Mortal: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (8 page)

“Copy that, Captain,” said Lopez as he tapped his inner strength
and hauled Tice’s dead weight around the helo’s shattered nose while
consciously diverting his eyes from the snarling Z that was once Durant. He paused
for a tick to steady the load and caught in his side vision the still-suspended
Ari giving him a look that seemingly said:
Get me the fuck out of here
.

Back at the truck Cade cast his gaze to the rearview, noted
a growing cloud of gray-brown dust. Then he scanned every degree around him for
threats, paying close attention to the helo and the church in the distance.
“Clear to the north, west, and east,” he said to the men whose grim task of
putting down Durant, extricating Ari, and moving the bodies to the truck had
just begun.

Finally, resigned to the fact that he was merely an
observer—and hopefully a successful getaway driver—he looked to the mirror, locked
his eyes on the expanding haze to his six, and waited for the cards to fall
where they may.

Schriever AFB

The air temperature inside the TOC had risen steadily all
morning. Now, with the hottest part of the day upon them, and two dozen human
bodies and twice that many electrical devices all spewing hot air into the
room, the atmosphere inside mirrored that of a pressure cooker— super-heated
and volatile.

“Will someone
please
get me an idea of when Jedi
One-Two will be wheels down,” Nash called out as she paced a hole in the burgundy
carpet directly in front of the lectern.

“On it,” one of the junior members of her staff called out.

“Let’s get this right, folks,” she said. “The President wants
to personally greet our guests from the NML when the bird puts down.” She
looked around the room, searching for Airman Davis, and issued another order to
the group of Air Force personnel who had been parked in front of their
computers and communications gear for the better part of ten hours. “I want
answers. Someone
please
tell me why Jedi One-One missed checking in.”

“I just tried to hail One-One to set up the final refueling rendezvous
with Oil Can Five-Five,” stated a tired-looking airman, his once-pressed
uniform looking the worse for wear and an out-of-place five o’clock shadow beginning
to show on his face. “But there was still no reply, Ma’am.”

“Good job,” she said, knowing full well everybody in the hot
TOC was doing their best and those two simple, morale-boosting words would be
noticed by the other hardworking men and women. “Just keep trying,” she added.

“Give it some time, Major,” said Colonel Cornelius Shrill as
he strode into the room. “These men and women are doing their best.”

No shit, Shrill
, she thought as she hovered over a
young captain who for the moment was in charge of the 50th Space Wing satellite
operations. “Jensen, how long until you can bring a KH-12”—a highly advanced
U.S. satellite that carried an array of powerful sensors and optics onboard—“into
a stationary orbit over Jedi One-One’s last known position?”

Brunette hair snaking from under a navy ball cap, the
captain consulted the two, twenty-four-inch screens arranged on the desktop before
her. “Thirteen minutes, twenty-two seconds, Major Nash,” she stated
confidently.

“Not good enough. I have a feeling we’ve been paid a visit
by Mister Murphy. Everyone listen up,” Nash said, adding a fair amount of bass
to her voice. She was in her element and it showed as she began formulating a
response to these new developments. “Until we hear from the flight crew, we are
going on the assumption that One-One suffered a catastrophic problem ...
meaning, ladies and gentlemen, that we have a Black Hawk down situation outside
of the wire. Captain Jensen, I want you to have Oil Can Five-Five link back up
with the KC-135,”—a larger, jet-powered version of the prop-driven Hercules—“then,
once Five-Five is topped off, have Dover reverse on Jedi One-One’s last known
heading and begin a track-crawl search pattern along that route. I want the KC-135
orbiting on station until further notice or until they are on fumes and need to
RTB—return to base—to refuel themselves.”

“Copy that,” said the captain as she began updating all
parties involved of the rapidly-changing mission profile.

After taking in the entire exchange, and admiring Nash for
her rapid fire decision-making, Colonel Shrill made an executive decision and
quickly dispatched another airman to fetch him a fully-charged satellite phone
from the equipment room. Then he ambled forward; as he stepped up onto the
small briefing platform, his lanky frame blocked out the lights overhead and
cast a shadow on the diminutive major.

“I think you are jumping the gun, Nash,” he said. “I
wouldn’t worry too much about Ari. He probably started telling dirty jokes and
the general ordered him radio silent because of the mixed company here.”

“Doubtful,” said Nash immediately. “He’s brash and cocky and
Night Stalker through and through. But he’s no dummy. Orders or not, he wouldn’t
willfully go black.”

Shifting from one foot to the other and totally unwilling to
acknowledge what his gut was telling him, Shrill looked away from Nash’s
piercing gaze and removed his cover. He didn’t want to pull rank and override
her in front of her staff, so he rubbed his bald head and pinched the bridge of
his nose in order to buy some time to think before trying to sell Nash his
glass-half-full scenario.

“Better to be safe than sorry,” Nash pressed.

“A precedent has already been set,” Shrill said. “Ari and
Durant only checked in with the TOC a handful of times during the Jackson Hole
mission. And correct me if I’m wrong, but that mission had
zero
satellite
overwatch because we were involved in a protracted engagement with the Chinese.”

Nash was about to lobby Shrill to take a more proactive
approach toward finding the Ghost Hawk, but was preempted when the airman
returned with a thin satellite phone in hand.

Shrill took the phone, handed it over to Nash, and went on
talking. “Major, you and I both know how finicky those Gen 3 rides can be.
That’s all I hear Whipper talking about.
I have to fix this
...
Ari
broke that ...
” he said, bringing his normally baritone voice up several
octaves in order to accurately mimic the owlish first sergeant’s voice.

Suppressing a chuckle, Nash cut him off. “To refresh your
short memory,
Sir
. The Robert Christian snatch-and-grab was conducted under
strictly NOE—nap of the earth—flight rules while maintaining
strict
radio silence.”

Shrill made a face that mirrored his resignation. He knew
the facts and he also knew that Nash was right in acknowledging and preparing
for every worst case scenario.

Nash covered the hot microphone with one hand and said, “I
hate to correct you, Colonel, but what I think you meant to say is, ‘all that Whipper
complains
about,’ right?” She thumbed on the phone and waited until it
produced a tone indicating it had made a connection. She consulted her
clipboard, keyed in an eleven-digit number, and pressed the sleek black handset
to her ear. After thirty seconds, she said, “
Nothing
. Gaines isn’t
answering.” She made a face and killed the call. Grabbing another set of
numbers from the sheet, she keyed them in. She hit send, then, an antithesis to
the frenzied motion of people working all around her, she stood stock still,
listening for one full minute. She grimaced, removed the handset from her ear, and
powered it down. She shook her head and said, “
Nothing
. Captain Grayson
isn’t picking up either.”

“Listen Freda,” Shrill said quietly, trying to remain
positive, “I know how protective you are of your boys, and I know how much is
riding on the success of this mission, but I’d be willing to bet they’ve got
their sat-phones tucked away, snug as a bug in a rug, inside their packs by
now. Besides, even if the general had one of those things sitting on his lap,
he’s not going to be able to hear it ringing or feel it vibrate inside of the
moving helo.”

“I don’t like it,” intoned Nash. “Compared to a UH-60”—the
basic Black Hawk platform—“the Ghosts are super quiet inside.
One
of
them would have heard the phone or at least felt the vibration.”

“Helos are nothing but one big controlled vibration. If I
know Ari as well as I think I do, then it’s safe to say he’s just hot dogging
like I told you a minute ago,” Shrill said, doubling down on his first
argument. “Him and Durant are brushing up with some low level stick time just in
case the Chinese or Russians try to take advantage of the Omega situation.”

“Still doesn’t feel right,” Nash countered, shaking her head
vehemently.

“It’s a new
toy
to Ari,” Shrill said, remembering the
one and only time he’d had the pleasure of riding in the troop compartment of a
Black Hawk with the cocky SOAR—Special Operations Aviation Regiment—aviator at
the stick. In fact, whenever he recounted the story of his introduction to the
bouncing and jarring that was the reality of low level NOE flying, he always
conveniently left out the fact that
he
had earned one of the not-so-coveted
puker patches the Night Stalker pilots enjoyed doling out.

“Still, I’ve got a bad feeling about this. A gut feeling
that I need to listen to,” the usually unflappable major persisted, her voice
cracking a bit. Abruptly she turned and locked eyes with Airman Davis who had
just rolled in from outside. “Davis ...”

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Go find Brooklyn Grayson and bring her here. Alone. Unarmed.
I want her here
five
minutes ago.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said, and turned on his heel and sprinted
for the Cushman he’d left parked outside.

Shrill dabbed at his forehead with a yellowed handkerchief
and then cleared his throat. “I know I’m just a bystander when it comes to this
delicate orchestra of man and machine you are conducting here, but I do have
one final question I need answered, Major.”

“Yes, what is it?” Nash said, turning back to face him.

“I asked Captain Jensen if there had been an emergency
distress call and she indicated there was none, and conversely I haven’t heard
you or anyone else mention anything about a distress signal. Shouldn’t we have
had some kind of indication if something had gone wrong?” Shrill asked,
hitching an eyebrow.

Except for the hum of computers and the low murmur of people
talking quietly, the proverbial calm before the storm had fallen over the TOC.
But that was all about to change as Shrill and Nash commenced in a battle of
wills.
Two men enter; one man leaves
, a voice sounding eerily like Tina
Turner echoed in Nash’s head. Thoroughly committed to fighting for the Delta
Unit she squared herself away, brushing some lint from her blue uniform. Hoping
she was going to be that victorious
man,
she tucked a strand of graying
hair under her ball cap and walked headlong into a spat with a
full bird
colonel. “Colonel Shrill,” she said. “With all due respect, Jedi One-One is
missing and presumed to have gone down. Unfortunately the usual suspects ...
any locals in the vicinity that would hear and see an aircraft go down and
render aid, are all dead and gone. Furthermore, the FAA and local
municipalities, police, or fire ... first responders who would normally receive
and respond to any kind of distress signal—are also nonexistent. There are no
manned control towers or even so much as a little Podunk one-person radio
center servicing a dusty airstrip between here and the Canadian border.
Colonel, the country has gone dark. And adding to that, as you already know, we’re
a little hamstrung in the satellite department. So until the Hercules and or
the KC-135 closes the distance to Pierre, which was where we last had radio
contact with the aircrew,
we
are also in the dark.”

Realizing he was in the petite major’s domain, and though he
was her superior in rank and tenure, Shrill merely winked at his old friend and
colleague.
Lady’s got it all figured out
, he thought to himself. Then,
maintaining his silence, he about-faced and stalked the room in search of a
chair in which he intended to get comfortable, sit quietly, and watch the drama
unfold.

Draper, South Dakota

Six minutes prior to Cade returning with Jasper’s truck.

After overhearing the men in the cabin say that Cade was on
the ground and on the move toward Jasper’s truck, Ari opened his eyes and watched
with glee as the Zs lost all interest in him and ambled lockstep away from the
helicopter and out of sight.

But he wasn’t saved yet. A handful of feet away, Durant had
just turned, and was reaching and swiping at him.

In order to keep his numb left arm from dangling near the Zs
snapping teeth, Ari tucked his hand under his safety harness, and with only one
hand to work with cinched it down as tight as he could.

Hurry the eff up, Delta
, he thought as he fought
tooth-and-nail to remain still and play the role of a dead man.

***

Several long minutes battling gravity and trying to tune out
the snarling one-armed mess strapped into the copilot’s chair was beginning to
take a toll on Ari’s sanity. To pass the time until the Delta captain returned
with the vehicle, he did his best to remember what Durant had been like in
life. He’d known the man since they’d attended flight school together at Fort
Rucker. Nestled among rolling and wooded hills in Southeast Alabama, the
sprawling base had been almost too small to contain the two. They were placed in
the same training squadron and their careers followed similar paths, but for
reasons unknown, Ari had always been given command of whatever ship they’d both
been assigned to. And that was how it had been since Omega dealt the nation a
death blow—him on the stick and Durant his copilot. But there had been no
animosity on Durant’s part, and this trait was what Ari had most appreciated
about the man. He was humble until the very end, and now that trait was causing
Ari a great deal of pain. For it was his fault Durant was dead, and it was on
him to make it right. To end his friend’s suffering.