The Ebola Wall (3 page)

“I saw some activity on the horizon,” Norse replied, with an official sounding tone. “I deemed it interesting enough that a better vantage, such as the one afforded by standing on the deck, was prudent.”

Both men knew it was bullshit, but not an entirely unbelievable story if someone should question why the captain was outside of his tank. “Of course, sir,” Crenshaw replied.

Norse did indeed raise his binoculars, sweeping the horizon south of Havoc’s station. There was enough starlight and moon to discern vague shapes and shadows, but that was about it.

After 30 minutes, the captain lowered his optic and checked his watch. Grunting at how slow their duty-shift was passing, he decided he’d give the new man another five minutes of fresh air before returning to his normal post.

“Movement,” came Clark’s distant voice, barely audible up on the deck. “I have activity at 178 degrees, source unknown.”

The binoculars came to the captain’s eyes in a rush, his mind calculating the point on the compass where his crewman had spotted activity. He couldn’t see a damn thing.

“Okay, Crenshaw, make a hole,” Norse ordered, moving for the hatch. Snipers were the officer’s primary concern, since some of Houston’s upstanding residents occasionally took potshots at the men manning the wall. Exposed and standing upright on top of the tank, he was a prime target.

As he made for the narrow portal, the irony wasn’t lost on Norse. All of a sudden, the open spaces and fresh breeze weren’t so attractive, his body longing for the confines and comfortable surroundings of ceramic armor and steel plates.

He was just lowering his torso into the commander’s hatch when Clark’s voice sounded again. “This is bizarre, sir. Starlight shows something out there is moving… and it’s big. Thermal isn’t showing me anything.”

Given that report, Norse decided to man the .50 caliber machine gun mounted next to his hatch. The unit was equipped with a night vision optic and might provide a better angle.

A few moments later he was swinging the heavy weapon around, his eye seeking the small optic’s green and black view of the world.

It took a bit before he saw what Crenshaw was talking about. There was a slab of some sort, a rectangle of distortion… almost as if someone were pushing a wall or rolling a huge log directly at their position. “What the hell,” he muttered.

“I’ve got a thermal signature,” Clark announced. “No idea what it is. Really weird.”

Norse dropped down to the commander’s station where he could view a small, flat-screen monitor of the FLIR image. He could discern the rectangle, its dark grey hue matching the temperature of most of the surrounding vegetation and soil. Around one edge he could also see the brighter glow of something hotter, yet couldn’t identify the source. “What in God’s name,” he whispered.

Like so many tank commanders, the captain trusted his own eyes and ears as much as any of the technology within his machine. Returning to the open hatch, he tried his binoculars again, this time knowing what he was looking for. It didn’t help clarify the situation at all.

“It’s coming closer, whatever the hell it is,” came Clark’s concerned voice. “Loader – 28,” the gunner continued, ordering Crenshaw to insert an anti-personnel canister round into Havoc’s main gun.

Norse agreed with the move. The M1028 cartridge contained hundreds of steel balls, that when fired, turned Havoc
’s
huge cannon into an oversized shotgun. The selected round was
very
effective at stopping people… permanently.

“Up,” shouted the gunner a few seconds later, the response updating everyone that the artillery-like shell was securely in the breech and ready to fire.

“It looks like we have a bunch of people using something as a shield,” Clark continued. “I can see wisps of hot air coming from behind whatever they’re pushing. It looks like an advancing cloud of heavy breathers.”

“Range?” the captain asked.

“Five hundred meters and closing.”

Norse mentally reviewed his options. Technically, he couldn’t fire on the approaching object until it crossed the 100-meter line of demarcation. Standard procedure stated he should issue the verbal warning at 200 meters if intent was demonstrated. The colonel’s recent briefing rushed back into his mind.

“Scan the perimeter,” he ordered. “Let’s make sure we’re not focused on the rabbit while the turtle sneaks past.”

He then switched his radio to the command frequency. “Traffic, this is six, over.”

“Go ahead, six,” came the response.

“Six reporting movement, 178 degrees our position, exit 4 overpass. Activity is unknown in origin. Do we have any birds in the air? Over.”

“Negative on the air cover, six,” sounded the radio operator. “I’ll see if I can divert an asset your way.”

“Roger that, six out,” Norse responded, shaking his head. It seemed like there was never a helicopter or drone around when a tanker needed it.

“I’ve got no other movement, sir,” Clark chimed in. “Whatever that is in front of us appears to be the extent of this evening’s activities. Four hundred meters now, sir.”

While the captain knew the units on either side of him should have heard his report to the battalion, he wanted to be sure. Digging out his notebook, he located the day’s duty roster and then keyed his microphone.

On his left was a Stryker, another Abrams to Havoc
’s
right. Neither commander had observed anything out of the ordinary.

“Looks like it’s just us right now, Sergeant,” he commented to Clark. “We’re the prettiest girl at the dance.”

“Tango is now at 250 meters, sir. I don’t like it,” Clark replied, his tone growing serious as the object approached closer.

“Seal the tank,” Norse ordered, reaching up to close the commander’s hatch.

By the time he felt the pressure in his ears, it became clear that the unidentified object was following the surface street that passed beneath Havoc’s bridge-top perch. That realization changed the captain’s assessment of the situation.

“Have they created some sort of heat barrier or shield at the front of a vehicle?” he asked no one specifically.

“Could be,” Clark responded, “But why? They have to know we’re going to blow apart anything approaching the wall. Doesn’t seem worth the effort.”

“Maybe they think we’re asleep at the wheel,” Norse speculated.

“200 meters, Captain,” Clark reported a moment later.

Sighing, Norse reached for the microphone attached to Havoc
’s
external loudspeaker. “Attention! Attention! Unknown party approaching the exit four overpass, you are entering a restricted zone. I repeat, you are entering a restricted zone. Turn around immediately, or by order of the president of the United States, we will engage with lethal force. This is your one and only warning.”

The entire crew held its breath. The four young soldiers inside Havoc hated this part of their assignment more than anything they had experienced in their fledgling military careers. Killing their fellow Americans was the stuff of nightmares, low morale, and endless prayers petitioning for forgiveness.

The army was obviously well aware of the issues associated with maintaining the wall. Each soldier, regardless of rank, received hours and hours of training, evaluation, consulting, and support.

While attending his first session, Norse had been reminded of the situation faced by Air Force pilots post 9-11. After the terrorists had used commercial airlines as weapons, the fighter jocks flying patrols over North America knew they might be ordered to shoot down a plane packed with innocent civilians in order to take down the guerillas.

While common sense dictated the logic of killing a few to save many, that fact wouldn’t make it any easier to fire the missile – or in Havoc’s case to pull the trigger. It was a dilemma every single man dreaded having to face.

The army had done an excellent job of convincing the garrisons manning the wall that they were on solid, moral ground. Graphic video of mass graves in West Africa depicted the consequences of Ebola, followed closely by facts, figures, and hair-raising statistics of projected death tolls, economic impact, and finally, the potential for World War III should the disease take hold domestically.

Then came the police officer, a grisly old veteran with 30 years of law enforcement under his belt. “If a citizen points a gun at a cop, the peace officer is fully within his rights to kill the offender. If a policeman sees a man walking into a shopping mall with an AK47, lethal force is justified. The situation you soldiers are about to face is no different. You will be protecting the public at large by enforcing the law of the land. Unfortunately, arrest or detainment isn’t an option. Exposure to Ebola-B is no different than a man pointing a gun at your head. Lethal force is the only means available to enforce the law… to serve and protect American citizens. Due process and individual rights to a trial have been suspended. Everyone inside that wall knows this. Your job isn’t going to be easy, but it is our duty to the general public.”

At the end of his presentation, the cop nodded toward the man controlling the projector. A picture flashed on the screen at the front of the classroom, the portrait showing the police-instructor with what appeared to be his wife and three daughters. “This photograph was taken just last year,” the officer stated. “That is my lovely wife, June, and my three daughters. I love those girls more than anything on this earth. I want every man in this room to know that my family didn’t make it out of Houston. I’ve not heard from them for months. So, when I stand in front of you and deliver my little speech, I know you might be the man who is ordered to kill one of my girls. I’m well aware that it could be any of you who pulls the trigger. But right is right. Duty is duty. The survival of our civilization depends on dedicated men, like you, being able to execute unnatural acts. God Bless the United States of America, and all who serve her.”

It had been a powerful experience.

Yet, the first time Norse was forced to order his men to fire on a group of people trying to sneak past their post, the atmosphere inside Havoc’s basket had been one of remorse and gloom.

There had been five of them, the thermal imager projecting enough detail to indicate one was a woman, another a child. Norse had violated procedure, warning the approaching group no less than three times. Still, they kept on coming, stumbling through a patch of pine trees, most likely hoping the foliage would somehow protect them.

The captain again went against his orders, ripping a burst of 7.62 MM shells above their heads in a warning shot, screaming on the loudspeaker for them to turn around. But they kept on coming, finally making a mad dash for the parkway.

Norse would never forget the jerking, vibrating images as Havoc’s machine gun tore into the hapless escapees. In a matter of moments, their bodies stumbled and fell, ripped apart by a stream of killing lead.

But the worst was yet to come, the nightmare far from over.

The captain and his men had to sit and watch the heat of life fade from the fallen bodies, the FLIR sights showing all five corpses growing colder and colder in the Texas night.

“What level of misery had motivated those people?” He kept asking himself. “What could possibly drive such a desperate act? They knew it was suicide, and yet they kept on coming.”

For two days the tank’s crew had to watch the buzzards pick at the unburied bodies. At first, Crenshaw had wanted to fire one of the machine guns at the carrion eaters, disgusted by the bird’s natural feeding habits. Norse forbade it.

“You’ll just attract more of them,” the commander had observed. “There’s not a damn thing we can do about it.”

Similar episodes had continued to occur for the next month. Sometimes it was armed men who fired hopelessly at Havoc’s thick armor, other times it was a lone individual trying to sneak past the wall. It never seemed to get any easier.

In a way, Norse was reassured by the fact that his men didn’t seem immune to killing. Each encounter resulted in a bleak and doleful cloud descending on his soldiers. The observed despondency reaffirmed some of the commander’s faith in humanity. More than once the captain had found himself searching for a quiet, private, place to shed tears after returning from a shift. The battalion’s chaplain was a very busy man.      

As time passed, the only comfort Norse could find was based on the narrow notion that his men and he were assisting sick, desperate people with euthanasia. Given the reports of the horrific conditions inside the wall’s perimeter, it was a mental escape route taken by many of the soldiers. They were helping dying people end their miserable lives via assisted suicide. At least that’s what the men of the 7
^th
Cavalry told themselves.     

Norse’s thoughts were interrupted by his sergeant’s report, “Now within 100 meters, sir.”

The captain engaged the remote aiming system attached to the turret-top .50 caliber. A video image appeared on the screen in front of his semi-crouched position. Orange cross-hairs were overlaid on the image, white numerals informing the shooter of the target’s range and bearing.

The picture zoomed in on the oddly shaped object approaching Havoc’s position, the range indicating 95 meters. Norse “pulled” the trigger.

A light series of popping noises reached the commander’s ear as the heavy machine gun blasted massive chunks of deadly lead at the target. Norse saw puffs of the impact through the camera’s output, his rounds striking exactly where he’d aimed. But the object kept on coming.

Again he fired, letting the automatic weapon disgorge at least 20 rounds. Fragments of debris could be seen flying off the target as the 650-grain projectiles slammed home. Still, it kept on coming.

Norse was amazed. There was very little civilian machinery that could withstand a Ma Duce (M2) machine gun, countless engagements with insurgents and rebels having proven the weapon’s effectiveness against all but the heaviest of armor plating.

The .50 would shred steel several inches thick, split engine blocks like a knife slicing cheese. And yet the object being pummeled on his screen seemed unaffected.