In Harm's Way (21 page)

The crew chief and the spook exchanged glances and for the first time in days they both found a reason to crack a smile.

***

After picking up the two sniper teams the Ghost Hawks took up positions for over watch, one on each side of the kill zone, hovering silently at three hundred feet.

The two CH-47s thundered over the hillock and flared before setting down near the gas station. Eight soldiers clad in full woodland camo MOPP chemical/biological protective gear and carrying M4 carbines stormed from the rear ramp of each dual rotor chopper. Two men from each squad fanned out, providing security while the rest of the soldiers loped towards the truck drivers. After the drivers were zip tied, sitting with their backs to the guard rail, the MOPP suited soldiers turned their attention to the three trailers.

Cade sat, eyes glued to the flat panel, and watched the teams go to work. One soldier wielded heavy duty bolt cutters and had the locks off and the doors open in short order. The men scurried in and out of each truck sweeping high tech Geiger counters checking for dangerous rad levels.

“This is Watchdog, how copy?” The voice that everyone on the hovering Ghost Hawks was listening to over the net belonged to the leader of the cobbled together NEST (Nuclear Emergency Search Team) team.

“Archer Actual, good copy, proceed,” Desantos answered.

“All levels are acceptable. I repeat all levels are acceptable. Watchdog out.”

“Archer Actual, thank you Watchdog, we will be wheels down in two mikes.”

“Copy that,” the Sergeant in command of the NEST team replied.

“The landing zone is secure Ari,” Desantos said. Then he hefted his SCAR carbine and held it barrel down between his legs waiting for the Ghost Hawk to touch down on the highway.

The men on the ground, including the drivers, covered their faces to guard against flying debris, and two of the truck drivers sacrificed their ball caps to the rotor wash while protecting their eyesight.

As soon as Cade, Desantos, and the rest of the operators boots hit the ground, both Ghost Hawks bolted back into the cloudless blue sky to resume an orbiting over watch.

Desantos beckoned Tice over and said, “You have been endorsed by Major Nash--my words not hers. Her praise was more eloquent. You’re the expert... so I’ll stay out of your hair. Just let me know if there is anything you need.”

“I need to see what we have in those trucks first. All of the different weapons in Uncle Sam’s arsenal were kept at Minot, so there’s no telling what’s inside. Once I know a little more I’ll brief you and we can go from there... but I’m definitely going to leave the heavy lifting to the NEST guys,” the spook said before he turned and began to jog towards the first trailer.

“One more thing,” Desantos said, raising his voice, “don’t get bit on my watch.”

The lanky spook turned, gave the baby Desert Eagle strapped to his thigh an affectionate pat and said, “My days of kicking doors may be over... but I still know how to use this.”

***

“Wyatt my boy... good shooting. I must say, you still know how to reach out and touch someone. How many is that now?” Desantos regretted the words as soon as they left his lips.
Hell, we’re all wearing big boy pants here
, he thought.

“Counting the living dead?” Cade asked.

The General watched the NEST guys poring over the trailers and took a moment before answering.  “No, the zombies don’t count. They all died the moment the fucking virus jumped out of the Petri dish. I’m afraid you’ve caught me in a “
glass is half empty”
kind of mood. Let me ask you something... forget about your body count. Did the sight of all of the infected coming out of Denver hit you in the gut like it did me?”

“If we’re counting only breathers--the count is more than fifty--but less than one hundred. If we are talking about how many walkers I’ve waxed... one simple answer: not enough,” Cade replied, hoping to dodge Desantos’ last, but most important question.

Desantos pressed. He needed Cade’s honest opinion. “What’s your take on
Denver
?”

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The unmistakable report of the CIA man’s .45 caliber pistol rolled over their heads. Tice stepped from behind the nearest trailer and mouthed the word “
crawler”
as he walked towards them.

Desantos gave the spook thumbs up. “Third time’s the charm.” Then he continued trying to pick the younger operator’s brain. “Before I was so rudely interrupted I was asking you your take on the dead coming out of Denver?”

“My take? I truly hope that the first option has the desired effect,” and after a long pause Cade finished his thought. “Because if we have to resort to the second option... then we might have to leave Springs anyway. Sure, the President can hole up in Cheyenne, but that doesn’t help little Mike, Sierra or Serena. And I’ve got Raven and Brook to think about...”

Mike looked out on the Laramie mountain range. The granite peaks refracted the sinking sun, glowing like the last stubborn coals in a fire pit. He meditated for a second--desperately trying to quiet the little voice telling him to just say
fuck it
and take his family deep into the Rocky Mountains and ride this thing out.

 “I have those same feelings towards the whole thing. Once we are wheels up I’m going to have Ari call Springs for a SITREP (Situation Report).”

Tice approached and said, “I’ve got bad news Mike...”

“Let me have it.”

“It seems that at least a third of the devices are unaccounted for,” Tice said, concern creeping into his voice. “Two of the trailers are filled with W-80 variable yield nuclear warheads... the kind meant to be delivered, air to ground, usually fixed on the nose of a cruise miss
ile. The other truck is empty save for an Air Force officer, and she is badly beaten and in need of medical attention.
NEST took some readings and found that the empty trailer is still hot. It had nuclear warheads in it recently, but apparently they were off loaded somewhere
or
they may have been transferred to one or more vehicles and delivered to multiple different locations. Long story short General... you don’t have a single
broken arrow
situation on your hands... you, sir, have a whole quiver of broken arrows out there...
somewhere
.”

Desantos processed the information and considered the ramifications as he watched the NEST team working like a well-oiled machine, quickly loading and securing
each of
the three hundred pound warheads onboard the two Chinooks. “We’re just going to have to put one foot in front of the other and deal with one threat at a time. Can you work with these W-80 warheads, and most importantly, can we safely use one or more of them for Option Two?” he asked.

“No problem General, these brigands stole everything they would need from Minot... enough fuses and all of the necessary hardware, tools and diagnostic equipment to arm
all
of the devices and burn several cities to the ground. If your D-Boys are planning on delivering the weapons personally... then I can make them operable ahead of time and adjust the yield to your liking... but we are going to have to set the timer manually.  The W-80 has two blast settings
--
either five kilotons, which is
my
recommendation, or a hundred fifty kilotons which is very effective but if you are less than twenty miles away you can kiss your ass goodbye, plus the fallout from the hundred fifty...
no bueno
for Springs and Schriever.”

Wanting to explore all of the possibilities Desantos probed further. “What are the other methods of delivering the warheads?” 

Cade followed the conversation, hanging on to their every word, his head panning back and forth like he was watching a Chinese ping pong match.

Tice adjusted his Detroit Tigers ball cap and said, “The only other way is a hell of a long shot. They could be deployed
as designed
, but I would have to remount them on a cruise missile... but that begs the questions... where are we going to get an AGM-129
and
where are you going to get the B-52 to deliver the cruise missile?”

“Come again.” For once in a long while Desantos was not following.

“I was being a smart ass, Mike,” Tice said grimly. “The W-80s can
only
be hand delivered.”

“All jokes aside... is the officer going to survive?”

“I think she will survive. She’s got some broken ribs, but her career as a model is shot. Her captors smashed in her nose and knocked out a few teeth.”

Questioning the spook, Cade asked, “Did you get any Intel out of her?”

“Affirmative,” Tice answered, nodding his head. “She was conscious but she’s suffered a helluva concussion. My team found her in the back of the sleeper cab; the fuckers had her blindfolded and gagged and trussed up with zip ties...so tight that she’s probably going to lose some fingers.”

A crackling fusillade of automatic rifle fire briefly interrupted their pow-wow.

Cade continued to mine the spook for details. “What did the officer say about the captors... did you get any of that out of her?”

“No... not before she lost consciousness,” Tice said. “But the two guys who were driving the truck, they seem to know something but won’t talk... they clammed up real tight when I tried to question them.”

“Tice... once your team is finished loading the devices, bring the two drivers to my helo. Lopez... I want you to make sure their vehicles are disabled and remove all of the weapons and ammo,” Desantos ordered.

Cade received a telling look from his good friend. He’d seen it a few times over the years, and what followed was never pretty. He knew without a doubt that
one
of those guys was going to talk and the one that failed to would not live long enough to regret it.

Speaking to Desantos, Lopez asked, “What should I do with the other drivers?”

“Cut them loose and leave them for the Z’s.”

Cold blooded... that’s my Cowboy
, Lopez thought.

Desantos waved his arm in a circle. “Load em up... we’re Oscar Mike in five,” he yelled to be heard over the Ghost Hawk’s twin turbines.

Outbreak - Day 8

Schriever AFB

Slowly and deliberately the phosphorescent green dot silently cruised across the glass screen on th
e monitor only to magically reappear and trace the same path relentlessly. Department of Hom
eland Security Agent Archie Stockton had been infected with the Omega virus hours earlier; it had been five minutes since his heart had stopped beating and Doctor Hansen had declared him clinically dead.

Fuentes stood over the prostrate body stretched out on the stainless steel table, the beefy arms and legs restrained with thick leather straps. The big man’s body was pasty to begin with, but under the white fluorescent lights bombarding the autopsy table his skin glowed like the face of the moon.

“Still no vitals, Doctor,” Fuentes growled as he watched the thin green line motor along.

Jessica rotated her watch around her thin wrist and read its face. “He has been gone for nearly six minutes. If he comes back soon he might be recoverable but cerebral hypoxia is just around the corner.”

Fuentes clucked his tongue and said, “If big guy here doesn’t react to the anti-serum soon he’s coming back as either an eggplant... or a zombie.”

The Chinese Alpha battled its restraints and hissed and clacked its teeth at Doctor Fuentes’ backside, which was frustratingly out of reach.

“That’s six minutes... time of death...” Jessica was poised with pen to paper, about to record Agent Stockton’s untimely demise and list Omega infection as the cause of death when the big man shuddered before her eyes and drew in a prolonged lungful of air.

The heart monitor came beeping to life and the green dot started bouncing haphazardly up and down across the glass display.

Jessica stepped back with a bewildered look plastered on her face when the soon-to-be-cadaver’s eyelids snapped open. Jessica didn’t know what to think. Although the man had drawn a breath, his eyes, the windows to the soul, looked like most of the newly turned: milky white. 

Fuentes, fully cognizant of the Alpha eyeing his posterior, was not startled by the display of life the agent had just exhibited. Instead he sidestepped to the head of the table, perched his glasses on his nose, threw caution to the wind and peeled back Stockton’s fluttering eyelids. The pupils dilated.
Good sign
, Fuentes thought, checking his enthusiasm. “Hanson... have we been documenting
everything
?” The doctor emphasized the word
everything
because he had a penchant for forgetting things in the short term. He was known for documenting everything on sticky notes, and since the apocalypse got under way those marvelous yellow pieces of paper seemed to be in short supply. When she nodded, he smiled in satisfaction. “Good job Hanson... because I haven’t,” Fuentes said.

Outbreak - Day 8

Over Casper, Wyoming

Jedi One-Two, the second Ghost Hawk, flew in tight formation, shadowing the fully loaded Chinooks like a sheep hound watching over its flock. They were enroute to rendezvous with the Hercules for the first of their last two scheduled aerial refuelings.