The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga (16 page)

Muzzle flashes erupted from the roof of the terminal.
 
A chunk of tarmac exploded at Alston's feet and peppered his chin with stinging pebbles.
 
He took a step to the side and sprinted forward, then went back to his right.
 
As the Russian attempted to train his fire, Alston coughed and struggled to stay on his feet.
 

"Garza!” he gasped.
 
“Give the foot mobiles on top of the terminal something to think about!”
 
He sucked down a ragged breath.
 
“They're starting to piss me off!”

"
On it!
"

Gunfire from the south reached a higher pitch.
 
Alston stole a glance and saw muzzle flashes light up the exterior of the last hangar.
 
His attackers paused in their sniping as a grenade detonated on the roof of the terminal.
 
The Russians turned to face this new threat and Alston was able to race unmolested toward the middle hangar.

 
He slammed himself against the building, oblivious to the intense gunfire and shouts coming from inside.
 
He had to double over and take three shuddering breaths before he could call out: "Devil Dog, what's your sitrep?"

"
—hit!
"
 

Calls came in for medics and fire support as Alston’s force took their first casualties.

Gunny Morin’s voice, layered over a background of rifle fire and screams, erupted in Alston's ear:
"Taking heavy casualties behind hangar two!
 
I lost four—"

Alston gave the hand signal for his Marines to charge.
 
He turned the corner and discovered a wall of Russians, all of them facing east.
 
They were hiding behind cots and overturned desks and crates of supplies, most of them shooting jihadi-style over whatever cover they had found.
 
Through the smoke and fire Alston could see the shapes of Marines struggling to breach the building.

He waved at his small squad of Marines to hold their position on the west side of the building.
 
None of the Russians had seen them approach from the rear.
 
He ran back to the abandoned fire truck, climbed up into the front seat, and noticed that the engine was still running.
 
He quickly familiarized himself with the driver’s layout, then shifted into reverse.
 

A panel in the middle of the dashboard lit up, showing him a blood-smeared view through a camera mounted on the rear of the truck.
 
The detail was blurry, but he could make out the line of Russians in the distance through the gaping hole in the side of the hangar.
 
He let off the brake and slammed the gas.
 
The big vehicle lurched backwards, its warning bells singing.
 
Alston saw one of the Marines pumped his fist in triumph as the truck flew past the exterior of the hangar, gaining speed with every second.
 

Just before impact, one of the Russians turned and Alston saw the surprise register on his face before the camera went black.
 
He felt a sickening crunch as the big vehicle plowed its way through the Russian ranks.
 
The gunfire paused for a moment as the truck smashed through their lines, flinging broken bodies and destroying everything in its path.
 

The Marines outside the building chose that moment to press their advantage.
 
Alston heard rounds ricochet off the fire truck.
 
Without warning, the truck crashed into something solid and came to a stop.
 
He picked himself up off the large steering wheel and coughed, wincing in pain.
 
It felt like he’d just been tackled by a linebacker.

 
He saw through the cracks in the blood-smeared windshield a group of Russians standing in front of the fire truck looking at him with blank expressions, apparently too shocked to react.
 
Alston fumbled to pull his weapon up, sure that the windshield was not bulletproof.

As the Russians brought their own rifles up and prepared to destroy what was left of the fire truck, Alston's Marines flanked them and cut them down.
 
Alston dove below the dashboard again as rounds peppered the front of the fire truck.
 

The grizzled voice of Gunny Morin crackled over his headset: "
Hangar two secure—whoever drove that fire truck deserves a medal.
”

Alston had to kick the driver’s side door open in order to exit the flaming wreckage.
 
Blood and gore smeared the floor of the hangar in all directions.
 
His maneuver with the fire truck had caused more havoc than he could possibly have imagined.
 
Gunny Morin came around the back of the truck and stopped, his mouth open in amazement.
 
He quickly recovered though, then grinned.
 

"Not bad, sir.
 
For an officer."

Alston flashed a lopsided smile and slapped the Marine on the shoulder.
 
"Sounds like they could use some help next door.
 
Let's go."

Alston and the reunited Marines made their way toward the third and southernmost hangar.
 
Reports of injuries and casualties began to mount as they picked their way through the remnants of the intense firefight.

When Alston stepped outside the burning hangar, he saw why.
 
The Russians had figured out his plan of attack.
 
They were stiffening their defense of the hangar, funneling in more troops in an attempt to shore up their line.

As a result, the Marines were taking more and more casualties.
 
Alston did a quick head count and realized that he'd already lost about 20 men.
 
Whether or not they were actually killed, he didn't have time to worry about.
 
He had 20 less rifles against God knew how many Russians.

Then he heard it.

The unmistakable
BRRRRRRRRAW
of the lead Osprey’s nose-mounted Gatling gun.
 
The muzzle flash illuminated the hovering aircraft like some sort of ghost in the sky.
 
Over the din of the battle and the screaming of the air raid siren, Alston had not even heard the Ospreys’ engines.
 
He looked around in the sky over to the south and saw the other two planes.
 
Gunners poured .50 caliber rounds into the Russians on the terminal’s roof.

Enemy soldiers fanned out from emergency exit doors along the length of the terminal.
 
Alston realized they had to take the third hangar soon if there was to be any hope of containing the Russians.
 
He opened his mouth to urge the Marines forward when the pilot from the command Osprey broke squelch.

"Actual, we got incoming aircraft.
 
Say again, incoming aircraft.
 
Looks like Russian helos inbound."

Alston switched frequencies and spread the word to his attack force.
 
"All units, Actual.
 
Inbound Russian helos—get some cover!”

The firefight around the perimeter of the last remaining hangar intensified tenfold as a group of Russians exited the control tower and made a break to reinforce their comrades.
 
Half of them didn't make it.

Alston took a second to scan the airfield and noticed that on the eastern side, the ground was covered in bodies, most of them still moving.

How many fucking guys do they have in there?

He saw the Ospreys break off their attack and scatter in three different directions.
 
“Hammer 2-1, Actual, Condor Lead.
 
Sorry, brother, we’re out of here.
 
We can’t compete with Hinds…
”

Alston couldn't blame the pilots, though he would've liked to have had air support just a little bit longer.
 
The Ospreys were simply not capable of surviving protracted air battles.
 
They were primarily transport ships that could be used in ground support roles in a pinch.
 
But if even a single attack helicopter arrived on scene, the Ospreys would be toast and the pilots knew that.

For that matter, if a single Russian attack helicopter showed up, most of his men would be toast.
 
Their only option was to fight their way inside the buildings and take over the Russian positions.
 
The Russians might be crazy, but they certainly wouldn't risk killing the Source—and he had to be here.
 

Alston paused and leaned back against the fire-warmed wall of the middle hangar.
 
He coughed, whether from the smoke or the flu, and spat a glob of mucus on the tarmac.
 

In some detached portion of his brain, Alston also realized that the Russians certainly wouldn't put up this much of a fight if Mr. Huntley was
not
on site.
 
That realization drove home the importance of their attack.
 
The mission had to be a success, or millions of people around the world were going to die.
 
Even more would die if the Russians developed an antidote and decided to deploy their own version of the NKor bio-weapon.

"Marines!
 
We have got to take this hangar!"
 
A round cracked against the wall near his head and a puff of concrete exploded in his face.
 
He flung himself against the ground outside the besieged hangar.
 

The Russians had barricaded themselves in from the west and east entrances.
 
From the recon, Alston knew that there was another entrance on the side of the hangar facing the control tower.
 
That was where the Russians were bringing in their reinforcements.
 
That conduit had to be shut down—fast.

In the darkness, he tripped over a support strut attached to the side of the hangar’s wall.
 
The
curved
wall.
 

Alston spun and called out: "Zuka! Can you scale this wall?"

On the far side of the north wall, Alston saw a shadow turn and face the building.
 
"
Yes, sir!
"

"Get your ass up top and throw down some repelling lines."

“
Roger that
.”
 

Alston flipped down his night vision rig in order to provide cover fire in case some Russians decided to try and pick off Zuka.
 
He watched Zuka as he located some footholds, slung his rifle over his back, and quickly scaled the curved side of the structure using the support struts as a ladder.
 
He quickly maneuvered his way up the side of the building, found a perch near the peak of the roof’s slope, and began securing his rappelling lines.
 

“Sergeant,” Alston said to the squad of Marines that had been with him since the start of the assault.

“
Sir!
”

“Take your men and hit ‘em from the roof.”

“
With pleasure, sir
,” the Marine said as he led his squad toward Zuka’s lines.
 
The Marines began to scale the northern side of the building—not as fast as Zuka, but pretty quick.
 
Thanks to the lines that Zuka had provided, Alston could see that the Marines simply held onto the ropes and walked up.

“Condor Lead, I need an ETA on those Russian inbounds,” Alston called out.

"They’re gonna be right on top of you any minute now…
" said the pilot.
 
“
Get some cover, sir
.”

"Don't worry about us, just make sure you guys get clear.
 
I’ll contact you when we’re ready for evac," Alston replied.

"Roger that, Actual.
 
Condor Lead out."

"
We’re in position
," said Zuka’s voice.

"All units Hammer, Actual.
 
Anybody with grenades, throw them now.
 
Russian whirlybirds will be on top of us any second.
 
We need to get inside!”

Marines and Rangers alike began to throw grenades into the Russian lines.
 
The firefight slacked off as the enemy sought cover.

After a few seconds, grenades began to explode.
 
Alston yelled: "Zuka!
 
Now!"

Zuka’s team timed their assault almost perfectly with the first round of explosions.
 
His Marines opened up from the ceiling, straight down onto the heads of the besieged Russians below.
 
Alston worked his way to the east side of the hangar as explosions continued to rock the interior of the building.
 

A ball of smoke and fire erupted from the gaping hole in the east wall just as Alston was about to poke his head around the corner.
 
He waited for it to dissipate and took a quick glance.
 
The Russians had been absolutely decimated.
 
There were only a dozen left standing.
 
Bodies and parts of bodies lay strewn across the hangar floor.
 
Blood smeared the floors, the walls, wooden crates and pallets.
 
Alston repressed a shudder and coughed again, keeping his eyes on the surviving Russians.

Glancing up, he saw muzzle flashes from Zuka’s team stab into the darkened upper reaches of the hangar.
 
The surviving Russians screamed as they died.

Still, Alston was not about to express any mercy.
 
"We've got them on the ropes.
 
Light ‘em up!"

He switched his fire selector to full-auto and emptied an entire magazine in seconds.
 
The Marines on both sides of the building did the same.
 
The noise was positively thunderous.
 
Alston ejected his spent magazine to clatter on the bloodstained floor and slapped in a fresh one.