Fulcrum: V Plague Book 12 (9 page)

Admiral Packard snugged down his seatbelt as the big Seahawk
helicopter lifted off the ground.  He was on his way to Mt. Kaala for a
personal look at the defensive positions that were being prepared. 
Fifteen minutes before, he’d gotten word from an observation flight that the
Russians had successfully intercepted and shot down all of the bombers, and
most of the escorting fighters, that were part of Falcon flight.

All of the main communication systems were still down,
Jessica working furiously to restore the Navy’s servers.  As a stop gap, high-speed
boats had been sent out into the open ocean to form a daisy chain of repeaters
that would carry a radio signal from Pearl Harbor to a severely degraded
Carrier Strike Group that was steaming to meet the invaders. 

The CSG was merely a shadow of what it had once been, now
not much more than a ragtag collection of ships and damaged submarines, which were
preparing to engage the enemy fleet.  The Admiral well knew they had no
hope of stopping the Russians.  That wasn’t the point.  The brave men
and women on those ships and subs were sacrificing themselves to buy time for
the defenders on the shore.  Time that was desperately needed.

The latest estimate was that the first Russian ship would be
coming over the horizon in slightly less than 40 hours.  Not much time
when the positions his people were preparing were moldering and overgrown with
dense, jungle foliage due to decades of neglect. 

No, not neglect, he reflected.  Dismissal.  The
belief that technology and the military might of the US would stop any
potential aggressors well before they could make landfall.  After all, land
invasions of this sort were something from the distant past.  It had been
a very long time since anyone in the Pentagon had seriously considered the
possibility of an enemy landing troops on American soil.  Certainly not
since the Cold War ended.

With a shake of his head, Packard acknowledged to himself
that only a year ago he would have dismissed the possibility out of hand. 
The days of assaults like the invasion of Normandy by the allies in World War
II were nothing more than the occasional movie to the modern military.  A
military that was almost totally dependent on its technological superiority.

Not that all of the advancements of the past 70 to 75 years
weren’t quantum leaps forward in how war was fought, but sometimes it came down
to the simplest of terms.  Strip away all the tech and what was
left?  A man in a foxhole with a rifle.  With a sigh, the Admiral
realized they weren’t far from that becoming the new normal.  Until
current stores of ammunition were exhausted.  Then what?  Bows and
arrows?  Rocks and sticks?

It was a very real concern for the Admiral and his
staff.  There were no factories in Hawaii that manufactured rifle
ammunition, or anything else that was needed.  And, with the Russian
presence along the west coast of the mainland, he couldn’t send scavenging
crews to replenish their stores.  Fortunately, there were tons upon tons
of ammo and munitions stockpiled on the island.  But, once the enemy
arrived, they’d burn through those reserves in a hurry.

“Admiral, Fulcrum has been successfully picked up by the
North Carolina.  The team is on board, and they’re proceeding at best
speed to the target.”

Packard’s aide’s voice coming over the noise canceling
headset startled the Admiral out of his reverie.  He turned his head, met
the Commander’s eyes and nodded.

Fulcrum was a team of SEALs he had dispatched in a last
ditch effort to stop the impending Russian invasion.  They had been flown
out of Pearl Harbor in a B2 stealth bomber, heading southwest in a large circle
to keep plenty of distance open between them and the Russian fleet that was sailing
from Midway.  They’d jumped from 30,000 feet, 600 miles due south of the
Solomon Islands, into the vastness of the empty south Pacific.

Once the team was in the water and formed up, they dove
beneath the waves to a waiting submarine, the North Carolina.  A Virginia
class, fast-attack boat, it was hovering at periscope depth, waiting for the
SEALs.  They were quickly aboard, entering through an airlock specifically
designed to support special operations personnel.  Once they were aboard,
the Captain sent a burst transmission from a slender mast that was the only
part of the boat showing above the surface.

The B2, loitering in the area, received the message as the
North Carolina retracted the antenna and dove for the protection of the ocean
depths.  The signal was repeated by the bomber and picked up by a KC-135
tanker that was flying a racetrack pattern 800 miles to the northeast.  It
was waiting to refuel the SEALs’ plane, as well as act as a radio relay.

From the tanker, the message bounced through another
aircraft patrolling south of Hawaii, then was repeated by half a dozen small
boats that were positioned to act as relay stations.  It eventually
arrived in Pearl Harbor’s CIC and was immediately passed on to Admiral
Packard’s aide.

As the North Carolina dove, it accelerated to 35 knots and
set a heading of 180 degrees, or due south.  Their destination was 1,300
miles away, and if the speed could be maintained, they would arrive in slightly
less than 33 hours.  Once at their target, the SEALs would
lockout
of the submerged boat and deploy two RIBs housed in a specially constructed
addition to the hull of the submarine.  Once on the surface, they would
begin a fifty-mile journey to shore under the cover of darkness.

Entering Sydney Harbour, they would navigate to Elizabeth
Bay before making landfall at 0200 local time.  From there, a short, one-mile
walk would bring them to the luxury penthouse apartment that was the new home
of President Barinov.  Their mission was simple, and they had been
unleashed by the Admiral.  No rules of engagement.  They were to
locate and capture the Russian president. 

With Barinov in their custody, they would bring him back to
the North Carolina.  Once aboard the sub, they were to convince him to
order all Russian forces to stand down.  Admiral Packard had personally
spoken with the Commander leading the SEAL team, ensuring he understood that
success in his mission was the only concern.  The Russian president had to
be convinced to cooperate.  By any means necessary.

“What do you think their odds are?”  Packard mused as
the helicopter gained elevation to reach the top of Mt. Kaala.

“Honestly, sir, if I was a betting man, I’d have to put
money on them failing.”

“Why?”

Packard was of the same opinion but was curious what the
younger man was thinking.  He turned when there wasn’t an immediate reply,
correctly reading his aide’s expression.

“That’s a sincere question, Commander.  Not a trap.”

He tried to smile, but the weight of everything that was
pressing in on him killed it before it started.

“Well, sir,” the man began, then took a deep breath. 
“There’s Russian Spetsnaz pulling security all over that neighborhood. 
They’ve got three distinct, concentric rings of protection set up around the building. 
Over two hundred of their best troops.”

The man paused, watching the Admiral to make sure he wasn’t
overstepping his bounds.  Packard nodded encouragement for him to
continue.

“Then there are the Aussies.  Barinov apparently put a
good scare into their PM.  He has their Navy guarding the entrance to the
harbor and patrolling all of the bays.  Assuming Fulcrum Team can get past
them, undetected, there’s a large contingent of SASR troopers on the
ground. 

“I’m sure part of their task is to keep an eye on the
Russians, but they’re also going to protect them.  There’s no doubt they
have orders to assist and support the Spetsnaz if there’s an attempt on any of
the high-ranking Russians living in the area.

“So, no sir.  I don’t like their odds one bit. 
But, if there’s anyone that can do it, it’s these guys.  They’re the
best.  A little bit of luck and they just might pull it off.”

Packard nodded in thought.  The Commander had voiced
the same concerns he had, nearly word for word.  His attention was pulled
away as the Seahawk slowed and came into a hover. 

Looking through the window in the side door, he could see
the antique fortifications on top of the mountain.  Workers crawled over
nearly every square foot, hacking off dense vegetation which was then dragged
away. 

Several of the gun emplacements were already cleared, exposed
to the sun for the first time in decades.  Each location was a ring that
had once housed massive shore defense batteries.  Now, they were nothing
more than six-foot tall, concrete walls that were permanently stained black by
the mold and algae that flourished in the tropical environment.

Two of the cleared rings were hives of activity as crews
completed the installation and testing of anti-aircraft missile systems. 
Several tall barrels, part of an artillery unit, thrust into the sky from a
third.  There were many more rings to clear, and in the distance, the Admiral
could see several heavy-lift helicopters approaching the mountain. 
Hanging beneath each were more missile systems and big artillery
guns.  

“Take me to the entrance,” Packard said to the pilot over
the intercom.

The helicopter immediately banked away, slipping down the
eastern slope.  In the valley below sprawled Schofield Barracks.  A
long line of trucks stretched down the side of the mountain into the Army base
as men, supplies and munitions were transported up the primitive road.

“Nowhere to land, sir.”  The pilot’s voice came over
the intercom as he brought them into another hover. 

Beneath, a truck disappeared into the mountain as it entered
the large mouth of a tunnel.  Packard watched as three more followed, then
saw two men walk out of the entrance and look up at the helicopter.

“Sir, that’s Colonel Blanchard below us.  He’s on the
radio asking if you’d like a tour.”

Packard hesitated.  He was sorely tempted.  Wanted
to see the progress in their preparations.  But his presence would add
nothing.  In fact, it would be a distraction, and the last thing anyone
needed right now was another distraction.

“Thank him for me,” the Admiral finally said.  “But
tell him I’m needed elsewhere.  Let’s go back to Pearl.”

“Aye, aye sir,” the pilot answered.

A moment later the big helicopter spun and headed south,
following the eastern slope of the mountain range.

“What the hell,” I muttered, bringing the Humvee to a stop.

I spared a glance in the mirror to make sure Long wasn’t
about to crash into the vehicle’s rear end, glad to see him pulling to a stop a
few yards behind.  We had reached the northern edge of Vegas.  For
the past few miles, I’d had to lower our speed to negotiate abandoned cars and
trucks that dotted the freeway.  Following the signs, I’d taken the exit
marked for Nellis Air Force Base and had only traveled a few miles on a surface
street along the perimeter fence.  Now, we sat in the darkness as I stared
at a hive of activity and a huge group of infected.

The activity was on the other side of the tall, chain link
fence that surrounded the base.  An even dozen trucks were lined up
alongside a series of squat buildings that were immediately recognizable as
armories.  All of the vehicles had their lights on, and half a dozen
portable, generator powered floodlights were set up.  The entire area was
lit like it was mid-day.

At least a thousand infected were pressing against the
fence.  Pushing in.  Screaming.  The females trying to climb
over to reach the uninfected humans on the other side.  A couple of dozen
men were watching them, frequently shooting into the heaving mass of bodies.

But, these weren’t Air Force personnel.  They had found
fully automatic rifles, and were shooting down the climbers with long bursts,
burning through full magazines to put down a single female.  The sound of
their firing was loud on the still, night air, and, I had no doubt, was
carrying for a long distance.  Checking the immediate area, I stepped out
when I saw it was clear.  Dog followed quickly, Rachel getting out the far
side a few moments later.

“What are we doing?”  Rachel asked, turning to watch
Dog as he trotted to the closest bush.

“Those idiots are making enough noise to raise the dead,” I
said.

“And the lights, too.  Bad idea,” Sam said as he came
to stand next to me.

“Long,” I said when he and Igor joined us.  “You two
keep an eye out.  There’s going to be infected attracted to all that
activity.  Let’s not get caught with our dicks hanging out.”

Long nodded and stepped away as Igor climbed onto the roof
of their Hummer and began scanning the surrounding area with the scope on the
sniper rifle. 

“Think they got in?”

Sam was referring to the armories.  They’re built tough
because of what they house. 

“They’re in, or are confident they’re going to get in,” I
said.  “Either way, they got their hands on some military hardware,
somehow.  They didn’t pick up full auto rifles at the local Walmart.”

He nodded as another long, chattering burst of fire
sounded. 

“Think this is the group those guys we talked to are
from?”  Rachel asked.

I shrugged, then turned and walked over to Igor’s Hummer and
scrambled onto the roof with him.  He handed over the rifle when I
asked.  I extended the bipod legs and peered through the high-power scope. 
A few adjustments and I had a crisp, close-up view of the goings on inside the
air base.  The optics were top-notch, good enough for me to see individual
faces clearly.

First, I looked over the group that was defending the
fence.  Definitely not Air Force.  They were wearing a variety of
military surplus and civilian camouflage clothing, some with their features
darkened with face paint sticks.  Like that would do one bit of good in
helping them hide from an infected.

Most were seated on the lowered tailgates of pickups, and as
I watched, cans of beer were being passed from a large cooler.  Moving on,
I scanned down the line of idling trucks nearer the armories. 

These weren’t civilian pickups.  They were Deuce and a
Halfs, painted in Air Force blue.  So they’d found the motor pool.  I
was a little surprised to see them.  The military had been transitioning
to a replacement truck, called the LMTV, for well over a decade, but here they
were.

A driver sat behind the wheel of each truck.  Half a
dozen guards were strolling up and down the side of the convoy closest to me. 
I took a few moments to look carefully, noting they were all armed with military
issue rifles.  A couple of them wore honest to God bandoliers of ammo,
trying to look like Rambo.  Instead, they looked fucking ridiculous.

Moving on, I focused on a small group gathered around the
entrance to one of the armories.  The door was off its hinges, lying on
the ground a few yards away.  It was heavily damaged, the way a high-security
door that has been forced open with explosives is damaged.

The group of men standing at the opening looked like they
were waiting for someone or something.  Curious, I kept the scope focused
on them and watched. 

“What’s up?”  Sam asked from below.

“Looks like some sort of half-assed militia,” I said without
taking my eye away from the scope.  “They’ve got at least one armory open,
and I'm guessing their leaders are inside deciding what they want to
take.  Got a group just standing around, like they’re waiting to be told what
to go get.  There're twelve Deuce and a Halfs waiting to be loaded, so
they’re planning on taking a lot.”

Sam grunted as he thought about the information.

“What’s the Air Force going to have in an armory?”  He
asked after a long pause.

“Not sure,” I said.  “Probably not what you and I are
used to, but they’re still going to have a lot of shit.  Base defense in a
combat zone means a lot of rifles and ammo.  Probably a good amount of
light and heavy machine guns.  And no doubt some SAMs (Surface to Air Missiles)
for protecting the airspace.  Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine.”

Sam kept speaking, but I wasn’t listening.  A small
group had just emerged from the armory, the woman in the lead drawing all my
attention.

Neither young nor old, she was probably somewhere around my
age.  Well-fitting jeans were bloused into a pair of highly polished jump
boots.  A brown, Army issue T-shirt was stretched tightly over her large
breasts.  Thick, brown hair flowed down to mid-back.  Appearing tall,
I had to admit, she cut a stunning figure as she stood speaking to the group of
men.

But what caught my eye was a web belt cinched tightly around
her narrow waist.  On each hip, it supported a holstered, pearl handled
Colt .45, just like the man I’d interrogated had described when he told me
about
The General
. 

Watching her stand there and issue orders to the waiting
men, I could believe she had spent some time in uniform.  Her demeanor and
bearing as she addressed her underlings weren’t those of a civilian.  She
was accustomed to giving orders and having them followed.  Not that she
couldn’t have attracted plenty of men to do her bidding with just her looks,
and perhaps that was why they had first joined her, but she wasn’t using her
femininity to control them. 

“Found The General,” I said, still watching the woman.

“Seriously?”  Sam asked.

“Yep.  Climb up and take a look.”

I rested the rifle’s stock on the roof and slithered down
the windshield as Sam scampered up the back.  He was quickly in place, and
it didn’t take him long to spot the woman.  Watching for a few moments, he
let out a low whistle before passing the weapon to Igor.

“What?”  Rachel asked.

“Let’s just say she doesn’t fit the mold of what you think
of when someone calls her The General,” I said.

Rachel looked at me for a beat, then Sam when he jumped down
next to me with a grin on his face.  After a short time, she rolled her
eyes and turned around to check on Dog. 

“OK,” I said to Sam and waved Long in.  “We don’t have
time to screw around with this.  Need to get on the road.  We’re way
outnumbered with just what I can see.  We’ll bypass the base and cut through
the desert to avoid the city, then pick up the highway south of town. 
Hopefully, the bridge is still standing.”

They nodded, and I headed for my vehicle.  Rachel and
Dog were standing near the back, waiting for me.  Before I climbed in, I
looked over my shoulder to make sure the rest of the group was ready to
roll.  Igor had climbed down and was having an animated conversation with
Long.  Apparently, he was describing The General as he was holding cupped
hands in front of his chest as he spoke.

“Not sure I want to know how they talk about me,” Rachel
said as she got into the Hummer.

“They’ll never talk about you like that,” I said, shifting
into gear and turning the wheel to accelerate away from the base.

“Why not?  Because of you?”

I shook my head as I steered us onto our new course.

“No.  Because you’re one of them, now.  You’ve
fought with them.  Bled with them.  Sure, they’ll notice you’re a
woman, but you’re their sister now.  Anyone messes with you, you’ll have a
whole bunch of big brothers with bad attitudes defending your honor.”

“Uh huh.”

Rachel sounded like she didn’t believe me, but I didn’t say
anything else.  Finally, she turned to look at me.  I met her eyes
briefly and nodded.  She was quiet for a long time, staring out her window
at the dark landscape.

“Is that how you see me?  Your sister?”  She asked
after several more miles had passed.

I wasn’t ready for that question. 

“I… It’s just… I don’t know what to say to you,” I
stammered.

My heart ached over the loss of Katie.  I’ve lost a lot
of people I cared about over the years, but nothing compared to this.  It
was only through sheer determination and the burning need for vengeance that I
was up and moving, not curled into a ball with a bottle in my hand. 

“I’m sorry,” Rachel said softly when I didn’t say anything
else.

She reached across and gently rubbed my arm before placing
her hand on my shoulder.  I couldn’t look at her.  Didn’t want her to
see the tears in my eyes.