Indestructible: V Plague Book 7 (24 page)

The holding effort with the Ospreys bought them some time. 
While the aerial miniguns were chewing up the infected, the ground defenders
were able to take a short break, drink some water and regroup.  But miniguns
blow through ammo at an astonishing rate.  And the supply was hardly infinite. 
They’d brought all they could scavenge, but there wasn’t enough for a prolonged
assault.

The Ospreys ran dry, one by one.  As each exhausted their
supply of ammo the pilot peeled away and returned to the flight line.  The
remaining rounds had already been divided up and ground crews quickly set about
rearming the aircraft, but Pointere kept them on the ground.  They would be the
absolute last line of defense to keep the infected clear of the runway until
the last evac flight could take off.

After that, well… He reached behind him with both hands,
checking on the two large fighting knives sheathed at the small of his back. 
They were nearly as long as a Kukri, but where its blade was broad and curved
for slicing, these were straight and narrow for stabbing.  Satisfied they would
draw smoothly when needed, Pointere turned to check on the loading of the
fourth evacuation wave.

All of the C-130s were already loaded, the last one that was
still on the ground roaring down the runway as he watched.  The Globemasters,
C5s and B-52s all had people queued up, loadmasters running up and down the
lines screaming instructions.  Though he couldn’t see inside he had no doubt
there were NCOs yelling and pushing, jamming bodies in as tight as they could.

Nine hours.  That’s how long it would take for the wave to
reach Nassau, unload, return to Tinker, refuel, load the last of the evacuees
and get back in the air.  Nine hours.  A short workday for a Marine, but
forever when he and a handful of men had to hold off an enemy that didn’t stop
charging regardless of their losses.  They didn’t have to fall back to
regroup.  They would just keep coming in a relentless surge.

“Sir, it’s time to pull back,” Captain Blanchard said as he
trotted up.  “We’ve got infected making it over the top of the fence and we’re
starting to lose people.”

“Fifteen minutes, Captain.”  Pointere said, looking over his
shoulder at the flight line.

“Sir, if we wait, the defenders won’t be able to make it
across the bridges without being overrun.”  Blanchard said.

“Fuck!”  Pointere thought, grimacing.  “Very well.  Issue
the order to fall back and pass the word to expect infected inside the wire.”

“Yes, sir.”  Blanchard turned away and started issuing
orders over the radio.

“Nine fucking hours,” Pointere muttered to himself.

“Sir?”

“Never mind.”  He said, not believing they could hold out
for nine hours. 

All around the base the sound of gunfire ceased as his order
to fall back was relayed.  The report of small arms had become a constant for
the past several hours, and now it was shockingly noticeable by its absence. 

“Get those fuel trucks pumping into the moat as soon as the
defenders are clear of the bridges.”  Pointere ordered.

“Already issued the order, sir.”  Blanchard said, standing
at Pointere’s shoulder.  They didn’t want the highly flammable fuel in the open
until the Air Force personnel that had been holding the perimeter were safely
across the moat.  One spark, or the discharge of a weapon could ignite it and
cut off hundreds or thousands of men and women who would then fall to the
infected.

“Why the Army, Captain?”  Pointere asked as they waited. 
“You would have made a hell of a Marine.”

“Thank you, sir, but there’s several generations of
Blanchards that would have risen from the grave and haunted me.”

“Army brat?”

“My great, great grandfather was in the 1
^st
Volunteer Cavalry in 1898.”  Blanchard said.

“Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders?”  Pointere asked in
surprise.

“Yes, sir.  He came back from Cuba with Malaria and died a
year later, before my great grandfather was born. 

“He fought in World War I.  In the trenches.  Married an
English girl and brought her home.  They had my grandfather just in time for
him to grow up and fight in World War II.

“He was in the 5
^th
Ranger Battalion at Normandy. 
Toughest son of a bitch I’ve ever met.  Sir.  Anyways, he brought home a French
girl and they had my father.  My grandfather fought in Korea while my dad was
growing up.  Then my dad enlisted just in time for Vietnam.  Four tours before
he lost his legs to a VC trap. 

“Then I came along.  It was pre-ordained I’d join the Army
by the time I was born.  I’m the first officer in my family, and that was bad
enough.  If I’d picked the Marines, well they’d have strung me up.  Trust me,
sir.  My grandfather may be 90, but I still don’t want to mess with him.” 
Blanchard grinned.

Pointere stood looking at the young man for a long moment.

“Captain, hasn’t your family given enough?  You shouldn’t be
here.  Get on one of those planes.  There’s a lot more you can do for the survivors
alive than you can by giving your life here.” 

“Sir, I appreciate you saying that, but my mind is made
up.”  Blanchard said.  “There’s never been a Blanchard that ran from a fight at
the expense of another, and it sure as fuck isn’t going to start with me.”

“Stubborn, isn’t he?”

Both men turned, startled.  Colonel Crawford stood behind
them.  He was dressed in full battle rattle, M4 rifle slung over his shoulder.

“Sir, I don’t…” Blanchard stopped speaking when Crawford
raised his hand.

“Captain, here’s what’s going to happen.”  Crawford said,
stepping forward.  “I’m staying and you’re going.”

“No, sir…” Blanchard started again, but went quiet when
Crawford glared at him.

 “The Colonel here is right.  You’ve got a lot more to offer
the handful of survivors of the human race.  And throwing your life away, while
noble and honorable as hell, is foolish.  You’re young.  You’ve got a lot of
years left to help these people rebuild. 

“You’re the smartest, most capable young officer I’ve ever
had the privilege of knowing and serving with, and I have no doubt you’re more
than ready to lead these people.  That’s why these are for you.”

Crawford extended his closed hand, opening it and dropping a
pair of silver eagles in Blanchard’s palm.  Blanchard gaped at them before
looking up to meet his commanding officer’s eyes.

“I’m getting to be an old man, son.”  Crawford continued. 
“This new world, whatever becomes of it, isn’t a place for old men.  I’ve
spoken with Admiral Packard and he supports my decision.  It’s done.  And his
orders are for you to get on the next plane out of here.  Contact him when you
get to Nassau.  Is that clear,
Colonel
?”

Crawford stepped back, came to attention and raised a salute
to Blanchard.  Pointere immediately joined him, both of them waiting for the
new Colonel.  Blanchard looked up, his eyes damp, took a deep breath and nodded
before coming to ramrod attention and snapping off a perfect salute.

The Air Force defenders ran, pounding across the bridges
like the minions of hell were on their heels.  And they weren’t far behind. 
Without the constant fire from thousands of rifles, the infected were able to
pile up and reach the top of the fence.  The first females there became tangled
in the coiled razor wire, their flesh slashed open to the bone. 

But the ones behind them cared nothing about their fate,
scrambling over them as if they were nothing more than another obstacle in the
way.  It started as a trickle, a few dozen females breaching the perimeter at
half a dozen different locations.  Then the first section collapsed under the
weight of hundreds of bodies and the flood began in earnest.

Soon more sections broke open, and within a short time there
were thousands of infected inside the wire.  Females sprinted forward, drawn to
the lights and activity at the flight line.  Males shambled along in their wake
in a single-minded pursuit of warm flesh.

The last bridge was pulled only a minute before a hundred
screaming females arrived on the far side of the moat.  The ones in the lead
leapt, easily making it halfway across the ditch before they fell to the
bottom.  Several broke ankles or legs, but most landed and sprang back to their
feet to charge the far side. 

One of Colonel Blanchard’s parting gifts had been an idea to
slow the infected even further at the moat.  There had been several thousand
steel plates used for diverting jet blasts on a flight line in storage at the
base.  They had come from two other Air Force bases that had been
decommissioned due to budget cuts.  The DOD hadn’t wanted to leave them to
rust, so had paid a contractor handsomely to disassemble, load, transport and
store them at Tinker.

The plates were ten feet tall, twenty feet long, curved and
already had stout steel mounting rods attached to them.  A veritable army of
civilian workers had used heavy equipment all day to bring the plates out and
drive their mounts into the ground along the inner edge of the moat.  The
concave side, the same side that would have taken a jet engine blast and
diverted it safely upwards, was faced towards the moat.

Nearly doubling the height the infected had to climb to
clear the defensive layer, the plates also presented a surface that couldn’t be
scaled.  Because of this the infected couldn’t get past them until they piled
deeply enough to climb over those who went into the moat ahead of them.  But
long before hands would start grasping the top edge of the plates, Pointere had
another surprise in store.

The infected continued pouring onto the base, the fence down
in so many locations now that it hardly hindered their progress.  At each point
where a bridge had been across the moat, men held the tide back with machine
guns as the curved plates were brought in and put in place.  Once the gaps were
sealed, it was a waiting game.

The fuel trucks began pumping jet fuel into the moat, the
infected oblivious to the extremely flammable liquid that turned the ground
under their feet to mud and soaked into the clothing they wore.  Enough fuel
had been set aside to top off the planes that would be returning for the final
wave, the rest allocated for the defenses.  When a truck ran dry, a driver
would head for the closest access to the underground storage tanks.

More fuel was pumped in as the infected kept piling up. 
Watching from the roof of a large truck, both Pointere and Crawford stared in
awe as every inch of land beyond the moat was quickly covered by the seething
mass of bodies.  The moat was already full to ground level and they were
starting to pile up against the metal plates.

“How high do we let them get?”  Crawford asked.

“Not much more,” Pointere answered when sporadic rifle fire
broke out as females began making heroic leaps and grabbing the top edge of the
plates.  “How long for the evac wave?”

“Seven and a half hours,” Crawford answered, checking his
watch.

Pointere shook his head and both men turned to look behind
them at several large hangars.  Five thousand men and women, including the Air
Force personnel that had defended the fence all day were nervously milling
around.  If the Marines and Rangers didn’t hold out, every single one of them
would be dead before the sun came up.

“Pretty fucking stupid of you to stay behind,” Pointere
commented, fishing out his last two cigars and handing one to Crawford.  “And
what was that bullshit you were shoveling?  Old man my sweet ass.  What are
you?  Fifty?”

“Fifty two.  On my next birthday,” Crawford said, trimming
the tip of the cigar with a small pocketknife.  “It was the only way to get him
to go, short of having a couple of MPs cuff him and drag him onto a plane.  I
wasn’t going to do that to him.  What about you?  Why were you so quick to
stay?” 

Pointere ignored the question, taking his time getting the
cigar lit, drawing deeply as he watched the surging infected.  More and more
rifles were speaking, knocking females off the top of the barricade.  Generator
powered floodlights had been set up to provide illumination for the workers as
well as the Rangers and Marines.  In the ghostly, white light he could see
nothing beyond the moat other than a raging sea of death.

“Spark it up,” he said into the radio Blanchard had left
with him.

Moments later there were shouts up and down the defensive
perimeter as the word was spread.  He caught sight of a white phosphorous
grenade that was lobbed into the moat, then there was a ground shaking whoomp
as thousands of gallons of JP8 fuel ignited. 

Flames shot fifty feet into the night sky, racing through
the tens of thousands of tightly packed bodies in the moat until the entire
defensive layer was burning.  Thick, black smoke boiled into the sky, and the
two Colonels could feel the intense heat wash across them.  Defenders fell
back, but the steel plates that were designed to deflect jet engine blasts did
a good job of protecting those at ground level from the scorching temperatures.

Soon the smell of burning human flesh reached Crawford and
he wrinkled his nose, pushing down memories of a lifetime of war.  He and
Pointere stood in awe as the fire consumed the infected, those behind pushing
into the flaming cauldron of the moat without any regard for their own lives. 
Raising a pair of binoculars he surveyed the line, pausing in his scan when he
realized what he was seeing.

“The females are holding back, clear of the fire.”  He
said.  “The same behavior Major Chase reported.  They’re getting smarter.”

Pointere raised his binoculars, grunting as he watched. 
“They’re going to wait for it to die down, then charge the line.”

“Pretty much,” Crawford agreed.

JP8 burns at 6,000 degrees Fahrenheit and it consumed flesh
and bone.  The breeze was light and shifting, frequently blowing clouds of
choking, black smoke across the waiting defenders.  The Rangers and Marines
began donning the respirators from their MOPP gear to filter the vile air they
were breathing.

On the far side of the moat the females had stopped when the
fuel was ignited, pulling back a hundred yards.  Males continued to push
forward, flowing through the static females and stumbling towards their death. 
The heat was so intense their skin began to blister when they were within fifty
yards of the trench.  At forty yards the hair was singed off their bodies. 
Inside thirty yards clothing burst into flame, yet they were undeterred. 

Eyes boiled and exploded out of their heads.  Skin melted
away exposing the underlying muscle and bone.  Before they even reached the
edge of the moat, they fell to the ground, dead, as the water inside their
skulls flashed to steam and boiled their brains.  The females remained at a
safe distance, impassively watching their brethren perish.

The carpet of charred remains stretched out from the
defensive layer for close to thirty yards.  The males from the rear continued
to push forward, grinding the dead into ash under their feet, adding to the
depth of the burned bodies when they fell.

“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”  Pointere said,
binoculars still pressed to his eyes.

“Shakespeare.  The Tempest.  Act 1, Scene 3, if I remember
correctly,” Crawford said.

Pointere lowered the binoculars and looked at him.  “Scene
2, actually.”

“Don’t look so surprised,” Crawford said.  “I’m the one that
should be impressed when a Marine quotes The Bard.”

The radio clipped to Pointere’s vest crackled and he moved
it close to his ear to listen.  After a moment he acknowledged the report and
turned back to Crawford.

“They’re pumping the last of the available JP8 into the
moat.  Time to make the rounds.”  He said.

The two men climbed down from their vantage point, heading
in opposite directions.  Soon, the fires would burn down and the females would
charge.  Modern weapons would only hold them off for so long, then all that
would be left to the defenders would be personal, hand to hand combat.  Until
they were overrun.