Allegiance (30 page)

Outbreak - Day 16

Logan Winters’s Compound

Gus could just make out
faint guttural growls, somewhere distant, riding the carrion-tinged breeze. He
could see the creatures in his mind’s eye, somewhere off to the west, stumbling
along the tree-flanked stripe of roadway he was standing on.

Clearly the monsters had
been drawn in by the noise the shovel produced each time it took a bite from
the gravel-choked soil. That was a given he had already entered into the
equation when he broke ground on the first hole. That he’d buried two cylinders
before he had hungry visitors was a blessing. He figured he had a few more
minutes before he’d have to make the decision as to whether he could handle the
approaching rotters solo or if he would need to hail Duncan and Logan on the
two-way and pull them in from their task.

So, he kept his ears
pricked and turned back to the digging. He placed the sharpened blade next to
the last cut and leaped off the roadbed, landing both boots simultaneously on
the curled metal flanking both sides of the shovel’s handle. Tempered steel on
rock produced another harsh grating noise under the force of his
two-hundred-pound frame as it cleaved cleanly through another foot of the densely
packed shoulder. He tossed the ochre dirt over the barbed wire and made several
similar cuts, widening the circle incrementally until it was the diameter of a
manhole cover. Once he had dug out the hole to an eyeballed depth of eighteen
inches, he placed the next to last cylinder on the bottom, and shoveled the
dirt he had saved over the top and around the sides until it was no longer
visible.

The former Salt Lake
sheriff wiped his brow with the top of his forearm, and took a belt from his
canteen as he gazed east at the sky. Overtop the tree line, billowing
thunderheads struck through with bars of sunlight lent the impression he was
looking at a stained glass in some cathedral in a thousand-year-old European
city. It moved him, stirring emotions that had been dormant for quite some
time. So much so, that he had a hard time tearing his eyes away when the
moaning sounds behind him grew louder.

With the wind taken from
his sails, he grudgingly turned westward where he could just make out a clutch
of rotters trundling around the gentle curve in the road.

With renewed effort he
worked the shovel. Biceps and back muscles burning, he made short work of the
final dig, and by the time he was tamping dirt over the last cylinder, the
group of lurching monsters had halved the distance.

A quick glance over his
shoulder told him what he faced. Every one of the creatures were first turns—much
slower than the newly turned—but every bit as deadly.

He recalled with crystal
clarity how a hastily-erected triage center outside of Salt Lake had been
overrun by the dead. How, as he watched on in horror, the infected corpses in
the makeshift morgue had reanimated by the dozens and had breached the flimsy
rip-stop nylon tents with ease. They played no favorites, attacking the infirm
and healthy alike.

The heavily-armed
soldiers seemed unable or more than likely
unwilling
to fire on their
fellow citizens as the place fell to the blitzkrieg of tooth and nail in a
matter of minutes.

What a bloodbath that
had been
, he thought to himself.
It had been his tipping point. The one event that opened his eyes to the
possibility that order could never be restored.
If the National Guard
couldn’t stop the dead
, he thought at the time,
what the hell good is
one sheriff going to do?
And with that question and a fair amount of guilt
hanging over his head, he hastily made his way to his good friend Logan’s
compound.

Gus propped the shovel
against the barbed-wire fence and regarded the fresh scars in the dirt across
the road. They stood out like two black eyes against the rest of the shoulder.
He looked at the two on his side of the road, determining that all four of them
would be visible to someone with half a watchful eye. But he had a hunch that
as the day warmed up and the sun traced its normal east to west path directly
over the road, the cover soil would dry out and become less conspicuous.

Gus’s two-way radio
crackled to life, bringing him back to the present. He stole another glance at
the rotters as he fished the radio from his back pocket.

“Gus here.”

“How is it going up
there?” Logan asked.

Before Gus had a chance
to answer, Jamie’s voice sprang from the speaker. “Gus... if you let the
rotters get any closer I’m going to start putting them down for you. You got a
death wish or something?”

“No, Duncan says to
leave them,” Logan replied, sounding confused. “I’m right here with him... he
says the rotters will pose more of a problem for Chance and his gang when they
show up.”

“Wait one,” Gus said.

He stowed the radio in a
pocket and snatched the shovel, using the digging end to keep the nearest
zombie beyond arm’s reach.

Seventy-five yards
uphill, in the same hide where Chance had been taken prisoner, Jamie had the
zombie bracketed in her crosshairs and was a breath away from sending a
jacketed hollow point into its brain.
Safety be damned
, she thought to
herself. Gus was dangerously close to being overtaken.

As her finger smoothly
reeled in the small amount of trigger pull, Gus sprang into action. She watched
him use the shovel to create some space between himself and the advancing
throng. Then he took three long strides toward the fence and, using the shovel
as a makeshift pole, vaulted himself cleanly over the top strand of wire. He
landed upright and fetched his rifle from just inside the fence. It looked like
he was pulling his radio from his back pocket when her own two-way crackled
alive again.

“What’s going on up there?”
Duncan asked.

“I just about witnessed
Gus get eaten,” Jamie replied drily.

“Can you elaborate?”
asked Duncan.

“He was sparing the
rotters for you,” Jamie snapped. “God damn it... can’t we just cull these ones
now? More will show up. They always do.”

“Save the ammunition, we
are going to need it. Stay put for now. When me and Logan are done here, we’re
going to need your help to conceal the Humvee.”

“Give Logan a kiss for
me,” she replied in a husky voice, knowing full well he was listening in and
his cheeks were about to turn several shades redder.

“Do it yerself,” Duncan
drawled. “And it’s about damn time. Kid’s more nervous around you than a
long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

Jamie smiled. She keyed
the talk button—held it down for a second—but reserved her comment for later.

“Duncan or Logan, do you
hear me?” Gus said, trying to get a word in edgewise over the chatter. “One of
you needs to come and walk me back in. I don’t want to be the first to test out
whatever diabolical contraptions you two have dreamed up.”

Gus took a couple steps
back from the fence which was bowing towards him under the weight of the
rotters. His eyes passed over the motley group. A younger male, probably high
school-aged before it turned, bared its yellowed teeth and swiped across the
fence at him. Gus stood still as the thing fought against the barbs even though
every fiber in his body screamed,
Shoot it in the head
!

“Come on Winters,” Gus
muttered under his breath. “Get me out of here.”

“I’m right here,” said
Logan, who had snuck up on Gus from behind. “Grab your shovel and come with
me.”

Gus did exactly that. He
followed the younger man through the undergrowth, shovel in hand, matching him
step for step, and as they transited the forest Logan pointed out each one of
the covered traps as they happened upon them.

Gus whistled softly.
“You guys have been busy,” he said.

“Like little beavers,”
said Logan. “Neither one of us slept last night.”

“I bet you wished you
were doing something other than digging holes,” Gus added.

“Don’t we all,” Logan
said with a chuckle. The fact that there were only two single women among the
small group of survivors wasn’t lost on the younger men. And Logan had been the
recipient of most of the ribbing among them, due to the slow approach he was
taking at courting Jamie.

“Watch it,” Logan said,
pointing out another Punji stick-filled depression.

“How’s Jordan?” Gus
asked, trying to make small talk. “She coming out of her shell?”

Logan looked over his
shoulder and shook his head.

“Nope... she’s still
keeping to herself,” he said. “That whole thing at the cabin—messed her up real
good.”

“Too young for me
anyway,” the former sheriff added sourly. “Maybe her and Lev can find some
chemistry.”

The trail opened up into
a small clearing ringed by scrub oak and mature trees. Duncan was eased up
against a sizable trunk, legs outstretched, smoothing his moustache with
deliberate strokes. The Humvee sat near the feeder road, squat and sinister
looking with the .50 caliber Browning’s black barrel protruding from the rig’s
top-mounted turret.

The sun was at an
azimuth where its rays were still being absorbed by the canopy, so, following
Logan’s lead, Gus switched on his headlamp.

“That thing good to go?”
Gus asked Duncan.

“It’s low on fuel but
loaded for bear.”

“How long did it take
Phillip to link the ammo?”

“Too long Gus... way too
long,” answered Duncan as he hauled his weary frame from the forest floor.
“Lead the way Oops. Let’s get these holes dug.”

Gus and Duncan each put
a shovel over their shoulder and followed Logan across the clearing and melted
back into the forest.

Outbreak - Day 16

Schriever AFB

Colorado Springs,
Colorado

6:15 a.m.

The briefing that had
started at zero-five-hundred hours lasted an hour and fifteen minutes.

Although the sunrise had
been at 0604, by the time they stepped from the TOC at 0615 the low-hanging orb
in the east had already brought the temperature to seventy-five degrees.

A freight train rumble
rolled in from the west as the KC-130’s four Allison turboprops—with a combined
eighteen-thousand horsepower—handily pulled the refueling bird down the runway.
And just when Gaines thought the sound couldn’t get any louder, the fuel-laden
aircraft gained more speed as the pilot pegged the throttles. The sonic tempest
ratcheted up and the plane nosed up and easily cleared the fence at the far end
of the runway. The landing gear disappeared into its flat underbelly and it
made a graceful roll to port and cut a large half-circle around Schriever’s
south and east flanks before powering away on a northeasterly heading, leaving
four tails of exhaust in its wake.

Gaines craned his neck
looking to the left. Watched the gray airplane level off and climb into the
rising sun. He continued tracking the first of the three accompanying tankers
until it was a speck on the horizon, then stared daggers in the direction of
the motor pool. Shook his head because the vehicles that
should
have
already been here waiting when the briefing concluded were nowhere in sight.

“Going to be another hot
one,” he said to no one in particular.

“Already had too many of
these scorchers in a row,” Ari opined. “But I have a good feeling that it’s
going to be quite a few degrees cooler where we’re going.”

“One of the only reasons
I decided to come along with you boys,” Gaines shot back. “You didn’t think I
was tagging along for just some company and deep conversation, did you?”

“Our rides are here,”
Lopez called out as a pair of propane-powered golf carts juddered to a stop in
front of the men and their mountains of equipment.

He looked at the carts
and then glanced back at the gear baking in the sun.

“I think we better call
a dead sled to follow us with our kit,” Lopez said, as he began tossing his
gear into the waiting Cushman.

Everyone but Gaines
laughed at the stocky Hispanic’s joke. Gaines wasn’t in the mood. He hadn’t
been lucky enough to have the same two-days stand down time he’d ordered on the
rest of the Delta team, and waiting in the heat for their ride hadn’t helped
matters any.

“Load em up,” he bellowed
as he tossed his own gear into the area behind the seats.

After everything was
piled aboard and the operators were seated, Airman E2 Davis, who was Nash’s
personal errand boy, transported them to the flight line. Ari, Durant, and
Hicks rode along with the general in an identical Cushman being driven by an
Airman called Nealon, who looked barely old enough to enlist, let alone drive.

Cade closed his eyes and
listened to the thrum of rubber tires on grooved pavement. A few minutes later
he and the other operators were doing the same awkward dance with their bulky
Pelican hard cases, fully stuffed rucksacks and weapons—only in reverse
order—hauling them off the Cushmans and stacking them near the flat black helo
awaiting the pilot’s OK to move everything one last time and stow it aboard the
ominous-looking aircraft.

While he waited for the
OK to board, Cade watched the men who were busy getting their gear squared
away. Except for the tall surfer-looking guy whom he recognized as the head of
the President’s Secret Service detail, he knew all of the other men who would
be aboard the Ghost Hawk, which would once again be piloted by the usual
suspects: Ari Silver in the pilot’s seat on the right, and Durant in the
co-pilot chair on the left.

Jedi One-One would have
a total of five customers aboard. Somehow—though this time out the team would
be hunting for scientists, not stray nuclear weapons—Tice, the former CIA nuke
specialist-cum-honorary Delta member and holder of the not so coveted ‘
Puker
Patch
’ was coming along on the mission. Thankfully though, it appeared to
Cade that Tice had given up trying to stand out—as all ‘
covert cowboys’
usually try to do when thrown in amongst the uniformed Tier One shooters. Gone
was his usual Hawaiian print shirt and Detroit Tigers ball cap. Instead, he
wore the same tactical gear as Cade, Lopez, and Gaines: digital ACUs in desert
tan, full knee skids, padded gloves and the ubiquitous low-riding tactical
ballistic helmets most of the Tier One guys preferred. And he guessed from the
way Tice was fidgeting in the seat beside him that the spook also had a
ballistic vest strapped on underneath his ACU blouse.

The President’s man, on
the other hand, had gone the Mission Impossible route. Head to toe, from his
boots on up to his low-riding ballistic helmet, Special Agent Adam Cross was
dressed in full black. His silenced MP7 machine pistol was black. His MOLLE
load-bearing gear and the load it was bearing was all black—not a scrap of
fabric, Velcro or plastic on the man was a color other than black. And black
wasn’t even a color, Cade mused as he approached the President’s man.

“Cade Grayson,” he said,
offering his hand to Special Agent
Vader
who in turn reached out and met
him halfway.

“Adam Cross,” the agent
replied. “Heard a lot about your recent exploits, Captain. And I’ve been
meaning to say thanks for all you’ve done... not just from me but from the
President as well. As you already know, she thinks very highly of you.”

Cade nodded but made no
reply. It was his way of testing to see how full of himself the new man might
be. He watched for a reaction from the corner of his eye and was pleasantly
surprised when the minor slight seemingly went unnoticed. Cross just removed
the magazine and cycled the bolt on his HK MP7, inspected the chamber and
looked the mag over. Seemingly satisfied, he snapped it back into the well,
smiled in Cade’s direction, and let the weapon dangle against his black body
armor.

“You’re welcome,” Cade
finally replied, nodding his head. “I know you from somewhere. But I just can’t
place it. Too many tours... worked alongside dozens of operators from every
branch.”

“I remember you too,
Captain. Ramadi, Iraq... half a dozen years ago. Summer of the
Devil
.”

A look of recognition
crossed Cade’s face.

“That’s right. You were
with SEAL Team 3. You had a big bushy beard back then. That’s why I didn’t
place you at first. Welcome to our cobbled-together Delta Unit.”

Just as Cade finished
speaking, Lopez displayed his knack for perfect timing.

“I noticed you got stuck
riding bitch again,” he called out to Tice. “You oughta call shotgun once in a
while.”

“Some sneaky
bastard
always seems to beat me to it,” Tice replied boisterously.

Lopez grabbed his ruck
from the Cushman, and slowly looked Tice up and down. “Now that I think about
it, you
do
kinda look like an operator when you leave the Don Ho getup
alone.”

“Captain Grayson didn’t
like me trying to sneak it past him the last time. And I thought with Gaines
along this time... I didn’t want to take any chances.”

“Hope you shoot as good
as you look today...
honorary Delta
,” Lopez said with a wry smile. He
slowly turned and walked towards the angular black Jedi Ride that would be
delivering the team into harm’s way.

“Wheels up in five,” Ari
bellowed from the other side of the tarmac. Then he went back to inspecting the
aircraft’s flight surfaces. Jiggling this and that. Everything short of kicking
the tires.

Gaines stepped from the
lead Cushman, shouldered his SCAR—Special operations forces Combat Assault
Rifle—and waved Cade over. Taking the younger captain’s shoulder in a firm
grip, he pulled him close. “I just want to let you know that I don’t recognize
that short amount of time in which Nash was holding onto those for you”—he
tapped the cloth captain’s insignia adhered by Velcro to Cade’s ACUs—“I want to
reaffirm what the President said... I don’t question your allegiance. Not for
one second.”

“Copy that, General. But
after this mission,” Cade whispered. “
I am done
.”

Gaines nodded. “I know,”
he replied. He gave Cade’s shoulder a squeeze and let it go.

The door to Whipper’s
office flew open and banged against the ribbed metal hangar wall, adding yet
another blemish to its yellow exterior.

Simultaneously all eyes
took in the first sergeant as he stepped from his tiny anteroom. A sheepish
look was on his face as he closed the door. He raised one hand in a gesture
Cade took as an apology, and shielded his eyes against the rising sun as he
approached the flight line.

“General Gaines. Captain
Grayson?” he said, offering up a precise salute which was promptly returned by
the officers. He glanced at Cade apprehensively. Eyes flicked to the rank on
the ACUs. He said nothing and scurried over to the Ghost Hawk, where he
appeared to have a conversation with Durant before squirting off in the
direction of the matte black Osprey sitting on the far apron.

Cade made a face.
“What’s gotten into him?” he asked.

Gaines wagged his head.
Rubbed his shiny black pate. “Probably just the pressure of the times we’re
living
in...
surviving
is probably the more appropriate word,” he replied.
“I’ve seen a lot of strange behavior these last few days. Really began to ramp
up after word got out about how many Zs were coming our way from Denver. Then
the nukes popping off... disconcerting to say the least. You know, Captain,
we’re sitting ducks out here. And after hearing first hand just how fast
Fortress Bragg fell from the people who were there... in their own words. Can’t
say that I blame Whipper, or
you
for that matter. Hell, if I wasn’t in
the position I’m in now I’d be bugging out with you.”

The sun washed the left
side of Cade’s face with a warm glow as he looked off towards Pikes Peak. He
took a moment working up some kind of reply. “Truth be told Ronnie, it’s not so
much me as it is Brook who wants to
bug out
. I never run away. You know
me, I run into the fire. I thrive on it. But Brook... Brook’s
over
Army
life. Was years before I quit the first time. She got spoiled and now she wants
that life back.”

Good luck with that
, Gaines thought to himself. “When I said
bugging
out
I didn’t mean it in a cowardly manner. If it’s any consolation, there
is not one sane person on this base who could blame Brook for wanting to leave
either. Every person here—myself included— is collectively holding their breath
hoping for something positive to happen. To me, the guy who is stuck in the
middle, it feels like I’m waiting for two tectonic plates to slip and release
an enormous amount of energy. The problem is I’ve got no idea which way the
scale is going to tilt. If we strike out on this one I’m certain morale is
going to get much worse. And when the big one strikes... a 9.0 figuratively of
course. I don’t know how me, Shrill, and Nash are going to hold it all
together.”

“Two minutes!” Ari
yelled from the far side of the helo.

Cade silently thanked
the SOAR aviator for rescuing him from conversation—one of his least favorite
pastimes. Then he looked over and watched as the compact muscular Night Stalker
clambered into the black helo. Then he focused on the like-colored Osprey which
was squatting on the apron fifty yards beyond, where a chalk of Rangers,
thirteen in all, were busy hoisting their burdensome-looking rucksacks aboard.
The craft suddenly emitted a sharp whine, and a puff of exhaust followed as the
massive twin props spooled up. And as soon as the last of the Rangers and their
gear was finally aboard and the rear ramp had powered closed, the engine noise
picked up to a deafening roar.

In the Ghost Hawk, the
operators had stowed their weapons and were cinching safety belts.

Durant looked back into
the passenger compartment and received a thumbs up from Hicks, who had just
closed the sliding door on the starboard side. His gaze passed over Agent
Cross, Tice, and Lopez, who were occupying the seats backing up to the aft bulkhead.
Cade was seated on the port side, and Gaines had also planted himself on one of
the canvas seats near the port mini-gun.

“Launch in one mike,”
Ari announced over the onboard comms.

Hicks regarded the
shooters in the back through his smoked visor, and placed a hand over his mike
boom. “I see you got the bitch seat again,” he said to Tice.

“Shotgun is not in the
man’s lexicon,” quipped Lopez.

To answer would only fan
the flames, so Tice said nothing.

The Gen 3 helo shuddered
subtly as Ari pulled pitch. And as the carbon fiber blades grabbed the hot
desert air and provided lift sufficient to overcome Earth’s pull, the sudden
G-force created pressed everyone firmly into their seats. Simultaneously the
nose pitched down and the ground flashed underneath as Ari swung the tail
around to starboard in a gut-churning maneuver that brought the Ghost around to
the Osprey’s port side.