Indestructible: V Plague Book 7 (26 page)

The mortar crews had been firing for close to two hours. 
Between them and the rifles still protecting the tops of the jet blast plates,
the infected were being slowed.  Not held.  That wasn’t possible on open
terrain, but they had been slowed to a crawl.  The females’ newly acquired
desire for self-preservation was working in favor of the defenders.

Recognizing the danger posed by the mortars as they landed
amongst the leading ranks, the females continued to hold back and let males shamble
forward into the kill zone.  Between the JP8 fueled fire, and now the mortars,
there were multiple mounds of bodies outside the moat.  Some of the mounds were
fifty yards across at the base and over twenty tall.

But as many crates of mortar bombs as had been loaded on
cargo planes and brought to Tinker, the supply wasn’t infinite.  Pointere
grimaced when a runner found him and reported that they had consumed sixty
percent of the stockpile.  Sixty percent in two hours.  They hadn’t even gone
through munitions that fast in Fallujah.

“I make four hours left.  Any update from your end?”  He
shouted to Crawford over the roar of the battlefield.

“Maybe a little less.  I heard from Blanchard and they got
the planes off-loaded and back in the air in less than thirty minutes.  They
should be on the ground here in about two and a half hours.”  He shouted back.

“We’ve got at most ninety minutes of mortars left, then
we’re down to Claymores and machine guns.”  Pointere said.

“We need to arm the civilians,” Crawford said.  “They want
to survive, they’re going to have to fight.”

Pointere nodded and made a call on his radio.  A couple of
minutes later a breathless Army Sergeant ran up, listened as the Marine Colonel
yelled instructions in his ear, turned and dashed off.

“Let’s put them on the line,” Crawford said.  “Pull them out
when the planes are on the ground and ready.”

Pointere nodded and looked around.  Looked at the fighter
and ground attack aircraft that were sitting silent on the tarmac.  He’d made
the decision to use all the available fuel for the moat, leaving enough for the
evac flights only.  Not one to second guess himself, he wasn’t regretting the
decision, just trying to figure out how to find some JP8 and get those planes
in the air to aid in the defense.

“What are you thinking?”  Crawford asked, also looking at
the silent aircraft.

“Wishing I had more fuel,” was the answer.

“You made the right call.  That moat and the fire is the
only reason we’re still standing.  It did a hell of a lot more than all those
planes could have done.” 

Pointere nodded, finally shelving his musings and turning
back to face the battle.  Ninety minutes and the infected would start flooding
over the moat.

“It’s a fucking antique, sir.”  Martinez protested.  “It
should be in a museum somewhere.”

We stood on the tarmac in the National Guard section of the
Tulsa airport, looking at an aging Bell UH-1 or Huey.  It may have been a
museum piece to Martinez, but it brought memories from my youth flooding back
and I couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s slow as my grandmother and handles worse than her
walker,” Martinez continued bitching.  “It’s loud as hell and… hell, there’s
got to be a Black Hawk somewhere around here!”

There wasn’t.  We’d already looked, and Martinez had looked
a second time.

“It’s also one tough son of a bitch, Captain.”  I said. 
“What’s the matter?  Afraid you can’t fly something without all those fancy
computers actually doing the work for you?”

“Fuck you, sir.”  She said.  “There’s not a rotor wing I
can’t fly.”

“Then quit your bitching and let’s get out of here while we
can,” I said.

“Yes, sir.”  Martinez mumbled, walking over to release the
tie-downs that secured the rotor blades to the ground.  Katie had stood back,
watching the two of us.

“What?”  I asked when I noticed her looking at me.

“She’s like the little sister you never had,” she smiled.

“Kind of,” I acknowledged, shooting a look to make sure
Martinez hadn’t overheard.  All I needed was for her to realize just how much
of a soft spot I really had for her.

“You know, it’s OK to let people know you care,” Katie said,
understanding exactly why I’d looked over.

“And ruin my reputation of being a gold plated asshole?  I
don’t think so.”  I grinned.  Katie just shook her head and followed me to the
aging helicopter.

“Told you!”  Martinez shouted.  She was doing her walk
around, checking whatever it is pilots check before taking off.  “Right here. 
The airframe was built in 1961.  1961!  Even you weren’t alive when this thing
was built, sir!”

I just smiled and slid the right side door open, locking it
in place on its track.  The smells of aviation fuel, grease and sweat took me
right back.  Black Hawks, no matter how hard they’ve been used don’t have the
character of a Huey.  Or maybe I’m just getting old.

“Hey!  I think I just found some patched over bullet holes. 
This baby probably flew in Vietnam!”  Martinez shouted from somewhere under the
front of the helicopter.

“Doubt it,” I said when she popped up at the side door.  “We
didn’t bring very many back.  It was cheaper to just dump them in the ocean or
leave them on the ground.  Ever see the videos of Hueys being shoved off the
decks of aircraft carriers after the evacuation when Saigon fell?”

“Before my time, sir.”  She said, finishing outside and
climbing into the cockpit.

After my experience with the Jeep I was prepared for Dog’s
refusal to come near Katie.  Getting her settled in the co-pilot’s seat, I sat
down in the back and called him.  He jumped in and started sniffing around
while Martinez powered up the primitive avionics and started the engine.

She let the engine idle, warming up, and slipped on a set of
headphones with a huge microphone that hung in front of her face.  I watched
her run her hands across the panel, familiarizing herself with the aircraft. 
After a moment she stopped what she was doing and rotated a dial on the radio.

“Sir, you need to hear this,” she said after listening for a
few minutes. 

She flipped a couple of switches and a speaker mounted to
the ceiling above my head began playing.  I was listening to the comms of a
unit engaged in a battle.  The sounds of rifle fire and mortar bombs exploding
were clear in the background every time someone transmitted.

“Can you tell where they are?”  I shouted over the near
constant chatter.

“No, sir.  But they can’t be far.”

We sat there listening for a few more minutes, then someone
referenced evac flights.  This had to be at Tinker!

“Tinker, I think,” Martinez said and turned around, concern
creasing her face.  I nodded, thinking and listening.

“Shut down, Captain.”  I said.  “We need to find some
goodies before we take off.”

I jumped out the side door, Dog right behind me as the
engine spooled down.  Running to the hangar with the Oklahoma Air National
Guard sign on it I tried every door I could find as Katie and Martinez ran up
behind me.  They were all locked up tight.

Jogging to the far corner, I forgot to exercise caution and
ran directly into a male infected that had probably been drawn in by the sound
of the Huey’s engine.  He wrapped his arms around me before I even knew I was
in trouble and we fell to the ground.  Dog grabbed his arm in his jaws and
pulled, breaking the embrace and I was able to get an arm free and fend off the
snapping teeth.

Several more males stumbled out of the darkness, excited by
the sounds of the fight.  One of them fell over us, landing on Dog and knocking
him back.  I kept rolling around, struggling against my attacker, hearing
several quick shots. 

Bumping up against the wall of the hangar I used my free arm
to slam the infected’s head against the corrugated steel.  I kept at it, each
blow making a hollow booming sound, but it was having an effect.  His grip
loosened and I yanked my other arm free.  With one hand wrapped in his greasy
hair and the other cupped on the point of his chin, I twisted hard to the side
and up, feeling his whole body go limp when his neck snapped.

Pushing him off, I grabbed for the Kukri, pausing when I saw
Dog and Martinez working together to finish off the last remaining male.  He
had it by the leg, keeping it off balance as she rammed the Ka-Bar into the
back of its head.  The body fell and they both turned, looking for another
threat, but Katie had already put the rest down with her new rifle. 

Seeing that all was clear, Martinez looked down at Dog and
held her hand out.  After a moment he lowered his ears and with his head below
his shoulders, slowly moved closer and sniffed her hand.  Finally he licked it
and let his head come up slightly as she gently began scratching his ears.

Getting to my feet I ignored them and went around the
corner, after checking for more infected, but there weren’t any doors on the back. 
Running to the side closest to the Huey I picked a door and fired a short, full
auto burst from the AK into the lock and deadbolt.  The heavy slugs blew them
out of the door and it started to swing open.

Yanking it out of my way I ran inside, clicking on the small
flashlight.  “Martinez, get those doors open!”  I shouted as I moved deeper
into the hangar.  I was talking about the huge rolling doors, and I wanted them
open to get what moonlight there was inside to help me find what I was looking
for.

At the back of the hangar a large area had been fenced off
with chain link that extended all the way to the ceiling.  The weak light from
the flashlight reflected off of rows of cabinets, stacks of wooden crates at
the far end.  A heavy chain and padlock secured a wide gate and I raised the
rifle but didn’t fire.  The padlock was too heavy to be broken by a bullet.

Martinez had gotten the doors open with Katie’s help and run
over to stand next to me as I surveyed the supplies.

“What are you looking for?”  She asked.

“I need in there,” I said, dashing to a workbench in search
of something I could use to cut through the fencing.

Martinez ran the other way and a moment later I heard a loud
motor start up.  Looking, I blinked when headlights came on and she rolled over
behind the wheel of a tractor that was used to move aircraft in and out of the
hangar.

“Grab that chain and wrap it around the padlock,” she
shouted, pointing at the far end of the workbench.  “Then secure it to the
hitch.”

While I worked, she spun the tractor around and backed up to
the fence.  Chain looped through the one holding the gate, I hooked it onto the
tractor and stepped back, making sure Dog and Katie were clear.

“Go!”  I shouted.

Martinez hit the throttle, the fat tires spinning on the smooth
concrete for a moment before gaining traction.  The tractor shot forward, the
chain jingling noisily as it paid out, then it went tight and the whole gate
was ripped out of the fence.  Martinez drove another thirty feet, dragging the
big section of fence across the hangar, then came to a stop.  Hopping off she
unhooked, then climbed back on and spun the vehicle around to shine its lights
into the caged area.

“Now, what do you need?”  She asked, running over to join
me.  Katie was right behind her and I was glad to see Dog was next to her.

The mortars had run dry, the crews firing them grabbing
their personal weapons and running to join the defenders that were behind the
double ring of Claymores.  Several thousand civilians were now armed with M4 rifles,
sprinkled in amongst the Rangers and Marines.  There were a handful of World
War II and Korean War vets, many unable to walk without a cane or walker but
still able to hold a rifle, that had declared their intention to fight to the
last. 

There were also women and children as young as ten holding
rifles in their small hands.  Everyone was frightened; several of the civilians
expressing surprise when they realized the fighting men around them were scared
too. 

“Only fools and psychopaths aren’t scared before a battle,”
Crawford heard a Marine Sergeant saying to a woman so terrified she was almost
hyperventilating.  “It’s how you handle the fear that matters.”

He would have liked to hear more of the conversation, but
kept moving as he walked the lines.  Pointere was doing the same thing, working
the opposite side of the flight line.  They were encouraging where needed,
adjusting and directing people to plug gaps in the final layer of defense
between the infected and the flight line. 

The return flight of planes was half an hour away.  They had
to hold long enough for them to get on the ground, refuel, load and escape. 
Ninety minutes minimum.  He didn’t think it could be done, but kept his doubts
to himself, constantly praising the defenders and telling them they would
succeed.

Infected were flowing over the moat.  Not in large numbers,
yet, but the trickle that would become a torrent had begun.  Everyone had been
pulled back and the crew manning the firing panel for the Claymore mines was
ready.  All they needed was the order from Pointere.

Taking up position behind a machine gun emplacement,
Crawford climbed to the top of a tall pile of sandbags to have a better view. 
Overhead, Osprey’s hovered, keeping a constant eye on the entire perimeter and
providing Pointere and Crawford with a steady stream of reports.  Crawford had
chosen the spot where he’d stopped because it was reported as the heaviest
concentration of infected.

As the females continued to climb over the top of the blast
wall, drop to the ground and sprint forward, specified Rangers and Marines
began picking them off with single shots.  They weren’t going for head or heart
shots, but targeting hips and legs.  This gave them bigger targets and even
though the females weren’t being killed, they were going down and could only
drag themselves forward.

Once they were on the ground and moving slowly, they were
easier targets and were finished off by the civilians.  This was working, but
the front was steadily pressing closer to the defenders.  As the volume of
infected continued to grow there weren’t enough rifles to target all of them
quickly enough to prevent their advance.

Females that had held back when the moat was burning were
now sacrificing themselves.  Crawford didn’t try to figure out the reasoning
behind it, just noted it and filed it away.  He remained stoic, standing on his
elevated vantage point, watching through binoculars as the infected surged. 
The trickle had become a torrent in only a few minutes.

“Target only the front runners!”  He shouted into the radio.

“Claymores, stand by,” Pointere transmitted a moment later.

A solid mass of females was now running towards the
defenders.  The volume of rifle fire had increased and he could see the fastest
females, those who had pulled out in front, go down in a tumble of limbs as
their hips or legs were shattered by a well placed bullet. 

“One hundred yards.  Claymores ready,” Pointere called.

The infected kept charging.  With surprise, Crawford
realized there were so many of them that he could feel the ground shaking all
the way up through the sandbags he was standing on.  Glancing around at the
defenders lying on the dirt he saw them look at each other in fear when they
felt the same thing. 

The screams of the charging females were deafening.  Tens of
thousands of throats, all crying for blood.  Their blood. 

“Claymore outer ring only, fire on my command.  Repeat. 
Outer ring ONLY!  On my command,” Pointere called on the radio, sounding calm
even though he was shouting to be heard.

The infected kept running.  Kept screaming.  Crawford could
see the blood red eyes in his binoculars, as they focused on their prey.

“Claymores FIRE!”  Pointere ordered.

A Claymore mine is a simple device, nothing more than a
convex shaped plastic container holding a layer of C4 explosive set behind 700
steel ball bearings.  The convex design creates a sixty-degree wide pattern
into which the ball bearings are propelled at 4,000 feet per second.  Within
the first fifty yards, nothing made of flesh and bone will survive.  Out to one
hundred yards, there’s maybe a ten percent chance of survival.

Every man and woman felt the concussion of thousands of
mines.  Teeth were rattled and bones were vibrated.  Around the entire
perimeter, the outer ring detonated in a ripple, the electrical charge reaching
the detonators at different times depending on the length of the wire connected
to the master panel.

Hundreds of thousands of steel balls screamed outwards from
where they had been embedded in an epoxy resin, each of them instantly breaking
the sound barrier, which added to the volume of noise.  Tens of thousands of
female infected were shredded.  Flesh was stripped from bone.  Bones were
broken and skulls crushed.  Limbs were severed from bodies. 

After the ear shattering blast, everything fell silent. 
There’s a silence that descends over battlefields after the deployment of
massively destructive weapons by desperate troops.  The fighters on the side
that launched the attack are holding their breath, waiting to see if they’re
going to survive another minute.  The side that was just attacked pauses,
partly in shock and partly in fear, waiting to see how badly they were hurt.

It’s an eerie silence.  Surreal after a long siege where
there’s been the constant sounds of battle for what feels like a lifetime. 
Many of the entrenched defenders had experienced it before.  Some on beaches in
Normandy or valleys in France and Germany.  Others on the Korean Peninsula, or in
the jungles of Vietnam and Central America, or the deserts and mountains of the
Middle East.

 Crawford hadn’t been sure what to expect when the mines
were detonated.  He wouldn’t have been surprised if the infected had just kept
coming as if nothing had happened.  He’d had a conversation with the Major
about the defense that had bought time for evacuees in Murfreesboro, and how
nothing could deter the advance of the enemy.  Having witnessed it himself on
smaller scales, he hadn’t held out hope that the Claymores would do anything
more than buy a couple of extra minutes.

So when silence descended over the area, and dust thrown
into the air by the blasts began to clear, he was shocked to see a solid wall
of females standing and staring.  Their advance had stopped at the point where
the devastation of the mines had reached, nearly eighty yards from where the
Claymores had been placed.

“What the hell?”  He muttered to himself, shaking his head
and raising the binoculars to scan the perimeter.

In every direction the females had halted.  This wouldn’t
have surprised him if they had been a normal enemy who felt fear, but he was
shocked.  He’d seen the females holding back at the moat, waiting for the fires
to burn out, but not for a moment had he thought they could be brought to a
halt like this.

“Any movement on your side?”  Pointere’s voice in his
earpiece startled him, making him jump.

“No.  They’re holding for the moment,” he answered.

Crawford listened as Pointere made calls to different junior
officers spread around the perimeter.  The news was all the same.  The females
had stopped and were just staring at the defenders.

“Sir, the front ranks are static around the entire
perimeter, but there’s lots of movement in the rear.”  This report came in from
one of the Ospreys hovering over the battle.

“What kind of movement?”  Pointere asked.

“Can’t tell for sure sir.  Stand by.”  One of the Ospreys
changed position and descended to hover a hundred feet over a section of the
infected.  It slowly began drifting along the front as the pilots tried to see
what was happening.

“Males, sir.”  The answer finally came after several
minutes.  “They are pushing males forward through their ranks.”

“Goddamn it!”  Crawford raged when he realized what the
females were doing.

“What?”  Pointere asked as he ran up to where he stood.

“Meat for the grinder,” Crawford growled.  “Just like they
did with the moat, they’re going to let the males come forward and absorb the
worst of the damage and deplete our defenses.  Enough males and we’ll have to
use the second layer of mines, then the females can charge in.”

“They’re that fucking smart?”  Pointere asked, surprise
clear on his face.

“Apparently,” Crawford said.  “Smart enough to fuck us.”