Indestructible: V Plague Book 7 (23 page)

“I thought you were dead,” I blurted out as Martinez walked
down the slope towards us.  Letting the rifle hang I stepped forward and
wrapped her up into a hug.  “What happened?”

“Beats me,” she said, reaching out and squeezing Katie’s
hand.  “I remember the crash, then being carried by the infected.  The next
thing I knew I woke up on the banks of a river, feeling like I’d been run
through a meat grinder.”

“How did you get here?”  I asked.

“Been following these power lines forever.  Knew they had to
end somewhere, then I recognized where I was.  Used to train in this area. 
That’s Tulsa.”  She nodded at the city spread out below us.

“How did you survive?”  Katie asked.  “You were all but
gone.  I watched the infected leave you in the river.  Last I saw, you were
floating downstream.”

Martinez looked at her and shrugged.  “Honestly, no clue.  I
don’t feel great, but at least I’m not dead.”

“Turn around,” I said, moving upslope and kneeling on the
grass so I could examine Martinez’ leg wound in the moonlight.

Rachel had cut off her pants leg while she was working on
her in the Osprey, and her leg was fully exposed.  Leaning close I looked at
the wound, not surprised to see it almost completely healed.

“Do you mind?” I asked, hands poised in front of the hem of
her shirt. 

“In front of your wife, sir?  Don’t you think she’ll get the
wrong idea about us?”  Martinez quipped.

“Shut up and show me,” I said, not in the mood for banter.

Martinez lifted her shirt, exposing her abdomen.  Katie
leaned in next to me to see.

“It’s healed.  Or close enough to not matter.”  Katie said. 
“Is that what mine looks like?”

I nodded in the dark, reaching out and pressing on the skin
around the puckered scar on Martinez stomach.

“Does it hurt?”  I asked.

“Not so much hurts as it’s tender.  What’s the big deal?” 
She asked.

“You saw Katie take the bullet, right?”  I asked and she
nodded.  I looked at Katie and she pulled the shirt over her head.  “Take a
look.”

“Mierda,” She said when she got a good look.  “What the
hell’s going on?”

“All I can come up with is the virus,” I said.

“But we’re not infected,” Martinez said. 

“Maybe not turned, but I’m pretty sure it’s affecting you. 
How else do you explain both of you healing like you are?  And explain this.” 
I called Dog, but he wouldn’t come to me.  Stepping away from the two women I
called him again and he immediately trotted over and sat down at my feet,
facing Martinez and Katie.

“Now, walk towards me,” I said.

Martinez took a couple of steps and Dog got to his feet and
backed away.  She froze in place with a look of shock and horror on her face.

“So… what, we’re going to turn?”  She asked, looking between
Katie and me.

“I don’t know,” I answered.  “I don’t think so.  I think if
you were going to turn you would have already.  It might not even be the
virus.  It might be an effect of the vaccine.  I’m just guessing.”

“Where’s Rachel?”  Martinez asked.  “She might have an
idea.”

“Don’t know,” I said.  “It’s a long story I’ll tell you when
we have time.  Right now we need to head down there and find some water, food
and shelter.”

“Food, yes.  I’m starving,” Martinez said.  “But the hell
with shelter.  There’s an Air National Guard base here at the civilian
airport.  That’s where I was heading.  I’m sure there’s a helo there that we
can borrow.”

“Good to have you back, Captain.”  I grinned.

“I just hope you still feel that way when I find a
flagpole,” she said, moving past me and starting down the slope.

“Huh?”  I had no clue what she was talking about.

“Remember when you carried me out of the casino?  The
promise you made me?”  She looked over her shoulder, grinning.  I shook my
head.  “You promised that if I survived, you’d kiss my ass at noon in front of
a flagpole.  It will be a red-letter day when an Army Major puckers up and
plants his lips on an Air Force Captain’s ass.  I intend to make sure you keep
your word.”

I stood there for a moment as Martinez laughed.  Looking
over at Katie I was mildly surprised to see a smile on her face.

“You poor dumbass,” she said, patting me on the chest and
following Martinez towards the city.

The Marines and Rangers had spent the day preparing multiple
defensive layers.  Air Force personnel manned the fence line as they worked
feverishly.  About noon the transport planes had returned from delivering the
second wave of evacuees.  Fresh pilots took command and maintenance and fueling
personnel attacked them with the same urgency as a NASCAR pit crew.

Women and children were prioritized for the third wave, but
they only had so much space.  Many families didn’t make it on and had to wait,
watching as one after another of the aircraft climbed into the afternoon sky. 

With the exception of personnel actively involved in holding
the fence line, every other soul on the base was put to work.  Men, women and
children carried supplies, weapons and ammunition.  They filled sandbags. 
Helped the men who had volunteered to stay behind and face the infected so they
could escape.  There was not a single word of complaint from anyone as they toiled
away in the baking sun.

Pointere’s plan was simple.  He knew the fence would fall,
and fall soon.  What he needed to do was protect the survivors that were
waiting to board a plane, and he needed to make sure the runways were clear. 
Trying to defend the miles upon miles of fence with his small, suicide force
was impossible.  But he could hold a much smaller perimeter that only
encompassed a few hangars and the runways.

Creating concentric layers of defense, the men worked
feverishly in the hot Oklahoma afternoon.  They started on the outermost ring,
creating a four hundred yard buffer around the area being defended.  Heavy
equipment was used to carve a deep trench in the ground, a moat, completely
encircling the defenders. 

Buildings were knocked down and bulldozed aside.  Parking
lots and roadways were torn up and trees uprooted.  But unlike medieval moats
that were filled with water, Pointere positioned fuel trucks around its length
to pump it full of jet fuel when he gave the order.  Ten feet deep and twenty
feet wide so the females couldn’t leap across, a lot of infected would be
trapped and meet their end when the fuel was ignited.

One hundred yards in from the moat, crews of Marines and
Rangers had positioned mortars spaced every fifty yards.  The raids of the
armories at Fort Hood had yielded flight after flight loaded with all sorts of
weapons and munitions, including hundreds of crates of mortar tubes and
thousands of pounds of mortar bombs.  Tall stacks of bombs sat ready at each
firing position.

The third layer, another hundred yards in, was a double
cordon of Claymore mines with a twenty foot gap between them.  Thousands of
Claymores had been looted and were now set up in a double ring around the
flight line and hangars.  Crews experienced with them were frantically reeling
out thousands of feet of wire, connecting each mine’s detonator to a massive,
improvised master control panel.

In their haste, a mine had been accidentally detonated,
killing two Marines, one Ranger and injuring half a dozen others.  As NCOs
screamed at the crews working on the wiring, Pointere had ordered the injured
to be treated and taken to a hangar to await evacuation.  Each man had accepted
the medics’ attention, but refused to be evacuated.  They returned to work,
some of them with wounds that would kill them in a few hours.

The final layer followed the edges of the pavement that
defined the runways.  Sandbagged emplacements were constructed.  Hundreds of
machine guns and hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammo were positioned.  This
was where the Rangers and Marines would make their last stand.  All they had to
do was hold out long enough for the last plane to get off the ground. 

Colonel Pointere hoped there would be time for at least some
of the defenders to then fall back and be picked up by the Ospreys that would
be his eyes in the air once the fence collapsed.  He knew it wasn’t likely,
that no one was leaving, but he had hope that perhaps at least a few could
escape.

The day wore on, evening coming and bringing relief from the
scorching sun.  Most of the work completed, the civilians waiting for the next
wave began circulating among the defenders, delivering food and water.  Many of
them thanked the tired men; confused at the almost embarrassed responses they
received.

“Why are the soldiers acting funny when I say thanks?”  A
young girl, no more than 10, stood looking up at Pointere.

He was standing on top of a pile of sandbags as the sun
touched the western horizon, surveying the monumental amount of work that had
been completed.  The volume of infected at the fence had grown steadily
throughout the afternoon and in less than an hour he knew the Air Force
personnel fighting at the perimeter would have to be recalled.

“First of all, young miss, they’re Marines and Soldiers,” he
said, sighing when a look of confusion crossed her face.  He looked up when a
woman he assumed was her mother walked up.  “And they’re not trying to act
funny.  They’re just… well, think about this.  If you’re doing something
because you want to, because you believe deep inside it’s the right thing to
do, are you wanting to be thanked?”

“I guess not,” she said, looking even more uncertain. 

Pointere opened his mouth, but didn’t know what else to
say.  Couldn’t figure out how to explain why civilians thanking military men
and women for doing their jobs made them feel uncomfortable.  Why the thanks so
often felt hollow, as if it was little more than what people had been
conditioned to say to someone in uniform without even giving what they were
speaking a thought.

“Thank you, Colonel,” the mother said and led the little
girl away by the hand.

Pointere watched them go, then returned his attention to the
defenses.  There were various points around the moat where large steel plates
bridged the gap, creating a path for the men and women to escape across. 
Forklifts that were normally used for loading cargo were standing by to remove
the plates as soon as the last survivor made it across and before the infected
could flow through their outer defensive layer.

“Impressive work, Jim.”  Pointere looked down to see Colonel
Crawford standing at the base of the pile, holding out a steaming mug of
coffee.  He jumped down, gratefully accepting it.

“Just hope it’s enough.  What’s the ETA on the next wave?” 
He asked, taking a sip.

“They’re half an hour out,” Crawford answered, lighting a
cigarette.  He held the pack out to Pointere but he waved them away.  He
enjoyed cigars but couldn’t stand cigarettes.  “Then an hour or so to load and
refuel once they’re on the ground.”

“That will be the fourth wave, right?  We still needing
six?”  Pointere asked.

“We can get the last of the people out with five.  The
loadmasters are cramming them in like sardines.  A sixth would be nice, but it
would just be for equipment and supplies.  Nothing we can’t do without or make
a raid to somewhere on the east coast once we’re settled.”  Crawford said,
turning as Captain Blanchard ran up.

“Sirs,” he said, then turned to Pointere.  “Fence line
defense is starting to crumble.  We’re going to have to pull back sooner than
we hoped.”

“Shit!  Can we hold longer with some more men?”  Pointere asked.

“No sir.  Not with the numbers we have.  The fence is just
too long and the volume outside is growing by the minute.  I can buy us some
time if I can put the Ospreys up and use their miniguns.” 

“Do it.”  Pointere said immediately.

“Yes, sir.”  Blanchard spun and ran off, shouting into a
radio as he headed for the flight line.

“Damn fine soldier,” Pointere commented as they watched him
weave through the workers.

“Yes, he is.”  Crawford said.

“How did he talk you into letting him stay?”  Pointere asked,
watching Crawford out of the corner of his eye.

“Let’s just say it was a spirited conversation.”  The
Colonel chuckled.

Both officers turned to look as six Ospreys lifted off in
sequence from the end of the flight line.  Spreading out, they all kept their
engine nacelles rotated for vertical flight, hovering like a helicopter. 
Moving over the perimeter, they all began firing belly-mounted miniguns, raking
the hordes of infected that were piled up against the fence.

  The show was impressive, the tracers in the ammo creating
the illusion that a solid stream of red, molten lead was connecting each
aircraft to the ground.  Thousands of infected were killed in only a few
seconds.  They were packed in so tight it wouldn’t have been possible to fire a
single round without hitting at least two of them.

The exhausted ranks of the Air Force personnel holding the
fence cheered as the Marines continued to chew up their attackers.  Body parts
flew through the air and a fog of bodily fluids started forming.  But the
infected in the rear just flowed in when the bodies in front of them were
destroyed.  No fear or reason existed, only the desire to reach the flesh they
could see and smell on the other side of the barrier.

Rachel was nearly deaf from the sound of the Bradley’s chain
gun and machine gun.  They were holding the infected back, but barely, and not
for much longer.  They were burning through their ammunition at an alarming
rate, but didn’t have a choice.  If the infected reached the runway, the plane
wouldn’t be able to land and all of this would have been for nothing.

“Viper flight, Ram two seven.  What’s your ETA?”  Scott
shouted into the radio.

“Three mikes,” the response was almost instantaneous. 
“What’s the situation on the ground?”

“Large force of infected to our east.  We’re holding, but
our gun’s going to run dry pretty soon.”

“Copy that, Ram two seven.  Pop smoke and we’ll see if we
can give you a little assist.”

“Copy.  Popping smoke,” Scott answered, hitting a switch
that ejected a smoke grenade to clearly mark their position.  “Smoke is blue.”

“What’s going on?”  Rachel shouted.

“Navy’s here.  They’re going to give us some help with the
infected.”  He answered.

Igor and Scott kept up a steady rate of fire, but the front
ranks of the infected were spreading and not allowing them to stay
concentrated.  This reduced their effectiveness and allowed the leading edge of
females to press closer to them and the runway.

“Viper flight on station.  Copy blue smoke.  We’ve got you
Ram two seven.”  The pilot called on the radio, acknowledging he wouldn’t fire
on the location marked by blue smoke.

A moment later they could all hear the roar of jet engines
through the hull of the Bradley, then a ripping sound that passed over them
from right to left at high speed.  A couple of seconds later it was repeated. 
Scott whooped when he saw hundreds of infected pulverized by 20 mm cannon fire.

Igor popped the turret hatch open and stuck his head outside
to watch.  The sound rattled Rachel’s teeth as the jets returned, making
another strafing run, then a third.  Igor had stopped firing the chain gun, now
using short bursts from the machine gun to clean up the few infected that had
somehow not been killed by the aerial assault.

The pitch of the jets changed as they turned and lined up on
the runway, touching down and quickly rolling to a stop not far from where the
Bradley sat. 

“Irina, tell Igor to keep his eyes open.  I’m going out to
get them loaded.”  Scott said, jumping out of his seat and hitting the ramp
release button with the side of his fist.

The ramp dropped quickly, smoke and the stench of a battlefield
swirling into the vehicle’s interior.  Scott grabbed a rifle and led the way
out, Joe and Rachel close behind him.  The machine gun kept firing occasional
bursts as Igor kept the remaining infected at bay.

Running down the ramp they turned to their right, rounding
the back corner of the Bradley and Rachel and Joe both almost came to a stop.  Expecting
some sort of passenger transport plane they were both surprised to see two F-16
Falcons sitting idling on the tarmac.  Both pilots had already raised their
canopies and extended a boarding ladder, which was nothing more than an
aluminum pole with small pegs sticking out on each side.

They exchanged glances then picked up their speed as the two
pilots climbed down to meet them.  Each of them had a bundle under their arm. 
Scott ran up, meeting them and turning to see where Joe and Rachel were.

“…expecting a transport.”  Rachel heard him saying to one of
the pilots when she got close enough.

“Nah, they wanted this done right,” the pilot said,
grinning.  “That’s why they sent us.”

He turned and looked at Joe and Rachel, stepped forward and
faced Joe.  “Sir, please step over there with Lieutenant Henry.  He’ll get you
ready and we’ll get out of here.”

“Ma’am,” he said, holding what looked like a padded flight
suit out to Rachel.  Joe had walked over to the other pilot and he was offering
the same thing.  “Please put this on, and forgive the familiarity but you’re
going to need my help and we don’t have a lot of time.”

“What is it?”  Rachel asked as the man shook it out and
started lowering zippers.  It looked more like a space suit with what had to be
pressurized air connections in several places.

“It’s a G-suit, ma’am.”  He said.  All the zippers were open
and he held it out for Rachel to step into.  “If I have to make any hard
maneuvers while we’re in flight, it will keep you from blacking out.”

Rachel worked her feet through the legs, the man stepping
behind her and helping pull the tight suit over her hips.

“Why would there be hard maneuvers?”  She asked as he
grabbed her arm to help force it back into a sleeve.

“The Russians are still putting up patrols, ma’am.  You’re
other arm, please, and bend to the side.”  He helped her contort her upper
body, then she was in and he was back in front of her, yanking the rubberized
zipper up to her neck.  She spared a glance at Joe who was already dressed and
climbing the ladder on the other jet. 

The pilot escorted her to his plane.  Before he could start
her up the ladder she turned and faced Scott who was checking on the proximity
of the infected.  Igor was still firing the machine gun and once again an
occasional burst from the chain gun.

“Find John,” she said, pulling a surprised Scott into a
hug.  “Tell him where I am.  Tell him…” She stopped herself.  She was going to
say, “I love him”, but at the last moment held her tongue.

“Good luck,” Scott said, stepping back from her embrace.

“Ma’am, up the ladder and in the back seat.  Don’t touch
anything.  I’ll help you with the harness, helmet and mask once your seated.” 
The pilot placed a firm hand on Rachel’s back.

Turning, she climbed the ladder and carefully stepped into
the cramped cockpit before sliding down into a seated position.  The pilot
appeared a second later, reaching on either side of her, then between her legs
to grab straps.  He got everything buckled, pulled them hard enough to pin her tightly
to the seat, then connected several air lines to her suit.

He made a quick check to make sure he hadn’t missed
anything, then put a helmet on her head and fastened the integrated mask across
her lower face.  An oxygen line and a couple of wires in a bundle led from the
mask to the console at her side.  Tapping her on the helmet the pilot gave her
a thumbs up, his eyebrows raised questioningly.  She returned the gesture,
unsure if everything was good to go or not.

He got situated in the front seat with an ease that came
from lots of practice.  A moment later the canopy descended, sealing tight
against the body of the jet.  The engines had been idling; creating a steady
vibration that was transmitted through the seat into her body.  Strangely it
was almost comforting.   

“Can you hear me, ma’am?”  Rachel was startled when the
pilot’s voice sounded in her ear.

“Yes, and my name’s Rachel, not ma’am.”  She replied, unsure
if he’d be able to hear her or not.

“Yes, ma’am.  If you feel sick, there’s a bag between your
feet.  You don’t want to throw up in your mask if you can help it.  Here we
go.”

As he spoke the words, the vibration increased and the jet
turned.  Through the clear canopy Rachel could see the second jet, two helmeted
heads tuned in their direction.  She raised a hand, moments later the rear seat
passenger returning the wave.

The pilot maneuvered the aircraft for a minute, getting it
lined up with the center of the runway, the nose dipping slightly when he put
on the brakes.  She saw his head turn left, then right before going back to
center.  It bobbed slightly and suddenly the whole plane shuddered as the
engines throttled up to a scream.  Rachel didn’t understand why they weren’t
moving, then she was pressed deep into the seat as he released the brakes.

The Falcon flashed down the tarmac, bellowing as it
accelerated.  Rachel could feel the bounce of every seam in the concrete in her
ass as they rolled over them, then the tires left the ground behind.  Her
stomach dropped to her feet as the pilot lifted the nose almost vertically and
they rocketed skyward.  She could hear him communicating with the other pilot
over the intercom in her helmet, not having a clue what they were talking
about.

They continued climbing for a short time then he tipped the
nose of the jet over and brought it horizontal.  Rachel breathed deep, nearly
panicking when she heard a hissing sound and looked down to see the legs of her
suit slowly deflating.

“What the hell’s going on with this suit?”  She asked.

“Sorry, ma’am.  I didn’t have time to brief you.  The suit
will automatically inflate and deflate to counter the G forces generated in
flight.  Without it, all your blood would drain into your legs and you’d pass
out and potentially die.  By inflating, it squeezes your limbs and keeps blood
in your core so your heart can still pump it to your brain.”

“OK.  Good to know.”  Rachel said.  “How long will it take
us to get to Seattle?  And what’s it like there?  Infected everywhere?”

“I don’t know what Seattle’s like, ma’am.  We’re actually
going to Whidbey.  Whidbey Island Naval Air Station.  It’s about fifty miles
from Seattle out in Puget Sound.  That’s all I know.  I was just told to get
you to Whidbey, nothing about what you’re doing after that.”  He answered,
turning his head to the left.  “As far as flight time, I was told to get you
there fast, so as soon as we top off the tanks we’re going to boogie.  It will
be less than two hours.”

Rachel looked in the same direction and saw the other plane,
seemingly hanging in mid-air a short distance off and behind their wingtip.

“Top off?  We’ve got to land?”  She was surprised, but not
as much as when the man chuckled and pointed at a speck in the sky above and in
front of them.

“What’s that?”  She asked.

“Flying gas station, ma’am.  Now, if you’ll excuse me I need
to step out and pump some gas.”  Rachel shook her head.  What was it with these
military guys?  Everything they did was so amazing, yet they talked about it
like it was just an everyday errand. 

The refueling plane was the KC-135 out of Tinker Air Force
Base that had launched with the first evacuation wave.  It had stayed in the
air to refuel any evac flights that were running low, the F-15 that was
ferrying Dr. Kanger to Seattle, and service the two F-16s that were inbound. 
Flying nice and level and slow, it reeled out a fueling line with a drogue and
two small winglets at the end when the pilot called on his radio.

Rachel watched in fascination as he brought the plane into
stable flight, below and behind the tanker.  A few moments later the basket of
the refueling probe was “flown” into contact with the F-16s fuel probe by a
crewman staring out of a small window in the back of the larger plane.  Several
minutes later they were full, disconnecting and moving well away to make room
for the second Falcon to hook up and take a drink.

Fueling complete, the two jets banked sharply to the left
and gained altitude.  Rachel could see a compass on the panel in front of her
and watched the little airplane icon settle on a direction of northwest.  She
looked out the canopy to her left, surprised to not see the other jet.

“Where did they go?”  She asked.

“Half a mile to our port.  Our left,” the pilot said.  “Keep
looking in that direction.  It’s pretty humid.  You should see them in a
moment.”

Rachel didn’t understand what was going on, but did as she
was told, keeping her eyes glued on the blue sky directly off the left wing.  A
few seconds later there was a large burst of white vapor, seemingly out of
nowhere.

“What the hell was that?”  She asked, concerned for Joe.

“That was the shockwave of a jet breaking the sound
barrier.  We just made one too.”

“What?!  You mean that was a sonic boom?  Why didn’t I hear
it?”  Rachel was excited, staring out, hoping to catch a glimpse of the other
plane.

“You can’t hear sound if it’s moving slower than you are,
ma’am.”  The pilot said.  Rachel was sure she heard a smirk in his voice.  “Fifteen
hundred miles to Whidbey.  We should be there in ninety minutes.”

“If you call me ma’am one more time I’m going to punch you
when we land.”  She said, amazed at the view of the Earth spread out beneath
her.

“Yes, ma’am.”  He answered.