fill in Zemeck on the situation at
Tinker.

“What’s funny, Master Gunny?”  He asked when Zemeck started
grinning.

“The thought of them thinking they’re going to arrest and
hold John Chase.”  He answered.  “He is the most god awful terrifying son of a
bitch in battle I’ve ever seen.  And with a few hundred Rangers right there in
the middle of the base?  They don’t know the can of worms they’ve opened.” 
Zemeck answered, then they both looked up when first one, then a second
bi-plane roared overhead.

“Guess they got the crop dusters flying.”  Pointere said
drily.

“Looks that way.  If you’ll excuse me sir, I want to be on
hand while they’re loading up.”

Pointere nodded and Zemeck trotted away in the direction the
planes had flown.  Looking through his binoculars Pointere could clearly see
the leading edge of infected.  It was all females and they were now less than
five minutes away, charging as fast as they could over the broken corpses left
behind by the Warthogs.

An Osprey went into a hover between the barricades and
infected, minigun sweeping across the ranks of females with devastating
results.  But it was only a delaying action.  They had nowhere near enough
ammunition to stop the herd.  Tens of thousands had already been killed, but
millions still pressed forward from the rear.  Pointere took a moment to say a
silent prayer that Zemeck’s idea with the crop dusters would work.  They were
out of rabbits.

It was close to ten minutes later when the first bi-plane
roared into the sky.  Its tanks that normally held fertilizer or pesticides
were full to the top with partially refined fuel oil.  Marine Captain David
Williams was at the controls, not at all bothered by the thought of flying a
gigantic fuel bomb.  He gained altitude and turned toward the herd. 

Lining up with the long axis of the mass of infected he
swooped down over the refinery and as he approached the leading edge, pulled a
lever in the cockpit that activated a high pressure pump driven by a wind turbine. 
The pump forced the fuel oil through nozzles designed to break liquids up into
billions of tiny droplets. 

The crop duster’s spray nozzles are mounted along the
trailing edge of both wings, and as the plane flew less than fifty feet above
the heads of the infected it left behind a dense fog of highly combustible fuel
oil that slowly drifted down and soaked everything on the ground.  The second
plane flew in formation to his left, slightly higher and just behind so there
was no chance of it passing through the flammable mist.

The herd was half a mile wide and several miles long,
stretched to the south like a huge, undulating snake.  At the one mile mark
they banked sharply and separated to spread farther to the sides so they could
cover the full width of the leading mile.  Tanks running dry, they banked
sharply again and returned to the north side of the refinery for a fresh load.

As soon as the crop dusters were clear, an Osprey roared in
and transitioned to a hover over the front of the infected.  The rear ramp
dropped and a Marine secured with a safety tether stepped to the edge and
looked down at the seething mass beneath his feet.  With a deep breath he
leaned out, aimed an emergency flare gun straight down and pulled the trigger.

The red flare streaked to the ground, encountering residual
vapor from the atomized fuel oil still hanging in the air above the heads of
the infected.  In a fraction of a second the vapor ignited, the flame spreading
instantly across the entire gas cloud.  The resulting explosion nearly knocked
the Osprey out of the sky and the blast wave flattened every Marine that was
standing.  Including Pointere.

When he climbed back to his feet and looked at the herd, he
couldn’t help but smile.  Nothing was alive or moving for well over a mile to
their south.  Close to a quarter-million infected must have been killed in that
one blast.  The shattered remains of their bodies smoldered, littering the
desert floor in every direction.  “This is what hell will be like,” Pointere
thought to himself.

Tamping down the gloomy thoughts, he smiled again.  Zemeck
had managed to create one of the most destructive weapons of war other than
nukes, a Fuel Air Explosive or Thermobaric Bomb.  Simply, unlike conventional
explosives that contain their own oxidizers, a FAE uses the oxygen in the
atmosphere around it.  FAEs held the record for the largest non-nuclear
explosions in the world. 

The best part was that they hadn’t killed themselves with
the blast.  Now to repeat a few more times and wipe out the remaining infected
so they could get back to dealing with the Russians and a traitorous President.